He'd certainly made an ass of himself tonight.
His scowl deepened.
The truth was, he'd been working overtime at making an ass out of himself ever since his size elevens had touched down on the soil of la belle France.
What was it about Miranda Beckman that turned him into such a jerk? He'd made enough mistakes in his personal life to fill a bank vault but one thing had always been certain: he was good at his job. He had been, from the day he'd walked away from his father, trading the old man's iron-fisted, because-I-said-so version of law and order for the clearly defined rules of first the army and then the Committee.
You had an assignment, you did it. And by the book. No bull, no second-guessing, no useless expending of emotional energy. You went in, you did what you were supposed to do, and you got out. You didn't get involved.
So what in hell had he been doing, coming on to Miranda?
"Making an ass of yourself, O'Neil," he muttered, "that's what."
He rolled onto his back, almost tumbling off the damn sofa in the process, and linked his hands beneath his head.
Every instinct he possessed told him it was time to terminate this assignment. Telephone Harry, bring him up to date on the stuff that had been tucked under Miranda's door—and then make it clear he was coming home.
He'd done the preliminaries. Let somebody else take it from here.
It was just that he'd never walked out in the middle of an assignment before.
Give it a break, O'Neil.
This wasn't the Boy Scouts. He wasn't going to earn a merit badge for hanging in. He wanted out, and out he'd go.
"Mrrow?"
A hot, furry weight, its paws tipped with what felt like a hundred razor-sharp talons, landed on his chest. Conor shot upright, dumping the Siamese into his lap.
"God almighty, cat," he said, "you like to live dangerously."
What was the animal doing here, anyway? He'd have figured Miranda would have kept it in the bedroom with her, and the bedroom door would sure as hell be locked tighter than a nun's knees.
"Don't get yourself comfortable," he said to the cat but it was too late. Mia had already settled in on his lap, purring like a demented motorboat.
Conor sighed. Why not? One of them might as well get some rest. He certainly wasn't going to, not on a sofa where he had a choice between letting his legs hang over the arm or tucking his knees under his chin. It was cold as Siberia in here, too. Miranda had said the temperature would drop off at dawn but it was only... He squinted at his watch. It was only 3:05 and he was already raising a crop of goose bumps. It didn't help that he'd stripped off his shirt and pants before trying to fit himself onto a piece of furniture designed for midgets but then again, his charming hostess could have managed to provide him with more than one blanket.
Another couple of hours, he'd be frozen so stiff they'd have to chip him out of the ice before hauling him to a chiropractor.
What was the cat doing here, anyway?
Conor tucked his chin in and glared down at Mia.
"What are you doing here, cat?" he said.
The cat didn't answer. It was falling asleep while he froze to death.
Enough was enough.
"Alley-oop," Conor muttered.
He scooped Mia out of his lap and deposited her on the sofa. The Siamese shot him a malevolent look from a pair of satanic red eyes and made a sound midway between a purr and a growl.
"Yeah? Well, the same to you."
Damn, it was cold! Conor felt around for his shirt, couldn't find it, and gave up looking. He knew where the linen closet was, at least. There had
to be a couple of more blankets on the shelves.