Читать онлайн книгу «Lipstick On His Collar» автора Dawn Atkins

Lipstick On His Collar
Dawn Atkins
A year ago Nick Ryder and Miranda Chase shared a steamy night that left more than just a few lipstick marks on his collar. When she didn't return his calls, Nick got the message loud and clear…this high-class woman wanted nothing more from a lowly cop. Yet they've met again, and Miranda needs his investigative talents. He can't refuse the tempting Miranda, but he can stay out of her bed. Or at least try…Miranda struggled to forget gorgeous Nick Ryder– he didn't call and she thought he wasn't interested. Now he's back–as sexy and irresistible as ever– and his hot glances are saying he wants another night. But he keeps insisting that this is strictly business. That means Miranda is going to have to sharpen her lipstick and entice him…because she's not about to let him get away twice!



Nick followed the trail of rose petals
They led straight to Miranda’s bedroom, lit with clusters of flickering candles. Soft jazz played and the air smelled of roses mixed with vanilla and spices. The trail of rose petals led to the bed where Miranda lay.
She was on her side in a suggestive pose, wearing white lingerie, transparent except for leafy vines that coyly covered her. She was breathtakingly beautiful—she looked like erotic innocence.
And she was trying to seduce him.
His capacity to think went south and his vow to resist her evaporated. Desire pounded through him and all he wanted was to put his hands all over her. Now.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I thought we might finish what we started….”
Who was he to fight her? He crossed the room, yanking off his clothes as he moved.
“I poured you a bath,” she murmured.
“Honey, if you think I’d let a bath come between me and you looking like that, think again!”
Dear Reader,
Do opposites attract? Or drive each other crazy? That’s what Nick and Miranda have to figure out. It turns out not to be their differences that keep them apart, but what they have in common—their stubborn single-mindedness.
Though Nick and Miranda come from different backgrounds, they share that “my way or the highway” take on the world. Miranda has to learn to let go of her ambition a little to let love in. Nick has to get past some tough things so he can move on to what he truly wants. Helping Nick and Miranda work out their “perfect blend” for a happily-ever-after brought me great joy, especially because their story had special significance to me—my husband and I had to learn the same lesson!
Of course, I'm not a cosmetics creator and my husband's not a former cop, but, believe me, we had our differences.
The sailing sequences in this book brought back fond memories, since my husband taught me how to sail—sailing was one thing we both loved (besides each other)! I also enjoyed my walk through Miranda’s world of natural cosmetics. Thanks to her, I now work with an aromatherapy diffuser in my office.
I hope Nick and Miranda’s story means as much to you as it does to me.
Yours,
Dawn Atkins
P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Please write me at daphnedawn@aol.com or visit me at www.dawnatkins.com.

Books by Dawn Atkins
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
871—THE COWBOY FLING
HARLEQUIN DUETS
77—ANCHOR THAT MAN!

Lipstick On His Collar
Dawn Atkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For David, who showed me the magic of night sailing…and so much more.

Contents
Prologue (#ub17d5f48-c4e4-5527-8fa1-da62b8c57d97)
Chapter 1 (#u6584d4f3-e14b-51f5-94d6-e5cd4b2022ef)
Chapter 2 (#u3d208c7e-94f4-5bc8-b47b-61a5b0b1e341)
Chapter 3 (#u7ba960dd-83e0-51ee-9d2f-1d09c4f80907)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
WHEN THE WOMAN IN RED burst through the door, everything at the Backstreet Bar stopped dead—the talking, the drinking, the smoking. And Nick Ryder’s heart. For a second, anyway.
Women rarely came to the Backstreet, and never alone, and this was one hot woman. Her red dress hugged curves all the way to her spiked heels, and a diamond necklace sizzled around her neck. She stood there, breathing hard, her black hair a mane around her face, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, while everyone stared—the off-duty cops at the tables, the regulars at the bar, even the guy about to kiss the seven into the corner pocket.
What the hell she was doing here, Nick couldn’t imagine. The Backstreet was a great place to throw back a brew with his squad mates at the end of a shift—dark and quiet, with a well-worn bar and a beat-up jukebox that only played blues—but to a woman like her, the place would be a dive.
She seemed to realize that and was turning for the door, when her gaze hit him square in the face. She paused, a smile flickered, then she headed straight for him. Had to be the reassuring look women claimed he had. The protect-and-serve thing had gone bone deep, he guessed.
She looked like trouble. Expensive trouble. But watching the tissue-thin dress slide over her breasts, hips and long, long legs, he thought, What the hell. He didn’t have anything else to do tonight except play pool, and he could always play pool.
For a second he thought he heard bells, but it was just a car alarm outside.
The lady in red slid onto the stool beside him, her perfume overpowering the mist of beer, ancient nachos and cigar smoke that wreathed the place, gave him a sad smile, then took a breath so shaky he had the urge to pat her. Instead, he tipped his beer mug in salute and smiled.
She accepted the gesture, then turned her attention to Ben, the bartender, who sliced Nick a look—what have we here?—before saying to her, “What’ll it be, ma’am?”
“A Santiago martini, please.”
“Say what?”
“Just a martini. Very dry. No olives, onions or twist. Float a few ice slivers, and be sure the glass is cold.”
“Comin’ right up.” Ben shot Nick a look. High maintenance.
When the drink arrived, she took it straight down like medicine, then gasped, pounding the bar with an open palm so that glasses rattled all the way along the mahogany counter. Nice nails, Nick noticed. Perfectly squared with a white edge. French, he thought, was the style. His ex had gone for the high-end stuff, too. On this woman, high-end seemed like minimum basic requirements.
“You okay?” Nick asked. He handed her a napkin to wipe her eyes, which had watered from the gin. They were puffy, too, so he knew she’d been crying.
“Thanks.” She dabbed under each eye.
“Name’s Nick,” he said.
She zeroed in on him for a long moment. “Miranda,” she finally said.
“Nice name.” His peripheral vision caught Ben rolling his eyes, so he shot him an up-yours look, then focused on Miranda.
She lifted her glass at Ben, who was pretending to be drying glasses while he eavesdropped. “Another one of these, please.” She turned back to Nick. “Nick’s a good name.” She pondered his face. “Solid…masculine…dependable.”
What the hell could he say to that? “My mother liked it.”
As soon as Ben delivered the martini, ice slivers and all, Miranda tapped it against Nick’s mug. “Cheers, Nick,” she said, then gulped the drink. She gasped once, then blinked hard. “Whew.”
“You’re tossing those back awful fast.”
“No kidding.”
His curiosity got the better of him. “So, what’s the deal?”
She turned her body toward him, nailed him with a look. “Tell me something, Nick. Do I strike you as sexless?”
It was his turn to choke on his drink.
“I mean, do I seem like a woman who doesn’t like sex?”
This was a minefield Nick didn’t care to stumble through. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“I like sex as much as the next woman,” she declared, though she didn’t sound convinced. She looked him over, making every muscle in his body tighten. “Like, for example, I could see myself having sex with you—no problem.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He heard Ben snort. Okay, real lame, but, hell, how was he supposed to respond? Your place or mine?
“Theoretically, of course,” she said.
“Oh, of course.” His parts eased a bit.
Miranda swiveled back to the bar. “Hit me again,” she said, clinking her glass on the counter. She was oddly blunt for a woman so obviously refined. That made him smile and intrigued him a little.
“You might want to let the first two breathe,” Nick warned. “Straight gin packs a wallop.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Still, Nick caught Ben’s eye to make sure he would dilute the drink. Otherwise, Miranda would be throwing up her guts in the bar’s less-than-elegant john, and it would be a shame to ruin that incredible dress. He could practically see the texture of her skin through the fabric.
“What brings you to the Backstreet?” he asked. She stood out in this place like a Ferrari Testerosa in a Kmart parking lot. Her dress was designer, her hair perfect, her makeup as artful as a model’s, and the diamonds she wore flashed the myriad prisms of the real deal. Pure class. In fact, she was exactly the kind of pampered female he had no interest in—the kind his ex-wife Debbie had aspired to be but couldn’t manage on Nick’s salary.
