LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

by Lipstick On His Collar

  "This is an evening dress," she said, separating it from the other things. Its silk was so sheer it could be a scarf.

  "It's almost evening." He shrugged in pretend innocence. "I got your toothbrush."

  "That's something." This situation was so ludicrous she had to laugh.

  "I never forget the essentials."

  Her towel slipped slightly, so she braced it with her forearm, feeling Nick's eyes wish it away. She felt warm all over under his gaze. "Oh, yeah? My makeup was right next to the toothpaste."

  "You don't need that junk."

  "Yes, I do. Look at me."

  "I am looking at you." And what I can't see, I remember.

  "But I—"

  She couldn't bear watching him mentally de-towel her. She was vividly aware she was out on the lake, alone with him on his boat, on the edge of his bed, wearing just a towel. A tiny towel that seemed to be shrinking by the second.

  "I guess I'll need these after all," she said, grabbing the sweats Nick had given her and breaking the spell. Even if she convinced herself she could handle sex with Nick—and she shouldn't—she was not feeling the least bit sexy right now.

  A few moments later, Miranda left the tiny cabin, confident she'd erased any sex appeal she had left. In Nick's oversize sweat suit, with her tangled, soapy hair and lack of makeup, she looked like a bag lady. A beat-up bag lady, since without cover-up, her black eye glared starkly against her pale skin.

  On deck, she was amazed to see what Nick had done. The boat had been transformed into a cozy dinner spot. A small table held two plates, garlic bread in a basket and a huge Caesar salad. There was even a single rose in a mason jar. And standing beside the table, extending a drink her way, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

  "Your margarita, madam," Nick said, bowing slightly.

  She accepted the plastic glass. "Thank you," she said. "This looks amazing."

  "And may I present the evening's entertainment?" Nick turned her by the elbow to face a breathtaking sunset beyond the low hills that rimmed the cove. The sky was softly streaked with bright pink and orange. A heron looped lazily before them. The silhouettes of saguaro cactus jutted upward, accenting the rocky outline of the hills dotted with mesquite and sage.

  She looked back at Nick, who was watching the sky. The golden glow of sunset made his tan more dramatic. He looked good here. The tension in his face was gone. His eyes seemed less opaque, more warm and brown. He looked … happy. "You love it here," she said to him.

  "Pretty much." He smiled, then clicked his glass against hers. The ting echoed in the silent desert air. "To the most beautiful creature to grace this vessel."

  "Come on. You've had plenty of women out here."

  "As a matter of fact, no," he said, catching her gaze and holding tight. "You're the only woman I've brought here."

  "You're kidding."

  "This place is for me … and now you." He looked down at her and she felt her heart race, her blood pound in her ears.

  She took a big gulp of the margarita. Lime-flavored flames poured down her throat. She coughed. "When you say you make a mean margarita, you mean mean."

  He laughed. "I may have overdone the tequila a bit." Then he took a swallow. "Mmm."

  "But it's good," she said, taking another gulp to prove it. She blinked at the burn.

  He tapped her glass again. "Salud."

  "Salud," she said hesitantly. They both swallowed more margarita.

  "You don't know the toast? The whole thing goes Salud, amor y dinero … y el tiempo para gozalos. Health, love and money and the time to enjoy them."

  "Is that your wish?"

  "Let me see … I've got the health and enough money—after I've paid off the IRS—and I sure have the time."

  "What about love?" she couldn't help asking.

  "I don't know about that." Sadness flickered in his eyes. "That may be overrated … or too much to ask."

  "I don't think so," she said. "Just because you and I got burned doesn't mean it can't happen. I think everyone can find someone to love."

  "You think so?" he mused, his eyes digging deep. "Something tells me you'd be indomitable about love, Miranda."

  "Probably. If I ever figured out that I was in love," she said softly. "If I was sure about it."

  "I know what you mean," he said. "Sometimes what you think is love is not quite that. And sometimes love mixes you up and you miss important things."

