Lipstick On His Collar

“I think so. I don’t know. But the guy might still be in there.”

That got him. He pushed past her into the room, pulling a gun from under his jacket as he went. She hadn’t even detected the bulge. Guns scared her, but for the moment she was glad Nick held one in his big, capable hands.

“Is there another outside door?” he snapped.

“At the far end of the apartment.”

He nodded and entered the foyer, holding the gun down with both hands. “Stay here.” He shot her a commanding glance, then moved forward.

Of course she followed. She didn’t think about it. She just did it.

Nick moved with bent knees, pivoting as he swept his gun in an arc across the visible space—foyer, living room, dining room. When he started toward the kitchen, she hissed, “He’s not there.”

Nick spun toward her, evidently startled by her voice. “I told you to wait outside.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He shook his head as if she were impossible.

“He’s got to be this way.” She pointed down the other hall.

Nick went where she indicated.

Miranda followed, feeling like she was in an episode of NYPD Blue, except there was no reassuring soundtrack or backup cops. This was real, not prime time. Her heart thudded in her chest.

They reached the first guest room, its door ajar. Nick leaned back, kicked it open, then lunged inside in the gun-ready position. Miranda heard a tearing sound and noticed the seam of his pants had split down the middle of his muscled behind, revealing a sliver of black silk boxers. “Damn,” he muttered, then moved forward a step. She followed, but he turned unexpectedly and she ran smack into his chest.

“For God’s sake, stay back!” he whispered.

“Okay, okay,” she said, backing up.

“Anything look disturbed?”

The room looked as peaceful and inviting as ever, in shades of pink and cream with floral accents. She breathed in the New England vanilla-lilac medley potpourri she’d chosen to match the room’s ambiance. “No. He wasn’t in here. I can feel it.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “What, you’re psychic now?”

She ignored the sarcasm, and went with him to check the other guest room, the guest bath, the den and the library, which all seemed untouched.

Upstairs, they looked through the master suite. Then Miranda unlocked Lilly’s rooms—bedroom, sitting room and bath. Nothing seemed amiss.

“No one’s been here,” Nick said.

“We missed the office downstairs.” She led him there and he gave it a cursory look, then holstered his gun. “If anyone was ever here, he’s gone now.”

“If? Of course someone’s been here. I can feel it.” The hairs on the back of her neck still stood up. “Come with me, and I’ll prove it.”

She led him into her lab kitchen, to the open cupboard where her formula box rested. “This has been disturbed.”

“He was stealing your recipes?”

“Exactly,” she said, then noticed his grin. “Recipes for my cosmetics, Nick, not Grandma’s pumpkin pie. And for your information they are very valuable. Cosmetics are lucrative. Our competitors would very much like to get their hands on my formulas.”

“So you keep them in the kitchen?”

“This is my lab, too, and they’re hidden in plain sight. No one but my assistant Lilly knows they’re here.” Of course, Lilly always nagged her to put them in the safe, a recommendation she ignored. “Who would expect them to be here, anyway? Industry spies would focus on our corporate offices.” Which was why she kept her products away from there, arranging clinical tests at an obscure lab, and never discussed her work with colleagues.

How could this have happened? Obviously, she’d been overconfident. “I lost the key to the box a couple of weeks ago, so I had to pry it open.” That had made it even easier on the robber.

Miranda flipped through the cards in the box. Everything seemed to be there, including her latest completed formulas. Had the thief been interrupted before he could steal anything? Or was he looking for something else? Maybe her preliminary samples? She hurried to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and yanked open the heavy door. The comforting scent of herbs billowed out.

Nick, at her side, made a face. “Why does your refrigerator smell like Ben-Gay?”

“That’s mint and eucalyptus,” she explained, shifting the jars and tubes on the shelves. The fresh herb containers seemed fine, except…was that lid loose? She looked more closely. “I think I’m missing some vanilla beans,” she said, “and the dried lavender seems low….” It was hard to tell, but she felt sure the containers had been handled.

Nick looked skeptical.

“You think I just imagined this, don’t you?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure you wouldn’t drag me in here just for the adrenaline rush,” he said, but she could tell that was exactly what he thought. “We can report this, but I don’t think the police will be too gung ho about chasing down a guy with a pocketful of spice and some dried flowers. Unless you can smoke it, snort it or shoot it. Can you?”

