Miranda's Revenge (13 page)

Miranda looked at her niece-to-be, who gazed solemnly at Carol for a moment, then said, “You don't like it, do you?”

“Oh, no, dear. Of course I do. I just wish I'd been warned to wear jeans.”

“It's the mountains, Mother,” Miranda said. “A person might think to bring some jeans.”

Carol held up the menu. “Well, yes, of course, but when one goes out to
dinner,
one doesn't think of that.”

“I'm not wearing jeans,” Glory said. “I'm wearing my pretty dress, so you don't have to feel bad.”

The adults chuckled. Not Carol.

Just sitting there, Miranda felt the tension rising, both internally and externally. A thousand family dinners passed through her mind, when one or the other of the sisters had been the focus of Carol's sharp tongue and eternally dissatisfied eye. Most often, it had been Desi, who was too tall and round and serious for her mother's tastes.

“You do look wonderful, Mother,” Juliet said, offering an olive branch. Behind her menu, she shot Miranda a glance that said,
help me keep the peace.

“I agree,” Miranda said. “Have you been working out?”

“Your mother has hired a personal trainer,” Paul said proudly. “Best-looking woman in her age class by far.”

“In my age class,” Carol echoed, and it was as if her breath was blue freeze.

“Well, you know what I mean.” Her father, Miranda noted, went very red in the cheeks. Unexpectedly she felt sorry for him. She looked back at the menu. “You always look great, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear.”

That was the worst of the evening. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior. Miranda noticed her father wasn't drinking, and commented on it. “No martini, Daddy?”

“Not with a race in the morning.”

Which gave James a chance to say, “Do you have a goal?”

“I can't win,” Paul said, nodding. “But I'm hoping to end at the top of my age class.” He cut neatly into his chicken breast. “How about you, son?”

James had a giant plate of spaghetti he was slowly making his way through. “I want to win,” he said, and smiled.

That smile knocked Miranda sideways. Slow, confident but not cocky, acknowledging the cheekiness of his intention while not discounting the possibility. An echo of warning moved through her. He wasn't just dangerous. He was mortally dangerous. Loving him could kill her.

“Can you do it?” Carol asked.

“Maybe. Depends on who is running with me.”

“Good for you.” She shifted her gaze to Josh, on her other side. “And will you run?”

“No. Never have been a runner.”

“I see.”

The conversation drifted, ebbed and flowed. They got through the appetizers and the salads, and Carol had only drunk a single glass of wine. When she ordered another, Miranda felt herself shrinking in her seat.

And sure enough, Carol found much to disdain as the meal went on. The bread was cold. The green beans were cooked to death. The waiter was too slow. The meat was tough.

Sometimes, Paul tried to ease things, joke Carol along, smooth the whole thing. Which generally made it worse. Maybe he'd learned that, because he didn't say a word to his wife, just let her bitch and moan about all the things that were wrong with the restaurant, the meal, whatever.

Mostly the rest of the company just talked around her. Then Juliet began to talk about various color schemes and flower choices for the wedding. In the midst of a description of the flowers for the altar, Carol cut in, “you can't mean to use lilies! They're funeral flowers.”

“They're calla lilies and they're beautiful,” Juliet said, smiling.

A few minutes later, Carol said, “I hope you're planning to get an updo or something for the wedding, Juliet. Your hair is looking a little thin to be wearing it long.”

Woe be unto those who messed with the princess. For some reason no one could discern, Glory—age five—had gotten it into her head that Juliet was a princess, and nothing would dissuade her. Juliet was the greatest thing to land on earth. Ever. It was hero worship of the most profound sort, and she did not take kindly to Carol's tone.

“You're
mean!
” she said.

“Well, you're a rude little girl,” Carol said without missing a beat. “You shouldn't speak to adults that way.”

“Neither should you! My grandma says if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.”

“You didn't listen to her very well, did you?”

“Mother!” Juliet said.

“I know who you are,” Glory said, drawing herself up to her full height, wiggling in the booster chair to be a little taller. “You're the wicked witch, aren't you?”

F
or a long moment, silence engulfed the group. Under the table, James took Miranda's hand, and gave it a squeeze. She looked pale and strained, and he wanted nothing more than to whisk her out of there. This was obviously a very damaged family group, and while he still didn't know where, exactly, Miranda's need to be in control came from, he saw what must have been a highly difficult childhood. She clung to his hand as if it were a lifeline.

All at once, the whole group burst into laughter—and once they started, there was no stopping. It was laughter fueled with the gasoline of tension, and the more they laughed, the hotter the hilarity.

Carol stood stiffly. “I don't think this is even a little bit funny.”

Juliet tried to stop laughing. “Mother, where is your sense of humor?”

“You need to rein that girl in.”

Josh stood. “With all due respect, Dr. Rousseau, Glory was only responding to your tone. If you want kindness, that's what you have to give.” He picked up his daughter, who looked close to tears, and cuddled her. “It's okay, honey.”

