"No, I can't." She shook her head.
"Sure you can." He took her hand in his and put it on the spot.
She felt the slight bump, but became instantly more aware of the warmth of his chest, his lungs expanding with a ragged breath. Their eyes locked. And it was as if that night were happening again.
Nick's hand gripped hers against his chest. "Miranda," he whispered. "That night, I couldn't get enough of you."
"Me neither."
"Oh yeah?" His eyes searched her face, wanting her.
"I wanted more," she said, embarrassed but unable to hold out. "More nights, more…" And then she kissed him.
He hesitated for only a moment, then he pulled her away from her pillow and kissed her back—his mouth warm and sure, just as it had been that night, only better because she wasn't numbed by alcohol, just a little woozy from codeine.
Heat raced along her nerves. If only the satin robe was gone, so she could feel Nick's bare chest against her skin.
And then it was gone. Nick had whisked it from her shoulders and now his chest hair brushed her sensitive nipples. She took a quick, harsh breath, then went after his mouth.
His fingers slid up to grasp both breasts.
Oh, oh, so … good. She thought she would explode at just that touch. But she wanted more. She wanted his hands all over her. In the front especially—touching the softest place she had. Something about Nick made her feel wild and hungry. Maybe because he was so different from the men she'd known. He lived in his body, by his wits, not in some intellectual business game.
Whatever it was, her response to him was visceral, tissue deep, as if she needed him like food, like air to breathe, water to drink. Air, water, food, Nick. She pushed herself against him, felt her sex tighten, swell, pinch with desire. She wanted to drag his hands down to touch her there. There, there. She writhed against him. So undignified.
But Nick didn't seem to give a damn about her dignity, because one hand moved right where she wanted it.
"Oh," she groaned, and quivered at his touch, feeling hot and cold all over and all at once.
Abruptly Nick stopped. "Someone's here," he said.
Yanked from her haze, she tried to focus. Through her open bedroom door, she heard the rattle of keys and the unmistakably efficient click of heels in the hallway. Lilly.
Miranda jerked away from Nick, pulled her robe around her, just as Lilly stopped in the open doorway, her eyes wide behind her severe glasses, her jaw dropping slightly.
"Oh," she said, "excuse me." She turned away.
"It's okay," Miranda said, on fire with embarrassment. What must Lilly think, finding her in bed with a half-naked stranger? She'd just act like this was perfectly normal. "Come back," she said, faking a laugh, as if Lilly'd merely interrupted them at a cocktail party. "Let me introduce you."
Nick gave her a wicked look. "Tell her you finally got my phone message," he muttered.
She frowned at him.
Lilly turned around, her mouth tight. She clearly disapproved.
"This is Nick, um…" For the life of her, Miranda couldn't recall his last name. Her face flamed. "Uh, Nick. An old friend of mine."
"Nice to meet you," Lilly said. Old friend. Right.
Having Lilly catch them like this—practically devouring each other—made Miranda feel foolish. Lilly was as serious about their business as she was. Neither had any social life to speak of. She'd never seen Lilly with a man or known her to mention one.
"Nick, this is Lilly," she said, tightening her robe around her throat, fighting the prickling sensations that stayed with her from Nick's caresses. "My assistant."
Nick nodded. "Actually, we met on the phone. About a year ago?"
"I don't recall." But Miranda could see she did. She must have withheld the message. To protect Miranda from other men in the wake of her failed engagement?
"I got home early from my trip," Miranda said, wanting to explain the moment, "and, by an amazing coincidence, the guy filling in for Charlie turned out to be Nick. We hadn't seen each other in a year. We got to talking, and…" This sounded more and more lame. "What brought you back early anyway?"
To her surprise, Lilly blushed. "I, uh, just wanted to get back." She looked closer at Miranda. "My God, what happened to your face?" She shot a glare at Nick, then looked back at Miranda.
"It's nothing. I fell. Sprained my ankle, too. I can tell you about it later." She did not want to explain the whole ordeal just now.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine. Really."
