Her Man in Manhattan. Trish Wylie

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СКАЧАТЬ contact with a virile male was so hard to shake, most likely.

      Not that there weren’t other reasons.

      ‘It’s remiss of me not to have produced a suitable grandchild by now,’ she continued in the same bright tone. ‘Chubby toddlers are always a hit with the electorate.’

      ‘If you start planning ahead you could schedule it for the whispered campaign for Governor.’

      ‘Always best to keep something in reserve.’ Miranda nodded in agreement. She smiled as they stepped into the hall. ‘Good morning, Roger. Is that a new tie?’

      ‘Wife bought it for my birthday,’ her father’s press secretary replied with an answering smile.

      ‘She has excellent taste.’

      ‘Speaking of spouses, finding a husband before you have that chubby toddler might be a good idea,’ Grace whispered conspiratorially.

      Miranda leaned closer to whisper back, ‘I’ve heard you don’t have to have one to get the other.’

      ‘You do when your father’s the mayor.’

      Another face in the hallway earned another smile. ‘Good morning, Lou. How was the Little League game?’

      ‘Two strikes and a home run,’ her father’s head of security replied with the swing of an invisible bat.

      ‘Tell Tommy I said “yay,”’ she replied with a ladylike punch to the air.

      ‘Shoes,’ Grace reminded her outside the door to her father’s study.

      ‘What would I do without you?’

      ‘Run barefoot and be late for appointments.’

      ‘Now doesn’t that sound like fun?’ She handed over her bag for safekeeping, slipped on her heels and took a step back to turn a circle. ‘Am I ready for inspection?’

      ‘You’ll do.’

      After a light knock on the door, she waited for the cursory ‘come’ and turned the handle.

      ‘Ah, here she is,’ her father said from behind his mahogany desk as she crossed the room. ‘Miranda, this is Detective Brannigan. He’ll be overseeing your security during the remainder of the campaign.’

      Though unaware there were any changes planned, she kept a smile in place as she waited for the man to stand up and turn around. Her first impression was of his size; he was six feet two, possibly three, his build more running back than linebacker. Many people would have been surprised by that—when they thought bodyguard they pictured brute force—but while physical strength and fitness were both important the members of her family’s protective details came in many shapes and sizes. Keen observation skills and an ability to think on their feet were of equal importance.

      Any following thought on the subject disappeared in a flash and was instantly replaced by shock when she looked into cobalt-blue eyes. It took every ounce of her social skills to prevent the drop of her jaw.

      ‘Miss Kravitz,’ he said in a low rumbling baritone as her hand was engulfed in a firm handshake.

      It wasn’t what she’d fantasized he would say if they met again but the sound of his voice was enough to remind her of every imagined word. She peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth as heat suffused her palm and rushed up her arm. Had he known who she was when he came to her rescue? Had he been watching her because he was on duty? How long had he been following her?

      As she remembered to reclaim her hand and lowered it to her side—his touch still tingling on her skin—her gaze shifted to her father. There was no way to determine how much trouble she was in while he was wearing his elected official expression but if he was upset about something it was a new tactic. Usually the punishment for her supposed misdemeanors involved a lecture on responsibility—the kind she liked to think she’d endured stoically over the years.

      ‘He’ll report to Lou the same way Ron did,’ he said. ‘They’ve selected a new detail for you.’

      All of her guys had been replaced—since when and, more to the point, why?

      ‘Detective Brannigan suggested a shake-up,’ he added so she knew who to blame.

      While he turned his attention to some of the papers on his desk she looked at the man beside her to see if the reality lived up to her fantasy. Strong masculine features—short, dark blond hair, thick lashes framing his intense eyes. He was every bit as compelling as she remembered. Seeing him again reawakened the potent sensual awareness in her body. It transported her back in time to when he’d kissed her into a boneless puddle of lust and walked away.

      Now she thought about it Miranda wasn’t certain she’d forgiven him for that. Particularly when it was more than obvious he still had the upper hand. She’d wondered how he managed to get them past a cordon of New York’s finest with such ease. In her furtive imagination he’d been everything from a mafia don with cops on his payroll to a combination of secretive billionaire by day and caped crusader by night. That he was with the NYPD made more sense but why hadn’t he said so? Why the charade? Why kiss her instead of flashing a badge?

      He blinked lazily hooded eyes. ‘I believe you have a nine a.m. appointment.’

      Miranda ignored him and rounded the desk to place a kiss on her father’s cheek. ‘Bye, Daddy.’

      ‘Bye sweetheart. Have a good day.’

      ‘You, too,’ she replied before lifting her chin as she walked back across the room. ‘Now we can leave.’

      In a few long strides he’d overtaken her and held open the door but she didn’t thank him for the courtesy while she was piqued by his duplicity.

      ‘New bodyguard?’ Grace whispered as she handed over her bag and a copy of the day’s itinerary.

      Miranda crinkled her nose in mock delight. ‘Lucky me.’

      She led the way down the second-floor landing, past a rare five-seat settee that had been discovered in the basement of City Hall. Despite living in the mansion for the two terms her father had been mayor she never took her surroundings for granted. If anything the combination of rare paintings and antiques interspersed with modern furniture reminded her of what a privilege it was to live in one of the few surviving eighteenth-century mansions in the city. It was something she could appreciate more approaching twenty-five than she had at seventeen. But unlike most mornings she didn’t take the time to greet any of her favorite pieces with a smile or to mull over her continuing need to escape such a beautifully gilded cage.

      She was too distracted by the man walking behind her, her body highly tuned to his presence.

      They were halfway down the carpeted stairs before she lowered her voice to ask, ‘Did you know who I was?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Did my father order you to follow me?’

      ‘No.’

      She smiled at the woman making her way upstairs. ‘Good morning, Dorothy. Is it as beautiful outside as it looks through the window?’

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