“Of course not. And I don’t appreciate your making jokes.”

“Sorry. Just easing the tension. Why don’t you check your valuables? Maybe something has been stolen.”

Miranda looked up from her search through the refrigerator and glared at him. “My formulas are the most valuable thing I own. Just forget it, okay? I’ll deal with this myself.”

“If it makes you feel better, we can call the precinct.”

“I’m sure the police won’t take this any more seriously than you. The people after my formulas are not your standard criminals anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” She saw he was holding back a smile. On top of everything else, now Nick thought she was a nut case.

“You probably have more important things to do downstairs.”

“Right.” He touched his cap again. “So many doors to open, so little time.” He smiled his crooked smile, then headed for the front door.

She followed him.

His hand on the knob, he turned to her. “If something happens, Miranda, call me.”

“Something did happen. You just don’t believe me.” She paused. She wasn’t showing much gratitude. Nick had leaped to her rescue, no questions asked. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Lilly was looking for a formula for some reason before she left. Thanks for checking, Nick.”

Nick’s face softened. “Call me if you need me. Really.” He touched her arm, and she felt the heat clear to her toes. He walked away and she couldn’t take her eyes off him as he stepped into the elevator and turned to face her. Please stay, she thought desperately as she waggled her fingers in farewell.

Be brave, she told herself after he’d gone. Maybe this was all in her head. To banish the prickling sensation that still crawled up her spine, she focused on the totes on the kitchen counter, unzipping the first. Dry-ice vapor swooshed out, then crawled like a low fog along the counter.

She pulled out a container of chili blossoms, then put the rest and the bottles of essential oils into her supercooled refrigerator. From the bottom shelf, she extracted three sample jars of creams she’d use as a base to test varying concentrations.

The chamomile from Germany should have arrived by now, she thought. When was the courier truck due? She decided to check the order date, so she padded down the hall to the office, wondering what possible reason Lilly would have had to go through the cupboards.

Lost in thought, Miranda opened the office door…and ran smack dab into a skinny man. She shrieked. He shrieked.

He was only a kid—barely out of his teens—and scrawny, with bloodshot eyes in a pale, hawkish face. He pushed roughly past her, and she caught a flash of a tattoo on one arm, a sweat-stained muscle shirt and tattered jeans. She also noticed he had on latex gloves like her dentist wore and held a backpack. A backpack that probably contained whatever he’d stolen from her.

Without thinking she grabbed for it, catching a strap and yanking hard.

The kid swore and twisted the pack so that the straps tightened on Miranda’s fingers.

She yelped and let go.

The kid ran down the hall, and Miranda chased after him. Somewhere inside, she knew this was insane—another case of leaping before she looked—but by then she was close enough to try for a tackle.

She lunged, grabbed, and the kid thudded onto the polished wood of the hallway. Miranda’s nylons made her slide, so she lost her balance and twisted her ankle before she landed on him, her jaw slamming onto his jeans-clad legs. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth—she’d bitten her tongue—but she ignored the pain and held tight to the kid’s legs, which smelled of motor oil and sweat.

Though slight, he turned out to be wiry, and he twisted and kicked against her arms. Afraid of what he’d do to her once he got free, Miranda held on for dear life. The back of his thigh bumped her jaw again. “Ow!” she yelped, tasting more blood. “Ho still, will ya?” Her hurt tongue made it hard to talk.

“Let go, for chrissake,” the kid said, practically whining.

“Gib me back wha you took!” Miranda wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer, she could tell. She needed help. They were in the hallway and the apartment walls were so thick no one could hear, but she shouted anyway. “Help!”

At the sound, the thief gave a powerful lunge and slipped from her arms. She grabbed at his leg, but all she ended up with was a sneaker. She dropped it and made a last grab at the backpack, but he kicked her off, connecting with her eye, and scrambled to his feet.

Dazed, Miranda fell back. Her head spun and her eye throbbed. This kind of thing looked a lot less painful in the movies. She shook her head to clear it, ignored her aching eye and struggled to her feet. She ran after the kid in a hip-hop gallop that favored her twisted ankle. She knew she should stop—it hurt like crazy and this was foolhardy and dangerous—but she was running on impulse and couldn’t stop herself.

