Miranda Read online

  Translated by Hilda Naranjo

  Original tittle in Spanish: ¿Te acostarías conmigo?

  © 2013 Sheila Sheeran

  All rights reserved

  Interior design by Sheila Sheeran

  Cover art © Sheila Sheeran / fotolia.com

  Registered United Stated Copyright Office as:

  ¿Te acostarías conmigo?

  Registration Number: TXu 1-861-072 August 2013

  Translation registered United Stated Copyright Office as:

  Miranda

  Registration Number: Pending, July 2015 Case: 1-2498211371

  ISBN: 0990613038

  ISBN-13: 978-0990613039

  This is a work of fiction, a product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. The author owns the copyright to this work.

  Total or partial publication or reproduction of this work without permission is prohibited.

  To my husband and daughter:

  Because with the immense love that you give me, the limits of my imagination are banished, and even without having read my stories you are always my #1 fans.

  To my parents:

  I love you.

  To life:

  For allowing me to live so many experiences, see the world, and placing wonderful people in my path.

  “It is this struggle in my heart that makes me love and hate you…”

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Thanks

  The way the faint lamplight near the bed reflected off his skin aroused me. It made him look hot… smoldering… desirable. His delicate hands roamed my legs. Each time, they dared explore more of my body. I couldn’t resist. My toes would curl while paying homage to his touch.

  Ahh, mmm. This one must be handsome. A body like this must belong to only one face: that of a God.

  Our silhouettes connected and I could feel the weight of his desire. The dim light slowly revealed his identity… Norman!

  Norman?

  My eyes opened wide open and pulsated at the beat of my agitated heart.It was before sunrise. The cell phone rang like it was deranged, and maybe somewhat jealous. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or to thank it for bringing me back to reality–for saving me from a sin. Although, on second thought, a dream can’t be sinful because it’s involuntary. It’s only a dream.

  Damn it! Where did I put you? The screen’s light gave away its location. There it was, on the nightstand, beside the lamp of sin. The chill of the sheets clung to my skin as I reached for the cell across the empty side of the bed.

  My eyes, blinded by the bright green light of the numbers on the phone, could barely see that it was 2:47 in the morning. Who the hell is calling at this hour? For a few seconds I hesitated to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Miranda Wise?” Judging by the seriousness in his voice, it was something important.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” Well at least he apologizes. “This is Detective Hernandez from the Investigation Unit of the Police Department. Are you Miranda Wise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know Norman Clausell?”

  “Yes.” I spoke in a barely audible whisper. Now I was worried. It seemed like the room was getting colder.

  “All right, I’m calling to inform you that Mr. Clausell has been in an accident and is receiving medical treatment in the trauma center of the local hospital.” It is imperative that you arrive soon.”

  “Okay.” The call ended.

  Okay? Is that what I said?I had not realized how much my hands were trembling. Is this part of the dream?

  Some threads of light that streamed under the door lit the floor of the room in darkness. My legs were shaking so much that I almost fell when I jolted out of bed. My brain had not yet processed whether it was real, another dream, or a nightmare. My eyes turned to the cell. No, I wasn’t dreaming. I had to hurry.

  I don’t recall having changed from my pajamas into jeans or having driven to the hospital. I remember only that I was there, standing before two enormous sliding doors. When they opened, they let out a blast of cold air, a smell of industrial cleaner, and, no doubt, the departing souls of those who previously had come in alive.

  I followed the posted directions that lead me to a counter with an “Information” sign. The guard sitting behind it greeted me.

  “Good morning. May I help you?” he smiled.

  “I’m looking for Norman Clausell. I think he was admitted a few hours ago. A police detective called me. He said he was here...” I said in one breath. It was impossible for me to minimize the despair that came over me.

  The man picked up the phone in front of him and said to the person at the other end of the line:

  “Norman Clausell?”

  For a few seconds, the silence was deafening. The man waited, making a strange, rhythmic tapping noise with his shoes, and hung up.

  “Miss, I’m told you need to go to the waiting area. In a while, you’ll be given more information.”

  “To the waiting area?” I asked to make sure that I understood what he said.

  “Yes. Follow the hall to the left and you’ll find it there at the end.”

  “Hall, left, hall, left hall, end, hall, end...” a voice repeated over and over again in my head while I ran. I slowed down as I approached the entrance, but I didn’t enter. Through the glass, there were multiple scenes with different characters and the same script.

  The people waiting had the same expression that revealed anguish and despair. I stood right there where I had stopped, leaned against a wall, put my trembling hand in my purse, and fumbled to find the phone. As always, it seemed like that damn purse had swallowed it. After finding it, I dialed the detective’s number.

