LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

by Lipstick On His Collar

Even with his arms around her, Nick handled the boat with confidence, skillfully negotiating the wind, which felt like a hand lifting the boat and gently sliding it forward. Water flicked her face, the startling chill of it erased by the steaming warmth of Nick's body around her.

  Running lights—green on the right, red on the left—glowed from the bow. Moonlight paved their path like a white, glimmering runway.

  The wind picked up, the boat slipped swiftly forward—a knife in the butter of the water—so fast it scared her a little. She was a little dizzy from margaritas and pleasure and sexual satisfaction. She was glad Nick was in charge, as he calmly tugged the tiller to accommodate the wind's ghostly dance and keep the boat moving smoothly and safely across the lake.

  The rough desert hills rose beside them. Across the lake, she could see the lights of the boat dock and the restaurant at the top of the hill, which made the place seem cozy. It was romantic, beautiful, otherworldly.

  "You like?" he asked, squeezing her.

  "Oh, yes." She leaned back, tucked her head under his chin and felt his heartbeat—such a foreign sensation, trusting someone else to take care of her, but so welcome in this strange place where she was lightheaded with new feelings for Nick. She looked out at the dark, smooth glass of the lake and never wanted the evening to end. She never wanted to stop feeling this way—fuzzy and strange but free of all her worries.

  "Wouldn't it be great just to sail away from everything?" Her words surprised her. "Forget formulas, forget struggling, just live in the moment, enjoy the wind and water and freedom."

  "And canned food and stormy weather," Nick added.

  "Who cares? It would be an adventure." She climbed out of his arms and the blanket and stood, naked in the moonlight, feeling like Eve, like the first woman, like the only woman.

  "Careful of your ankle."

  She felt a twinge, adjusted her position, but lost her balance, tipping to the side.

  Nick dropped the tiller and caught her, chuckling, pulling her down to sit in his lap. "I think that's the tequila talking."

  "No, it's not. I'm not drunk. I'm serious. It'll be like Gilligan's Island—a three-hour cruise that goes on forever."

  Nick chuckled, but she saw joy dance in his eyes. He liked what she was saying.

  She tucked herself against his chest, and felt his laugh rumble in his chest, then the hard thump of his heart, safe and secure. It didn't matter about her business. She didn't have to fight it anymore. She had Nick and that was all that mattered. She felt herself drift away, relaxing, rocking in the boat in the water in Nick's arms…

  She was vaguely aware of being carried, then there was softness, a pillow that smelled of Old Spice and Nick, a kiss on her cheek and she drifted to sleep.

  Nick watched Miranda sleep for a few minutes. She looked like an exotic princess lying in his bed, her hair wild around her face. Without the makeup she looked so much better—real, not fake. No pretense, no act. Debbie used to insist she had to "put on her face," as if her real self had to be hidden. The idea knotted him up, because Debbie had put on a face for him. Maybe that was why seeing Miranda devote her life to that fakery bothered him so much. But Miranda wasn't Debbie. He knew that.

  Wouldn't it be great to just sail away? He smiled. Of course she didn't really want that, but he'd been surprised that the idea pleased him. When she wasn't arguing with him, Miranda made decent crew. She would learn how to handle the sails quickly, he was sure, once her ankle healed and she could move more freely.

  He shook his head at himself. Was he crazy? Miranda living on a boat? She'd hated the shower, and every time she came out of the head, she looked as if she never wanted to face the experience again. The truth lay in the words she'd said when they first arrived. For her, this was an adventure. For him it was a way of life.

  A way of life. Really? Miranda believed he knew his dream, but he wondered if freedom was truly all he wanted anymore. He'd enjoyed working on this case for her, as bizarre as it was. Not enough to want to go back to police work, but it had eased some of the hard feelings he'd carried for the year since getting shot.

  Being with Miranda had sparked things in him. Wants, desires. Being with her, he wanted more. More of what? Of her? Of life? Fine wine and books and art and music and conversation … what?

