“You’re pretty good at that,” he commented.

She stirred the burning logs, the glow of the fire burnishing her bare skin.

“When I was a child we had almost nothing,” she said, and her voice sounded distant. “But on the nights when we had a fire, we felt very rich, indeed.”

She returned and snuggled beside him once more, drawing the covers over them. It warmed him more than any fire, he thought. It had been a long time since he had rested in the arms of a beautiful woman, let alone one as remarkable as Miranda Tate.

She might be worth losing a fortune for.

“I assumed your family was wealthy,” he said. It dawned on him how little he had cared to learn about her—and what a mistake that may have been.

“Not always. Not when I was young.”

A pale scar marred the otherwise flawless perfection of her shoulder. He gently traced it with his finger.

“An old mistake,” she said.

“I’ve made a few of those,” he confessed.

His own chest bore a complicated tapestry of such marks, left over from the years of arduous physical training, and his career as the Batman. A burn from the fire that had engulfed Rā’s al Ghūl’s temple. An old scar where the Joker had once stabbed him.

She explored them by the firelight.

“More than a few.” Then she treated him to an enticing smile. “We could leave. Tonight. Take my plane. Go anywhere we wanted.”

It was tempting, he mused, especially after eight lonely years. But then he remembered Gordon in that hospital bed—and Officer Blake counting on him for help against Bane.

“Someday, perhaps. Not tonight.”

She pulled him close, inviting his kisses. They folded into each other, forming a warm, beating heart at the center of the cold, empty house. Bruce lost himself in the moment—and in her.

For the first time in years, he didn’t think about Rachel.

CHAPTER TWENTY

She slept like an angel, wrapped up in a blanket near the dying fire. Bruce studied her sleeping form, grateful for the warmth she had brought back into his life.

Then he silently slipped away.

Sorry, Miranda, he said silently. It can’t be helped.

Part of him—a part that had been dormant for eight long years—wanted to stay with her. But that wasn’t possible. A grandfather clock tolled midnight out in the hall, reminding him that he had an appointment to keep—with another woman. He crept quietly into the study and took the hidden elevator down to the Batcave. His working clothes waited for him in their locked closet. He took the cowl from the shelf.

If all went well, he might get back before Miranda woke up. If not…well, he would have some explaining to do. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Minutes later, the Bat was roaring toward downtown Gotham. The lights of the city were spread out beneath the aircraft like glittering jewels just waiting to be stolen by the thieves and murderers who were his quarry. Late-night traffic cruised the streets hundreds of feet below.