“It was handy,” she said, shrugging.
“You seem a little overdressed for this place is all.” She wasn’t a suspect he was interrogating, but he had to figure her out.
“I was somewhere more formal, and I—” She glanced at him but couldn’t meet his eyes. “I got some bad news, so I had to get away. I just came in. On impulse.”
“Impulse, huh?”
“Yeah. I tend to jump into things without thinking, and then regret it later.” She looked sad, but not down for the count.
“How about now? You gonna regret this?” The words came softer than he’d intended, but her shaky bravery got to him.
She looked at him for a long, silent minute. “No,” she said finally. “Not this time.”
Her words cracked his customary cool and he said what he felt. “I’m glad.”
She flashed him a smile so bright it hurt, and he wanted more—more smiles, more Miranda. The urge to help her gripped him like a fist.
Just then, Ben set the watered-down drink in front of her, offering a welcome distraction. She lifted the glass, tapped it against Nick’s stein, then chugged it, immediately motioning to Ben for another. “They always water their drinks?” she muttered to Nick.
Nick winced. “How about if you let the third one percolate?”
She seemed to consider his words, how she felt, then nodded slowly. “We’ll see.”
“Care to share the bad news?”
“Oh, that.” Miranda’s smile slipped, and she snatched her lip between her teeth before she continued. “Let’s just say I’m no longer engaged.” She tossed back her hair, sending a wave of dense perfume his way.
“I see. And I’m guessing it wasn’t your idea?”
“Oh, it was my idea, all right,” she said, but she stared at a wet spot on the bar.
“But you had no choice.”
She looked up. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Nah. I’ve just been there before,” he said. “I got divorced a few months back.” What was this, true confession?
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Turned out we wanted different things.” He’d wanted a quiet life with her, she’d wanted an ambitious assistant to the mayor, a fact he’d learned when he found them in bed. His bed.
“Exactly,” she said, almost as if she’d read his mind. “Then you know how I feel.” She lifted her just-arrived martini to her lips. Their eyes met over it.
“All I can say is…his loss,” Nick said.
“That’s kind of you, but I don’t think he’ll even notice.” Then she studied his face. “Can I ask you a favor, Nick?”
Uh-oh. “Sure.”
“Keep me company while I get drunk? Make sure I don’t do anything really stupid?” Tears made her eyes shine.
“I’d be honored.” He held out his hand to shake on it. Hers was warm and slender. He felt a jolt.
She must have had a similar sensation because her eyes went wide, then smoky.
Heat began to pump through him as his body went on automatic pilot. How about sex? Would that be really stupid?
“Let’s sit over there and talk,” he said, motioning toward a back booth, away from Ben’s snorts and the curious eyes of Nick’s squad mates.
Talk? Him? The guy who lived for the quiet of a moonlit sail? The guy whose ex-wife had accused him of giving her the silent treatment? What was he thinking?
She nodded, then stood, wobbling a little, so he took her arm. He guided her to a booth, where she sat beside him—and too close—wiggling her bottom on the seat with such natural sensuality he felt it clear to his bones.
She turned toward him, resting her elbow on the table, her head on her fist in a way that made her breasts swell upward from her dipped neckline, and said, “So, tell me about yourself.”
With all the alcohol bubbling in her bloodstream, Nick knew that what he ought to do was send Miranda back to her pricey neighborhood in a cab, but instead he did what she wanted. He told her about himself.
It was that or kiss those lips she was aiming his way, and that would be stupid. Real stupid. He suddenly wished he’d heeded that car alarm and beat it out of there when he first saw her. Too late now.
“Well,” he said on a sigh, “I’m a cop.”
“A cop?” Her sharply tweezed brows shot up and she lifted her head from her fist. “How interesting.”
“I guess.” He watched her fit him to her image of a cop—a blue-collar guy who saw the world in terms of right or wrong, legal or illegal, with no shades of gray. Pretty close, except he had the urge to tell her he had a minor in art history. But what was the point? He’d never see her again.
“You do look dangerous,” she said. “Except for your eyes. Your eyes are kind.” Then she reached to cup his cheek. It was the merest touch—her fingers barely made contact before they withdrew—but it was electric. Nick felt welded in place—and insanely glad Miranda liked his eyes. It was nuts. He was like a sap in some movie with too many violins.
“So, what’s it like being a cop?”
“What’s it like?” He cleared his throat and told her. Just to distract himself from all that voluptuous woman close enough that he could inhale her exhale.
He talked about the adrenaline of a chase, the satisfaction of taking down the bad guys. He told her what got him up in the morning, what kept him awake at night, about cases he was proud of, and the ones that got him down.
He kept talking, telling her more than he’d ever told anyone. He didn’t know why. Maybe because her green eyes were steady and smart, really interested, not calculating like Debbie’s had been. He hadn’t caught on to that about Debbie at the time. He tended to miss important stuff when he got hooked on a woman. A lesson he’d vowed never to repeat.
While he talked, he kept Miranda from ordering another drink. She was tipsy but not hammered, which ought to be enough for this night.
“What about you?” he said. “Tell me about yourself. What do you do?” A woman like her didn’t need to do anything except be beautiful. Arm candy, wasn’t that what they called it? Except, she seemed different. There was purpose on her face, determination in her eyes.
“Me? There’s not much to tell, really.” She looked into his face. “I’d rather not talk—or think—about me, if that’s okay.” She dropped her gaze.
He knew she was thinking about the ass she’d just broken up with. “Listen to me,” Nick said, lifting her chin so he could look into her eyes. “Any man who would tell you you’re sexless is blind, crazy or made of stone.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Really?” Her tone was both miserable and hopeful.
“Really.”
“Well, thanks for saying so.”
Her fiancé obviously had shot her self-confidence full of holes. Nick could fix that. Easy. With the truth. “Look at me.”
Her gaze shot to his.
“I can hardly keep my hands off you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes went wide, her face pink. She whispered, “Thank God,” and surprised him by leaning over and kissing him. Everything in him rose to take her in—her lips, her smell, the sweet woman taste of her.
She wobbled a little against him, reminding him she’d had a substantial amount to drink. Did she know what she was doing? If he kissed her back, he wouldn’t want to stop. Even if she didn’t want to make up with her horse’s ass of a fiancé, she didn’t strike him as a one-night-stand kind of woman.
He broke off the kiss. “I think this might constitute real stupid,” he said hoarsely.
“Oh.” She blinked, then stared at him, her face flushing as red as her dress. “You’re right. Of course.” She pushed at her hair, glanced at her diamond watch. “Look at the time. I should be going.” She jumped up, bumping the table with her knee in her haste. “Thanks for the talk, Nick. It helped. A lot.” She fumbled in her purse, then slapped a bill on the table. A fifty. Excessive. Like the woman.
Except, before she escaped, he caught hurt on her face. She thought he didn’t want her. He couldn’t stand for her to think that. He also couldn’t stand the fact that she was walking out of his life. He didn’t even know her last name….
So he went after her. He found her walking un-steadily down the sidewalk, crying, and he knew what he had to do. “Miranda,” he said.
She turned to him. The streetlight gave her a bronze sheen like the statue of a goddess.
He cut the distance between them, yanked her into his arms and kissed her hard.
She made a little sound of relief and desire and kissed him back. Their teeth collided, their tongues connected, frantic to make up for lost time. He held her so tightly he could tell she could hardly draw breath. Heat burned between them.
Somewhere the car alarm started up its rhythmic honking, but he could barely hear it for the lust screaming through him like a train through a tunnel.
After a few minutes of frenzied kissing, Miranda panted in his ear. “Please take me somewhere. Now.”
Beep…beep…beep…The car alarm bleated.
Shut up, he mentally told it. Some things you couldn’t fight. Fire shot along his veins and collected in flames below his belt. “You sure?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.
