Miranda's Mate by Ann Gimpel Page B

lists of what she’d need to go undercover.
    For once, time passed quickly. She was surprised to look up and notice night had fallen. She glanced at the clock. Eight. Time to find something to eat. The Company’s cafeteria was lined with vending machines, but she was sick to death of them.
    Miranda looked longingly out the window at a little Thai place across the street. How long could it take to order takeout, run over there, and pick it up? Their phone number flashed in red neon. She picked up her cell phone to call and blew out a breath. Garen had been painstakingly clear. She needed to get permission to leave the premises. If she needed anything—anything at all—she was to find one of the other agents and send them to get it.
    Anger flared. Goddammit. Her boss was treating her like a ten-year-old. Riding high on indignation, she punched a different number into her phone: his. He picked up on the second ring. “Yes, Miranda.” A husky undertone in his voice suggested he’d been fucking someone.
    Fine , she thought sourly. So what if he has? I don’t own him.
    Not even close, sweetheart, her sarcastic inner maven chimed. Miranda shut her eyes. Pain washed through her. Christ, but she hoped she’d get over him—and damned soon. It hurt so god-awful much she nearly couldn’t stand it.
    “What do you need?” A note of impatience crept into Garen’s voice.
    “I, um, you see—”
    “Spit it out, Miss Miller.”
    “I want to order takeout Thai food from across the street.” Heat rose from her open collar and suffused her face. She sounded like a total dumbass. “Look. It was a bad idea. I’m sorry I—”
    “I have a better idea,” he cut in smoothly. “I’m actually still upstairs. How about if I come down and take you out to dinner. We can kill two birds with one stone since there are some things I wanted to discuss with you.”
    Guess I was wrong about him being lip-locked with another woman. Her mouth gaped open and closed. She sucked air. Had he just asked her on a date? I’m pathetic. He asked me to join him for the equivalent of a business lunch.
    A sigh rattled against her ear. “Look. If you’d rather, I can run and get you Thai takeout. That way you won’t have to eat with me.”
    “No. I, uh, um, I’d enjoy having company. It’s been pretty lonely since I’ve been here.” No lonelier than when I’m at home, but he doesn’t have to know that .
    “It’s settled, then. Shall we say fifteen minutes?”
    “Sure.”
    She glanced at the display. He’d disconnected. Miranda sprinted for the bathroom and brushed her hair. It was thick and refused to do anything but hang in loose curls. She looped it behind her ears, peered critically at her face in the mirror, and opened the drawer that held her spartan makeup bag. She glanced at the pots of color and settled for the thinnest gloss of gold eye shadow and a pale lip tint. It would never do for him to notice she’d put on makeup for him.
    “It is not a date,” she told the mirror firmly.
    Yes, but it might be an opportunity. She brushed her teeth and went back into the bedroom. She stripped off her plain, practical shirt, donned a lacy plunge bra, and slipped a formfitting, pale green jersey over it. The black slacks and tennis shoes were fine.
    Before she could stop herself, she’d spritzed Spanish Amber perfume behind both ears and in the hollow between her collarbones. Mouth dry, nipples hard, clit swollen, she wondered if she’d be able to eat a thing. She’d just stuffed her phone into a small purse when Garen knocked at her door.

Chapter 9
    Garen’s nostrils twitched. He smelled Miranda’s wonderful scents the minute he walked out the stairwell door and into the corridor where her apartment was located. Rich and sensual, they hit him in the groin. He hadn’t thought he could get any harder; he’d been wrong. He wore a ridiculously oversized dark sweatshirt. It covered his shoulder holster and his erection. His face felt