Contents:

Prologue

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© 2002

Prologue

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When the woman in red burst through the door, everything at the Backstreet Bar stopped dead—the talking, the drinking, the smoking. And Nick Ryder's heart. For a second, anyway.

Women rarely came to the Backstreet, and never alone, and this was one hot woman. Her red dress hugged curves all the way to her spiked heels, and a diamond necklace sizzled around her neck. She stood there, breathing hard, her black hair a mane around her face, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, while everyone stared—the off-duty cops at the tables, the regulars at the bar, even the guy about to kiss the seven into the corner pocket.

What the hell she was doing here, Nick couldn't imagine. The Backstreet was a great place to throw back a brew with his squad mates at the end of a shift—dark and quiet, with a well-worn bar and a beat-up jukebox that only played blues—but to a woman like her, the place would be a dive.

She seemed to realize that and was turning for the door, when her gaze hit him square in the face. She paused, a smile flickered, then she headed straight for him. Had to be the reassuring look women claimed he had. The protect-and-serve thing had gone bone deep, he guessed.

She looked like trouble. Expensive trouble. But watching the tissue-thin dress slide over her breasts, hips and long, long legs, he thought, What the hell. He didn't have anything else to do tonight except play pool, and he could always play pool.

For a second he thought he heard bells, but it was just a car alarm outside.

The lady in red slid onto the stool beside him, her perfume overpowering the mist of beer, ancient nachos and cigar smoke that wreathed the place, gave him a sad smile, then took a breath so shaky he had the urge to pat her. Instead, he tipped his beer mug in salute and smiled.

She accepted the gesture, then turned her attention to Ben, the bartender, who sliced Nick a look—what have we here?—before saying to her, "What'll it be, ma'am?"

"A Santiago martini, please."

"Say what?"

"Just a martini. Very dry. No olives, onions or twist. Float a few ice slivers, and be sure the glass is cold."

"Comin' right up." Ben shot Nick a look. High maintenance.

When the drink arrived, she took it straight down like medicine, then gasped, pounding the bar with an open palm so that glasses rattled all the way along the mahogany counter. Nice nails, Nick noticed. Perfectly squared with a white edge. French, he thought, was the style. His ex had gone for the high-end stuff, too. On this woman, high-end seemed like minimum basic requirements.

"You okay?" Nick asked. He handed her a napkin to wipe her eyes, which had watered from the gin. They were puffy, too, so he knew she'd been crying.

"Thanks." She dabbed under each eye.

"Name's Nick," he said.

She zeroed in on him for a long moment. "Miranda," she finally said.

"Nice name." His peripheral vision caught Ben rolling his eyes, so he shot him an up-yours look, then focused on Miranda.

She lifted her glass at Ben, who was pretending to be drying glasses while he eavesdropped. "Another one of these, please." She turned back to Nick. "Nick's a good name." She pondered his face. "Solid … masculine … dependable."

What the hell could he say to that? "My mother liked it."

As soon as Ben delivered the martini, ice slivers and all, Miranda tapped it against Nick's mug. "Cheers, Nick," she said, then gulped the drink. She gasped once, then blinked hard. "Whew."

"You're tossing those back awful fast."

"No kidding."

His curiosity got the better of him. "So, what's the deal?"

She turned her body toward him, nailed him with a look. "Tell me something, Nick. Do I strike you as sexless?"

It was his turn to choke on his drink.

"I mean, do I seem like a woman who doesn't like sex?"

This was a minefield Nick didn't care to stumble through. "I wouldn't know about that."

"I like sex as much as the next woman," she declared, though she didn't sound convinced. She looked him over, making every muscle in his body tighten. "Like, for example, I could see myself having sex with you—no problem."

"Glad to hear it," he said. He heard Ben snort. Okay, real lame, but, hell, how was he supposed to respond? Your place or mine?

"Theoretically, of course," she said.

"Oh, of course." His parts eased a bit.

Miranda swiveled back to the bar. "Hit me again," she said, clinking her glass on the counter. She was oddly blunt for a woman so obviously refined. That made him smile and intrigued him a little.

"You might want to let the first two breathe," Nick warned. "Straight gin packs a wallop."

"I certainly hope so."

Still, Nick caught Ben's eye to make sure he would dilute the drink. Otherwise, Miranda would be throwing up her guts in the bar's less-than-elegant john, and it would be a shame to ruin that incredible dress. He could practically see the texture of her skin through the fabric.

"What brings you to the Backstreet?" he asked. She stood out in this place like a Ferrari Testerosa in a Kmart parking lot. Her dress was designer, her hair perfect, her makeup as artful as a model's, and the diamonds she wore flashed the myriad prisms of the real deal. Pure class. In fact, she was exactly the kind of pampered female he had no interest in—the kind his ex-wife Debbie had aspired to be but couldn't manage on Nick's salary.

"It was handy," she said, shrugging.

"You seem a little overdressed for this place is all." She wasn't a suspect he was interrogating, but he had to figure her out.

"I was somewhere more formal, and I—" She glanced at him but couldn't meet his eyes. "I got some bad news, so I had to get away. I just came in. On impulse."

"Impulse, huh?"

"Yeah. I tend to jump into things without thinking, and then regret it later." She looked sad, but not down for the count.

"How about now? You gonna regret this?" The words came softer than he'd intended, but her shaky bravery got to him.

She looked at him for a long, silent minute. "No," she said finally. "Not this time."

Her words cracked his customary cool and he said what he felt. "I'm glad."

She flashed him a smile so bright it hurt, and he wanted more—more smiles, more Miranda. The urge to help her gripped him like a fist.

Just then, Ben set the watered-down drink in front of her, offering a welcome distraction. She lifted the glass, tapped it against Nick's stein, then chugged it, immediately motioning to Ben for another. "They always water their drinks?" she muttered to Nick.

Nick winced. "How about if you let the third one percolate?"

She seemed to consider his words, how she felt, then nodded slowly. "We'll see."

"Care to share the bad news?"

"Oh, that." Miranda's smile slipped, and she snatched her lip between her teeth before she continued. "Let's just say I'm no longer engaged." She tossed back her hair, sending a wave of dense perfume his way.

"I see. And I'm guessing it wasn't your idea?"

"Oh, it was my idea, all right," she said, but she stared at a wet spot on the bar.

"But you had no choice."

She looked up. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"Nah. I've just been there before," he said. "I got divorced a few months back." What was this, true confession?

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Turned out we wanted different things." He'd wanted a quiet life with her, she'd wanted an ambitious assistant to the mayor, a fact he'd learned when he found them in bed. His bed.

"Exactly," she said, almost as if she'd read his mind. "Then you know how I feel." She lifted her just-arrived martini to her lips. Their eyes met over it.

"All I can say is … his loss," Nick said.

"That's kind of you, but I don't think he'll even notice." Then she studied his face. "Can I ask you a favor, Nick?"

Uh-oh. "Sure."

"Keep me company while I get drunk? Make sure I don't do anything really stupid?" Tears made her eyes shine.

"I'd be honored." He held out his hand to shake on it. Hers was warm and slender. He felt a jolt.

She must have had a similar sensation because her eyes went wide, then smoky.

Heat began to pump through him as his body went on automatic pilot. How about sex? Would that be really stupid?

"Let's sit over there and talk," he said, motioning toward a back booth, away from Ben's snorts and the curious eyes of Nick's squad mates.

Talk? Him? The guy who lived for the quiet of a moonlit sail? The guy whose ex-wife had accused him of giving her the silent treatment? What was he thinking?

She nodded, then stood, wobbling a little, so he took her arm. He guided her to a booth, where she sat beside him—and too close—wiggling her bottom on the seat with such natural sensuality he felt it clear to his bones.

She turned toward him, resting her elbow on the table, her head on her fist in a way that made her breasts swell upward from her dipped neckline, and said, "So, tell me about yourself."

With all the alcohol bubbling in her bloodstream, Nick knew that what he ought to do was send Miranda back to her pricey neighborhood in a cab, 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 unsteadily 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

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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 kiddie 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 he recovered from surgery, and Nick had been happy to help—Charlie had been his training officer when he'd entered the academy.

Besides, the job was simple—accept packages, valet-park cars, carry groceries, fetch the maintenance man when the elevator jammed, as it had earlier that morning, and generally keep an eye on things for the well-heeled seniors, impatient executives and handful of families who inhabited the building.

If it weren't for the uniform Charlie had neglected to tell Nick he had to wear, it would be only mildly humiliating work for a guy who'd busted some dangerous drug dealers in his day.

Now this kid stared at him like an exhibit in a wax museum.

"Got any homework, son?" he asked, to give him something else to think about.

"Uh, well…" The kid glanced at his mother.

Gotcha.

The woman blinked at her son. "Actually, now that you mention it, you do have a report, don't you, Rickie? On the Sudan? You had better get right on it. Before TV."

"Aw, Mom," Rickie groaned.

"Gotta do your schoolwork, son," Nick said with a wink. "You don't want to end up just a doorman like me, do you?"

Rickie rolled his eyes.

The woman turned to Nick and smiled. "Thanks, Mr.—?"

"Ryder. But call me Nick."

"I'm Nadine Morris … Nick," she said, letting her eyes drift over his body. She held on to his name, flirting with him. She was pretty, but she wore too much makeup. Why women had to slather on that goop was beyond him. No ring. Divorced, no doubt.

"I'm just filling in for Charlie. Doing what he'd do."

"Well, you certainly fill out his uniform."

"I do my best," he said neutrally. Even if he was attracted to the woman, he couldn't take her up on the offer in her eyes. She'd want more than a brief affair—she had a kid, after all—and he was leaving for the Coast as soon as he could.

She kept smiling at him until her son dragged her toward the elevator.

Nick stayed outside for a minute, delaying his encounter with the fumes from the ground-floor hair salon. Why the EPA didn't set restrictions on hair spray like they did auto emissions, he'd never know.

He glanced up at the art deco facade of the Palm View Apartments—one of Phoenix's few old-fashioned downtown apartment buildings. Most had been torn down and rebuilt as office buildings or gone condo. The sun seemed too hot for early March, and he felt sweat slide along his torso inside the wool jacket, making his bullet scars itch. He rolled his shoulder as best he could in the tight jacket. Almost a year and he still hadn't gotten back full mobility.

Sunlight glinting off passing cars made Nick blink. The cloying sweetness of citrus in bloom came to him on the light breeze. Nice, but he preferred the subtle tang of desert plants. Even better, the crisp salt scent of the ocean. Soon.

Three more days and he'd be back on Lake Pleasant in his boat, his private heaven, listening to the slap of the water and the coo of mourning doves. Then, once he'd paid off his ex-wife's IRS debt with some chef work and maybe some bigger-paying security jobs, he'd escape to the blue freedom of the Pacific.

He was about to head inside when a cab pulled into the curved driveway and jerked to a halt twenty feet from where he stood. The driver exited and came around to let out his passenger, but before he reached the door, it flew open as if spring-loaded and a woman practically leaped out.

She wore a tight black dress, a red hat with a brim as big as a platter, and jeweled sunglasses that practically covered her face. She rushed to the trunk, with remarkable speed considering the stiletto heels she wore. She pushed open the trunk, blocking Nick's view of the action, but when the cabby got there, there was a brief tug-of-war, which the cabby seemed to win, because the woman stepped away from the trunk while he removed the rest of her bags.

Stubborn woman. Nick wanted to laugh. Then something familiar about the slow curves of her body stopped him dead. He looked more closely at her face. Heart-shaped mouth. Dark, wavy hair. And a body that could stop action anywhere there were men. Like the Backstreet. Nick watched her pay the cabby, strangely unable to breathe. It couldn't be…

But it was. Unmistakably Miranda. His hands still held the memory of caressing that body, its give and resistance. He could still taste that sweet mouth, could still hear his name on her lips. That night she'd worn a dress the red of her bizarre hat.

She glanced up at him. His heart stopped. She wants me, he thought, then cleared his head. She wants the doorman, you dolt. He snorted, realizing he'd have to schlepp her bags like a pimple-faced bellhop. How the mighty are fallen. Suddenly he wished Charlie had gotten another pal to cover for him.

Miranda Chase frowned as the cabdriver practically hip-checked her away from her bags. She had no choice but to let him take over. It was part of his job, but she hated people doing things for her she could do for herself. She'd add a huge tip to his fare for his trouble.

She watched as he unloaded the dry-ice totes that held the sample blossoms from the new breed of Taos chili—the secret ingredient she needed to perfect her rejuvenation cream—and a decoction of lily of the valley and lemongrass in jojoba oil that, combined with grapefruit-seed extract, would offer the natural preservative and emulsifier that she needed so Chase Beauty could mass-produce her revolutionary cosmetics.

That was why she'd come home early from her trip—not even her assistant Lilly knew she was back. She'd intended to go on some botanical-search hikes, but she was too eager to test the decoction her lab had created and finalize the formula for her last product.

She paid the disgruntled taxi driver, then glanced at Charlie, but decided she'd scoot inside without his assistance. There were plenty of elderly residents he should be helping, but he always insisted on carrying her bags all the way to her top-floor apartment.

She pushed the handle-release button on her large wheeled suitcase, but it didn't open. She jiggled the handle and twisted the button, but nothing moved. She could feel Charlie heading her way. "I've got it," she called to him, continuing to struggle.

But she didn't have it, and soon a tall shadow blocked the sun and a man's hand touched her bag. "Allow me," said a voice too low and gruff to be Charlie's.

A chill of recognition slid like an ice cube down Miranda's back, and she looked up into a face she remembered from the hottest night of her life. Nick. In a doorman's uniform, of all things. He didn't look at her, just adjusted the handle so it clicked sharply into place.

What the heck was Nick doing here? She felt herself turn red. Her hat shaded her face and she wore sunglasses, so maybe he wouldn't recognize her after all this time. She kept looking down to avoid his gaze.

"Hello, Miranda." He recognized her, all right, and the huskiness of his voice told her he remembered all of that long, amazing night they'd spent together. Miranda cringed inside.

"Hi." She dragged her eyes up to meet his. Her tongue felt thick in her suddenly dry mouth. "Nick, right?"

"You remembered," he said wryly.

As if she could forget. It had been Nick, oh, Nick all night long. She remembered everything about him. His face, wide cheekbones, dark brows, sleepy-looking eyes, and a sensuous smile that lifted higher on one side than the other so that he looked wise—and wise-assed. She'd know Nick anywhere—even under that goofy cap. "It's been a while," she said.

"Yeah. A while." Nick pushed the cap off his head and banged it against his thigh, obviously as uncomfortable as she was. "So, how are you?"

"Fine." He seemed too close, so she stepped back. "Just f—" Her heel slipped off the curb, but she caught herself before she tilted over. "Just fine." She smiled, trying not to look nonplussed. "How are you? I … I read in the paper about the … um … incident."

He shrugged. "Occupational hazard. No big deal." And none of your business, his eyes said, tightening at the edges. "Protect and serve, that's what we do." He pushed back his hair—longer than when she'd last seen him and too shaggy for a cop, but still a rich chestnut that begged to be touched. He resituated the cap in a way that made the silly thing look sexy.

"I was glad it turned out okay," she said.

Nearly a year ago and not long after their night together, Nick had been shot, once in the heart, she remembered, during a drug bust gone wrong—the wounds so severe he'd hovered near death for days. Each morning during that time, she'd opened the newspaper with shaking fingers, her eyes wild for the headline that would declare his condition, praying he still lived. When she read he'd been upgraded to "stable" and regained consciousness, she'd been so relieved she'd cried—as if he'd been a member of her family or something.

"Yep. Good as new," Nick said. He rotated his shoulder to prove it, but stiffness in the movement and the way his mouth tensed told her he still suffered.

"You're doing security work now?"

"I'm just helping Charlie out. He's a friend." He looked down at himself. "The suit's his."

"I see." Though she had no reason to care, she was relieved he hadn't gone from being a heroic police officer to a doorman. Charlie was retired and wanted to keep busy, but Nick was thirty-five at the most.

She studied him in the too-tight uniform. The floret-adorned jacket stretched so snugly across his broad chest that the buttons appeared tight enough to snap off any second. The wool pants were like a second skin. His muscled thighs erased the crease altogether. The high-water effect at his ankles, and the way his wrists dangled below the gold-trimmed sleeves, didn't make a dent in his good looks, though. Even in that dippy suit, he was gorgeous. "So you're back on the force, then."

"Nope. Took medical retirement."

"That makes sense. I guess, after being nearly killed, it would be, uh, unsettling to go back."

"It wasn't like that," he said. "Getting shot was a wake-up call. I decided life was short and there was more I wanted to do with mine." He shrugged as if it didn't matter, but uneasily. It seemed as though he had his doubts. "I'd cleared my share of bad guys off the street."

He gave her an up-and-down meant to turn the tables, followed by a wicked half grin. "That's some hat. Amazing you can make it through a doorway."

"You think it's too much?"

"Not for the Mexican hat dance."

Even though he was teasing, his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She forced a smile. "You're a fine one to talk. Looks like you borrowed a band uniform from a midget." She indicated his full-to-bursting uniform.

"Yeah." He gave a short laugh. "I could make a few extra bucks playing Sousa for pedestrians."

He'd been funny that night in the bar, too, she remembered, and that had almost dissolved the humiliation she'd felt about Donald. He'd been funny. And kind. And protective of her. And so attractive. With a lazy sexuality that said he knew he'd get what he wanted, no need to rush things.

He'd gotten what he wanted that night, all right. So had she. But after that, their goals had diverged.

"Well, I should get going," she said, wanting to stop thinking about Nick on that long-ago night. She grabbed the suitcase handle, but nervous perspiration made her hand slide off the grip and the suitcase tipped over.

"Better leave this to the professional." Nick uprighted the bag. She reached for one of the totes, but he gripped her elbow, stopping her. "Let me do my job, Miranda." He gave her a long look, his brown eyes intense.

She backed up, letting him take over, still feeling the warmth of his hand on her elbow.

Nick collapsed the suitcase handle and lifted the bag by the side grip, acting as if it weighed no more than a purse—despite its load of clothes, hiking boots, herbal reference tomes and New Mexico travel books.

Putting her two totes under his other arm, he loped to the building door. Even dressed like a nerd on parade, he looked as masculine and in charge as he had that night when she'd slid onto the stool next to him.

He held the lobby door for her, then carried her bags into the elevator, which he held open. "Floor?" he asked, his finger over the button plate.

"I can take it from here," she said, wanting to escape him.

"Charlie brings your bags up, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but it's not nec—"

"Then I'll do it," he said firmly. "Floor?"

"You really don't have to. Honestly." But the implacability in his dark eyes made her sigh. "Ten."

"On top," he muttered. "No surprise."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're an executive. So of course you'd be on the top floor."

She knew that wasn't what he meant. After the way she'd behaved that night, he probably thought she was a dominatrix or something. She'd actually ordered him to make love to her. Heat flared at the memory. If only she could explain that she hadn't been herself that night.

Not that it mattered. Not that she'd tell him so now, when she was inches away from him in the tiny elevator, which moved so slowly she had plenty of time to be aware of him. Tiny hairs all over her body stood up as if by static, and she felt an unwelcome arousal. And this time she couldn't blame it on alcohol or the desire to prove to herself she wasn't the ice queen Donald had said she was.

She sneaked a peek at his hands. Big, as she remembered. Though they'd been weathered looking, they'd felt miraculously smooth on her skin that night. Such a soft touch for a man used to rough work. A tremor shook her.

"Cold?" he asked, mistaking her quiver for a chill. Thank God. He seemed tuned in to her, reading her. She wished she could chalk it up to his cop training, but she knew it was more. He'd seemed that way before—strangely connected to her, hyperaware, knowing what she wanted, what she needed. That night she'd loved it. Right now, the last thing she wanted was for Nick to know what she was thinking.

"No," she said, stilling herself. "I'm fine."

"You keep saying that."

