Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins
but instead he did what she wanted. He told her about himself.
It was that or kiss those lips she was aiming his way, and that would be stupid. Real stupid. He suddenly wished he’d heeded that car alarm and beat it out of there when he first saw her. Too late now.
“Well,” he said on a sigh, “I’m a cop.”
“A cop?” Her sharply tweezed brows shot up and she lifted her head from her fist. “How interesting.”
“I guess.” He watched her fit him to her image of a cop—a blue-collar guy who saw the world in terms of right or wrong, legal or illegal, with no shades of gray. Pretty close, except he had the urge to tell her he had a minor in art history. But what was the point? He’d never see her again.
“You do look dangerous,” she said. “Except for your eyes. Your eyes are kind.” Then she reached to cup his cheek. It was the merest touch—her fingers barely made contact before they withdrew—but it was electric. Nick felt welded in place—and insanely glad Miranda liked his eyes. It was nuts. He was like a sap in some movie with too many violins.
“So, what’s it like being a cop?”
“What’s it like?” He cleared his throat and told her. Just to distract himself from all that voluptuous woman close enough that he could inhale her exhale.
He talked about the adrenaline of a chase, the satisfaction of taking down the bad guys. He told her what got him up in the morning, what kept him awake at night, about cases he was proud of, and the ones that got him down.
He kept talking, telling her more than he’d ever told anyone. He didn’t know why. Maybe because her green eyes were steady and smart, really interested, not calculating like Debbie’s had been. He hadn’t caught on to that about Debbie at the time. He tended to miss important stuff when he got hooked on a woman. A lesson he’d vowed never to repeat.
While he talked, he kept Miranda from ordering another drink. She was tipsy but not hammered, which ought to be enough for this night.
“What about you?” he said. “Tell me about yourself. What do you do?” A woman like her didn’t need to do anything except be beautiful. Arm candy, wasn’t that what they called it? Except, she seemed different. There was purpose on her face, determination in her eyes.
“Me? There’s not much to tell, really.” She looked into his face. “I’d rather not talk—or think—about me, if that’s okay.” She dropped her gaze.
He knew she was thinking about the ass she’d just broken up with. “Listen to me,” Nick said, lifting her chin so he could look into her eyes. “Any man who would tell you you’re sexless is blind, crazy or made of stone.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Really?” Her tone was both miserable and hopeful.
“Really.”
“Well, thanks for saying so.”
Her fiancé obviously had shot her self-confidence full of holes. Nick could fix that. Easy. With the truth. “Look at me.”
Her gaze shot to his.
“I can hardly keep my hands off you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes went wide, her face pink. She whispered, “Thank God,” and surprised him by leaning over and kissing him. Everything in him rose to take her in—her lips, her smell, the sweet woman taste of her.
She wobbled a little against him, reminding him she’d had a substantial amount to drink. Did she know what she was doing? If he kissed her back, he wouldn’t want to stop. Even if she didn’t want to make up with her horse’s ass of a fiancé, she didn’t strike him as a one-night-stand kind of woman.
He broke off the kiss. “I think this might constitute real stupid,” he said hoarsely.
“Oh.” She blinked, then stared at him, her face flushing as red as her dress. “You’re right. Of course.” She pushed at her hair, glanced at her diamond watch. “Look at the time. I should be going.” She jumped up, bumping the table with her knee in her haste. “Thanks for the talk, Nick. It helped. A lot.” She fumbled in her purse, then slapped a bill on the table. A fifty. Excessive. Like the woman.
Except, before she escaped, he caught hurt on her face. She thought he didn’t want her. He couldn’t stand for her to think that. He also couldn’t stand the fact that she was walking out of his life. He didn’t even know her last name….
So he went after her. He found her walking un-steadily down the sidewalk, crying, and he knew what he had to do. “Miranda,” he said.
She turned to him. The streetlight gave her a bronze sheen like the statue of a goddess.
He cut the distance between them, yanked her into his arms and kissed her hard.
She made a little sound of relief and desire and kissed him back. Their teeth collided, their tongues connected, frantic to make up for lost time. He held her so tightly he could tell she could hardly draw breath. Heat burned between them.
Somewhere the car alarm started up its rhythmic honking, but he could barely hear it for the lust screaming through him like a train through a tunnel.
After a few minutes of frenzied kissing, Miranda panted in his ear. “Please take me somewhere. Now.”
Beep…beep…beep…The car alarm bleated.
Shut up, he mentally told it. Some things you couldn’t fight. Fire shot along his veins and collected in flames below his belt. “You sure?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.
“Yes. Make love to me.” Her eyes were steady, glazed with lust, but sober enough. And absolutely determined.
Who was he to say no to a lady?
They headed for the Crowne Plaza just around the corner. In the elevator up to their room, he clutched her trembling body to him, sheltering her. She fit so perfectly he forgot for a second that she didn’t belong in his arms. He felt responsible for her, as if it were his job to watch over her like some kind of guardian angel. It was eerie, and she seemed to feel it, too, melting against him as though she craved his protection.
Then she raised eyes hot with desire, and he saw she wanted more from him than protection. Lust pumped through him in thick surges.
The night was incredible. Like a fever dream they both were having. He felt he’d known her body—and her—forever. Maybe it was because they’d shared the experience of being betrayed. Maybe it was just chemistry. Maybe it was alcohol. He wasn’t sure, but he had to know more.
In the pink light of dawn, sated and exhausted, he sent her home in a cab. She’d made him swear to phone her.
But when he did, she wouldn’t take his call.
1
One year later
“YOU LOOK LIKE a dork in that suit,” the kid said, squinting up at Nick, who held the door for him and his mother.
The kid was right. Nick felt like a circus gorilla in the too-small doorman’s uniform. The epaulets rode close to his neck, his arms hung below the gold-braided cuffs, and the hat sat like a kid-die sailor cap on his head.
“That’s not nice, Rickie,” the mother said, flushing. “How is Charlie?”
It was Charlie’s uniform Nick was wearing. “Better. He’s recovering fine.”
“That’s good. I was so sorry to hear about his appendix. Will he be back soon?”
“Three more days.” Not soon enough for Nick, who couldn’t wait to get out of this clown suit and back to his boat on the lake. Charlie, his friend and former squad mate, had asked him to fill in as security at the Palm View Apartments while