Milagro
For
Miranda
a contemporary Christian
romance novel by
Bonnie Blythe
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Wilson Software
Cover photo © Jpaget Rfphotos
A Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by Bonnie Blythe
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For the Son of Man came to seek
and to save what was lost.
–Luke 19:10
One
Why am I here?
Spencer Meyers paused on the stone steps of the building in Portland’s Pearl District. The air smelled pungent from wet fall leaves lining the street. He gazed past the tiny white lights sparkling in trees along the sidewalk to the full moon riding high in the dark sky above.
Blowing out a breath, he looked up toward the entrance of the building. A sign on an easel advertised a showing of photographs by a Northwest artist. Her husband now. Thoughts of Julia teased his mind like the subtle breeze tugging at his tie.
Spencer touched the invitation in his pocket. He edged up the last few steps toward the rectangle of light spilling out the doorway, unable to resist a look. Inside, he saw people moving about, talking in clusters, studying the framed photographic prints on the wall. A couple eclipsed the light and emerged through the door, laughing as they jogged down the steps, oblivious to his presence.
Spencer moved closer to the entrance. A group of people parted—and Julia came into view. His heart tightened in his chest—a feeling he knew well. After spending several months working with her on a consulting project the previous year, he’d more or less decided he wanted to marry her. Her warm elegance and graciousness told him she’d be an excellent wife and mother.
But from the first, she only had eyes for the photographer—a starving artist type with no particular future.
I was stupid to come.
Crumpling the invitation as he pulled it from his pocket, he trudged down the steps and tossed the paper into a nearby trash bin. He strode past the shops of the downtown area, past the evening revelers, past the plaintive music drifting out from shops and restaurants.
When he arrived at his parking place, Spencer disarmed his car alarm by remote and swung into the leather seat of the black Infinity. The engine roared to life, along with his CD player, emitting the lush vocals of Natalie Cole singing about lost love. He jabbed the off button and sighed.
The bright yellow dashes of the road disappeared beneath his car as he made the drive to his family’s home in the West Hills. He’d arrived back in town a few days early from an extended business trip in England. When he found the invitation to the photography showing, he’d decided to attend on impulse. An impulse he now regretted.
Spencer had pictured himself married to someone like Julia and having a few kids, spending the rest of his life providing for his family and building up memories together, the way his parents had for him. At least that had been his plan after earning his MBA in business and beginning the grueling climb up the corporate ladder.
After achieving his goals in college, he was now on the upward path in a successful marketing firm. The only thing missing was the family.
Then he met Julia.
Spencer gripped the wheel tight. She had fallen in love with a struggling photography instructor who probably wouldn’t be able to provide her with the kind of life she deserved. Why?
Blowing out another breath, he shoved the couple from his mind.
Spencer drove uphill through the narrow, winding streets, eventually pulling into the driveway of his parents’ large Cape Cod home at the top of an ivy-draped, terraced rise. Aside from a light at the bottom of the steep stairway leading up to the front door, the house sat shrouded in darkness. His parents were out of town for the week.
The garage door inched upward. Spencer drove in and parked. Tomorrow he planned to make arrangements to take back the condo he’d sublet over the last several months. It would be good to get settled in and take a breather after his long absence. Spencer keyed in the security code to the kitchen door and entered the house.
Aside from the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the formal living room, he only heard the sound of his own weary breathing in the stillness. Antique furnishings loomed in the darkness, illuminated by the shafts of moonlight penetrating the window blinds.
Spencer yanked hard on his tie to loosen it as he walked down the thickly carpeted hallway. He passed by the family room, dominated by a state-of-the-art entertainment system, and knew he wasn’t in the mood for TV. Angling his wrist in the moonlight, he glanced at his watch. Too early for bed.
He stopped in front of the doorway leading to his father’s study. Two full walls of books lined the shelves. Maybe he could find something to read. Spencer entered the room. The familiar scent of leather and cigar smoke assailed him. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, deciding he didn’t want to go to the effort of looking through titles after all. The moonlit gloom suited him for the moment.
He settled into a leather armchair located in the deepest shadows of the room. His gaze ranged about the space, coming to rest on his father’s liquor cabinet kept in the corner. He frowned at the glass decanter of brandy sitting on top, knowing he wouldn’t find any answers to life’s ills in the amber liquid.
Spencer thought again of Julia. He shook his head, trying to block her incessant image from his mind. She was married now. He shouldn’t be entertaining any thoughts of her. Disgusted with himself, he leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.
A low scraping noise shattered the stillness. Spencer cocked his head, wondering if he’d imagined the sound. He waited for a repeat before making the effort to check it out. He didn’t have to wait long. The study window slid open, and a dark figure eased inside.
Spencer’s eyes widened. Adrenaline surged through his system. Heart racing, he gripped the arms of the chair, ready to spring. The figure straightened, revealing feminine curves. A woman! Astonishment froze his response.
She was dressed in dark clothing—a black stocking cap over her head, black gloves on her hands, and had a black bag slung over her shoulder. A shaft of moonlight momentarily illuminated her face, revealing it to be smudged with a dark substance. What in the world?
Spencer held his breath. It would be a snap to overpower her. He relaxed a notch, overcome with a morbid curiosity to see what she was up to. Knowing he was hidden in the shadows, he waited for her next action.
The woman moved with practiced ease. By her familiarity with the surroundings, Spencer guessed she’d been in this room before—and knew the house would be empty. She walked to the liquor cabinet in the corner, her movements fluid and soundless. Spencer tensed. His father’s safe was hidden inside.
