Miranda's Revenge Read Online Free Page A

with.”
    â€œIrreverent.”
    She met his gaze, her mountain-blue eyes snapping. “Yes.” She added no apology and he liked her for it. He smiled, and for a moment, he let himself look at her, and she looked back, and something unwound from his chest, his shoulders.
    The server brought the drinks, and James took advantage of the moment to flip his notebook to the relevant page. “Can I ask my questions now?”

    Sitting in the hotel lobby, with the murmuring sounds of other conversations filling the space of the atrium like swishing water, Miranda felt abuzz. Her limbs were fizzy. The back of her neck prickled. She wanted to stare and stare at James Marquez with his chocolate hair and chocolate eyes and burnished cinnamon skin.
    But she forced herself to be professional. “I’ll answer what I can, but we might want to talk to my sisters and soon-to-be brother-in-law. They’re going to meet us in a half hour, if that’s convenient for you.” She plucked a single peanut out of the bowl on the table. “I wasn’t actually here when it all happened.”
    â€œThat’s fine. Are they coming here?”
    â€œNo, Desi’s partner runs a pub just down the street, The Black Crown. You’ll like him—he’s a New Zealander, an ex-rugby player, and the pub is wonderful—he has beer from all over the world, if that’s your thing.”
    He gestured at the glass of Fat Tire in front of her. “It must be your thing.”
    â€œI spent a semester in Oxford and adore English ales, I have to admit.”
    Was it her imagination or did a shutter fall between them? “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    â€œOh, right. You don’t drink while you’re in training,” she said, and found herself fluttering a hand toward his knee, away. “Would you rather meet somewhere else? It’s just a good place to get some supper, too, and I know you need plenty of carbs if you’re running like that. He has plenty of that kind of stuff, too.”
    â€œWe can meet there, that’s fine.”
    She inclined her head slightly. “So why am I getting the feeling that you’ve gone all stiff on me?”
    It was only as the edges of his lips came up the tiniest bit that she realized the double entendre. She grinned. “Or actually, chilly, is what I meant, but I think I’ve teased you into a grin, haven’t I?”
    A sideways smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hard to resist.”
    Miranda let go of a bark of laughter, nudged his knee with her fingers. “So, tell the truth, Monsieur Marquez. Do you disapprove of drinking?”
    He shook his head. “I don’t drink much except beer—just never developed a taste for it, but I can’t say that I’m terribly sophisticated about it.” He picked up his water, sipped it, scanned the bar. “I haven’t had much chance to travel.”
    Ah, a proud man. “I was born with terrible wander-lust,” she admitted truthfully. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t dreaming of far away.” With a shrug, she added, “When you want something that much, you tend to make it happen, don’t you think?”
    â€œHow old were you?”
    â€œNineteen,” she said, smiling. “Perfect timing. I was dying to escape my parents, and they paid for my semester, then I spent the following summer backpacking with some other kids all over Europe.”
    He nodded, still a little stiff, and Miranda wanted him back, focused on her, that thrumming, shimmering thing going on between them. “So where were you at nineteen?”
    â€œSeminary.”
    Miranda let go of another burst of laughter, thinking of her irreverent saints. “Oh, brilliant!” She shook her hair out of her eyes. “Did you become a priest?”
    â€œI did.”
    Her heart fell. “Are you a priest now?