  "Yeah," she said, her heart in her throat. Was he warning her away? Or just commiserating about their past failures?

  "Then again," he said softly, intently. "Sometimes you know everything you need to know." He stepped closer. For once Nick's eyes weren't unreadable. They were warm and open, full of feeling. A feeling she wanted desperately to trust.

  "Really?" Her glance skittered away. Beyond Nick's shoulders, she saw that the lake was gorgeous, the sky incredible—magenta and gold, outlining Nick in brilliance, so that he looked like a god.

  "Really," he said firmly, catching her gaze again. He wanted her. And it was different than this morning in her kitchen. This was more than just desire. Something had changed. Maybe being in this place that was special to Nick.

  And she wanted him then. So much she could hardly bear it. She wanted him to make love to her here on this boat in this amazing place. Acting on impulse, she gulped the rest of her margarita—for courage—handed the empty glass to him and said, "I'll be right back."

  Nick had done all he could to make this night magical. She'd do her part. She went below deck, removed the bulky sweats and put on the red silk evening gown. So what if it trailed in water or got snagged against the bolts that studded the deck? It hadn't been an accident that Nick had packed this dress. He loved it, she knew. So she'd wear it for him. And, just like that long-ago night, she would ask him to make love to her in it.

  Back on deck, she found Nick standing on the bow, staring out at the lake. Guiding herself using the boat's wires, being careful with her cast, she made her way to him.

  He turned. When he saw her, his eyes went wide. His hand dipped, sloshing margarita onto the deck. "You look incredible."

  "I did the best I could." She was barefoot in a cast, her hair was dull and flat against her head, and she wore no makeup or jewelry, but the look on Nick's face made her feel more beautiful than if she'd been dressed to the nines with diamonds, heels and a new coiffure.

  Before she lost her nerve, she went right to him, rose on tiptoe and kissed him. Without hesitation, he crushed her into his arms. "You make me wild in that dress," he breathed in her ear, his hands exploring her body under the flimsy silk, sliding down her backside. "Just like that night."

  "Make love to me," she whispered in his ear. "Just like that night."

  "Are you sure?" He pulled back to assess her face.

  "Yes. Completely."

  And then he kissed her. His hands slid forward, between her thighs, and barely brushed her most tender spot.

  She gasped.

  His tongue found the space her gasp made, and she wanted more. She opened wider, feeling wanton, raw, wanting to take him in, wanting her own tongue to be inside him, deeper; further.

  His hands slid up and down her body, to her breasts and down, teasing her again.

  Their clothes were in the way. She wanted to touch him and be touched by him without any hindrances. She wanted them naked, right here, alone on the lake, beneath the sunset sky—free and open and wild. She wanted that.

  Some of it was alcohol, true, and some of it was the glory of letting go of limits, losing the veneer of civilization she usually cherished, but most of it was them and the way they were together.

  Reading her mind, Nick shoved her dress from her shoulders and down her body. She heard seams pull, but she didn't care. The dress puddled at her feet. And she was naked in Nick's arms.

  * * *

  10

  « ^ »

  A minute later, Miranda lay on t
he smooth surface of Nick's boat—warm from the day's collected heat. The breeze brushed her naked body, the sensation like feathers on her skin, even more arousing. Dizzy from the desire pulsing through her like a living thing, she watched Nick tug his T-shirt over his head, the muscles of his chest and abdomen flexing as he moved, his hair mussed by the movement.

  He pushed off his jeans and underwear and she saw how ready he was for her. Then he lay down beside her, half on her body, his erection solid and insistent against her thigh.

  "You are so beautiful," he said with gentle wonder. He stroked her face, touching her as if to memorize her—her brows, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. "Much better without all that junk." His fingers slid into her hair, lifted and separated the strands, then tugged, sending erotic tremors through her.

  "Nick," she breathed as he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was electric, making her squirm under him, wanting him inside her.

  But not yet, his body told her. His mouth left hers and traveled to her breast, which he lifted to his mouth with one hand. He sucked, sending a jolt from her breast to her sex. He slid his hands down her side, then to the inside of her thighs.

