Miranda's Revenge Read Online Free Page B

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    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh, good.” She put her hand on her chest. Then she realized she’d tipped her hand, and bowed her head. Embarrassed.
    â€œAre you blushing, Ms. Rousseau?”
    â€œI could be, Monsieur. ”
    â€œThat would be Señor, wouldn’t it?”
    She laughed. “I suppose it would.” Then she sobered and looked at him, curiosity welling up like a monster. “I would like to hear your story,” she said frankly.
    â€œNot likely,” he returned with as much directness. “I don’t tell it very often,” he said, his hands laced between his legs, his large eyes direct. Maybe too direct. She found herself sliding toward the fall, the dive into those dark, deep irises, wanting to put her fingertips on the edges of his eyelid, brush the thickness of his lashes.
    â€œI suppose not.”
    Then that direct gaze shifted, swept over her face, touching her hairline and brow, her lips and throat, her chest and hands. Miranda raised her eyes and smiled, very, very slightly. The silvery connection blazed for a moment, as they exchanged visions of what might be to come, what they might whisper to each other in a future moment, when there was no murmuring of other voices, no barriers of clothing, nothing but their bodies and skin and voices, trading secrets. A distinct prickle burned over her flesh at the thought, rolling from throat to groin, nape to hips in a sudden wash that made her touch her brow, lift the big glass of ale and take a long, cooling swallow.
    â€œMaybe,” he said in a gruff voice, “we should go over a few things here.”
    â€œSure. Absolutely.” She took a breath. “What do you need to know?”
    â€œLet me look at my notes,” he said, and flipped through the pages of his notebook.
    As she waited, the movement of a man caught the corner of her eye. She couldn’t say what it was, what familiarity in the shift of a shoulder, the gesture of a hand, but she raised her head just as he turned around. A solid Austrian type, blond, tanned, very handsome and leanly muscular. A skier.
    Next to him was a blond woman, beautiful if her lips had not been pursed in such peevish annoyance. Also a skier, and one Miranda knew. “Uh-oh,” Miranda said.
    James raised his head.
    â€œThis is not good,” she said, and found herself perching forward on the seat of the chair, ready for flight.
    The couple had not seen them yet, but it was only a matter of seconds. Miranda grew aware of a wash of nerves burning through her, but was it over him, or her? Impossible to tell.
    And what was he doing here, anyway?
    â€œIsn’t that Christie Lundgren?” James asked.
    â€œYes,” Miranda said. “The skier.”
    â€œThe woman Claude Tsosie was having an affair with, am I right?”
    â€œYes.” Miranda’s gaze was fixed on the pair.
    â€œAnd who is that with her?”
    â€œMax Boudrain.” Miranda’s voice was flat. Max shifted, putting his hand on Christie’s elbow, tossing a heavy duffel bag over that powerful shoulder. He scanned the room, arrogantly, noticing everyone and no one.
    Except Miranda. His step faltered, noticeably.
    She stood with as much grace as possible under the circumstances. “Hello, Max. What brings you to Mariposa?”
    â€œMiranda,” he said in his nearly perfect English. “How wonderful to see you.”
    She felt snared by his very, very blue eyes, fixed with that intensity he had upon her face, and he came forward, limping slightly. She only realized as he bent toward her that he was going to kiss her cheeks, in Continental fashion, and there was no time to pull away. His hands—those hands that had explored every inch of her skin, had uncovered secrets she’d never known about her body—captured her upper arms, and then his lips brushed one cheek, then the other.
    Backing away slightly, she stammered, “What…why are