Miranda's Revenge (14 page)

“Please,” she whispered, her breath coming more airily as he was poised above her breasts, breasts that his mouth watered to devour, skin that wanted his mouth on every inch of it. His control slipped and he pulled her close to him, shifting her so that she straddled his erection, her sex hard against him, and he opened his mouth and sucked her aroused nipple into his mouth.

She cried out, a mewling sound of pain and hunger, and she grasped his hair, almost painfully. He grabbed her beautiful bottom in his hands and suckled and kissed and nipped her breasts until she was moving up and down against him, almost maddeningly.

Control, control. “Wait,” he growled, and slid her over to the bed, urgently shoving up her skirts and practically ripping her panties from her, revealing that triangle of reddish hair. He held her still, suckling her breasts while he found the hot, wet center of her, and stroked her, fingers playing a tune she began to sing to, her head moving back and forth.

But with enormous control and more strength than he would have imagined she possessed, she turned the tables on him, taking advantage of a moment when he lost his head, pleased beyond imagining at the taste of her and the silkiness of her bare shoulders against his face, to shove him backward.

He laughed, and she grabbed his wrists in a grip that was stronger than he would have imagined. Tucking his wrists beneath her knees, she said, “Fair is fair.” She pushed him down on the bed, and straddled him, the skirt of her dress making a pool around his waist.

With a saucy smile, she said, “Close your eyes for one minute.”

“I'd rather watch.”

“No.” Inclining her head, she touched her own breasts, and he nearly fainted with the heat of it. “Close your eyes.”

He closed them.

He could feel her doing something, but waited until she said, “Okay, open them,” that he realized she'd slid the slip off from beneath her dress, leaving her naked beneath it. No bra, no panties, just that floral fabric hiding and revealing in equal measures. There was a shadow of hair over her sex, and the pointed insistence of nipples that wanted touching. As she bent to unbutton his shirt, he glimpsed the white curve of a bare breast, and he ached to touch it.

“I need to touch you,” he said.

“Not yet, she said, shoving his shirt away from his chest. Her hands skimmed over him, and she bent to kiss his ribs, his belly, whatever she could reach without releasing his arms. “Beautiful,” she murmured.

Then she slid just a tiny bit backward and unbuttoned her dress so that it fell just the slightest bit open around her sex, and he groaned. She put her hands on his belt and began to unfasten it, and James finally gave in to the delight. He watched her, clad in diaphanous fabric and hair and sleek white skin, unbuckle him and unzip him, and smile when she took his member into her hand. “Oh, very nice,” she said.

He felt her body relax the slightest bit, and flipped her over. “My turn again,” he growled, and she laughed, the sound happy and full of life. He shucked his shirt, and skimmed out of his jeans and there was Miranda, lying below him in a puddle of late evening sunlight, her hair spread like a magic fabric around her, her bare breasts exposed by the opening of her dress, her legs akimbo. He knelt over her and unbuttoned the dress. “This is so pretty, let's be careful.”

He divested her of the delicate fabric, then put her back on her back on the bed and looked down at her. She swallowed. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“You are the most beautiful sight I've ever seen in my life,” he said and knelt then between her legs and bent to gather her up, kissing her and feeling her legs anchor him, and then he plunged down and far away, into the waiting, hungry heat of Miranda.

Miranda gasped at the fierce plunge of James into her core at last. Every cell in her body quivered with the depth and heat of that charge, and she whimpered as he slowly, slowly pulled back, his tongue diving into her mouth as he plunged again, hard. She cried out in surprise and delight, and again, and again, and she tried to hold on longer, but an orgasm of monumental proportions split her right in half, the past and the future, and then James was following, over the edge, roaring and plunging, hard, hard, hard, bringing her to a place she'd never been, lost in so much pleasure it was like another being lived in her.

Then he collapsed with her, kissing her face, her neck, their bodies sweating and tangled. Slowly, a molecule at a time, she returned to her body.

And only then did she realize: “James! We didn't use a condom!”

