Until You

"I'm only going to say this one time. You got that?"

Her blue eyes gleamed with hate. Conor applied just a little more pressure.

"Do you understand me, Miranda?"

His thumb bit into the hollow of her throat. She nodded.

"You scream," he said, "or bite me again, or try any crap at all, you try to do anything but listen to every word I say and I'll be forced to get your at

tention the hard way." After a few seconds, he shifted his hold on her jaw, forcing her head up and back. "Blink if we've got a deal."

He had to give her credit for guts if not brains. He had every advantage, size and weight and position, but she still wanted to defy him. He could see it in the rush of conflicting emotions that swept over her face. But she wasn't a complete fool. A minute passed, and then she blinked.

"Was that a yes?"

She blinked again.

"All right. I'm going to lift my hand from your throat. Just remember what I said. Any funny stuff and you'll regret it. Comprenez-vous?"

Slowly, he eased his hand from her neck.

"You still with me?"

The tip of her tongue snaked across her lips.

"Do you know who I am?"

Her mouth twisted with undisguised contempt.

"I'm not a moron, O'Neil."

"And I'm not the bogeyman, or whoever in hell you mistook me for."

"You'd better get out of here," she said. "I called the police."

"Yeah? Well, maybe we should call a doctor." He drew back, his knee still wedged between her legs, and shot a quick look at his hand. The tiny marks of her sharp teeth stood out clearly against the skin. "I hope you've had your rabies shots, Beckman."

"The police station is only a block away. They'll catch you, if you don't—"

"And charge me with what? Defending myself against an attempt on my life?"

"Let me up!"

"Why? So you can launch another attack?"

"Dammit, O'Neil!"

"What in hell's wrong with you? Or do you always greet your guests that way?"

"You're not a guest," she said furiously, "you're an intruder. A—a pervert!"

"A what?" he said, and laughed.

She didn't blame him for laughing. Whoever Conor O'Neil was, whatever he was, she somehow doubted if he'd get his kicks by messing around in a drawer filled with women's underpants.

But he'd caught her by surprise. She'd expected to see Jean-Phillipe's familiar face when she'd opened the door. Instead, she'd been faced with this—this barbarian.

"Get off me," she snapped.