  “Detective Hernandez,” I cleared my voice. “Hello, it’s Miranda Wise.”

  “Who?” I was surprised that he did not remember me after having interrupted my sleep and calling me at such an unusual hour. I paused before answering, “You called me not too long ago to tell me about Norman Clausell.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” There was plenty of noise on the other end of the line.

  “I’m here, in front of the waiting room.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Those ten minutes were really about fifteen, which seemed eternal. I couldn’t find a place to rest my eyes without tripping over a face in distress. I was staring at the floor when I heard a voice authoritatively calling my name.

  “Miranda Wise!”

  It was definitely an order: Miranda Wise, here, now! There was no other way to interpret his words. When I looked up, I found a pair of blue eyes gazing at me, waiting for my response. I took two steps toward him, and he did the same. He reached out to shake hands, and I reciprocated. Once again, my words were rushed.

  “Hello. What happened? How is he? No one has said anything to me.”

  As I bombarded him with q
uestions, Hernandez motioned for us to move to a more secluded spot, but where we could still see doctors go in and out of the waiting room.

  “Thank you for arriving quickly,” he began to say, I was thinking: Forget about the thanks and get to the point, since you still have about fifteen questions to answer...

  “How is he?” I blurted out.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to give you information about Mr. Clausell’s condition.”

  Perfect! He had asked me to come to not give me information?

  “What can you tell me?” I asked in a tone of irony. The detective noticed it immediately.

  “I can tell you that Mr. Clausell was in what appears to be a traffic accident. In fact, a very serious accident,” he stared into my eyes without blinking.

  “But how? Where?” It seemed like my questions didn’t make him as uncomfortable as not being able to answer them.

  “We are still investigating. Several investigators were sent to where Mr. Clausell was found in his car.” The ease with which his words came out increasingly exasperated me.

  “What do you mean 'was found'? Was he alone, or with someone?” I was tempted to push him against the wall and make him spit it out all at once.

  What is wrong with you, Miranda? You shouldn’t lose control so easily!

  “We found Mr. Clausell because we received an anonymous call alerting us to an apparent multiple vehicle collision.” Little by little, and consciously, he eased his tone. “When we arrived at the scene, we found Mr. Clausell’s car and him inside, in very bad shape. The car was unrecognizable.”

  “Wait, stop. I don’t understand. Just one car? And the rest?”

  My concerns were not assuaged. The more information the detective provided the greater my confusion.

  “We are not yet able to determine what happened.”

  The pair of blue eyes diverted their attention from me. He turned away.

  A woman was heading towards us. She was wearing scrubs.

  “Doctor,” said the man.

  “Detective,” she responded. They shook hands.

  “She is Miranda Wise, Mr. Clausell’s emergency contact.”

  The doctor reached out to greet me.

  I took advantage of the situation to ask abruptly, “How is Norman?” while shaking her hand.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Martinez. I’m tending to Mr. Clausell.”

  I took refuge in a strategy of insistence.

  “How is he?” I was referring to Norman.

  “He arrived in critical condition. He suffered fractures to his femurs in both legs. We can repair them in surgery. However, what worries us most right now is the intracranial bleeding that we have not been able to control and is causing dangerous pressure levels on his brain. We are still very cautious about his prognosis. We've placed him in the intensive care unit and we’ll keep him in an induced coma until the pressure on his brain has been alleviated. Later we can discuss the surgeries to repair the fractured femurs.”

  In summary, Norman was in very poor shape.

  “Is there something I can do?” I asked as tears welled up in my eyes.

  I knew nothing of medicine. I had spent years working in the healthcare industry, but not on that side. The naïve comment apparently was a bit humorous to the doctor, who half smiled.

  “For now, pray a lot. He needs it.”

  “May I see him?” My face echoed the supplication in my words. I needed to see him.

  “Not at this time, but if all goes well, perhaps during morning visiting hours.” The doctor’s gaze shifted to the watch on her left hand. “In other words, in four hours you’ll be able to see him. Although, as I already explained, don’t expect too much from the visit. He’ll be under sedation as long as is necessary.”

  “Thank you,” and I said nothing more.

  This truly was very serious. Norman was in a very precarious situation.

  How did you get into this Norman?

  The doctor vanished, I blinked and she was gone. Once more, the blue eyes watched me with some authority.

  “Will you be staying here?”

  “Until I can see him, I don’t have any other choice.” The sudden changes of intonation in my answers did not seem to bother him.

  “Will you have coffee with me? I would like to speak with you. You may have information that could help us understand what really happened.”

  What could I know about Norman that could help solve the case?