His head jerked up. “Holy shit! How did we forget something like that? God, I'm so sorry.”

“No, no. It's okay.” But it wasn't. It was scary and weird that she'd forgotten. That she'd so willingly let go of everything that she forgot to use a condom. “I even have one in my purse!”

“And I have one in my pocket. It's even new.”

Despite everything, Miranda laughed. “That was amazing,” she cried, pulling him close, nuzzling his neck. “You made me completely forget everything, everything.”

He rubbed the tip of his nose along her jaw. “Is that a purr, my little cat?”

“Oh, yeah.” She looked at him, pulled his face up so she could see his dark, dark eyes, his long lashes, the sharpness of his conquistador's nose. “That was seriously the hottest sex I've ever had. Ever.”

He smiled, nibbling her lip. “Good to know.”

“Okay, you're missing your chance here, to say, ‘me, too, Miranda.'”

His eyes glittered. “Sorry. Me. Too. Miranda,” he said like a robot.

“Come on! Don't be mean to me.”

His eyes went darkly sultry and he pulsed against her once. “Well, I was absolutely sure I could give you a nice juicy orgasm and wait until tomorrow for mine.”

Miranda smiled, clasping him close to her, reveling in the feeling of his skin against hers, his naked legs entwined with hers, their bare arms tangled. “Better.”

“I love your hair,” he said, toying with a long lock of it.

“I love your kissing.”

“I love your breasts.” He nuzzled her neck and then—groaning—rolled from her. They lay side by side, facing each other. The last of the day's sunlight cascaded into the room. The breeze that lifted the curtains blew over their bodies, and Miranda shivered slightly, as much from reaction as cold.

“Let's get under the covers.”

James pulled back the quilt. “Absolutely.”

“So, will this ruin your chances to win the race tomorrow?”

“No,” he said, and smiled. “Not ruin them. It would have added energy to want to have you and not do it.”

“I see,” Miranda said lightly. “You were using me.”

“Yes, you've found me out.”

She drew circles on his brown chest, touching the dark nipples, the scatters of hair between. “It's weird that there is no patron saint of running.”

“Well, there is St. Sebastian, the patron saint of athletes.”

“But there should be a running saint.”

“You should make an altar. It would sell zillions.”

“I wonder what she would look like?” The butterflies around the Lady of Mariposa flitted through her imagination. Maybe she would use butterflies, the eternal symbol of transformation. “What is holy about running?”

James closed his eyes, his hand resting easily against her hip. “The wind, the quieting of your mind. The feeling of heat in your limbs.”

“The competition?”

His lips turned downward. “Maybe. Swiftness. To be the fastest is pretty exhilarating.”

“Should I go home and leave you alone?”

“No, no!” He scooped her close. “Not yet.”

Miranda inhaled the scent of his skin, that faint tang of sweat. “I'll be there at the finish line tomorrow. I have to cheer on my dad, too.”

He propped himself up on the pillows and looked down at her. “Your dad doesn't seem that bad. He's codependent, but I expected worse, honestly.”

“They're probably not that bad apart,” Miranda said. “They just made each other miserable for years, and since I was the last one at home…I had a front-row seat.”

He curled a finger around hers. “And you're still mad.”

“They almost divorced when I was in high school. It went on for ages—a year, maybe two? Fighting and these petty little wars. One would start drinking and carousing and the other one would get furious and take revenge, and yet, there they were, everybody's darling, the scientist and the poet, and their great love story.” She rolled her eyes. “They were so caught up in their own story that they forgot they made it up—they just kept acting out these roles, ad infinitum.”

“Your father is a stunning writer, Miranda. You must know that.”

“Of course I do.” She looked at him and waited for the inevitable next words, a pain burning in her chest.

“And you obviously take after him, a creative artist.”

Sharply she said, “Oh, yeah, Daddy's girl.”

He was quiet for a minute. “I can't guess the story, Miranda. You have to tell me. Or not, of course, but I don't want to guess.”