She stepped back, farther away from him, until her head rested against the thick wood paneling of the elevator.

"Relax," he said, his eyes chasing over her. "I won't bite … at least not hard."

"I'm so relieved." He didn't have to bite to upset her equilibrium. Merely riding in the elevator brought back erotic memories that now embarrassed the hell out of her. A year ago, they'd ridden an elevator to their hotel room, hearts pounding as one, hands clutching each other, desperate to be naked in each other's arms. Now they traveled upward in awkward silence, completely separate. She had no idea what Nick was thinking or what he wanted.

Finally the elevator reached the top floor and groaned open, rattling in its moorings as if it might not close again. She loved the place, but it could definitely use some repair.

Miranda hurried the few yards to her door, with Nick following several paces back. Grateful she had only one simple lock to manage—no dead bolts or alarms—she quickly found her keys and opened the door.

When she turned to thank Nick, he pushed past her with her bags, a flicker of emotion on his face. Embarrassment? Resentment? She couldn't tell. His eyes were different. That night they'd burned so hot they'd seemed molten. Now they were opaque and impossible to read.

She had a fleeting sense that something was amiss in her apartment—a tension in the air, an errant scent—but she turned to Nick and decided it was just him being there, so tall and broad he seemed to fill the high-ceilinged foyer.

He set down her bags, then looked at her place, taking in the pink-and-gray-marble entry, sunken living room, and the deco furniture she'd chosen to harmonize with the building's design. She saw him pause to evaluate the paintings on the walls and the four pieces of sculpture, each in turn. Did he approve?

His gaze skimmed the marble columns of the fireplace, the dark hardwood spiral staircase to the second floor, and the raised dining room. He spent several seconds looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the city and Camelback Mountain from her dining room had been a top selling point of the place. She spent hours staring out at the lights, the buildings, the traffic, the sky—thrilled to be in this place she'd made her own. She would never move.

Finished with his survey, Nick said simply, "Nice digs."

"Thanks. I'm pleased with how it came out. It's cozy."

"Cozy? It's huge. You design it?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."

"It looks like you."

Was that good or bad? She couldn't tell, so she kept talking to cover her confusion. "I like it here. It's quiet and the neighbors are nice."

Of course, when she miscalculated a cosmetics creation and the fumes sent her neighbors outside until the building aired, things got a little tense. She always made sure everyone got an apology gift—a basket of Chase Beauty cosmetics for the women, baked goods for the men, and stuffed animals for the handful of children. She wanted to be as kind to the neighbors as they'd been to her. She'd paid top dollar for her long-term lease, and covered any expenses related to air-freshening treatments.

"The big bag goes…?" Nick asked, lifting her suitcase.

"My bedroom—upstairs—but I'll take it." The last place she wanted Nick Ryder was her bedroom.

"Nonsense," he said, picking it up and heading toward the stairs. "With heels that high, you could break your neck carrying bags. I'm surprised you don't get a nosebleed." He waved her in front of him. "After you." She scampered up the stairs ahead of him, trying not to wobble on the shoes he so disapproved of.

Nick carried her bag into the master suite. She watched him take in the cream walls, elegant furniture and tapestry accents, then stop short at the huge bed in the center of the room. He seemed to be studying the rose-red satin spread.

She looked at it and imagined how it would be to strip and make love on that cool, slippery surface.

They looked up at the same instant and their eyes locked. Nick's were molten—like they'd been that night. He was thinking what she was thinking. She had to stop this, get him out of here.

"Just do it on the bed—I mean put it on the bed," she said, covering her mouth in horror. "I mean…"

"I know what you mean," he said, his eyes gleaming and laughing at the same time. He dropped her heavy black suitcase onto the bed, then came toward her, stopping just inches away.

She felt rooted to the spot. Was he going to kiss her?

"How can you stand it?" he murmured.

"Stand what?" The lust racing along her nerves? The crazy urge to throw herself into his arms?

"Wearing your sunglasses inside." He lifted them from her nose with the expert gentleness of an optician, then tossed them onto the bed. He removed her wide-brimmed hat and flung it onto the bed, too, holding her eyes the entire time, his expression was so intent she felt as exposed as her hair. "You look good in that," he said, giving her an up-and-down, as if he could see through the black silk.

"Silk is … um … a good, um, spring fabric," she stammered.

"I remember."

The dress she'd worn that night had been silk. Red silk. His favorite color, he'd told her, as he slid it off her body.

Nick's broad chest rose and fell in the skintight gold-trimmed jacket. He stood so near that her spacious bedroom seemed no bigger than a closet.

What if he kept taking things off? What if they tried it again? Could they match that heat?

"I take it you didn't patch things up with your fiancé," Nick said, interrupting her fantasy.

"Patch things up? Oh, no."

"Did it help? The revenge?"

"What do you mean?" And then she knew. "You think I was with you for revenge?"

He shrugged. "It's human nature to get back at someone who's hurt you. I don't blame you." Oh, yes he did.

"That's not it. I was running away, and I found that bar, and there you were. And you were so…"

"Convenient, I know. Forget it. My pleasure."

"…kind," she finished firmly. "You were kind to me. I really appreciated how you—" She stopped, embarrassed to say more about her feelings that night.

"No need to thank me. I got my honor badge rescuing damsels in distress."

She just stared at him. He'd felt sorry for her? Ouch. So that was why he hadn't called. She must have seemed needy and desperate. Embarrassment made her cheeks flame.

She couldn't let on how bad she felt, though, so she managed a laugh. "Looks like you're still rescuing me—this time from my luggage." She had to get this over with, get him out of here so she could breathe and think. She went to the door and held it open for him.

"Just doing my job, ma'am." Nick tipped his hat at her, then replaced it at a rakish angle as if nothing more had passed between them than the time of day and some bags.

"Just a minute," she said, fumbling in her purse. She always tipped Charlie for his trouble. That was the least she could do for Nick. She extracted a twenty and looked up. Nick's eyes were waiting, black and cold as a starless winter night, and she knew she'd made a mistake.

"Let's get something straight, Miranda," he said. "I'll carry your bags and bring in your groceries and park your car, just like I do for everyone around here. But no money … ever."

The twenty hung from her fingers, like the tension in the air between them. Nick turned and walked down the hall, his shoulders broad in the tight jacket, pride stiffening his gait. She'd hurt his feelings. She shoved the money back into her wallet.

2

« ^ »

As soon as she heard the front door close behind Nick, Miranda gave in to competing emotions. She already felt stupid about that night. She'd been so not herself. It turned out Nick had slept with her out of pity. Ooh. And now, as if she had no pride whatsoever, she found her pulse still pounded from wanting him. The whole thing brought back that awful night.

If only she could get a "do over," she thought, starting downstairs, heading for her kitchen lab—just erase everything that had happened from the instant she'd caught Donald in a clinch with that woman, up to and including the way she'd carried on with Nick. What an idiot she'd been!

She sighed, letting the memory play out. She'd been with Donald at a charity ball at the Hyatt three weeks after they'd become engaged. She'd been having a great time, too, until she took a wrong turn on the way to the rest room and found Donald in an alcove kissing the PR woman from the Heart Association with more zeal than she thought he had in him. Stunned speechless, she'd just stared until Donald noticed her. Then she'd bolted.

Donald had caught up with her, tried to explain, cajole, and then, when she'd refused to stop running, he started the accusations. What did you expect? You work 24/7 and when we have sex you can't wait for it to be over.

Before she had made it out the hotel door, he'd managed to call her spoiled, immature, an ice queen and—the unkindest cut of all—sexless.

Sexless! That had stung. She liked sex as much as the next person, didn't she? Maybe Donald didn't fill her with throbbing lust, but he hadn't seemed that wild for it himself. On the other hand he'd been all over that PR woman in the alcove. And it was French-kissing, too, which she didn't think he liked. God, how had she been so blind, so stupid?

She'd felt humiliated and angry, but, surprisingly, not heartbroken. She'd almost felt relief that she wouldn't marry the man. Hadn't she loved Donald? She'd been afraid to figure it out—unwilling to admit to herself that something had been wrong between them all along. Too stubborn to admit she didn't understand love. At all.

She'd been running down Second Street when she saw the pink neon words This is the Place lighting the entry to the Backstreet Bar. Snuggled defiantly between a high-rise and a chichi bistro, it had been the antithesis of the fashionable nightclubs Donald favored, and, therefore, the perfect place to get a drink and forget it all.

The sight of all those staring men in the smoky dark had almost frightened her off. Then she'd seen Nick with his kind eyes and smart-aleck smile, as if he'd seen it all, done most of it, and wasn't afraid of anything. Looking at him, she'd felt better, braver. Something—it felt like a hand on her back—had pushed her toward the empty seat beside him.

The evening heated up, and Nick had seemed to want her as much as she'd wanted him. She'd been gratified that she, the woman Donald had called an ice queen, had made tough guy Nick Ryder sick with lust. She'd felt powerful and womanly for the first time in her life. There'd been something wonderful between them, she'd thought.

When he didn't call, the whole effect had been ruined. Instead of feeling sexy, she'd ended up feeling foolish. She'd thought of a number of reasons he hadn't called—another woman, guilt, a transfer to Alaska—but now she knew the truth. He'd just been doing a Boy Scout routine.

It proved how clueless she was about men. And sex. And love, for that matter. She hadn't loved Donald, she'd realized after the breakup. And she'd made way too much out of a one-night stand—pity sex, for God's sake.

What bad luck that fate had crammed Nick into Charlie's uniform and stuck him in front of her building to remind her. The only consolation was that Charlie would soon return and Nick would be gone.

She reached the ground floor, where her gaze fell on the totes Nick had left in the foyer. She'd just focus on her formulas. She always did better that way. She had important work to do—verification samples with the new decoction and a formula to figure out with the chili flowers.

She picked up the totes. In New Mexico, she'd located an herb farmer who'd breed chili to her specifications. He'd agreed to grow steady crops for her so Chase Beauty could afford to mass-produce her exclusive products. The new essential oils would finalize her other formulations—give them enough shelf life so the company could make a profit.

In six weeks, Miranda would unveil the cream to the company, along with the moisturizing lotion, mask, toner and scrub she'd already formulated. Not only would she create a new profit center for Chase Beauty, her family's corporation, but she'd make a splash in the cosmetics world, too. And show her brother what she was made of, while she was at it. She couldn't wait.

To get there, she had to get busy. Forget Nick, she told herself, kicking off her shoes and tucking a tote under each arm. That had been a one-night mistake. Period. She padded down the hall to the kitchen.

The instant she entered, she knew something was wrong. There was a hesitation in the air—a shift—the same thing she'd felt when she'd walked into the apartment, only stronger. Her gaze flew from the center island, with its hanging pots and deep granite sink, to the tall cupboards that ringed the room, dotted by rows of cosmetic samples, canisters of herbs and dried flowers, and dark blue and brown jars of essential oils. Several of the cupboard doors were ajar. One was wide-open.

It was the one that held the hinged box where she kept her cosmetic formulas. The box itself sat crookedly on the shelf, the lid only half closed, as if someone had been looking through it, then hastily put it back.

The hairs on the back of Miranda's neck rose and her heart began to pound. Someone had been in her lab. Messing with her things. Her skin tingled. How and who, and what if he was still here? Holding her breath, she backed out of the kitchen, her nylon-clad feet silent on the wooden floor. She had only one thought: Nick. I need Nick.

Luckily he was still waiting for the sluggish elevator, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his skintight uniform, whistling. "Come quick," she whispered, motioning him to her. "Someone's been here."

Nick stopped mid-whistle and was at her side in an instant, alert, muscles coiled for action, his face an intent mask.

"In the kitchen. Someone's moved my things."

"Moved your things? You mean robbed you?" He looked her over, as if to be sure she was serious.

"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 entry way, 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."

"We don't need the police, do we? Couldn't you call and cancel the order?"

"This isn't a pizza delivery, Miranda."

"I just don't want cops traipsing through here."

"They're not going to bust down the door. If this guy is working the area, we'll need to warn your neighbors anyway. Before the detectives get here, let's see what's missing. Hold on to your ice pack."

She barely had time to grab the baggie before Nick lifted her into his arms, and she found herself staring into his eyes, being carried off like a bride swept to bed by her groom.

"I c-can walk," she said, vividly aware of how each of Nick's fingers pressed into the flesh of her thighs.

"We've got to keep your weight off that ankle," he said, striding down the hall, then he frowned. "You're too light, Miranda. Your bones are hollow as a bird's. If you expect to tackle any more intruders, you'd better boost your calcium intake."

"Right." It was hard to focus on Nick's words when his face was so close. His skin was perfect. He didn't need her men's face cream to retain suppleness. His neck and shoulder muscles seemed to go on forever. In fact, one of the shoulder seams of Charlie's uniform had split from the strain of holding in his breadth.

Nick stopped short. "Don't look now, but there's a running shoe in your hallway."

She looked down. "Oh, yeah! That's his. I yanked it off."

"No wonder he ran. He probably was afraid you'd strip him naked."

"It's a clue, right? You can get footprints."

"I'll tell the detectives to be on the lookout for a limping bandit."

"Don't make fun."

"Sorry. If they got shoe prints at other crime scenes it might help. Nice call, Ms. Chase."

Good. She might not have held on to the guy, but she'd gathered evidence. "And I can describe him, too. In detail."

"Okay. Describe away," he said, sounding amused. "In detail."

She closed her eyes to picture the kid. "He was young. Twenty or so. Skinny, about five foot six. Long, narrow face, pale eyebrows, very short brown hair. He had a tattoo of a dragon on one arm. He was wearing Levi's 501s and a ribbed tank top … indigo-blue in Peruvian Pima cotton."

"Peruvian Pima?"

She opened her eyes at the surprise in his voice. "Yeah. More fibers per inch than your run-of-the-mill T-shirt."

"When you say detail, you mean it."

"I know quality, that's all," she said.

"I'm sure you do." There was some kind of judgment in his tone, but before she could pursue his meaning, he asked, "Is this the room?"

They were at the door to the office, so she nodded. "And he was carrying a heavy backpack."

He stopped and looked at her. "How did you know it was heavy?" He paused. "Never mind. You grabbed it, right?"

She nodded.

"Because he had your stuff."

She grinned. "Absolutely."

Once inside the office, Nick carried her straight to the wall where her safe was hidden behind a painting.

"How did you know this was where the safe is?" she asked.

"All your other art is postmodern original oils. This Degas is the only reproduction in the place. A likely false front for a safe."

"I'm impressed."

"You think being a cop makes me a clod?" His voice held a defensive edge.

"No, I just … sorry."

"It's okay." He was covering for his harsh reaction. He probably thought she was a snob. Nothing could be further from the truth, but she knew her protest would fall on deaf ears. Nick knew what he knew.

They found the safe had been emptied of its contents of gold coins and jewelry, some of which had been in the family for years. "It's all gone," she said, shocked at the cold reality of the thievery, her fingers unconsciously tightening on Nick's neck.

"I'm sorry, Miranda. The cops are good, but I have to tell you, in cases like these, even if they get the guy, they rarely get back the stuff." He carried her to the sofa and gently set her down. The sensation of cool leather gave her chills after having Nick's warm hands on her.

"But the pack felt heavier than that—and lumpier," she said slowly, figuring it out. "I bet he had a camera in there. He was probably taking photographs of my formulas. That's why they'd been disturbed but none were missing!"

"What's the value of the safe's contents?"

"Fifty or sixty thousand, I think. My brother had everything appraised a year ago. But it's more the sentimental value really."

"Fifty K is a hell of a lot of sentiment."

"Why would he steal my jewelry if he was after the formulas?"

"Forget the formulas. He was a junkie needing some quick cash."

"A junkie who's a safecracker?"

"He might have worked for a locksmith. They know how the units work. That's how most safes get busted into these days."

Before they could analyze the situation further, two police detectives arrived to examine the scene, write up the crime and take fingerprints—and the tennis shoe. Miranda could tell Nick commanded respect from the detectives, even in the ridiculous marching band uniform.

When Nick returned from walking the detectives out, Miranda felt a goofy grin spread onto her face. The codeine had vanquished her pain and had her feeling downright ruh-laxed.

"Time to take you to bed," Nick said softly. His words sent an electric charge all the way to her swollen ankle.

"Whatever you say," she said, lifting her arms in woozy anticipation.

He gave a soft chuckle and hefted her into his arms.

She clasped both hands behind his neck. It felt so good to be in his muscular arms. If Nick had tackled the thief, he'd have stayed tackled. "You're sooo strong," she murmured. Whoops! She'd just meant to think that.

Nick smiled. "Codeine kicked in, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"That's good," he said, moving again. "You'll sleep." He reached the staircase and began winding upward. Again and even more foolishly, she felt like a bride in her groom's arms, a sensation that intensified when they approached her bed.

"Which side?" Nick asked.

Whichever one you're on. For a confused second, she thought she'd said that out loud, too. But Nick didn't react. With her swollen eyes and scraped cheekbones, she probably had all the sex appeal of a car wreck anyway. "Right side," she murmured.

Without a word, he set her down, pulled back the covers so she could slide into the space. The slippery fabric was cool against her legs.

Nick's hands rested for a moment on both sides of her on the feather-soft mattress, making two depressions next to her body, so close she felt the whisper of the hairs on his forearms. His face over hers was close as a lover's. Their eyes met and held. Nick's glittered with a restrained hunger. He wanted her. He wasn't feeling sorry for her now, was he? Like that night? Her heart raced, her mind whirled.

"We need more ice," Nick said, his words raspy with desire.

No kidding. The heat between them could melt steel.

He pushed himself to his feet, then backed toward the door, as if he were escaping something dangerous.

She listened to him head downstairs, feeling confused—and by more than painkiller. She'd put that year-ago night behind her—chalking up its intensity to her need to prove she was a sexual person. But it was happening all over again, the crazy desire to be in his arms.

He'd made her feel sexy that night, but there'd been more. She'd felt things she'd never felt with Donald. A special connection, a wordless understanding. There'd been so much she wanted to know about him, and about sex with him, and who knew where that might lead?

She'd thought he felt the same. So when he'd promised to call the next day, she'd believed him. Of course he'd call. Who wouldn't call after a night like that?

Now, lying in her bed, her mind fuzzy with codeine, Miranda was locked so fiercely in the memory of the night that, when Nick bounded back into the room, his hands full of an ice bag and a black towel, she just burst out, "Why didn't you call me?"

"Call you? I was just downstairs getting ice."

"The next morning. You said you'd call. You didn't."

Nick frowned, as if what she'd said didn't make sense, then his face took on a thoughtful expression as he propped her leg on the rolled-up towel, then carefully placed the new ice bag over her ankle. "I did call," he said, watching her. "Your assistant said she'd give you the message."

"My assistant?"

He nodded.

"I never got the message," she said softly, her mind sorting the implications. Lilly had forgotten? Or deliberately not told her?

"I guess we missed each other then," he said. She saw a flicker of regret, but it passed so quickly she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it. "I assumed one night had been enough."

"Not at all."

"A shame," he said, straightening her covers, not meeting her eye.

"Absolutely. A real shame." Her heart raced. Nick hadn't felt sorry for her. He'd wanted to see her again. He'd been hurt that she'd refused him. It all made sense. Maybe now … right here, they could make up for lost time…

"That was a long time ago." He shook his head, laughed softly, then pushed himself to his feet. "Probably for the best."

She felt like an idiot. Again. "Right," she said, pretending to laugh, her head swimming. She flopped back on the pillow.

"Sleepy?" he asked, misinterpreting her move.

She nodded. She felt dizzy and mixed up, and suddenly she just needed to be by herself. "I've kept you too long."

"The maintenance guy's been covering for me."

"You should get back there."

"I hate to leave you alone," he said softly. "Is there a friend or relative I can call?"

No. She did not want her family to know about this. More fuel for their nag that she move out of the Palm View. "I'll be fine. Thanks for all you've done."

