Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (37 page)

In the erotic dream she had of him, he didn’t have a hairy chest. She’d burn this sight into subconscious. If she had another erotic dream, she wanted this fun feature included. It was so unsubtle, but her eyes dropped to the darkened line under the open waistband. He should just paint a “down here” arrow on his stomach.

She looked up. He grinned and smoothed his hair back with his palms. What a great smile he had. There was nothing contrived about it. If he didn’t like someone or something he never faked a pleasant response.

She loved his smile.

She loved him and probably had from the start. Love at first sight? Something else she never believed in before Ian. He made her laugh even when he was being awful. He always had an acerbic, but accurate comment about the administrators and their hare-brained suggestions, which occurred regularly. Of course, he whispered undeniable remarks when the subjects were in her line of sight and she had to suffocate her laughter. Conversely, his courteous deference to other employees, a reflection of the quality of his character, always struck her. Even tactless Zandra received her share of pleases and thank yous from him.

Miranda never considered herself vain, but how Ian could make her ego soar with just a look. Sometime’s his dark eyes were all sensuality and sometimes deviltry and appreciation. He made her blood churn in her veins. She was lost from the moment he grinned like the wolf in
Little Red Riding Hood
and suggested eating her.

Ian winked obviously approving of her intimate perusal. She clutched the book harder. Caught ogling him, she fumbled for something neutral to say.

"Nice tan."

"Thank you, the result of a year in a sunny climate."

Miranda cursed herself as her eyes darted downward when he unzipped to tuck in his shirt. She brought them back up with all speed and hoped he hadn't noticed the transgression.

"You've a lovely tan yourself," Ian said and took what in Miranda's opinion was an excruciating amount of time to zip and button up.

"It's nice, but not as rich or deep as yours, and I vacationed in the hot Mediterranean sun. Yours is..." Miranda scanned him suspiciously as he fixed his belt, "Very un-English."

She was grateful for the silly conversation. A moment ago, she’d been too close to blurting out, “I love you.” There are some things a man should say first, I love you, being the primary one.

"Are you saying you don't think I'm English?" His brows furrowed and he tipped his head to the side. He appeared confounded by her remark.

"I didn't say that, but you are swarthy for an Englishman. You should recheck your family tree. I think there might be some pirate skeletons in your closet."

"Perhaps I've just spent more time in the sun topless than you have." His attention fixed on her breasts. "Not unfixable." Ian sat next to her on the bed and began to put his shoes and socks on, "If it weren't for this shoot, I'd be sorely tempted to take you away for a long weekend. Somewhere hot, so I could show you what happens to 'mad dogs and Englishmen' in the sun."

"Be careful, I might hold you to that." Miranda felt coquettish and charming, two things she'd never strived at being good at. She never thought the qualities important enough.

"Shall we go? Although I'm loath to suggest it now that I have you here on my bed...after all, there is room service." He slipped one hand around the nape of her neck and softly kissed the corners of her mouth. "Have I told you how impressed I am with your multi-tasking skills?"

"What multi-tasking skills?"

"Your ability to gawk at my body, while maintaining a strangle hold on General Schwartzkoff."

“What ego. I didn’t gawk.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Ian pushed her onto the mattress and held her there with one hand and extricated the book from her death grip with the other. He ignored her squeal and buried his face in her neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"I was not gawking at your body." Miranda grabbed a handful of his hair and gave it a little shake to emphasize her point.

"Ow, those hairs are attached you know. Are you miffed because I dressed too fast?" He laughed out loud now, in spite of the pain she continued to inflict. "Ow, ow, ow, sorry, I'll try to go slower next time."

"Get off me you big, conceited oaf!" She let go of his hair to shove him hard with both hands. He didn't budge.

He threw a leg over and covered half her body with his as she tried to wriggle out from under him. "I've been called many things, never an oaf."

"Well you are, now get off." Miranda renewed her struggle.

"I don't think so. I like having you under me. It brings out my pirate blood. You look ripe for plundering. You feel it too, with your hips writhing against me like that." He braced himself on his forearms and rocked his hips.

Stilling, she said, "Pillager of innocent women, that sounds about right." Miranda bit her lower lip and turned her face away to keep from laughing.

"I only want to pillage and plunder you so I'm not sure I qualify as a true pirate. Besides, I suffer terrible mal de mer, which limits my buccaneering drastically."

"You get seasick?" she asked, surprised. "I'd never picture you with your head hanging over the ship rail."

"Some trips, I didn't always make it to the rail. Not a pretty picture, believe me." Ian wrinkled his nose at the memory.

It was a sweet, boyish gesture. Miranda couldn't resist nuzzling his exposed neck. "That was plural. How many sea voyages have you made?"

"Several, all across the Channel."

"Why would you cross by boat more than once knowing you get seasick? Rather lame. Why not take the Chunnel or fly?” It’s more than lame, she thought, it’s damned odd.

Ian dropped his head and laid a passionate kiss on her, his stomach rumbling the entire time.

