The old floorboards creaked lightly under his bare feet as he made his way into the foyer and down the hall. Halfway there, Mia decided to come after him and do an allemande-left-and-right through his ankles.
"Dammit," he hissed, and scooped the animal into his arms. The cat purred, butted his chin with her wedge-shaped head and settled in like a baby with her butt in the crook of his arm and her front paws dangling over his shoulder. "Cute," he muttered, "but it won't work with me. I'm not as easy a mark as the lady who owns you."
The cat purred harder and licked his chin with a tongue that felt like sandpaper.
"Okay, okay, we'll go find the blankets together. How's that sound?"
Absently, he stroked his hand down the animal's fur. It was soft as velvet and cool to the touch, though the little body pressed to his was warm. The cat was like Miranda, cold on the outside but with a core of simmering heat deep inside, its beauty a disguise that concealed claws that could gut a man with a swipe—if a man was stupid enough to let it happen.
Frowning, Conor put the Siamese down, determinedly ignoring its soft cries of protest. The linen closet had to be just about here. Yes, there it was. Just turn the knob, nice and easy, slide the door open...
Mia made a sound that would have awakened the dead.
"Cat," Conor muttered, "so help me, if you wake that woman, I'll turn you into a fur piece. The last thing I need is another verbal go-round with..."
What in hell was that?
A sound. Not an animal sound but one that made the hair rise on the nape of his neck. He froze, waiting for it to be repeated, wishing he weren't standing here like an idiot in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.
The sound came again and now he recognized it.
It was the sound of a woman, softly weeping.
He looked down the hall, to where a faint light seeped from under the closed bedroom door.
So what? Miranda was crying. It wasn't his problem. He was here to make sure nobody tried to pay her a nighttime visit, not to worry about...
Could somebody have slipped past him? Was that why she was crying, because there was someone in that room with her? Conor stiffened. It didn't seem possible but he'd lived long enough to know that impossible things happened with amazing frequency.
Moving cautiously now, holding his breath, he made his way forward. He could see that the bedroom door was ajar as soon as he reached it. It was open just enough for the cat to have slipped out.
Had it been open all along, or had it been opened by an intruder?
Conor put his hand on the door, eased it open.
A night lamp glowed in the corner, casting shadows along the walls. By its faint light, he could see that there was no one in the room but Miranda. She was lying in the center of the bed, on her back, with the blankets pulled up to her chin.
Beckman, the night lamp type? Even after what she'd endured the last few days, it surprised him.
"Miranda?" he whispered. There was no answer. Conor hesitated. Then he took a couple of steps forward. "Hey," he said, "Beckman?"
She murmured something and rolled onto her side. The crying turned into soft, sad whimpers.
She was dreaming, that was all. There was no intruder and he had no further business here. Miranda's nightmares were her affair, not his—but he'd had enough bad dreams to know what it was like to fight demons in the dark. What the hell, it wouldn't take anything from him to wake her.
"Wake up, Beckman," he said briskly, as he strode to the bed. "Come on, open your eyes."
Miranda moaned. She thrashed onto her back and flung her arms over her head. She was wearing some kind of old-fashioned granny gown, flannel, maybe, with little sprigs of pink roses all over it. Her hair was loose and ebony-dark against the high collar of the gown; her face was painfully pale. Tears glittered in her dark lashes.
What could make a woman cry so deeply, in a dream?
She moaned, and a deep furrow appeared between her brows.
"Beckman?" Conor sat down on the edge of the bed. "Miranda," he said, and gently clasped her shoulders, "come on, wake up."
"Nooo!" Her scream filled the room. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him through blind, terror-filled eyes. "Don't, oh please, don't, don't, don't..."
"Miranda." Conor lifted her towards him, his hands and voice firm. "Wake up! Do you hear me? You're dreaming."