Miranda's Mate (8 page)

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 sluicing 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.

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.

Back off. She works for me.

I could fire her.

Yes, but then I’d have to marry her.
He nearly laughed aloud. Would have if they weren’t under attack. He watched the lights mounted over the kitchen sink. They’d flash if the intruders breached the next beam. In all, there were three points that kicked off silent alarms. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that the storage batteries—deep cycle marine—had held enough juice to warn him.

Miranda moved to his side, silent as a wraith, her 9mm semiautomatic clutched in one hand. He glanced down and noted she’d traded her slippers for boots.
Good girl.
She raised a questioning eyebrow. He shook his head. “Watch the lights over the sink.”

“I thought they were over the stove.”

“There are three sets. For once in your life, do what I tell you without asking a bunch of questions. I’m surprised the Berets didn’t throw you out.”

She smirked. “Yeah, at the time it surprised me too. Should we kill the lights?”

“Nah. They know we’re here.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Several.” The light bank over the sink flashed. “Damn it. Means at least some of them got through the first set of land mines.” He dove for the closet and set off the next group of explosives. Much closer, they rocked the house and lit up the windows.

“What? Hundred fifty yards?”

“You’re good.”

“It’s why I’m still alive. If the first round of mined explosives were that potent, it probably means there are a lot of ISL people out there. Do you think we should take to the woods? We’d have more maneuverability.”

Garen considered it. The crash of breaking glass made up his mind as he scooped the grenade off the floor and heaved it back through the window it had crashed through. Nanoseconds later, an explosion nearly deafened him. “We don’t have a choice,” he snapped. “Fade out one of the back windows. Stay behind the house.”

“Com devices?”

“Don’t have them. Miranda—”

She pulled her jacket hood over her bright hair and cinched it. “Boss?”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I don’t intend to.”

He gathered a Kalashnikov from the front closet, slapped a high-capacity clip into it, and dropped two more into a pocket. For good measure, he detonated the last set of land mines. The blast rocked the house and pummeled his sensitive hearing. Maybe it would kill a couple more of the bastards. He wasn’t certain he’d need the assault rifle. His wolf form was better for some things, but it was best to be prepared for anything. He dialed in his lupine senses and listened intently. Nothing. Maybe the last blast had done it.

Garen slipped out the ground-level window Miranda had used and flattened himself against the rough-hewn logs of the cabin. The only thing he could smell was explosive residue. His ears still rang from the series of blasts. He grabbed a handful of dirt and smeared his face before pulling his own hood over his head.

The forest wasn’t far. Maybe twenty yards. Their best bet would be for him to lose himself amongst the trees and circle the house to gather intel about their attackers. Problem was, if the ISL thugs had any brains, they’d be doing the same thing. He made his way to thick tree cover even as he considered his options. A bullet zipped past him, and then another. Senses on high alert, he moved deeper into the woods. His nose twitched; he picked out several different human scents, counting as he went. Eight. Not so bad, but where was Miranda? Her scent should have stood out, but it simply wasn’t there.

Fear bit deep they’d killed her; he batted it aside. Even if she were dead, he’d still smell her. She was a skilled agent. There was some good reason he couldn’t scent her presence…

A branch crackled. He fired and heard a muted scream. Someone jumped him from behind. The force drove both of them to the ground. His gun was useless, squashed between his body and the damp loam of the forest floor. A gun barrel jammed against his skull. “Where is the woman?”

“What woman?” Garen tried to jackknife his body from under his assailant. It was like trying to move a ton of bricks.

“I am holding a gun to your head,” the thick Slovakian accented voice continued.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The woman.” The gun prodded harder.

“What woman? There are so many in my life.”

“Very funny, wiseass.”

Boots crashed through the thick undergrowth. A spray of Eastern European language went back and forth. While the man who had him pinned wasn’t totally focused on him, Garen twisted hard. He gave it all he had and butted the man in the groin with the side of his head. His assailant grunted in surprise and pain. Before the second jerk got his wits together, Garen yanked his body free, levered the Kalashnikov out from beneath him, and pointed it. The beauty of assault rifles was you didn’t need to aim. He pulled the trigger and both men went down in a spray of blood and bullets.