Until You

"Mmm." She laughed softly as she trailed her hands down his shoulders, to his chest. "You didn't just 'happen' to be on that running path this evening, did you?"

Conor felt his muscles tense. Here we go.

"No, baby, I didn't."

"I thought so." Her fingers swept into the dark hair that covered his chest, exploring its texture and the play of firm muscle beneath. "Did you come looking for me?"

"Yes. Yes, I did, and before you get ticked off—"

"I knew it, as soon as I saw you." She smiled again, though it was a different smile now, as her hand danced lower. "Are all private detectives as efficient as you, O'Neil?"

"Miranda." Conor reached between them and caught hold of her hand. "Don't—don't do that. You're distracting me, and I'm trying to tell you something."

"There's no need. I told you, I know you sought me out. And I'm glad you did. When I saw you today... oh Conor, I kept telling myself I hated you but the truth was that I couldn't stop missing you." She laughed softly. "I even missed your pig-headed interference in my life."

"Sweetheart, listen to me for a minute. I need to tell you about Eva. About what I told you, that she hired me—"

"But that doesn't matter now. Don't you see? I'm not angry about that anymore. Bringing you into my life, was the first—the only—good thing my mother ever did for me."

How could he get her to listen? For that matter, how could he think with her lying close to him and touching him? Her hands felt like silk, smooth and warm, against his body.

"Miranda, you don't understand."

She clasped his face and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him, her mouth open and soft against his.

"All of them—first Eva, then Hoyt and finally Edouard... all of them used me, all of them wanted something from me. But you," she whispered fiercely, "you wanted only me. Just me. You didn't lie, you didn't use me."

She kissed him again and he told himself not to respond, to pull back and say the things that had to be said.

But he couldn't. There was no way to resist her sighs and her kisses and no way to tell her the truth, not without the risk of losing her, and that was a risk he couldn't take.

So he told her the one true thing that mattered.

"I love you," he said, and then, with a groan born of despair and desire, he buried himself in her heat.

Chapter 16

Spring had truly arrived.

Golden daffodils and red and white tulips blooming in chic wooden tubs brightened the grey canyons of the city. Tables and chairs crowded the sidewalks outside trendy cafés. Lovers strolled through Central Park, hand in hand.

It was, Conor thought as he lay sprawled in the grass in the Sheep Meadow, his head pillowed on his arms and his gaze fixed on Miranda's face, a wonderful time to be alive.

A week had passed and in all those days and nights, they'd only been apart for a handful of hours. She was between photo shoots; he told her he was between assignments.

There was no reason to do anything except be together.

Sometimes, he even forgot reality. Keeping her safe wasn't an assignment, it was a commitment. Staying close to her wasn't part of the job, it was a function as necessary as breathing.

He wanted Miranda in his life forever.

He'd never known a woman like her. She was funny, she was serious; she could discuss politics and Plato, then pick up the Sunday paper and giggle over the comics. She understood the things that really mattered. For instance, runny eggs weren't civilized. Rare steak was. And she didn't even mind when he forgot, on occasion, and left the seat up in the john.

But sometimes, when the nights were too dark and long for sleeping, worries crept into the corners of the bedroom. He thought about what would happen when he finally had to tell her the truth, not just about who he was and how he'd come into her life this second time but that whoever wanted to hurt her was still out there.

She was convinced the nightmare was over. She'd told him that and smiled, e

xplained her belief that the notes and picture had been the work of some kook who'd moved on to other interests, now that she'd left France. Somehow, he'd managed to look convinced. She'd told him about Bob Breverman, too, and it had been no trouble at all to laugh when she'd described him as a jerk.