"Yeah," he said, smiling back at her.
Miranda hesitated. Every bone in her body was telling her it was a mistake even to stand here and talk to this man. Remember what happened, she told herself, remember how he made you feel, how dangerous it was.
"The walking wounded," he said, still smiling. "You need to get that knee cleaned up and I need to down a couple of aspirin."
She nodded, and her heart banged up into her throat.
"I have some stuff in my medicine cabinet," she said.
"Yeah?"
"And if you were serious about making a meal of scrambled eggs and toast—"
"No bacon?"
Miranda laughed. "Bacon's bad for you, O'Neil, haven't you heard?"
His eyes, as blue as the sea, met hers.
"Risk is what puts the spice in life," he said softly.
She nodded. "I know." A long time seemed to pass, and then she took a deep breath. "I haven't got any bacon," she said, "but I've got bagels in the freezer, and even some cream cheese."
He smiled, and her heart soared.
"You talked me into it," he said, and as they turned and headed out of the park, she had the feeling her life would never be the same again.
Chapter 15
"Nice place," Conor said, as the door to Miranda's apartment closed behind him.
"It's okay," she said, switching on the lights, "or it will be, if I ever get around to fixing it up."
Fixing what up? Things looked pretty good, to him. The living room was enormous, twice the size of the one she'd had in Paris and maybe three times the size of the one in his place, back in Arlington. A staircase rose to the second floor, where he figured the bedroom to be.
Her bedroom in Paris had had a wonderful view out over the Marais. This one would look out over the park but it would still carry the scent of her perfume, the way it had in Paris.
Dammit, O 'Neil, forget about Paris and her bedroom! This is a job. A job, you got that? Keep your mind on work.
"It came furnished," she said as she headed for the kitchen.
Mia came strutting from the bedroom, her Siamese tail held high, and Miranda bent down and scooped the cat into her arms, grateful for something to hang on to. What was the matter with her? Why was she so nervous? Conor had saved her life, saved her from something nasty, anyway. The least she could do was give him something to eat.
"Yeah. So did my place."
It wasn't a lie. The apartment he was bunking in belonged to a guy he'd known at Columbia, a million years ago. Jack was a part
ner at a megabucks Wall Street law firm, doing the kind of clean-hands, deep pockets work Conor had once thought he'd be doing, too. They saw each other maybe once a year for a drink and a round of "remember when" and the last time, six weeks ago, Jack had mentioned he'd be working in Singapore for a few months.
"You know anybody wants to sublease the perfect bachelor pad," Jack had said with a grin, "you let me know."
"Sure," Conor had said, grinning back at him, never figuring that the "somebody" would turn out to be the Committee, which had agreed to pay the hefty rent on the place without blinking.
"...really don't love living in a space that's got somebody else's fingerprints all over it, do you?"
Conor shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't bother me," he said truthfully. "I've never been much for home and hearth, you know? What's that old song? 'Anywhere I hang my hat... ' "
"Not me. I like having my own things around me." Miranda put the cat down, opened the cupboard and took down a can of Friskies. "All my stuff's in storage. When I go back to Paris and find a new apartment—"