Miranda moved slowly down the hall.
"Jean-Phillipe?" she whispered.
Knuckles rapped against the door.
"Yes," she said, oh yes, of course it was him, who else would it be? A sob burst from her throat as she flew to the door and flung it open.
"Oh, Jean-Phillipe, you can't imagine how happy I am to see—"
"Good evening, Miss Beckman."
Miranda screamed.
* * *
Jesus H. Christ, Conor thought, and even as he was thinking it, Miranda Beckman tried to slam the door in his face.
He reacted instinctively, thrusting his foot into the opening, driving his shoulder against the ornate paneling, and the door flew open, hurling her back into the room. She scrambled to her feet and came at him in what had to be the worst impression of a karate crouch that he'd ever seen in his life.
"Miss Beckman..."
Grunting, she kicked out with her right foot. Conor danced back easily.
"Okay," he said, "I didn't exactly expect you to greet me with open arms—"
"You sonofabitch!"
"Lady, if you'd just let me talk—"
"Talk? Talk?" She spun around, then kicked out. Her foot caught him a glancing blow. It didn't hurt but it sure as hell surprised him. "You don't want to talk, you want to—you want to—"
She came at him a third time. She had as much finesse as an elephant but it didn't matter, not when she had so much determination. Conor knew he could stop her but he didn't want to hurt her. On the other hand, he didn't want to end up with what looked like a shoe equipped with a four-inch spiked heel embedded in his groin.
"Miss Beckman," he said soothingly, "Miranda, listen."
She wasn't listening. She was intent on killing him.
"Hell," he muttered, and he moved fast, got inside her stiffly outstretched arms and past her flailing kick, grabbed her wrist and tossed her to the carpet.
She went over backwards, hit with a thud and gave out a high, wild cry. He came down on top of her and she hissed like a snake and went for his eyes.
"Damn!" He caught her wrists in one hand, drew her arms above her head and pinned them there. "Are you crazy?"
"I'll kill you first," she said, and before he could ask her what in hell that was supposed to mean, her lips parted and he knew she was going to scream. For one crazy instant, he thought of shutting her up by kissing her—but then sanity returned. He slapped his free hand over her mouth, and just in time. The muffled shriek that burst from her throat would surely have been enough to call up every gendarme within miles.
"Okay," he growled, "that's enough."
She said something against his hand. It wasn't pleasant, whatever it was, and probably wasn't very ladylike but then, Miranda Beckman didn't look very ladylike lying sprawled beneath him, her hair a tangle of black silk, her eyes hot and dark in her flushed face. She was wearing what he knew women called slip dresses although this one looked more like a bathing suit, for God's sake, with its skinny black straps and the way it exposed the curve of her breasts, and the way it had ridden up her thighs.
Conor felt his body stir.
Stop it, he told himself furiously, what the hell is wrong with—
Her teeth sank into the heel of his hand. He yelped, pulled his hand back, and she almost scurried out from under him. He came down harder, his chest pressed to her breasts, his knee jammed between her thighs, and he held on to her wrists with one hand while he clamped the other around her throat and jaw, hard enough to get her attention.
"Okay," he said roughly, "here's the deal."
She made a sound but the pressure of his fingers stopped it. Her eyes were wild with fear. That was okay with him. She deserved a good scare. Maybe, if she was scared enough, she'd start to listen.