Miranda's Mate Page 6

  He upended his computer bag on the round, oak table and fiddled with the setup to hook his laptop to a scrambled satellite link. He needed access to his desktop at The Company. He also wanted to get Miranda’s new docs in process. He grimaced. She hadn’t liked being backed into a corner. He’d seen anger and resentment smolder in her blue eyes when he’d told her it was a waste of manpower for both him and Lars to remain. That was when she’d muttered, “Fine,” her mouth set in a hard line, and scampered into the house.

  After a private conference with his firm, Lars was en route to Spokane. From there, his orders were to check in for further instructions. Garen assumed he’d fly himself back to Europe in stages unless some black ops were happening stateside. As a parting shot to Garen, Lars had said, “Good luck, my friend. She has a temper, and at the moment she is far from sanguine.” His austere features had brightened in a warm smile. “Still, if I had my way, we would trade problems. Taming spitfires is right up my alley.”

  Garen rolled his eyes and booted up his computer. He wasn’t planning to tame Miranda. Simply getting along with her for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours until he could escape and nurse his wounded feelings in private might prove beyond him. His cock was giving him nothing but grief. It had been hard ever since he’d induced Miranda to join the Mile High Club.

  He snorted. Wonder if she even knows what that is? He reached a hand to rearrange himself, but it didn’t help much. It was agony sitting at the table knowing she was so close. For fuck’s sake, he could smell her, all musk and lavender and something unique to Miranda. His wolf was on the prowl, which didn’t make things any easier. It wanted more of Miranda too. Garen couldn’t remember it ever being so…enthusiastic about any of his women before. His hand strayed back to his crotch. He forced it to the keyboard. Even if he brought himself off, it wouldn’t make a dent in his lust.

  He wanted Miranda, but she didn’t want him. Unused to indulging his emotions, Garen tried to push disappointment aside. It bounced back stubbornly and slapped him in the face. He’d never let a woman get under his skin before. More to the point, he’d always been a fuck-’em-and-forget-’em type. What was it about this woman? It had to be more than working in close proximity. He’d been attracted to several of his agents in the past. He liked his women strong, capable, and independent. But he’d always managed to wait until the agents had tenure, and once he’d fucked them, that was that. He didn’t want them anymore. He shook his head and tried to refocus, but a persistent sadness lodged behind his breastbone.

  Maybe it’s karma. Some goddess with a sense of humor is getting back at me for all the hearts I’ve broken.

  He bent to the task of typing in the coding to scramble his location and information. It took a while, but his desktop finally flared across the screen. His mouth twisted into a grimace. Work. As usual lots had piled up. It never mattered the day, month, or season. Business was always brisk at The Company.

  Light was fading from the day when he finally looked up. The house was absolutely silent. The only thing that hadn’t abated was Miranda’s earthy scent. He flicked a switch. The light came on, but it was weak. He thought about firing the generator but was hesitant to break the soothing quiet of the forest. He pushed out of his chair and rotated his torso to get the kinks out before striding to the woodstove. When he tugged the doors open, he grinned. Some considerate agent had actually left a nice pile of scrunched up paper and kindling. He struck a match on the rough cast-iron stove casing and lit the pile of tinder, checking to be sure the damper was fully open.

  Garen hunkered next to the stove for long enough to make certain the fire would go, feeding it at intervals. He straightened. Still no Miranda. He thought about hunting her down and then discarded the idea. She was an adult. She’d surface in her own time. Or not. In the meantime, his stomach constricted. Lunch had been hours ago.

  Garen riffled through cupboards and finally settled on a box of scalloped potatoes and a can of tuna. He figured he’d mix the tuna in with the potatoes. A package of cheesecake mix would make a most excellent dessert. He’d blend some whiskey in to give it a bit of a lift. He started with dessert to give it time to set. The cabin’s appliances ran on propane, so the small refrigerator did its job in spades. If he remembered right, things froze in the refrigerator section and got so hard in the freezer section it took hours for them to thaw. He poured himself a mug of whiskey and sipped it as he worked. Every once in a while he chucked more wood into the stove. When the cabin got warm enough, he stripped to his shirtsleeves.

