Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (33 page)

Ian gave a low grunt and watched as his friend headed for the door. "Alex...thanks."

Ian stared at the closed door and contemplated what they'd discussed. Alex was wrong. How could Miranda not want to know they’re destined to be together? He evaluated several different ways to go about convincing her before a simple but shrewd plan came to him. He needed to be a stronger presence in her daily life. It would take a couple of weeks. If she subconsciously sensed the prior hurt like Alex suggested, then she had to have the good memories buried there. He just needed to unlock them. Tonight was the perfect time to start.

He walked into Miranda's office, a man on a mission.

Miranda was standing at her desk, pictures of weapons spread in front of her. She looked up as Ian came in. "Hi, I saw Alex leave. I was about to go to your office. I've printed out the pictures and descriptions of the weapons we might use.” She started to gather the examples. “When you approve the choices I'll send copies to the production assistant to forward on to the re-enactment group."

Ian came around to Miranda's side of the desk, never slowing his stride, a strange glint in his eye. She watched him with a mixture of wariness and excitement. With one hand he took her by the wrist as he pulled a chair over with the other.

"Sit."

Ian tugged her down into a chair and arranged the two of them so they were face to face. Instead of knee to knee, he placed himself so both her legs were between his. Hunched forward, his forearms rested on his thighs.

"Show me the pictures. By the way, I don’t want a re-enactment group. Make sure the production staff is made aware. Tell them to get stunt men. I want the battle scenes to look and sound as realistic as possible. Those weekend warrior clubs won’t do."

The examples were laid out in sub-categories so Ian compared swords to swords, daggers to daggers, armor to armor. He kept his head down, reviewing, but slowly with each stack he edged further forward until his hands were over Miranda's lap. A faint whiff of Dunhill, his after shave, drifted up. The subtle scent never overpowered her.

She gazed down at the back of his bent head and wondered what his pillow smelled like. She bet there was the underlying odor of linen, crisp and clean, with an overlay of him, and a touch, but just a touch of Dunhill.

What a distraction the man was. Subtly, she studied him as he sorted through the printouts, noting the way his broad shoulder muscles curved, stretching the cotton shirt when he shifted.

She fantasized him making love to her. For the hundredth time this week, she envisioned where his arms bulged as he supported his weight and covered her body. She saw her hands slide under his biceps and up and over his wide back. Her palms would register every flex of his muscles as he moved across her body kissing, teasing, arousing. His thick hair would tickle her breasts and stomach as she ran her hand down the indentation of his spine.

Ian sat up. Startled, she tried not to look flustered.

"I've marked the weapons I want to use."

He'd said something. His lips had moved and there'd been vague sound coming out. She was caught like a rat in a trap, wallowing in an X-rated daydream.

"Sorry?"

He stared at her hard as though he’d read her mind. "I've marked the ones we're using, take them to production and then meet me in my office and we'll go to dinner," he said after a few seconds.

A ripple of relief ran through Miranda when he stood. Grateful her inattention hadn’t been questioned; the invitation went over her head. The thought of declining never formed.

She stopped in the ladies room on the way back from production for a quick critical appraisal. The make-up and hair needed only a minor touch up but the dress--.

The ivy green flattered her. Long sleeved with a mandarin collar the dress hugged her figure well and ended an inch above the knee. A modest slit over one thigh added a little sex appeal. Unfortunately, it was silk. Unlike the pristine silk Armani worn by “Jennifer Perfect,” as Miranda labeled her, this dress had serious wrinkles.

"Why am I doing this?" She mumbled, digging through the toiletry bag she kept in her desk. He swore he wasn’t seeing other women. How can that be true when they keep calling? If she had the sense God gave a goose she’d decline the invitation and leave.

She knew the answer. Deep down she wanted to believe he could be as attracted to her as she was to him. Miranda straightened her dress as best she could, brushed her hair and glossed her lips.

“Let Jennifer Perfect and the rest eat cake.”

It occurred to her quoting a woman who’d had her head chopped off wasn’t the wisest choice.

Ian sat in his office using the time to marshal his wayward thoughts. He'd had one devil of a time concentrating on the pictures. When they sat so close with their thighs touching, he thought he'd never make it through the stacks of examples. Then, when he leaned over her lap and his hand came into contact with that sexy slit in her dress,
bloody hell!
The slit stopped just short of the top of her stocking. If he'd moved his fingers one inch he'd have been touching the soft skin of inner thigh.

Miranda had driven him crazy all day in that dress. He loved the way it clung to her as she moved and the quiet rustle as it slid against her skin. When she reached for a book on one of his shelves the material drew taut outlining the shape of her bottom. For a few seconds, he considered closing the door and ravishing her. Fulfillment of that temptation would have to wait. Miranda wasn't likely to appreciate the spontaneity,
yet.

Dinner was the first step in his plan. They belonged together. He’d no intention of waiting months for her to come around, but he needed to walk a fine line. Too suave and he’d come across as a shallow playboy. He had to be charming enough to win her trust and confidence.

There was a soft knock and Miranda peered around the door.

“Ready?”