“Yes. Make love to me.” Her eyes were steady, glazed with lust, but sober enough. And absolutely determined.
Who was he to say no to a lady?
They headed for the Crowne Plaza just around the corner. In the elevator up to their room, he clutched her trembling body to him, sheltering her. She fit so perfectly he forgot for a second that she didn’t belong in his arms. He felt responsible for her, as if it were his job to watch over her like some kind of guardian angel. It was eerie, and she seemed to feel it, too, melting against him as though she craved his protection.
Then she raised eyes hot with desire, and he saw she wanted more from him than protection. Lust pumped through him in thick surges.
The night was incredible. Like a fever dream they both were having. He felt he’d known her body—and her—forever. Maybe it was because they’d shared the experience of being betrayed. Maybe it was just chemistry. Maybe it was alcohol. He wasn’t sure, but he had to know more.
In the pink light of dawn, sated and exhausted, he sent her home in a cab. She’d made him swear to phone her.
But when he did, she wouldn’t take his call.

1
One year later
“YOU LOOK LIKE a dork in that suit,” the kid said, squinting up at Nick, who held the door for him and his mother.
The kid was right. Nick felt like a circus gorilla in the too-small doorman’s uniform. The epaulets rode close to his neck, his arms hung below the gold-braided cuffs, and the hat sat like a kid-die sailor cap on his head.
“That’s not nice, Rickie,” the mother said, flushing. “How is Charlie?”
It was Charlie’s uniform Nick was wearing. “Better. He’s recovering fine.”
“That’s good. I was so sorry to hear about his appendix. Will he be back soon?”
“Three more days.” Not soon enough for Nick, who couldn’t wait to get out of this clown suit and back to his boat on the lake. Charlie, his friend and former squad mate, had asked him to fill in as security at the Palm View Apartments while he recovered from surgery, and Nick had been happy to help—Charlie had been his training officer when he’d entered the academy.
Besides, the job was simple—accept packages, valet-park cars, carry groceries, fetch the maintenance man when the elevator jammed, as it had earlier that morning, and generally keep an eye on things for the well-heeled seniors, impatient executives and handful of families who inhabited the building.
If it weren’t for the uniform Charlie had neglected to tell Nick he had to wear, it would be only mildly humiliating work for a guy who’d busted some dangerous drug dealers in his day.
Now this kid stared at him like an exhibit in a wax museum.
“Got any homework, son?” he asked, to give him something else to think about.
“Uh, well…” The kid glanced at his mother.
Gotcha.
The woman blinked at her son. “Actually, now that you mention it, you do have a report, don’t you, Rickie? On the Sudan? You had better get right on it. Before TV.”
“Aw, Mom,” Rickie groaned.
“Gotta do your schoolwork, son,” Nick said with a wink. “You don’t want to end up just a doorman like me, do you?”
Rickie rolled his eyes.
The woman turned to Nick and smiled. “Thanks, Mr.—?”
“Ryder. But call me Nick.”
“I’m Nadine Morris…Nick,” she said, letting her eyes drift over his body. She held on to his name, flirting with him. She was pretty, but she wore too much makeup. Why women had to slather on that goop was beyond him. No ring. Divorced, no doubt.
“I’m just filling in for Charlie. Doing what he’d do.”
“Well, you certainly fill out his uniform.”
“I do my best,” he said neutrally. Even if he was attracted to the woman, he couldn’t take her up on the offer in her eyes. She’d want more than a brief affair—she had a kid, after all—and he was leaving for the Coast as soon as he could.
She kept smiling at him until her son dragged her toward the elevator.
Nick stayed outside for a minute, delaying his encounter with the fumes from the ground-floor hair salon. Why the EPA didn’t set restrictions on hair spray like they did auto emissions, he’d never know.
He glanced up at the art deco facade of the Palm View Apartments—one of Phoenix’s few old-fashioned downtown apartment buildings. Most had been torn down and rebuilt as office buildings or gone condo. The sun seemed too hot for early March, and he felt sweat slide along his torso inside the wool jacket, making his bullet scars itch. He rolled his shoulder as best he could in the tight jacket. Almost a year and he still hadn’t gotten back full mobility.
Sunlight glinting off passing cars made Nick blink. The cloying sweetness of citrus in bloom came to him on the light breeze. Nice, but he preferred the subtle tang of desert plants. Even better, the crisp salt scent of the ocean. Soon.
Three more days and he’d be back on Lake Pleasant in his boat, his private heaven, listening to the slap of the water and the coo of mourning doves. Then, once he’d paid off his ex-wife’s IRS debt with some chef work and maybe some bigger-paying security jobs, he’d escape to the blue freedom of the Pacific.
He was about to head inside when a cab pulled into the curved driveway and jerked to a halt twenty feet from where he stood. The driver exited and came around to let out his passenger, but before he reached the door, it flew open as if spring-loaded and a woman practically leaped out.
She wore a tight black dress, a red hat with a brim as big as a platter, and jeweled sunglasses that practically covered her face. She rushed to the trunk, with remarkable speed considering the stiletto heels she wore. She pushed open the trunk, blocking Nick’s view of the action, but when the cabby got there, there was a brief tug-of-war, which the cabby seemed to win, because the woman stepped away from the trunk while he removed the rest of her bags.
Stubborn woman. Nick wanted to laugh. Then something familiar about the slow curves of her body stopped him dead. He looked more closely at her face. Heart-shaped mouth. Dark, wavy hair. And a body that could stop action anywhere there were men. Like the Backstreet. Nick watched her pay the cabby, strangely unable to breathe. It couldn’t be….
But it was. Unmistakably Miranda. His hands still held the memory of caressing that body, its give and resistance. He could still taste that sweet mouth, could still hear his name on her lips. That night she’d worn a dress the red of her bizarre hat.
She glanced up at him. His heart stopped. She wants me, he thought, then cleared his head. She wants the doorman, you dolt. He snorted, realizing he’d have to schlepp her bags like a pimple-faced bellhop. How the mighty are fallen. Suddenly he wished Charlie had gotten another pal to cover for him.
MIRANDA CHASE FROWNED as the cabdriver practically hip-checked her away from her bags. She had no choice but to let him take over. It was part of his job, but she hated people doing things for her she could do for herself. She’d add a huge tip to his fare for his trouble.
She watched as he unloaded the dry-ice totes that held the sample blossoms from the new breed of Taos chili—the secret ingredient she needed to perfect her rejuvenation cream—and a decoction of lily of the valley and lemongrass in jojoba oil that, combined with grapefruit-seed extract, would offer the natural preservative and emulsifier that she needed so Chase Beauty could mass-produce her revolutionary cosmetics.
That was why she’d come home early from her trip—not even her assistant Lilly knew she was back. She’d intended to go on some botanical-search hikes, but she was too eager to test the decoction her lab had created and finalize the formula for her last product.
She paid the disgruntled taxi driver, then glanced at Charlie, but decided she’d scoot inside without his assistance. There were plenty of elderly residents he should be helping, but he always insisted on carrying her bags all the way to her top-floor apartment.
She pushed the handle-release button on her large wheeled suitcase, but it didn’t open. She jiggled the handle and twisted the button, but nothing moved. She could feel Charlie heading her way. “I’ve got it,” she called to him, continuing to struggle.
But she didn’t have it, and soon a tall shadow blocked the sun and a man’s hand touched her bag. “Allow me,” said a voice too low and gruff to be Charlie’s.
A chill of recognition slid like an ice cube down Miranda’s back, and she looked up into a face she remembered from the hottest night of her life. Nick. In a doorman’s uniform, of all things. He didn’t look at her, just adjusted the handle so it clicked sharply into place.
What the heck was Nick doing here? She felt herself turn red. Her hat shaded her face and she wore sunglasses, so maybe he wouldn’t recognize her after all this time. She kept looking down to avoid his gaze.
