LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

by Lipstick On His Collar

  "Fifty or sixty thousand, I think. My brother had everything appraised a year ago. But it's more the sentimental value really."

  "Fifty K is a hell of a lot of sentiment."

  "Why would he steal my jewelry if he was after the formulas?"

  "Forget the formulas. He was a junkie needing some quick cash."

  "A junkie who's a safecracker?"

  "He might have worked for a locksmith. They know how the units work. That's how most safes get busted into these days."

  Before they could analyze the situation further, two police detectives arrived to examine the scene, write up the crime and take fingerprints—and the tennis shoe. Miranda could tell Nick commanded respect from the detectives, even in the ridiculous marching band uniform.

  When Nick returned from walking the detectives out, Miranda felt a goofy grin spread onto her face. The codeine had vanquished her pain and had her feeling downright ruh-laxed.

  "Time to take you to bed," Nick said softly. His words sent an electric charge all the way to her swollen ankle.

  "Whatever you say," she said, lifting her arms in woozy anticipation.

  He gave a soft chuckle and hefted her into his arms.

  She clasped both hands behind his neck. It felt so good to be in his muscular arms. If Nick had tackled the thief, he'd have stayed tackled. "You're sooo strong," she murmured. Whoops! She'd just meant to think that.

  Nick smiled. "Codeine kicked in, huh?"

  "Yeah, I guess."

  "That's good," he said, moving again. "You'll sleep." He reached the staircase and began winding upward. Again and even more foolishly, she felt like a bride in her groom's arms, a sensation that intensified when they approached her bed.

  "Which side?" Nick asked.

  Whichever one you're on. For a confused second, she thought she'd said that out loud, too. But Nick didn't react. With her swollen eyes and scraped cheekbones, she probably had all the sex appeal of a car wreck anyway. "Right side," she murmured.

  Without a word, he set her down, pulled back the covers so she could slide into the space. The slippery fabric was cool against her legs.

  Nick's hands rested for a moment on both sides of her on the feather-soft mattress, making two depressions next to her body, so close she felt the whisper of the hairs on his forearms. His face over hers was close as a lover's. Their eyes met and held. Nick's glittered with a restrained hunger. He wanted her. He wasn't feeling sorry for her now, was he? Like that night? Her heart raced, her mind whirled.

  "We need more ice," Nick said, his words raspy with desire.

  No kidding. The heat between them could melt steel.

  He pushed himself to his feet, then backed toward the door, as if he were escaping something dangerous.

  She listened to him head downstairs, feeling confused—and by more than painkiller. She'd put that year-ago night behind her—chalking up its intensity to her need to prove she was a sexual person. But it was happening all over again, the crazy desire to be in his arms.

  He'd made her feel sexy that night, but there'd been more. She'd felt things she'd never felt with Donald. A special connection, a wordless understanding. There'd been so much she wanted to know about him, and about sex with him, and who knew where that might lead?

  She'd thought he felt the same. So when he'd promised to call the next day, she'd believed him. Of course he'd call. Who wouldn't call after a night like that?

  Now, lying in her bed, her mind fuzzy with codeine, Miranda was locked so fiercely in the memory of the night that, when Nick bounded back into the room, his hands full of an ice bag and a black towel, she just burst out, "Why didn't you call me?"

  "Call you? I was just downstairs getting ice."

  "The next morning. You said you'd call. You didn't."

  Nick frowned, as if what she'd said didn't make sense, then his face took on a thoughtful expression as he propped her leg on the rolled-up towel, then carefully placed the new ice bag over her ankle. "I did call," he said, watching her. "Your assistant said she'd give you the message."

  "My assistant?"

  He nodded.

  "I never got the message," she said softly, her mind sorting the implications. Lilly had forgotten? Or deliberately not told her?

  "I guess we missed each other then," he said. She saw a flicker of regret, but it passed so quickly she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it. "I assumed one night had been enough."

  "Not at all."

  "A shame," he said, straightening her covers, not meeting her eye.

