Stop it, O'Neil!
"That was great," he said briskly. "Makes me feel almost human again."
"Good," she said. "I was afraid maybe you were right, that I hadn't left you enough..." She swung towards him, and the rush of words stopped. Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "...that maybe I hadn't left you enough—"
Her voice cracked. She was looking at him as if she'd seen a ghost, her green gaze skittering first over his dark, wet hair, then dropping to his shoulders and chest before retiring to his face.
For the first time in his life, Conor blushed.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she said. "It's just—you're not wearing a shirt."
"I know. My shirt was a mess. I couldn't bring myself to put it back on."
It was a perfectly reasonable answer. Miranda told herself that a couple of
times before she tried speaking again.
"How do you—how do you like your eggs?"
"Listen, if my being shirtless bothers you..."
"No." Of course it didn't bother her, the sight of Conor, half naked in her kitchen, his broad shoulders taking up the doorway. Why should it bother her?
"You sure?"
"I said it didn't." She cleared her throat. "But if you'd asked..."
"Asked?"
"For—for something to wear." God, her mouth was going dry. She had slept with this man but this was the first time she'd really had the chance to take a long, slow look at him without his clothes on. Well, almost without his clothes on. Those shoulders. That washboard abdomen. The dark hair on his chest.
The color of his skin.
It was golden, like honey, but that wasn't how it tasted. She could remember his taste so clearly, the clean, faint salt tang. And the heat of him; she remembered that, too, and the comforting weight of him as he rose above her and thrust into her...
The fork fell from her hand. She snatched it up, tossed it into the sink, pulled out the drawer and took out a long-handled spoon.
"I'd have given you something, if you'd asked," she said, her voice cold, her blood hot, her heart pounding in her ears. She swung away from him and gave the eggs a vicious stir before dumping them on two waiting plates. "It's really inappropriate to walk around half naked, O'Neil. Even a barbarian like you should know that."
"I should have known the truce wouldn't last," he said, watching that proud, straight back, recognizing the anger etched in her stance, growing angry himself though he wasn't sure why he should.
"And I should have known you'd have difficulty behaving as if you were civilized."
"Listen, Beckman, I'm sorry if the sight of me turns your stomach but it never occurred to me you'd have anything that would fit me."
"Well, I do." She spun around, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted in that defiant way that drove him crazy. "I've got sweatshirts," she said, forcing herself to concentrate on whatever oversized clothing she owned and not on him, not on all that naked male flesh, "and I've got some denim work shirts."
An image rose up before him, crowding out her angry, haughty face. He saw men, a long line of them, marching in and out of her life here as they had in Paris, and the anger he'd been holding tightly in check burst into his heart.
"Yeah," he said, moving towards her, "I'll just bet you have. Hell, I probably could have had my choice of color and size."
She flew at him, her hand upraised, and cracked it against his face. The blow was hard and unexpected and it sent him staggering back against the counter.
"You bastard," she cried, "you no-good, dirty-minded son of a—"
The air rushed from her lungs as he caught hold of her.