LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

by Lipstick On His Collar

  "You set it up for them to catch the mice tomorrow?" Miranda asked.

  "Yeah. I want to give whoever did this free rein for a while."

  "How will they do it?"

  "Who knows? Scoop as many as they can into a cage and set traps for the rest, I would guess."

  "Traps? They won't kill them, will they?"

  "That's why they call them exterminators, Miranda."

  "But we can't let them do that. They have to use those safety cages. I'll call and tell them."

  "Miranda."

  "We have to, Nick." She fumbled in her purse and pulled out her phone. "What company did you call?"

  He blew out a breath and told her. She was a piece of work—insisting on protecting the creatures that terrified her. But that was Miranda. A study in contradictions—bold and vulnerable, impulsive and dogged, all business and pure carnality. That made being with her a roller coaster ride that could send him around the bend. Or head over heels.

  God. He was losing it already.

  * * *

  9

  « ^ »

  At the dock, Nick helped Miranda into the weather-beaten dinghy. He watched her gingerly find a place for her silk-garbed bottom and avoid a puddle of rainwater in the bottom of the boat with her fancy sandal and air cast. Was she ever out of her element.

  She would undoubtedly hate being on the boat and would probably babble constantly, disturbing the quiet he loved. But he couldn't stand thinking of her unprotected. The perpetrator—whoever that was—wouldn't be able to get to the boat easily. And at least on his boat he knew she'd stay put, while he hung around the apartment to see who came to check on things. Plus, he wanted to poke around Chase Beauty headquarters again without interference.

  He leaned past Miranda to yank the dinghy's outboard to roaring life, adjusted the throttle and released the mooring line, tossing it onto the deck, then pulled the tiller hard to port, swerving them away from the dock.

  The boat heeled, digging deeper into the water on the port side. Miranda gripped the bench on both sides of her.

  "If it'll make you feel better, wear a vest," he said, indicating the two bright orange life jackets under the bow.

  "This?" She plucked one from its place, holding its strap between two polished nails. Here it came. Disgust, annoyance, whining. Just like Debbie.

  Okay, it was a little grimy, but it would save her life if it came down to it. "We're not far," he said. "Just sit tight." Wait'll she saw the chemical toilet on the boat.

  "Okay." She set it down and smiled nervously at him, folding her arms tightly under her perky breasts. "This will be fun," she said, trying to beam. "Like an adventure."

  "Sure," he said. She was trying, he had to admit, and it warmed his heart. Miranda might dress like Debbie, have all the expensive things Debbie liked, but her attitude was completely different. She seemed oblivious to it all somehow.

  On the other hand, he could be rationalizing. He missed important stuff once a woman got to him. And Miranda got to him all right. And now he was bringing temptation straight to his lair, where his defenses would be down. He could only hope she'd be so whiny and annoying he'd lose interest fast.

  Sunlight gleamed off the smooth-as-glass lake, and the sun heated the top of his head and burned his shoulders. Nice. He already felt better. Everything made sense out here, slowed down, cleared out.

  They motored straight across the lake, around a curve in the shoreline to the mooring until they could see her—his ship, his home—Nick's Lady.

  "There she is," he said, nodding toward the boat. She rocked gently on her mooring, sleek and clean. Cream with navy-blue trim and teak rails he kept varnished and smooth. Forty feet of functional beauty. He was proud of every inch he'd polished and toiled over. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her this past week.

  "That's it?" she asked, her eyes widening. "It's so, um…"

  He waited.

  "…compact," she finished, smiling brightly.

  He laughed. "Plenty of room."

  She bit her lip. "It's only one night, right?"

  "Right." Maybe.

  He tied the dinghy to the mooring loop, jumped onto his boat deck and let Miranda hand him up her gear. Then he helped her aboard, started Nick's Lady's motor and efficiently steered them to his favorite cove, where he anchored.

  "What a beautiful view," she said, looking over the bow of the boat.

