The coffee still left in his cup dumped into his lap.
"Dammit," he yelped, and shot to his feet.
Miranda spun around, a little box of Fauchon's chocolates in her hand.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I spilled the damn coffee, that's all."
She put down the box, picked up a dish towel and leaned towards him.
"Here, let me—"
"No!" He jerked back from her outstretched hand, then took a deep breath. "That's okay. I'll go and wash up."
"Listen, O'Neil, why not do us both a favor and leave? It's late and we're both exhausted..."
She was talking to herself. O'Neil had already disappeared down the hall.
Miranda sighed, walked into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa with her feet up. Mindlessly, she opened the box and took out a chocolate. Cookies, and now candy. Well, just one wouldn't hurt. She could skip breakfast tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it was; she didn't know anymore. The minutes and hours had all run together, thanks to the mess she'd come home to.
And what an ugly mess it had been.
She thought again that it was a good thing Conor O'Neil had turned up at her door. So what if he didn't like her? If he thought she was wild, and immoral, and all the things she'd worked so hard to make the world believe she was. He could think what he liked about her; she didn't care...
"Okay, let's talk."
She swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Conor was standing over her, his hands on his hips. His hair was wet; he must have ducked his head into the sink. Her eyes went to his face. It was a good face. Strong. Very masculine. She supposed there were women who'd find him handsome, with those prominent cheekbones and that nose that tilted just slightly to the side, as if it had once been broken. The rest of him suited the face: the wide shoulders, leanly muscled body, the aura of danger that was so wonderfully sexy.
A pulse leaped in the hollow of her throat.
I'm tired, she thought, that's what all this is about, I'm tired and I'm not thinking straight.
"It's late." She stood up, the half-empty box of chocolates dangling from her hand. "I can't answer any more questions."
Conor had had a long talk with himself in the bathroom. The talk, and a sinkful of cold water, had cleared his head. He was good at what he did. His emotions didn't get in his way. Hell, according to the woman who'd once been his wife, his emotions never got in his way.
He'd let the water out of the sink, looked himself in the eye in the mirror, and told himself he was done behaving like an ass.
So why was he standing here now, looking at Miranda and wanting to—wanting to—
Hell, she was right. It was late.
"Okay," he said briskly. He tore his eyes from her face and began rolling down his sleeves. "We'll pick up tomorrow."
Miranda groaned. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes." He looked up. "You've got—you've got..."
"What?"
His eyes met hers. "You've got chocolate on your mouth."
It wasn't what he'd meant to say. What in hell was the matter with him?
She shot a guilt-filled look at the box in her hand, then dumped it on the sofa behind her while a rush of bright color climbed her cheeks.
"Is it gone?" she said, rubbing her hand over her lips.