Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (26 page)

Miranda continued. The commotion hadn't slowed her a bit. Ian glanced up in time to see the exit door swing shut. The scent of her L’interdit perfume lingered in the corridor. Bitter frustration swept over him. Furious, he confronted the ex-lover.

"What are you doing here?"

Jennifer tilted her chin up and acted offended. "What do you mean, what am I doing here? I'm here to see you, of course."

She changed tactics and eased closer to Ian until she tried to trap one of his thighs between her legs. He shifted so she couldn’t.

"I was patient and waited for you to return and now you're back. Things can finally be normal again, like before. I have the entire evening planned, all the ways I'm going to welcome you home."

Ian recoiled as she rubbed her hand over his crotch and he pushed her away harder than he intended. "Jennifer, I thought we sorted this out months ago. There was nothing special between us. We had a good time for a couple of weeks, that's all."

Her chin began to tremble and her lip quivered. Any minute big, fat, crocodile tears would fall. Of the ten things he hated most, fake tears were in the top three. Women who cried on cue only did it once with him. That was a relationship breaker. Jennifer strained his tolerance, but he needed to know what she'd said to Miranda. If he could find out what crazy nonsense the obsessive blonde told her he'd have an idea how much damage control was necessary.

The tears flowed. "How can you say that? I love you. I know you could love me back, in time. Why are you being so mean?"

Ian held Jennifer in a loose, generic hug. Stiff and robotic, he patted her back. She buried her head in his shoulder. "I'm not being mean, just honest. I'm never going to feel for you the way you feel for me." Jennifer struggled against him. Prepared for the move, he tightened his hold. "Now, tell me exactly what you said to Miranda."

The reply was muffled by Jennifer's sobs and difficult to understand, which only aggravated him more. "Who’s Miranda? Is she the redhead that walked out?"

"Yes." Ian lessened his grip.

Jennifer’s tone verged on shrill. "Why? Why are you so interested in what I said?” She cocked her head to the side, “You fancy her, don't you?"

"Just answer me. What did you say?"

Jennifer pushed hard on Ian’s chest. The tears had stopped as easy as they started. She glared at him, her wet eyes glassy with neurotic jealousy and contempt. "No, I don't think I'll tell you. You'll just have to chase after her and find out for yourself." She drew back to slap him.

Faster, he grabbed her wrist and brought her arm to her side.

"Let me go. I hate you. And now, she'll hate you too."

The histrionics were wasted. Ian ignored the dramatic whimpers. Nor did he care enough about her for the words to provoke him. "I'm tired of playing this game with you Jennifer. Tell me what you said."

"Let me go, you're frightening me."

She wasn't afraid in the least and he knew it. "Answer me."

"I told her I was your girlfriend."

"And?" Jennifer refused to look him in the eye. Ian squeezed her wrist harder. "And?"

An evil smile twisted her pretty mouth into an ugly sneer. "I told her you expected me. You know what she thinks? She thinks you invited her out as a back-up date in case I didn't show. Poor Ian, you'll never convince her she was anything more than second choice."

He stared at her for a moment as the impact of what she said sunk in. For once, the little twit was probably right. It's exactly how Miranda would view the situation. Ian dropped Jennifer's wrist and stalked out, contemplating what to do next.

Miranda didn’t look back. Her palms slammed against the bar on the security door that led outside and she hurried up the street.

The office buildings cast long shadows onto the sidewalk in the setting sun. She yearned to hide in those shadows and avoid the world. Usually, she took the underground to Victoria Station then caught the train home to Norfolk. The tube’s obnoxious rush hour crowd was too much for her to deal with in her current mood. At the moment, she wished her country manor house was a London flat instead. She decided to black cab it to the train station. If it had been financially feasible, she'd have taken the cab all the way home. She wanted to be alone in her misery. She’d acted like an idiot over a man and in front of everybody at work to boot.

The cab made slow progress in the evening traffic. Miranda muttered to herself and every so often a deep, tragic sigh escaped. Three times the driver slid the plastic window open to ask if she was speaking to him. After the third inquiry he stopped.

In the greater scheme of things, she had only herself to blame. She'd broken her own rule. It had always been her practice never to accept a date with someone she didn't get to know first.

Miranda's spirit sank further as she remembered her previous affairs. Some were short and disastrous. Some lasted longer and ended on a good note. None were special.

Deep down, she agreed with Kiki, though she’d never admit it to her. Men like Ian were rare, if what was said about him was even half true. And, she was powerfully attracted to him. She believed he had that special something and she wanted to experience it. Was that so much to ask?”

The cabbie turned onto Park Lane. A twinge of sympathy flitted across her mind as they passed the pack of cars in the Marble Arch round-about. The lead cars in each lane crept forward desperate for a break in traffic, a chance to merge.

A short time ago, she thought she was getting a break. If only she hadn't been so drawn to him. If only he wasn't so handsome and charming. If only he hadn't acted so interested in her.

A red, double-decker passed. An advert for Derbyshire Dairy with the picture of a grass-eating black and white cow was pasted to the side.

“If—if—if. If only indeed. If only cows had balls they'd be bulls!” she said, under her breath.

