Until You (40 page)

Somewhere between seven and seven-thirty, she came out the door.

She was wearing stuff he'd seen her buy that afternoon, a no-nonsense gray tank top, gray shorts and white running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid and her face was shiny, scrubbed and makeup-free. She looked up at the sky, checking the weather. He wanted to cross the street, tell her that what she should be checking was her head.

You didn't go running at night, not in this city.

She did a couple of quick stretches and he figured she was about to get on her way when she stopped, cocked her head in his direction and got that funny "Is somebody there?" look on her face. And she smiled.

The skin on the back of Conor's neck prickled. He knew that she couldn't see him. This side of the street was in shadow and he was standing far back in a doorway. Still, he had the damnedest feeling, not that she suspected he was there but that she hoped he was.

A middle-aged woman crossed from his side of the street to Miranda's. She was holding a leash and at the end of it, a silver grey Yorkie wearing a bright red bow in its top-knot hurried along as fast as its short legs would carry it. Miranda grinned, bent down and rubbed the dog's ears as it trotted past. Then she did another couple of stretches, adjusted her laces and set off at an easy lope towards Central Park.

Conor let out his breath.

It was going to be tough to figure which of them was the bigger jerk.

He counted to thirty, then set off after her.

* * *

Miranda puffed a little as she headed into the park.

What was the matter with her this evening?

Aside from being out of shape, which she certainly was, or she wouldn't be breathing so hard.

What on earth had made her think of O'Neil just now?

Not that it was the first time. It had been happening with regularity, ever since that fool, Call-Me-Bob, had mercifully been pulled out of her life.

For reasons she couldn't figure at all, she'd come out of her building the morning after the Art for the Homeless thing and stopped dead in her tracks, her heart doing a fluttery two step. She'd had the eerie sensation that Conor was somewhere close by.

He hadn't been, of course. He was wherever he'd been before Eva had hired him, doing whatever it was private investigators did. Spying on somebody else, probably, making some other poor soul's life a misery.

Damn, when was the last time she'd done any running? Nita had always said they ought to get into it but Nita didn't really need the exercise. She could stuff her face from morning until night and never gain an ounce.

Miranda smiled, thinking of the letter she'd gotten from Nita the other day. "I am too happy for words," she'd written, and tucked inside the brief but telling note had been a photo of her wearing a yellow sarong and with a big pink flower tucked behind her ear. Her arms were locked around the neck of a skinny guy sporting a smile as big as Nita's. "Me and Carlos," she'd scribbled on the back of the picture. "Isn't he gorgeous?"

That was what love was all about, Miranda thought, picking up her pace a little. It was getting easier to breathe, now that she was getting into the rhythm of the run. You met a man, he made you smile, not just with your lips but with your heart, and if he asked you to follow him to the ends of the earth, you paused only long enough to pack your toothbrush.

It wasn't like what she'd felt for Conor, anger so fierce she wanted to hurt him where he lived one minute and a need so powerful she ached to be in his arms the next. Whenever
he'd
asked her to do something, she'd been torn between doing it and breaking something over his head.

Why was she even thinking about him? Dredging up all those memories would only spoil the run. The park was all hers and the solitude was wonderful after the noise of the city streets. She'd been hesitant about running tonight, wondering if it might not be a better idea to roll out of bed early and hit the park in the morning but she'd been eager to give it a try and besides, it was still fairly light out.

Plenty of time to enjoy finding her stride.

Plenty of time to think about Conor.

Maybe she hadn't hated him. Hate was an awfully strong word. What had she felt, then? Dislike? No, dislike didn't make it. Dislike was how she felt about brussel sprouts or cold oatmeal, the lumpy stuff she'd always thought of as Boarding School Breakfast. Dislike had nothing to do with emotions so powerful they made you feel as if you'd been turned inside out.

Damn, what was she doing? Only a lunatic would waste time trying to categorize her feelings for a man who meant nothing to her. Less than nothing, to be accurate. And there it was, that weird sensation again, that if she could only turn around quickly enough she'd spot him watching her. Following her.

"Stop it," she muttered.

The path jigged just ahead, cut into a stand of forsythia that was just coming into bloom. Miranda got her knees up a little, tucked in her elbows and picked up her pace.

No more thinking about Conor O'Neil. From this second on, he was history.

* * *

She ran well, he had to give her that.

And she looked good, too. Those long legs, that nicely rounded bottom... Coasting along a couple of dozen yards behind Miranda was turning out to be a very pleasant way to end the day—even if Central Park at dusk wasn't the place he'd have chosen.

Running wasn't a bad idea, either. He was holding back so he wouldn't get too close to her but still, he was working up a light sweat, feeling a nice stretch in his muscles. That was always good but after days of mostly standing around with his thumb up his butt, just watching and waiting, a little workout was just what he needed. It was good for his body and for his brain. There was nothing like some physical stuff to clear out the cobwebs and God knew, he'd picked up more than his fair share the past weeks.

Was that what his thoughts about Miranda were? Cobwebs? Meaningless debris, lodged in his mind?

Not that it mattered. This assignment would be done soon—he could feel it in his gut. And once it was, it would be goodbye,
au revoir, adios, auf wiedersehn
to her and everything about her...

What was that?

Up ahead, Miranda had just gone around a curve and disappeared into a sea of yellow forsythia. He couldn't see her, but he
could
see the four big, burly teenaged boys who'd slipped out of the shrubs behind her. The boys were moving fast and running close together and as they vanished from sight, he remembered a film he'd once seen on cable about a pack of wolves on the trail of a deer.