In the entryway, the kid tripped on the marble step. As he stumbled, his backpack knocked the Chinese vase full of roses to the floor. It shattered noisily.

But the kid’s slip gave Miranda a chance to grab one leg. He kicked at her with the other, whacking her other eye. That did it. She bit the back of his leg through the jeans.

He swore.

There was a knock at the door and the thief froze.

Relief flooded Miranda. “Help!” she yelled.

“Miranda?” Nick. How had he known?

“Help!” she shouted again, listening to Nick try the door. At the same time, with a burst of terrified jerks and a sharp kick to Miranda’s solar plexus, the thief broke free. While she gasped for breath, he scrambled to his feet, his one sneaker squeaking against the marble, threw the backpack strap over his shoulder, and took off toward the back of the apartment and the other door, no doubt.

Miranda was doubled up, gasping for air, when the front door flew open. Clearly, Nick had used his master key.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He’s…that…way,” she managed, pointing down the hall, still lying down.

“Are you all right?” He squatted beside her and helped her sit up, his eyes sweeping her face.

“Go…get him….” She gasped for air. “Quick.” She pointed down the hall.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Knocked…my breath. Just go!”

Finally he seemed to grasp what she meant, pulled his gun and took off down her hall.

Dizzy and aching, Miranda rested her cheek on the entry step while she waited for Nick to nab the thief. Through the open door, she saw a tumble of FedEx boxes. Nick must have been bringing them to her. Looked like the chamomile had arrived.

The marble felt cool on Miranda’s bruised cheek as she lay on the foyer floor, watching water drip from the broken vase near her ear, trying to stop the room from spinning. Her breathing gradually slowed and the adrenaline that had kept her fighting drained away like air from a balloon, leaving her shaky and in pain. Her ankle throbbed, her face ached, her lip was fat as a sausage, and she tasted blood where she’d bitten her tongue.

Gingerly she touched the bruise around her right eye, then raised up enough to see that her ankle was swelling. Hand-to-hand combat wasn’t as easy breezy as it looked on TV, that was for sure.

Woozy with pain, and so dizzy she had to keep closing her eyes, Miranda distracted herself by planning what she’d say to the guy when Nick dragged him back. Boy, would she give him a piece of her mind! How had they missed him in their search? He must have been in the study closet. What was in that backpack? Had he gotten into the safe? Her head felt as though it would explode with pain and worry.

A few seconds later Nick was back.

“Did you catch him?” she asked, trying to sit up.

Nick sank to the floor beside her and helped her up. “You’re hurt, dammit!” His eyes searched her face, worried and angry, and his jaw muscle twitched. “You said you just got the wind knocked out.”

“I’m fine. Did you catch him?”

“Besides your face, where else are you hurt?”

“I got kicked in the stomach, and I twisted my ankle,” she said, light-headedness making it hard to think. Why wasn’t he getting to the point? “Did…you…catch…him?”

“No. He got away. I checked the stairwells and as many floors as I could. Are you bleeding?”

“No, please! I’m okay.” The pain intensified when she raised her voice, so she whispered, “I can’t believe he escaped.”

“I can’t believe I missed him when I searched,” Nick said. His jaw muscle ticked again.

“He was probably in the closet in the study. It’s a walk-in. We keep supplies in there.”

“I’m sorry, Miranda. By not taking this seriously, I put you in danger.” He frowned fiercely, looking so angry at himself that her earlier irritation at his cavalier attitude melted away.

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I blew it. That was piss-poor police work. You could have been killed.” He spoke through gritted teeth, and he looked as if he wanted to punch through the wall.

“But I wasn’t,” she said gently. “It’s all right. Really.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get the guy,” he said, his eyes so fierce he almost scared her. “I called the precinct. They’re sending out two detectives.”

“You called the police? Why’d you do that?”

“Someone broke into your home.”

“Can’t we keep this quiet?”

“What are you talking about?”

“My family name is well-known and if a crime reporter decides to do a story on this it won’t be good. It’ll upset my family—and they want me to move out of the Palm View anyway. Plus, if he was after my formulas, I don’t want my competitors to know.”

“The guy attacked you, for God’s sake.”