"Well, then, sorry to disturb you. We'll talk tomorrow." With a last concerned look at Miranda and completely ignoring Nick, Lilly left.
"She thought I gave you those black eyes," Nick said, shaking his head at the door where Lilly had just exited. "And she definitely doesn't approve." He tilted his head and moved in for a kiss, then something on her face stopped him. "Neither do you."
"It's not that. I'm just … embarrassed, I guess. Lilly's very protective of me. She was surprised, I'm sure, to see me…"
"Making out with the doorman?"
She laughed. "No. It's just that I've rarely … well, I'm just not much for having affairs."
"I can see that. You've still got the tag on that nightie."
"Could you forget about that?"
"So, you don't bring men home?" He quirked an eyebrow at her. He was curious, but there was a personal edge to the question that unsettled her.
"I've gone out with several men," she said defensively.
"But you didn't invite them up for coffee?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but no."
The truth was she'd avoided anything more than some kissing at the door. She just hadn't been motivated enough for all the hassle. The men had been smart and interesting and solicitous, but hadn't really appealed to her. Fussing over the wine choice, elaborately describing their sound systems, rattling on about corporate politics and deals. Even when they asked her about her work, she found her mind wandering. She'd figured she'd lost her taste for sex—as if it had been a phase. Until, of course, Nick came back on the scene. Now she'd have to rethink her theory.
"I've been too busy to get very involved."
"So many creams to mix, so little time."
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
He cupped her cheek, sighing. "All the same, Lilly's got a point. I should know better. This was a mistake. It's late, you need your sleep, and that was a very long time ago. The past is past."
He kissed her forehead, picked his damp T-shirt off the floor where it had fallen and pulled it over his breathtaking torso. "You'll be okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she lied. She was relieved but also disappointed. The overload of pent-up lust would keep her awake for hours.
"I'll check with the precinct tomorrow and keep you posted on the case."
"Great. Thanks."
"It was nice to see you, Miranda. Again."
"Yes."
This was it. Goodbye. The past is past. He was right. This certainly couldn't lead to anything meaningful. And if she didn't watch it, she'd be making more of that brief make-out session than there was. Again. So she'd just stick with her creations and forget about Nick. Again.
What a jerk you are, Ryder, Nick told himself, galloping down Miranda's oh-so-elegant spiral staircase.
He was supposed to be looking after the woman, not seducing her. Talk about a fox in the henhouse. He should have called her in a pizza, not cooked her dinner. The night guy could have taken the crutches and bandage up to her.
As he neared her door, a voice stopped him. "Leaving so soon?" Lilly asked dryly.
"It's late," he said.
She was a pretty woman—petite, feminine—a fact she hid with severe hair and a stern demeanor. Her metal-edged glasses deflected light so he couldn't quite see her eyes, but he felt their criticism. "Miranda is not the kind of person you think she is," she said.
"And what kind of person is that?"<
br />
"She can be naive. And she's been hurt." She looked at him as if he was some blue-collar stud out to get what he could. That pissed him off—for what it said about both him and Miranda.
"You don't need to worry about Miranda with me," he said. "Good night." Then he left.
She didn't, either. Miranda Chase was not the kind of woman he should be messing with. He didn't belong in her world. He didn't even approve of her world.
He hit the lobby button on the elevator, still agitated, then patted his wallet for the extra key so he could give it back to the night guy.
What was it about Miranda that kept dragging him back? Her vulnerability. And the way she tried to brave it out. He wanted to protect her, make things right for her. He was a sucker for being needed.
That's how he'd gotten into trouble with Debbie, his ex-wife. But he hadn't been enough for Debbie. He wouldn't be enough for Miranda either.
Not that there was any danger of her turning into the woman in his life.
He didn't want a woman in his life. He didn't want someone he would disappoint, someone who would try to change him. He was heading for the Pacific and freedom.
He would, however, check on burglaries in the central corridor and ease her mind about this ridiculous cosmetics formula theft she thought had happened. He'd endure another day or two of watching her enter and leave the building, and then Miranda Chase would be out of his life.