“I'm not his child,” she said, and to her horror, tears sprung to her eyes. “I was always Daddy's girl, the apple of his eye, the one everyone said was just like him, and it turns out I'm not even his genetic daughter.”

James picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles. “I'm so sorry.”

“I hate that they had affairs, that they were so unfaithful to each other, and that I have to keep this bloody secret for everybody else.”

“Why do you have to keep it?”

“Oh, because it's so icky. And it's embarrassing and it will freak everyone out.”

“It's not all that weird, Miranda. No offense, but it's not even shocking in this world.”

She bowed her head. “Maybe I don't want anyone to know. Maybe, for all that he's a pain in the ass, I like being Paul Rousseau's talented daughter.”

He didn't say anything, just scooted close and took her into his arms, letting her put her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. “That's a pretty good reason.”

“Except that it's a lie. Maybe because they lied so much, I just hate lies. And I hate that there is so much of me that belongs to him, and yet it doesn't.”

“Like what?”

“My art for one thing. All those altars, because he was so Catholic, because he is so creative.”

“A father is more than genetic material.”

“I know.”

A long silence fell. James threaded his fingers through her hair, and Miranda simply rested against him, reveling in the fit of their bodies, their height and size so perfect together.

She felt him take a breath. “Miranda, I think we need to talk about the reason I left the seminary.”

“O
nly if you want to tell me.”

He wished he didn't have to. Wished it was something dark and dramatic and full of angst, that it wasn't all about lying, even if the lies had not been his own, exactly. “It's important.”

“I would like to hear the story of how you went there in the first place, if you wouldn't mind.” She raised an eyebrow. “Because I gotta say,
señor,
you seem a bit too lusty to be a priest.” She leaned forward and kissed his chest.

“We can start there,” he agreed. “When my brother-in-law committed suicide, the person who seemed to offer the most help and practical advice was the priest. We became friends, and I liked what I saw of his work. He helped people, served the community in a way that seemed hands-on to me. I was sixteen, you know, a little slow to mature, and I was filled with all these passions about changing the world.”

Miranda smiled at him, her eyes shining. “I like imagining you at that age, beardless and skinny.”

He smiled. “I was a good student and graduated early and chose the seminary before I knew any women. It seemed that I wouldn't miss what I didn't have.”

She nodded. “Did you like it?”

“I did. Then a few years later there was a series of ritualistic murders in our community. Gruesome, torture and rape.” He cleared his throat. “I knew one of the girls—Sarita—and I took it very hard. It seemed to me that a God who allowed that to happen was not a God I wanted to worship.”

“Pretty heavy stuff, I would think, even if you were a very experienced priest.”

He nodded.

“But if that's your reason for leaving, it seems like a normal reaction.”

“It was the start, but I was actually kicked out for sleeping with one of the women connected to the case. One of the mothers.”

Miranda's expression showed a slight, hastily hidden reaction. “One of the mothers? How old was she?”

“Not that old, really. She wasn't quite forty. I was almost twenty.” He cleared his throat. “She was grieving, so distraught, and I put my arms around her and tried to comfort her, and she kissed me. I had not ever been kissed before, and it was—well, overwhelming. We started an affair.”

Miranda frowned. “If the sex roles were reversed, you'd look like a victim. She took advantage of your youth.”

“Perhaps. But youth or not, it was my obligation to be a mentor to her, not lover.” He cleared his throat. “Her husband found out, and I was kicked out.”

“Her
husband,
” Miranda echoed. “Did you know she was married?”

“Not at first. I did later.”

She didn't speak for a long moment, then she shifted, covering her breasts with the sheet as she sat up. “I think I need to think about this.”

A lump settled in the middle of his chest. “Okay.”

Her eyes were troubled. “I appreciate your honesty, James, so I'll give you mine. As deeply attracted to you as I am, the fact that you participated in a relationship like that bothers me.”

He touched her arm, not trying to influence her one way or the other. “Take your time. We can talk—”

Her cell phone rang, and Miranda scowled. “Who could be calling me? Okay, it's Juliet.”