"If you're sure." He looked at her closely, then tilted his head at the codeine bottle on the night table. "Take two more in four hours. If you feel worse, call me, okay?"

"I'll be fine," she said, just wanting him gone.

"You keep saying that. You'll call?"

"I'll call."

No, she wouldn't. Even if her ankle swelled up like a cannoli, Nick was the last person she should call. She was a needy fool who'd made far more of a fleeting encounter than ever was or ever could be. Nick had certainly put it behind him. That was a long time ago. Probably for the best.

Forget all that, she told herself again. Focus on work. That was always safer for her. She had important things to do. In a few minutes, she'd get up and get started on her formulas. She fought the codeine, but her lids were so heavy. Maybe if she just rested her eyes for a moment…

4

« ^ »

Miranda's eyes flew open and she realized she'd fallen asleep after all. Judging by the dim light, it was now early evening.

Then she heard noises. Footsteps downstairs. Someone was in her apartment. It couldn't be Lilly. She'd still be in Tucson. Miranda listened intently, her heart in her throat, not breathing. Had the thief returned?

She grabbed the phone and dialed the front desk. No answer. Where was Nick? No, the night guy would be on duty by now. She could call 911, but what if it was Lilly returning early? She'd have made a crisis out of nothing.

Adrenaline overrode the pain in her foot as she stood up, then hopped to the bedroom door. At her bureau, she grabbed her silver-backed hairbrush. If she swung as hard as she could, it would raise a good lump. If it was the punk again, she could probably handle him—even with a sprained ankle.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She listened at the door. More footsteps…

She raised the brush over her head, prepared to whack whoever it was, and yanked open the door.

"Nick!" She barely stopped her hand from conking him.

Nick dropped an object and caught her by the shoulders, then looked at her upraised weapon. "What? You were going to style me to death?"

"It was the first thing I could grab," she said. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were the thief back for more."

He held her firmly, steadying her. "And you wanted to leave a mark this time?" He grinned. "You need to stay off that foot. Let's get you back to bed."

"I'm fine," she said, leftover adrenaline masking whatever pain she should feel. "I need to get busy. Why are you here, anyway? Aren't you off duty?"

"I wanted to check on you. I rang the bell, and when you didn't answer, I figured you were sleeping, so I let myself in." He bent to pick up what he'd dropped—an elasticized bandage. "I brought you some things."

"You didn't need to. I'm feeling much better." Really, she felt a little faint, but she didn't want him to know.

Wordlessly reading her need, he went to the nightstand, poured two pills from the bottle and brought them back to her with the water glass.

She took the pills without argument.

"Let's take a look." He held her against him and walked her to the bed, where she sat. He turned on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in golden light, then lifted her foot gently and studied her ankle. She must be better, because she was far more aware of how delicious his palm felt against the underside of her foot than any pain in her ankle.

Without the midget band uniform, Nick was even more handsome. His black T-shirt seemed to grip his body, squeezing his biceps and stretching taut across his chest and shoulders. His dark blue jeans molded his hips and thighs like a soft second skin.

"The swelling's reduced. That's good," he concluded. With gentle care, he wrapped the bandage around her instep and ankle, attaching it with metal clasps. "That should ease the pressure."

"Thanks, Nick."

"How does your face feel?"

"How does it look?"

He took her chin between his fingers and gently turned her face to catch the light. "Hmm. You'll have a definite shiner on the right." He turned her the other way. "Just a bruise on the left cheekbone."

"Terrific," she said, "if I were a boxer."

"Nah. Get yourself a leather jacket and any biker in town would beg you to be his old lady."

"Just what I've always wanted."

"Come on. Lots of Wall Street types have Harleys these days. You'll do fine."

"What makes you think I want a Wall Street type?"

"Don't you?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Then he looked at her in a way that made her think the only type she wanted was him. Heat rushed through her. She had to get him off her bed and out of her bedroom. "I'm much better. Thanks for checking," she said. "Don't let me interfere with your evening."

"No problem," he said, heading for the door. That was easy. He was leaving.

"Thanks again. For everything," she called to him.

From the landing, he called back, "I'll come get you when it's ready."

"When what's ready?"

"Dinner," he said. She heard him start downstairs.

"Dinner?" She pulled herself to her feet and hopped to the landing railing. "You're fixing me dinner?"

He looked up at her from near the bottom of the stairs. "Veal scallopini. You'll love it."

"But you don't need to. Really. I'm fine. I'm not even hungry." She didn't want to spend more time wanting him more than he wanted her.

"Let me do this, Miranda," he said levelly. "It was my fault you got hurt. Just dinner. That's all."

She studied his face—the face that had drawn her to him in the bar, promising a listening ear and no pressure.

"Okay," she said finally, "but you have to let me help you." She started to limp down the stairs.

"Somehow I knew you'd be this way," he said wearily. "Wait right there."

Of course she kept moving, but she'd only gotten halfway down the stairs when he returned, holding two metal crutches. "I rented them for you from the pharmacy on Central."

"Crutches! What a great idea. I won't have to hop around." Holding the rail, she hopped to the ground floor and took the crutches from him. "Thank you so much."

"Put your weight on the handles, not the arm pads," he said, "or you'll bruise your armpits."

"Is this the voice of experience?"

"Oh, yeah. Got a hairline fracture leaping off the back of a truck to grab a perp."

Under Nick's watchful eye, Miranda carefully maneuvered herself down the hall and back.

"Keep practicing. I'll get started with dinner."

After a few more passes, she headed into the kitchen where Nick was melting butter in a frying pan.

"So what can I do?" she asked him.

He pulled a counter stool over to the work space near the stove where he'd placed vegetables, a broad-bladed knife and a cutting board. "Make the salad, okay?"

She was soon slicing thin pieces of glossy cucumber, while Nick expertly tossed onions and Portobello mushrooms in a sauté pan, his biceps rippling as he moved.

He looked so good she nearly cut her finger watching him. She had no idea cooking could be so sexy. The kitchen began to smell deliciously of garlic and onions. She took a deep, comforting breath. "Thanks for doing this, Nick," she said. "I'm glad you're here."

Their eyes held until Nick cleared his throat. "It's hard to believe you ever use this kitchen." He lifted a torn price tag from the counter. "I had to take this off the sauté pan."

"This is my cosmetics lab. I told you that."

"It's a cook's kitchen. Great layout, the best appliances."

"How do you know so much about cooking?"

"While I was at the academy, I roomed with a guy who was a gourmet chef. He taught me some. I make money working at his restaurant sometimes."

Nick splashed some oil and wine into the pan and laid the meat there, where it made a delicious hissing sound. Surreptitiously, she watched his behind in his tight jeans. How could he even move in them?

To get her mind off inappropriate thoughts, she asked, "Do you really think the police will catch him?"

"They'll give it their best shot. They're a little understaffed for doing much follow-up."

"That's too bad," she said on a sigh, slicing a purple onion. "I still can't believe it happened, you know?"

He stopped working, turned to face her. "Are you afraid to be here alone tonight? Because I'd be glad to—"

"No, no. I'm fine." If she didn't watch it, he'd be staying the night as her bodyguard. A prospect too nerve-racking to contemplate. "I'm just worried. I'm at a critical point with my products. There are leading-edge formulas in that box."

He shook his head.

"You think I'm ridiculous, don't you?"

"No."

"Yes, you do, but it doesn't matter. My cosmetics will make a difference in women's lives."

"What's wrong with looking the way nature intended?"

"Nature can always be improved on. Every woman wants to look better."

"Why? Women are plenty beautiful just the way they are. You, for example. Your eyes are a great green, but you hide them with all that stuff you paint on."

"I know for a fact my eyes are black-and-blue right now."

"Even black-and-blue, they're beautiful."

"Thanks," she said, blushing. "Not everyone feels the way you do. About beauty, I mean. And my products go beyond basic cosmetics anyway. They offer rejuvenation through special natural botanical formulations."

"You make it sound scientific."

"It is. I'll have you know I have a degree in phyto-cosmetology." She turned to him, pointing her knife at him playfully. "If you laugh, I'll hurt you."

"Sorry," he said, holding up his hands. "It's just—"

"Unusual, I know. And it's new for Chase Beauty, too. My grandfather started this company in the forties to offer bread-and-butter cosmetics for women of modest means. We've been in grocery stores and drugstores ever since."

"I've seen the commercials."

"Most companies that produce natural cosmetics like mine are small operations in exotic places where everything's done by hand and the products are carried in exclusive boutiques or by mail order and very, very expensive."

Nick came closer with a bunch of asparagus in his hands. "May I?" he asked, reaching for the knife she'd been waving as she talked.

"Sure." She gave it to him. "Am I boring you?"

"No, no, go on. It's kind of interesting." He whacked off the ends of the stalks.

She rolled her eyes but told him anyway. She loved talking about her work. "So, the idea of my product line—Naturally Better Than Nature—is to offer these exclusive products at modest prices that average women can afford."

"Interesting."

"Very," she said, handing him the romaine leaves to rinse. "That's why keeping my products secret is important. It scares me to think that a competitor has gotten hold of my formulas. If they are trying to do the same thing—even if their products aren't as good—Chase Beauty won't be able to risk my line. It's a niche market and if someone gets there first, it's too expensive to pursue."

"Makes sense."

"The two things I'm counting on are my unique formulas and the fact that I've contracted with herb farmers to grow entire fields of the ingredients, instead of just small patches, making high quality cost-effective."

"Smart move."

"I thought so. The best part is that now I have the last ingredient—a natural preservative that will hold the emulsification, so the ingredients don't separate and can stay on the shelves long enough that we can effectively manage the inventory. That's what I brought back from my trip."

He studied her. "Sounds like you know what you're doing. Why aren't you working at your family's factory? Seems like it would be safer there."

"I work here for secrecy and freedom. I never imagined I was at any risk. Plus, I prefer working on my own."

"I can respect that," he said, but his tone made it clear that this was the only thing he respected about her story. Frustrating, but not a surprise. He didn't even think women needed cosmetics.

"My products will give the company a shot in the arm. We lost a lot of money last year because of a scandal. Animal-rights activists accused us—falsely—of testing our products on animals. There was a big media stir. You may have seen it on the news."

"Not that I recall."

"Good. It wasn't true. We thought our major competitor, L'Mage, was behind the hype."

"Why would they do something like that?"

"Like I said, it's a competitive business. Plus, there are personality issues. My father and L'Mage's owner have a long-standing rivalry. My father achieved success first. There's some bitterness that carries over with their top managers. Kind of like Apple and IBM in the early days of personal computer development."

"Is there a chance Chase Beauty won't want to produce your products?"

"There's always a chance. My brother Theo keeps talking about taking the company in a new direction, limiting our products, but that's not the Chase Beauty way… Mmm, this cucumber smells so green. I haven't made Ensalada Mask in a while. I'll have to whip some up."

She hacked off a couple of hunks of cucumber, then reached for the drawer where the plastic wrap was. She realized her mistake as her arm went across Nick's muscled belly in a cozy, domestic gesture. She pulled back. "Can you hand me some plastic wrap?"

He got out the wrap and tore off a piece.

"Thanks," she said, wrapping the cucumber, then going back to her salad preparations.

"Don't be wasting all our salad on face stuff," he warned.

"That's not wasting, that's putting to good use." She broke off a deep-green spear of romaine, then sniffed it. "This is great for the face. It adds moisture at the same time it tightens the skin."

Without warning, Nick gripped the hand holding the lettuce spear and lifted it close to his mouth. "This is what lettuce is for." He bit the leaf she held, his lips brushing her fingers, making her take a quick breath. He chewed slowly, his teeth white, his square jaw moving evenly, holding her gaze the entire time. He swallowed. The whole maneuver was as sensual as a kiss. "Lettuce," he breathed, "is for eating."

Miranda swallowed hard. "But there are other uses…"

Nick gripped her hand—the one still holding the bitten lettuce spear—and tickled her lips with the leafy edge. "Open."

Obediently she parted her lips.

Nick eased the lettuce into her mouth, his fingers brushing her tongue. "Now enjoy."

Slowly she chewed the lettuce, which was moist and crisp and tangy on her tongue. "Mmm," she said, feeling she'd succumbed to a sexual demand.

"You're getting the idea," he said. "Vegetables are for eating, not grinding into face cream. Look at this." He picked up a swollen tomato, its curves like a body part. "Perfection," he said. "Taut skin, ripe but not soft. Perfect."

He set the tomato onto the cutting board, picked up the knife and with exquisite slowness slid the blade through it, opening it, revealing the jewellike seeds and pinkish juice.

The sensuality of his strong hands moving so gently and with such sureness made her soften inside.

"Actually—" she said, taking back the knife before he could tantalize her further, and slamming it down on the tomato "—raw tomato is perfect for extracting blackheads."

"Ouch. I'll never look at one the same again." He grinned, then went back to his asparagus.

"And for your information, asparagus has lots of vitamin A, which revitalizes skin."

"You're hopeless," he said.

She smiled, relieved that she'd taken charge of the moment. She combined the salad ingredients in a large glass bowl.

"For the dressing, I figured we could use what you've got in here." Nick opened the refrigerator and began extracting items.

She looked at what he'd laid out. "That's very expensive apricot kernel oil. And that rosemary is a special hybrid I need for—"

"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "You make the dressing. I'll set the table. Just don't tell me what the dressing's good for."

"Okay," she said in a mock long-suffering voice, bending to extract a bottle of virgin olive oil from the fridge. "But you're missing out on a lot of cell-plumping and rejuvenation."

She heard him chuckle as he headed for the dining room.

Before long, everything was ready. Miranda used her crutches to walk to the dining room, where she saw Nick had set the table with place mats and a lovely spring bouquet, iridescent with purple irises and yellow and orange daisies. The plates held a graceful arrangement of asparagus, steamed carrots and perfectly browned veal. The salad bowls gleamed with the dressing she'd made. "This is lovely, Nick."

"Glad you like it."

"I don't think I've ever had a man prepare dinner for me." She blushed at the confession.

"You've never had a man allow you to get mugged before, either," he said, covering for her. He helped her into a chair, then pushed another near enough to rest her ankle on.

"The only thing missing is a nice red," he said, opening a bottle of mineral water, "but we can't risk alcohol when you're taking codeine." He poured the fizzy liquid into their glasses, then raised his glass in a toast. "To quick healing."

She clicked her glass against his. "To old friends."

"No," he said, his eyes abruptly intense. "To old lovers."

5

« ^ »

Miranda's heart lurched and her shaky hand banged her glass into Nick's again, as if dittoing his toast. Uh-oh. The dinner that had sounded like a simple favor an hour ago now felt unnervingly romantic. This wasn't good. Nick was just flirting with her, and she didn't want to get all riled up again, only to be caught short when he backed off.

She forced herself to focus on the food, which wasn't difficult, since it was delicious. "This meat practically melts in your mouth," she said.

"Glad you like it. Charlie won't put up with anything he considers too uptown."

"Charlie?"

"I'm staying with him while he's recovering. To make sure he's okay. Lake Pleasant's too far to make a daily trek anyway."

"Is that where you live?"

"Yeah, on my boat."

"You have to live on a boat?" How sad.

He chuckled. "I don't have to. I want to. I used my insurance and retirement money to buy a boat. It's something I've always wanted. I'm at the lake for now, but I'll be heading to the Coast soon."

"For a vacation?"

"For good. I wanted to leave next month, but I've had to delay that." He frowned out the window for a second.

"Because of Charlie?"

"No." He shook his head. "I've gotta scrape together some cash."

She looked at him.

"My ex-wife had a bad run of luck, made a little miscalculation on her taxes, so I said I'd bail her out."

"That's nice of you."

"Not really. The IRS would come after me anyway. I don't want any strings tying me here. I want to be free and clear, not worrying about anybody, when I leave. So I'm getting together twenty-five K, then I'm off."

"And then you'll be homeless?"

"Hardly. The world is my home."

"I can't imagine that." She shuddered at the idea of being without an address, having just a rocking hull on the ocean.

"Have you ever been on a boat?"

"I've been on a cruise."

"A floating hotel? Nah. I mean a real boat—where you're close to the water, where you can feel the power of the wind and the waves."

"Then, no, I haven't."

"Well, it's great. Nothing else like it."

"Is it nice on the lake?"

"The weekends can be a little noisy with the motor-boats and skiers, but I'm usually moored in a cove, and most of the time it's heaven." He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "Real quiet. Just birdcalls, a coyote howl now and then, the slap of water on the hull. The stars are so bright."

"You make it sound lovely."

He smiled. "You would hate it, Miranda. Living on a sailboat is like camping, only wetter. And you don't look like much of a camper."

"Don't be so quick to assume."

"You forget I saw your bathroom. You have enough cosmetics in there to fill my boat stem to stern."

"I'm just saying that there's more to me than meets the eye."

"I'll just bet," he said. Their eyes locked and they were instantly back to that long-ago night when they couldn't get enough of each other.

The animal power of him so close across the table, the wink of soft light on his face and in his eyes seemed so alluring. She reached for her glass, but tipped it over. When she tried to catch it, her foot slid off the chair and clunked to the floor.

"Ow!" she said as pain shot up her leg.

"Easy there." Nick lifted her foot back onto the chair.

She didn't mind since the pain had snapped the sexual tension between them.

Nick mopped up her mineral water and for the rest of the meal, she made sure the conversation stayed light. They talked about Charlie, then she asked him more about sailing. When he trailed off, she rattled about her cosmetics until his eyes glazed.

Finally they finished eating. "That was delicious," she said, laying down her napkin. She lowered her propped foot to the floor and stood on the other, with her plate in her hand. Time to be done with this. Any more lingering looks in the romantic light might lead to more flirtation than she could handle.

"What's the hurry?" Nick said, looking up at her. "You getting tired?"

"I was thinking I should get back to work."

"Ease up a little, why don't you? Let your ankle recover."

"I can't afford to ease up," she said. "I have deadlines. Now more than ever if I have a competitor on my trail."

"Did anyone ever tell you you're indomitable?"

"Not exactly," she said, remembering with a cold jolt that Donald had used less kind adjectives—obsessed and frigid. She wasn't frigid, though. Nick had proved that to her a year ago. And now, just looking at him made her feel that way again. She could become obsessed with him, all right. Except that would be absolutely unacceptable.

"Give me that," he said, taking her plate from her and standing. "You can't carry dishes with crutches, no matter how stubborn you are." He collected their plates and headed off.

She tucked the crutches under her arms and followed him into the kitchen, where he was filling the sink with water.

"You don't have to do the dishes, Nick," she said. "Lilly will be back tomorrow. She can do them."

"I'm not leaving a mess for the woman," he said, finding dish soap below the sink.

While Nick did the dishes, she filled the large slow cooker with the chili and lavender flowers to start the three-day simmer that would create the infusion. Then she mixed the ingredients of the astringent concentrate she'd need for the next few months, putting in vinegar, camphor and eucalyptus, the intense menthol mist tickling her nose.

Nick had been right about one thing. She was tired. Hopping from place to place—the crutches were too unwieldy for the kitchen—was exhausting. The codeine she'd taken, the intensity of the day and bouts of desire for Nick all added to her exhaustion.

If she hadn't been trying to prove a point to Nick, she would have given up and gone to bed. At last, she set the quart saucepan of astringent on the stove to simmer. The menthol fumes were so intense her eyes burned just looking into it.

She turned to put the container of borax on the shelf, but it slipped from her fingers.

"Let me get that," Nick said, bending at her feet. He brought it up, standing close. "You're exhausted. Go to bed."

"In a minute." She hated to be told what to do. She started to take the container from him.

He held on to it. "Where does it go? I'll put it away."

"That's okay." She tugged, but misjudged how hard to pull and the canister slipped from her hand, landing in the simmering astringent, sending up a huge splash of caustic paste.

"Ow, ow, ow." Super-concentrated astringent burned like fire on her face and arms.

"Jeez!" Nick said, his own face and shirt wet with the stuff. "What's in this? Acid?"