  He unlocked the hatch, climbed down to the floor of the cabin. She was totally shipshape, with a fore cabin, complete galley, twelve-foot salon, and a head with a shower. He reached up to help Miranda climb down.

  Once below decks, she looked around. "You have upholstery!" She was staring at the blue plaid sofas that lined both sides of the hull, and would fold out as his bed tonight. He'd give Miranda the cabin and pray he could stay out of it.

  "Of course."

  "And there's an oven … a stove … even a microwave. It's all here, just miniature."

  He felt a ridiculous stab of pride. Why should he care what she thought? All the same, her little squeal tickled the hell out of him. "I told you I live here."

  "Yeah, but you said it was like camping, only wetter. Everything looks clean and dry."

  "I have standards," he said. "I'm not a crusty old hermit." He was a crusty young hermit. He'd never brought a woman out here before. He wasn't sure he entirely liked the idea.

  Then she hopped a couple steps forward and flopped onto the sofa, stretching her arms along the back, looking so inviting he wanted to jump her. "This is great. I think I'll like this."

  Wait'll you see the head. But he wouldn't spoil the moment.

  She turned to look out the porthole. "And there are little windows. You even have curtains."

  Brother.

  "And I can work okay at that table. The counter's a little narrow, and the sink's small, but I'll be fine."

  "I'm glad you approve," he said wryly.

  Then she limped toward the cabin. "And this is your bedroom," she said, giving him that look. His groin tightened.

  "Yours for tonight."

  "But where will you…?"

  "On the sofa. It makes into a bunk." He set her suitcase in the narrow space beside the bed, on which Miranda now sat.

  "This will be fine," she said. "A little cramped, but it's all here. What's this?" She picked up the photograph from the ledge at the head of the bed.

  He sat beside her and took the photo to study. "That's the Sea of Cortes. Off the coast of Mexico. The water is as smooth and clear as glass. The seals swim with you. The lobster practically crawl onto the boat. It's a great place."

  "Is that where you're going?"

  "Oh, yeah. Thinking of this place got me through the days in the hospital when I didn't think I would make it. I kept thinking, 'Ryder, you get out of this alive and you're gonna get that boat and go.'"

  Funny, the words didn't seem to have the same impact on him as they had just a few days before—the rush of relief that he'd be away from his old life, alone and private. He found himself thinking how fun it would be to show it to Miranda, watch her react to the things he remembered loving. Odd.

  She regarded him soberly. "It's nice that you know what you want."

  Did he? Damn. Her words made him aware of a trickle of doubt in the wall of his resolve. Miranda and the case had sidetracked him, he guessed. Face it. Miranda just plain mixed him up.

  "That's how I feel about my cosmetics," she said, pulling him back to her sparkling green eyes and her determined expression. As incomprehensible as it seemed to him, this cosmetics junk really was Miranda's world—her passion, her version of freedom. He'd do everything he could to get her what she wanted.

  "I'll solve this for you, Miranda. Don't worry."

  "I'm not," she said. "Not with you around." She gave him a look of pure trust.

  He'd make damn sure he was worthy of it. "Good," he said.

  Miranda took a deep breath. "Mmm, the bed smells like you."

&n
bsp; "Sorry. I do laundry when I can, but—"

  "No, it smells good," she said. "There's a scent you wear—kind of old-fashioned and masculine."

  "Old Spice," he said. "My dad always wore it."

  "Yeah, that's it. Maybe I should consider its scent elements for my men's products. Speaking of which…"

  She turned to run a finger down his cheek, giving him a charge. "You're practically your normal color."

  "You, too," he said, studying her face.

  Even faintly orange, she was gorgeous. She looked good sitting on his bed. She'd look even better naked on it. They could finish what they'd started in her kitchen. He leaned in…

  "So, where's the bathroom?"

  Damn. Here it came. He pointed to the door to the head.

  "I thought that was a closet." She stood and opened the door, then looked in at the narrow shower, the low chemical toilet, the tiny sink. "It's pretty, um…"

  "Compact?" he offered.

  She nodded.