The woman crouched down, and with nimble fingers opened the cabinet, removing the false front. Setting it to the side, she keyed in the combination to the digital lock. Spencer watched in disbelief as the tiny red light turned green. I don’t even have the code for that safe!
He sent up a silent prayer for wisdom of what to do next. If he tried to slip from the room and go for the phone, the woman would hear him. Unreleased air pressed against his lungs. What’s she after? Money? What does my father keep in there? Spencer half-wondered if he was hallucinating the whole thing.
A moment later, the woman pulled a stack of folders from the safe. A few files slid from the top and cascaded to the floor. Emitting a tiny cry, she bent over and scooped them together. She straightened, setting them in a puddle of moonlight on top of the desk. Rifling through each, she selected one and pulled it from the pile.
Spencer watched as she opened the file and looked at the documents inside. A gasp escaped her lips. Spencer remained motionless, his gaze fastened on her every move, his heart in his throat. The woman gripped the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. She closed the folder and slid it into the bag. What was in that file?
The light from the moon flashed on something in the folder before it disappeared from view. A photograph? Spencer somehow felt sure it was a photograph. But of whom? And why would a stranger risk breaking into my parents’ house to steal it?
The woman began to stack the remaining files, then paused. After a heartbeat of hesitation, she flung opened one of the other files. Shaking head in obvious anger, she rifled through each one before stuffing the whole stack in the bag. Without a sound, she went back to the cabinet, closed it up, and headed for the window.
There was no way Spencer was going to allow her to escape. He leaned forward in the chair. The leather creaked under his weight.
The woman went still.
Spencer stood and stepped from the shadows. He flicked on the floor lamp next to the chair. “Turn around!”
The woman jumped back toward the desk. Spencer bolted across the room and faced her across the desktop. She yanked open the top drawer and scrabbled inside.
Spencer lunged across the desktop, reaching for her arms. A metallic sliding click arrested him. Dull light shone on an object pointed toward his chest. His heart ricocheted against his ribcage. A gun? From my father’s drawer?
His gaze cut to the woman. He saw her face unobscured for the first time. Flame blue eyes stared back at him. Eyes he’d seen before. Air whooshed out of his lungs, past his vocal chords.
“Miranda!”
***
Miranda Adams brought her hand up under the other to steady the gun. She stared at Spencer in disbelief. Her boss’s son! He was supposed to be out of the country! She’d checked and re-checked her information. The gun trembled in her hands. Now would be a good time for uno milagro.
A miracle.
Spencer’s blond hair looked almost white in the low light, and his gray eyes, black. She’d forgotten how handsome he was. She remembered his unfailing courtesy when she’d seen him in his father’s office. To point a gun at him! It doesn’t seem right. Still, I can’t take a chance.
The thought of George Meyers, her boss, hardened her resolve. Looks could be deceiving, a fact with which she was bitterly aware. Miranda held the gun steady and racked her brain. Finding someone in the house was never part of the equation. The gun wavered. She hated the dead weight of it in her hands.
“Put the gun down, Miranda,” Spencer said, his tone soothing.
She licked her lips. “Don’t move.”
He raised his hands and began to edge around the desk.
“I said don’t move!”
Spencer stopped, but now the desk no longer separated them. “Whatever is going on here, I’m sure we can talk it through. If I promise not to call the police, will you put the gun away?”
Miranda lifted her chin, feeling a trickle of perspiration slide between her shoulder blades.“ You’re not going to have a chance to call the police while I’m here.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know you very well, Miranda. But I do know you wouldn’t dare use that gun. You’re not that kind of person.”
“You don’t know me at all, Mr. Meyers. And if I’ve changed for the worse, you can blame that on your father.”
Spencer frowned. “What did you take from the safe?”
“Something that doesn’t belong to him.” When Spencer stepped closer, she stiffened. “Stop!”
He ignored her and grabbed for the gun. Miranda lowered the barrel, sucked in her breath, and pulled the trigger.
Two
The pop sounded innocuous to Miranda’s ears. Spencer’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack. He stumbled backwards and collapsed back against a chair, sliding down like a discarded doll. A haze of dust from the woodwork next to him indicated the resting place of the bullet.
Miranda intended to graze him, not sink a slug in him, and felt a sliver of satisfaction that her aim proved true. But when she saw the black stain soaking through his slacks, she broke out in an icy sweat and began to tremble. The gun tipped from her fingers, landing on the floor with a dull thud.
“Why didn’t you listen?” she grated. “Why didn’t you stop?”
When she saw his gaze slide toward the gun, she knew he’d attempt to grab it. Miranda scooped it up and jammed it in her waistband. Dizziness at the sudden movement made her blink.
Spencer grabbed his leg, his face pale. His eyes glittered with naked rage. “Call for an ambulance,” he said through clenched teeth.
Miranda, her feeling of faintness deepening at the sight of blood oozing up through his fingers, shook her head. “They would have to report a gunshot wound to the police.” Hot tears filled her eyes as the enormity of what she’d done swept through her. “You should’ve stopped.”
Spencer didn’t answer, only stared at her with a burning light in his eyes. Biting her lip to keep hysteria at bay, Miranda walked with jerky steps over to the wall where he sat. She crouched down and dislodged the bullet from the woodwork, tucking it into her pocket.
Spencer ripped open his pant leg at the tear from the bullet, revealing a wicked gash just above the knee. Miranda breathed a small sigh of relief. It could’ve been much worse. “You’re only winged.” Her voice sounded far away. “Keep…keep pressure on it.”
“You could’ve shattered my femur!”
She steeled her resolve, determined not to break down at such a critical moment. “I could have killed you if that had been my intention. I never miss. I’ve become quite an efficient marksman since meeting your father.”