“Actually, I attacked him.”

“You what?”

“I tackled him.”

Nick crooked an eyebrow at her. “Really? You tackled him?”

“He wasn’t that big…and he had my stuff.”

“Then he punched you in the mouth?”

“Not exactly. When we hit the floor, I bumped my mouth on his legs and bit myself.”

“And your eyes?”

“He accidentally kicked me trying to get away.”

“Oh, I see.” Nick hid a grin. “You’re telling me the guy hurt you in self-defense?”

“Pretty much.” Miranda smiled sheepishly.

“And the ankle?”

“My nylons were slippery.”

“I see.” Nick shook his head. “I can’t believe you went after him. Very risky, Miranda.” He sounded stern, but she read admiration in his dark eyes, and it made her feel warm all over.

“Nah. I knew I could take him. He was skinny.” She tried to sound cocky, but a shiver shook her. He could have had a gun in that backpack. “I just acted on—”

“Impulse, right?” He nodded slowly. “I remember.”

Impulse was what had made her burst into the Backstreet and throw herself at Nick. She pushed away that embarrassment. She had enough to worry about now.

“You’re gonna have quite a shiner,” Nick said, studying the right side of her face. He sounded almost proud. He tilted his head to check out her other side. “Two of ’em. Hmm. What about the other guy? You leave any marks?”

“None that will show. I only bit him on the inside of his knee.”

“A shame.”

“Might need a tetanus shot,” she added hopefully.

“Well, at least that.” Nick chuckled, a low sound that, in spite of everything, thrummed through her. “Looks like you’ve got the guts to back up your impulses. Let me see.” He probed the swelling around her ankle.

“Ouch! Quit it!”

“Probably a torn ligament,” he concluded. “I’ll take you for an X ray to be sure it’s not broken.”

“Let’s not. Let’s just put some ice on it.”

“What’s with you, Miranda? No police, no hospital. You need some help here.”

“I’ll be fine. You said yourself it’s probably not broken. Spending hours in an emergency room would be a waste of time. I have a deadline to meet.”

“We’ll ice it down, and if the swelling reduces, all right. But you’re staying off your feet. I’ll get the ice.”

Nick stood, and she noticed the split seam in his pants had widened. Yep. Black silk boxers with a faint Oriental pattern. “Looks like you’re coming apart at the seams.”

He reached behind him. “Damn,” he said. “Charlie’s uniform’s gonna need a major overhaul before I give it back. I lost the stupid cap somewhere on the stairs chasing this guy.”

“We’re both a mess,” Miranda said, smiling up at him. “Thanks for not taking me to the hospital.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, “but I’m sure as hell not going there with my butt hanging out.” He turned and headed down the hall, not even bothering to hold the split seam closed over his great backside.

The nurses’ loss, she thought, feeling a feminine twinge even through her pain. His heavy tread on her wooden floor comforted her.

3

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Nick was back, carrying a plastic bag of ice and a plate with two steaks Lilly had bought. “Don’t you ever eat solid food?” he asked her. “Besides these, all you have in your refrigerator are fruit, bottles of oil with weeds in them, powders and jars of cream.”

“I eat takeout usually, if that matters. And, what’s with the steaks? Chasing criminals makes you crave red meat?”

“They’re for you. Nothing like a fresh steak to keep down bruising.” He squatted beside her and held out a hunk of meat.

She stopped his hand. “You expect me to put raw beef on my eyes?”

“Relax. It will stop some of the swelling.”

She sighed and let him place one steak over her right eye and the other against her left cheekbone.

“Now hold these in place.”

She did it—this close up, Nick was hard to argue with. “I have some cream that will repair the cell damage more effectively, you know,” she said, watching out of the uncovered eye as he shaped the ice pack into a tight ball. His hands were so strong, so sure….

Nick set the ice bag on her ankle.

“Ow! Yow! God, that hurts!”

“It’ll settle down in a minute.”

“I prefer the sprain, thank you. Ouch. Ooh.”

“What a cranky patient you are. I bet you’re hell on wheels with a cold. Where do you keep the aspirin?”

“In the medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” she said grumpily. As he set off, she called out, “Bring me the Restorix, please. The triangular jar. I hate wasting good steak.” She felt like a fool holding raw meat to her face, but it did soothe the sting. She closed her eyes and breathed in the beefy smell.