  "It's got everything. If you have to shower, go easy on the water. Soap up first, then rinse quick. The reservoir doesn't hold much and it doesn't get too hot."

  "Oh."

  "Let me show you how the toilet works."

  He explained the pump and the chemicals and when to flush and how, and he could see her thinking Maybe I can hold it. "You'll get the hang of it. Just don't pump it or it'll flood."

  "Oookay."

  "Well, I better get back into town. Will you be okay here by yourself?"

  "Sure," she said. "I'll work on my formulas."

  "Why don't you relax, read a book on deck? Enjoy the quiet. All that stuff can wait."

  She gave him that determined look.

  "Then no dangerous stuff, okay? Don't start anything on fire. You have your cell phone?"

  "Yes."

  "If you have any questions about the boat, call me. I'll be back before sunset and I'll bring something to grill. I make a mean margarita."

  "Sounds lovely." She smiled sweetly, and he vowed to make it a special meal.

  As he roared away in the dinghy, something he'd done a million times before, he found himself glancing back. Miranda stood on deck waving goodbye. He waved back, feeling like an idiot. He had a strange warmth in his chest and the unreasonable desire to hurry back to her.

  Miranda watched Nick's dinghy rumble away, a silver-blue S-shaped wake trailing him all the way back to her, like a swirl of connection, as comfortingly delicious as a warm fire on a frosty night.

  She savored the feeling for a moment, then hopped gingerly down the ladder into the cabin to get to work.

  After a bit, she decided that working in Nick's kitchen, or galley as he called it, was kind of fun. Everything was impossibly cramped and small, but it was all there.

  Plus, she was so busy figuring out where everything was and how to cope with the trickle of water that came out of the sink, she stopped thinking about the horror of the mice overrunning her beloved apartment, or worrying about who was stealing her formulas, or whether they could catch the crooks in time. She'd left everything in Nick's hands.

  Well, after she'd checked in with Raul, who hadn't found out anything interesting, and called Nick to remind him to see Lattimer again. After that, she'd left everything in his hands.

  Before long, she had five cream samples carefully labeled and resting on the narrow ledge above Nick's tiny sink, and she was lying on the deck of the boat, a pillow behind her head, reading The Perfect Storm. No wonder Nick had joked he wouldn't have room for her cosmetics. He'd crammed the place with books in a pleasing and eclectic range—gourmet cookbooks shared space with true-crime novels, biographies and books about art and sailing.

  The sun, which had begun to set, felt good on her body. She never took time to relax like this. She found her anxiety had melted away, along with the usual pressure she put on herself. She watched a large bird perch on a saguaro cactus—a hawk probably. It studied the water, then dived down and snagged a fish. An amazing feat she felt privileged to have witnessed.

  Living on a boat would be uncomfortable and it made the most ordinary tasks—like cooking and cleaning and even going to the bathroom—unnecessarily complex, but she could see there were rewards. It was peaceful here.

  Miranda felt her heart kick up and realized it was because Nick would be back any minute. She couldn't wait to see him. Stupidly she felt as if she was waiting for her man to come back to their little home on the water. It was a primitive fantasy, and she laughed at herself, but she held it in her heart all the same.

  She watched the horizon for the arrow shape of his dinghy. There it was! She made her way to the ledge at the bow of the boat, guiding herself by the wire barrier. The deck was slippery under her heeled sandal, and the air cast threw her off-balance a bit. Standing there waving, she felt like a fisherman's wife waving her husband home from the sea.

  As the boat drew near, she saw that Nick was standing and waving, too. Eagerly, almost frantically. And he was shouting something. Was he that excited to see her? She leaned into the metal barrier to pick up what he was saying.

  Abruptly the wire gave way and she fell with a shriek straight into the icy water. The cold seemed to collapse her lungs, though she screamed with her mouth closed, a muffled sound in her head, all the way down and back up, until she shot to the surface and released a fierce, satisfying shriek.

  Nick motored to her and grabbed her by her dress. "I've got you."