Morning sunlight streamed into the bedroom. The light caught the shimmery threads of the moiré wallpaper. A cheerful brightness warmed the room. Miranda groaned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat for a few seconds, rubbed the grit from her eyes, then got up and yanked the drapes closed.

She went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. After brushing her teeth and hair and pulling it into a ponytail, she took a long look in the mirror. Rat eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed, looked back. Depression had finally given way to sleep three hours earlier at four in the morning.

She slogged into the kitchen and tried to forget the previous day’s nightmare. The best way out of her doldrums was to focus on work. She’d stay occupied and put the events of the previous day behind her. The ruin of Ashenwyck Castle loomed in the distance, “looks as good a place as any to start.”

The phone rang as she poured her first cup of coffee.

“Christ Almighty's sake, who’d call anyone at this hour?” She moaned, “Kiki,” sure her friend wanted to find out how the
dream
date went.
Oh,
he went all right. Out the door on another woman's arm.

“Kiki, you'll have to wait to hear the sordid details. I'm not in the mood to talk about it, not with you or anyone else right now.” She said to the mug, ignoring the phone.

The message machine clicked on after the fourth ring.

"Miranda, it’s Ian. Please pick up. I need to talk to you and explain about yesterday.” He stayed on the line, waiting. She could hear him breathing. “There's been a terrible misunderstanding. Please give me a chance to explain."

She glared in silent challenge at the cordless still in its cradle. If the inanimate object wanted to avoid being ripped from the wall it should end the tape and disconnect.

Fortunately, it did. Miranda still raged at the machine.

"Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!"

She fumed over a cup of coffee and then fumed some more over another cup before deciding to tack up her thoroughbred, Zulu.

Fifteen minutes later, she yanked the stirrups down and prepared to mount when a young man called out to her from the side gate. He held two boxes and shifted his feet to a beat and tune only he could hear.

"Are you Ms. Coltrane?"

"Yes." Now what?

"I was told to deliver these to you personally, so here." He shoved two long white florist boxes at her like they were burning logs.

"Wait, tell me who sent you?"

The delivery boy turned but continued to walk backwards as he answered. "The man didn't say his name." Again, he spun around and scurried towards his van.

"What did this man look like?"

"I don’t really look at blokes, lady." He stared at the ground as though he expected to find the answer lying there. "He was dark, you know, dark hair, tan, tall." The boy perked up and grinned at her, "His car was the dog’s bollocks, noticed it straight away, a Lotus Esprit. They don’t get any sweeter." With that the boy sprinted off, his car keys jingling in his hand.

Ian! Miranda considered running after the young man and flinging the boxes back at him or under the van's tires. The option was lost by the speed of the boy's departure.

Peevish, she took the boxes into the kitchen and laid them on the table, talking to herself the entire way. "I'm not opening these up. I'm not looking at these flowers. I'm throwing them away. If you were here Mr. Cherlein, I'd be sorely tempted to beat you over the head with them till you were bloody and they turned to potpourri."

But, she didn't throw them away. It served no useful purpose to throw the flowers out. Of course, she could donate them to a local hospital,
or not
. Miranda stood, hands on hips, and stared at the boxes, at war with herself. She opened one box. There lay one dozen, perfect long stemmed roses, the most beautiful shade of pale peach. A soft, steady hiss escaped as she inhaled. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice commanded her not to react, not be swayed, not weaken. Remember the wicked sender of the prettiest flowers she’d ever received.

Insubordinate, treasonous fingers started pulling the roses from the box. She fussed and cooed and stroked individual velvety petals with her fingertip before she brought the blooms to her nose. Ever so gently, she laid them down and opened the second box. These, for sure, were going to the hospital, no doubt in her mind. She’d just give them a quick look first.

"Oh, they're magnificent," Miranda said, unaware she’d spoken out loud. The second dozen were a soft, pale pink. She brought these out with the same reverence as the first dozen.

That inner voice came on strong again, the words “fool” and “pathetic female,” bounced around her head. Another voice, tiny but suggestive whispered, maybe he deserves a chance to explain.

Miranda considered it for a moment, then tapped into her reserve of anger and groaned, "I don’t think so. Burn you, Ian Cherlein, burn you to the bowels of whatever place you come from. How dare you send me flowers? And how dare you send them in my favorite colors? Why couldn't you send stupid red roses like everyone else, or yellow, or any other color, but these?"

Swearing harsh epitaphs, Miranda divided the flowers up. The vast majority went downstairs in a huge blue and white oriental vase. She put one into a small vase in the bathroom and several from each bunch she placed by her bed, not to remind her of Ian, of course. No, that wasn't it. They added a pretty touch to the décor, no other reason.

"I'll keep your flowers, but I'm still not taking your calls. Let the devil take you. Buy every flower in the whole of England, I don't care," she said as she strode back to the stable.

Zulu's ears twitched and pricked up at the sound of her raised voice. He began his standard dance of anticipation when she neared. The big bay loved to stretch it out. His canter invariably turned to a gallop over the grassy field behind the house. Miranda grabbed his reins and led him through the pasture gate. Like a woman who had been riding all her life, she mounted and spurred him. The well trained thoroughbred leaped into a canter from a standstill.