Miranda's Revenge by Ruth Wind Page A

of how she’d failed to do the one thing that was expected of her.
    He resisted her until the end of their academy training, then asked her to dinner and she invited him back to her apartment, where he, at long last, sated his insane lust for her in a session that lasted what felt like days. He could not get enough of her—her beautiful curves, her laughing mouth, her long hair tangling on the pillow. When she was dressed and he saw the upper curve of a breast, he would think with satisfaction that he’d tasted that entire slope.
    She’d broken his heart, but only in the way that a first love always breaks a heart. They grew apart and Rita was smart enough to know it wasn’t going to last so she broke it off. Cleanly, with great compassion, so that they didn’t have to hurt each other by one or the other falling in love with someone else. He’d moped for months, but in the end, he had found other women attractive.
    Not like this. Not this instant, furious, almost irresistible attraction. Everything in him was drawn to her, as if she were a magnet and he needed to touch every cell in her with every cell in him.
    And vice versa. He knew she was feeling the same thing, the inexplicable need to meld. He’d tasted it in her kiss, felt it in the way she pressed upward into him, her hands restlessly pulling at his shirt, weaving over his shoulders and hair.
    Troubling him was the gulf between them in terms of class. She had traveled widely, been all over the world, lived in New York City. She was an artist, a successful one, and he was a private eye. She was white, raised by East Coast bohemians. He was Latin, raised by a ranch hand and a housewife in a cottage where he slept in a room with three of his brothers.
    In some ways, he was the superior, perhaps. He could think more clearly. He had faith and she had none. He had steadiness of purpose and dedication and athleticism.
    Perhaps what he offered was a balance for what she gave.
    It felt important, this meeting with this woman, as if many things had had to be arranged in order for them to meet. A song wound through his head, a line about seeing his children in her eyes.
    Madre! It didn’t have to be such a big drama. He rolled over and picked up the phone.

    Two hours later, the information was compelling enough that Miranda thought maybe she should call James, just to let him know what was going on.
    As she was considering it, the phone rang in her hand. She saw the hotel number and tossed her head, putting as much coolness in her voice as possible. “Hello?”
    â€œHello, Miranda,” James said in his softly accented voice. “I called to apologize. I have a story I would like to tell you if you wouldn’t mind.”
    â€œI already told you we don’t have to do this.”
    â€œPerhaps that’s true,” he said agreeably, “but it appears that my brain will not stop giving me visions of that kiss we shared this afternoon. It was rare and good. Will you give me a second chance?”
    All at once, Miranda was furious. “No,” she said.
    A thick, long silence at the other end of the line. Then, “Very well. My apologies.”
    Coolly, she said, “I made some phone calls this afternoon, as you asked, and I’ll be happy to meet with you in the morning if you like.”
    A soft pause. “All right. At ReNew, then? Eight o’clock?”
    â€œYes. That will be fine.”
    â€œSee you then.”
    Miranda hung up with a sense of virtuously overcoming some dire temptation—Black Forest Cake or a pint of Cherry Garcia. She jumped up and went into the house to find Juliet dozing on the couch, her mouth open softly. Poor thing. She’d been running around like crazy. She left a note on the counter: Gone to get a sandwich.
    It felt good to get outside and move, Miranda thought. Whenever she came to Mariposa, it was as if she became someone else, a woman who liked to be outside