  Maybe it was just the sex. Yeah. He hadn't slept with anyone in months. Only a couple of casual things since that night with Miranda. And the sex they'd just had had been amazing—rich and real and intense. The way Miranda cried out in wonder, as if she couldn't believe it was possible to feel this good, the way her mouth seemed never to get enough of him, the way her eyes looked at him, really seeing him, and liking what she saw. The way she moved and moaned and quivered.

  Thinking of that made him hunger for her again. He was just crawling into bed to see if she was interested, when his cell phone rang.

  It was Charlie. He'd slipped into the apartment while Lilly was out to dinner and changed the videotape. Nothing unusual on the first tape. No intruders. Lilly had tsked over Miranda's carelessness with the cream on the counter, put it in the refrigerator, refiled the formula card. Very matter-of-fact.

  Hmm. Back to square one. Hanging up, Nick looked down at Miranda, peacefully asleep in his bed. She trusted him to solve this thing and he'd gotten nowhere so far.

  He lay down beside her, now too preoccupied with the case to make love. He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the light above him. He was sure Lilly was hiding something. Maybe she was just a good actress. Maybe she'd do something incriminating on the new tape. In the morning, he'd check out her rooms, see if he could find anything suspicious.

  Miranda made a soft sound, rolled over and rested her head on his chest.

  God, that felt good.

  The sounds of banging and rattling dragged Miranda to a reluctant consciousness the next morning. She moved her tongue in her mouth, which tasted like lighter fluid, and was so dry it felt packed full of cotton balls—used cotton balls. Tequila. One sip or a goldfish-bowl-size margarita, tequila always gave her a headache.

  She opened one eye. A beam of light from the hatch seemed to burn into it like a laser. She rolled away, banging her knee against the hull of the boat. "Ouch!" She was already bruised there from the phone booth of a shower stall.

  She sat up and opened one pain-heavy lid to see Nick shaking an omelette pan over the stove, wearing short white shorts and no shirt. She was in so much pain she almost couldn't appreciate how good he looked. "What's with the racket?" she asked grumpily.

  "Well, if it isn't Little Miss Sunshine," he said, grinning at her.

  "I'm not good in the morning," she said. "Plus, tequila gives me a headache."

  "Sorry." He set the omelette pan on the counter and covered it with a pie plate. Then he slid onto the mattress beside her, the movement making the boat sway. "Take it easy," she said, gripping the mattress to still the boat and her brain.

  "Good morning to you, too," he said wryly, reaching down to capture her mouth with a lusty kiss. She pushed him away. "My breath is terrible."

  He smiled and shrugged. "Morning breath. It happens. No big deal. It'll be gone in a moment." He sank to her mouth again.

  His breath, on the other hand, was nice—mint and coffee. And he must have showered, too, because he smelled fresh. She broke off the kiss. "I can at least brush my teeth."

  "No time. I've got just enough time to make love, eat breakfast and head back." He shoved his shorts off, then nuzzled her neck. "Mmm, you taste good."

  "You've got just enough time?" she said, trying to ignore what he was doing to her collarbone. "What about me? I'm going with you. Hmm." Arousal shot through her misery. "You don't want to do this. I'm all grimy."

  "Yeah, just the way I like you. Dirty," he said seductively, his hand sliding down her thigh and between her legs.

  "Oh … oh… Ohh."

  "I'll go back into town. You stay here where you're safe," he said, nipping at her belly with his
teeth as he slowly slid down her stomach.

  "I've got to get back to work," she managed to gasp, her fingers tangling in his hair.

  "You can work here."

  "No, oh, oh, oh, I can't." She could hardly think as his mouth reached her softest spot. She bucked up, abruptly climaxing.

  "Delicious," he said, sliding up to kiss her.

  "I wish I could shower for you," she whispered.

  "Why? You taste terrific. And you smell like you—and me—and sex. It's great."

  "But I want to be fresh for you."

  "Honey, I licked tequila off your toes last night. This is no time to get squeamish on me."

  She wanted to agree. She liked the taste and smell of sex, but just now she longed for freshness, not earthiness. Think how lovely it would be to be intimate under the pulsing stream of the overhead rainwater shower, and then in the silk sheets she'd spray with an aromatic sensuality mist. Maybe a session in the whirlpool tub with the jets in just the right places.