Now if he could just get her out of his system. He could still smell her on him, still feel the silk of her skin. And taste her—like spring rain and honeysuckle—swirling in his mouth and going to his brain like a fine wine's bouquet. If only he were the sex-crazed bruiser her assistant assumed he was. He wouldn't cling to these sensual memories like a romantic lunatic. He'd just snag a one-night-stand from a nearby bar and be done with it.
* * *
6
« ^ »
As soon as she leaned back into the shampoo bowl in Estelle's Beauty Nook, Miranda regretted that she'd come in. The woman just wouldn't stop talking about the burglary. Miranda patronized Estelle's shop out of a loyalty that, just now, she wished she didn't feel.
She'd needed a beauty boost, though, since even though the Restorix—and maybe the steaks—had kept the swelling down, she'd awakened with a distinct raccoon effect around one eye and a smeared bruise under the other that even her densest foundation couldn't disguise.
She'd intended to tell Estelle that she'd fallen while skiing in New Mexico—why alarm people unnecessarily?—but Lilly had already talked to her. She didn't blame Lilly for confiding in her friend. She'd been exceptionally upset when Miranda told her about the robbery this morning over coffee.
Estelle babbled on about how unsafe the apartment building was getting, while Miranda focused on the soothing warm water on her scalp, and tried to forget those blessed minutes with Nick she'd guiltily relived all night long. Thank God he'd be gone tomorrow.
At the fourth floor, Nick held the elevator for a prim elderly woman in a lace-collared dress. Irene Faraday. She yanked the leash of her recalcitrant dachshund with surprising strength until the beast thumped over the threshold on its rump.
"When's Charlie due back?" she asked Nick, as she had every day since he'd taken over. For such a frail-looking woman, she had the voice of a drill instructor.
"Tomorrow," he said on a sigh. And he couldn't wait. Especially since last night with Miranda.
She eyed his ill-fitting, now-ripped uniform. "So, I hear you let a cat burglar in to terrorize us."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Estelle Moody told me about the break-in."
"Estelle Moody?"
"She owns the beauty parlor downstairs. Plus, I heard the cops clunking down the hall yesterday when I was playing poker with Nadine Morris—she lives down the hall from Miranda."
Before he could offer her the reassurance she didn't seem to need, she continued. "She said you gave her son a little talk about homework." She gave him a speculative look. "Nadine's divorced, you know. You like kids, Nick?"
"I, well—"
"I don't blame you. That Rickie's a little snot."
As if to emphasize the point, the wiener dog snuffled noisily at Nick's calf. Nick slid to the left, fearing the beast would either bite him or hump his leg. Neither sounded appealing.
"Now, Miranda's a lovely girl," Mrs. Faraday said, "if you can stand the smell."
"The smell?"
"Coming from that apartment. Oh, it could kill you. Nadine's always getting blasted. One day I was over there and just about fainted away. Who would have thought jasmine could be a toxic fume? Nadine had to call the paramedics to give me oxygen."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It wasn't so bad," she said, her lens-magnified eyes filled with mischief. "I always like a close-up view of those young men in navy-blue. They came last month when we thought she'd started the place on fire."
"Miranda started a fire?"
At his words, the dachshund lunged at him, but Mrs. Faraday yanked him back. "In that suit, you probably smell like Charlie," she explained. "Charlie always walks Dexter for me. And it wasn't a fire. Miranda was burning creosote and it got out of hand. Thick smoke. When the sprinklers didn't go off, Harold Burroughs—that's the building owner—was hopping mad. He was afraid we'd sue. It's illegal not to have working sprinklers, you know. The real problem is that dimweed has been neglecting things around here. Just look at this elevator, for example."
The thing shuddered to a stop and groaned open, illustrating her point.
Word traveled fast at the Palm View, he saw. What else did the bird-eyed woman know of the previous day's doings? He wouldn't be surprised if she announced she'd heard he was a good kisser.
A business guy in an expensive suit, reeking of cologne and pomade, stepped into the open elevator.