Miranda felt the gun pressing against her stomach. She would have to throw it away at some point. It was a new detail she’d have to think through.
Why has everything gone so wrong?
She went to the safe, trying to make sure everything appeared as it was before. A faint buzzing sounded in her ears. The room grew darker. Miranda clutched the side of the desk for support, forcing herself to take deep breaths.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Spencer struggle to rise. She fumbled for the gun and trained it on him once again. Spencer slumped back against the wall, impaling her with his gaze.
Think! What now? Under no circumstances could she risk arrest. The mess needed to be cleaned up. There was a bathroom next to the study. Feeling like the criminal Spencer undoubtedly considered her to be, Miranda went over to the phone and wrenched the cord from the wall jack.
With a backward glance at his crumpled figure against the wall, she hurried into the bathroom. Grabbing two towels off the rack, she returned seconds later to where Spencer sat. A small amount of blood had formed a shiny black puddle on the wood flooring.
Miranda tossed a towel to Spencer. He sat with his eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow. After a moment, he folded the towel into a pad and pressed it against his wound. She saw him stiffen at the action, but he remained silent. When he looked up at her, Miranda caught her breath at the contempt in his eyes.
With the other towel, Miranda wiped up the blood from the floor. She stared down at the bloody fabric in her hands. A feeling of panic clawed at her throat. It’s taken me months to plan this night. I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for now.
Not knowing what else to do, Miranda went into the bathroom and returned to the study with a glass of water and a handful of Tylenol from a bottle she found in the medicine cabinet. They might help at least a little. She handed them to Spencer, who accepted the pills from her hand without a word and swallowed them.
When she took the glass from him, he grabbed her wrist with his other hand. His grip cut deep into her flesh. Staring with a kind of detached horror at the bloody hand wrapped around her gloved wrist, Miranda dropped the glass. It landed on the edge of the area rug and rolled harmlessly to one side.
With her free hand, she retrieved the gun and raised it to his chest. “Let go of me.”
Spencer released her and drooped against the wall. His white face grimaced with obvious pain and anger. She softened for a moment. Maybe she should call for an ambulance.
Miranda shook away the thought. For all she knew, Spencer acted more hurt than he was in an effort to get her to weaken. And weakness will only bring more despair down on my head.
Still, she had a wounded man in her hands. There was no denying he needed medical attention. Miranda glanced at Spencer. He watched her with hooded gray eyes, seeming to sense her indecision.
“Tell me,” he said through a ragged breath.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me why my father’s faithful secretary is sneaking into his house and stealing his files.”
Miranda twisted her mouth into a travesty of a smile. “Faithful? It’s more like imprisoned.”
Spencer gazed at her as if trying to draw the answers from her by the sheer force of his will. What should I do? I have the files, and it’s imperative they’re destroyed at once. Nothing else matters.
Of course, having Spencer Meyers lose too much blood became something of an issue as each moment passed.
Drawing in a deep breath to clear her scattered thoughts, she came to a decision. “You’re a Christian, right?”
Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. He stared at her as if considering his answer. “Yes.”
“So you have morals, correct?”
“A thief is asking me if I have morals?”
“Just answer the question!”
He sighed. “Yes, I have morals, Ms. Adams.”
Miranda swallowed. “That means you can’t lie, right?”
Spencer lowered his gaze for a moment, then, looked up at her. “I don’t tell lies.”
“Then promise me you won’t call the police or tell your father I’ve been here.”
Spencer’s eyes flashed silver sparks. “Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s right!”
“How do I explain my wound?”
“I’m sure you can think of something.”
“So I can lie about my injury, but not about the fact that you’ve broken in to my home and stolen private property.”
“Nothing was broken, and I’m only taking what’s mine.”
“Semantics, Ms. Adams. What’s in the file?”
Miranda felt the blood drain from her face. She knew she had to tell him something or he’d never agree to keep quiet.
She closed her eyes against the terror rushing upon her. Oh, why had things gone so wrong? She was the victim here. Why can’t I get justice, or at least a measure of security?
Unable to meet Spencer’s gaze, she spoke in a low voice. “The file contains information your father can use against me if I don’t do what he wants.”
Spencer smiled. “You’re telling me my father is threatening you?” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“He wants me for himself,” she said flatly.
Spencer’s expression hardened. “He’s old enough to be your father.”
“Exactly.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Not for one minute.”
Miranda’s face flamed. “Why? Is it because you’re in on this with him?”
“My father is not a saint,” he hissed, “but you’re suggesting he’s blackmailing you.”
She pointed to the files inside the bag. “And apparently I’m not the only one.”
“I still don’t believe it. You have no proof.”
“As you can see, I do.”
Spencer grabbed at his leg and squeezed his eyes shut. “I need help.”
“When I hear your promise, I’ll get you help.”
“I can’t promise anything-”
“Swear you’ll help me,” Miranda cried, trying to stop shivering. “Swear it!”
“I can only promise to get to the bottom of this, Ms. Adams,” he ground out. “I can’t swear to do something that may go against my, er, morals.”
Despite his sarcastic tone, Miranda knew she had to be satisfied with that. Maybe, once he heard her side of the story, he wouldn’t turn her in.
As she realized the hopelessness of the situation, her shoulders sagged. Biting her lip hard, Miranda slipped the gun in her waistband and picked up the glass. Returning to the bathroom, she washed the blood off the glass, as well as anything she’d touched. Taking another towel from the rack, she got it wet in the sink and squirted soap on it from a dispenser.
Back in the study, she waved the gun at Spencer and told him to stand. He staggered to his feet, gripping the edge of the armchair for support. Miranda ignored an impulse to help him. She scrubbed at all the blood and retrieved the other towel.
