"What man?"
"Nita, dammit all, I am not in the mood for—"
"Wow. You were right. The guy's wearing a tweed jacket."
"Told you so."
"And he's heading straight for us," Nita whispered. "Straight for you, anyway. My oh my, I have seen intensity before, girlfriend, but not like this! He hasn't even blinked."
Miranda would have known that without Nita telling her. She could feel the stranger's gaze still locked onto her.
"Maybe he wants my autograph."
"Uh-uh. Man's not into autographs, babe, trust me." Nita's voice dropped dramatically. "You sure you don't know him?"
"Positive."
"And no wonder, considering he's wearing tweed. On the other hand, even I might make an exception about tweed for a guy looks like this one. Bet he's got muscles where a man should have muscles, if you know what—"
"Miss Beckman?"
He had a good voice, Miranda thought, she had to give him that, deep and just a little husky.
"Excuse me, Miss Beckman, do you have a minute?"
And he was polite, too. Then, why was it so hard to turn around? Stop being an ass, Miranda told herself, and she swung towards him.
He was tall, that was her first thought, tall enough so she'd probably have had to look up at him even if she'd been on her feet and wearing heels. Not many men could meet that qualification. And he was good-looking, as Nita had said, if you went in for the rugged type. Broad shoulders beneath that oh-so-proper grey tweed jacket. Good chest, narrow waist and long legs.
The rest wasn't bad, either. Black hair, thickly lashed blue eyes, a nose that looked as if it had once taken on a bit of trouble, a wide mouth set above a square, cleft chin. The camera would probably love him, except for the cold, cold look in those eyes.
Why was he looking at her that way, as if he'd seen her somewhere before and wasn't quite sure if they'd parted as friends or enemies? Nita was wrong. His interest in her wasn't sexual. His gaze was steady and cool, maybe even a little mocking. He was looking at her in a way men never did, and she didn't like it.
"How do you do, Miss Beckman?" he said. He held out his hand. "My name is Conor O'Neil."
Miranda looked pointedly at his outstretched hand. Then she looked at him.
"How nice for you," she said coolly. She heard Nita swallow a giggle.
His hand dropped to his side. She could see the swift flash of anger in his eyes but his tone remained polite.
"Can you give me a few minutes?"
"I don't give interviews, Mr....?"
"O'Neil. Conor O'Neil."
"Oh yes, you already told me your name, didn't you?" Miranda leaned forward, peered into the mirror behind Nita and touched the tip of one finger to her lips. "Well, as I said, I don't give—"
"I'm not a reporter."
"Really," she said, the single word making it clear she didn't care what he was. "Well, then, if you've come for an autograph—"
"I don't want an autograph, either."
His voice was tight now. Good. The balance of power was shifting.
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr... O'Neil, did you say? Because if you did, want an autograph, I mean, you'd have to stop by and see Annick—she's that woman over there, do you see her?—and tell her to give you a signed photo."