  *

  Miranda galloped to the upper floor of the cabin and peeked in all six rooms. Four were bedrooms, one a bath, and the last a conference room. She picked the room at the very end of the hall, mostly because it had a small balcony that looked out onto the forest. After chucking her bag onto a chair, she glanced around the room. The ceiling pitched steeply with dormer windows and balcony doors framed in. A double bed with a colorful quilt sat off to one side. An oak tallboy with a mirror over it and a small table with two chairs completed the room’s furniture. The floor was bare wooden planks with throw rugs strategically placed.

  She pushed the balcony doors open and inhaled deeply. The air smelled sweet and clean. Her lupine senses detected a rich bevy of rodents, all within easy striking distance—and another wolf or two, a few coyotes, and some mountain lions. The roar of the Lincoln’s powerful motor and tires crunching over gravel told her Lars was leaving. The irritation she’d swallowed like a bitter draught when Garen had dismissed her suggestion about both of them staying rose to mock her. She’d never felt quite so powerless. It was not a good feeling.

  It’s like I’m a little girl and the good menfolk decided what was best for me.

  A muted snarl escaped her throat. Her wolf informed her it would be child’s play to leap from the balcony and disappear into the forest. She pulled the door shut to lessen temptation. After pacing up and down the room until she almost couldn’t stand herself, Miranda unlaced her boots, toed them off, and lay on the bed. Her mind was a confused jumble. The worst part should have been fear the ISL gang wasn’t done with her. Instead, the thought that rose to the top over and over was how the hell she’d manage to keep to herself under the same roof with Garen.

  As it was, the urge to hurtle downstairs and into his arms was nearly irresistible. She shut her eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. Garen’s face formed behind her closed lids. He was lean, yet powerfully built with broad shoulders and a hard, flat stomach. Not that she’d seen all that much of his body. They’d barely undressed in the plane. She’d gotten conversant with his cock, though. What an amazing appendage. Long and thick, his ridged flesh had felt heaven-sent inside her. She wanted to lick the length of his heavy shaft and plant nibbling kisses around the head.

  He had glorious hair. Black shot with silver, it was thick and smelled delicious. Like bay rum and sandalwood. Miranda ran her hands down her body and snorted. Yeah, maybe I should ask what kind of shampoo he uses so my hair can smell like that too.

  Like she’d done so many times before, she teased her body with practiced fingertips and pretended Garen’s hands and mouth moved over her sensitive flesh. Somewhere between her second and third orgasms, she realized one of her biggest problems was she’d used Garen as a fantasy object almost since the first day she’d laid eyes on him. To have finally moved her dreams to reality was nearly too much to deal with, let alone resist. He wanted her—maybe not as intensely as she wanted him, but she was certain he’d fuck her again if she came on to him.

  Miranda pulled a hand from her damp crotch and the other from a nipple. She got to her feet and padded to the door, listening intently with her lupine senses. Good. I’m still alone up here. She gathered the hair dye and a change of clothes from her bag—serviceable clothing, warm and not too formfitting—and skittered into the bathroom. A shower would be perfect to cool her overheated libido and wash off the sweat from travel.

  The water was hot and plent
iful, the towels fluffy. By the time she combed out her newly bleached hair, it was nearly dark outside. She slid into black combat pants and an oversized long-sleeved wool shirt. It seemed chilly, so she layered a jacket over everything. Someone had left a pair of sheepskin slippers in the bathroom. She tried them on, pleasantly surprised that they fit.

  When she opened the bathroom door, the smell of food cooking hit her in the face. Awesome. I’m hungry. Gee, I had no idea he could cook. Before she went off on a tangent daydreaming impossibilities—like a life with Garen—she smoothed her features into cool neutrality and walked downstairs, comb in hand. The next order of business would be cutting her newly-colored hair.