He grabbed her by the waist, lifted her as if she weighed nothing and hauled her to the sink, where he shoved her head into its depths and turned the industrial water sprayer full force on her face.

She sputtered and pushed at his hand. "You're drowning me," she said, her words echoing in the deep steel sink. "Rinse yourself off."

He gave himself a quick shot of water, then went back to drowning her. "You're worse than me. You got it full in the face. We once busted a meth lab and one of the perps got chemical burns. You need to soak."

She allowed him to pour a steady stream of water over her face until he finally let her up.

She coughed, wiped the water from her face and shook water from her arms. She was soaked to the waist.

"I had no idea makeup could be dangerous," he said. "What the hell was in that stuff?"

"Camphor, vinegar and eucalyptus. That's what feels hot. In this concentration it's potent."

"Do you still hurt?" he asked.

"I'm fine. What about you?"

"I didn't get much," he said.

Some twinge of mischief made her grab the sprayer and squirt him.

"Cut it out," he said, gripping her hand playfully.

She released the trigger and the water stopped, though Nick still held her by the wrist, close.

"I'm soaked," she said.

"I'll say." Nick looked straight at her chest, his eyes dazed.

She glanced down and saw that through the clinging fabric and her black lace bra she might as well have been naked. No wonder men carried on about wet T-shirt contests.

She shivered, but not from a chill.

"You're cold," he said, lifting her into his arms. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

"You don't have to carry me."

"Those rubber stoppers will slide on your water trail, and I refuse to be responsible for another injury. This makes two already." He sounded a little grim.

"That wasn't your fault. I yanked on the canister," she said, annoyingly happy to be in his arms. She hated being weak and dependent, but at this moment it felt right.

"How's your face feel?"

"Fine," she lied. Her skin still stung. All in all, she was a mess. Her eyes were going black-and-blue, her swollen ankle had begun to ache, and she was all but nude in the arms of a man she wanted but had to resist. On top of that, someone was trying to steal her formulas.

Nick carried her up the stairs into the bedroom and set her on the end of her bed.

"I'll get you something to change into."

"That's okay," she said.

But he was already rummaging around in her drawer. He lifted a black lace nightie. "How's this?" he said with a wicked grin, dangling the flimsy thing. It looked like pure sex. "Hmm…" He lifted its still-attached price tag.

"Put that back," she said. She'd bought it to surprise Donald, but they'd broken up before she'd had a chance to try it out.

"So, it's not just the sauté pans that don't get used around here, huh?"

"Very funny. Get my robe out of the bathroom, please. It's on the door."

"Why? This looks great."

"I don't think so," she said.

He shrugged and headed for the bathroom.

Nick was getting entirely too familiar with her house. He'd gone through her bathroom looking for pain pills and Restorix, and now he'd pawed through her lingerie drawer. She felt invaded and oddly pleased.

He came out with her rose-colored, black-trimmed satin robe tossed over one arm and a towel over his naked shoulders.

Naked shoulders? She gulped. He'd taken off his wet shirt, probably to dry off.

He looked like a Playgirl calendar shot standing there, his hair mussed, his chest and arms nicely muscled, a dusting of dark hair in the middle of his chest that thinned, then disappeared below the waist of his beltless jeans, which were darkly wet from the sink-spray. He seemed completely unaware of the impact of his appearance as he walked nonchalantly to her and handed her the robe.

She swallowed. "Thanks," she managed, taking it from him.

He stood there waiting.

She motioned for him to turn around.

"Do I have to?" He gave her a wise-ass grin before slowly turning his back to her. "You can't blame a guy for trying."

Quickly Miranda peeled off her clothes and wrapped the robe tightly around her, her body bristling with goose bumps at the thought that Nick was just a foot away, fighting the temptation to turn and look. Careful of her ankle, she slid under the covers, propped her pillows against the headboard and sat against them. Straightening the covers around her body, making sure nothing was revealed, she said, "I'm ready."

He turned and gave her a leisurely, suggestive once-over. "Can I get you anything else?" he said, his husky tone making it clear he didn't mean a snack.

She sucked in a breath. Here they were—Nick naked to the waist, her wearing a satin robe she could slip out of in an instant. The smooth sheets felt delicious on her skin. She could imagine how it would feel to slide between them with Nick.

She swallowed hard. "No, I'm fine."

"Like I said, can't blame me for trying." His eyes invited her to change her mind. When she didn't, he sighed. "I'll get my shirt."

He came back from the bathroom with the shirt over his arm, stopped at the bedside table for pills and water, then sat beside her on the bed. "Seems like all I do is give you painkillers," he said.

As she handed him back the water glass, she noticed a small, distinctive patch of scar tissue on Nick's chest above his heart. "Is that from…?" She looked up at him.

"From when I got shot? Yeah." He touched it with one hand, then shrugged. "One of three." He showed her a spot on the side of his abdomen and one at the base of his rib cage. "This one punctured my lung."

"Oh, Nick. I'm so sorry you went through that." The idea chilled her.

"It's over. All healed." Then he added softly, "It turned out good. It got me medical retirement and now I'm going to live life the way I want it."

She studied his face. "But you loved being a cop. I remember you were so dedicated."

He frowned and his eyes clouded. "It was a good time to go. I was getting frustrated. So much of what cops do is just spinning wheels. You clear a corner of scum and a month later, it's back even stronger."

She hated the edge of bitterness in his voice.

"Still, you nearly lost your life."

"That's the job."

She couldn't take her eyes off the scars—evidence of his willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice for others.

"It looks worse than it is. Go ahead, touch it." He angled his chest toward her.

"No, I can't." She shook her head.

"Sure you can." He took her hand in his and put it on the spot.

She felt the slight bump, but became instantly more aware of the warmth of his chest, his lungs expanding with a ragged breath. Their eyes locked. And it was as if that night were happening again.

Nick's hand gripped hers against his chest. "Miranda," he whispered. "That night, I couldn't get enough of you."

"Me neither."

"Oh yeah?" His eyes searched her face, wanting her.

"I wanted more," she said, embarrassed but unable to hold out. "More nights, more…" And then she kissed him.

He hesitated for only a moment, then he pulled her away from her pillow and kissed her back—his mouth warm and sure, just as it had been that night, only better because she wasn't numbed by alcohol, just a little woozy from codeine.

Heat raced along her nerves. If only the satin robe was gone, so she could feel Nick's bare chest against her skin.

And then it was gone. Nick had whisked it from her shoulders and now his chest hair brushed her sensitive nipples. She took a quick, harsh breath, then went after his mouth.

His fingers slid up to grasp both breasts.

Oh, oh, so … good. She thought she would explode at just that touch. But she wanted more. She wanted his hands all over her. In the front especially—touching the softest place she had. Something about Nick made her feel wild and hungry. Maybe because he was so different from the men she'd known. He lived in his body, by his wits, not in some intellectual business game.

Whatever it was, her response to him was visceral, tissue deep, as if she needed him like food, like air to breathe, water to drink. Air, water, food, Nick. She pushed herself against him, felt her sex tighten, swell, pinch with desire. She wanted to drag his hands down to touch her there. There, there. She writhed against him. So undignified.

But Nick didn't seem to give a damn about her dignity, because one hand moved right where she wanted it.

"Oh," she groaned, and quivered at his touch, feeling hot and cold all over and all at once.

Abruptly Nick stopped. "Someone's here," he said.

Yanked from her haze, she tried to focus. Through her open bedroom door, she heard the rattle of keys and the unmistakably efficient click of heels in the hallway. Lilly.

Miranda jerked away from Nick, pulled her robe around her, just as Lilly stopped in the open doorway, her eyes wide behind her severe glasses, her jaw dropping slightly.

"Oh," she said, "excuse me." She turned away.

"It's okay," Miranda said, on fire with embarrassment. What must Lilly think, finding her in bed with a half-naked stranger? She'd just act like this was perfectly normal. "Come back," she said, faking a laugh, as if Lilly'd merely interrupted them at a cocktail party. "Let me introduce you."

Nick gave her a wicked look. "Tell her you finally got my phone message," he muttered.

She frowned at him.

Lilly turned around, her mouth tight. She clearly disapproved.

"This is Nick, um…" For the life of her, Miranda couldn't recall his last name. Her face flamed. "Uh, Nick. An old friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you," Lilly said. Old friend. Right.

Having Lilly catch them like this—practically devouring each other—made Miranda feel foolish. Lilly was as serious about their business as she was. Neither had any social life to speak of. She'd never seen Lilly with a man or known her to mention one.

"Nick, this is Lilly," she said, tightening her robe around her throat, fighting the prickling sensations that stayed with her from Nick's caresses. "My assistant."

Nick nodded. "Actually, we met on the phone. About a year ago?"

"I don't recall." But Miranda could see she did. She must have withheld the message. To protect Miranda from other men in the wake of her failed engagement?

"I got home early from my trip," Miranda said, wanting to explain the moment, "and, by an amazing coincidence, the guy filling in for Charlie turned out to be Nick. We hadn't seen each other in a year. We got to talking, and…" This sounded more and more lame. "What brought you back early anyway?"

To her surprise, Lilly blushed. "I, uh, just wanted to get back." She looked closer at Miranda. "My God, what happened to your face?" She shot a glare at Nick, then looked back at Miranda.

"It's nothing. I fell. Sprained my ankle, too. I can tell you about it later." She did not want to explain the whole ordeal just now.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine. Really."

"Well, then, sorry to disturb you. We'll talk tomorrow." With a last concerned look at Miranda and completely ignoring Nick, Lilly left.

"She thought I gave you those black eyes," Nick said, shaking his head at the door where Lilly had just exited. "And she definitely doesn't approve." He tilted his head and moved in for a kiss, then something on her face stopped him. "Neither do you."

"It's not that. I'm just … embarrassed, I guess. Lilly's very protective of me. She was surprised, I'm sure, to see me…"

"Making out with the doorman?"

She laughed. "No. It's just that I've rarely … well, I'm just not much for having affairs."

"I can see that. You've still got the tag on that nightie."

"Could you forget about that?"

"So, you don't bring men home?" He quirked an eyebrow at her. He was curious, but there was a personal edge to the question that unsettled her.

"I've gone out with several men," she said defensively.

"But you didn't invite them up for coffee?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no."

The truth was she'd avoided anything more than some kissing at the door. She just hadn't been motivated enough for all the hassle. The men had been smart and interesting and solicitous, but hadn't really appealed to her. Fussing over the wine choice, elaborately describing their sound systems, rattling on about corporate politics and deals. Even when they asked her about her work, she found her mind wandering. She'd figured she'd lost her taste for sex—as if it had been a phase. Until, of course, Nick came back on the scene. Now she'd have to rethink her theory.

"I've been too busy to get very involved."

"So many creams to mix, so little time."

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

He cupped her cheek, sighing. "All the same, Lilly's got a point. I should know better. This was a mistake. It's late, you need your sleep, and that was a very long time ago. The past is past."

He kissed her forehead, picked his damp T-shirt off the floor where it had fallen and pulled it over his breathtaking torso. "You'll be okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she lied. She was relieved but also disappointed. The overload of pent-up lust would keep her awake for hours.

"I'll check with the precinct tomorrow and keep you posted on the case."

"Great. Thanks."

"It was nice to see you, Miranda. Again."

"Yes."

This was it. Goodbye. The past is past. He was right. This certainly couldn't lead to anything meaningful. And if she didn't watch it, she'd be making more of that brief make-out session than there was. Again. So she'd just stick with her creations and forget about Nick. Again.

What a jerk you are, Ryder, Nick told himself, galloping down Miranda's oh-so-elegant spiral staircase.

He was supposed to be looking after the woman, not seducing her. Talk about a fox in the henhouse. He should have called her in a pizza, not cooked her dinner. The night guy could have taken the crutches and bandage up to her.

As he neared her door, a voice stopped him. "Leaving so soon?" Lilly asked dryly.

"It's late," he said.

She was a pretty woman—petite, feminine—a fact she hid with severe hair and a stern demeanor. Her metal-edged glasses deflected light so he couldn't quite see her eyes, but he felt their criticism. "Miranda is not the kind of person you think she is," she said.

"And what kind of person is that?"

"She can be naive. And she's been hurt." She looked at him as if he was some blue-collar stud out to get what he could. That pissed him off—for what it said about both him and Miranda.

"You don't need to worry about Miranda with me," he said. "Good night." Then he left.

She didn't, either. Miranda Chase was not the kind of woman he should be messing with. He didn't belong in her world. He didn't even approve of her world.

He hit the lobby button on the elevator, still agitated, then patted his wallet for the extra key so he could give it back to the night guy.

What was it about Miranda that kept dragging him back? Her vulnerability. And the way she tried to brave it out. He wanted to protect her, make things right for her. He was a sucker for being needed.

That's how he'd gotten into trouble with Debbie, his ex-wife. But he hadn't been enough for Debbie. He wouldn't be enough for Miranda either.

Not that there was any danger of her turning into the woman in his life.

He didn't want a woman in his life. He didn't want someone he would disappoint, someone who would try to change him. He was heading for the Pacific and freedom.

He would, however, check on burglaries in the central corridor and ease her mind about this ridiculous cosmetics formula theft she thought had happened. He'd endure another day or two of watching her enter and leave the building, and then Miranda Chase would be out of his life.

Now if he could just get her out of his system. He could still smell her on him, still feel the silk of her skin. And taste her—like spring rain and honeysuckle—swirling in his mouth and going to his brain like a fine wine's bouquet. If only he were the sex-crazed bruiser her assistant assumed he was. He wouldn't cling to these sensual memories like a romantic lunatic. He'd just snag a one-night-stand from a nearby bar and be done with it.

6

« ^ »

As soon as she leaned back into the shampoo bowl in Estelle's Beauty Nook, Miranda regretted that she'd come in. The woman just wouldn't stop talking about the burglary. Miranda patronized Estelle's shop out of a loyalty that, just now, she wished she didn't feel.

She'd needed a beauty boost, though, since even though the Restorix—and maybe the steaks—had kept the swelling down, she'd awakened with a distinct raccoon effect around one eye and a smeared bruise under the other that even her densest foundation couldn't disguise.

She'd intended to tell Estelle that she'd fallen while skiing in New Mexico—why alarm people unnecessarily?—but Lilly had already talked to her. She didn't blame Lilly for confiding in her friend. She'd been exceptionally upset when Miranda told her about the robbery this morning over coffee.

Estelle babbled on about how unsafe the apartment building was getting, while Miranda focused on the soothing warm water on her scalp, and tried to forget those blessed minutes with Nick she'd guiltily relived all night long. Thank God he'd be gone tomorrow.

At the fourth floor, Nick held the elevator for a prim elderly woman in a lace-collared dress. Irene Faraday. She yanked the leash of her recalcitrant dachshund with surprising strength until the beast thumped over the threshold on its rump.

"When's Charlie due back?" she asked Nick, as she had every day since he'd taken over. For such a frail-looking woman, she had the voice of a drill instructor.

"Tomorrow," he said on a sigh. And he couldn't wait. Especially since last night with Miranda.

She eyed his ill-fitting, now-ripped uniform. "So, I hear you let a cat burglar in to terrorize us."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Estelle Moody told me about the break-in."

"Estelle Moody?"

"She owns the beauty parlor downstairs. Plus, I heard the cops clunking down the hall yesterday when I was playing poker with Nadine Morris—she lives down the hall from Miranda."

Before he could offer her the reassurance she didn't seem to need, she continued. "She said you gave her son a little talk about homework." She gave him a speculative look. "Nadine's divorced, you know. You like kids, Nick?"

"I, well—"

"I don't blame you. That Rickie's a little snot."

As if to emphasize the point, the wiener dog snuffled noisily at Nick's calf. Nick slid to the left, fearing the beast would either bite him or hump his leg. Neither sounded appealing.

"Now, Miranda's a lovely girl," Mrs. Faraday said, "if you can stand the smell."

"The smell?"

"Coming from that apartment. Oh, it could kill you. Nadine's always getting blasted. One day I was over there and just about fainted away. Who would have thought jasmine could be a toxic fume? Nadine had to call the paramedics to give me oxygen."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It wasn't so bad," she said, her lens-magnified eyes filled with mischief. "I always like a close-up view of those young men in navy-blue. They came last month when we thought she'd started the place on fire."

"Miranda started a fire?"

At his words, the dachshund lunged at him, but Mrs. Faraday yanked him back. "In that suit, you probably smell like Charlie," she explained. "Charlie always walks Dexter for me. And it wasn't a fire. Miranda was burning creosote and it got out of hand. Thick smoke. When the sprinklers didn't go off, Harold Burroughs—that's the building owner—was hopping mad. He was afraid we'd sue. It's illegal not to have working sprinklers, you know. The real problem is that dimweed has been neglecting things around here. Just look at this elevator, for example."

The thing shuddered to a stop and groaned open, illustrating her point.

Word traveled fast at the Palm View, he saw. What else did the bird-eyed woman know of the previous day's doings? He wouldn't be surprised if she announced she'd heard he was a good kisser.

A business guy in an expensive suit, reeking of cologne and pomade, stepped into the open elevator.

"Hello, Mr. Lattimer," Mrs. Faraday said. "How's Mrs. Lattimer?"

"She's well, thank you." Lattimer clasped his hands in front of him and rocked onto his heels, ignoring Nick and not making eye contact with Mrs. Faraday.

"I was telling Mrs. Lattimer about a great idea I have for a souped-up playing-card sorting machine," Mrs. Faraday continued, not catching the rebuff. "This is a moneymaker, I know for a fact. The one on the market's not worth a jigger of spit. If you wanted to help me with the patent, we could clean up."

Lattimer turned and gave her a quick, patronizing smile. "I'm an industrial patent attorney, but thanks for thinking of me. You might want to try the Yellow Pages."

Mrs. Faraday's jaw clamped shut. She made a sniffing noise. She knew she'd been insulted.

What a self-important ass, Nick thought. Button-down types like Lattimer pissed Nick off. They were so busy collecting cars, buying imported suits and yakking on their cell phones, they missed all the things that mattered. That's why he wanted out of the cities that spawned them—and everything else he didn't understand.

Like his thing for Miranda Chase. Of course she was gorgeous. So perfect it hurt to look at her. And she had heart. Lots of heart. That did get to him. That and her vulnerability. And those green eyes. He could get lost in those eyes… He heard a low growl and looked down just as Dexter locked onto his pant leg and began to tug.

Riiip.

"Dexter!" Mrs. Faraday hauled on the leash. "No. No." She wagged a finger at the dog. "I'm afraid I waited too long for walkies, and Dexter is punishing me," she said.

"No problem," Nick said, shaking his head. Punishing her, huh? So how come he was the one with the rip in Charlie's pant leg? He glared down at the dog, who looked back, impishly innocent. He momentarily entertained thoughts of wrapping the little pest in bacon, covering him in barbecue sauce, and serving him up as the cocktail weenie he resembled.

The elevator shuddered to a halt in the lobby. He held the door for Lattimer, Mrs. Faraday and her hors d'oeuvre of a dog, and then galloped ahead to get the front door for them. He headed back toward the desk, just as Miranda emerged from the hair salon, looking perfect even on crutches. She'd just had her hair done in some exotic braided style, and she wore the sleekest outfit he'd ever seen—scooped neckline, tight pants.

Didn't the woman own anything loose?

Well, he had news to report, and this was as good a time as any.

Miranda couldn't get Estelle to stop talking. The woman followed her right to the doorway. "Thanks again," Miranda said, then looked up to find Nick heading straight for her.

"Miranda," he said.

"Hello, Nick." She was annoyed at how glad she was to see him.

"Oh, hey," Estelle said to Nick, "I've got something that belongs to you." She headed back into the shop, then returned in a second with Charlie's cap dangling from her fingers. "One of the residents found it by the fourth-floor garbage dump," Estelle said, searching his face, waiting for him to explain.

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her, not answering the implied question. Miranda remembered he'd lost it when he'd chased the thief. He punched the puny cap into shape and put it on his head.