“Hello, Miranda.” He recognized her, all right, and the huskiness of his voice told her he remembered all of that long, amazing night they’d spent together. Miranda cringed inside.
“Hi.” She dragged her eyes up to meet his. Her tongue felt thick in her suddenly dry mouth. “Nick, right?”
“You remembered,” he said wryly.
As if she could forget. It had been Nick, oh, Nick all night long. She remembered everything about him. His face, wide cheekbones, dark brows, sleepy-looking eyes, and a sensuous smile that lifted higher on one side than the other so that he looked wise—and wise-assed. She’d know Nick anywhere—even under that goofy cap. “It’s been a while,” she said.
“Yeah. A while.” Nick pushed the cap off his head and banged it against his thigh, obviously as uncomfortable as she was. “So, how are you?”
“Fine.” He seemed too close, so she stepped back. “Just f—” Her heel slipped off the curb, but she caught herself before she tilted over. “Just fine.” She smiled, trying not to look nonplussed. “How are you? I…I read in the paper about the…um…incident.”
He shrugged. “Occupational hazard. No big deal.” And none of your business, his eyes said, tightening at the edges. “Protect and serve, that’s what we do.” He pushed back his hair—longer than when she’d last seen him and too shaggy for a cop, but still a rich chestnut that begged to be touched. He resituated the cap in a way that made the silly thing look sexy.
“I was glad it turned out okay,” she said.
Nearly a year ago and not long after their night together, Nick had been shot, once in the heart, she remembered, during a drug bust gone wrong—the wounds so severe he’d hovered near death for days. Each morning during that time, she’d opened the newspaper with shaking fingers, her eyes wild for the headline that would declare his condition, praying he still lived. When she read he’d been upgraded to “stable” and regained consciousness, she’d been so relieved she’d cried—as if he’d been a member of her family or something.
“Yep. Good as new,” Nick said. He rotated his shoulder to prove it, but stiffness in the movement and the way his mouth tensed told her he still suffered.
“You’re doing security work now?”
“I’m just helping Charlie out. He’s a friend.” He looked down at himself. “The suit’s his.”
“I see.” Though she had no reason to care, she was relieved he hadn’t gone from being a heroic police officer to a doorman. Charlie was retired and wanted to keep busy, but Nick was thirty-five at the most.
She studied him in the too-tight uniform. The floret-adorned jacket stretched so snugly across his broad chest that the buttons appeared tight enough to snap off any second. The wool pants were like a second skin. His muscled thighs erased the crease altogether. The high-water effect at his ankles, and the way his wrists dangled below the gold-trimmed sleeves, didn’t make a dent in his good looks, though. Even in that dippy suit, he was gorgeous. “So you’re back on the force, then.”
“Nope. Took medical retirement.”
“That makes sense. I guess, after being nearly killed, it would be, uh, unsettling to go back.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “Getting shot was a wake-up call. I decided life was short and there was more I wanted to do with mine.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but uneasily. It seemed as though he had his doubts. “I’d cleared my share of bad guys off the street.”
He gave her an up-and-down meant to turn the tables, followed by a wicked half grin. “That’s some hat. Amazing you can make it through a doorway.”
“You think it’s too much?”
“Not for the Mexican hat dance.”
Even though he was teasing, his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She forced a smile. “You’re a fine one to talk. Looks like you borrowed a band uniform from a midget.” She indicated his full-to-bursting uniform.
“Yeah.” He gave a short laugh. “I could make a few extra bucks playing Sousa for pedestrians.”
He’d been funny that night in the bar, too, she remembered, and that had almost dissolved the humiliation she’d felt about Donald. He’d been funny. And kind. And protective of her. And so attractive. With a lazy sexuality that said he knew he’d get what he wanted, no need to rush things.
He’d gotten what he wanted that night, all right. So had she. But after that, their goals had diverged.
“Well, I should get going,” she said, wanting to stop thinking about Nick on that long-ago night. She grabbed the suitcase handle, but nervous perspiration made her hand slide off the grip and the suitcase tipped over.
“Better leave this to the professional.” Nick uprighted the bag. She reached for one of the totes, but he gripped her elbow, stopping her. “Let me do my job, Miranda.” He gave her a long look, his brown eyes intense.
She backed up, letting him take over, still feeling the warmth of his hand on her elbow.
Nick collapsed the suitcase handle and lifted the bag by the side grip, acting as if it weighed no more than a purse—despite its load of clothes, hiking boots, herbal reference tomes and New Mexico travel books.
Putting her two totes under his other arm, he loped to the building door. Even dressed like a nerd on parade, he looked as masculine and in charge as he had that night when she’d slid onto the stool next to him.
He held the lobby door for her, then carried her bags into the elevator, which he held open. “Floor?” he asked, his finger over the button plate.
“I can take it from here,” she said, wanting to escape him.
“Charlie brings your bags up, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but it’s not nec—”
“Then I’ll do it,” he said firmly. “Floor?”
“You really don’t have to. Honestly.” But the implacability in his dark eyes made her sigh. “Ten.”
“On top,” he muttered. “No surprise.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re an executive. So of course you’d be on the top floor.”
She knew that wasn’t what he meant. After the way she’d behaved that night, he probably thought she was a dominatrix or something. She’d actually ordered him to make love to her. Heat flared at the memory. If only she could explain that she hadn’t been herself that night.
Not that it mattered. Not that she’d tell him so now, when she was inches away from him in the tiny elevator, which moved so slowly she had plenty of time to be aware of him. Tiny hairs all over her body stood up as if by static, and she felt an unwelcome arousal. And this time she couldn’t blame it on alcohol or the desire to prove to herself she wasn’t the ice queen Donald had said she was.
She sneaked a peek at his hands. Big, as she remembered. Though they’d been weathered looking, they’d felt miraculously smooth on her skin that night. Such a soft touch for a man used to rough work. A tremor shook her.
“Cold?” he asked, mistaking her quiver for a chill. Thank God. He seemed tuned in to her, reading her. She wished she could chalk it up to his cop training, but she knew it was more. He’d seemed that way before—strangely connected to her, hyperaware, knowing what she wanted, what she needed. That night she’d loved it. Right now, the last thing she wanted was for Nick to know what she was thinking.
“No,” she said, stilling herself. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
She stepped back, farther away from him, until her head rested against the thick wood paneling of the elevator.
“Relax,” he said, his eyes chasing over her. “I won’t bite…at least not hard.”
“I’m so relieved.” He didn’t have to bite to upset her equilibrium. Merely riding in the elevator brought back erotic memories that now embarrassed the hell out of her. A year ago, they’d ridden an elevator to their hotel room, hearts pounding as one, hands clutching each other, desperate to be naked in each other’s arms. Now they traveled upward in awkward silence, completely separate. She had no idea what Nick was thinking or what he wanted.
Finally the elevator reached the top floor and groaned open, rattling in its moorings as if it might not close again. She loved the place, but it could definitely use some repair.
Miranda hurried the few yards to her door, with Nick following several paces back. Grateful she had only one simple lock to manage—no dead bolts or alarms—she quickly found her keys and opened the door.
When she turned to thank Nick, he pushed past her with her bags, a flicker of emotion on his face. Embarrassment? Resentment? She couldn’t tell. His eyes were different. That night they’d burned so hot they’d seemed molten. Now they were opaque and impossible to read.
She had a fleeting sense that something was amiss in her apartment—a tension in the air, an errant scent—but she turned to Nick and decided it was just him being there, so tall and broad he seemed to fill the high-ceilinged foyer.
He set down her bags, then looked at her place, taking in the pink-and-gray-marble entry, sunken living room, and the deco furniture she’d chosen to harmonize with the building’s design. She saw him pause to evaluate the paintings on the walls and the four pieces of sculpture, each in turn. Did he approve?
