Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (30 page)

The former butcher moved with what Ian could only guess from his limited line of sight, slow, shuffling steps. Barnes used a stainless steel cane in his left hand while the son held the right elbow and assisted. The elder man’s stroke ravaged face sagged on the right, his lower lip hung at an odd slant, and the eyelid lay half closed.

Ian felt no sympathy for the low grade predator. He wouldn’t forgive the abuse Barnes perpetrated against Elinor. But, Ian didn’t feel the hate anymore either. He eased out from the two big cases he’d been standing between and left before father and son got to the backroom door.

Miranda waved as she walked towards him. He hurried down the sidewalk to meet her, slipping his arm around her waist.

“Is your business finished?” she asked.

“Yes, the loose end is taken care of,” Ian said, conscious of the shop’s display windows as they got into the car.

He merged into the High Street traffic and put Barnes from his mind. He concentrated on Miranda. He drove her home the long way. The less traveled country road with its bends and curves lulled him into a pleasant daydream.

In the perfect world of his fantasy, the memories would rush back to her, and she'd be in his arms. He'd make short work of the tiny shirt buttons. She'd tip her head back and grant him free access to the sensitive skin of her throat and collarbone. He'd taste, and touch, and savor until his senses reeled and she cried out for more. The daydream's rich details took on a life of their own as Ian wended the car through the lush green landscape of Norfolk.

Miranda tapped him on the shoulder as his erotic journey had progressed to her panties. "You missed the turn for my house."

"Sorry, just daydreaming." Ian fidgeted. His groin strained uncomfortably in the tight breeches.

"About what?"

"Pardon?"

"What were you daydreaming about?"

He doubted Miranda was ready to hear his sex fantasy. Thinking quickly, he said, “Umm, well I thought we might go over the program's subject matter,” he said, looking for a spot to make a U-turn. “Put our heads together and kick around some ideas, come up with different ways to entertain while we educate the audience." Ian gave himself a mental pat on the back for his fast recovery.

“I’m really flattered you want me to contribute. I’d love that. I’d love to be more than the research lady.” Miranda planted a kiss on his cheek.

Ian held her hand as he drove along, encouraged by the kiss. His pleasure marred only by the looming problem of convincing her they could date and work together.

Miranda lay in bed that night and tried to hold her thoughts to only the best parts of the day...Ian’s kiss, their walk in the woods, the lovely drive back to her house. Try as she might she couldn’t keep the unexplainable visions and roller coaster emotions that accompanied them at bay. She forced her brain to stop working overtime. She fixed Ian’s face in her mind, closed her eyes and dreamed.

She stood at the gate of Castle Ashenwyck, a ruin no more. The flames from torchlights flickered behind the leaded windows of the keep. A tall man appeared in the moonlit bailey and walked towards her. He stepped through the portcullis and extended his hand.

“Ian.” She whispered.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” He took both her hands in his and pulled her to him. He slid the hood of her
cloak down, then cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her like a ravenous man, making a banquet of her lips, tasting every deep place of her mouth with his tongue. The massive oak doors of the Keep opened. Ian wrapped his arm around her waist and swept her along with him, the doors shutting as they stepped through.

Logs blazed in a fireplace big enough for her to stand inside. Ian led her over to a thick sheepskin rug that lay before it. She held still as he undid the frog clasp of her cape, letting the garment fall and pool at her feet.

A dress made of a gossamer material lighter than silk and softer than velvet clung to her body. The rosy circles of her areolas and dark nest of pubic hair were revealed. She felt no embarrassment, no self-consciousness.

Ian ran his hands down her arms and up her ribcage to her breasts, his palms warming her nipples. He wove his fingers into her hair and kissed a path down her throat and over her collarbone. Everywhere his lips touched and left a damp spot, he blew a warm breath.

“More,” she whispered

Lifting his head, his fingers moved to the top of her gown. He bunched the material in his hands and ripped. That garment too, puddled at her feet and she was naked. Ian bent and suckled a nipple, softly at first, then harder and harder. He shifted, paying homage to the other until it too pebbled.

Then, he dropped to his knees. She spread her legs in anticipation. He planted his strong hands on the backs of her thighs and held her in place. He kissed the inside of her thighs and she thread her hands in his hair. She pulled him against her until his mouth was at her entry. He ran his tongue along her crevice then dipped it into her, sucking for a moment before pulling out. She moaned in protest and he tasted her again. He entered and withdrew mimicking the sexual ritual. He did it
again and again. When she thought she’d explode with pleasure, he did things she only heard about. She cried his name as she came.

Before her heart could slow, Ian drew her down onto her knees facing him. He was naked too. He kissed her and she tasted herself in his mouth. He lay her down onto the woolly rug and she locked her legs around him. He drove into her. Braced on his elbows, he moved his hips in a circle on top of her, first right then left, dancing inside her. He withdrew until only the tip of him remained in her, then he thrust deep within, far, and hard. She came again.

Miranda sat up in bed and switched on the lamp. The sex was so graphic she looked at the pillow next to her. Ian wasn’t there. She knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t be there, they’d said goodbye hours earlier. But she looked anyway. Her bed was a mess. The covers hung half on, half off the mattress. The duvet lay bunched on the floor. You’d think I really had a round of bang-up sex, she thought.