  "Absolutely. A real shame." Her heart raced. Nick hadn't felt sorry for her. He'd wanted to see her again. He'd been hurt that she'd refused him. It all made sense. Maybe now … right here, they could make up for lost time…

  "That was a long time ago." He shook his head, laughed softly, then pushed himself to his feet. "Probably for the best."

  She felt like an idiot. Again. "Right," she said, pretending to laugh, her head swimming. She flopped back on the pillow.

  "Sleepy?" he asked, misinterpreting her move.

  She nodded. She felt dizzy and mixed up, and suddenly she just needed to be by herself. "I've kept you too long."

  "The maintenance guy's been covering for me."

  "You should get back there."

  "I hate to leave you alone," he said softly. "Is there a friend or relative I can call?"

  No. She did not want her family to know about this. More fuel for their nag that she move out of the Palm View. "I'll be fine. Thanks for all you've done."

  "If you're sure." He looked at her closely, then tilted his head at the codeine bottle on the night table. "Take two more in four hours. If you feel worse, call me, okay?"

  "I'll be fine," she said, just wanting him gone.

  "You keep saying that. You'll call?"

  "I'll call."

  No, she wouldn't. Even if her ankle swelled up like a cannoli, Nick was the last person she should call. She was a needy fool who'd made far more of a fleeting encounter than ever was or ever could be. Nick had certainly put it behind him. That was a long time ago. Probably for the best.

  Forget all that, she told herself again. Focus on work. That was always safer for her. She had important things to do. In a few minutes, she'd get up and get started on her formulas. She fought the codeine, but her lids were so heavy. Maybe if she just rested her eyes for a moment…

  * * *

  4

  « ^ »

  Miranda's eyes flew open and she realized she'd fallen asleep after all. Judging by the dim light, it was now early evening.

  Then she heard noises. Footsteps downstairs. Someone was in her apartment. It couldn't be Lilly. She'd still be in Tucson. Miranda listened intently, her heart in her throat, not breathing. Had the thief returned?

  She grabbed the phone and dialed the front desk. No answer. Where was Nick? No, the night guy would be on duty by now. She could call 911, but what if it was Lilly returning early? She'd have made a crisis out of nothing.

  Adrenaline overrode the pain in her foot as she stood up, then hopped to the bedroom door. At her bureau, she grabbed her silver-backed hairbrush. If she swung as hard as she could, it would raise a good lump. If it was the punk again, she could probably handle him—even with a sprained ankle.

  Her heart pounded in her ears. She listened at the door. More footsteps…

  She raised the brush over her head, prepared to whack whoever it was, and yanked open the door.

  "Nick!" She barely stopped her hand from conking him.

  Nick dropped an object and caught her by the shoulders, then looked at her upraised weapon. "What? You were going to style me to death?"

  "It was the first thing I could grab," she said. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were the thief back for more."

  He held her firmly, steadying her. "And you wanted to leave a mark this time?" He grinned. "You need to stay off that foot. Let's get you back to bed."

  "I'm fine," she said, leftover adrenaline
masking whatever pain she should feel. "I need to get busy. Why are you here, anyway? Aren't you off duty?"

  "I wanted to check on you. I rang the bell, and when you didn't answer, I figured you were sleeping, so I let myself in." He bent to pick up what he'd dropped—an elasticized bandage. "I brought you some things."

  "You didn't need to. I'm feeling much better." Really, she felt a little faint, but she didn't want him to know.

  Wordlessly reading her need, he went to the nightstand, poured two pills from the bottle and brought them back to her with the water glass.

  She took the pills without argument.

  "Let's take a look." He held her against him and walked her to the bed, where she sat. He turned on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in golden light, then lifted her foot gently and studied her ankle. She must be better, because she was far more aware of how delicious his palm felt against the underside of her foot than any pain in her ankle.

  Without the midget band uniform, Nick was even more handsome. His black T-shirt seemed to grip his body, squeezing his biceps and stretching taut across his chest and shoulders. His dark blue jeans molded his hips and thighs like a soft second skin.