His gaze skimmed the marble columns of the fireplace, the dark hardwood spiral staircase to the second floor, and the raised dining room. He spent several seconds looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the city and Camelback Mountain from her dining room had been a top selling point of the place. She spent hours staring out at the lights, the buildings, the traffic, the sky—thrilled to be in this place she’d made her own. She would never move.
Finished with his survey, Nick said simply, “Nice digs.”
“Thanks. I’m pleased with how it came out. It’s cozy.”
“Cozy? It’s huge. You design it?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“It looks like you.”
Was that good or bad? She couldn’t tell, so she kept talking to cover her confusion. “I like it here. It’s quiet and the neighbors are nice.”
Of course, when she miscalculated a cosmetics creation and the fumes sent her neighbors outside until the building aired, things got a little tense. She always made sure everyone got an apology gift—a basket of Chase Beauty cosmetics for the women, baked goods for the men, and stuffed animals for the handful of children. She wanted to be as kind to the neighbors as they’d been to her. She’d paid top dollar for her long-term lease, and covered any expenses related to air-freshening treatments.
“The big bag goes…?” Nick asked, lifting her suitcase.
“My bedroom—upstairs—but I’ll take it.” The last place she wanted Nick Ryder was her bedroom.
“Nonsense,” he said, picking it up and heading toward the stairs. “With heels that high, you could break your neck carrying bags. I’m surprised you don’t get a nosebleed.” He waved her in front of him. “After you.” She scampered up the stairs ahead of him, trying not to wobble on the shoes he so disapproved of.
Nick carried her bag into the master suite. She watched him take in the cream walls, elegant furniture and tapestry accents, then stop short at the huge bed in the center of the room. He seemed to be studying the rose-red satin spread.
She looked at it and imagined how it would be to strip and make love on that cool, slippery surface.
They looked up at the same instant and their eyes locked. Nick’s were molten—like they’d been that night. He was thinking what she was thinking. She had to stop this, get him out of here.
“Just do it on the bed—I mean put it on the bed,” she said, covering her mouth in horror. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean,” he said, his eyes gleaming and laughing at the same time. He dropped her heavy black suitcase onto the bed, then came toward her, stopping just inches away.
She felt rooted to the spot. Was he going to kiss her?
“How can you stand it?” he murmured.
“Stand what?” The lust racing along her nerves? The crazy urge to throw herself into his arms?
“Wearing your sunglasses inside.” He lifted them from her nose with the expert gentleness of an optician, then tossed them onto the bed. He removed her wide-brimmed hat and flung it onto the bed, too, holding her eyes the entire time, his expression was so intent she felt as exposed as her hair. “You look good in that,” he said, giving her an up-and-down, as if he could see through the black silk.
“Silk is…um…a good, um, spring fabric,” she stammered.
“I remember.”
The dress she’d worn that night had been silk. Red silk. His favorite color, he’d told her, as he slid it off her body.
Nick’s broad chest rose and fell in the skintight gold-trimmed jacket. He stood so near that her spacious bedroom seemed no bigger than a closet.
What if he kept taking things off? What if they tried it again? Could they match that heat?
“I take it you didn’t patch things up with your fiancé,” Nick said, interrupting her fantasy.
“Patch things up? Oh, no.”
“Did it help? The revenge?”
“What do you mean?” And then she knew. “You think I was with you for revenge?”
He shrugged. “It’s human nature to get back at someone who’s hurt you. I don’t blame you.” Oh, yes he did.
“That’s not it. I was running away, and I found that bar, and there you were. And you were so…”
“Convenient, I know. Forget it. My pleasure.”
“…kind,” she finished firmly. “You were kind to me. I really appreciated how you—” She stopped, embarrassed to say more about her feelings that night.
“No need to thank me. I got my honor badge rescuing damsels in distress.”
She just stared at him. He’d felt sorry for her? Ouch. So that was why he hadn’t called. She must have seemed needy and desperate. Embarrassment made her cheeks flame.
She couldn’t let on how bad she felt, though, so she managed a laugh. “Looks like you’re still rescuing me—this time from my luggage.” She had to get this over with, get him out of here so she could breathe and think. She went to the door and held it open for him.
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” Nick tipped his hat at her, then replaced it at a rakish angle as if nothing more had passed between them than the time of day and some bags.
“Just a minute,” she said, fumbling in her purse. She always tipped Charlie for his trouble. That was the least she could do for Nick. She extracted a twenty and looked up. Nick’s eyes were waiting, black and cold as a starless winter night, and she knew she’d made a mistake.
“Let’s get something straight, Miranda,” he said. “I’ll carry your bags and bring in your groceries and park your car, just like I do for everyone around here. But no money…ever.”
The twenty hung from her fingers, like the tension in the air between them. Nick turned and walked down the hall, his shoulders broad in the tight jacket, pride stiffening his gait. She’d hurt his feelings. She shoved the money back into her wallet.

2
AS SOON AS she heard the front door close behind Nick, Miranda gave in to competing emotions. She already felt stupid about that night. She’d been so not herself. It turned out Nick had slept with her out of pity. Ooh. And now, as if she had no pride whatsoever, she found her pulse still pounded from wanting him. The whole thing brought back that awful night.
If only she could get a “do over,” she thought, starting downstairs, heading for her kitchen lab—just erase everything that had happened from the instant she’d caught Donald in a clinch with that woman, up to and including the way she’d carried on with Nick. What an idiot she’d been!
She sighed, letting the memory play out. She’d been with Donald at a charity ball at the Hyatt three weeks after they’d become engaged. She’d been having a great time, too, until she took a wrong turn on the way to the rest room and found Donald in an alcove kissing the PR woman from the Heart Association with more zeal than she thought he had in him. Stunned speechless, she’d just stared until Donald noticed her. Then she’d bolted.
Donald had caught up with her, tried to explain, cajole, and then, when she’d refused to stop running, he started the accusations. What did you expect? You work 24/7 and when we have sex you can’t wait for it to be over. Before she had made it out the hotel door, he’d managed to call her spoiled, immature, an ice queen and—the unkindest cut of all—sexless.
Sexless! That had stung. She liked sex as much as the next person, didn’t she? Maybe Donald didn’t fill her with throbbing lust, but he hadn’t seemed that wild for it himself. On the other hand he’d been all over that PR woman in the alcove. And it was French-kissing, too, which she didn’t think he liked. God, how had she been so blind, so stupid?
She’d felt humiliated and angry, but, surprisingly, not heartbroken. She’d almost felt relief that she wouldn’t marry the man. Hadn’t she loved Donald? She’d been afraid to figure it out—unwilling to admit to herself that something had been wrong between them all along. Too stubborn to admit she didn’t understand love. At all.
She’d been running down Second Street when she saw the pink neon words This is the Place lighting the entry to the Backstreet Bar. Snuggled defiantly between a high-rise and a chichi bistro, it had been the antithesis of the fashionable nightclubs Donald favored, and, therefore, the perfect place to get a drink and forget it all.
The sight of all those staring men in the smoky dark had almost frightened her off. Then she’d seen Nick with his kind eyes and smart-aleck smile, as if he’d seen it all, done most of it, and wasn’t afraid of anything. Looking at him, she’d felt better, braver. Something—it felt like a hand on her back—had pushed her toward the empty seat beside him.
The evening heated up, and Nick had seemed to want her as much as she’d wanted him. She’d been gratified that she, the woman Donald had called an ice queen, had made tough guy Nick Ryder sick with lust. She’d felt powerful and womanly for the first time in her life. There’d been something wonderful between them, she’d thought.
When he didn’t call, the whole effect had been ruined. Instead of feeling sexy, she’d ended up feeling foolish. She’d thought of a number of reasons he hadn’t called—another woman, guilt, a transfer to Alaska—but now she knew the truth. He’d just been doing a Boy Scout routine.
It proved how clueless she was about men. And sex. And love, for that matter. She hadn’t loved Donald, she’d realized after the breakup. And she’d made way too much out of a one-night stand—pity sex, for God’s sake.
