"Is there a chance Chase Beauty won't want to produce your products?"
"There's always a chance. My brother Theo keeps talking about taking the company in a new direction, limiting our products, but that's not the Chase Beauty way… Mmm, this cucumber smells so green. I haven't made Ensalada Mask in a while. I'll have to whip some up."
She hacked off a couple of hunks of cucumber, then reached for the drawer where the plastic wrap was. She realized her mistake as her arm went across Nick's muscled belly in a cozy, domestic gesture. She pulled back. "Can you hand me some plastic wrap?"
He got out the wrap and tore off a piece.
"Thanks," she said, wrapping the cucumber, then going back to her salad preparations.
"Don't be wasting all our salad on face stuff," he warned.
"That's not wasting, that's putting to good use." She broke off a deep-green spear of romaine, then sniffed it. "This is great for the face. It adds moisture at the same time it tightens the skin."
Without warning, Nick gripped the hand holding the lettuce spear and lifted it close to his mouth. "This is what lettuce is for." He bit the leaf she held, his lips brushing her fingers, making her take a quick breath. He chewed slowly, his teeth white, his square jaw moving evenly, holding her gaze the entire time. He swallowed. The whole maneuver was as sensual as a kiss. "Lettuce," he breathed, "is for eating."
Miranda swallowed hard. "But there are other uses…"
Nick gripped her hand—the one still holding the bitten lettuce spear—and tickled her lips with the leafy edge. "Open."
Obediently she parted her lips.
Nick eased the lettuce into her mouth, his fingers brushing her tongue. "Now enjoy."
Slowly she chewed the lettuce, which was moist and crisp and tangy on her tongue. "Mmm," she said, feeling she'd succumbed to a sexual demand.
"You're getting the idea," he said. "Vegetables are for eating, not grinding into face cream. Look at this." He picked up a swollen tomato, its curves like a body part. "Perfection," he said. "Taut skin, ripe but not soft. Perfect."
He set the tomato onto the cutting board, picked up the knife and with exquisite slowness slid the blade through it, opening it, revealing the jewellike seeds and pinkish juice.
The sensuality of his strong hands moving so gently and with such sureness made her soften inside.
"Actually—" she said, taking back the knife before he could tantalize her further, and slamming it down on the tomato "—raw tomato is perfect for extracting blackheads."
"Ouch. I'll never look at one the same again." He grinned, then went back to his asparagus.
"And for your information, asparagus has lots of vitamin A, which revitalizes skin."
"You're hopeless," he said.
She smiled, relieved that she'd taken charge of the moment. She combined the salad ingredients in a large glass bowl.
"For the dressing, I figured we could use what you've got in here." Nick opened the refrigerator and began extracting items.
She looked at what he'd laid out. "That's very expensive apricot kernel oil. And that rosemary is a special hybrid I need for—"
"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "You make the dressing. I'll set the table. Just don't tell me what the dressing's good for."
"Okay," she said in a mock long-suffering voice, bending to extract a bottle of virgin olive oil from the fridge. "But you're missing out on a lot of cell-plumping and rejuvenation."
She heard him chuckle as he headed for the dining room.
Before long, everything was ready. Miranda used her crutches to walk to the dining room, where she saw Nick had set the table with place mats and a lovely spring bouquet, iridescent with purple irises and yellow and orange daisies. The plates held a graceful arrangement of asparagus, steamed carrots and perfectly browned veal. The salad bowls gleamed with the dressing she'd made. "This is lovely, Nick."
"Glad you like it."
"I don't think I've ever had a man prepare dinner for me." She blushed at the confession.
"You've never had a man allow you to get mugged before, either," he said, covering for her. He helped her into a chair, then pushed another near enough to rest her ankle on.
"The only thing missing is a nice red," he said, opening a bottle of mineral water, "but we can't risk alcohol when you're taking codeine." He poured the fizzy liquid into their glasses, then raised his glass in a toast. "To quick healing."
She clicked her glass against his. "To old friends."
"No," he said, his eyes abruptly intense. "To old lovers."
* * *
5
« ^ »
Miranda's heart lurched and her shaky hand banged her glass into Nick's again, as if dittoing his toast. Uh-oh. The dinner that had sounded like a simple favor an hour ago now felt unnervingly romantic. This wasn't good. Nick was just flirting with her, and she didn't want to get all riled up again, only to be caught short when he backed off.
She forced herself to focus on the food, which wasn't difficult, since it was delicious. "This meat practically melts in your mouth," she said.
"Glad you like it. Charlie won't put up with anything he considers too uptown."
"Charlie?"
"I'm staying with him while he's recovering. To make sure he's okay. Lake Pleasant's too far to make a daily trek anyway."
"Is that where you live?"
"Yeah, on my boat."
"You have to live on a boat?" How sad.
He chuckled. "I don't have to. I want to. I used my insurance and retirement money to buy a boat. It's something I've always wanted. I'm at the lake for now, but I'll be heading to the Coast soon."
"For a vacation?"
"For good. I wanted to leave next month, but I've had to delay that." He frowned out the window for a second.
"Because of Charlie?"
"No." He shook his head. "I've gotta scrape together some cash."
