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Contents:
Prologue
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© 2002
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Prologue
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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 unsteadily 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.
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&nbs
p; 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 kiddie 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.—?"
LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR Page 1