"Hello, Mr. Lattimer," Mrs. Faraday said. "How's Mrs. Lattimer?"
"She's well, thank you." Lattimer clasped his hands in front of him and rocked onto his heels, ignoring Nick and not making eye contact with Mrs. Faraday.
"I was telling Mrs. Lattimer about a great idea I have for a souped-up playing-card sorting machine," Mrs. Faraday continued, not catching the rebuff. "This is a moneymaker, I know for a fact. The one on the market's not worth a jigger of spit. If you wanted to help me with the patent, we could clean up."
Lattimer turned and gave her a quick, patronizing smile. "I'm an industrial patent attorney, but thanks for thinking of me. You might want to try the Yellow Pages."
Mrs. Faraday's jaw clamped shut. She made a sniffing noise. She knew she'd been insulted.
What a self-important ass, Nick thought. Button-down types like Lattimer pissed Nick off. They were so busy collecting cars, buying imported suits and yakking on their cell phones, they missed all the things that mattered. That's why he wanted out of the cities that spawned them—and everything else he didn't understand.
Like his thing for Miranda Chase. Of course she was gorgeous. So perfect it hurt to look at her. And she had heart. Lots of heart. That did get to him. That and her vulnerability. And those green eyes. He could get lost in those eyes… He heard a low growl and looked down just as Dexter locked onto his pant leg and began to tug.
Riiip.
"Dexter!" Mrs. Faraday hauled on the leash. "No. No." She wagged a finger at the dog. "I'm afraid I waited too long for walkies, and Dexter is punishing me," she said.
"No problem," Nick said, shaking his head. Punishing her, huh? So how come he was the one with the rip in Charlie's pant leg? He glared down at the dog, who looked back, impishly innocent. He momentarily entertained thoughts of wrapping the little pest in bacon, covering him in barbecue sauce, and serving him up as the cocktail weenie he resembled.
The elevator shuddered to a halt in the lobby. He held the door for Lattimer, Mrs. Faraday and her hors d'oeuvre of a dog, and then galloped ahead to get the front door for them. He headed back toward the desk, just as Miranda emerged from the ha
ir salon, looking perfect even on crutches. She'd just had her hair done in some exotic braided style, and she wore the sleekest outfit he'd ever seen—scooped neckline, tight pants.
Didn't the woman own anything loose?
Well, he had news to report, and this was as good a time as any.
Miranda couldn't get Estelle to stop talking. The woman followed her right to the doorway. "Thanks again," Miranda said, then looked up to find Nick heading straight for her.
"Miranda," he said.
"Hello, Nick." She was annoyed at how glad she was to see him.
"Oh, hey," Estelle said to Nick, "I've got something that belongs to you." She headed back into the shop, then returned in a second with Charlie's cap dangling from her fingers. "One of the residents found it by the fourth-floor garbage dump," Estelle said, searching his face, waiting for him to explain.
"Thanks," he said, taking it from her, not answering the implied question. Miranda remembered he'd lost it when he'd chased the thief. He punched the puny cap into shape and put it on his head.
"We should talk," he said to Miranda. "I have news."
Estelle stayed in the doorway, her face alert, clearly waiting for the scoop.
"Thanks again, Estelle," Miranda said. The woman was the nosiest person she knew. Well, except for Mrs. Faraday. And maybe Charlie. When Estelle didn't leave, Miranda headed for the sofa near the security desk, her crutches almost second nature to her, Nick at her side.
Nick sat beside her. She felt a web of intimacy rise around them as he turned to her, his knees almost touching hers.
"What did you find out?" she asked.
"There's a break-in artist working the central corridor," he said. "Snatch-and-dash stuff, but he knows safes. Ballsy guy, too. Breaks in in broad daylight. Mostly homes, but a few offices. This is as far south as he's come, but we think that's who did this."
"Really?"
"So you can stop worrying about anyone stealing your formulas."
Maybe, but she still had that feeling… "Will they catch him?"
"I'll keep checking for you. After tomorrow, when Charlie's back, I'll keep him posted."
LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR Page 7