Ghostrider - M. L. Buchman Page 0,84

her to several new experiences in the shower, and then finally liked helping her to slip on her nightgown. She no longer needed him to explain that each was good but different; he’d proven his point with precise demonstration and a most enjoyable thoroughness.

Though her body was very well sated, she was unable to stop the whirl of her thoughts. Slipping from his arms, she went into the bathroom and once more changed.

As she eased out through the bedroom’s darkness, Jon spoke up softly.

“I thought it was the guy who was supposed to slip away in the middle of the night.”

“They are? Why would they do that?”

Jon’s voice was thick with sleep and a soft laugh. “To avoid attachment? Utter stupidity? As for me, I like the idea of waking up with you.”

She was fairly sure that she was right in imagining his smile even though she couldn’t see it.

“Where are you going? A walk in the moonlight? Do you want company?”

“I’m not sure. The moon set over an hour ago. And no.”

“Well,” she could hear him shift in the sheets. “That certainly puts me in my place.”

“There’s just something I have to see, I think. Goodbye, Jon.”

“Hold it. Wait!” His shadow rose from the bed and stepped up close enough that she could feel his warmth, smell the curious scent of him that she couldn’t put words to despite several attempts.

“Is that like a goodbye-goodbye or a goodbye-until-I-see-you-next-time goodbye?”

Another one of those words with situational meanings. She really wished she could rewrite the English language and eradicate them all permanently.

“Are you asking if we can have sex again in the future? Yes, Jon, I’d like that very much.”

“No. I wasn’t asking that.”

“Oh,” Miranda could feel herself wilt a little inside.

“I was…” Jon paused, then laughed. “Okay, yes, I’d love to have sex with you again. I also like you, Miranda, very much. I’d enjoy spending more time with you.”

“Oh, okay then.” She’d like that too. “I’m going to go now.”

Without any more confusing words, he pulled her hard against his bare chest and held her tight. Her nose was slightly crushed against his breastbone, but the rest of it felt very nice and she let herself be held. After a moment, she realized that he would want to be held back so she slipped her arms around him. They stood that way for a long minute with his cheek on her hair and her nose smushed against his breastbone.

Now she knew what urge had driven her from the bed, and where she had to go.

70

Miranda wasn’t sure where Holly had gone. Her sheets were still on the great room couch, but she was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t easily imagine her being in Mike’s room, but his door was closed and Mike usually slept with it cracked open.

All the cars were still out front, so, however much Holly had declared it to be impossible, Mike’s room was where she must be.

To get to the airport, Miranda borrowed Holly’s Corvette—which was almost as fun as a jet—and was soon racing her F-86 Sabrejet east across the country at just below the speed of sound. She flew high, at 45,000 feet, and caught up with the sunrise shortly before descending into Washington, DC.

A taxi delivered her to CIA headquarters and the pass issued by Vice President Clark Winston, when he was still the director here, gained her admittance. She only ever visited two places at the CIA.

The first was the Memorial Wall. Rows of simple silver stars, each smaller than her palm, were mounted on the white marble. Each represented an unnamed agent killed in the line of duty; one that could not be acknowledged in normal ways for security reasons.

Director Winston had pointed out which stars were her parents—dead on TWA 800. They’d been undercover to plan the earliest expansions of US drones for clandestine operations into the Middle East theater. Their acknowledged employment by the CIA would have caused problems with the Israelis and Arabs alike, so they’d received stars despite dying on a domestic disaster en route to that task.

She rubbed her fingertips along the edges of both stars, but couldn’t feel her parents. She didn’t know the CIA agents that her parents had been—a role she hadn’t even known about until last year. They weren’t here. Now that she understood that, she’d never have to visit this spot again.

The pass from Clark also permitted her entry into the central courtyard, a small parklike area that lay