Not to mention the intoxicating scent of him spicing the air around her.
‘You take it everywhere you go?’ he teased as he relinquished the object then buried his hand in his pocket.
Miranda blushed as the humorous note in his voice did strange things to her equilibrium. Was he … flirting with her? Or just being nice?
She really didn’t have enough practice with this kind of thing.
‘It’s not mine … it’s Lola’s,’ she clarified. Well, attempted to anyway but obviously failed as one nice thick manly eyebrow kicked up. ‘My daughter’s … Lola is my daughter,’ she explained, her fingers stroking absently along the soft pink satin patches delineating Pinky’s paws. ‘She’s four … well, nearly five actually … She’s not with me…’ she ended lamely, wishing the lift doors would just open already before she sounded any more socially inept.
The universe obliged.
‘This is my stop,’ she prattled, apparently now unable to stop with the talking.
He smiled at her and Miranda wished she could tell if he was amused with her or by her. ‘Me too,’ he murmured, and indicated for Miranda to precede him.
Excellent! Somehow her legs kicked into gear and she exited, aware of him falling in beside her. Aware of his height and his breadth and the way he moderated his long-legged stride to match hers. Aware of his scent again—spicy man times ten with an end note of sweetness that tickled her senses.
And her hormones.
‘So … you’re at the conference?’ he asked.
Miranda nodded, dragging her brain away from the alluring smell of him. She’d been thrilled when the hospital had sponsored her, a lowly new grad, to attend the two-day international medical symposium being held in Brisbane for the first time ever. It had been a veritable smorgasbord of exciting new information. ‘You?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘I’m presenting a paper tomorrow.’
Miranda’s step faltered. Good lord, she’d been prattling on like a mad woman about a pink teddy to some hotshot bigwig! She was probably supposed to know who he was on sight.
‘Oh,’ she said absently, as her brain busily flicked through the programme pages she’d consulted about a hundred times that day, trying to place him.
He chuckled. ‘I promise it’s not that boring.’
Miranda turned to him as they walked, reaching for his arm automatically and touching it briefly. ‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean it like that. I—’
He chuckled again and she could see he was teasing her once more. She almost sagged against him in relief. ‘You mock.’
He smiled back at her in reply and Miranda’s legs suddenly felt as if they were filled with jelly. It was the kind of smile that could make her forget she was a single working mother of a four-nearly-five-year-old. That could make her wonder what it might be like to have his wicked looking mouth on hers.
It really ought to be illegal to smile in such a way.
She was grateful when her room loomed and she could break away from the pull of him. It was titillating and unnerving in equal parts. She wasn’t in a position to give in to her weak knees or to the butterflies in her belly.
Why, suddenly, did that feel like a regret?
‘This is me,’ she announced as she stopped at her door.
He smiled that illegal smile again and said, ‘We’re neighbours. I hope you don’t snore.’
Miranda felt her stomach turn over several times. He needn’t worry about that. She probably wouldn’t get to sleep at all now! ‘I’ve had no complaints.’
The humour that had sparkled in his eyes morphed into a rich glitter as Miranda realised what she’d said.
Dear God—had she taken a stupid pill?
Now the man probably thought her mattress was a veritable hotbed of vice. Which couldn’t be further from the truth. The only pleasure she’d got there in years had been an extra lie-in on Sunday mornings—if she was lucky!
‘Ah … okay … that came out all wrong,’ she said.
Why she felt the urge to put it straight she had no idea. The man already knew she had a daughter, he surely didn’t expect her to be a virgin. And, anyway, what the hell did it matter what he thought? He didn’t know her—they’d only just met, for crying out loud.
He looked at her for a prolonged moment and Miranda felt her nipples bead against her bra as the heat from his gaze fanned over her. ‘Sounded okay to me,’ he murmured. Then he inclined his head and ambled off, throwing, ‘Goodnight, Miranda,’ over his shoulder.
Miranda? She stared after him. He knew her name? She stood unmoving by her door, watching him take the five paces to his door and then reach inside his jacket pocket for his key.
‘How do you … know my name?’
He turned towards her, shoving his biceps against the door and giving her that smile again. Like he could see right through her clothes to the knot her knickers were tying themselves into.
He pointed at her chest and said, ‘Your nametag.’
Miranda looked down. The item in question swung slightly against her breasts from the movement. ‘Oh.’
He grinned. ‘Happy dreams.’
And by the time she looked up again, his door was clicking shut.
Patrick Costello flopped fully clothed back on his bed, a smile on his face. Four nights of interrupted sleep—three with an ill child and last night in the operating theatre with a kidney transplant—had left him utterly wrecked.
But Miranda Dean’s cute little blush had perked him up considerably.
He lay in the dark, the lights off, staring at the ceiling. It was so quiet. The low hum of the air-con was all that could be heard in the well-insulated room and it was unnerving. Back home in suburban Sydney he was surrounded by the constant chatter of a four-year-old and the blare of the television as his mother-in-law settled in for her nightly shows.
Silence was a novelty.
It should be bliss, he supposed, but it just felt wrong. It always felt wrong when he was away from Ruby.
He sat up and flicked the television on, clicking the remote until he came to a news station. But the noise wasn’t the same and the room felt cold and empty.
He wondered if it felt like that next door. Was Miranda missing her daughter too?
He’d noticed her as soon as the lift doors had opened—hard not to as she had been the only occupant. But he’d have noticed her through a crowd with that curtain of wavy ebony hair falling forward as she trawled through her voluminous bag. A sleek navy skirt with fine pinstripes clung to hips and thighs that could only belong to a woman. A glossy dark grey blouse fell against very nice breasts, her nametag swinging enticingly between them.
Miranda Dean.
Did she always carry the little pink teddy or was it just one of those things that seemed to find their way into bags when a child was in the mix?
Interesting that she too had a four-year-old daughter.
Very interesting.
He caught himself smiling again and groaned as he flopped back. Get a grip. You have a presentation to embellish and sleep to catch up on.
Now have a shower and get to work!
Patrick obeyed the stern voice in his head, knowing it was right. He wasn’t here to swap baby photos and funny kiddie stories with a woman he barely