"We should talk," he said to Miranda. "I have news."

Estelle stayed in the doorway, her face alert, clearly waiting for the scoop.

"Thanks again, Estelle," Miranda said. The woman was the nosiest person she knew. Well, except for Mrs. Faraday. And maybe Charlie. When Estelle didn't leave, Miranda headed for the sofa near the security desk, her crutches almost second nature to her, Nick at her side.

Nick sat beside her. She felt a web of intimacy rise around them as he turned to her, his knees almost touching hers.

"What did you find out?" she asked.

"There's a break-in artist working the central corridor," he said. "Snatch-and-dash stuff, but he knows safes. Ballsy guy, too. Breaks in in broad daylight. Mostly homes, but a few offices. This is as far south as he's come, but we think that's who did this."

"Really?"

"So you can stop worrying about anyone stealing your formulas."

Maybe, but she still had that feeling… "Will they catch him?"

"I'll keep checking for you. After tomorrow, when Charlie's back, I'll keep him posted."

"Thanks, Nick." She looked fully into his eyes for the first time. The deep brown intensity waited for her. She wanted to say something about the night before.

"Last night was a mistake," Nick said, beating her to it. "I should know better than to hang around bedrooms with women in nightgowns. I don't get into town enough, I guess."

"Right. Sure," she said, a little stung that he talked as if he'd just had some generic temptation. For her, it had been an overwhelming sensual experience—a close match to the last time they'd been together. But she'd be damned if she'd let him know. "I'm glad you understand. I wasn't myself. I had all that codeine. I mean really." She laughed.

"You should watch that."

She bristled. "Are you saying it was my fault? Because you were the one who kept giving me drugs."

"No. I just mean that with pain pills it's easy to get carried away, and do things you don't—"

"Could I get some help here?" Lenore Lattimer, wife of the patent attorney on the third floor, had pushed open the front door to call impatiently to Nick.

"Sure," Nick said, standing. "I'll see you, Miranda. If there's news I'll let you know."

She watched out the glass door as Nick followed the woman to her Range Rover and unloaded two huge vases with flowers. Somehow, even loaded down, he managed to hold the door for Lenore as she waltzed in like a queen.

The woman waited while Nick struggled to open the elevator and get them both inside. As he did so, the too-small cap fell off his head, the elevator doors shut on it, then bounced open, leaving it mangled.

Nick picked up the cap, slapped it against his thigh, then crammed it on his head, completely cool. The last Miranda saw of him he was winking at her as the doors closed.

When the doorbell rang late the next afternoon, Miranda went to get it. Ralph, the night security guy, was bringing up a package that had just been hand delivered. Normally Lilly answered the door, but she'd gone to the Chase corporate offices on some errands. She'd been spending a lot of time at headquarters lately. Probably paving the way for the presentation in six weeks.

Balancing her crutches under her arms, Miranda opened the door. There stood Nick.

"Your package," he said, saluting the brim of that ridiculous, now grease-streaked cap.

"Nick." She hadn't expected to see him again.

"My last official duty. I saved Ralph the trip." He walked in far enough to place the small box on the marble entry table.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't worry about things. Charlie'll be back tomorrow. He'll keep a good eye out."

"I bet you'll be glad to get out of that uniform." She noticed that the bottom of one leg had a jagged tear, and there was a purple blotch on the jacket.

He looked down at himself, shaking his head. "Grape juice from the kid down the hall. And Dexter ripped the pants."

She laughed. Even in the bedraggled uniform Nick looked nothing but sexy to her.

"How's your ankle?" Nick asked, clearly trying to make conversation.

"Lots better. I called an orthopedist and I'm going to get what they call an 'air cast' tomorrow and get rid of the crutches. Thanks, Nick, for everything."

"Glad to help."

"I guess this is goodbye?" she said, feeling inexplicably sad.

"Yeah." He looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke, his words were soft and low. "I'd offer to take you for a sail, let you hear the coyotes and count the stars, but—"

"That would be lovely."

"But that's not what you want, Miranda. You want a guy who drinks imported beer in a glass, not Bud in a can. A guy who likes his sex on silk sheets, not in a dinghy in the moonlight."

"That's not true, Nick," she said. "I don't care about things like that. I'm perfectly—"

He cut her off. "I'm not the guy you want."

She could argue, but the truth was she didn't even know what she wanted in a man. Besides, she wasn't the woman Nick wanted, either. He was just too polite to point that out. To Nick, this was just man-woman chemistry, nothing earth-shattering.

Nick watched Miranda soak up his words. Emotions flew across her face. She was disappointed, he saw, but then she accepted it. So easily. If they'd finished what they'd started the night before she wouldn't be so quick to write him off. And perversely, that just pushed him into going for it. One more kiss. One more taste of the honeysuckle sweetness that was Miranda.

Her crutches crashed to the floor and she made a sweet sound of surrender as his mouth met hers. With a little quiver, her lips opened. Take me, they said. So he did, tasting the velvet inside her mouth. He tried to memorize the moment, like that last cigarette before he quit, the last break-neck spin on his motorcycle. He wanted her to remember him, too, wanted to brand her with a memory.

She sagged in his arms and he knew he'd succeeded.

He broke off the kiss before he got carried away, irritated to find he didn't feel any better. Bracing her shaky body, he bent to retrieve her crutches and stuck them under her arms, which were hanging loose as a rag doll's.

"Goodbye, Miranda."

Looking stunned, she weakly wiggled her fingers at him. She looked so sexy it was all he could do to shut the door against her. Thank God this was his last day. As soon as he got downstairs, he'd hand off to the night guy and be gone.

Miranda regretted the goodbye kiss the instant it was over. It only made her want more. And she couldn't have more. She didn't have time for that kind of longing. Even if Nick wanted her, that only meant an affair. He was leaving as soon as he got together twenty-five "K," as he called it. And she didn't trust herself to keep an affair with Nick in perspective. Not with the way she responded to him.

She took a deep breath and blew it out, then picked up the package Nick had carried up to her, forcing herself to focus on it. It was small, wrapped in brown paper, hand addressed. No postmark. It had been hand delivered. Hmm.

Inside, nestled in purple velvet, she found a cosmetics jar. Taped to the lid was a card on which someone had glued words from a magazine like a ransom note. "There are no secrets. We've got yours."

"My God," she said. With shaking fingers, she twisted the lid. The scent that rose to her nose was distinctive and familiar.

"My formula," she whispered out loud. For her new cleanser. She could tell because of the faint whisper of persimmon. She rubbed a dab between her fingers. Same unique fizz. She could get a lab to analyze it, but she knew she was right. It was her formula. One of her new creations and someone had stolen it.

The thief must have taken photos of her formula cards. He was no junkie, she knew now, but an industrial spy. Why had he robbed her safe? To cover his real purpose. A chill raced down her spine. What else had he stolen? Which other products would whoever had hired him copy?

Who was it? And, even worse, would they come back for more?

If a competitor put the formulas on the market before Chase Beauty put her cosmetics into production, they could fill her niche. She couldn't let this happen. She couldn't lose all she'd worked for that way. She had to stop them before they got ahead of her. But she couldn't do it alone. She needed help. Discreet help. Dependable help. And she knew just where to get it.

She moved as fast as she could, but Nick was halfway across the parking lot before she got outside.

He turned when she shouted his name, saw her and sprinted back.

She told him what had happened.

"And you're sure it's your formula."

"Of course."

"Why would they want you to know they had robbed you?"

"To scare me off? Make me quit?"

"You didn't touch the package much, right?"

"No."

"I'll take it in for fingerprints." He started for the apartment building.

"Wait," she said.

He looked at her. "What?"

"Will you help me?"

"I am helping you. Come on."

"No, I mean help me stop them from stealing from me."

He searched her face, swallowed. "Miranda, the police will handle this."

"You said yourself they're understaffed and overworked. They don't have time for this kind of crime. Plus they don't know the industry. If you and I work together, we can do what they could never do. In no time."

"I don't know."

"I'll pay you. You said you need to make money."

"No."

She looked at him for a few seconds. "Okay. I'll hire a private investigator myself."

"Anybody with a computer can claim to be a P.I. these days. There are lots of crooks out there."

"Maybe I'll just handle it myself then."

"And you would, too." He shook his head, but she could see he was coming around. "You are the most stubborn woman I've ever known."

"I liked it better when you called me indomitable. But will you do it?"

He blew out a breath as if the entire world rested on his shoulders. "May God have mercy on my soul."

"I'll take that as a yes. You won't be sorry. We'll make a great team." For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she wouldn't be better off with anyone other than Nick—even a crooked P.I.—considering how complicated her feelings about him were. But no. She looked into his strong face and knew she just felt better when he was around. With his law-enforcement expertise they'd unravel this mystery in no time. She ignored the tiny voice rejoicing that she wouldn't have to say goodbye to him for good. Yet.

"I'll do this on two conditions," he said. "First, you don't pay me—"

"But this is a job. And you need the money. You said—"

"Miranda. I'm doing this as a friend. And because it's partly my fault you're in this mess."

"But—"

"I mean it."

"Okay, I won't pay you. What's the other condition?"

"That we run the investigation my way. I'm in charge."

"Absolutely," she said, crossing her heart, her other hand behind her back, fingers crossed. She had to have input, right?

"All right, then." He started toward the apartment entrance, talking as he strode. She had to scramble to keep up with him on her crutches. "While I take the evidence to the station, you make a list of all the people who have access to your apartment, those who know where you keep your formulas, and everyone who might have a motive to steal from you."

"Okay. Great."

"Don't leave out friends, co-workers or family, either," he said as he walked. "Most crimes are cooked up close to home."

"Right," she said. She'd also call Raul Quintero, a freelance writer whose industry scoops appeared regularly in Cosmetics Pulse. He could do some discreet poking around without putting her other competitors wise to her crisis.

Nick watched Miranda's face while she, no doubt, figured out what she'd do instead of what he'd asked her, and realized he was in for it. Still, he'd seen the fear behind the feistiness when she said she'd investigate on her own and he'd known he was a goner.

Maybe if he'd taken her more seriously from the beginning, he'd have caught the lowlife who'd burgled her place, and solved the mystery before it became one. He owed her this, regardless of how tempting being around her would be. Like it or not, he was stuck in Miranda Chase's world a little longer.

He wasn't completely sorry about it, either.

7

« ^ »

Two hours later, Lilly went to the door to let Nick into the apartment, while Miranda worked at the dining table. Lilly wasn't happy about Nick being on the case. She didn't trust him—probably because she'd seen him half-naked in bed with Miranda, who hadn't remembered his last name, but that couldn't be helped.

"Lilly, will you bring Nick something to—"

Before Miranda could finish her request, Lilly came out of the kitchen carrying the containers of kung pao chicken and beef broccoli, along with a Kirin beer Miranda had ordered for Nick. She'd demanded ID of the delivery guy, while Lilly stood by the door holding a frying pan to bean him if he acted strangely.

Lilly plunked the food unceremoniously on the table as Nick arrived there, with a fork and a napkin, not even bothering with plates. She definitely disapproved of him. "I'll be in my room," she said, turned and left.

"Thanks," Nick said to Lilly's retreating back. He put the plastic bag with the box and sample cosmetics on the table. "Wiped clean," he said to Miranda. "No fingerprints." He sat and took a bite of food. "Mmm." He looked over at her. "That your list?" He indicated the paper in the middle of the table.

Miranda nodded.

He pulled it toward him. "There are only four names on this list and three of them are companies."

"I know. You told me to list people who had a motive to steal my formula. Those are our main competitors. The most likely suspect is L'Mage. They have the kind of grudge it might take to be vicious like this, though it seems too much even for them." She paused, frowning. "Anyway, I think the connection might be him." She poked at the other name. "He lives here and could track my whereabouts."

"Lyle Lattimer? I've seen him in the elevator a few times. I carried in a bunch of flowers for his wife."

"Here's the important part." She scooted forward, proud of her detective work. "He's a patent attorney and I remember seeing him at the Beauty Tomorrow Conference. Why would he be there unless he had a client?"

"Buying something for his wife? You're jumping to quite a conclusion."

"Yeah, but in the elevator today, he couldn't meet my gaze. He kept clearing his throat, looking away. Very suspicious."

"For one thing, you're on crutches. And for another, if you looked like that—" he indicated her outfit"—he probably didn't want to be accused of leering."

She looked down at her simple pink silk blouse—sleeveless but modest, with an elegant cowl neckline that stopped far short of her cleavage. She wore black cigarette pants. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Other than it could stop traffic?"

"You're exaggerating."

"Let's just say you better stay out of any chill." He stared directly at her chest.

She looked down again. The slight bumps of her nipples could be detected under the fabric, but you had to look very closely. Then, to her horror, under all that attention, her nipples tightened, making two distinct points in her blouse. If only she had a bra that wasn't so sheer. Maybe something in a stainless steel.

"Anyway," she said, crossing her arms over her traitorous nipples, "he must have known I was out of town. He probably let the little thief into the building and told him what to look for. I think we need to interview him."

"We? We need to interview him?"

"Shouldn't we start with the prime suspects?"

"You're missing the point. You don't need to interview anyone. What you need to do is write a full list of suspects and how to reach them—phone and address. In this building and in the corporation. Anyone who resents you, or is angry at you. Then I'll interview them. And I expect to have a talk with Lilly."

"Lilly? Lilly would never do anything to hurt me."

"She works with you, could be jealous of you. They may have offered her a lot of money."

"Next you'll be accusing my brother, just because he's not gung ho about Naturally Better Than Nature."

He pushed the paper toward her. "Write down his number."

"That's ridiculous." She pushed the paper back and folded her arms.

He looked at her. It was a cold, dark look that she was sure had intimidated all his suspects.

She unfolded her arms. "Okay. You're in charge." She wrote her brother's name and phone number.

"While I talk to Lilly, finish the list," he said. "In the morning you can set me up with interviews at Chase Beauty."

"But—"

"Without tipping them to what it's about."

"What are you going to say to them?"

"I'm going to ask about their whereabouts over the past few days, talk to them about your cosmetics."

"You can't tell my father exactly what happened. I don't want him to think I'm in danger. He'll hire a bodyguard, start checking on me constantly. It will get ridiculous."

"Miranda, I know what I'm doing."

"Well, don't accuse him of anything. Or my brother."

"Miranda…"

"Right. You're in charge. But be subtle."

He rolled his eyes.

"Okay, okay. Did they find anything from the shoe print?" she asked, changing tack.

"No tread-mark matches so far." He gave her a wise-ass smile.

"Are you patronizing me?"

"No. Well, sort of. Sorry. They don't track Nikes like fingerprints."

"Okay, then, Mr. Expert, tell me what else you're going to do."

"I'm going to talk to the maintenance men and the fire crew who repaired the elevator to see if they saw anybody or anything unusual. Same for the residents here. Though the burglar could have broken in, there's a chance he was let in. Who has keys to your apartment besides you and Lilly?"

"My brother Theo. He stays here sometimes when he's had too much to drink and doesn't want to drive home."

"And…?"

She thought. "Security, of course. That's it."

"Okay, then. I'll talk to Lilly." He stood to go.

"You're wasting your time with her."

"Maybe. But there might be things you don't know about her. Like, for example, why did she suddenly appear in the apartment last night—off schedule—when she knew you were supposed to still be in New Mexico? She seemed embarrassed about it, too."

"I'm sure there's a perfectly sensible explanation. Lilly's dedicated to Naturally Better Than Nature. She would never work against me."

"We'll see."

"Don't you trust anyone?" she asked.

"Who I trust is irrelevant. It's you who has to be careful. You have something other people want. Not me. I keep my life simple."

She looked into his brown eyes—opaque and distant. He was so different from her it made her shiver. No ties and no interest in them. No faith in people.

Except, that wasn't quite true. Not if you looked beyond the surface, to the inner Nick. He was on the run from the things that mattered to him. He'd been hurt. By his ex-wife, for one, she remembered from their first meeting. And by his job, which he missed. She could tell by the way he'd talked to the detectives about her case, and the way he pretended to be doing her a favor when he was really enjoying this. She wondered if she'd ever feel safe enough to tell him so.

He walked away.

"Nick? One more thing?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not trying to run the investigation, but I thought I might touch base with some industry insiders. There's a reporter I know who always knows what's going on."

He rolled his eyes and muttered something about everybody thinking they're Columbo, but he said, "Sure. Call him."

Good, since she already had.

Miranda's brother, Theo Chase, stuck his head in the door of the room where Nick was interviewing people at Chase Beauty. He was fifteen minutes late, but he was the one who looked annoyed. He had Miranda's green eyes, only more narrow. He shot a monogrammed cuff to ostentatiously check his watch. "I've got just a few. Walk with me. I need a smoke."

Nick followed him out to a terrace with benches and patio tables. As soon as they sat down, Chase tapped out a cigarette and lit it with a match. He tilted the pack in Nick's direction.

"Don't smoke."

"I'm quitting," Chase said, shaking his head. He tapped the matchbook against the table. The red-and-gold foil surface caught the sunlight, temporarily blinding Nick. "So, what's this about?"

"I'm helping your sister with an investigation."

"A what?" He took a deep puff of his cigarette. The dark hair and pale skin that looked exotic on Miranda made her brother seem brooding.

Nick explained the situation.

The man's mouth quirked. He seemed amused. "My sister thinks someone's stealing her formulas?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't put it past her to fabricate the whole thing."

"Why would she do that?"

"For publicity. Why else?" Chase pondered the idea for a moment, then he looked at Nick. "How well do you know my sister?"

"Well enough to want to help her," he said.

"Good luck, my friend," he said, patting Nick's arm. "If we were in my office, I'd offer you a drink. Don't get taken in by my sister. She's enthusiastic but misguided. She's working from an antiquated business model. She's dreaming."

"She seems pretty serious."

"She always is." He shrugged, then looked at his watch again. "Look, I've got to go." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Let my secretary know if you need anything else."

Nick didn't even get a chance to hand him a card. Theo Chase didn't seem to care enough about what Miranda was doing to have plotted against her. Annoying and arrogant. The guy's smug superiority made Nick want to grab him by his starched collar and shake into him a little more humility—and some respect for his sister.

By the time Nick left Chase Beauty, he had suspicions but no clear evidence pointing to next steps.

Miranda's father, Carl Chase, had the same green eyes and determination as his daughter, and seemed to be deeply supportive of Miranda's work. Expansion is the lifeblood of this enterprise—a tradition at Chase Beauty. Protective of his daughter, he'd spent more time grilling Nick about his qualifications than answering his questions. He'd suggested the copied cream sample might have been a practical joke.

In his defense, the man didn't know about the safe robbery, information Nick had withheld in deference to Miranda's not wanting to worry her father about her safety. She'd called Nick's cell phone three times during the interview to suggest questions and comments. The woman was making him nuts.

His meetings with a half a dozen VPs and a couple of middle managers didn't net anything more, though everyone was suspiciously tight-lipped, answering only his questions without offering more information to fill the silences he deliberately left to prod the guilty.

He headed for Miranda's apartment to check in with her, thinking about his suspects.

He had mixed feelings about Lilly from his night-before interview. She was ambitious, but she seemed honestly devoted to Miranda. She'd come from the same blue-collar background as he had and was touchy about it, he'd learned when he'd baited her. She'd bristled when he called her a secretary and housekeeper instead of an assistant, but insisted she owed a lot to Miranda and valued the flexible hours and the place to live.

Still, the whole time they talked, her cheeks had been pink—odd for such a cool customer—and she'd kept clicking the end of a pen she'd picked up from her desk.

No doubt about it, this was going to take longer than he'd expected, he realized as he parked at the Palm View and headed for the lobby door. Despite his annoyance, he found he was intrigued. He greeted Charlie—who looked fabulous in the excruciatingly expensive uniform he'd purchased for him—then headed up the elevator to Miranda's apartment, bracing himself for whatever she'd cooked up in his absence.

