A whimper rose in her throat, and Conor's arms tightened around her.
"Miranda, what is it? What's happened?"
She wanted to tell him but she couldn't. Her teeth were chattering and if he let go of her, she knew she would collapse. Her legs felt as if somebody had stripped out the bones and muscle and left behind nothing but jelly. The only thing she was capable of was clinging to him while the breath shuddered in and out of her lungs.
"Talk to me, dammit!"
His voice was rough. He clasped her shoulders, tried to hold her out at arm's length and look at her, but she wouldn't let him. She shook her head, tightened her hold on the lapels of his jacket and dug in harder.
"Hold me," she whispered, "just hold me. Please."
He hesitated, and then his arms folded around her again. She gave a long sigh and slumped against him.
* * *
God, what was this all about?
Conor had seen fear before, even terror, but nothing that came close to this. Miranda was shaking from head to toe. Her heart was racing so fast against his it felt as if it might burst from her chest. Her skin was icy cold and her face, in the quick glimpse he'd gotten, was the sickly white that warned of shock.
His jaw clenched. If someone had touched her, if the sick-ass son of a bitch who'd gone through her underwear had so much as laid a finger on her, he'd—he'd—
He blanked his mind to the pictures racing through his head. He had to keep his cool and restore hers before he could figure out what to do next but hell, he'd never known how to deal with crying women. His ex-wife had been a weeper. Every time they'd tried to sort things out, every time the sorting-out had ended in a blank wall, Jillian had wept buckets while she accused him of being heartless but the truth was, her sobbing was beyond him to comprehend.
His mother had never cried. Kathleen Margaret O'Neil had dealt with every emotion, from joy to sorrow, by assuming a stiff-lipped countenance and hurrying off to St. Michael's to light candles to her favorite saints and yet here he stood, his arms filled with a bawling female who wanted his comfort, not her God's, and who was clinging to him as if he was a rock set in the middle of a storm-tossed sea.
Conor shut his eyes. Slowly, his hand lifted. He stroked it down Miranda's hair, then over her shoulder.
"It's okay," he said, "it's all right."
He went on stroking her, whispering to her, saying whatever came into his head, and after a while she wasn't shaking as hard and her heart slowed to something approximating normal. Still, she stayed where she was, in his arms, her face buried in his throat, and it was amazing, how good it felt to have her there.
She must have been out in the snow because her hair was damp and cool. And it smelled of something soft and feminine, violets maybe, or roses. He wasn't very good with flowers and he'd never paid attention to perfume except to know that you could always send a woman a bottle of Chanel if you wanted to say an easy good-bye but whatever it was Miranda smelled of, was wonderful.
She felt wonderful, too, all warm and soft in his arms. Her breasts were pressed to his chest so that he could feel their rounded firmness. Her impossibly long legs and sweetly rounded hips were snug against his. Her waist, under his hands, was slender. Her back was long and straight and each time he stroked the length of it, he became aware of the almost imperceptible tilt of her pelvis.
Conor shut his eyes. Damn you, O'Neil, don't get a hard-on now! But he would. He would, if he held her much longer, if she went on nuzzling his throat, breathing her warm breath against his skin, clinging to him as if he were the only man in the world and she the only woman.
"Shh," he said, "it's all right, baby, it's all right."
* * *
Baby? Had he really called her baby?
It was such a silly word, an affectation, really; she'd never liked hearing men call women baby, not even in those old Humphrey Bogart-Lauren Bacall movies Jean-Phillipe was so fond of.
And yet, when Conor said it, it sounded altogether different. It sounded like a word of comfort, a reminder that she was a woman and he was a man and that he would protect her. Which was ridiculous. Stupid, really. She didn't want looking after, didn't need it.
Certainly not.
She shuddered, took a step back, and Conor's hands wrapped around her shoulders. He moved back, too, and looked down at her.
"Better?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"Tell me what happened."
His tone was calm and reassuring, but there was an intensity about him that was almost palpable. His eyes were dark, the pupils so enlarged that for one absurd moment, she wondered if she might fall into them and drown as she almost had last night, in the heat of his kiss.