LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

by Lipstick On His Collar

  "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 int
ent 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 k
id 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 entry way, 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.