  "The swelling's reduced. That's good," he concluded. With gentle care, he wrapped the bandage around her instep and ankle, attaching it with metal clasps. "That should ease the pressure."

  "Thanks, Nick."

  "How does your face feel?"

  "How does it look?"

  He took her chin between his fingers and gently turned her face to catch the light. "Hmm. You'll have a definite shiner on the right." He turned her the other way. "Just a bruise on the left cheekbone."

  "Terrific," she said, "if I were a boxer."

  "Nah. Get yourself a leather jacket and any biker in town would beg you to be his old lady."

  "Just what I've always wanted."

  "Come on. Lots of Wall Street types have Harleys these days. You'll do fine."

  "What makes you think I want a Wall Street type?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  Then he looked at her in a way that made her think the only type she wanted was him. Heat rushed through her. She had to get him off her bed and out of her bedroom. "I'm much better. Thanks for checking," she said. "Don't let me interfere with your evening."

  "No problem," he said, heading for the door. That was easy. He was leaving.

  "Thanks again. For everything," she called to him.

  From the landing, he called back, "I'll come get you when it's ready."

  "When what's ready?"

  "Dinner," he said. She heard him start downstairs.

  "Dinner?" She pulled herself to her feet and hopped to the landing railing. "You're fixing me dinner?"

  He looked up at her from near the bottom of the stairs. "Veal scallopini. You'll love it."

  "But you don't need to. Really. I'm fine. I'm not even hungry." She didn't want to spend more time wanting him more than he wanted her.

  "Let me do this, Miranda," he said levelly. "It was my fault you got hurt. Just dinner. That's all."

  She studied his face—the face that had drawn her to him in the bar, promising a listening ear and no pressure.

  "Okay," she said finally, "but you have to let me help you." She started to limp down the stairs.

  "Somehow I knew you'd be this way," he said wearily. "Wait right there."

  Of course she kept moving, but she'd only gotten halfway down the stairs when he returned, holding two metal crutches. "I rented them for you from the pharmacy on Central."

  "Crutches! What a great idea. I won't have to hop around." Holding the rail, she hopped to the ground floor and took the crutches from him. "Thank you so much."

  "Put your weight on the handles, not the arm pads," he said, "or you'll bruise your armpits."

  "Is this the voice of experience?"

  "Oh, yeah. Got a hairline fracture leaping off the back of a truck to grab a perp."

  Under Nick's watchful eye, Miranda carefully maneuvered herself down the hall and back.

  "Keep practicing. I'll get started with dinner."

  After a few more passes, she headed into the kitchen where Nick was melting butter in a frying pan.

  "So what can I do?" she asked him.

  He pulled a counter stool over to the work space near the stove where he'd placed vegetables, a broad-bladed knife and a cutting board. "Make the salad, okay?"

  She was soon slicing thin pieces of glossy cucumber, while Nick expertly tossed onions and Portobello mushrooms in a sauté pan, his biceps rippling as he moved.

  He looked so good she nearly cut her finger watching him. She had no idea cooking could be so sexy. The kitchen began to smell deliciously of garlic and onions. She took a deep, comforting breath. "Thanks for doing this, Nick," she said. "I'm glad you're here."

  Their eyes held until Nick cleared his throat. "It's hard to believe you ever use this kitchen." He lifted a torn price tag from the counter. "I had to take this off the sauté pan."

  "This is my cosmetics lab. I told you that."

  "It's a cook's kitchen. Great layout, the best appliances."

  "How do you know so much about cooking?"

  "While I was at the academy, I roomed with a guy who was a gourmet chef. He taught me some. I make money working at his restaurant sometimes."

  Nick splashed some oil and wine into the pan and laid the meat there, where it made a delicious hissing sound. Surreptitiously, she watched his behind in his tight jeans. How could he even move in them?

  To get her mind off inappropriate thoughts, she asked, "Do you really think the police will catch him?"

  "They'll give it their best shot. They're a little understaffed for doing much follow-up."