  He kissed her, his hands took their magic route and she began to move her hips against him. He slid inside, stretching the swollen needy parts of her, where she wanted him, hard and strong and shutting out everything else.

  His mouth was on her now, sucking at her tongue. He pushed into her and she threw her arms around him. Her elbow hit the side of the boat. She shifted, but she felt claustrophobic, closed in and barely able to breathe. She slid to the side.

  "Great idea," Nick murmured, and rolled over to pull her on top of him.

  She sat up slowly, aware of the ceiling just above her head, but at least in this position she could move her arms.

  Nick grasped her breasts, lifting himself further into her. She felt him there, deep within her, so deep, so right. For a second, the cramped space seemed okay. They were together, moving as one. His hips pushed her upward, and she rode him as the boat had ridden the lake the night before.

  Then her peripheral vision caught a movement, a flicker of something flying toward her. A huge, long-bodied insect—evil-looking, with two heads and a bunch of wings. It flew straight at her, collided with her arm, then looped away.

  "Ahh!" Miranda shrieked, and slid off Nick, banging her head against the roof. She saw stars as a sharp pain mixed with the dull throb of her headache.

  "What the hell—?" Nick said.

  She pointed at the menacing insect darting from one side of the boat to the other, her other hand clutching her aching head.

  "It's just a dragonfly," Nick said. "Hmm. Make that two dragonflies."

  The conjoined creatures swooped out of the cabin and she let out a breath.

  "They won't hurt you. They're busy doing what we were doing, only with more luck. You okay?" He rolled over to kiss her, but she leaned away.

  "No," she said, pain making her speak sharply. "I hit my head." She felt cranky. Her throat was scratchy, her head throbbed and she felt itchy and grimy. "It's so crowded. How do you stand it?"

  "We can work it out, sweetheart. I have some great ideas that don't require an inch of space we don't both already have." He traced his finger up her leg.

  "Not until the lump goes down." She rubbed the bump on her head.

  Nick stopped his fingers and studied her face, his gaze narrowing. "Okay. Maybe later." A flicker of disappointment and finality crossed his face.

  Panic fluttered in her, and she wanted to take back what she'd said. She seemed to have failed a test she didn't know she'd been given. "I'm sorry. I'm not myself, Nick. Let's get home, see that everything's fine, and we can get together under better circumstances."

  "Sure," he said, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. He turned away from her and grabbed his shorts. "Get yourself a pair of my gym shorts and a T-shirt from that drawer," he said, all business, "then come up to eat."

  She did as he suggested, then hopped into the tiny bathroom to brush her teeth. She was horrified at the woman looking back at her in the mirror. She looked haggard and pale, her hair matted and lifeless. How could Nick keep telling her she was beautiful? She was a wreck.

  Staring at herself, she remembered that in her sex-besotted euphoria, she'd told Nick she wanted to sail away from her life with him. What had she been thinking? She loved her life. And even if she didn't, this was the last place she'd want to be. In the sunlight, the boat looked cramped and smelled stuffy, of tired plastic—probably the hull—and dust and lake water. She couldn't stand more than a day in this tiny space, bumping her head on the ceiling, wearing grubby clothes. And the toilet. She shuddered.

  Once her teeth were brushed, she felt marginally better, and she put on Nick's shorts and T-shirt—huge on her—and limped up the stairs to the deck, where she humbly slid into place across from Nick at the small table.

  She noticed her silk dress—the one Nick had taken off her body just last night—crumpled in a ball in the corner of the deck, streaked with dirt, snagged in several places. A tired, earthy smell came from her body. She did not smell great, like Nick had claimed. She smelled like lake water. Her head hurt and every time she blinked, her eyes felt as if they'd been scraped with sandpaper.

  This morning, the lake looked not silvery and romantic as it had the night before, but cold and hard and unforgiving. And she would give anything for a real shower and a curling iron.

  Nick, on the other hand, was the picture of health. He seemed calm, awake, relaxed and content, though he didn't look at her as he poured her a cup of coffee, then set a plate with half an omelette on it before her. Her complaints had hurt his feelings.