She looked at him.
"My ex-wife had a bad run of luck, made a little miscalculation on her taxes, so I said I'd bail her out."
"That's nice of you."
"Not really. The IRS would come after me anyway. I don't want any strings tying me here. I want to be free and clear, not worrying about anybody, when I leave. So I'm getting together twenty-five K, then I'm off."
"And then you'll be homeless?"
"Hardly. The world is my home."
"I can't imagine that." She shuddered at the idea of being without an address, having just a rocking hull on the ocean.
"Have you ever been on a boat?"
"I've been on a cruise."
"A floating hotel? Nah. I mean a real boat—where you're close to the water, where you can feel the power of the wind and the waves."
"Then, no, I haven't."
"Well, it's great. Nothing else like it."
"Is it nice on the lake?"
"The weekends can be a little noisy with the motor-boats and skiers, but I'm usually moored in a cove, and most of the time it's heaven." He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "Real quiet. Just birdcalls, a coyote howl now and then, the slap of water on the hull. The stars are so bright."
"You make it sound lovely."
He smiled. "You would hate it, Miranda. Living on a sailboat is like camping, only wetter. And you don't look like much of a camper."
"Don't be so quick to assume."
"You forget I saw your bathroom. You have enough cosmetics in there to fill my boat stem to stern."
"I'm just saying that there's more to me than meets the eye."
"I'll just bet," he said. Their eyes locked and they were instantly back to that long-ago night when they couldn't get enough of each other.
The animal power of him so close across the table, the wink of soft light on his face and in his eyes seemed so alluring. She reached for her glass, but tipped it over. When she tried to catch it, her foot slid off the chair and clunked to the floor.
"Ow!" she said as pain shot up
her leg.
"Easy there." Nick lifted her foot back onto the chair.
She didn't mind since the pain had snapped the sexual tension between them.
Nick mopped up her mineral water and for the rest of the meal, she made sure the conversation stayed light. They talked about Charlie, then she asked him more about sailing. When he trailed off, she rattled about her cosmetics until his eyes glazed.
Finally they finished eating. "That was delicious," she said, laying down her napkin. She lowered her propped foot to the floor and stood on the other, with her plate in her hand. Time to be done with this. Any more lingering looks in the romantic light might lead to more flirtation than she could handle.
"What's the hurry?" Nick said, looking up at her. "You getting tired?"
"I was thinking I should get back to work."
"Ease up a little, why don't you? Let your ankle recover."
"I can't afford to ease up," she said. "I have deadlines. Now more than ever if I have a competitor on my trail."
"Did anyone ever tell you you're indomitable?"
"Not exactly," she said, remembering with a cold jolt that Donald had used less kind adjectives—obsessed and frigid. She wasn't frigid, though. Nick had proved that to her a year ago. And now, just looking at him made her feel that way again. She could become obsessed with him, all right. Except that would be absolutely unacceptable.
"Give me that," he said, taking her plate from her and standing. "You can't carry dishes with crutches, no matter how stubborn you are." He collected their plates and headed off.
She tucked the crutches under her arms and followed him into the kitchen, where he was filling the sink with water.
"You don't have to do the dishes, Nick," she said. "Lilly will be back tomorrow. She can do them."
"I'm not leaving a mess for the woman," he said, finding dish soap below the sink.
While Nick did the dishes, she filled the large slow cooker with the chili and lavender flowers to start the three-day simmer that would create the infusion. Then she mixed the ingredients of the astringent concentrate she'd need for the next few months, putting in vinegar, camphor and eucalyptus, the intense menthol mist tickling her nose.
Nick had been right about one thing. She was tired. Hopping from place to place—the crutches were too unwieldy for the kitchen—was exhausting. The codeine she'd taken, the intensity of the day and bouts of desire for Nick all added to her exhaustion.
If she hadn't been trying to prove a point to Nick, she would have given up and gone to bed. At last, she set the quart saucepan of astringent on the stove to simmer. The menthol fumes were so intense her eyes burned just looking into it.
She turned to put the container of borax on the shelf, but it slipped from her fingers.
"Let me get that," Nick said, bending at her feet. He brought it up, standing close. "You're exhausted. Go to bed."
"In a minute." She hated to be told what to do. She started to take the container from him.
He held on to it. "Where does it go? I'll put it away."
"That's okay." She tugged, but misjudged how hard to pull and the canister slipped from her hand, landing in the simmering astringent, sending up a huge splash of caustic paste.
"Ow, ow, ow." Super-concentrated astringent burned like fire on her face and arms.
"Jeez!" Nick said, his own face and shirt wet with the stuff. "What's in this? Acid?"
He grabbed her by the waist, lifted her as if she weighed nothing and hauled her to the sink, where he shoved her head into its depths and turned the industrial water sprayer full force on her face.
She sputtered and pushed at his hand. "You're drowning me," she said, her words echoing in the deep steel sink. "Rinse yourself off."
He gave himself a quick shot of water, then went back to drowning her. "You're worse than me. You got it full in the face. We once busted a meth lab and one of the perps got chemical burns. You need to soak."
She allowed him to pour a steady stream of water over her face until he finally let her up.