In the same moment, James's phone rang, too. “Uh-oh.”

James found his first. “Hello?”

“James, this is Tam Neville. They found Renate Franz dead just a little while ago.”

Miranda was obviously hearing the same news. Her eyes widened. “I'll be right there.”

Miranda felt shaky and disoriented as they rushed to The Black Crown, where Juliet and Josh had assembled to meet Tam and hear the details. It was as if the two extreme functions of her emotions—joy and sorrow—were sticking, and there wasn't much in between. Amid the two extremes was an emotion the muddy-green of a tank: guilt.

What if it was something she'd done that had led to Renate's death?

James said little as they washed up and dressed and headed out. She felt stiff with him for the first time, unsure how to proceed or what her next steps should be.

And yet—good grief!—what a connection! The physical chemistry between them was absolutely perfect. And if she thought about his habit of showing her beautiful things, knowing she would find inspiration in them, she would have said the mental or simpatico connection was very high, too.

But a priest, even a young novice or whatever they were called, who had sex with a grieving mother and a
married
one at that—definitely on the dubious character side of the line.

And what she wanted in a man these days was good character. The thought stunned her, but when she probed it for truth, it stood against her, nudging steadily. A good man of good character, someone responsible and adult and willing to take responsibility for his actions and not do things that would bring drama or trauma or trouble into other people's lives, either.

As they ducked into the bar, Miranda spotted a camera crew talking to Tam, and Juliet had combed her hair and put on lipstick. Josh stood beside her looking thunderous.

“What happened?” Miranda asked.

“Someone killed her with a bullet to the heart and dumped her body in the alley.”

“I don't suppose they know who did it,” James said.

“No.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “She got too close to something. I talked to her this morning. Here.” Her stomach felt distinctly ill. “It's terrible. She was surprisingly kind to me.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know—just before lunch. Maybe eleven? Max introduced me.”

“The police might need to talk to you, Mirrie.” Juliet pulled out her cell phone. “It looks better if we volunteer information.”

“Sure.”

The police took Miranda's information, asked about Max. They also took James's statement about meeting with Elsa this morning.

James and Tam conferred for a long time as Miranda spoke to the police, and when he came back, he took Miranda aside. “Tam is going to leak Desi's plans to sell the land to the Mariposa Utes,” he said with a half grin that made her heart flip.

Miranda laughed. “Okay. Has she spoken to them?”

“Josh arranged for the chief of the tribe to come in and talk to Desi this evening. They were more than happy to make the deal, especially since she's been so cooperative with the nation in the past.”

“Good. At least that takes some pressure off.”

“And now that Renate has been murdered, it looks like a bigger plot around Claude, too, so maybe they'll find some more reasonable suspects for his murder.”

“Okay,” she said. Then silence. The mannered awkwardness slipped between them again. James said, “Well, I need to get some sleep if I'm going to run my best.”

“Okay.” Their eyes met and for a long, hip-weakening moment, Miranda's memory was awash with all the things their bodies had enjoyed together, all the pleasure they'd given and received, the heady kisses and explosive joining. Mindful of the others around them, they didn't kiss. James squeezed her hand. “See you tomorrow.”

She nodded.

His spine was ever so slightly stiff as he left, and she wondered, with a squeeze of her heart, if she was over-reacting to his bombshell. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe, though, she didn't have to decide this very minute.

As he slipped out into the night, she found herself on her feet and dashing after him. “James,” she cried after him as she hit the street.

He turned and she ran up to him in the gloaming to plant a big kiss on his beautiful mouth. “Thank you for such a great day.”

He hugged her, silently and closely, then let her go with a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you.”

“I will be at the finish line.”

“Good.”

Juliet went back to her own house after all, perhaps sensing Miranda's high level of discomfort. “Are you okay?” she asked as they dropped their purses on the hallway table.

“It's just sickening that she died. I talked to her today, and now she's dead.”

“It's not your fault, Miranda.”

