"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 button
s 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?"
LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR Page 2