"Absolutely," he replied. More than you know, he said to himself.

His splayed fingers covered her lower back as he led them out, passing a group of co-workers. Ian paid no mind to their curious looks. He didn't care in the least about the whispers that started before they were out the exit door.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Well, if you're up for curry, the Rangoon Club is only a few blocks from here, near Grosvenor Square,” Miranda suggested. “We can walk.”

****

As they waited to cross Oxford St. a tenor sax started to play behind them. The melody caught Ian’s attention. He turned.

The musician stood at the entry of the Marble Arch underground. He played without sheet music, black case open on the sidewalk. Without letting go of Miranda’s hand, Ian went over to the busker.

“He’s often here during the week,” Miranda said and smiled up at Ian.

“What’s the song?”

“Space Oddity
, the old David Bowie tune.”

Ian listened and let the music take him back to a day when he and Guy had been unmerciful to Elinor during a game of Castle Risk. They’d trounced her in record time. This was a favorite song of hers. She’d put the album on the stereo towards the end of the game. This song had just started when she stomped off.

Ian threw a pound coin in the sax player’s instrument case.

“Play it again, will you?”

The busker nodded and replayed the haunting melody. When he finished, Ian thanked him and they walked back to the corner.

“Do you like that song?”

Miranda shrugged. “It’s all right. Sad. I don’t listen to Bowie much.”

That wasn’t the answer Ian hoped to hear.

At dinner he wanted to know about her life, her childhood, every detail of her twenty-five years. Miranda spoke about her family and how she came to be fascinated with history. Ian danced around direct questions regarding his family and background. He kept his answers vague while still satisfying her questions. If she thought his responses superficial she didn't indicate it. They lingered over drinks until she mentioned catching the last train to Norfolk.

The evening had been so much more than Miranda expected. That was a lie. She expected it to be wonderful, and it was beyond wonderful. She loved the way Ian touched her often with small intimate gestures. A thumb that circled the inside of her wrist, or the way his fingers slid the length of hers, up and down and in between. She concluded Ian’s touch on any part of her anatomy would feel erotic.

She was reconsidering her office romance policy. What sort of impression would abandoning her ethical stance after one evening out give him of her? Did it show a complete lack of conviction to her personal standards? That’s the type of woman he’s probably used to dating. He had to see she was different. But, she really did want to make an exception to her rule. Coward that she was, she thought it best to let him make the overture. On the rethink, since she’d been so adamant about her policy, he might not make a move. Maybe he wanted a sign from her first. It was a conundrum of her own making.

They took their time walking to his car and reached it all too soon for Miranda, who still mentally vacillated.

"I had a lovely time. I wish..." her words trailed off. "Never mind, it's not important. If you don't mind could you drop me at King's Cross Station?"

She cursed her loss of nerve. Then, in a defensive internal about face, she justified chickening out. She told herself the original plan was for the best.

Could she get more schizophrenic?

"I'll drive you home."

Ian wrapped his arms around her, the protest she was about to make silenced with a kiss. The kiss stole Miranda's breath and thought away. She almost forgot what she intended to say. He lifted his lips from hers; still keeping the embrace tight.

"It's too far, you--" he stopped the rest of her words with another kiss, deeper than the one before. Ian changed positions, each new slant brought a tantalizing difference to the kiss. Every new probe offered the invitation to be returned and Miranda wouldn't decline.

Just one more, then she’d stop him. Just one more.

He locked her body to his. She held hard to his neck and shoulders, wanting more intimacy than the embrace allowed.

Ian's hand slid lower. Strong fingers urged Miranda’s hips forward. Iron thighs pressed against her softer ones. The thin barrier of clothing between them a poor shield as his erection pushed against her. Her hips ground in unison with his.

Never breaking contact, Ian walked Miranda backward. The cold cement wall of the garage chilled her shoulders as Ian's hot hand skimmed up her thigh. His calloused palm caught on her stocking as his thumb circled an erotic pattern on her flesh.

She slipped her shoe off to hook a stockinged foot over the back of his leg. When he broke their kiss off, a breathy Miranda didn't let the opportunity pass. She kissed his neck, his chin, his throat.

His hand moved further up and a small shudder traveled through her as he glided over the sensitive hip bone. Ian cupped a buttock, while another firm hand held her in the position of his choice.

The shrill sound of a car alarm invaded their privacy and jarred them out of the moment. Ian froze. His hands stilled and he glanced in the direction of the offensive noise. He turned back, a look of disgust on his face.

She’d acted like all the other women, crawling all over him in a public garage. Slutty. Everything lovely about the evening was lost, sullied.

Ian withdrew his hand from under her skirt, straightening it as he pulled away. Cool air blanketed the area left empty of his body heat.

Sudden and strong, a weird premonition filled her thoughts, a sense of devastating loss and emptiness. Was the apprehension related to her visions and Ian, or a result of mortification? She didn’t know. The experience troubled her as much as the sad feelings brought on by it. Until now, she’d pigeon-holed the existence of premonitions as nonsense along with gut instinct and intuition. But, she couldn’t deny the power of the visceral warning.