  His back was toward her as he stood at the stove. It might have been her imagination, but she thought he stiffened before turning to face her. His smile was warm enough, though. “I was wondering whether or not to come upstairs and tell you dinner was about ready.” His eyes widened. “Wow! You weren’t kidding about a lot of blonde around your face.”

  “Too much?” She fingered the damp strands. It had come as a shock to her, too, when she’d glanced in the steamy bathroom mirror. The hair around her face was almost totally platinum with equally light streaks spreading through her dark tresses.

  “No. It was just a surprise. I’m not sure why I thought you’d wait until tomorrow to take care of your hair.”

  “Is there a pair of scissors here?”

  He nodded, yanked a drawer open, and pulled some out. “You have such beautiful hair. It’s a shame to cut it, but I still think it’s necessary. Sit over there. Did you bring a comb down with you? If not, I have one.”

  She held up a comb and waggled it at him. “What? You and Lars both double as beauticians?”

  He favored her with a grin. “We’re a full-service operation, ma’am.”

  “What about dinner? Does it need attention?”

  Garen laughed. It was a rich, warm sound. She didn’t know if she’d ever heard him laugh before. “Does everything that comes out of your mouth end with a question mark, woman?”

  “You just asked one. I really can cut my own hair.”

  “Sit.” He pointed at a chair. When she looked at the table, she saw papers strewn about a fancy-looking laptop with a seventeen-inch screen. He must have been working before he made their dinner. “To answer one of your other questions”—he turned off the stove—“dinner will keep for the few minutes it takes to chop a foot or so off your hair.”

  She sat, laid her comb on the table, and steeled herself to resist his touch. It wasn’t easy. He finger-combed her hair before stabilizing sections with the comb. Miranda aimed for a normal respiration rate, but it was damn near impossible with him so close. Her nipples hardened; despite her upstairs orgasms, her clit swelled with need, and liquid dribbled into her fresh pair of panties.

  “There,” he said with an odd catch in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I think that should do it. We’ll know more once it dries. I’ll just get the broom and sweep up the mess.”

  “I can do that.” She jumped to her feet and almost ran headlong into him. “You, uh, figure out what we need for supper since you know where things are.”

  His face looked flushed, but the light in the cabin was dim. She tried not to look, but her eyes strayed to his crotch. The unmistakable swell of an erection thrilled her. To keep herself from dive-bombing his cock, she hurried across the kitchen and tugged open what looked like a utility closet. She was rewarded by brooms, buckets, and dustpans. Miranda grabbed what she needed and hustled back to the table to sweep up her hair.

  Her head felt pounds lighter. She glanced at the pile on the floor and understood he’d cut her tresses to shoulder length. Probably should have cut it years ago. Hair as long as hers was a liability in the field, but she’d loved her lush locks and resisted everyone from the aunt who’d raised her to her Army field lieutenant when they’d told her to cut it. Garen had accomplished the impossible, but she didn’t tell him.

  By the time she’d dumped the bin and put everything away in the utility closet, he’d dished up their meal, and it waited on the table. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

  “What are my choices?”

  “There’s a pretty good liquor cabinet here. Name your poison.” Like her, he seemed to have regained his equanimity.

  She blew out a breath. Maybe they’d manage better than she thought keeping their hands off one another. “Single malt scotch or Irish whiskey.”

  “We have both.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the scotch.” She looked around for a stash of bottles.

  “I’ll bring it to the table. Sit and eat before everything gets cold.”

  She tucked into the potato and tuna casserole. It was surprisingly good. When he handed her a mug of scotch, she took an experimental sip. The liquor burned a path down her throat to her stomach, warming her. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He slid into a place opposite her and closed his computer, moving it to the side.

  “Any news from the outside world?” She gestured at the laptop with her fork.

  “Nothing about ISL, if that’s what you mean. Your new ID is in process. I told Jorge to make you mostly blonde with shoulder-length hair and to sort of fuzz out your sharp cheekbones.”

  “Do you suppose Lars is all right?”