  She felt a little rip, and then he reached under her arms and pulled her into the dinghy. The delicate silk snagged on the ragged edge of the boat with a low tearing sound.

  She dragged herself onto the bench, shivering with cold, her hair in her eyes, her air cast soggy, her Prada sandal lost to the fishes.

  "I was trying to tell you that guard was loose." He was fighting laughter, she could tell.

  "This isn't funny," she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

  "You should have seen the look on your face."

  She thought about how she must have looked tumbling over the front of the boat. "Well, maybe a little funny. I was just trying to wave hello."

  "I know. It was sweet," he said with a soft smile. "Let's get you warm." He stood and began to mess with the rope, pulling the dinghy closer to Nick's Lady. It rocked wildly as he climbed onto the bigger boat.

  She handed him up the grocery sacks he'd brought. Then he helped her on board.

  "You okay?" he asked her once she was seated.

  "Not bad, considering my dress is ruined and I just lost half of a three-hundred-dollar pair of sandals."

  "Bare feet or rubber soles on deck, Miranda," he said. "Wait here."

  She waited for him on the bench, her teeth chattering, a light breeze in the fading sunlight chilling her even more.

  After a moment, he emerged from the cabin holding some clothes and two towels. He dropped the clothes on the bench and came at her with the towels. He wrapped one around her shoulders and cupped the other around her hair and began to pat.

  She lifted her hands to take over, but he was drying her with such assurance, she knew it would be pointless to fight him. Besides, it felt good.

  When he was finished, he sat beside her. "Now that you've fallen in, you're officially crew."

  "Good for me," she said, not really upset anymore. "You were right. This is like camping only wetter." She pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders. "So, what did you find out?"

  "Lilly had come home by the time I got there, but Charlie said she behaved normally. Did she call you?"

  "No. So she didn't know anything strange had happened. Doesn't that mean she's innocent?"

  "Not necessarily. We'll retrieve the tape in the morning, see if she—or anyone else—took the bait."

  "Did you talk to Lattimer?"

  "I stopped by, but no one was home. And before you ask, no, I didn't break in. I do have good news, though. They found some prints on the mirror—high, near the letters."

  "Th
at's good. They can ID the person."

  "They'll call me with the results."

  "What next?"

  "We eat dinner and kick back."

  "Great. Let me take a shower and change." She stood and started for the cabin.

  "Take these," Nick said, handing her the clothes he'd brought—a gray sweats outfit. "They'll be big, but they're warm."

  "I'll just wear what you packed for me."

  He gave her a strange look, then put the sweats in her arms. "In case you don't like what I brought. And go easy on the water."

  Miranda washed as fast as she could, banging her elbows and knees in the narrow stall, but the lukewarm water ran out anyway before she'd rinsed her hair. Then she struggled to dry off with a postage-stamp-size towel. Her frustration built. The fact that she was damp, cold and her hair was sticky with shampoo added to the upsets of the past few days to make her feel grumpy.

  She wrapped the towel to cover her vital spots best she could and ducked into the tiny bedroom area, closing the curtain that separated it from the rest of the boat behind her. Nick had been at the stove, his back to her and she smelled garlic. Dinner was on its way. That cheered her a bit. Once she got her own clothes and some makeup on, she'd feel better.

  Eagerly she opened her suitcase, then stared into its almost empty interior.

  Only a handful of items lay there—the red silk evening dress she'd worn to the ball the night she met Nick, the black lace nightie with the price tag still on, a teddy he'd had to hunt for because she knew it had been at the bottom of the drawer, and three pairs of bikini panties. In the corner was her toothbrush and a pair of tennis shoes. That was it. No shorts, no shirts, no toiletries.

  "For Pete's sake," she said, dismay mixing with amusement.

  "What's the matter?" Nick said, poking his head through the curtain.

  She gathered her silky clothing in one hand, and tugged her slipping towel higher on her chest. "This is what you packed? What were you thinking? Never mind. I know what you were thinking."

  He grinned at her. "You shrieked at a mouse before I could finish. What's the problem? There's underwear and a dress."