With a sinking sensation, she realized she needed to go out through the front door where she’d be visible to the neighbors. After arriving at the house, she’d disarmed the alarm at the back door and come through a window hidden by a hedge in order to keep her presence limited to one room.
But Spencer was in no condition for climbing out windows.
Inwardly lamenting the failure of her plan, she closed the study window and turned off the lamp. She hoped the broken phone cord would be blamed on someone tripping over it. The gash in the woodwork—how would that be explained? Miranda experienced a savage urge to weep.
“What now?” Spencer asked with his hands raised. “Have murder on your mind, Miranda?”
“Just move!”
Directing Spencer to the hallway with the gun, she followed him, wiping off the arm of the leather chair and any drops of blood that fell to the floor as he made his way to the front door. The burgundy carpeting was one small mercy. His progress was slow as he limped a couple of steps, then drooped against the wall to rest. Miranda noticed the sheen of sweat on his face from his efforts.
She spied a cane in an umbrella stand next to the front door. Despite the fact he could use it as a weapon, she pointed at it. “Get that cane. It will help you walk. And if you touch the alarm pad next to the door, I’ll shoot you.”
Spencer did as he was told. Miranda kept her distance, waiting while he unlocked the front door. When he had gone down a few steps, she reset the alarm and eased the door closed behind her. The trip down the stone steps was long and tedious, with Spencer stopping every few moments to rest while pressing the soaked towel against his wound.
Miranda wanted to scream in frustration. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes. She looked at the bloody towel in her hands, and for a blurred instant, wondered how it got there. She shuddered and looked around. Where would she dispose of it?
Once they arrived at street level, Miranda concealed the gun and pointed to her car parked along the sidewalk. A tree blocking a streetlight partway down the block cast long shadowy fingers toward where she stood. She trembled, despite the warmth of the evening.
What now? coiled in her brain like a litany. She was thankful the curbs were lined with cars, and the black color of her Toyota made it less noticeable in the dark.
Deciding on a course of action, Miranda darted around Spencer and unlocked the driver’s side door. Tossing the keys onto the seat, she turned to him. “You’re going to drive. You shouldn’t have any problem since your right leg is uninjured.”
“What if I faint from blood loss?”
“It’s just a flesh wound!” she said, hating the caustic tone of her words. “Now drive!”
Spencer complied with obvious reluctance and sank into the seat, his respiration labored. Miranda climbed into the back, tossed the towel onto the floor, and leveled the gun at him. While he put the keys into the ignition, her teeth began to chatter.
Spencer started the engine. “There’s no way you’re going to get away with this.”
Miranda met his steely gaze in the rearview mirror. “I know,” she said, unable to stop the tears sliding down her face. Rubbing them away, she lifted her chin. “But that fact makes me much more desperate and much more unpredictable.”
Spencer looked away. He followed her directions, and they wended their way through town in what seemed a surreal dream to Miranda. A nightmare, she corrected. Will it ever end?
They ended up in a neighborhood full of run-down homes and apartment complexes. Glancing out the window, she took a deep breath and dragged a first aid kit out from under the seat.
“Stop here.”
Three
“Mamá, estoy en casa y hay alguien conmigo,” Miranda said, alerting her mother she was home and had someone with her. She nudged Spencer through the door of her little rental house. What in the world would her gentle, frail mother make of all this?
A few moments later, her mother shambled from the back bedroom, her dark eyes widening at the sight of Spencer. Though small and feeble, with graying hair piled up on top of her head and tiny hands gnarled with arthritis, Miranda felt pride when she saw her. This was her biological mother, Lupe Perez. Miranda had gone to find her after her adoptive parents died, never imagining her birth mother had endured such a miserable life in the slums of Mexico City.
“¿Quién es?” asked Lupe, staring up at Spencer as if he were some giant on display at a freak show.
“No one you need to worry about,” Miranda said in Spanish, not willing to divulge his identity just yet. She led Spencer over to the old couch and watched as he sank down onto the cushions with a sigh.
Miranda went on to inform her mother that the man needed medical attention, knowing Lupe had some knowledge of medicine learned in Mexico. She handed her the first aid kit.
Regarding Spencer with interest, Lupe pulled on the too-large surgical gloves and produced a pair of scissors from the kit. She cut away the rest of his slacks at the tear. When she saw the wound, her gaze flew to Miranda, then to the gun sticking out from Miranda’s waistband.
“Hija, a él le dispararon! Shoot,” she said, switching to her limited English vocabulary. “Who shoot him?”
“Silencio, Mamá! The sooner we help him, the sooner he’s out of the picture.”
Miranda remembered Spencer’s words from the car. I’ll never get away with it. There will never be an end. He’ll prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. Both he and his father.
Feeling the tears return, she chastised her weakness. After checking to make sure Spencer cooperated with her mother, she went to the small fireplace and built a fire.
Once the blaze burned high enough, she slid out the files from the bag. Miranda glanced over at Spencer and saw him watching her with a steady gaze. He remained silent.
Suppressing dread for the potential repercussions of her actions, she picked up the first file. After writing down the woman’s name and phone number to whom the file belonged, she dropped the file into the flames. The corners began to turn brown. A photograph slipped out and curled up as it melted, the image distorted—then gone.
Miranda did the same for each file. She would call each woman and tell her she’d destroyed her evidence. At last, she came to her own file. Miranda swallowed bitter tears as she put it into the fire. She watched until only a heap of ash remained.
***
Endeavoring to ignore the pain as the Hispanic woman swabbed his wound with antiseptic, Spencer felt a qualm of unease while he watched Miranda burn the files. Surely she wouldn’t be driven to such lengths over nothing.