  All I knew about him was related to us and Medika, his company. Outside of that, he was unknown to me.

  “Could I get in trouble for talking to you?”

  The seriousness in his eyes turned into a grin that managed to calm my anxiety.

  “No. You don’t need to call a lawyer, for now.” He pointed the way with his hand, in a way I thought was polite.

  “In that case, I’ll join you.” I batted my lashes and turned toward the slabs that marked the path to be followed.

  Are you really flirting with this man?

  For some time, my hormones had been suffering from insomnia and had invaded my dreams. There were still after-effects from their last showing before the inspector woke me.

  We walked down the same hallway that had led me to the waiting room. This time, instead of turning right and heading to the exit, we continued on our way to the cafeteria.

  “With cream?” his voice sounded friendlier.

  “What did you say?” Hernandez’s question made no sense. I was obviously on another planet.

  “How do you want your coffee?” The detective, who was used to dealing with people, realized that I wasn’t in full control of all of my faculties. I wasn’t there, even if my body was.

  I displayed a timid smile that I felt take shape on my face–a reaction, perhaps involuntary, to apologize for my cluelessness.

  “Oh! Yes, with cream and two sugars.” Still confused, I didn’t even make a gesture to pay.

  Hernandez took care of the bill and headed to a table that was secluded in a corner of the cafeteria. As in any other hospital, even that space was good for getting hypothermia. My body reacted immediately. The hairs on my arms stood up and I shivered a little. The detective poured the sugar in my coffee. He watched every detail… every move I made.

  “Why were you surprised that Mr. Clausell listed you as an emergency contact person?”

  Until then, I had not realized that my tone and response to receiving the phone call had been thoroughly studied. I thought it had gone unnoticed. In seconds, I checked each of the personal files I had in my mind before answering. I found nothing that could make sense of what was happening. I looked the detective in the eye. I was honest.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” he asked, and I realized that I did nothing but think about Norman giving me one of his usual smiles. That was all I had in mind.

  “I don’t quite yet understand.” Those cop eyes didn’t reflect any emotion.

  “Let me see if I can help you. How do you know Mr. Clausell?”

  The story of our lives crossed my mind at lightning speed. A sigh gave way to my answer.

  “He runs the company where I work.”

  “Your boss?” He took a sip and jerked the cup away from his mouth, his face contorted in pain. The coffee was hot.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” he replied. He pressed a napkin against his lips. “This always happens to me. I love this stuff so much that I always forget that they serve it hot enough to skin a chicken.”

  His candidness was endearing. A silent smile allowed me to relax for several seconds. The man liked my reaction, but did not want to risk straying from the conversation.

  “You were telling me that Mr. Clausell is your boss,” he commanded me to continue the story with his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “And what is your relationship to him?”

  The interrogation began to bother me.

  “I already to
ld you: he’s my boss.” That was another half answer. We’ve known each other for over twenty years.

  “And where do you work?”

  “Medika,” I drowned the name in a sip of coffee.

  Abruptly he moved the cup away from his mouth, but this time not because he had been burned.

  “Medika? The pharmaceutical company?” The questions came out in a mild stutter. “Is he the Norman Clausell, the chairman and C.E.O. of Medika?” The way he pronounced the pronoun “he” made me understand that until that very moment, Hernandez had no idea who exactly the victim in this case was.

  “Yes, yes, and yes.” I noticed that the detective was as surprised as he was disappointed to not have realized which Norman Clausell was in such serious condition sooner. I almost read his mind. How could I miss such a detail?

  He leaned forward to face me up close. If the table had not been between us, my personal space would have been invaded.

  “And what is your position at Medika?”

  “I’m the Director of the International Business Division,” I answered automatically, without even noticing the responsibility that entailed. He narrowed his eyes and forced his eyes further into mine. I thought they revealed an air of astonishment.

  “It must be a position of great responsibility for someone who looks so young...” he remarked with the intention of giving leave to continue talking. I don’t know how he dared make such a remark if he also looked too young to be a detective.

  “I’ve never been bored with my work, and about being young, well... thank you for the compliment. Let’s just say the years have treated me well.” If his questions made me uncomfortable, his scrutinizing eyes were worse. He crossed the line that delineated what he should be allowed to say and ask professionally. “I don’t think the questions related to me are going to help determine what happened to Norman.” I risked speaking to him that way to divert his attention from me. How stupid of me. How could I think of doing such a thing? He didn’t expect the comment, but clearly, it encouraged him. I knew it as soon as he scowled.

  “I think you’re right, Miranda,” he breathed and began to speak again. “Miranda, right?”

  “That’s right.” A thought crossed my mind: I can’t believe it worked.