Carol stiffly left the table and the restaurant. The others slowly sobered. Miranda took a big gulp of margarita and smiled with exaggerated cheer at her sister. “That went well.”

“Could have been worse,” Juliet agreed.

Paul Rousseau stood, placing his napkin carefully beside his plate. “I guess I'd better go patch things up. You all have a good night.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Juliet said.

“Don't you apologize,” Paul said, and pulled out his wallet and put some bills down beside Juliet's plate. “This is on me, too, so you young people just have a good time.” With a wink at James, he said, “Especially you, young man. Party on.”

James lifted his chin. “See you in the morning.”

After he left, Josh sat Glory back in her chair. “It's all right, honey. Let's have dessert, huh?”

“Ice cream?”

“Sure.” Josh looked around the table. “Who else?”

“None for me,” James said, gesturing at the demolished plate in front of him. He had his hand firmly on Miranda's thigh, supple beneath the silky fabric of her skirt. She smelled of oranges and spice, and he thought the nightcap might be a cup of hot chocolate taken on the balcony of his room.

“Me, either,” Miranda said.

He took a chance. “Are you ready to go, then? Check out the lead we talked about?”

Miranda looked at him. “Yes. I'm ready.” She stood up. “Sorry to bail, you guys, but now you can have your dessert in peace.”

“I don't like that lady,” Glory said.

“I don't blame you,” Miranda replied, and kissed her on the head. “I'll see you tomorrow. Are you getting your dress?”

“Yes. It's pink!”

“I can't wait to see it.”

Watching, James wondered who had been so tender with these girls. They had a vast kindness in them, all three of them did. It showed in Juliet's passion for providing help and concrete services for the working poor, in Desi's quest to save the wolves and he saw it now in Miranda's gentle touch on the girl's head. She did not hug her sister, he noticed, but patted her shoulder.

“Don't wait up,” Miranda said.

“I'm not sleeping there tonight. I'm too tense.”

Miranda grinned. “Okay. See you tomorrow, then.”

Outside the restaurant, it was still light out, with heavy gold dripping across the skies and the rocky tops of the mountains. The air was crisp, fine, light. Miranda let go of a gusty sigh. “Now what?”

“I have an idea,” he said, taking her hand.

“So far they have proved to be very good. What did you have in mind?”

“The balcony of my hotel room. Room service hot chocolate and cookies.”

She slowed. “But that seems a little too tempting, if you know what I mean.”

“I have pretty good discipline.”

“Maybe I don't.”

“Maybe I have enough for both of us.”

Something fiery blazed in her eyes. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Maybe,” he said with a little smile. “Maybe not.”

Her laughter was throaty. “All right, I'll go with you to your lair.” She swung her handbag on her free wrist. “So, did you learn anything?”

“Your mother is an alcoholic. That can't have been easy.”

“We don't call it that.”

“Maybe that's part of the problem.”

“At least part of it. The other part would be that she's the wicked witch.” She laughed. “Oh, was that priceless?”

“She is not a very pleasant woman, that's for sure. Why is she so evil, though?”

“Oh, who knows, James? We survived her, that's all.” She tickled his palm with her finger. “Can we change the subject, please? My mother has to be one of my least favorite topics.”

They reached the hotel and Miranda scowled. “You need to do some reconnaissance, to make sure they're not in the bar. I don't want to deal with them.”

He nodded, ducked into the hotel and looked around carefully, then went back out and took Miranda's hand. “All clear.” He stopped by the concierge and asked for a pot of hot chocolate and cookies to be delivered to his room.

As they waited for the elevator, there was a soft space of awkwardness between them, the awkwardness of two bodies still unjoined. He found himself noticing the white corner where her neck met her shoulder, and thought about kissing it. Biting it. It would not take much to bruise that delicate skin—he would need to be careful.

He looked at her earlobe, reached up a hand to trace the shape of it and he drew a strand of hair between his fingers. “So soft,” he said.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open and they stepped into the gilded, mirrored box. A thousand Mirandas, a thousand hims. He stood beside her and admired the picture they made—she slim and white and pale, her hair a cloak around her shoulders, he whipcord lean and dark and sober looking, severe, like an old-time picture. He raised a hand to her neck, his fingers very dark against the alabaster paleness of her throat. She leaned backward, her head upon his shoulder, her eyes mere slits. He trailed downward, watching in the mirror as his fingertips slid over the skin revealed by her dress. Before his eyes, her nipples rose, and from this angle, he could see the lace of her bra.

With the tiniest smile, she pressed backward, her bottom rubbing his member ever so lightly, and he—

The bell dinged for the elevator, and the doors slid open. There was no one there. “This is our floor,” James said, and pulled her off the elevator, and down the hall, both of them laughing.

His room was at the west end of the hotel, a corner with a view over the slopes. At night, he heard the trams moving over the mountain, moving, moving, moving, but it was worth it for the room. “Let me show you the view,” he said, skirting the bed.

The French doors were open to the breeze, a light curtain rising and falling in flutters that made him think of that sari she'd purchased this afternoon. A vision of that thin blue fabric skimming her pale skin moved through his veins and he nearly shuddered.