His mind went back over the events of the evening. The whole night had a surreal quality about it. As his pain ebbed, so did his anger. The pieces of this puzzle didn’t fit, and he had an insane desire to try to figure it all out. Why would his father’s beautiful private secretary take such risks over nothing? None of it made sense.
A new burst of pain in his leg brought his attention back to the woman at his side. He gasped when she plunged a needle and string through his flesh.
“I’d hold still if I were you,” Miranda said from across the room. She stood and gave him a speculative look. “I have some tequíla in the kitchen if it will help you bear the pain.”
Spencer ignored her, clutching at the cushions of the couch, feeling the blood alternately flood into and drain from his face. The woman finished quickly as the wound turned out to be smaller once all the blood had been cleaned away. She covered it with gauze and tape and gave him a pitying smile.
Gulping in air, Spencer wondered where she’d learned to sew stitches. On second thought, I don’t want to know. Hoping to distract himself from his pain, he focused on Miranda. “You never told me what was in those files.”
She sighed and wilted into a nearby chair. Staring at the dwindling fire, Miranda seemed to be a diminished version of herself. She sat slumped, her face marred by the dirty tracks of tears on her darkened cheeks.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Your father discovered...sensitive information about me, information he planned on using against me.” She looked at her hands. “I should’ve known the position as his secretary, along with the pay, was too good to be true.”
“What made you think he had anything on you?” While not perfect, his father was considered a respected member of the community. Spencer suppressed a groan. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.
Miranda’s eyes glazed over. “He began to make passes at me. When I rebuffed him, he told me what he knew and threatened to fire me.”
“So, why not just quit?”
Her eyes flashed at him. “Don’t you think I thought of that? He told me if I quit, he’d see to it I’d never get another job in the state. Besides, I needed the money.”
Spencer shook his head. “You didn’t really believe him, did you?”
Miranda jumped up from the chair. “How dare you sneer at me from your ivory tower! You know nothing of my situation or desperation!”
“Es por causa mía. It because of me.” The little Hispanic woman pointed a bent finger to her chest.
“Mamá,” Miranda cried. “Hush.” To Spencer, she said, “My mother is not well. I need the money for her medicine. I continued working for your father for as long as possible for that reason.”
Spencer’s stomach twisted as a new thought occurred to him. “Did...did you? Did he—” The words tumbled out of their own volition.
“Never!” Her blue eyes burned like a gas flame. “I also stayed long enough, hoping to find his proof. Once I had it destroyed, I could look for another job. He could spread rumors about me, but he’d have nothing to back it up with.”
Spencer plowed a hand through his hair. “Why not take him to court? Sue for libel or blackmail? This is, after all, a free country.”
“Take your father to court?” she mocked, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I can’t afford the same high-priced lawyers he can.” Her gaze slid to her mother. “Besides, there are collateral issues at risk.”
Spencer looked at Miranda’s mother, trying to figure it all out. He once heard his father mention his secretary was adopted. Was this her birth mother? After sifting through several possibilities, he wondered if the woman was an illegal alien.
“Did my father know about her?” At Miranda’s nod, he continued. “And he threatened to turn her in?”
She nodded again and sank into the chair. Spencer saw tears falling into her lap. He stared up at the ceiling, reeling from these revelations. How could any of it be true? It was so, so Gothic.
A memory flashed into his mind, the first time he’d seen Miranda Adams, some time ago. He’d arrived at his father’s office and realized the woman behind the desk was new. The thick carpeting had muffled his steps and she apparently hadn’t heard his approach. She sat with her elbows on the desktop, her head in her hands—a picture of abject misery.
Not wanting to frighten her, he’d lightly cleared his throat. She jerked her head up. At first, his senses quickened at the sight of the attractive woman. Her cap of dark, silken brown curls with red highlights, accentuated her olive-toned skin. But when he saw the world of hurt and bewilderment brimming in her startling blue eyes, he’d taken a step back, feeling as though he intruded somewhere he didn’t belong.
Within the space of a heartbeat, she transformed into a model of cool professionalism, making him wonder if he imagined her grief. In fact, from then on, she’d treated him with a slight edge of disdain.
Spencer looked over at her now. Miranda had her face covered with her hands. She was crying, her shoulders shaking with the force of emotion. He wanted to reach out to her, to somehow comfort her. The older woman went to her side and put her arms around her, crooning in Spanish.
Spencer closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of the couch. His injury continued to throb and burn, making him wonder if the liquor wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. He wanted to block out the pain, as well as this entire night.
If what Miranda says is true, my father is a monster. And I’m just not ready to believe that.
***
Miranda wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to warm up and stop shaking. Her mother went to make a hot cup of tea. Miranda knew she needed more than tea to get herself out of this mess. She stared at the dying embers of the fire, feeling her hopes and dreams die along with it.
Her wish that Spencer might understand her plight and let her off the hook was ludicrous. People like him never rested until they meted out every scintilla of justice. He probably didn’t realize how haughty he sounded. At least the burning of the files had minimized his family’s power over her. Now she just had to worry about her mother.
Miranda looked up and gave a weak smile when Lupe held out a cup of tea. The cup rattled on the saucer as she accepted it. Taking a sip, the heat felt good going down her throat. It was the first thing she’d consumed all day. Marshaling the nerve to execute her plan had made her too nervous to eat.
Her mother shuffled back to the kitchen. Miranda watched her go, her heart swelling with love at the sight of her. She shuddered, remembering the rats, trash, and human misery in that hellish barrio where she’d found her. The fact that she’d located and identified her mother had seemed to be from divine favor. Miranda closed her eyes. At least that’s what she used to think.