What bad luck that fate had crammed Nick into Charlie’s uniform and stuck him in front of her building to remind her. The only consolation was that Charlie would soon return and Nick would be gone.
She reached the ground floor, where her gaze fell on the totes Nick had left in the foyer. She’d just focus on her formulas. She always did better that way. She had important work to do—verification samples with the new decoction and a formula to figure out with the chili flowers.
She picked up the totes. In New Mexico, she’d located an herb farmer who’d breed chili to her specifications. He’d agreed to grow steady crops for her so Chase Beauty could afford to mass-produce her exclusive products. The new essential oils would finalize her other formulations—give them enough shelf life so the company could make a profit.
In six weeks, Miranda would unveil the cream to the company, along with the moisturizing lotion, mask, toner and scrub she’d already formulated. Not only would she create a new profit center for Chase Beauty, her family’s corporation, but she’d make a splash in the cosmetics world, too. And show her brother what she was made of, while she was at it. She couldn’t wait.
To get there, she had to get busy. Forget Nick, she told herself, kicking off her shoes and tucking a tote under each arm. That had been a one-night mistake. Period. She padded down the hall to the kitchen.
The instant she entered, she knew something was wrong. There was a hesitation in the air—a shift—the same thing she’d felt when she’d walked into the apartment, only stronger. Her gaze flew from the center island, with its hanging pots and deep granite sink, to the tall cupboards that ringed the room, dotted by rows of cosmetic samples, canisters of herbs and dried flowers, and dark blue and brown jars of essential oils. Several of the cupboard doors were ajar. One was wide-open.
It was the one that held the hinged box where she kept her cosmetic formulas. The box itself sat crookedly on the shelf, the lid only half closed, as if someone had been looking through it, then hastily put it back.
The hairs on the back of Miranda’s neck rose and her heart began to pound. Someone had been in her lab. Messing with her things. Her skin tingled. How and who, and what if he was still here? Holding her breath, she backed out of the kitchen, her nylon-clad feet silent on the wooden floor. She had only one thought: Nick. I need Nick.
Luckily he was still waiting for the sluggish elevator, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his skintight uniform, whistling. “Come quick,” she whispered, motioning him to her. “Someone’s been here.”
Nick stopped mid-whistle and was at her side in an instant, alert, muscles coiled for action, his face an intent mask.
“In the kitchen. Someone’s moved my things.”
“Moved your things? You mean robbed you?” He looked her over, as if to be sure she was serious.
“I think so. I don’t know. But the guy might still be in there.”
That got him. He pushed past her into the room, pulling a gun from under his jacket as he went. She hadn’t even detected the bulge. Guns scared her, but for the moment she was glad Nick held one in his big, capable hands.
“Is there another outside door?” he snapped.
“At the far end of the apartment.”
He nodded and entered the foyer, holding the gun down with both hands. “Stay here.” He shot her a commanding glance, then moved forward.
Of course she followed. She didn’t think about it. She just did it.
Nick moved with bent knees, pivoting as he swept his gun in an arc across the visible space—foyer, living room, dining room. When he started toward the kitchen, she hissed, “He’s not there.”
Nick spun toward her, evidently startled by her voice. “I told you to wait outside.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He shook his head as if she were impossible.
“He’s got to be this way.” She pointed down the other hall.
Nick went where she indicated.
Miranda followed, feeling like she was in an episode of NYPD Blue, except there was no reassuring soundtrack or backup cops. This was real, not prime time. Her heart thudded in her chest.
They reached the first guest room, its door ajar. Nick leaned back, kicked it open, then lunged inside in the gun-ready position. Miranda heard a tearing sound and noticed the seam of his pants had split down the middle of his muscled behind, revealing a sliver of black silk boxers. “Damn,” he muttered, then moved forward a step. She followed, but he turned unexpectedly and she ran smack into his chest.
“For God’s sake, stay back!” he whispered.
“Okay, okay,” she said, backing up.
“Anything look disturbed?”
The room looked as peaceful and inviting as ever, in shades of pink and cream with floral accents. She breathed in the New England vanilla-lilac medley potpourri she’d chosen to match the room’s ambiance. “No. He wasn’t in here. I can feel it.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “What, you’re psychic now?”
She ignored the sarcasm, and went with him to check the other guest room, the guest bath, the den and the library, which all seemed untouched.
Upstairs, they looked through the master suite. Then Miranda unlocked Lilly’s rooms—bedroom, sitting room and bath. Nothing seemed amiss.
“No one’s been here,” Nick said.
“We missed the office downstairs.” She led him there and he gave it a cursory look, then holstered his gun. “If anyone was ever here, he’s gone now.”
“If? Of course someone’s been here. I can feel it.” The hairs on the back of her neck still stood up. “Come with me, and I’ll prove it.”
She led him into her lab kitchen, to the open cupboard where her formula box rested. “This has been disturbed.”
“He was stealing your recipes?”
“Exactly,” she said, then noticed his grin. “Recipes for my cosmetics, Nick, not Grandma’s pumpkin pie. And for your information they are very valuable. Cosmetics are lucrative. Our competitors would very much like to get their hands on my formulas.”
“So you keep them in the kitchen?”
“This is my lab, too, and they’re hidden in plain sight. No one but my assistant Lilly knows they’re here.” Of course, Lilly always nagged her to put them in the safe, a recommendation she ignored. “Who would expect them to be here, anyway? Industry spies would focus on our corporate offices.” Which was why she kept her products away from there, arranging clinical tests at an obscure lab, and never discussed her work with colleagues.
How could this have happened? Obviously, she’d been overconfident. “I lost the key to the box a couple of weeks ago, so I had to pry it open.” That had made it even easier on the robber.
Miranda flipped through the cards in the box. Everything seemed to be there, including her latest completed formulas. Had the thief been interrupted before he could steal anything? Or was he looking for something else? Maybe her preliminary samples? She hurried to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and yanked open the heavy door. The comforting scent of herbs billowed out.
Nick, at her side, made a face. “Why does your refrigerator smell like Ben-Gay?”
“That’s mint and eucalyptus,” she explained, shifting the jars and tubes on the shelves. The fresh herb containers seemed fine, except…was that lid loose? She looked more closely. “I think I’m missing some vanilla beans,” she said, “and the dried lavender seems low….” It was hard to tell, but she felt sure the containers had been handled.
Nick looked skeptical.
“You think I just imagined this, don’t you?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure you wouldn’t drag me in here just for the adrenaline rush,” he said, but she could tell that was exactly what he thought. “We can report this, but I don’t think the police will be too gung ho about chasing down a guy with a pocketful of spice and some dried flowers. Unless you can smoke it, snort it or shoot it. Can you?”
“Of course not. And I don’t appreciate your making jokes.”
“Sorry. Just easing the tension. Why don’t you check your valuables? Maybe something has been stolen.”
Miranda looked up from her search through the refrigerator and glared at him. “My formulas are the most valuable thing I own. Just forget it, okay? I’ll deal with this myself.”
“If it makes you feel better, we can call the precinct.”
“I’m sure the police won’t take this any more seriously than you. The people after my formulas are not your standard criminals anyway.”
“Suit yourself.” She saw he was holding back a smile. On top of everything else, now Nick thought she was a nut case.
“You probably have more important things to do downstairs.”
“Right.” He touched his cap again. “So many doors to open, so little time.” He smiled his crooked smile, then headed for the front door.
She followed him.
His hand on the knob, he turned to her. “If something happens, Miranda, call me.”
“Something did happen. You just don’t believe me.” She paused. She wasn’t showing much gratitude. Nick had leaped to her rescue, no questions asked. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Lilly was looking for a formula for some reason before she left. Thanks for checking, Nick.”
Nick’s face softened. “Call me if you need me. Really.” He touched her arm, and she felt the heat clear to her toes. He walked away and she couldn’t take her eyes off him as he stepped into the elevator and turned to face her. Please stay, she thought desperately as she waggled her fingers in farewell.