Conor put his head down and really began to run.

* * *

The feeling was back, that somebody was on her tail.

Only the feeling wasn't the same as before. She knew, without hesitation, that it wasn't Conor coming up behind her. It wasn't even Bob Breverman.

It was somebody—several somebodies—that meant her harm. Every urban survival instinct told her so.

Miranda lengthened her stride.

Behind her, somebody laughed.

"Laaydee..."

The voice was young, male and deceptively soft. It was a voice that was rich with the promise of pleasures yet to come, pleasures that would surely not be hers.

She began to run flat-out, feet pounding the path, arms swinging. She could hear the footsteps quicken behind her, and the laughter. The urge to turn around and see who was coming after her was overwhelming but she knew better than to give in. She'd lose precious time—and God only knew what she'd see.

Who she'd see.

Somebody who wants to hurt you, Miranda. Somebody who sent you that awful picture and that terrible, bone-chilling note.

"Hey, laaydee..."

A hand brushed her shoulder, another cupped her ass. She cried out and twisted away but fingers clamped her arm and spun her around. She had a quick glimpse of four laughing faces and then a fist landed in the middle of her chest. The air whooshed from her lungs; she fell to her knees.

"Son of a bitch!"

Like an avenging angel, Conor burst upon her attackers. There was a thud, a muffled grunt, the sound of bone cracking against flesh. A high-pitched scream pierced the air and one of the boys went down, his left arm clutching his right, which hung uselessly at his side.

"Conor," Miranda wept, "oh God, Conor!"

"Kohnuh," a voice mimicked cruelly, "oh God, Kon—"

Conor moved again, fast as lightning. The second assailant went down, his mouth opening and closing as he gasped for air, his arms wrapped around his jackknifed body.

Conor laughed. He was on the balls of his feet as if he were dancing, his body loose, his arms out and his hands open. There was a smile on his face and a terrible coldness in his eyes and Miranda could smell base, animal rage in his sweat.

"Okay," he was saying to the third of her attackers, his voice very soft, "okay, dude, come and get me."

The boy's eyes shifted from side to side. Something glinted in his hand.

"He's got a knife," Miranda screamed.

The boy moved fast, the knife coming in gut-low. But Conor moved faster. There was a scream. The knife went flying and then Conor was standing behind the boy, who must have outweighed him by fifty pounds, with his right arm wrapped tightly around the kid's neck.

The fourth assailant turned and ran.

"Don't, man," pleaded the one in the arm-lock.

Conor yanked back, hard. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't."

The boy rose on his toes. "We was only funnin', man."

"The truth or you're dead, scumbag."

The boy grabbed Conor's arm and hung on, trying to ease the choke hold that was cutting off his breath.

"Please, man, let go!"

"Who set this up? You?"

"It was just some fun, is all. A little fun with the lady."

"I asked who set it up."

"James did."

"James?"

"The guy who took off."

"Why?"

"I told you, man, it was for fun."

"You've had fun like this before?"

Conor jerked back and the boy lifted on his toes.

"On my mother, man," he babbled, "we never did! Never!"

Conor flung the boy from him. His pals scrambled to their feet and the three of them stood huddled together.

"If I ever see you again," he snapped, "the rats will be eating your eyeballs. You got that? Now, get the hell out of here before I change my mind."

The trio turned and ran.

Conor swung towards Miranda. She was still on her knees. There was dirt on her face and terror in her eyes and all he could think about was how close he'd come to losing her. If he hadn't taken over from that idiot, Breverman, if he hadn't followed his instincts and been waiting for her when she'd come out the door tonight...

What he thought and what he felt terrified him so completely that he reacted the only way he dared.

"Goddamn you, Beckman," he roared, "you are one dumb broad!"

She stared at him for a long, long minute. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and got to her feet, ignoring the hand he extended, making it on her own even though her legs were so watery they didn't feel as if they belonged to her.

"You're right," she said. Tears of anger glinted in her eyes and she brushed them away. "I
am
stupid, because just for a minute there, I was going to say—I was going to say..."

She swung away from him, head bowed so that her braid swung forward, revealing the tender nape of her neck, and Conor cursed himself for a fool and reached for her.

"They could have killed you," he said harshly.

She stiffened as his hands closed on her shoulders and then a sound, terrible in its anguish, burst from her throat and she turned and went into his arms. He held her while the moments ticked away, his arms hard around her, his heart thudding against hers, telling himself it was best not to think about anything, certainly not to try and figure out what he was feeling, knowing only that holding her close was the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he was never going to let her go again, and then she stiffened and pulled back in his arms.

The shock that had turned her eyes dark was fading. In its place was confusion, anger and distrust.

"At the risk of sounding like somebody in a bad movie, O'Neil, what's a man like you doing in a place like this?"

It was the million-dollar question, and he hadn't an answer. What could he say that wouldn't infuriate her? The truth, that he worked for the Committee, that he'd worked for it all along? That would only prove him a liar. On the other hand, pretending he was working for Eva again would probably earn him a sock in the jaw.

"I asked you a question." Her eyes locked on his. "Why were you following me?"

Think, he told himself, dammit, think! What he needed was a simple answer, one that wouldn't enrage her or dig him in any deeper.

She took his silence as all the answer she needed.