  She parted her legs, wanting him to touch her there.

  "Miranda," he whispered, stroking her so very softly.

  She quivered under his fingers. If he kept that up, she'd climax too soon. "In—in—inside me," she managed to say.

  He rolled over her and did what she wanted, pushing slowly in, holding himself back, his eyes on her face, watching her, seeing what pleased her.

  Like the first time, a year ago, he seemed to be inside her head, as well as her body, knowing how she felt, what she wanted. She was tipsy, like last time, but this was more intense, stronger after the close calls, the building desire, the denial and now this new urgent connection. She wanted the feeling to never end, to go on and on forever.

  Each delicious inch sent her higher and higher. Her orgasm was rushing to her, even as she wanted to hold out, hold more of him. He thrust deep, making her cry out.

  He groaned in response to her cry, then he began to thrust and withdraw, thrust and withdraw, his movements strong and sure, as if he knew exactly where he was going, where he was taking her. He thrust and she rose up to accept him, take him in, take him, too. Together they rocked to the edge and over. She cried out, clutched at him, riding the wave as he held her tight.

  When their spasms had subsided, they lay together panting, the air cool on their sweat-slick bodies. A bird called.

  "Looks like we had an audience," he said, chuckling gently. He slid out of her. The instant of loneliness was erased when he hugged her to him.

  "That was so…" she said.

  "Great," he finished, still breathing hard.

  "Oh, yeah. Great."

  "As good as last time?"

  "Better. Much better." She froze, hoping he felt the same.

  She felt him nod against her hair. "That was a long time ago," he said.

  She raised her head, looked at him to see if he regretted this. "The past is past?"

  "And now is now. We've got to make up for lost time."

  She smiled and kissed him, relieved. "I know."

  She felt so good she lay against his chest and closed her eyes. "I can't believe I'm here," she murmured.

  "I can't believe you're here either." He slid to the side of her, stroking her hair, his fingers soft.

  She wondered if he knew how cuddly he looked, all flushed, his eyes bright, wearing a look of near adoration.

  "You've christened my boat."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "I wouldn't change a thing."

  "I'm glad." She wanted to ask him how he felt about her, to find out if she was right that he cared for her, but something warned her it was too soon for Nick to know what he felt. All the same, she needed more from him. She had to understand him better.

  "Did your wife like sailing?"

  He tensed, making her regret prying, but then he gave a rueful smile. "Debbie liked being taken sailing. Yachting was more what she had in mind. I used to rent a boat, take her on some day sails. She didn't like having to crew. Didn't like getting scraped or tangled in line or dusty."

  She grimaced. "Like me—whining about ruining my clothes."

  "But they were three-hundred-dollar sandals!" he mimicked, wearing his wiseass grin. "It's okay. You fell in. That's no fun for anyone."

  "You think I'm like your ex-wife, don't you?"

  He looked down at her, pushed her hair from her eyes. "Does that worry you?"

  She nodded.

  "Debbie's not a bad person. She had a rough childhood, and I guess that made her too scared to give much back to people. She was ambitious and she liked nice things like you do. But you're different, too. You have a lot of heart. And you make things happen for yourself. You don't wait for people to do things for you. You work for your dream. I admire that."

  "Even if my dream is frivolous cosmetics?"

  "Good point." He kissed her forehead. "I see that it matters to you. I see that you want to help your family's company. I respect that."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "It's a waste of time, but I respect it."

  She saw he was teasing, so she shoved at his upper arm, relishing the resistance in his muscles.

  She smiled up at him, feeling close. "What went wrong with Debbie? I mean, if you don't mind my asking." Her restraint seemed to have disappeared along with her dress.

  "She wanted more than I could give her. She wanted me to work for promotion, make lieutenant, then commander, but I didn't want a desk job. I loved it on the street."

  "Really?" She didn't mean for it to sound doubtful.

  "Absolutely. I told you, I'm a simple guy."