Be brave, she told herself after he’d gone. Maybe this was all in her head. To banish the prickling sensation that still crawled up her spine, she focused on the totes on the kitchen counter, unzipping the first. Dry-ice vapor swooshed out, then crawled like a low fog along the counter.
She pulled out a container of chili blossoms, then put the rest and the bottles of essential oils into her supercooled refrigerator. From the bottom shelf, she extracted three sample jars of creams she’d use as a base to test varying concentrations.
The chamomile from Germany should have arrived by now, she thought. When was the courier truck due? She decided to check the order date, so she padded down the hall to the office, wondering what possible reason Lilly would have had to go through the cupboards.
Lost in thought, Miranda opened the office door…and ran smack dab into a skinny man. She shrieked. He shrieked.
He was only a kid—barely out of his teens—and scrawny, with bloodshot eyes in a pale, hawkish face. He pushed roughly past her, and she caught a flash of a tattoo on one arm, a sweat-stained muscle shirt and tattered jeans. She also noticed he had on latex gloves like her dentist wore and held a backpack. A backpack that probably contained whatever he’d stolen from her.
Without thinking she grabbed for it, catching a strap and yanking hard.
The kid swore and twisted the pack so that the straps tightened on Miranda’s fingers.
She yelped and let go.
The kid ran down the hall, and Miranda chased after him. Somewhere inside, she knew this was insane—another case of leaping before she looked—but by then she was close enough to try for a tackle.
She lunged, grabbed, and the kid thudded onto the polished wood of the hallway. Miranda’s nylons made her slide, so she lost her balance and twisted her ankle before she landed on him, her jaw slamming onto his jeans-clad legs. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth—she’d bitten her tongue—but she ignored the pain and held tight to the kid’s legs, which smelled of motor oil and sweat.
Though slight, he turned out to be wiry, and he twisted and kicked against her arms. Afraid of what he’d do to her once he got free, Miranda held on for dear life. The back of his thigh bumped her jaw again. “Ow!” she yelped, tasting more blood. “Ho still, will ya?” Her hurt tongue made it hard to talk.
“Let go, for chrissake,” the kid said, practically whining.
“Gib me back wha you took!” Miranda wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer, she could tell. She needed help. They were in the hallway and the apartment walls were so thick no one could hear, but she shouted anyway. “Help!”
At the sound, the thief gave a powerful lunge and slipped from her arms. She grabbed at his leg, but all she ended up with was a sneaker. She dropped it and made a last grab at the backpack, but he kicked her off, connecting with her eye, and scrambled to his feet.
Dazed, Miranda fell back. Her head spun and her eye throbbed. This kind of thing looked a lot less painful in the movies. She shook her head to clear it, ignored her aching eye and struggled to her feet. She ran after the kid in a hip-hop gallop that favored her twisted ankle. She knew she should stop—it hurt like crazy and this was foolhardy and dangerous—but she was running on impulse and couldn’t stop herself.
In the entryway, the kid tripped on the marble step. As he stumbled, his backpack knocked the Chinese vase full of roses to the floor. It shattered noisily.
But the kid’s slip gave Miranda a chance to grab one leg. He kicked at her with the other, whacking her other eye. That did it. She bit the back of his leg through the jeans.
He swore.
There was a knock at the door and the thief froze.
Relief flooded Miranda. “Help!” she yelled.
“Miranda?” Nick. How had he known?
“Help!” she shouted again, listening to Nick try the door. At the same time, with a burst of terrified jerks and a sharp kick to Miranda’s solar plexus, the thief broke free. While she gasped for breath, he scrambled to his feet, his one sneaker squeaking against the marble, threw the backpack strap over his shoulder, and took off toward the back of the apartment and the other door, no doubt.
Miranda was doubled up, gasping for air, when the front door flew open. Clearly, Nick had used his master key.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He’s…that…way,” she managed, pointing down the hall, still lying down.
“Are you all right?” He squatted beside her and helped her sit up, his eyes sweeping her face.
“Go…get him….” She gasped for air. “Quick.” She pointed down the hall.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Knocked…my breath. Just go!”
Finally he seemed to grasp what she meant, pulled his gun and took off down her hall.
Dizzy and aching, Miranda rested her cheek on the entry step while she waited for Nick to nab the thief. Through the open door, she saw a tumble of FedEx boxes. Nick must have been bringing them to her. Looked like the chamomile had arrived.
The marble felt cool on Miranda’s bruised cheek as she lay on the foyer floor, watching water drip from the broken vase near her ear, trying to stop the room from spinning. Her breathing gradually slowed and the adrenaline that had kept her fighting drained away like air from a balloon, leaving her shaky and in pain. Her ankle throbbed, her face ached, her lip was fat as a sausage, and she tasted blood where she’d bitten her tongue.
Gingerly she touched the bruise around her right eye, then raised up enough to see that her ankle was swelling. Hand-to-hand combat wasn’t as easy breezy as it looked on TV, that was for sure.
Woozy with pain, and so dizzy she had to keep closing her eyes, Miranda distracted herself by planning what she’d say to the guy when Nick dragged him back. Boy, would she give him a piece of her mind! How had they missed him in their search? He must have been in the study closet. What was in that backpack? Had he gotten into the safe? Her head felt as though it would explode with pain and worry.
A few seconds later Nick was back.
“Did you catch him?” she asked, trying to sit up.
Nick sank to the floor beside her and helped her up. “You’re hurt, dammit!” His eyes searched her face, worried and angry, and his jaw muscle twitched. “You said you just got the wind knocked out.”
“I’m fine. Did you catch him?”
“Besides your face, where else are you hurt?”
“I got kicked in the stomach, and I twisted my ankle,” she said, light-headedness making it hard to think. Why wasn’t he getting to the point? “Did…you…catch…him?”
“No. He got away. I checked the stairwells and as many floors as I could. Are you bleeding?”
“No, please! I’m okay.” The pain intensified when she raised her voice, so she whispered, “I can’t believe he escaped.”
“I can’t believe I missed him when I searched,” Nick said. His jaw muscle ticked again.
“He was probably in the closet in the study. It’s a walk-in. We keep supplies in there.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda. By not taking this seriously, I put you in danger.” He frowned fiercely, looking so angry at himself that her earlier irritation at his cavalier attitude melted away.
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I blew it. That was piss-poor police work. You could have been killed.” He spoke through gritted teeth, and he looked as if he wanted to punch through the wall.
“But I wasn’t,” she said gently. “It’s all right. Really.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get the guy,” he said, his eyes so fierce he almost scared her. “I called the precinct. They’re sending out two detectives.”
“You called the police? Why’d you do that?”
“Someone broke into your home.”
“Can’t we keep this quiet?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My family name is well-known and if a crime reporter decides to do a story on this it won’t be good. It’ll upset my family—and they want me to move out of the Palm View anyway. Plus, if he was after my formulas, I don’t want my competitors to know.”
“The guy attacked you, for God’s sake.”
“Actually, I attacked him.”
“You what?”
“I tackled him.”
Nick crooked an eyebrow at her. “Really? You tackled him?”
“He wasn’t that big…and he had my stuff.”
“Then he punched you in the mouth?”
“Not exactly. When we hit the floor, I bumped my mouth on his legs and bit myself.”
“And your eyes?”
“He accidentally kicked me trying to get away.”
“Oh, I see.” Nick hid a grin. “You’re telling me the guy hurt you in self-defense?”
“Pretty much.” Miranda smiled sheepishly.
“And the ankle?”
“My nylons were slippery.”
“I see.” Nick shook his head. “I can’t believe you went after him. Very risky, Miranda.” He sounded stern, but she read admiration in his dark eyes, and it made her feel warm all over.
“Nah. I knew I could take him. He was skinny.” She tried to sound cocky, but a shiver shook her. He could have had a gun in that backpack. “I just acted on—”
“Impulse, right?” He nodded slowly. “I remember.”