She plumped her pillows against the headboard and leaned back thinking about the dream. The very realistic dream. The very explicit dream. Once, after seeing the play, she dreamt the Phantom of the Opera kissed her while she was in the shower. She was wet and naked. He was dry and dressed in his usual mask, cloak and tux. This was way more than a musical theatre actor canoodling with you. The details of this dream were worthy of sharing. She wondered which of her friends she could tell. Not Kiki. Kiki would blab. Keeping secrets wasn’t her strong suit. Actually, this was strictly best friend material. She’d tell Shakira. Miranda glanced at the clock to see what time it was and how long before she could phone Shakira.

“This is ridiculous!” Miranda complained. “In the brief time I’ve worked for Ian, I must have taken a thousand calls from different women.”

“A thousand? Do you think you might be exaggerating because they’re all from females?” Kiki asked with an annoying smirk.

“No. A little, maybe. All right, yes. But I bet it’s at least a hundred.”

Kiki looked unconvinced. “I’m going back to my office. I’ll see you later when you’re not so cranky.”

Miranda swore as the phone rang again. “No, he’s still not in. Yes, I’ll take
another
message Carla. Yes, I know how it’s Carla with a C.” Miranda rolled her eyes and fumed. “Bye,” she said and banged the receiver down. Unsatisfied, she picked the receiver back up and banged it down three more times.

****

Ian returned from the afternoon meeting in a good mood. He stopped by the studio’s security desk to tell the guards a bawdy joke. They offered to email him a couple good ones they’d received before he continued on his way. This was the start of the second week working with Miranda. He believed he was making progress with her. Ian smiled as he passed Miranda's office, which was open as usual. He only caught a portion of her phone conversation, enough to stop him in his tracks. Ian blanched and took two steps backward. He stood in the doorway and patiently waited for her to finish.

She took her time writing out the message, not bothering to acknowledge his presence. Miranda still didn't look up after the call ended. He cleared his throat. She ignored him and added the slip to the other messages. Then with slow and excruciating precision, she tapped the stack together with each rotation.

Ian waited, observing with every turn her lips alternately tightened or pursed. She was pissed about something
.
From the cold shoulder he got, Ian guessed the root of her anger involved him.

Finally, she looked his way. "M
y liege
, is there something I can do for you?" Her honey-coated drawl oozed sarcasm, and made “my liege” sound like a sleazy invective.

"Your liege? Interesting. So, tell me, my little serf, did I hear correctly? Did you answer the last call as the ‘Hussy Hotline?’"

"As a matter of fact I did," she challenged with a
what are
you
going to do about it
look written all over her face?

Only the slight flare of Ian's nostrils hinted at the smile he suppressed battling to keep up an imperious façade. Her little rebellion had his mind wandering. Mental pictures of kissing that impertinent expression off her face diverted him from the subject.

Ian knew the role of imposing liege lord well. He moved out of the doorway, over to the front of her desk.

"Your unique salutation could be an embarrassment. I do get business calls. I’m sure you have a reason for it." He leaned closer and gripped the edge of the desk, upping the intimidation level a notch. "Would you like to tell me what's got your feathers so ruffled? I'm sure I can guess, but I'd rather hear it from your own sweet lips."

Puffs of Ian’s breath fanned the top of her hair. Her eyes widened a fraction, but she didn’t budge. A mutinous Miranda stuck her chin up in a blatant refusal to be cowed.

"I'm not a fool. I know Zandra is responsible for all your paramour's calls being routed to me. I've worked out a system with the switchboard operators. When it's a familiar female voice they put the call on line two, all the others are sent to line one. I only answer Hussy Hotline on the secondary number.

"None of your women seem insulted by my greeting. As a matter-of-fact,
Carl--la
has called back twice in the last half hour alone."

She'd worked herself into a waspish snit. He waited for the second volley.

"You saunter in and stand around like some dark archangel, a hand on each side of the doorframe, your unbuttoned jacket winging out." She pointed her index finger like a lethal weapon. “Well, that avenging angel attitude doesn’t work on me. I’m not intimidated, so you can stop looming over my desk.”

“It was worth a shot,” he said, unable to keep the humor from his voice.

"I am supposed to be your research assistant, not your personal secretary. I came in a half hour early this morning to get a jump start on those weapons you wanted catalogued. And all I've done is take messages from your lovesick mistresses."

Miranda slammed the slips down in front of him. Her angry eyes sparkled even in the unflattering office light. Ian tucked the stack into his coat pocket and sat on the corner of her desk.

"You're right. You shouldn't have to take my personal calls. I’ll get them to end."

“Start with that Jennifer person. She’s a loon. The whingeing and whining when she can’t get you on the phone is working my nerves.”

“Would’ve guessed?”

“I had the impression she’d been dealt with.”

“Me too. I’ll take extra care to make certain she understands completely.”

“Please do. The sooner, the better.”

Ian touched his palm to her cheek. "Green is a very becoming color on you. It goes with your complexion."