Draining the last of her tea, she willed the muscles in her limbs to relax. She glanced over at Spencer, wondering what the next course of action should be. He lay sprawled out on the couch, his head lolled back against the cushions. His breathing was deep and even.
Miranda experienced a pang of sympathy for him. The pain must’ve finally got the best of him. What will I do with him? How can I make him understand my predicament? A prayer formed on her lips, a habit she’d been taught as a child. Miranda stifled it, knowing God didn’t aid criminals.
She rose, her muscles stiff, and took the teacup to the kitchen. Her mother looked up, her dark eyes accustomed to worry, full of questions.
“Why is that man, here, Bambina?”
Miranda settled her arm around her mother’s thin shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mamá. I’ll take care of it. It’s late. You need rest.” She plucked a medicine bottle from the counter, listening as she shook it. “Almost empty. Soon, I’ll get some more.”
“I am old and too much trouble,” Lupe said with a frown.
“Shh. Don’t speak nonsense. Off to bed.”
Lupe hugged her and shuffled off to the back room of the rental house. Miranda watched her go, wondering how she would get more medication without a prescription. Her small stock brought from Mexico had just about run out.
She pushed away from the counter and went into the living room. Spencer hadn’t moved. The only sign of life was his respiration. His smooth blond hair fell into his eyes, his tie was askew, his pant leg shredded. She’d only seen him perfectly groomed before now. Somehow, he seemed more approachable this way. More vulnerable.
And yet, he’s the son of a powerful, affluent man. The vulnerability is all on my side. I have everything to lose, not him.
Miranda remembered the first time she’d seen Spencer. George Meyers had just revealed to her he knew of Lupe’s existence. She’d sat at her desk, boiling over with a consuming hate for her boss, for the way he victimized innocent people. A noise had interrupted her thoughts.
She’d seen a framed photo of Spencer in her boss’s office, had seen him from behind at a few office functions, but never face to face. In her mind, he’d always been the mirror image of his father—cruelty and savagery covered by a thin veneer of civility. She expected arrogance, a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. Like his father.
She’d been unprepared for the open look on Spencer’s face, the apparently genuine smile tipping his mouth. A part of her experienced a stab of intense attraction, but it was quickly drowned by more powerful emotions. She couldn’t remember how she’d acted or anything she said to him—only the bitter contempt she passed from father to son.
His expression showed he’d been startled by whatever he’d seen on her face. Color had stained the lean lines of his classically handsome features. She’d sensed him pulling back emotionally, his eyes flashing with something like regret before his gaze became wary and shuttered.
Regret. It filled Miranda like a noxious fume. She had so many things to regret. Right now, one of them lay on her couch. A suffocating desire to escape made it hard to breathe. She reached over Spencer’s form and tugged a chenille throw from the back of the couch. His eyelids fluttered as she covered him with the blanket, but he soon slipped back to sleep.
Miranda released a labored breath, unsure of what to do next. Fatigue pulled at her like lead weights. She needed sleep, but wondered what Spencer would do if he woke up. She shook her head. She’d have to deal with that later. Right now, she wanted to get cleaned up from her ordeal.
Miranda trudged into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. In her bedroom, she changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans, stuffing her dark clothes, along with the bloody towels, into a plastic bag to be disposed of later. After a moment of indecision, she shoved the gun into the bag as well. Now she really was a thief. But at this point, it was too late to worry over the finer points of crime.
Miranda grabbed her pillow and blanket off the bed and returned to the living room. She pulled an armchair up to the couch. If Spencer awoke and got up, in his condition, he wouldn’t be able to get around the chair without bumping it. Once she was settled, Miranda watched him sleep.
Has he ever known despair or desperation? Or has his life been spent in the idle ease and pleasure of the wealthy? Was he consumed with climbing the corporate ladder like everyone else in the office where he worked?
Miranda remembered comments from others about Spencer’s religious faith. If it was true, did she dare hope he might come to understand her motivations, her reasons for apparent lunacy? She wanted to believe he was different than his father. That he was as kind as rumor led her to believe.
A wave of reckless hope burgeoned within her. Miranda bit back a cry. The unuttered prayer tore from her soul before she could stop it.
God, please help me!
Four
Spencer’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. His groan of pain sounded guttural and raspy. Confusion swirled his already incoherent thoughts, while his leg throbbed with white-hot fire. Dark shadows blanketed the room. A faint orange radiance remained from a fire.
Why is there a fireplace in my bedroom? He blinked and tried to sit up, realizing he was on a couch instead of in his bed. Another cry of pain escaped him.
A rustling sounded in his ears. He smelled something hot and exotic. Spencer angled his head toward the direction of the sound and started in surprise. An old woman held a cup of liquid under his nose. He pressed himself against the cushions of the couch in alarm. Who is she and why is she in my house? Am I dreaming?
“¡Bebe!”
Spencer jerked away from the cup and stared at the shadows beyond her, willing reality to reveal itself. A soft glow hovered directly in front of him. Spencer fastened his gaze on it, struggling to discern what he saw. After a moment, the shape materialized into a sleeping woman curled up in a chair, the remnant of the fire lighting the curve of her cheek.
Miranda!
He sucked in his breath as the events of the previous evening flooded his brain.
“¡Bebe!” the voice insisted. Spencer heard the words, but didn’t understand the meaning. “Drink! Para el dolor. For the pain.”
Miranda’s mother. Spencer considered asking what she put in the drink. He was unfamiliar with the smell. The liquid was shiny, black, and fathomless—like the woman’s eyes. He swallowed against the dryness of his throat. Deciding he didn’t care whether he lived or died at the moment, he accepted the drink and drained the cup. It smelled better than it tasted.