She didn't disappoint him, opening the door with a brisk jerk to say, "I've got a plan."

"Why am I not surprised?"

She frowned at his jab, then backed up for him to come in.

He saw she wore a Velcro-strapped soft splint. "No more crutches, huh?"

"Nope. Isn't this cool?" She turned it from side to side.

"Nice," he said. As was the short blue dress she was wearing—another sexy number that clung to her curves.

"Any suspects at Chase Beauty?" she asked him.

He had doubts about her brother, but he wasn't about to tell Miranda Theo's theory that she'd faked the whole thing. "Not so far."

"I told you you'd be wasting your time," she said smugly. "It's okay, though, because I've got Raul Quintero, intrepid reporter, on the case. I promised him an exclusive on the industrial espionage story if it pans out. The good news is there's some buzz about my new products, and he wants to do a feature on me. The angle of lowering the costs for high-end products is a good one and—"

"Could we get to your plan?"

"Oh, right." She walked to the table, her movement barely ungainly in her splint, and picked up a sheet of paper she handed to him. "I made a list of all the residents who might conceivably know anything about what happened or have some reason, however farfetched, to want to scare me."

The chart was a decent length and listed the resident, apartment number, occupation and any possible link to Chase Beauty or Miranda. If someone had done something from the inside, the most likely suspect was Lilly, he knew, but it would be a good idea to check on some of the neighbors.

"This looks good," he said.

"Great. Then I'll get started interviewing them."

"You're not interviewing anyone. You agreed—"

"To let you run the investigation, I know. But I need to do something. Besides, you're a stranger. These people are my neighbors. They'll talk to me."

Oh, for God's sake. She was so close and she smelled so good and she looked so eager. How much harm could she do?

A lot.

"Then I'm coming with you." Besides, if he left her here, who knew what mischief she could plot?

"Okay, great."

"And I ask the questions."

"Absolutely. Mum's the word," she said. "I'll just poke you if I think someone's lying."

"Yeah, right," he said, opening the door.

"I think we should start with Lyle Lattimer," she said, heading for the elevator. "You'll see that I've highlighted his name."

Great.

At the door to Lattimer's apartment he whispered to her, "I know there's no point in asking you to keep your mouth shut. Just try not to commit libel. He is an attorney."

"Just patents."

"Miranda," he growled.

"Okay, okay," she said, and rang the doorbell.

Nick exhaled slowly. Surely he could keep Miranda out of trouble while he asked Lattimer a couple of questions.

Evidently not, he realized, when, ten minutes later, he found himself chest to breast with Miranda in the Lattimers' cramped coat closet where Miranda had yanked him after pretending to leave while Lattimer was answering the phone at the back of the apartment. She'd seen L'Mage stationery on his desk and wanted to "investigate."

He wanted to throttle her, but Lattimer was now pacing the living room talking on the phone, so close Nick didn't dare make a sound. He was irritated to realize that even though they were close enough to breathe each other's air, Miranda probably couldn't see his glare in the pitch black of the closet.

"Yeah," Lattimer was saying, "I told them we needed that filed. The clerk promised… Okay, I'm on my way." Lattimer's voice faded as he headed back down the hall.

"Are you out of your mind?" Nick whispered at her.

"I need to read the legal papers. It'll just take a few minutes."

"For God's sake, would you—"

Miranda slammed her hand over his mouth. Lattimer was back in the living room, this time rattling keys, shutting a briefcase. Her fingers felt so nice it was hard to stay mad.

Miranda removed her hand from Nick's mouth, trying not to think about how good his lips had felt under her fingers. Besides, she could practically feel the steam coming off Nick in the dark while they waited for Lyle to leave. She'd had that tingling on the back of her neck and every instinct told her there was something to be discovered in this apartment.

She had a moment of concern for how they were going to relock the door when they left, but she had to hope Nick could perform some police or security-guard magic.

Finally, after five more endless minutes, while she listened to her shaky breaths combine with Nick's annoyed ones, Lattimer left, closing the door with a solid thud. Neither of them moved, waiting to be sure he wouldn't return for something he'd forgotten.

When it was obvious the coast was clear, Nick jerked the closet door open.

"Before you yell, hear me out," she said. "I just need a minute to look through the papers, then I'll check his computer files. I have a feeling."

"A feeling? I don't think the cops will buy 'having a feeling' as a rationale for searching an apartment without a warrant."

"It's not against the law to get trapped in a locked apartment, is it? We're not going to take anything. If we're wrong, and Lyle's not involved, it's in his best interest we find out now."

"You should have been a defense attorney," Nick muttered, but he didn't stop her from hurrying to the desk. The paper looked like a contract between L'Mage and Lattimer's firm for legal services.

"Let's get out of here, Miranda," Nick said.

"Let me just turn on the computer. Five minutes, no more."

"I can't believe I let you get me into this."

She booted the computer and was dismayed to see all Lattimer's documents were numbered, not named, making it impossible to narrow her search. She opened the most recently dated file.

At that moment, they heard footsteps and a key in the lock. Lyle was back. Oh, God.

This time Nick dragged her into the closet and pulled the door shut behind them.

The door opened and they heard voices—two of them, one female. Miranda recognized Lenore Lattimer's throaty tones, then the sound of kissing.

"How long have we got?" the man murmured. And he wasn't Lyle.

"He's got appointments all afternoon and I don't have to be back for two hours."

"Mmm," the man said, and then there was heavy breathing and the sound of clothes sliding. Probably off.

"Oh, my God," Miranda said. This was so wicked and thrilling, she couldn't stand it.

"Great," Nick whispered. "Now we've not only committed a crime, we're voyeurs."

Even though she couldn't make out his features, Miranda could feel Nick watching her. The closet was so full of wool and leather they were practically embracing in the small space that remained.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked.

"You have to admit it's pretty exciting. I feel we're doing real police work—a stakeout."

"Hardly. Stakeouts are mostly boring."

"I don't think this is boring," Miranda said, feeling Nick all around her, wanting him again. "Do you?"

Nick took a ragged breath.

The couple on the other side of the closet door began to moan and gasp. They were doing it right in the living room, just a few feet away. The leather of the sofa squeaked against bare flesh. "Oh, oh, oh," Lenore Lattimer was saying.

In the dark, Miranda could sense Nick feeling what she was—the throb, the pulse, the urge to do what Lenore and her lover were doing. They were very close, inches apart. She breathed in his scent. She swallowed hard, released a shaky breath.

"We're going to be here a while," Nick said.

"Yeah. A while." She wanted him so much she couldn't stand it. It was a primitive need, made more vivid by the darkness. They grabbed for each other at the same time. The force of their connection unbalanced them and they thumped the closet wall.

"What was that?" Lenore said sharply.

Nick and Miranda held their breath, not moving.

"Nothing," the man soothed. "Something in the hall."

Lenore must have been appeased, because kissing sounds and rhythmic leather squeaks resumed.

Nick let out a breath, pushed himself upright, pulling Miranda with him.

"That was close," she breathed.

"No," he said, "that was insane."

"Well, don't blame me. It was your elbow that hit the wall."

"That's not what I mean. We should never have … oh, forget it."

A few minutes later, they heard the copulating couple head down the hallway, laughing as they went. "Get ready," Nick whispered. When what must have been a bedroom door closed, Nick pulled Miranda close to him and half carried her out of the closet and the apartment, leaving the trysters in peace.

8

« ^ »

Once the elevator groaned open and they were inside, Nick released her. "That should never have happened, Miranda. You swore you wouldn't interfere."

"I promised I wouldn't say anything libelous and I didn't."

"It went without saying you wouldn't commit a felony—hiding in a closet, scanning his computer." He shook his head. "I need my head examined. Something happens to me when I'm around you. I lose all reason."

She wasn't sure if she was flattered or insulted. "I just saw an important opportunity to investigate."

"Ms. Columbo again." Nick pushed the button for her floor.

"Where are we going?"

"You're going back to your apartment. I'm going to get my head on straight and do the job the way I should have been doing it all along."

"But we agreed—"

"After that caper, all bets are off," he said. "You stick with face cream. I'll investigate the crime."

"I don't know why you're complaining. You got us out just fine. I think we make a great team."

"Yeah. Abbott and Costello."

He smiled but looked determined. He would not bend. But she had to get something out of it. They'd reached her apartment, and she turned to him. "Okay. You can interview my neighbors without me. On one condition."

"What condition?"

"Don't be suspicious. It's just a small favor."

"A favor? If it involves a closet, forget it."

"Nothing like that. I just need you to try out a men's product for me."

"A product? You mean makeup? No way."

"Don't get all macho. It's a cleansing mask designed specifically for men. You'll like it. It will make shaving easier, keep you from getting ingrown whiskers and make your face more supple and young looking."

"First off, supple is not something a man wants to be. And second, are you saying I look old?" A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.

Jackpot. He did have a shred of vanity. She could work with that. "Not really. Your face is well … fine," she said, deliberately hesitating. She wasn't about to tell him he was drop-dead, droolingly gorgeous. "This will make it more so."

"I don't know…"

"On the other hand, I could always go with you on your interviews. Mrs. Faraday never lets me leave without playing a hand of poker with her."

"Okay, okay. I'll do it when I get back. But make it fast."

"It'll take five minutes to apply and a few minutes to soak. Think of all the men in the world you'll be helping."

"Right," he said. "I'm a real hero. Saving the world from ingrown hair." Shaking his head, he turned for the elevator.

Miranda went into her apartment, pausing to lean her back against the door and catch her breath. Her heart still rattled in her chest from how much she'd wanted to kiss Nick in that steamy little closet. What on earth was the matter with her? This lust business was completely out of control. If they hadn't crashed into the wall she'd have been all over him in there.

She shuddered at the thought, then headed toward her kitchen. She had samples to make, a formula to refine. Except she could still smell the spicy scent of him—like ships and wood and man things.

She had to admit she liked that he'd be back. Matching wits with him, working together, even when he was disagreeable, was fun. She kind of liked his smart-ass attitude. He was different from the men she knew. He challenged her. What if what she felt for him was more than lust? She didn't dare let it be. Nick certainly wasn't interested in more than that. Plus, he'd be away on his boat soon.

Forget it. She was always better off when she stuck to work. She sighed and barreled into the kitchen.

First, to be ready for Nick, she mixed up a fresh batch of her Miracle Mask for Men, adding the essential oil of carotene, and the new emulsifier she'd wanted to test to the base mixture. Then she started on her final and most critical product—the rejuvenation cream.

Two hours later, she was deeply engrossed in her work when she heard the door open. Her heart stopped for a second—she'd been jumpy ever since the robbery.

Then Nick's deep, reassuring voice called her name.

She breathed out a sigh. "In the kitchen."

He came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. "What are you cooking up now?" He sniffed. "Hey, not bad."

"That's lemongrass, lavender and rosewater."

"Is this what you want me to test?"

"No."

"Well, get it. Let's get on with the science experiment."

"You make it sound like torture."

"Well?"

She rinsed her hands, adjusted the heat on the slow cooker, and took the container of Miracle Mask for Men and a jar of cleansing cream from the refrigerator. "Sit," she said, patting a counter stool.

Nick sat.

She placed the two jars on the counter, then took cotton pads from a drawer. "Did you find out anything from my neighbors?"

"Not much," he said, "except that Mrs. Faraday thinks our children would be gorgeous."

"Oh, my Lord."

Nick chuckled and shook his head. "Be glad you didn't come with me. I barely talked her out of that poker game, though her card-shuffling machine did work like a charm."

Miranda unscrewed the cleanser lid.

"Is that it?" he asked.

"No, this is cleansing cream to clear away dirt and oil."

"You said one product."

"Oh, don't be a baby."

"I should have known there'd be a catch. With you there always is."

"Stop whining and take it like a man." She loaded a cotton pad with cleanser.

"Doing this, the last thing I feel like is a man."

"Isn't this better than wearing Charlie's uniform?" She came toward him wielding the cream-laden pad.

"I'll have you know Nadine Morris liked me in it."

"She did?" She stopped, inches from his face.

"Oh, yeah. We had a nice long talk in her apartment. She works so much she doesn't get much of a chance to meet men." He waggled his brows.

Nadine Morris had been hitting on Nick. The nerve. She felt a stupid stab of jealousy. On the other hand how could any woman resist Nick? In any garb.

"No accounting for taste," she said, beginning to smear the cleanser across his face in smooth strokes. Instantly tension rose. When she'd extracted his promise to try her product, she hadn't thought about how it would feel to be this close to him. It was as if they'd suddenly been tossed back into the dark closet again.

"H-h-here, you do it," she said, stepping back. "Rub it around thoroughly, using circular motions, then rinse at the sink with warm water."

He sighed, smeared the cream haphazardly around, then splashed his face in the sink.

"Wait for the water to warm up to open the pores."

He gave her a look, then continued splashing himself. Men. She sighed. This would not be a good experiment. On the other hand, just getting him to try it was an accomplishment.

"I really think Lattimer's the inside man," she said, getting back to the case.

He raised his dripping face. "Inside man? You hear that on Law and Order?"

"Just talk to him again, okay?" Before he could object, she added, "I promise I won't come along."

"Or make cell phone calls while I'm in there like you did when I was at Chase Beauty?"

"Okay, that was too much, but I want to contribute to the investigation. With you it's your way or the highway, huh?"

"Pretty much," he said. Water dripped from his face and the ends of his hair, making him look crisp and clean and very kissable. Especially with that grin of his.

She handed him a towel to get rid of the effect.

He scrubbed his face dry. "Anyway, Charlie talked to the night guy and the fire crew that worked on the elevator. Nothing there. The salon owner insisted on bending my ear about how dangerous the place is. She thinks you're darling and so talented. And your hair has great body."

Miranda cringed. "She told you that?"

"Oh, yeah. And you have strong nails, too." He formed his hand into a puppet and made a yakking gesture.

"She and Lilly are friends, so I'm sure they talk about me." She opened the mask jar and approached Nick, who'd resumed sitting on the stool.

"Is this the stuff?" He leaned over the jar.

She nodded.

"It looks like salmon mousse."

"The carrot oil gives it an orange tint."

He sniffed, scrunching up his nose. "Strong. What's in it?"

She told him the basic ingredients.

"Nothing magical about that."

"Well, there's also my unique long-lasting hydro-fixer that includes vitamins and natural hormones—"

"Hormones? Hold it. This isn't going to give me breasts, is it?"

"Of course not, you goof. These aren't sex hormones. They invigorate the skin. Do you have any food allergies?"

"No."

"Good." She stood close, practically between his legs, feeling entirely too intimate, but she couldn't back out now.

She scooped out some cream with a cotton pad. "Now, you have to apply this completely, concentrating on the forehead, cheeks and chin. Keep it thick and evenly layered."

His eyes held hers, making it impossible to think of anything but how close they were.

Still looking at her, Nick took some mask from the pad with two fingers and stroked them across his cheek, forehead and chin—like war paint.

"That's a start. Now rub that around."

"Isn't this good enough?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Her frustration overcame her reluctance to touch him. "Let me do it." She moved trembling fingers over his face. His skin was warm, his facial muscles taut. He felt so alive. It didn't matter that his features were obscured by bright orange glop. He was gorgeous and she was touching him—his eyebrows, his jawline, that little white scar, the slight roughness of his coarse beard, the pulse at his temple. She felt herself swaying closer. Heat swirled between them, arousing and dizzying.

"Nice," he murmured, his eyes closing. His breath rasped, his chest rose and fell. She breathed with him.

Then a bit of the mixture touched Nick's lips. She smoothed it away with her finger, but his eyes opened, smoky and dark, and his tongue touched her finger.

She took a harsh breath and her body went liquid and electric from the wet contact on just the tip of her finger.

She stared at him, alive with heat. Again he pressed his tongue against her finger, testing, waiting for her to withdraw, but instead she thrust her finger into his mouth, the way she wanted him to move inside her, closing her eyes, ridden with desire. He sucked her finger, hard.

"Oh," she said, sagging against him. He released her finger to accept her mouth and pulled her into an embrace. His tongue found her in a way that seemed as familiar and natural as breathing. Nick's mask smeared onto her cheeks, but she didn't care.

He broke off the kiss to murmur, "What happens now?"

"We leave it on for a half hour," she breathed, sliding her fingers into his hair, ready to tug him back to her mouth.

"A half hour, huh? Guess we'll have to stay busy while we wait." Then she didn't have to tug, because Nick yanked her into his arms.

Nick felt like a giant crushing Miranda's slender frame against him, as though, if he weren't careful, he'd snap her in two. But she was steel inside, he knew—sturdy and stubborn. Her breasts were firm against his chest. And the strength of her tongue's movements in his mouth told him he wasn't overpowering her. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Her dress, soft as butter, seemed so thin he felt her very skin trembling beneath his fingers. The goop on his face smeared all over hers, but she didn't seem to care. He sure didn't. He didn't care about anything but his mouth on hers and the way she felt in his hands.

He knew he was out of control, like some testosterone-crazed teenager, but Miranda did something to him. Something deep and carnal. And he couldn't fight it anymore.

He slid his hands up her torso and moved to the swells of her breasts, letting his thumbs find the sweet peaks. He felt every tight pebble on her nipple through her silky clothes. The contact seemed to electrify her. She jerked her mouth away and arched her breasts into his hands, as if she couldn't get enough of his touch.

Even through the smears of orange goo, he saw how beautiful she was. Her eyes shimmered with the same startling heat he felt. A rush of lust spiraled through him.

"Bed," he said. "We need a bed."

She nodded.

"Let's get rid of this junk." He grabbed a towel and wiped the slop off Miranda's face. Then he stopped short. "Uh-oh."

"What?" she asked woozily.

"This." He turned on the faucet, ducked his face under the spigot and scrubbed off the stuff, then raised his face for her scrutiny.

"You're orange," she said.

"You, too."

"Oh, dear. The emulsifier must have intensified the effect of the carotene in the essential oil."

"Great. How bad is it?" Nick asked.

"Not too bad," Miranda lied, horrified at what she'd done to him. His face was bright orange except for circles around his eyes and mouth. He looked like some creature from Star Trek or a crazed football fan.

"Don't worry. I've got some intensive cosmetics remover in my bathroom."

"Maybe later." He reached to kiss her.

"We don't want the color to soak in. It'll just take a jiff. Come on." She led him up the stairs and into her bedroom, reassuring him as she went, though he kept trying to kiss her.

"It'll be fine," she said as they reached the bathroom door. Closed. Strange. She hadn't remembered leaving it that way. "There's no reason to panic." She opened the door.

And screamed.

Words had been scrawled on the sink-to-ceiling mirror in red. But what had made her shriek were the moving white blobs. Cotton mounds with tails. Mice. White mice. Dozens of them. Everywhere. Racing along the back of the sink, up and down the black porcelain toilet, sliding down the sides of the whirlpool tub, then scrabbling up again. Creepy, squirming mice. Miranda nearly bowled Nick over trying to climb up his body.

He hefted her into his arms. "What the hell?"

"Shut the door! Shut the door!"

Nick hip-checked it, but she'd seen a half a dozen vermin streak past her feet into her bedroom, their pale tails disappearing under her bed, bureau and desk.

"It's okay, Miranda. They can't hurt you."

"Get me out of here!" She was rigid with a terror that went back to childhood. Her brother used to hide his pet mouse in her bed when she was little, giving her an irrational fear of the creatures. She buried her face in Nick's chest, quivering, trying to blot out what was around her. "Get me out of here. Please." She was afraid to touch the floor for fear they'd run up her body.

As Nick galloped down the stairs with her in his arm, she saw a cadre of fur balls zip down the stairs with them. They'd be all over her apartment.

"Oh, my God … oh, my God … oh, my God," she whispered into his neck, her eyes closed.

Nick paused at the ground floor.

"All the way out," she said, pointing at the door. It wasn't until they were in the hall, the door shut behind them that Miranda could breathe. Slowly she opened one eye.