  "That's too bad," she said on a sigh, slicing a purple onion. "I still can't believe it happened, you know?"

  He stopped working, turned to face her. "Are you afraid to be here alone tonight? Because I'd be glad to—"

  "No, no. I'm fine." If she didn't watch it, he'd be staying the night as her bodyguard. A prospect too nerve-racking to contemplate. "I'm just worried. I'm at a critical point with my products. There are leading-edge formulas in that box."

  He shook his head.

  "You think I'm ridiculous, don't you?"

  "No."

  "Yes, you do, but it doesn't matter. My cosmetics will make a difference in women's lives."

  "What's wrong with looking the way nature intended?"

  "Nature can always be improved on. Every woman wants to look better."

  "Why? Women are plenty beautiful just the way they are. You, for example. Your eyes are a great green, but you hide them with all that stuff you paint on."

  "I know for a fact my eyes are black-and-blue right now."

  "Even black-and-blue, they're beautiful."

  "Thanks," she said, blushing. "Not everyone feels the way you do. About beauty, I mean. And my products go beyond basic cosmetics anyway. They offer rejuvenation through special natural botanical formulations."

  "You make it sound scientific."

  "It is. I'll have you know I have a degree in phyto-cosmetology." She turned to him, pointing her knife at him playfully. "If you laugh, I'll hurt you."

  "Sorry," he said, holding up his hands. "It's just—"

  "Unusual, I know. And it's new for Chase Beauty, too. My grandfather started this company in the forties to offer bread-and-butter cosmetics for women of modest means. We've been in grocery stores and drugstores ever since."

  "I've seen the commercials."

  "Most companies that produce natural cosmetics like mine are small operations in exotic places where everything's done by hand and the products are carried in exclusive boutiques or by mail order and very, very expensive."

  Nick came closer with a bunch of asparagus in his hands. "May I?" he asked, reaching for the knife she'd been waving as she talked.

  "Sure." She gave it to him. "Am I boring you?"

  "No
, no, go on. It's kind of interesting." He whacked off the ends of the stalks.

  She rolled her eyes but told him anyway. She loved talking about her work. "So, the idea of my product line—Naturally Better Than Nature—is to offer these exclusive products at modest prices that average women can afford."

  "Interesting."

  "Very," she said, handing him the romaine leaves to rinse. "That's why keeping my products secret is important. It scares me to think that a competitor has gotten hold of my formulas. If they are trying to do the same thing—even if their products aren't as good—Chase Beauty won't be able to risk my line. It's a niche market and if someone gets there first, it's too expensive to pursue."

  "Makes sense."

  "The two things I'm counting on are my unique formulas and the fact that I've contracted with herb farmers to grow entire fields of the ingredients, instead of just small patches, making high quality cost-effective."

  "Smart move."

  "I thought so. The best part is that now I have the last ingredient—a natural preservative that will hold the emulsification, so the ingredients don't separate and can stay on the shelves long enough that we can effectively manage the inventory. That's what I brought back from my trip."

  He studied her. "Sounds like you know what you're doing. Why aren't you working at your family's factory? Seems like it would be safer there."

  "I work here for secrecy and freedom. I never imagined I was at any risk. Plus, I prefer working on my own."

  "I can respect that," he said, but his tone made it clear that this was the only thing he respected about her story. Frustrating, but not a surprise. He didn't even think women needed cosmetics.

  "My products will give the company a shot in the arm. We lost a lot of money last year because of a scandal. Animal-rights activists accused us—falsely—of testing our products on animals. There was a big media stir. You may have seen it on the news."

  "Not that I recall."

  "Good. It wasn't true. We thought our major competitor, L'Mage, was behind the hype."

  "Why would they do something like that?"

  "Like I said, it's a competitive business. Plus, there are personality issues. My father and L'Mage's owner have a long-standing rivalry. My father achieved success first. There's some bitterness that carries over with their top managers. Kind of like Apple and IBM in the early days of personal computer development."