She coughed, wiped the water from her face and shook water from her arms. She was soaked to the waist.
"I had no idea makeup could be dangerous," he said. "What the hell was in that stuff?"
"Camphor, vinegar and eucalyptus. That's what feels hot. In this concentration it's potent."
"Do you still hurt?" he asked.
"I'm fine. What about you?"
"I didn't get much," he said.
Some twinge of mischief made her grab the sprayer and squirt him.
"Cut it out," he said, gripping her hand playfully.
She released the trigger and the water stopped, though Nick still held her by the wrist, close.
"I'm soaked," she said.
"I'll say." Nick looked straight at her chest, his eyes dazed.
She glanced down and saw that through the clinging fabric and her black lace bra she might as well have been naked. No wonder men carried on about wet T-shirt contests.
She shivered, but not from a chill.
"You're cold," he said, lifting her into his arms. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes."
"You don't have to carry me."
"Those rubber stoppers will slide on your water trail, and I refuse to be responsible for another injury. This makes two already." He sounded a little grim.
"That wasn't your fault. I yanked on the canister," she said, annoyingly happy to be in his arms. She hated being weak and dependent, but at this moment it felt right.
"How's your face feel?"
"Fine," she lied. Her skin still stung. All in all, she was a mess. Her eyes were going black-and-blue, her swollen ankle had begun to ache, and she was all but nude in the arms of a man she wanted but had to resist. On top of that, someone was trying to steal her formulas.
Nick carried her up the stairs into the bedroom and set her on the end of her bed.
"I'll get you something to change into."
"That's okay," she said.
But he was already rummaging around in her drawer. He lifted a black lace nightie. "How's this?" he said with a wicked grin, dangling the flimsy thing. It looked like pure sex. "Hmm…" He lifted its still-attached price tag.
"Put that back," she said. She'd bought it to surprise Donald, but they'd broken up before she'd had a chance to try it out.
"So, it's not just the sauté pans that don't get used around here, huh?"
"Very funny. Get my robe out of the bathroom, please. It's on the door."
"Why? This looks great."
"I don't think so," she said.
He shrugged and headed for the bathroom.
Nick was getting entirely too familiar with her house. He'd gone through her bathroom looking for pain pills and Restorix, and now he'd pawed through her lingerie drawer. She felt invaded and oddly pleased.
He came out with her rose-colored, black-trimmed satin robe tossed over one arm and a towel over his naked shoulders.
Naked shoulders? She gulped. He'd taken off his wet shirt, probably to dry off.
He looked like a Playgirl calendar shot standing there, his hair mussed, his chest and arms nicely muscled, a dusting of dark hair in the middle of his chest that thinned, then disappeared below the waist of his beltless jeans, which were darkly wet from the sink-spray. He seemed completely unaware of the impact of his appearance as he walked nonchalantly to her and handed her the robe.
She swallowed. "Thanks," she managed, taking it from him.
He stood there waiting.
She motioned for him to turn around.
"Do I have to?" He gave her a wise-ass grin before slowly turning his back to her. "You can't blame a guy for trying."
Quickly Miranda peeled off her clothes and wrapped the robe tightly around her, her body bristling with goose bumps at the thought that Nick was just a foot away, fighting the temptation to turn and look. Careful of her ankle, she slid under the covers, propped her pillows against the headboard and sat against them. Straighte
ning the covers around her body, making sure nothing was revealed, she said, "I'm ready."
He turned and gave her a leisurely, suggestive once-over. "Can I get you anything else?" he said, his husky tone making it clear he didn't mean a snack.
She sucked in a breath. Here they were—Nick naked to the waist, her wearing a satin robe she could slip out of in an instant. The smooth sheets felt delicious on her skin. She could imagine how it would feel to slide between them with Nick.
She swallowed hard. "No, I'm fine."
"Like I said, can't blame me for trying." His eyes invited her to change her mind. When she didn't, he sighed. "I'll get my shirt."
He came back from the bathroom with the shirt over his arm, stopped at the bedside table for pills and water, then sat beside her on the bed. "Seems like all I do is give you painkillers," he said.
As she handed him back the water glass, she noticed a small, distinctive patch of scar tissue on Nick's chest above his heart. "Is that from…?" She looked up at him.
"From when I got shot? Yeah." He touched it with one hand, then shrugged. "One of three." He showed her a spot on the side of his abdomen and one at the base of his rib cage. "This one punctured my lung."
"Oh, Nick. I'm so sorry you went through that." The idea chilled her.
"It's over. All healed." Then he added softly, "It turned out good. It got me medical retirement and now I'm going to live life the way I want it."
She studied his face. "But you loved being a cop. I remember you were so dedicated."
He frowned and his eyes clouded. "It was a good time to go. I was getting frustrated. So much of what cops do is just spinning wheels. You clear a corner of scum and a month later, it's back even stronger."
She hated the edge of bitterness in his voice.
"Still, you nearly lost your life."
"That's the job."
She couldn't take her eyes off the scars—evidence of his willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice for others.
"It looks worse than it is. Go ahead, touch it." He angled his chest toward her.
LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR Page 6