  "Maybe, but you're also a gourmet cook and you know art and you're well-read—I saw all the books you've got down there."

  "I have interests, that's all. Don't draw any conclusions. You'll start to sound like Debbie." He was trying to lighten the moment.

  "Okay," she said, wishing she hadn't brought it up. "So, go on with your story. Debbie wanted you to get a desk job…"

  "Right." She caught the flicker of pain before he looked past her shoulder and continued. "She found somebody more ambitious."

  "While you were still married?" He'd hinted at that the night they met.

  He shrugged.

  "You must have been furious." And hurt. She was certain of that, though she knew he'd never admit it.

  "At first, sure. But it was for the best anyway. I'm not the kind of guy who should be married. I like to be alone. I like silence. And privacy. My own space." He gave his boat a proprietary look.

  "But you invited me here."

  "I know. Broke my own rule." He smiled, masking a doubt she'd plainly seen. "Isn't that what rules are for? This is a special occasion."

  "Yeah." Very special. They were both so different here. Nick was less guarded and more open. She felt feminine and sexual and alive. Her senses seemed hyperaware—sight, sound, touch, smell… She sniffed. Was that smoke?

  "God. The salmon," Nick said, obviously catching the scent of burning meat, too. He leaped up, naked, the glorious muscled length of him springing to the back of the boat.

  She followed, chancing more weight on her sprained ankle in the soggy air cast. It didn't feel so bad, she noticed. The extra strong margarita might be covering her pain. She made her way to the back of the boat.

  Nick stood at the grill, shaking his head like a doctor with a bad diagnosis. "We're way past smoked salmon here. Looks like very expensive charcoal. Sorry." He looked like a boy who'd broken a window—very cute, and she laughed, the sound trilling out, feminine and light, echoing against the rock like the voice of a siren who mesmerized sailors who passed through her channel.

  "Who cares? I'm having a wonderful time." She was stark naked in the wilderness—well, stark naked except for her clunky cast, but that hadn't interfered a bit—with a stark naked man, wh
o would, no doubt, make love to her again and again.

  "We've got the salad and bread at least," he said. "I'll get us a blanket."

  She watched him climb below decks, chilled by his absence and the cooling evening breeze. Goose bumps rose on her skin. She moved to sit at the table, then nibbled a piece of bread. Though it was no longer warm, it was rich with butter, garlic and parmesan.

  Soon Nick appeared with a thick wool blanket and another margarita. He wrapped his body around hers, where she sat at the table, and pulled the blanket around them.

  "Feels good," she said, tucking herself close against him, feeling his hair against her back, his thighs along hers, the blanket cozy around them.

  Nick pulled the salad bowl closer and she took a piece. The lettuce was crisp and moist, the dressing tart. "Delicious," she said, turning to feed him a bite, just as he'd fed her the other night when he'd made her dinner.

  "Mmm."

  Feeding him this way was intimate, and she felt herself wanting him again. She drank some of the margarita, sharing that, too, with him, wanting to keep this heady, wonderful feeling going. They shared the salad and bread and margarita, as the dark gathered around them.

  When they were finished, she cuddled against him. Her cosmetics robbery felt far away. She was sated on Nick and this special feeling between them. Had she ever been this happy? She didn't think so. "Thank you for sharing this with me, Nick," she said, reaching beside her face to cup his strong jaw. "I see how you could live like this."

  "You ain't seen nothin' yet. Wait until we set sail."

  "We're going sailing? At night?"

  "Oh, yeah. Night sailing's the best."

  They stowed the dinner dishes, Nick fussed with the lines and sails and, amazingly, fifteen minutes later, they were moving across the water, tilted slightly to one side—heeling, Nick called it. Knowing the word made it seem less scary. The gentle wind filled the sail, which looked ghostly in the moonlight and made a whispery snap whenever they changed directions and the sail switched sides—tacking. He'd even showed her how to loosen and tighten the lines, while he handled the tiller, and pronounced her "good crew."