“I know.” She dropped onto the couch and put her head in her hands, feeling bone-deep weariness in her neck. Flashes of the day moved through her imagination—Renate and Desi and the saris and James, kissing her right here in this house, not five feet from where she sat, and Carol at dinner. “What are we going to do about Mother, Juliet? She can't be allowed to ruin your wedding.”

“I talked it over with Josh on the way to the pub. If she wants to come, she has to agree to leave the alcohol alone. She's sometimes astringent when she's sober, but it's the alcohol that makes her evil.”

“Agreed.” Miranda felt some of the tension drain out of her neck. “Daddy seems very well, in comparison.”

“He does. He always is a lot better. I'm never sure why you're so hard on him.”

Miranda shrugged.

“Are you aware that you have a giant hicky on your shoulder?”

“What?” Miranda straightened, covering her shoulders with her palms. “Where?”

“Left side.” Juliet grinned. “James, I hope.”

“Yes.” She covered her face. “I'm so embarrassed. Do you think anyone else saw it?”

Laughing, Juliet said, “Who would care, Mirrie? He's a cool guy. I like him a lot for you—he's so calm. And he looks at you like you hung the moon. No kidding.”

“Really?” She touched her tummy. “I can't really talk yet. It's too new.”

“That's okay. Are you going to be all right now? I've gotta get some sleep.”

“I'm fine. The first runners shouldn't finish until about noon, so I'm headed down there a little before, just in case. I told Daddy and James I'd be there.”

“All right.” Juliet yawned, hugely. “I can't believe I'm getting married in a week! One more week!”

“I'm so happy for you.” The wedding talk made her think of the saris, and that made her remember Desi's request.

“Dang it!” she cried. “Desi asked me to go get a blanket for Crazy Horse. He's very upset without it. I promised I'd go get it.” She looked at her watch, stunned to see that it was only a little before nine. “If I run up there, I can get back home in an hour.”

“You don't like driving at night. I'll do it.”

“No way. I'm fine.” She stood up, pulling the keys for her rental car out of her purse, and sliding her shoes back out from under the couch. “You get some sleep, and I'll take care of this little errand.”

Juliet nodded. “You know what? I'm going to let you. If it were anything else, I'd say it would be okay, but that dog is just plain weird about that blanket, and he'll whine about it all night long. But—” her face brightened and she reached for a bowl on the coffee table that held keys “—take Desi's truck. It's a lot higher and it drives like a dream on those roads.”

Miranda grinned. “Cool.”

“You remember how to get there?”

“'Course. I was just there yesterday.”

It was, Miranda had to admit, a little bit creepy to drive on those very, very dark empty roads. The trees seemed to loom over her and the darkness seemed like a living presence, lurking just beyond the bright circle of headlights. Twice, she saw animals bounding away and prayed she wouldn't inadvertently hit something—but mainly because it would be absolutely terrifying to have to get out of the truck.

Her fear irked her. As a child, she'd been an intrepid outdoors girl. She'd loved coming to Mariposa for summer camp, loved the chance to be by herself in the forest, looking at a mountain or sitting by a creek. It was only the years of living in the noisy, brightly lit city that had chipped away her bravery.

And honestly, there was danger in the mountains—from weather and maybe bears and big cats and getting lost—but the dangers were much more clear and reliable than those a person faced in the city. When she arrived at Desi's cabin, she turned off the engine and the lights and got out of the truck.

There were no lights on in the cabin. The city of Mariposa was far below in the valley, hidden by the forest. Even the glow of lights from the town was rubbed out, leaving behind only starlight to glow over the furry, treeful darkness.

She raised her gaze to those stars—billions and billions of them, glittering, winking, glowing. Blazing planets and tiny, sugarlike scatters of stars, unimaginably distant.

So
many
stars.

Around her the hush of the forest, too, seemed a miracle. A soft whoosh of wind wound through the treetops. A branch creaked. She could hear the ticking of the truck engine, and far away, a wolf howled at the sanctuary, and an animal bolted through the forest, cracking branches. Miranda jumped, but the sound was small, as if a rabbit bolted down a hole.