Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (39 page)

"How do you know I wouldn't murder you in your sleep?" She arched and looked up at him with arrowed brows.

"You wouldn't." He ground the words out with some effort. With her back arched the way it was, her hips pushed against his groin slightly every time she spoke. Agony never felt so good.

"How do you know?"

"I'd keep you too tired to lift a weapon."

Ian trailed his hands along Miranda's tailbone and over her buttocks. He struggled for control. For a tortuous moment he held her hips pressed against his arousal. She nestled herself in a perfect fit between his legs. He groaned as he brought his hands up, fisting them in her hair, oblivious to her small whimper. Desperate to bury some part of himself, he kissed her roughly, a choking kiss that penetrated deep. She angled so he could take more and in a violent frenzy of her own, Miranda thrust back.

Ian lifted his head so his lips hovered a mere inch from hers. One week. In one week, he could bring everything he needed together. He was bursting to tell her everything now but giving her the dream back, the memory, was worth the short wait.

Miranda slid her hands down his chest, her nails dragging over places that made him shiver in response. He had to make her stop. As her fingers dipped under the waistband of his pants, Ian grabbed her hands.

“I can’t do this.” It took his last vestige of will power. "We have to stop...for now."

Pain and confusion flickered across her face.

"Why? I don't understand.” The pain disappeared. She stiffened and asked, “Why is it when I say I don't want an office romance you argue, then when I give in you stop?"

A fatalistic dread crept into his thoughts. What if her confusion morphed into rejection?

"You must trust me. I have my reasons. Believe me, there's nothing I'd rather do than make love to you. The time isn't right, but it will be soon. God help me, it better be."

“Now, the time isn’t right. Interesting turnabout.”

Miranda tried to jerk away, but he held her close and hoped she'd understand when he explained.

"Don't be angry. Please trust me, just a little. Give me one week, okay?"

His hold eased a bit. She sprang from his arms. “Sure.” A myriad of emotions danced in those green eyes. No longer dilated with passion they were jade ice floes, cold, wary, condemning, but not sad. He’d turn those feelings around.

“You’re upset and you shouldn’t be. There’s a lot you don’t understand. This will all make sense in a few more days.” Ian smiled as he offered his reassurance.

Her expression didn’t change.

It would be so easy to play to the present, forget the past, win her over and sort the details out later. He refused to take the coward's way. She deserved to know what they were to each other. This was the fulfillment of the dream they couldn't live then. Once he recreated the scene, she’d remember. What she didn’t remember he'd explain. Their past will merge with the present and the moment will be that much sweeter.

She broke away and went into the kitchen. He watched her work at the sink, her movements compact and robotic. The sight tore at his resolve and his heart. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt her, even temporarily.

“I think it’s best if I leave,” he said, joining her in the kitchen.

She didn’t argue. For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, she only nodded.

“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. But, mostly thank you for the company.” He stood close. So close, he felt the warmth of her body heat.

She dried her hands and briefly turned to look at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal.”

“And the company.”

“Me too,” she said, stepping from him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Worried, Ian didn’t move. “You’re angry.”

“I promise I’m not angry.”

He didn’t know what to do. At a loss, he went to the door.

“Good night, Ian.”

Her lips remained closed when he kissed her.

“You may not be angry, but you’re clearly upset. I--”

“Ian, stop. I’m not angry or upset. You asked for time. Take it. Take as much as you need to do whatever,” she said with a smile as warm as the one she greeted him with when he arrived.

He relaxed. On the front step, he paused to kiss her again.

The door shut before he had the chance.

Saturday night’s debacle with Ian continued to weigh heavy on Miranda’s heart. She’d immersed herself in various duties around the house to keep her mind occupied. Badger Manor never looked so immaculate. Zulu’s tack shined. Zulu shined. He’d always been brushed and groomed after each ride. But this past weekend, his mane and tail were trimmed and combed, hooves polished, and his coat warm water shampooed. Too bad, none of it helped Miranda wash Ian from her mind.

He called Sunday. She broached the subject of the production’s shooting schedule for the upcoming week. Three, twelve hour days were blocked out for the filming. It was a tough sell, but Miranda convinced him she should return to London. No production, whether for the small screen or big, ever goes smoothly.

“I’ll handle any unforeseen administrative problems,” she said. “You’re needed to oversee the location shoot.”

Ian balked at first and then finally agreed. He wanted to come over and spend the rest of Sunday with her. Miranda begged off with a lie.

“Lovely as that sounds, Ian, I have a nasty migraine. It’s better if you stay at the hotel.”

Filming was completed early and Ian returned on Wednesday by noon. She avoided him most of the day while he attended production meetings. When he came back to his office, Miranda kept her door closed. The few times he came in to speak with her, she laughed at his jokes, offered opinions when he solicited one and did everything he asked. Unless, she had a business question, she didn’t seek him out or go to his office.

Thursday didn’t go as well. Ian managed to be a constant presence in her office. Or, so it seemed.