In the next moment, the woman was gone, making him wonder if he’d imagined her after all. The fleeting bitterness on his tongue told him she’d been real enough. His gaze fell to Miranda. She appeared innocent in sleep, incapable of breaking into his house and shooting him like a common criminal.
Spencer looked beyond her sleeping form to the door on the other side of the room. It was the only solid thing in the flickering shadows, beckoning him to escape. I just need to get up and walk through it. He wondered how he’d get home from there, but dismissed it in light of his first hurdle. He had to get off the couch.
Spencer pushed himself up into a sitting position, gasping at the pain shooting up his leg. With meticulous control, he angled his good leg off the couch. The exertion drained him. Dizziness churned inside his brain. He shut his eyes to collect his strength for the next movement, wondering why his head felt so heavy.
Spencer forced his eyes wide, struggling to focus on the now wavering image of the door. Through sheer force of will, he eased his injured leg off the couch. His breathing sounded as if he’d just finished a race.
Rest. He needed to rest. His eyes drifted closed.
Just for a moment.
When Spencer opened his eyes, he noticed the light in the room was brighter. Outside a dog barked. He glanced at his watch. The movement made his head swim. Five thirty in the morning! I must’ve fallen asleep after my first escape attempt. How stupid!
He shook his head, angry with himself—and had to clutch it to stop the world from spinning. Of course. Miranda’s mother must’ve put something in that drink to make him sleep.
Though everything had come to a stop in front of his eyes, Spencer felt the remaining effects of the drug lulling him to remain on the couch. He fought against it, knowing he had only moments to make his getaway.
As he eased up to a sitting position, he realized the pain in his leg had ebbed from the intensity of hours before. Taking extreme care not to disturb Miranda, Spencer hauled himself to his feet. He clamped his mouth shut against the urge to yell at the renewed pain. So much for improvement.
Holding his breath, he edged his way around Miranda. Step by step, he limped across the room. At the door, he leaned against the jamb for support, more from the woozy effects of the drug than his leg.
Spencer exhaled and took a deep breath, inching the locks on the door to open positions. He paused after each, darting glances at Miranda to see if she heard. He gripped the cold metal doorknob and twisted it. When he’d pushed it ajar a few inches, he slid his body through the opening and closed it silently behind him.
Spencer blinked several times against the dizziness threatening to topple him. He felt like he’d indulged in that tequíla after all. He collapsed against the side of the house and looked around the street.
He didn’t recognize the neighborhood, but the blue and gold pre-dawn light couldn’t conceal the sense of treeless, concrete despair. Small, ramshackle houses had been built close to the edge of the street along cracked and buckled sidewalks. Cars crowded the curbsides, many looking as if they hadn’t moved in years. A pack of dogs knocked over a garbage can on the opposite side of the street and began to paw through the litter. Why would Miranda live in such a neighborhood? If her job is so great, why couldn’t she afford better?
Spencer spotted a phone booth two blocks down. Wishing he had the cane to steady him, he lurched down the street to the booth and called a cab.
***
“Querida. Wake up.”
Miranda forced up her eyelids and focused on the figure of her mother before her. She shifted, and her muscles groaned in protest. Her bones felt weighted with concrete.
She rubbed her face, confused by the feeling of dread hovering over her like a black cloud. She squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced, wondered why she was in a chair instead of her bed. The sight of the couch with a tousled blanket flung over the cushions mocked her.
Miranda stared at the empty couch in horror as the events of the previous evening crashed into her brain. She sucked in a breath and clutched the sides of the chair.
“Where is he? Did you see him go?” Miranda threw off the blanket and stumbled through the living room to the front door. It was unlocked. She yanked it open and erupted onto the sidewalk. The cool air and rough cement bit into her bare feet. She scanned the area, looking for Spencer in the early-morning light. A lone car rumbled along the street. A homeless person poked through trash on the ground near an overturned garbage can. The smell of exhaust and refuse assaulted her nostrils.
There was no sign of Spencer as far as she could see.
She stormed back into the house and slammed the door shut, breathing hard. Her mind raced with the implications of his disappearance. Any moment she expected to hear the condemnatory whine of police sirens.
Miranda circled the room, clenching and unclenching her hands. She stopped at the couch, reaching out to pluck up the blanket she’d spread over Spencer the night before. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled the scent of his cologne and the coppery smell of blood. Terror coursed through her veins. She felt sick.
Will he turn me in? Will my mother be deported? Will I go to jail for harboring an illegal alien? Does any of it matter?
Miranda glanced at her mother, who sat in the corner of the room watching her movements and offered her the most reassuring smile she could muster at the moment.
She turned away, feeling like a wrung out rag. Have I really brought any improvement to my mother’s life by bringing her here? Miranda walked to the window and looked through a part in the curtains.
The neighborhood wasn’t the most salubrious, and she lived in constant fear of discovery. But where else could she go? Smuggling her mother into the country had cost a vast amount of money. She’d downsized her lifestyle, trying to make every dollar stretch as far as possible. The small amount she had left in her savings would go quickly once George Meyers found out about the break-in and fired her.
Obtaining her file had been planned to coincide with her vacation time. That would soon be gone, and she didn’t dare go back to work. No doubt Spencer had already told his father everything.
Why did her every attempt at betterment always end in failure?
Miranda heard her mother’s hacking cough behind her. Medicine. Lupe would run out of medicine in a few days. She closed her eyes as another wave of despair washed over her. What have I done?
Five
Spencer shut off the annoying drone of the alarm clock. He pulled himself up to rest on his elbows and glanced around the room, noting the heavy antique furnishings and navy blue and gray color scheme.