"Relax," Nick said. "You're safe. I wouldn't take you for the type to go nuts over a few rodents."

"A few?"

"Okay, a bunch."

"I have a phobia, all right? My brother used to torture me with his pet mouse. Now they give me the heebie-jeebies." She shivered against him.

"Well, aren't you two sweet?" Mrs. Faraday was heading toward them from the elevator. "And in the middle of the afternoon, too."

"Mrs. Faraday," Miranda said shakily, trying to smile, sliding out of Nick's arms to the carpet. "It's not what you think."

"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm blind." She gave them a stage wink.

"No, really. We weren't… I mean, there were mice all over the, um … never mind."

"Please. I have no problem with a healthy couple getting in a little bouncy-bouncy in the middle of the day." She squinted at them through her thick glasses. "Orange paint? Is that what the kids are doing these days?" She shook her head, then knocked on Nadine Morris's door and went inside. At least she didn't invite Nadine out to gawk, though Miranda was sure she would tell her all about it.

"At least she didn't believe me about the mice," Miranda said, turning to Nick. "She'd have the whole building standing on chairs. It's so awful. All those creatures running around, scritching their nails, chewing on things, pooping everywhere." She shuddered.

"What did the words on the mirror mean?" Nick asked.

The sight came back to her. Red letters scrawled crookedly across the reflective surface. "Chase Beauty kills. Stop or we'll stop you." The words were so familiar.

Of course. "That's what the animal activists put on their signs—'Chase Beauty kills.' The scandal I told you about. A year ago, when they accused us of testing—"

"Your cosmetics on animals, I remember."

Then she realized something. "It was Candy-Apple Red."

"What?"

"The lipstick color they used on the mirror. And that was the color they claimed we were using on animals. 'Candy-Apple Is Poison' was a slogan."

"Interesting," Nick said, frowning. "And you say L'Mage was behind the incident a year ago?"

"Yes. We were sure of it, though it was never proved."

"Why would they do this again?"

"To scare me maybe? To remind me of that time? It has to be L'Mage, doesn't it?"

"Or someone wanting you to think it's L'Mage. Or, for that matter, a crazy activist who's been stalking you."

"You think that's possible?" That made her shiver.

"But it has to be connected to the formula robbery, doesn't it?" She looked into Nick's unreadable eyes.

"If it is, they've upped the stakes. They must have brought in the mice while we were in the Lattimers' place. Whoever it was knows your whereabouts and can get in and out of your place whenever he—or she—pleases. Speaking of which, where is Lilly?"

"In class. Tuesdays and Thursdays until five."

"Handy."

"This can't be Lilly's doing. I wish you'd quit fixating on her."

"The only thing I know for sure is that someone's trying to scare you. You say it was your brother who made you terrified of mice?"

"Yes, but—"

Nick opened the door.

"Don't go back in there! They're everywhere."

"I need to examine the scene, get the detectives out here for fingerprints and call an exterminator."

"But I can't go in there."

He looked her up and down, tapping his lip. "Exactly. Maybe all they wanted was you out of the way for a while. So, we'll give them what they want. You'll leave. But first we'll set a trap."

"I'll leave? But where will I go?"

He looked at her, thinking. "I could take you to a hotel."

"I have work to do. I can't just stop because of this."

"Okay." He paused. "You can stay on my boat. I know you'll be safe there, and you can cook up your junk on board."

"Your boat?" She swallowed.

"Looks like you'll see it after all." He shot her a quick grin. "Besides, Charlie's place is too crowded."

"But, Nick—"

"I'm in charge, remember? And you're going to my boat. No ifs, ands or buts."

An hour later, they were speeding toward Lake Pleasant in Nick's Jeep. At Nick's command, Miranda had mixed up a fake formula, her heart in her throat the entire time for fear she'd see a mouse, but they seemed to have hidden themselves. Meanwhile, Nick had rented a nanny-cam to record anyone who went for her "bait."

She'd loaded a tote and a linen grocery bag with her base cream jars and the herbs, oils and vitamins she'd need, along with her favorite blender, the slow cooker where the chili-lavender decoction had been simmering, and some mixing utensils.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to go upstairs, so Nick had gone up to pack a suitcase for her. He'd barely been there five minutes when she spotted a mouse eyeing her from the top of the refrigerator and her shriek had brought Nick leaping down the stairs. They'd left immediately.

As they headed for Nick's boat, with the terror temporarily over, she had time to think about what they'd do once they were alone out on the lake. Nick's presence was a vital comfort, since the attack on her cosmetics had taken a more threatening turn, but what would happen between them now? Would they make love like they'd begun to?

Before they'd opened her bathroom door, that had been her most overpowering desire. Part of her was glad they'd been interrupted—first by a misformulated mask and then by a mess of mice—but the rest of her wanted to pick up where they'd left off. The sexual tension between them had built to a fever pitch. They had to do something, didn't they? Alone with him on the lake could only offer more temptation. Would they succumb? Should they? She didn't know if that would be good for her.

Enough already. Focus on the case. "Lilly will think it's odd that I'm at my family's." Nick had had her leave a message on the office phone that she'd be staying at her family's Paradise Valley property.

Nick shrugged.

"And what about all those mice?"

"She'll have no reason to go into your bathroom, where most of them are. If she acts jumpy, we'll know she already knows. Besides, something tells me sighting a mouse or two won't flip Lilly out. She's a cool customer."

She shuddered. "Sometimes your methods…"

"I get the job done."

Nick kept his speculations about the case to himself as he drove. Miranda would just argue with him and he was in no mood for that. He was having enough trouble keeping his mind off how she'd felt in his arms in the kitchen. He scrubbed at his chin, which still burned from the industrial-strength cleanser they'd used to get most of the mask stain off.

He hadn't had time to put much of anything into her suitcase—she could borrow his sweats and shorts, a thought that gave him a charge—but he had snagged the cleanser. He wasn't going around looking like the Great Pumpkin.

Somehow he'd gone from getting trapped in a closet with her to letting her stain his face orange, and now he was driving her to his boat. Why had he let this happen? Probably for the same reason he couldn't quit sneaking peeks at Miranda's legs and the way her breasts pushed tantalizingly against the top of her dress when she breathed. God, her skin was soft.

Focus, Ryder. He forced himself to think about the case. Why would Lilly want to scare Miranda? Was she running interference for Miranda's competition? On the other hand, it could be Miranda's brother. He had a key to her place, didn't like her products, thought Miranda was foolish and knew about her fear of mice.

"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."

"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."

"That'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."

"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 the 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, who 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."

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 another 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."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Faraday, but it wasn't my fault. Someone is, um, playing a prank on me, I think."

"Harold Burroughs seems to think it's your fault. He's complaining about you and your hazards."

"Really?" She hated causing problems for her neighbors.

"Oh, and did you hear the news?" Irene continued.

"What news?" Miranda was afraid to find out.

"The Lattimers. Splitsville."

"Splitsville?"

"D-i-v-o-r-c-e. Roscoe in the travel agency told me Mrs. Lattimer booked a trip with—" she leaned forward "—another man."

"Wow."

"And then, the next day, Billy Bailey, their neighbor, heard Lenore and Lyle in a big shouting match."

"That's too bad," Miranda said, shooting Nick a look. She had a pretty good idea who Lenore's mystery man was, or at least what he moaned like.

"This place is a regular Peyton Place." Irene sounded deeply pleased.

The elevator stopped at Mrs. Faraday's floor, but before she exited, she gave Nick a hard look. "Take better care of our Miranda, Mr. Ryder."

"I'll try," he said.

She pointed a bony finger at him. "Don't try. Do."

As soon as the elevator door closed, Nick and Miranda burst out laughing.

"Boy, I'd love to have been in the closet for the conversation at the Lattimers'," Miranda said.

"Me, too." He grinned at her, seeming to forget the distance that had sprung up between them, then caught himself. "Anyway, hopefully, we'll find some answers in your apartment."

Miranda expected to feel relief at being home. Instead, she felt scared. Her eyes flitted from place to place, watching for furtive movements, listening for skittering feet. "What if they didn't get all of them?" She turned to Nick, fear running like ice water down her body.

"Sure they did. Come on. Hang tough." He jostled her with an arm around her shoulders.

"You're right. I'm being a baby. They're just m-mice."

"And I'm here," he said seriously. "I won't let any rodents get you." He pulled her into his arms.

She felt his strength around her, his broad chest against hers, the thump of his heart. Then he squeezed her. "What am I going to do with you, Miranda?"

Love me? But she couldn't say that. "Give me another chance, okay? I just got cranky back there."

"I don't know if that's very smart," he said, but she saw he didn't want to give up just yet, either. Thank God. "Let's walk through the place and make sure all the mice are gone."

She nodded, feeling foolish and grateful. They stopped first in the kitchen, where the cosmetics "bait" was missing from the counter. In its place was a note on Lilly's personal stationery. "I put your sample and the formula away. You shouldn't be so careless. I'll be at Chase corporate after class. Back about six."

"Doesn't sound much like someone plotting to steal from me, does it?" she asked Nick.

"We'll see."

There were no mice in any of the ground-floor rooms, but Miranda's heart pounded as they headed up the stairs. When they reached her bedroom, Nick said, "I'll go in first." She stood in the doorway as he scanned the room then went into the bathroom. She heard running water.

"Is everything okay?" she called.

"Just a sec." His voice wavered as he moved.

She couldn't stand being a wimp, so she forced herself to keep going. Her room looked as lovely as ever. Could there be mice under her beautiful bed? She shivered but forced herself forward.

From the bathroom door, she watched Nick scrubbing the mirror. There were black smudges all over the place from the fingerprint powder the detectives had used, but she knew Nick wasn't on a cleaning frenzy. He was protecting her from seeing the scrawled threat. "Chase Beauty kills. Stop or we'll stop you." Again she shivered.

"I've got it," he said with a last swipe. "All clear."

"Thanks," she said to him, her gaze flying around the room, looking for balls of fur or pale tails. Nothing so far.

"Why don't you get cleaned up while I call on the fingerprints, check the videotape and look around some," Nick said.

Before she undressed for her shower, she left a phone message for Raul and the distributor. Neither would call back for a couple of hours.

As soon as she stepped into the stream of hot water, Miranda felt better, more herself. Then she started thinking about Nick and how wonderful it would be to make love here, on her turf.

They could take a break from the case for a couple of hours, couldn't they? She had to make up for how bratty she'd been over the dragonfly incident. She'd make it special enough that Nick would never want to make love anywhere else.

Nick headed for Lilly's rooms, trying to put Miranda out of his mind. Sure he wanted her—she got to him more than any woman ever had—but that little incident this morning was a warning he'd better heed. Before he got in too deep, went blind like he had with Debbie. Miranda wasn't Debbie, but she was close enough. And he might be falling for her, but that wouldn't make up for their differences. They might as well be from different species.

From here on out, he was just helping her with the case. No sleeping with her. What happened on his boat was a special occasion, as they'd agreed.

Nick let himself into Lilly's rooms with Miranda's key and headed straight to the desk where Lilly had sat the day he interviewed her. The little drawers held office supplies, a birthday card from her mother in Tucson, some bills and other paperwork. The pen she'd fiddled with two days ago when he'd interviewed her lay across a tablet of notepaper. Hermosa Inn, was the logo on the pen's red barrel. By the look of things, she'd been writing a letter. The unfinished letter was the only disorder in the room. He was about to check the trash can for anything of interest when he noticed the desk blotter seemed uneven.

He lifted it and hit the jackpot. A folder with a series of brochures, fact sheets, and what looked like financial statements about three cosmetics companies he'd heard Miranda mention. Beauty by Evan, Mother Nature's Own and Elite Looks.

So Lilly was looking into the competition. That didn't automatically condemn her, but why hide the folder unless she intended to jump ship?

He put the folder under his arm to show to Miranda and left the room. In the hallway, he heard music playing, caught the scent of roses and saw that the hall was strewn with rose petals.

He followed the trail to Miranda's bedroom, which had been darkened except for flickering light from clumps of candles—red, gold, black and brown. Soft jazz played and the air smelled of roses mixed with some other flowers, vanilla and spices. The trail of rose petals led to the bed where Miranda lay.

And lie she did—on her side in a suggestive pose, wearing a white underthing of stretchy lace, transparent except for leafy vines. Leaves cupped her pink nipples and masked her pubic area. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair was soft and loose around her face. She'd put on makeup, but not too much. The total effect was of incredibly erotic innocence. She was trying to seduce him.

And it was working.

His capacity to think went south and his vow to not make love to her again evaporated. Lust pounded through him and all he wanted was to rip the lace thing off and put his hands all over her. Now.

The only thing he could force out was something lame. "What's up?" Besides him, of course.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I thought we might finish what we started before the insect world intervened." She rubbed her hand across the rose-colored bedspread. "Lots more room here."

He could object, of course. But Miranda threw herself into everything she did, and if she was intent on seducing him, well, who was he to fight her? What could one more time hurt? Or, looking at her like that, maybe two or three more times?

"Great idea." He dropped the folder onto her bureau for later consideration, locked the bedroom door in case Lilly returned, then came toward her, yanking his clothes off as he moved.

"I poured you a bath if you'd like to freshen up," she murmured.

"If you think I'd let a bath come between me and you looking like that, forget it."

For just a second, seeing how predatory Nick looked, Miranda wondered if she'd gotten in over her head. What if she couldn't keep up with him? What if she disappointed him? She was making up this sex-kitten stuff as she went along.

Then his mouth took hers, and it felt perfect and familiar, and she knew it would be fine. His fingers traced the edge of her teddy, slipped under and touched her. She practically exploded at the contact. Very fine.

"You are so hot," Nick murmured in her ear, his tongue teasing its edge. "I can feel how ready you are for me."

She nodded against his mouth, finding him with one hand.

He groaned. "I want inside you."

"Pretty please?" she teased. She slid away from him, kneeled, untied the ribbon that held the bottom of her teddy together and climbed over him. Slowly, gently, she slid onto him. She could do this—be sexy and alluring. She tossed back her hair and looked down at him, feeling a little silly.

But the look on his face—pure heat—told her she was doing it exactly right. He reached up to grasp her breasts, then pushed himself deeper into her until she gasped and bucked, more and more. Their climax was intense and seemed to go on forever. When it was over, she sagged into his shoulder, panting.

"Miranda," he whispered in her ear.

"Don't ask what you're going to do with me. If you haven't figured it out yet, I can't help you."

"Uh-uh. I know exactly what to do with you."

He sat up, swung her into his arms and carried her into the bathroom, where she'd filled the whirlpool tub with aromatic jasmine and ylang-ylang, an aphrodisiac combination.

The water was still warm.

A half hour later, resting from their aquatic labors, Nick rubbed soap leisurely across Miranda's chest.

"I think you've gotten that part of me plenty clean."

"If you're going to do a job, I believe in doing it right."

"Evidently."

"This is nice," he said on a sigh, letting the soap slip from his fingers into the water.

"My world offers certain advantages, don't you think?"

"The biggest being that you're in it."

Looking into his face, she felt an intense warmth well up from deep within her. She'd never felt this before, but she knew what it was. Had longed for it all her life. It was love. She was in love with Nick.

"Nick, I—" The feeling was so strong she almost blurted it out. At the last second she caught herself. "Enjoy you," she finished. That was stupid, but it was the only thing she could come up with.

"Me, too."

But did he mean that, or could he mean love, too? She couldn't tell, and she didn't have the nerve to ask him straight out. She needed more time with him, that was certain, to explore this new feeling. "I know we said on the boat that it was a special occasion, but I was thinking…"

"That this is a special occasion, too?"

She nodded.

He scooted forward, his legs on either side of hers, and tugged her torso against his. "Making love to you is a special occasion anytime, anywhere." He kissed her gently.

"I feel the same way," she breathed into his ear.

He leaned away from her. "You're okay when you're not whining about bugs or telling me how to investigate something."

"Hold on a minute—"

"Calm down. I'm joking. I think we make a pretty good team. In the sack anyway."

"What should we do? About that, I mean?"

He frowned, figuring. "I'm heading for the Coast, like I said."

"Sure, sure," she said, turning to rest her cheek on his chest, partly to hide her disappointment.

"But there's nothing says I have to leave right away."

"Really?" She sat up, a goofy grin spreading from ear to ear.

"Let's just see what happens," he said, and then he kissed her, tender and slow.

Things were just getting interesting when Nick gasped, abruptly jerked up and dumped her underwater, sending a tsunami over the edge of the tub.

She pushed up and coughed. "Are you trying to drown me?"

"Just needed to move, okay?" he said, looking past her shoulder.

"What?" She turned to look.

"Don't—"

But she'd seen it. A mouse, its nose twitching, looked down at them from the edge of the sink.

"Don't scream. I'll get it," he said. He lunged out of the tub, tried to grab the mouse, slid on the black marble and hit the floor with a fleshy smack. His head clunked—luckily not hard—on the side of the tub.

"Ow!" He grabbed his head, then his ankle.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth.

Meanwhile, that twerpy mouse just sat there, laughing at them.

That did it. Impulse seized Miranda and she grabbed the ceramic potpourri bowl off the counter, emptied it of dried flowers and slammed it over the mouse.

"Gotcha!" She turned to Nick in triumph. "I caught it."

"Terrific," Nick said, but he looked preoccupied and he was standing up on his hurt ankle.

"Wait a minute," she said. "You need ice on that."

"I'm fine," Nick said, limping into the bedroom, drying himself as he went.

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to check something," he said, hopping on his good foot while he dragged shorts onto his still-damp body.

"Wait a minute and I'll come with you."

"Just relax. I'll be back." He waved her away.

Flabbergasted at his sudden change in mood, Miranda stood there, naked and dripping, watching him limp quickly down the hall.

Nick didn't feel a bit of pain as he hobbled back to Lilly's rooms. He had something. He knew it. And it just might solve Miranda's mystery. When his head had hit the tub, he'd seen a flash of red with streaks of gold. Red he recognized as the same shade he'd seen on the Hermosa Inn pen in Lilly's office and one more place—the glittery matchbook with which Theo Chase had lit his cigarette out on the Chase Beauty corporate terrace.

Lilly and Miranda's brother had been to the same hotel. And not to write letters or smoke cigarettes, either, he was sure. There was something between them besides Miranda, and he had to find out what. He went back to Lilly's desk. She'd been writing a letter. To whom and about what?

He ran his fingers over the surface of the notepaper. If he shaded a pencil over the indentations, he'd be able to decipher it. But he didn't need to do that because he found two discarded letters balled-up in Lilly's wastepaper basket, the second of which was the more complete.

Darling Theo:

We can't go on this way. Naturally Better Than Nature is Miranda's entire life. And mine. When Miranda finds out what's going on, I—

So that was it. Lilly and Miranda's brother had cooked up this scheme and now Lilly was having second thoughts. He felt a low simmer in his blood. Thinking of Miranda being betrayed by her brother and her assistant made him want to hit someone. Them.

He would have to tell Miranda, but not until he was absolutely sure. He wouldn't shatter her faith in two people she trusted unless he had absolute proof. And he knew just where to get it—Chase Beauty, where, he realized, glancing at his watch, Lilly and Theo might still be together. Lilly had said she'd be there until six.

He limped back to Miranda's room, where she'd just put on one of those lacy bras she favored. "I've got to go," he said. "I think I've got a line on solving this thing. Stay here. I'll be back in a bit."

"I'm almost dressed. I want to go, too." She snatched some lacy panties and hopped as she tried to slip her legs in them. Damn, she looked good.

"I won't be long."

"But—"

"If Lilly comes back, don't say anything, but keep her here." Not waiting for her reply, Nick limped down the stairs, his ankle aching. As he reached the bottom, Miranda's phone rang.

It was one of the detectives with an ID on the fingerprints. Thad Tims. A petty thief with a lengthy rap sheet. He wrote the name down. Once the police pulled him in, Nick would find out how he was connected to Lilly and Theo. They must have hired him to scare her. In the meantime, he'd go to the source of the crime.