They stepped out onto the balcony. Five floors below was the street, bustling with early evening traffic, backpackers and couples holding hands and families of sunburned tourists headed for an ice cream. The tram moved up the hill relentlessly, shuttling weary workers and cheerful kids to the shops and apartments and the movie theater on the other side of the mountain. Miranda leaned on the wrought-iron railing and inhaled deeply. “Man, that's a good smell. Not like the city.”

“The city doesn't smell good?”

“Not really. Especially in the summertime. It's peculiar, and you do get used to it, but this—” again she took it in, her breasts lifting with the air in her lungs “—is really good.” She tipped backward, leaning against his arm. “Are you planning to kiss me again,
señor?
”

“I could,” he said, and did. He leaned into the siren call of her lips and tasted the summer flavor of margaritas. She moved closer, putting her body close to his, and he spread his hands over her back. They fit their lips and tongues together, kissing without urgency, and James took the time to imprint the feeling of her body against his, the uplifted pleasure of soft breasts against his ribs, the flare of her waist beneath his hands, the tense strength of her thighs pressing into his own. His blood simmered, just below boiling, where it had been for days—really since the first time he'd seen her.

He knew by the soft panting heat of her, the dampness of her skin and the low, hungry noises she made, that she felt the same way.

A knock sounded at the door. He raised his head, looked down at her. “Our hot chocolate.”

“I like chocolate.”

He went to the door and let the boy from room service in, carrying a tray with a big silver teapot on it, and cups, and a silver pitcher of cream, and a tray of beautifully presented cookies. He signed for it and showed the man out. When he turned back, Miranda was pouring the thick chocolate into cups. “Cream?”

“Yes.”

“I'm worrying about your race.”

“Don't.” He put his cup down, settled on the chair and tugged her hand until she was in his lap. Gold light spilled through the open French doors, set her hair on fire. She rested on his lap, her feet still planted on the floor, as if she would run away. Smiling to himself, he pulled her knees up a little so her feet dangled over his legs. Demurely she sipped her chocolate, and he picked up his own cup.

“This is outrageously decadent,” she said. “It makes me think of a place—” She halted and shook her head.

“Go ahead. It doesn't matter if you were with a lover. I don't mind.”

“No, I wasn't, actually. But you seem not to like it when I talk about my travels. It bothers you.”

“It doesn't bother me,” he said, resolving to stop being such an ass. “Take me there. What does that chocolate make you think of?”

“Paris,” she said simply. “A winter afternoon with a girl from Australia. We went to a little café and they served hot chocolate like this. We'd been walking all day and we were cold and wet and miserable and it was the best thing I'd ever tasted.”

“I can imagine.”

“You would like Paris, I think. It's so different from anywhere else. Just so itself, the light and the buildings and the carefulness of the Parisians, who are also very joyful.”

He watched her lips as she spoke, watched the deep pink flesh shape words and taste her chocolate. “I would.”

“Tell me another story,” he said, admiring her throat. He put down his cup and put one hand on her thigh, another resting alongside her arm. She seemed a little taut, but giddy, too.

“What do you want to hear about? Ireland? Scandinavia? Spain?”

“Ireland. It seems a place I'd like.” He stroked one finger down her arm, admiring the fine grain of her skin, almost poreless, so fine he could see tracings of blue veins beneath it. As he touched her, he saw that her nipples tautened, and although he was sure she didn't realize it, her buttocks and thighs tightened, shifted.

As she spoke of green fields bounded by hedges and white cottages and brightly painted buildings in the towns, he traced upward and downward on her arm. When he tired of that, he moved his hand down to her bare calf, and upward to her knee beneath the skirt. He traced the shape of it, touched the back of it, that sensitive place.

She put her chocolate down. Looked at him, waiting, all hair and lips. He slid his hand up her skirt, over a thigh as silky as water, all the way to her hip, to the edge of her panties at the side. She made no move to help him, and it was wildly arousing, a fact he suspected she knew. Her eyes were sultry, fixed on his face. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth.

He pulled his hand around beneath her skirts, skimming the skirt upward to reveal her thighs, long and fine and slim, and he moved his hand to the inside of her thigh, unable now to hold on to his composure as much as he would have liked, especially when she shifted, ever so slightly and spread her legs, pushing one thigh up against his arousal firmly.

He responded to her invitation by sliding his dark fingers over the milkiness of her leg, stopping short of the place she wanted him—his thumb or fingers or tongue—just in time. She moved against him, urging him upward, pressing her bottom closer to his sex, and he just stroked her thighs, looking at her mouth, her breasts.

She breathed in, and lifted her hands to her dress, and began, one at a time, to unfasten the buttons. With a little shimmy, the lacy undergarment shook right off her breasts and there were Miranda's pure white, supple, rose-tipped nipples.

Control, control, control. She wanted to control the situation because then she would not be afraid of him. He wanted to show her the joy in
losing
control. He leaned forward just enough to lick her right nipple, just once, then slid his hand a little way up her thigh.