LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

by Lipstick On His Collar

  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, al
l 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.

  "We've got to keep your weight off that ankle," he said, striding down the hall, then he frowned. "You're too light, Miranda. Your bones are hollow as a bird's. If you expect to tackle any more intruders, you'd better boost your calcium intake."

  "Right." It was hard to focus on Nick's words when his face was so close. His skin was perfect. He didn't need her men's face cream to retain suppleness. His neck and shoulder muscles seemed to go on forever. In fact, one of the shoulder seams of Charlie's uniform had split from the strain of holding in his breadth.

  Nick stopped short. "Don't look now, but there's a running shoe in your hallway."

  She looked down. "Oh, yeah! That's his. I yanked it off."

  "No wonder he ran. He probably was afraid you'd strip him naked."

  "It's a clue, right? You can get footprints."

  "I'll tell the detectives to be on the lookout for a limping bandit."

  "Don't make fun."

  "Sorry. If they got shoe prints at other crime scenes it might help. Nice call, Ms. Chase."

  Good. She might not have held on to the guy, but she'd gathered evidence. "And I can describe him, too. In detail."

  "Okay. Describe away," he said, sounding amused. "In detail."

  She closed her eyes to picture the kid. "He was young. Twenty or so. Skinny, about five foot six. Long, narrow face, pale eye
brows, very short brown hair. He had a tattoo of a dragon on one arm. He was wearing Levi's 501s and a ribbed tank top … indigo-blue in Peruvian Pima cotton."

  "Peruvian Pima?"

  She opened her eyes at the surprise in his voice. "Yeah. More fibers per inch than your run-of-the-mill T-shirt."

  "When you say detail, you mean it."

  "I know quality, that's all," she said.

  "I'm sure you do." There was some kind of judgment in his tone, but before she could pursue his meaning, he asked, "Is this the room?"

  They were at the door to the office, so she nodded. "And he was carrying a heavy backpack."

  He stopped and looked at her. "How did you know it was heavy?" He paused. "Never mind. You grabbed it, right?"

  She nodded.

  "Because he had your stuff."

  She grinned. "Absolutely."

  Once inside the office, Nick carried her straight to the wall where her safe was hidden behind a painting.

  "How did you know this was where the safe is?" she asked.

  "All your other art is postmodern original oils. This Degas is the only reproduction in the place. A likely false front for a safe."

  "I'm impressed."

  "You think being a cop makes me a clod?" His voice held a defensive edge.

  "No, I just … sorry."

  "It's okay." He was covering for his harsh reaction. He probably thought she was a snob. Nothing could be further from the truth, but she knew her protest would fall on deaf ears. Nick knew what he knew.

  They found the safe had been emptied of its contents of gold coins and jewelry, some of which had been in the family for years. "It's all gone," she said, shocked at the cold reality of the thievery, her fingers unconsciously tightening on Nick's neck.

  "I'm sorry, Miranda. The cops are good, but I have to tell you, in cases like these, even if they get the guy, they rarely get back the stuff." He carried her to the sofa and gently set her down. The sensation of cool leather gave her chills after having Nick's warm hands on her.

  "But the pack felt heavier than that—and lumpier," she said slowly, figuring it out. "I bet he had a camera in there. He was probably taking photographs of my formulas. That's why they'd been disturbed but none were missing!"

  "What's the value of the safe's contents?"