Her Man in Manhattan. Trish Wylie
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of her skinny jeans with some cash and pushed her feet into a waiting pair of deck shoes. Twisting her hair into a ponytail, she grabbed a baseball cap from one drawer and sunglasses from the collection in another. Ready for action she opened her bedroom door and checked the hall. Once she confirmed it was empty her lucky music talisman started playing in her head.
It wouldn’t be the first time a combination of wits, observation and an extensive study of spy movies was put to good use. As a result she knew to time her progress downstairs; to wait for the turn of the security cameras to take advantage of blind spots. She also knew the best window of opportunity for escape was at shift-change time, when the security details gathered to hand over the baton. At the foot of the stairs she stopped and held her breath, waiting for the last squeaking footsteps to disappear into the back of the house before she jogged across the foyer.
As usual the kitchen was deserted.
A bubble of exhilaration formed in her chest as she made it to the short hallway at the other side of the room. Tantalizingly close to the exit and secure in the knowledge she had an ally on the gate outside, she allowed the music in her head to become a low rhythm on the tip of her tongue. But as she reached for the handle a loud crunch made her still.
When she turned around Detective Party Pooper was leaning against the larder door with an apple in his hand.
‘The Mission Impossible theme is appropriate,’ he said with his mouth full.
Miranda gritted her teeth. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Overtime,’ he replied with a nonchalant shrug of broad shoulders. ‘Reckoned I’d keep an eye on things till the rest of the new detail is up to speed.’
How diligent of him.
She noted his appearance: the lack of a jacket, the loosened tie below an unbuttoned collar, the rolled up sleeves over tanned muscular forearms. When her pulse sped up she ignored it, refusing to have a physical reaction to his presence when she disliked him so much. Instead she focused on how quickly he’d settled in—standing there as if he owned the place and had been there forever.
‘I’m trying to decide if this counts as another strike when you haven’t left the building yet.’ He nodded firmly. ‘I’ll get back to you on that.’
When he nudged off the wall and went into the kitchen Miranda fought the need to growl. She hadn’t thrown a hissy fit since she was eight and denied a puppy, but it was tempting after a day in his company. Aiming a longing glance at the exit she sighed heavily and retraced her steps. He was standing at the island in the middle of the room when she walked in, casually flipping over the pages of a newspaper.
‘No disguise,’ he commented without looking at her. ‘Means you were going somewhere people know you.’ Another page of the newspaper flipped over. ‘Narrows it down some...’
Miranda swore she would never kiss another handsome stranger. She’d learned her lesson. They could turn into frogs. Now if her fairy godmother could just drop a bolt of lightning out of the sky and incinerate him, she promised to be a very good girl for a very long time. Even if she’d already been there and felt she’d earned a break.
In the absence of magical intervention she considered the options left open to her. She’d be damned if she was retreating to her bedroom. Neither was she staying for a friendly chat over coffee the way she used to with the members of the team she’d liked. Giving him anything resembling an order obviously wasn’t going to work and she sincerely doubted any attempt at negotiation would end in anything but a migraine.
‘I was going to stretch my legs,’ she said when the silence began to bother her.
He shook his head as he turned another page. ‘Lying sways you closer to strike two.’
‘I’m glad the trust part of this relationship is going so well.’
‘Stop treating the guys in this unit like idiots and they might trust you a lot quicker.’
Miranda bristled at the accusation. ‘You’ve been here five minutes. You don’t know anything about—’
‘How many of them do you reckon you got fired?’
‘I...’ Miranda faltered and frowned at the hesitation. She hadn’t got anyone fired. If she had she would have done something to fix it. ‘The bodyguards who left the mansion chose to leave.’
‘Ever ask yourself why?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Mac said he missed riding in a squad car.’
She’d liked Mac. He was a straight-up guy. Happily married with a young family, he’d done a lot of community policing when he left the academy and said he wanted to get back to it. They’d joked around about the squad car but when it came down to it he missed being in a position where he could talk to people. She understood that but was sorry to see him go. Unlike some people, he’d been really good about letting her make unscheduled stops for shopping or lunch when she needed to take a breather. On his last day she’d given him season tickets for the Giants because he loved football so much. She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms. Detective Smarty-pants knew squat.
‘Yeah, those things are a real sweet ride compared to the low-spec models you have parked outside.’ His gaze lifted. ‘Don’t know much about guys and cars, do you?’
‘I’m reliably informed there’s a little more to your job than the toys which go with it.’ She nodded at the gun holstered at his lean waist beside his shield. ‘It would be nice to think they don’t hand those out to everyone who thinks it’s cool to carry one.’
When he studied her more intently the memory of how he’d looked at her in the alley that morning entered her mind. For a second she’d thought he was going to kiss her again. A few hours in his company was all it had taken to dissolve her fantasy. At least she’d thought it had. But for that long stretched-out moment—as irritated as she’d been by him—she’d wanted him to kiss her.
He raised his right arm and tossed what was left of the apple through the air. As it dropped neatly into a swing-top trash can at the end of the counter he grabbed his jacket off the countertop. ‘Come on, then.’
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Said you wanted to go for a walk, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t need your permission.’
‘No,’ he said in a low voice as he turned towards her. ‘But since you don’t get to go alone, either I go with you or you go back to your room—your call.’
‘Even if it’s not on the itinerary?’
‘Why do you think we stick to that schedule?’
Miranda lifted her gaze to the ceiling. ‘Gee, that’s a tough one.’ She looked into his eyes again. ‘But I’m going to guess it’s so I know where I’m supposed to be at certain times of the day.’
‘There’s another reason.’
She batted her lashes. ‘So the people I’m going to see know I’ll be there?’
‘Try again.’
‘So you know where to drive me?’ She pouted.
She didn’t mention it was the tip of an iceberg that could sink her if she thought about it too much. Every moment of her day was planned to the last detail: when she got up, what she ate for breakfast, the visits she made to places her parents couldn’t slot into their busy days. She clawed back control where she could—getting to choose her own wardrobe had certainly been a leap in the right direction—but it wasn’t enough any more.
It hadn’t been for a long time.
‘Every place on that list is checked by an advance.’
Oh, for goodness’ sake. How long did he think she’d been doing this? ‘They search every room, run any necessary background checks