Nick returned, and she exchanged the steak eye patches for pills and water. “Aspirin with codeine,” he said. “Stronger.”

“From my wisdom tooth extraction. But I’ll get sleepy.”

“Sleepy is good. Take them,” he commanded. “Your ankle’s going to hurt.”

“I have work to do.”

“Forget work. You’re going to rest if I have to tie you to the bed.”

She stopped, the suggestive image more than her jangled nerves could bear.

“Anyway, first aid for a strain is RICE—rest, ice, compression and elevation. You need to get your foot up.”

“Who needs the hospital when I’ve got Dr. Nick.” She sighed and took the pills, then handed him the water glass and reached for the Restorix he’d also brought.

“Allow me,” he said. He unscrewed the lid and scooped some cream with an index finger, which he began to apply to her face. “You may have a point about this being better. Raw beef does draw flies.”

She smiled and held her breath while he feathered the cool cream along her cheekbones and eyelids. His touch was so gentle she softened all over. She couldn’t help but look into his face as he worked. In this light, his irises were velvet brown, his pupils wide and black. The crinkles at the edges of his eyes made him look wise and wicked. Her gaze drifted downward, following the strong line of his cheek to a barely visible hair-thin scar along his jaw—a striking outline of his face that made him look dangerous. And sexy as hell. When she’d picked him out at the Backstreet, she’d had an incredibly good eye.

“There,” he said, admiring his handiwork.

“Thanks,” she breathed.

His gaze held hers. “How’s the pain?”

“Better. I guess I’m lucky the robber didn’t stick around. Who knows what more damage I could have done to myself.”

“Bingo.”

“How did he get into my apartment, anyway?” she asked to give him something policelike to do.

Nick looked up at her door from where they sat on the foyer step. “That’s no trick. Credit card on the latch will do the job in five seconds. You have no dead bolt. Bad idea.”

“This building is very safe,” she argued. “I mean we have a security guard—” She stopped, realizing how he might take that.

Nick flinched, then forced a smile. “That would be me, see. I don’t know how he got past me in the lobby.” His brows knit in thought. “The elevator jammed this morning. Maybe he came in during the confusion with the fire crew.”

“He was in my home. It’s so creepy…” Miranda said slowly, her heart going cold as what had happened began to sink in. The thug had sneaked into her apartment, touched her things, probably taken items, and listened while she and Nick searched the place. Picturing that, fear rose like a wave inside her.

“You feel violated,” Nick said. “That’s normal. But don’t worry. We’ll get this guy.”

But she hardly heard him because the moments with the punk were coming alive in her head. Again she tasted the stiff denim of his jeans, the blood in her mouth. She felt his legs as he’d struggled in her arms, the terror that he’d get free and hurt her. Again the odor of motor oil and dirt filled her nose. She could hardly breathe for the wash of feeling.

She looked at Nick, hoping he could pull her out of the memory. “I—I—” She couldn’t get the words out. “Oh…oh, dear.” Then she just burst into tears.

“Ah, Miranda.” Nick pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “It’s okay,” he said, rocking her, his voice a soothing rumble in her ear. He patted her back.

“I’m s-s-sorrry,” she said between sobs. “I think I’m just t-t-tired.”

“Cry it out. It’s all right.”

His arms felt as comforting and familiar as a dear friend’s. Pressed against his chest, she could hear his steady heartbeat—maybe a little faster than normal. He smelled of wool and clean sweat and some old-fashioned aftershave.

She breathed it all in, let herself rest in his arms. Gradually her fear subsided, along with the pain in her leg and face. Then she felt embarrassed to be huddled against him, so she pulled away. “I’m acting like a baby.”

“Nah. This is scary stuff.”

“I’m glad you were here, Nick.”

“Hell, you didn’t need me. In another minute, you’d have had him hog-tied in your nylons, begging for mercy.”

“Anyone else would have done the same.”

“No. Believe me, they wouldn’t. You’re unique.” He shook his head as if that weren’t entirely a good thing. “Anyway,” he sighed, “the cops in this precinct are good. They’ll get him. He’s probably a junkie after whatever he could grab.”