Until You

The air had thickened, and jagged fingers of lightning had sizzled against the rapidly darkening sky. The ocean, moments before a gentle swell of grey, had turned into a white-frothed behemoth that threatened to consume her. It had been a moment filled with heart-stopping danger. She'd known that she should run for safety but what was safety compared to the excitement and power of the storm?

Conor's arms tightened around her. He said her name and when she looked into his eyes, she knew that whatever was happening to her was happening to him, too.

Her pulse quickened. Run, she told herself, run and don't look back.

But she couldn't run. She couldn't move, except to slide her hands up Conor's chest and link them behind his neck.

One of his hands cupped her head, his fingers threading into her hair as he brought it to his chest, while the other slid down her back, hot against her naked skin, and drew her hips against him.

Miranda closed her eyes. She was adrift in sensation, the steady beat of Conor's heart, the silken brush of his fingers, the warmth of his breath against her temple.

It was as if they were alone in the universe, floating on the soft whisper of the guitar. Conor began moving, swaying to the magic of the music, and she melted into his embrace, every inch of her body sensitized to his. She sighed with pleasure and he drew her even closer, so that they were almost moving and breathing as one.

"Conor," she said unsteadily.

"Hush," he whispered, "it's all right, baby, I understand."

He couldn't. He didn't. There was no way he could understand because she didn't understand. Something was happening, and it was all wrong. Reality had turned upside down.

She wasn't the one who should be breathing erratically, whose legs threatened to give way and whose heart was racing like a runaway train. That was supposed to be him. She was always in control with men. Always. That was the pleasure of it, the knowledge that she set the rules and the pace, that she had the power to turn it all off any time she wanted.

And she hadn't lost that power. Why would she? It was Conor's fault this was happening. She'd had a scare, he'd sensed her vulnerability and now he was making the most of it.

She stiffened and put her hands against his chest.

"That's enough," she said.

His hand closed over hers. "You know it isn't." His voice was soft, as warm and thick as honey. "Come back into my arms and let me hold you."

She wanted to, oh yes, she wanted to...

"No," she said sharply.

"Baby—"

"I'm not your baby. I'm not your anything. You're here at Eva's request and on my sufferance, and you'd better not forget it."

She saw the stunned look on his face, then the flash of something, anger, maybe even hurt, in his eyes.

She spun away from him, moving quickly, snatching up her cape and purse, lying up the stairs, through the restaurant and out the door.

Conor caught up to her at the curb, just as she was hailing a cab and swung her

towards him. The smokiness was gone from his eyes. Now, they blazed with tightly repressed anger.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Let go of my arm, please."

A muscle flexed in his jaw. He reached past her and yanked open the taxi door.

"Get in," he growled, and when she didn't move fast enough, he propelled her inside the cab. Then he climbed in after her and gave the driver her address.

She expected—what? Anger? Recriminations? A speech? But they made the ride to her apartment in silence. The taxi pulled up outside the gated courtyard and she flung open the door and got out.

Conor was right behind her.

"Keys," he said, and held out his hand.