"Well?" She mumbled against his lips as he was about to take a second plunge.

He sighed. "Ah well, it was a very long time ago, and I was traveling with a large group. We were required to stay together. Plus, we had quite a bit of equipment and going by ship was the...um, most economical. Shall we go before my hungry belly embarrasses me further? Unless, my little booty,” he stretched her hands far above her head. “You'd prefer to continue with my despoiling of you."

"We can stop at this nice market I know on the way to my house," Miranda said.

She smiled to herself as Ian rolled off her, muttering about the pitiful end of his buccaneering career. She’d made up her mind to seduce him. Forget her rule about dating while he was her boss. She saw the whole scenario in her head. He’d never expect it of her. She’d never expect it of herself.

Ian grabbed his car keys and wallet. Miranda waited in the open doorway of the hotel room. Another thirty seconds and they’d have been on the elevator, but the phone rang.

“Damn. I have to answer in case it’s a problem with the production.”

He slammed his keys on the desk as he listened, arguing for a few minutes with the caller. He hung up, looking apologetic at her. “I’m sorry, darling. The prop department sent the wrong pieces for the prince’s tent. I have to drive to London and oversee the rush delivery of the proper set pieces.”

“Why do you need to be there? Can’t the London staff handle the problem?”

“If it was for any other episode, I’d let them. But, the Battle of Poitiers is too important. Can you forgive me? I’d love a rain check for tomorrow night.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I understand,” she said, hiding her disappointment. “Tomorrow’s fine. How’s 7:00?”

“Can I come over earlier?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll drop you off on my way to the city,” he said, and kissed her.

The mist surrounded her. Disoriented her. The cool damp chilled her legs and swirled about her knees as she walked. Nothing in the vaporous world looked familiar. Her feet made no noise in the soft soil. A horse snorted. She stopped. Uncertain she really heard a horse, she cocked her head and listened. The silence engulfed her again. Her hands trembled. She hated being lost.

Breathing...something was breathing nearby. A large dark shadow came toward her. All she could make out was a black shape. The mists circled around it too. Then, she saw him. Ian, in armor, on a black warhorse.

“Miranda.”

He pulled her up and placed her in the saddle in front of him. How he managed she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember what she wore a moment ago when she was alone and afraid. Now, she wore a beautiful gown of silk. Gold netting trimmed the lower half and glittered even in the fog.

“Where are we going?”

“Home, to Ashenwyck.”

A moment later his armor disappeared and he was in front of her, shirtless and barefoot and in jeans. She still wore the gown but the sleeves had slipped down on her arms. They stood in a great hall as he unbuttoned the front of her dress. He cupped her breasts and ran his thumbs over the lace of the bronze colored bra.

He kissed upwards from her cleavage to her chin. He cradled her face in his hands and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. He made a slow invasion of her mouth. Delving deeper and deeper, he controlled the kiss, channeled her passion.

The room spun around them. They were dancers without music. His urgent fingers tugged at the slippery material until the top of her dress hung about her waist. The bra fell away under his warm palms. He swung her up in his arms, carrying her to a high backed Gothic chair. She straddled him as he sat. He pushed her skirt up high and stroked her bare thighs. He spoke to her in a language she didn’t understand that sounded archaic and erotic.

She slid down the length of him, off his lap and onto her knees before him. Now, she would control.

She held his wrists and brushed her lips across his chest, the soft hair tickled her nose. She made her way in slow sweeps to his stomach and released his wrists. She ran her tongue in and around his navel. The muscles of his abdomen flexed beneath her lips as the tips of her fingers slipped under his waistband.

As she unbuttoned the jeans,
he
tried to pull her up, urging her with his strong hands. She resisted. “Stand,” she said and he obeyed.

She peeled his jeans down and circled the tip of him with her tongue. She relished his groan as she bent taking as much of him as she could in her mouth.

Miranda hit the floor with an unceremonious thud. “Christ Almighty!” She rose up on her elbows. “I don’t believe this. I haven’t fallen out of bed since I was four.” At least, she fell off the bed while only having a sex dream about Ian. Thank God, it didn’t happen while actually having sex with Ian.

She gathered the blankets and pillow she dragged with her to the floor and she checked the time. Midnight. The bewitching hour. She debated whether to wake Shakira and tell her what happened. To Miranda’s knowledge, her friend had never fallen out of bed. But, Shakira never met Ian.

Rolling over on a buttock that would be bruised in the morning she sat up, turned on the light and dialed.

By midday, Ian finished supervising the loading of props onto several lorries. He considered driving straight to Miranda’s house from London. Instead, he drove to the hotel, showered and used the time rethink other scenarios that might help her remember. He still arrived early.

Ian juggled the two bottles of wine with the big bouquet and knocked. She answered right away.

“I brought a Pouilly Fuisse and a Bordeaux. I wasn’t sure what you prefer.” He handed her the flowers and put the wine down on her dining table.