  Garen shot her an odd look. “He ought to be. He’s been taking care of himself for a very long time. He called from the Spokane airport. He was waiting for either a Learjet or a Gulfstream with enough capacity to take him back to Boston. From there, I’m not certain.” A hesitation. “Why? Do you miss him? Are you sorry it’s me here and not him?”

  Her eyes widened; her heart beat a little faster. For a moment, Garen had sounded like a jealous lover. Don’t be absurd. He’s used to running the show, that’s all. “Now who’s asking the questions?” She kept her tone light. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making conversation.”

  He chewed and swallowed, and then took a long draught of whatever was in his own mug. “Of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Tell me about yourself, Miranda.”

  “Huh? But you already know nearly everything about me from the application I filled out to work for The Company.” She muffled a snort. “I have to say, it was the most, uh, thorough job application I’ve ever seen.”

  His brows drew together. “Tell me anyway, Miss Miller. You’ve worked for The Company for five years, give or take. I have an excellent memory, but it doesn’t extend to job applications I looked at quite so far back.”

  “How about if you tell me about yourself?” she countered. “I know next to nothing about you.” Miranda captured her lower lip in her teeth, amazed she’d been so gutsy.

  “I can do that, so long as you return the favor. Shall we play a version of I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours?”

  The bantering undertone in his words caught her by surprise. If Garen had a playful side, she’d never seen it. “Sure. I’ll even go first. I grew up in Portland. Both my parents were killed when I was four—bad automobile accident—so I went to live with an aunt in Mount Shasta. Graduated high school and went to UCSF. Got a degree in criminal justice, joined the Army, and ended up in the Berets. No husbands. No kids.” Miranda slapped her palms together a time or two. “Your turn.”

  He chuckled. “Your Green Beret training is showing. I’m not certain I’ve ever heard a more concise encapsulation of close to thirty years. Let’s see if I can top it. My parents are still alive. They’re in Lausanne, Switzerland. No brothers or sisters. I went to Cambridge. Majored in archeology. Got sucked into the British Secret Intelligence Services, MI6, and started The Company a few years later.” He mimicked her hand slapping gesture.

  She furled her brows. “Wives? Kids?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “Why, Miss Miller, how forward of you. I don’t have to answer you, but I will. Neither—on both fronts.”

  To mask the joy sluicin
g through her about Garen’s unattached status, she moved the serving dish closer. There were a few spoonfuls left. “Do you want more?”

  He shook his head. “Save room for dessert. We have cheesecake with whiskey.”

  “Never fear, I can eat this and that too.” Since he didn’t want any more, she gobbled the rest of the potato casserole out of the pot and chased it with the last of her scotch.

  He got to his feet. “I’ll get dessert. Would you like another shot of scotch?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let’s wait to see how much whiskey you dumped in the cheesecake.”

  His blue eyes danced with suppressed glee. “Should I take exception to that? Most women have found me a credible cook.”

  At least none of them were your wives. Miranda felt her cheeks heat and clamped down on her thoughts. Maybe one mug of liquor would do it for her.

  The cheesecake was delectable—rich and smooth with just the right amount of bite from the whiskey. She’d worked her way through about half of a generous slice when a bank of lights flashed off and on over the stove. “What the hell? Are we having a power outage?”

  “No.” His voice was sharp, and he sounded like the old Garen, the one she knew from work. “We’re having company. Damn it. Run upstairs and get whichever of your guns holds the most ammo. Bring an extra clip.”

  “Maybe we should stay upstairs.” She kept her voice low. “Two of the rooms have balconies.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’m hoping they won’t get that far.”

  She opened her mouth to question him. He waved her to silence. “Go get your gun. Do it now.”

  Recognizing a command when she heard one, Miranda hightailed it up the stairs.

  Chapter 7

  Garen counted to himself. When he was almost certain whoever was headed their way would cross the land-mined strip farthest from the house, he depressed a plunger in the front closet and was rewarded with a distant boom. Part of him was angry to be back in work mode. He’d been enjoying his dinner and conversation with Miranda more than he’d enjoyed anything in a very long time. She had a razor-sharp mind. In tandem with her perfect body, it made her a very enticing package.