Miranda's Revenge Read Online Free

vantage point above her, he could see nearly all of her right breast, a supple expanse of flesh ending in a bra made of cream lace. His forehead burned and he had to swallow hard to move his gaze away.
    With his head down, he said, “Thank you.” He settled on the chair next to her. Their knees pointed diagonally toward each other. A lock of her hair fell on the arm of the chair. Brilliant, glistening, shiny as metal.
    To give himself a moment, he flipped open his notebook. “I came up with a few questions.”
    â€œWow,” she said, leaning forward to touch his notebook. “Isn’t that a Clairefontaine?”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. My sister sends them to me. She lives in Paris.”
    She said reverently, stroking the surface, “The paper is so smooth. I love it.”
    â€œYeah,” he said, and cleared his throat. “But you tell anybody I said that, and all deals are off.”
    She grinned. “I suppose liking French paper might undermine a man’s image a bit.”
    â€œYou think?” He flipped to the page where he’d written his questions in blue ink, and took out a black pen now. “I spent the afternoon getting up-to-speed, and I’ve got a lot of questions here.”
    â€œOkay. Let’s get to those in a minute. I have some things for you first.” She handed him a manila envelope. “The signed contract and a check for your first payment.”
    He accepted it, tucked it into the soft-sided case he carried. “Thank you.”
    A woman dressed in black jeans and a golf shirt with the name of the hotel on the breast stopped, a tray in her hand. “Can I get you two something? Fat Tire is on special today.”
    â€œFat Tire?” Miranda echoed.
    â€œAle. Made in Colorado.”
    â€œI’ll have one,” she said. “James?”
    He shook his head. “I’m in training. Just water, thanks.”
    â€œAh,” Miranda said as the server scurried away. “A true runner. My father never gives up his martinis.”
    â€œHe doesn’t run to win.”
    She blinked and then a tiny smile moved over her pink mouth. “You speak your mind.”
    â€œMore than I should, probably.”
    She measured him. “Do you run to win?”
    What he thought was, why run any other way? What he said was, “I try.”
    â€œDo you have a chance?”
    â€œTo take my age group, yes.”
    Her eyebrows raised. “I’ll be at the finish line to see what happens, then.”
    He grunted.
    â€œOr will that make you nervous?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “There are a lot of people on the finish line, usually. One more won’t make a difference.”
    â€œI see.” A cool wind blew through the words.
    James cleared his throat quietly. “That sounded rude. I apologize. It’s just that, after that far, you’re not really thinking about anything except how much it hurts.”
    â€œAh.” With a quizzical frown, she asked, “Why do it if it hurts?”
    â€œTo see if I can.” Even talking about it, he felt the lure of the upcoming run in his limbs, tugging at his calves and ankles, his lungs. It was never possible to explain to a nonrunner why the pain after ten miles or twenty—or in this case, twenty-one—felt so exhilarating. He’d stopped trying.
    She leaned forward and he saw another flash of her cream-encased breast. A buzz moved along the outside of his ears. “If I were to make a nicho to the saint of running,” she asked, her long white hands laced together lightly, her forearms resting on her thighs, “what would she be called?”
    â€œAnything you want. There is no patron saint of running.”
    â€œThere must be. There’s a saint for everything.”
    He lifted a shoulder. “There’s not.”
    She inclined her head. “That’s very interesting. I’ll have to see what I come up