  She was sorry. She was clearly a fish out of water on his boat. All she wanted was to be home.

  "Thanks," she said.

  "Force yourself to eat. It'll help your headache."

  Last night their souls had seemed intermingled, as if they'd been one person. Now they were strangers. Had the night's magic only been due to the desire to escape the case for a few hours, the amazing feeling of night sailing, the margaritas?

  She took a bite of egg, fought down the urge to gag. "Delicious," she said.

  He nodded, digging into his own food. "Charlie called last night. Nothing unusual. Maybe the new tape will show something. I want to look through Lilly's room, talk to her again, maybe talk to more of your neighbors."

  He seemed completely different. As if he'd put the previous night completely behind him. She helped him with the dishes, trying to remind herself how things had been just a few hours ago. Then she gathered up her wrecked evening gown, the stiff and dirty dress she'd fallen into the lake with, and her toothbrush and put them into her suitcase. She helped Nick load the dinghy with all the things she'd brought, then climbed in herself.

  "Got everything?" he asked.

  "Yes." Everything except you. He'd slipped away, like the wake behind the sailboat. There was no sign on his face that they'd rocked together, moaning each other's name, saying words of love. It's never been like this … don't stop. Don't ever stop…

  "I'm sorry I got so cranky, Nick," she said. "I'm just—"

  "Out of your element," he finished for her, then sat on the facing bench of the dinghy. "I know. We'll get you back to civilization and you'll feel better."

  "It's just that I—"

  "Look, last night was great. We both know we have a bad history with the morning after." He leaned forward, gave her a kiss. A warm, solid kiss that hinted at what they'd shared—that soul-opening, licking flame—but stopped short, as if to say No more. End of story.

  "Okay?" he said. Case closed.

  "Sure," she said, but unlike Nick, she still felt shaky.

  She knew it had been a special moment—a space in time they'd carved out for themselves. But there'd been more, hadn't there? That hadn't been just a tipsy fantasy, had it? She'd felt it in her heart, seen it on his face. But now it was gone.

  As the dinghy roared to life and they began to speed away from the boat, she felt tears spring to her eyes. Watching Nick's Lady fade into the distance, she'd give anything to have ano
ther night there, privations and all. She wanted another chance; she wanted to feel the way she'd felt before.

  Forget it. Why was she always making more of what was between them than there was? She turned away from Nick's Lady and concentrated on how glad she'd be to be home, where she could soak in a hot shower, dry off with her plush towels, nap on lovely silk sheets. That was what she wanted. That was where she belonged.

  * * *

  11

  « ^ »

  By the time they reached her apartment, Miranda was fully focused on the case and her work. It was safer than thinking about Nick and what might become of them. She would talk to Raul again, then call a distributor she knew who tracked the industry. Then she'd test two of the new rejuvenation samples on her face to compare results and check on how well the emulsification was holding up on the others.

  She hoped to slip into the elevator without anyone seeing how bedraggled she was, but Estelle Moody stood in the middle of the lobby.

  "My lord, look at you," she said, evaluating Miranda's hair like a mechanic examining a wrecked car. "Come on. This looks like an emergency."

  She didn't have time for anything fancy right now. "I'll have to call down and make an appointment, Estelle," she said. She didn't know when she'd have a chance though—not with the mystery looming before them.

  "Don't delay. You're risking split ends."

  They were about to go up in the elevator when a gruff voice called out, "Hold it!"

  Nick pushed the open button and Irene Faraday dragged Dexter into the elevator car. She looked Miranda up and down, then turned to Nick. "What have you done to this poor girl, Mr. Ryder? Love's supposed to make women beautiful, not wreck them."

  "I took a tumble in the lake," Miranda explained.

  "So now you dress like a homeless person? Gray is not your color. Plus the rats now? This is too much, Miranda."

  "They're mice, not rats, and how did you hear about that?"

  "Exterminators wandering up and down the halls all morning with fancy, schmancy traps, for one thing. I wouldn't mind, but Dexter, bless his cowardly heart, runs from squirrels."