Impulse was what had made her burst into the Backstreet and throw herself at Nick. She pushed away that embarrassment. She had enough to worry about now.
“You’re gonna have quite a shiner,” Nick said, studying the right side of her face. He sounded almost proud. He tilted his head to check out her other side. “Two of ’em. Hmm. What about the other guy? You leave any marks?”
“None that will show. I only bit him on the inside of his knee.”
“A shame.”
“Might need a tetanus shot,” she added hopefully.
“Well, at least that.” Nick chuckled, a low sound that, in spite of everything, thrummed through her. “Looks like you’ve got the guts to back up your impulses. Let me see.” He probed the swelling around her ankle.
“Ouch! Quit it!”
“Probably a torn ligament,” he concluded. “I’ll take you for an X ray to be sure it’s not broken.”
“Let’s not. Let’s just put some ice on it.”
“What’s with you, Miranda? No police, no hospital. You need some help here.”
“I’ll be fine. You said yourself it’s probably not broken. Spending hours in an emergency room would be a waste of time. I have a deadline to meet.”
“We’ll ice it down, and if the swelling reduces, all right. But you’re staying off your feet. I’ll get the ice.”
Nick stood, and she noticed the split seam in his pants had widened. Yep. Black silk boxers with a faint Oriental pattern. “Looks like you’re coming apart at the seams.”
He reached behind him. “Damn,” he said. “Charlie’s uniform’s gonna need a major overhaul before I give it back. I lost the stupid cap somewhere on the stairs chasing this guy.”
“We’re both a mess,” Miranda said, smiling up at him. “Thanks for not taking me to the hospital.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, “but I’m sure as hell not going there with my butt hanging out.” He turned and headed down the hall, not even bothering to hold the split seam closed over his great backside.
The nurses’ loss, she thought, feeling a feminine twinge even through her pain. His heavy tread on her wooden floor comforted her.

3
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Nick was back, carrying a plastic bag of ice and a plate with two steaks Lilly had bought. “Don’t you ever eat solid food?” he asked her. “Besides these, all you have in your refrigerator are fruit, bottles of oil with weeds in them, powders and jars of cream.”
“I eat takeout usually, if that matters. And, what’s with the steaks? Chasing criminals makes you crave red meat?”
“They’re for you. Nothing like a fresh steak to keep down bruising.” He squatted beside her and held out a hunk of meat.
She stopped his hand. “You expect me to put raw beef on my eyes?”
“Relax. It will stop some of the swelling.”
She sighed and let him place one steak over her right eye and the other against her left cheekbone.
“Now hold these in place.”
She did it—this close up, Nick was hard to argue with. “I have some cream that will repair the cell damage more effectively, you know,” she said, watching out of the uncovered eye as he shaped the ice pack into a tight ball. His hands were so strong, so sure….
Nick set the ice bag on her ankle.
“Ow! Yow! God, that hurts!”
“It’ll settle down in a minute.”
“I prefer the sprain, thank you. Ouch. Ooh.”
“What a cranky patient you are. I bet you’re hell on wheels with a cold. Where do you keep the aspirin?”
“In the medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” she said grumpily. As he set off, she called out, “Bring me the Restorix, please. The triangular jar. I hate wasting good steak.” She felt like a fool holding raw meat to her face, but it did soothe the sting. She closed her eyes and breathed in the beefy smell.
Nick returned, and she exchanged the steak eye patches for pills and water. “Aspirin with codeine,” he said. “Stronger.”
“From my wisdom tooth extraction. But I’ll get sleepy.”
“Sleepy is good. Take them,” he commanded. “Your ankle’s going to hurt.”
“I have work to do.”
“Forget work. You’re going to rest if I have to tie you to the bed.”
She stopped, the suggestive image more than her jangled nerves could bear.
“Anyway, first aid for a strain is RICE—rest, ice, compression and elevation. You need to get your foot up.”
“Who needs the hospital when I’ve got Dr. Nick.” She sighed and took the pills, then handed him the water glass and reached for the Restorix he’d also brought.
“Allow me,” he said. He unscrewed the lid and scooped some cream with an index finger, which he began to apply to her face. “You may have a point about this being better. Raw beef does draw flies.”
She smiled and held her breath while he feathered the cool cream along her cheekbones and eyelids. His touch was so gentle she softened all over. She couldn’t help but look into his face as he worked. In this light, his irises were velvet brown, his pupils wide and black. The crinkles at the edges of his eyes made him look wise and wicked. Her gaze drifted downward, following the strong line of his cheek to a barely visible hair-thin scar along his jaw—a striking outline of his face that made him look dangerous. And sexy as hell. When she’d picked him out at the Backstreet, she’d had an incredibly good eye.
“There,” he said, admiring his handiwork.
“Thanks,” she breathed.
His gaze held hers. “How’s the pain?”
“Better. I guess I’m lucky the robber didn’t stick around. Who knows what more damage I could have done to myself.”
“Bingo.”
“How did he get into my apartment, anyway?” she asked to give him something policelike to do.
Nick looked up at her door from where they sat on the foyer step. “That’s no trick. Credit card on the latch will do the job in five seconds. You have no dead bolt. Bad idea.”
“This building is very safe,” she argued. “I mean we have a security guard—” She stopped, realizing how he might take that.
Nick flinched, then forced a smile. “That would be me, see. I don’t know how he got past me in the lobby.” His brows knit in thought. “The elevator jammed this morning. Maybe he came in during the confusion with the fire crew.”
“He was in my home. It’s so creepy…” Miranda said slowly, her heart going cold as what had happened began to sink in. The thug had sneaked into her apartment, touched her things, probably taken items, and listened while she and Nick searched the place. Picturing that, fear rose like a wave inside her.
“You feel violated,” Nick said. “That’s normal. But don’t worry. We’ll get this guy.”
But she hardly heard him because the moments with the punk were coming alive in her head. Again she tasted the stiff denim of his jeans, the blood in her mouth. She felt his legs as he’d struggled in her arms, the terror that he’d get free and hurt her. Again the odor of motor oil and dirt filled her nose. She could hardly breathe for the wash of feeling.
She looked at Nick, hoping he could pull her out of the memory. “I—I—” She couldn’t get the words out. “Oh…oh, dear.” Then she just burst into tears.
“Ah, Miranda.” Nick pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “It’s okay,” he said, rocking her, his voice a soothing rumble in her ear. He patted her back.
“I’m s-s-sorrry,” she said between sobs. “I think I’m just t-t-tired.”
“Cry it out. It’s all right.”
His arms felt as comforting and familiar as a dear friend’s. Pressed against his chest, she could hear his steady heartbeat—maybe a little faster than normal. He smelled of wool and clean sweat and some old-fashioned aftershave.
She breathed it all in, let herself rest in his arms. Gradually her fear subsided, along with the pain in her leg and face. Then she felt embarrassed to be huddled against him, so she pulled away. “I’m acting like a baby.”
“Nah. This is scary stuff.”
“I’m glad you were here, Nick.”
“Hell, you didn’t need me. In another minute, you’d have had him hog-tied in your nylons, begging for mercy.”
“Anyone else would have done the same.”
“No. Believe me, they wouldn’t. You’re unique.” He shook his head as if that weren’t entirely a good thing. “Anyway,” he sighed, “the cops in this precinct are good. They’ll get him. He’s probably a junkie after whatever he could grab.”
“We don’t need the police, do we? Couldn’t you call and cancel the order?”
“This isn’t a pizza delivery, Miranda.”
“I just don’t want cops traipsing through here.”
“They’re not going to bust down the door. If this guy is working the area, we’ll need to warn your neighbors anyway. Before the detectives get here, let’s see what’s missing. Hold on to your ice pack.”
She barely had time to grab the baggie before Nick lifted her into his arms, and she found herself staring into his eyes, being carried off like a bride swept to bed by her groom.
“I c-can walk,” she said, vividly aware of how each of Nick’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her thighs.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/dawn-atkins/lipstick-on-his-collar/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.