It wasn't a pot you plugged in. It wasn't one you put on the stove. It wasn't a filter job or a damned near antique percolator.
The coffee maker was what she'd called an infuser. He'd never used one, never even seen one before except when a smaller version had been plunked down at his elbow in a little place in Cornwall, or maybe Normandy. He didn't remember, didn't care, didn't give a damn about this thing Miranda used to make her coffee except to know that he'd need to be Betty Crocker to figure out how to work it, which probably explained why the coffee he'd brewed a while ago had looked and tasted more like ink than—
"O'Neil?"
He looked up. Miranda was standing in the kitchen doorway and if the way she was staring at him meant anything, he looked as bad as he felt. Worse, maybe, though he didn't know how that could be possible.
She, on the other hand, looked fine. Better than fine, he thought, as his sandblasted eyes took in the picture she presented.
She'd done more than splash cold water on her face. She'd showered. He could tell by the way her hair hung down her back, loose and damp and curling around her shiny, scrubbed-clean face. The dress that wasn't a dress had given way to shapeless grey sweats with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers peeping out from under the pants.
All she needed was a backdrop of flowering dogwood.
Something of what he was thinking must have showed in his face because she frowned uncertainly and made a little fluttery gesture with her hand.
"What?" she said.
He was just tired enough to think of giving her a real answer.
I'll tell you what, he'd say. I don't know who you are or what you are. I don't know if you 're guilty of screwing with your mother's head and maybe now with mine or if you're as innocent as you look right at this minute. I'm not even sure I know what I'm doing here. So the way I'm going to sort things out, Miss Beckman, is to haul you into my arms, carry you into the bedroom and make love to you until one of us—hell, until both of us—collapse with exhaustion.
"O'Neil? Is something wrong?"
Conor dragged air into his lungs.
"Yes," he said. He turned away from her, stared at the coffee pot he still held in his hands, then carefully set it down on the counter. "I can't figure this mother out."
/> She laughed.
"It's simple." Her arm brushed his. "Sit down," she said. "I'll take care of it. Although I don't know why I'm bothering." She yawned. "All the caffeine in the world won't keep me awake much longer."
Why bother arguing? He felt exactly the same way.
"One last go-round," he said. "Then we'll quit for the night."
Miranda hitched her lip onto a stool. "I've already told you everything I know, O'Neil, ten times over."
Conor nodded. He leaned back against the counter and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. Sometime during the past hours, he'd peeled off his coat and tweed jacket, unloosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He felt rumpled and weary and in desperate need of a long, hot shower, especially now that Miranda had come sailing back into the room smelling of lilacs and soap.
God, he was more tired than he'd realized. He cleared his throat, frowned, and looked at her.
"Let's go over your day again, Beckman. You did the show this morning, you stood for some photos afterwards. Right?"
She sighed, shut her eyes and let her head droop. Her hair fell forward, slipping over her shoulders like silk.
"Right."
"And?"
She sighed again. "And then I had lunch."
"Who with?"
"Nita. I told you that. We were going to order in but Nita said she was desperate for some fresh air so we went around the corner to that bistro."
"What bistro?"
She groaned, lifted her head and ran her hands through her hair.