It felt good to be home. Again. Every morning when he awoke, he half expected to find himself once again in Miranda’s living room. The Goya-esque images of that night fixated in his mind, as disturbing and eerie as the real thing.
At times, he wondered if it was all just a dream. But there was a livid, puckered scar forming on his leg to remind him otherwise. He’d watched it carefully, keeping it clean and aired, and was grateful he didn’t have the complication of an infection to deal with as well.
Spencer stretched, noticing the pain in his leg had lessened quite a bit over the last several days. Luckily, he’d been able to relax at home. After returning from England, his boss had encouraged him to take some time off before coming back to the office. This, however, isn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend it.
Spencer remembered how the most complex thing in his life once was a sore heart from an unrequited affection. His thoughts, his regrets, over Julia, had been eclipsed by a virago of a woman with a gun.
He eased up from the bed and headed for the shower. Afterwards, Spencer dressed in a navy blue crewneck sweater and dark slacks. He made his bed and straightened the room before descending the stairs for breakfast.
The house remained still in the early morning hour. That would soon change. His parents were due to arrive that afternoon from their vacation in California wine country.
As he sipped his coffee, Spencer wondered what his reaction would be when he faced his father later in the day. The idea that a man he admired, his father, would blackmail his secretary for physical reasons just didn’t jibe with what he knew of him.
Surely if his father had a secret life, his mother would’ve found out by now. Their thirty-five year marriage, at least as far as he could see, was rock-solid. Only the memory of Miranda’s white, pinched face, of her tears, stopped him from dismissing the melodramatic notion entirely.
Spencer separated the slats of the mini-blinds over the kitchen window and looked out. A paperboy rode past on his bike. A woman walked by with a baby in a stroller. Everything looked normal, calm.
Sane.
His mind swung to the other side of the equation. What did he really know of his father’s secretary? What if Miranda was mentally unstable, imagining dark plots where none existed? Maybe she was a drug addict who’d broken into his home to steal something of value in order to support her habit. She could be all these things and a pathological liar to boot.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. God, what am I supposed to think here? Help me out on this, please!
After finishing his coffee, Spencer returned to the study. He’d come to this room every day since the night Miranda had climbed in the window. Over and over in his mind, he replayed the sequence of events.
He remembered the metallic smell of the fired gun, and his utter shock that she had the temerity to shoot him. Spencer walked around the room to make sure no trace of evidence was apparent. He’d replaced the phone cord, sponged up a missed spot of blood on the edge of the rug, and smoothed the jagged ends of the bullet mark in the trim, wanting to erase every bit of her presence.
But why go to the effort?
Spencer walked to the window and looked outside. Wreaths of fog encircled the boles of the trees, lending the landscape with the same dreamlike quality of his encounter with Miranda. He shook his head.
He couldn’t admit the reason for his obsessive checking and rechecking. It was almost as if he couldn’t bear the thought of his father discovering Miranda’s plot. But it didn’t make any sense. If she was guilty of a crime, she should be prosecuted, regardless of any heartbreaking tale she told.
Spencer let out a ragged sigh and went over to the leather chair behind the desk. He sat down, placing his hands behind his head. What was Miranda doing today? Was she back at the office? Brazenly going on as if nothing untoward had occurred? He couldn’t bring himself to call the office and find out. If he heard her voice on the phone, he’d lose any sympathy he held for her.
Why am I compelled to have any sympathy for her at all? His brain told him one thing; Miranda Adams was a liar and a thief. His heart said—
Spencer closed his eyes. His heart couldn’t be trusted right now. Not after the recent pangs suffered over Julia. Best to depend on his head.
Over the last few days, Spencer had also gone over his memory, searching for any recollection that might impugn his father. George Meyers was on the board of a local community college and was something of a pillar in their little corner of the city. He went to church on Sundays, gave generously to many charities, and had supported Spencer in his decision to quit his job in college administration and join the marketing firm. Where were the shades of transgression?
As far as I’m concerned, there aren’t any.
Spencer thought again of Miranda. There could be no doubt she was an attractive woman. His father would have to be blind not to notice that fact. Could she be imagining sinister overtones when perhaps his father sent lingering glances her way? Maybe she was spoiling for a sexual harassment lawsuit in hopes of easy money. He thought of the Hispanic woman at the house. No, like she said, she had collateral issues at stake.
Spencer pictured Miranda sitting at the front desk of his father’s office, taking a call. He wracked his memory, trying to remember if he ever saw her behave in any way other than strictly professional. He came up blank. Then again, he’d never seen Miranda and his father interact. He couldn’t quite imagine her playing the part of a tease to cause trouble.
So what’s the real story?
Spencer shook his head. Maybe he’d never find the answers. Could he live with that? He glanced at the liquor cabinet, and for the first time, wondered if anything was left inside the safe. Miranda knew the combination. He didn’t.
He didn’t appreciate the irony.
Spencer got up and walked across the room. He kneeled down and pressed a few numbers on the keypad just to see if he could figure out the code; his father’s birth date, his mother’s, his own.
Nothing.
Grimacing from his awkward position, he gripped the edge of the cabinet and rose to his feet. He leaned his head against the wall for a moment, discouraged at the new wave of pain in his leg. While he waited for the ache to ebb, he glanced behind the cabinet.
A shiny rectangle caught his eye. Spencer caught his breath. A photograph!
It lay wedged between the leg of the cabinet and the base trim. He remembered Miranda accidentally dropping the files to the floor. This must’ve slipped out. Ignoring the discomfort, Spencer slid his arm through the narrow space and grabbed it. His hand shook as he brought it out into the light.