After he tracked her down hiding in another part of the station, she escaped to the British Museum’s library. A favorite haunt, she’d visited often. A peaceful place, the high ceilings, the recessed wood paneling that lined the walls, the old brass lamps with their pleated shades eased her troubled mind. The emotional razor blade she balanced on at work seemed a bit less sharp here, her frayed nerves a little less ragged. She loved the smells of the venerable building, an odd mix of musty linen, leather, and the pipe tobacco that clung to scholarly men of indefinite age. She wandered among the new volumes and ancient texts. Nothing here could hurt her.

Miranda caught the Oxford Street bus westbound to Bond Street heading back to work. On board, she climbed the dimpled metal stairs to the upper deck. She loved the views of the city the second level offered.

As she transferred buses, a quick glance at her watch showed the noon hour sneaking up. No reason not to blend the library and lunch into one journey. Not that she was hungry. One positive thing about relationships gone awry, they were good for losing weight. Too bad, they were so brutal on the system in every other way.

Miranda rode this route on a regular basis. The next stop was in front of Sound City, the biggest music store in London. Every woman knows, shopping is an excellent alternative to food.

When the bus stopped, she hopped off and went inside. An old-fashioned place, the store had multiple sound booths. A customer could listen to demo CD’s in their entirety rather than the thirty-second sound bites online.

She gave the rock section a cursory check then moved toward movie soundtracks. As she rounded the end of the aisle, she almost bumped into the broad back of a tall, long haired man, one she knew.

She tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi. I can’t believe I’m seeing you here. I thought all you had to do was pick up the phone and CD’s were laid at your feet.”

“Hi yourself. Don’t you look pretty.” Alex held her fingers between his warm palms and kissed Miranda on the cheek. “Actually, I do have tons of CD’s and digital files laid at my doorstep. But I also like to visit the shops. I like to hear what people are saying about different groups. It helps me to predict trends. Other times, I’m looking to add to my personal collection. Walk with me while I check out some new remixes.”

Alex went to the solo artists section and pulled out a Frank Sinatra and a Shirley Bassey.

The selections surprised Miranda. “I never saw you as a Sinatra or Bassey type. They’re ancient. I always think of you as a rock and roll kind of guy.”

Alex frowned. He appeared somewhat offended by her comment. “I try to keep an open mind when it comes to art and music is art. I enjoy all kinds of music with two exceptions--weird Japanese instrumentals that sound like someone plunking on something hollow in a cave. I don’t get it. There’s no melody, just plink, plink, plink. And, I am not a fan of Hawaiian music or songs involving coconuts and ukuleles,” he commented with a distasteful shrug.

Alex added the two CD’s to the stack already in his hand. “Come, let’s listen in one of the booths.”

The store manager knew him. Instead of opening one of the small, more commonly used booths, he unlocked the biggest one in the front. Alex put on the Sinatra CD.
Night and Day
was the first cut. He took Miranda’s purse, set it on a stool at the side and extended his hand. “Shall we, milady?”

Miranda and Alex simply swayed for the first few bars while Frank Sinatra spoke the opening lyrics. Then as the melody started and the speaking turned to singing, they moved in perfect time with each other and to the song. Within the confines of the booth, they somehow managed to dance in more than shuffle steps.

Sinatra’s
Where or When
followed
,
the dynamic of the lyrics rocked Miranda. She’d done this. She didn’t know where or when, but she’d danced with Alex before. She saw the two of them. It was a brief image and as real to her as dancing with him now was. The random flashes of Alex didn’t distress her like the ones of Ian. Why they didn’t puzzled her. But part of the inexplicable pieces and roller coaster emotions since meeting Ian came together for her. Just as she knew she’d danced with Alex in a place she couldn’t name, she knew all the visions of Ian were based on a truth she couldn’t remember. What role she played in those vignettes remained a mystery.

Sinatra went into another Cole Porter song. As she and Alex continued to dance to the romantic music, Ian’s behavior the night of their dinner drifted into her thoughts. She’d practically offered herself to him on a silver platter and he’d turned her down. Why?

“I’d like to ask you something. Please, be honest. This is important.” Miranda hated the tone in her voice. Whining or sounding needy and weak wasn’t her style. The slippery slope to utter wimp loomed yet she couldn’t stop herself. “I know I’m attractive. But, would I ever be attractive enough for a man...well, like you?”

Alex’s penetrating stare bore through her flesh and bone.

“What are you really asking me?”

She shrugged. “I’m curious, is all.”

He took his time before he answered. His hesitation gave her second thoughts about the way she phrased her question. But, to recant or attempt to reword would probably result in disaster. She’d dug a verbal hole and stepped in it. No need to pull the dirt in after her with an elaborate explanation.

“I’m a conceited bastard. I don’t like being an also ran or second choice.” His eyes started at her lips, traveled the length of her and back in sensual perusal. “You don’t strike me as a mistress type and I’m a mistress kind of man. But, if you’re asking me would I want you in that way, then I’d say...”

****

“Have you seen Miranda?” Ian poked his head into Kiki’s office and asked. “I’ve been looking all over for her. We talked for quite awhile this morning. Then, she disappeared.”