"Nick," Miranda called to him from the top of the stairs, standing there in Victoria's best secrets. "Take the crutches. They're in the entryway closet."

He started to wave her away.

"RICE—rest, ice, compression and elevation, remember? You need to keep your weight off it."

She put her hands on her hips. "Take the crutches."

"Okay, okay," he said, getting them from the closet. He tucked them under his arms. "You happy?"

She nodded, her face bright with a smile that warmed his heart.

He headed out to finish his job. The thought of how hurt Miranda would be when he told her what he knew made his throat tighten. But she'd asked him to solve the case. And he had. He didn't hide from the truth about people. Neither could she. He'd break it to her as gently as possible.

Wait a minute. Miranda frowned at herself. She should have insisted on going with Nick. She should be there when he pursued whatever lead he'd discovered. Instead, she'd let him tell her to wait here without arguing. What was happening to her?

Nick. And love. That's what was happening to her. She was floating on air because Nick had said he'd stay. For a while at least. That had made her dreamy and disoriented.

Even worse, she didn't feel that sorry about leaving things up to him. Maybe it was bad to let her personal life override her professional dedication, but couldn't she have both? Work she loved and a man she loved, too?

Did Nick love her? Very possibly. Or close to it. He was delaying his escape to the Pacific for her. Maybe he'd stay for good. He'd claimed to want freedom, but maybe he'd just been burned-out, wounded by his failed marriage and his near-death experience on the job.

Maybe she was dreaming. Love was powerful, but she knew too little about it to count on it. Oddly, the thought gave her a little shiver of relief.

What she could count on was her work. And there was plenty of that. She'd barely gotten started in the lab when she heard the front door open. "Nick?"

"No. It's Lilly." Lilly's quick heels tapped down the hall. She came around the corner, her face pale as talcum powder.

"What's wrong?"

"I need to talk to you," Lilly said, swallowing hard.

"About what?"

"About the future of Naturally Better Than Nature."

"What about it?" She'd never seen Lilly so nervous.

"I think we should leave Chase Beauty."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've been thinking of it for a while now. We could start our own company. Chase Beauty is changing. And, really, with the robbery and now the threat from L'Mage, we need to be somewhere more secure."

Hold it. Miranda froze. "What makes you think the threat came from L'Mage?" she asked Lilly slowly.

"From the mirror. Estelle told me what they wrote. In Candy-Apple Red, no less."

"How did Estelle know about the mirror? Or the lipstick color?"

"Didn't you tell her?"

"Of course not. I didn't tell anyone. Nick and I and the police were the only ones who actually saw the mirror. And the person who did it, of course."

"You talked to Charlie. Maybe he told her."

"What would Charlie know about lipstick colors?"

"I don't know." Lilly frowned, then shook her head. "But what I wanted to talk about is starting our own company. I've been looking at some possibilities. Mother Nature's Own, for example, would be ideal."

"This is crazy, Lilly. Why would I leave Chase Beauty?"

"Chase Beauty's changing. Some people at corporate don't have the same vision anymore," she said, her eyes bright, her voice sharp.

"What are you telling me?"

"That it's time to break out. Estelle's got some great marketing ideas. We could work through her salon. At Mother Nature's Own, you'd have a bigger facility."

"Lilly, what are you not telling me?"

Lilly just stared at her. The phone rang and Miranda grabbed it. It was one of the detectives on the case asking for Nick. She listened to what he told her, then hung up, her heart booming in her ears.

"They know who broke in here," she told Lilly. "A guy named Thad Tims. They think they're close to catching him. That must be where Nick is."

"Thad Tims? That's Estelle's nephew."

"Her nephew?"

"Oh, my God," Lilly said. "Estelle? How could she have anything to do with this? And why?"

"There's only one way to find out," Miranda said, grabbing her keys. "Let's go to the Nook. I need to make an appointment anyway."

Nick pushed past the secretary into Theo Chase's inner office.

"What are hell—?" Chase pushed out of his imposing executive chair.

"Where's Lilly?" Nick asked. "I want to talk to both of you."

"She just left. What is this about?"

"This is about Miranda and what you've done to her."

"What?"

"Come on, Chase. Don't play games. I know about you and Lilly."

"What is it you think you know?" Chase looked guilty as hell.

"You're sleeping with her, for one thing."

The guy's eyes flickered just enough for him to know he'd nailed him.

"To get to Miranda, right?"

Chase glared at him. "That's ridiculous. What's between Lilly and me is none of your business. And it has nothing to do with Miranda." He looked smug standing there in his hand-tailored pants, starched shirt and shoes so polished they looked shellacked, Nick wanted to mess him up.

"If it hurts Miranda it is my business. She's your sister, for God's sake. How could you do that to her knowing how she feels about mice?"

"What are you talking about? What mice?"

"Come on. You hired a punk to fill her bathroom with mice and write a threat on the mirror to scare her away from her cosmetics."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do." Poor Miranda, surrounded by self-important jackasses like her brother, who wouldn't know real life unless he saw it in a Sharper Image catalog. "Cut the crap. I found a letter Lilly was writing you. She wanted to stop the scheme."

Chase sat down. "Leave Lilly out of this. I don't know anything about mice or threats to Miranda, but I don't need a stunt to stop Miranda's product line. It's already happening, though that's none of your business, either."

"What?"

"We're closing out Naturally Better Than Nature. Miranda doesn't know yet. But I'll tell her next week, after the board meeting."

Nick stared at the guy. Was he telling the truth? Were they eliminating Miranda's products? "What does your father think about that? He supports Miranda, he told me, and maybe you needed her to quit on her own. But Miranda doesn't quit. Ever. So you cooked up this stunt with her assistant."

"My father's living in the past, but he's a businessman, and he'll defer to the management team, who are with me."

The guy was so self-satisfied, talking about erasing Miranda's work as if it were nothing. Nick clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the urge to knock this guy on his hand-tooled keister. "I know you're involved, Chase, and I'll prove it. We've got fingerprints on Tims. It's only a matter of time until we tie him to you."

"Tims?"

"Play innocent if you want, but if you care anything for your sister, you'd better come clean."

As Nick headed out the door, Chase called to him. "There's plenty of work for Miranda here. She'll be fine." When Nick turned to glare at him, he added, "Don't worry about her, Ryder."

"It's my job."

Chase gave him a steady look. "Come on. This is more than a job. You look like you want to shove me out a window."

"Good eye."

"Look, you may think you've got Miranda figured out, but don't count on it. What she really wants she's going to find closer to home."

"You don't know a thing about Miranda."

"I'm just telling you. For your own good."

You're not good enough for Miranda was his message. The guy was an arrogant prick. The truth was Theo Chase wasn't good enough for his sister.

Nick drove back to Miranda's apartment to confront Lilly with what he'd learned, but the whole way he kept thinking about what Chase had said. Was it true? Were they really closing out Miranda's products? Or was he bluffing? Nick could have gone in search of her father to find out, but he wanted to get to Lilly and back to Miranda.

If they truly were closing her down, even catching them at the formula thievery might not stop things. Miranda would be devastated. As foolish as it all seemed to him, she had her heart set on this.

There's plenty of work for her here. That's what Chase had said. But Chase Beauty's corporate offices were no place for Miranda. She'd be like a caged butterfly there. She didn't need that stuff—all that beauty nonsense. If only he could show her that. Maybe if he took her away from it for a while she'd see how goofy it all was.

Did he want that? To spend more time with her? Yes, he did. Chase had been right. Helping Miranda was personal. More than a job. Way more. Realizing that made him realize something else. He was in love with her. This wasn't how he'd felt about Debbie. This went deeper—reaching into every corner of him. As he'd listened to her brother dismiss her, he'd realized he'd do anything to help her—anything to put a smile on that face, a gleam in those green eyes.

Was she in love with him? Maybe. What should they do about it? He could stick around a while, until the cosmetics disaster sorted itself out. He could give her a shoulder to cry on while she decided what to do. But if her line was kaput, maybe when he did set sail, she'd come with him.

Maybe now, she'd want to quit, as he had. Why beat her head against a wall where she wasn't appreciated? Maybe last night, when she'd said she wanted to forget everything and sail away with him, she'd meant it—subconsciously. He'd seen from the first day he met her that she was a serious, solid person. Maybe, just as he'd realized what he wanted lying in that hospital bed, she'd begun to see what she wanted, too.

She'd love the Sea of Cortes. And the seals. She'd see the joys of simple things there. He'd be there for her.

But did he really want her with him on his boat 24/7? She could be a pain in the ass, after all. But he loved her. And if she loved him, didn't that change everything?

The only thing he knew for sure was that she'd feel betrayed and miserable when she found out what her brother and Lilly had done to her. She'd need his help to get past it. He'd be there for her, no matter what it took.

And after that, they'd have to see.

12

« ^ »

When Nick entered the Palm View lobby, he saw that Charlie was in the beauty, salon talking with Estelle, so he headed upstairs before talking with him.

Miranda answered the door. Lilly stood right behind her.

"We've cracked the case, Nick," Miranda said excitedly. "We know who's been stealing from me."

"You do?" She didn't look upset and Lilly didn't even look worried.

"The police are on their way," Miranda said. "She's turning herself in."

"At least you're doing the right thing," he said to Lilly. "Your boyfriend's denying everything."

"My … what?" Lilly said, reddening.

"Why are you talking to Lilly?" Miranda said. She turned to her assistant. "What boyfriend?"

"You've got a lot of guts, lady," Nick continued, "taking advantage of a woman who's given you so much." Nick's chest ached for the woman he loved.

Miranda felt she'd been dropped into a movie where she didn't know the story line. Nick was looking at Lilly with raw hatred and accusation. And Lilly was white as a sheet with blotches of red.

"Nick, stop this," she said. "The police aren't coming for Lilly. They're coming for Estelle Moody, the beauty salon owner. She was scheming with Burroughs to scare me out of the building. She knew details from Lilly about the apartment and my formulas." She turned to Lilly, completely confused. "What boyfriend?"

"What did Theo promise you?" Nick demanded. "A big job? Money?"

"Theo?" Miranda looked at Lilly, who'd gone even more pale and blotchy. Something Nick was saying was true. "What is he talking about, Lilly?"

Lilly hung her head. "I've wanted to tell you so many times, but it got complicated, because of what has happened at Chase, and then the burglary…"

"I'm sorry, Miranda," Nick said, reaching for her. "Not everyone is as honest as you. Some people don't care about the things you care about."

Lilly's head snapped up and she glared at him. "Shut up. You don't know a thing about it. If you weren't so bullheaded you'd stop and listen to the truth." She turned to Miranda. "I've been seeing Theo."

"You have?"

"I know it's insane. We just … it happened suddenly." Tears welled in her eyes. "I don't know how. I didn't mean for it to, but … it just did."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Miranda asked, her heart going out to the woman. Stern Lilly in love? And why her brother? Not the easiest person to love under any circumstances. She stepped closer to her.

Lilly raised tortured eyes. "It seems so stupid. It can't last. Your brother and I, we're worlds apart. It's hopeless."

"But if you love him," she said faintly, her head spinning with all she'd learned, "you can make it work."

"What about the letter?" Nick said to Lilly. "The one where you told Chase you wanted to stop."

Lilly looked shocked. "You looked through my things?" She turned to Miranda. "I didn't think we should see each other any more. Not after what he was about to do. I was trying to talk him out of it, but he's so stubborn. He wants Chase Beauty to diversify. Real estate. He wants to buy a chain of drugstores. Then I started thinking that maybe this would be a good time for you to make a break, so I was doing the research to make it easy. But then two days ago, he sprang it on the management team, and they agreed to his plan."

"What plan?"

"They're closing out Naturally Better Than Nature."

"They're what?" Ice raced through Miranda's bloodstream.

"No more new product lines."

"They're closing my line?" she said, sinking into a chair. "They can't. We need a new profit center."

"Not anymore. Not if Theo shifts the corporate mission."

Nick sat Miranda down and put his arm around her.

"But it will be okay, Miranda," Lilly said, sitting on her other side. She felt as if the two of them were tugging her in opposite directions. "Mother Nature's Own's profits are down. We could put up some capital, retool and turn things around."

"I can't believe it. You should have told me sooner. I'll talk to Theo. I should have known he'd be working an angle."

"Profits took a major hit because of the animal testing scandal. The managers are nervous. Theo meets with the board next week."

"It'll be all right, Miranda," Nick said, patting her arm as if she were a patient in a hospital he was shielding from the truth of her condition. "What I want to know is how you found Tims?" Nick demanded harshly of Lilly. "What's the connection?"

"Tims?" Miranda turned to him. "Tims is Estelle Moody's nephew, Nick. We've been trying to tell you that. You explain it, Lilly." Her head was swimming. She had to figure things out.

"Estelle found out that Burroughs wanted to sell the Palm View, but he needed Miranda to break her long-term lease. He promised Estelle her part of the proceeds if she could convince Miranda to leave."

"She wanted money?" Nick asked, sounding skeptical.

"To open a new salon," Lilly continued. "She hoped to entice Miranda to give her an exclusive on her products. She knew from me—I'm so sorry, Miranda—about the likelihood of Chase Beauty shutting her down, and she wanted to entice Miranda as a partner. I had no idea she'd do anything this crazy."

"It's okay," Miranda said to reassure her.

"And Tims?" Nick asked.

"He was out of jail, Estelle knew, so she hired him just to scare Miranda, make her feel unsafe in the apartment."

"Why break into the safe?"

"He's a thief." Lilly shrugged. "He couldn't resist."

Nick seemed to be sifting through the information, glaring at Lilly. Miranda couldn't believe he still suspected her.

"Go down to the beauty shop yourself," Lilly said to him. "Charlie's holding her until the police come."

"I'll do that," Nick said, standing. "Will you be okay, Miranda? I'll be right back."

"I'll be fine," she said hollowly.

"You can get past this, Miranda. I'll help you. When I get back we'll talk."

She stared at him empty eyed as he left the apartment.

"Wait here, Miranda," Lilly said. "I'll get my folder with the financial information on Mother Nature's Own."

Miranda looked around her beautiful apartment, her mind reeling. No competitor was after her formulas. There was no sabotage, except from a misguided beauty operator and a greedy landlord. Instead, her company was about to cut her loose.

No. She wouldn't let that happen.

Miranda grabbed the phone and ordered Theo's secretary to interrupt him from his meeting. The moment he answered, she said, "What the hell are you doing closing out my line?"

"I was going to talk to you about it next week, Miranda. We're moving in another direction."

"Another direction? What other direction? Good products at reasonable prices is the only direction."

"You're out of touch, Miranda. You're old-school. You and Dad—"

"What? Is this a 'Dad loves you better' thing?"

"Of course not. I have the welfare of the company squarely in my sights."

"You have your ego in your sights, Theo. You're my brother and I love you, but you never listen to me. I know you dismiss my work, but when you start messing up Chase Beauty you've gone too far."

"Calm down and we can discuss this rationally."

"Just because I'm angry doesn't mean I'm not rational."

"Miranda—"

"Don't use that 'there, there' tone with me, Theo. You have definitely underestimated me and I won't let Chase Beauty suffer because of your shortsightedness. I'll be there in a while."

She disconnected, gearing up for a fight. First, she'd talk to her father. She'd bring him her samples, she'd show him the spec sheets, stir up his passion. Then she'd hone in on the managers, one at a time, especially the more senior ones who remembered how Chase Beauty had gotten where it was. She'd include Theo, but she wouldn't count on him coming around.

She should have stayed closer to the action at Chase. She'd gotten so swept up in her creations she'd forgotten the necessary in-house selling that had to go on. It was her own fault. She should never have lost track of the big picture.

She called her father's office, insisted he make room for her in his schedule, and, with Lilly's help, gathered what she needed to bring.

Going down the elevator, she remembered Nick's words. When I get back we'll talk. What did he want to talk about? Was he in love with her? That would be glorious. But something kept her from celebrating. Something about his attitude, the tone he'd taken with Lilly, made her feel sick to her stomach. What did he want them to get past?

She headed into Estelle's Beauty Nook to tell Nick they'd have to talk after she got back from Chase Beauty. She found him in intense conversation with one of the detectives on the case, while the other took Estelle's statement. Harold Burroughs, red faced and sweating, was babbling at Charlie.

"Miranda," Nick said, his face lighting at the sight of her.

"Sorry to interrupt."

"No problem." He excused himself from the officer and limped with her to a quiet corner of the salon. "You were right," he said. "Looks like Lilly's innocent. And your brother's only guilty of being an ass."

There was that tone again—harsh and judgmental. Her stomach knotted. "I just wanted to tell you we'll have to talk after I get back."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to meet with my father."

"Why?"

"To straighten this out, prepare something for the board, force Theo to reconsider this strategy."

"Are you sure that's what you want? I mean, I've been thinking about us. And now that things are different for you—if they're closing out your line—maybe it's time for you to rethink things. Do something different with your life."

"Something different? Why would I want something different? I love what I do."

"Look, Miranda, this is a hell of a place for a discussion," he said, looking around the salon and beyond, where all her neighbors were huddled in the lobby listening in on the police action. "Come here." He pulled her a few feet away to a more private space.

"What else would I want to do?"

"Be with me. Come with me."

"You mean on your boat?"

He nodded.

"Oh, Nick. That's so … nice of you." Nick was asking her into his private haven? That meant he must love her. It was like a dream come true. But the timing couldn't be worse. "Maybe after I get things straightened out at corporate. We could take a trip? Is that what you mean?"

He looked at her strangely. There was some tension on his face. "What if it wasn't just a trip? What if it was for good? If you quit the cosmetics deal."

"Quit? I can't quit. This is my life."

"Don't you think there's more? To life, I mean. You don't want to work at Chase Beauty. That place isn't you. You don't need to be around creeps like your brother."

Her heart tightened at his words. "My brother's my brother. He can be a jerk sometimes. He thinks he's doing the right thing for the business. Why are you so eager to think the worst of people?"

"I see people as they are."

"I don't think so." Then she realized what had bothered her about how Nick had acted. "You looked absolutely triumphant when you came through the door thinking you had the goods on my brother and Lilly."

"That's not true. I just wanted to solve the case."

"And now you sound disappointed that they are innocent."

"Come on. I just thought I had it figured. You have to admit the evidence pointed in their direction."

"The evidence? The evidence has been in your mind from the beginning. You suspected Lilly—and my brother, I guess—all along. You weren't investigating the case, you were trying to find something wrong with the people I love."

"I was watching out for you. You're gullible, Miranda."

"And you're cynical. You think everyone has an angle."

I don't have anything anybody would want. That's what Nick had said to her the other night. At the time, she'd realized how different he was from her. Again she got that sick feeling in her stomach.

"I just know the world is a tough place and you have to watch your back," he said.

"It's also a beautiful place."

"You have to be realistic. You can't see things through rose-colored glasses all the time, Miranda."

For the first time she saw he was right, but not in the way he meant. She had been seeing something through rose-colored glasses, all right. Him. She'd been so attracted to him, so thrilled to be in love, she'd forgotten how different they were.

"You don't even respect what I do."

"What are you talking about? I respect you. I told you that. I respect you so much I'm asking you to come with me. Be with me. Isn't that more important than some new face cream?"

"You think what I do is just some silly choice I make?"

"Didn't you tell me last night you wanted to get away from it all?"

"Yes, but last night was special and I was feeling—"

"Drunk," he said flatly. The light faded from his face. "You were drunk. Yeah."

"What about you? Aren't you running away from the world because it's not perfect? Isn't that childish?"

"That's not fair."

"Sure, it's fair. You got shot and that was frightening, and your ex-wife hurt you, so I can see why you'd want to get away. But I know you've enjoyed working on this case. Maybe if you'd stay around you'd find more to like here."

"Like what? Single-malt-whiskey and ski vacations and stock options? I'll never be that kind of guy."

"I'm not saying you have to be. And what's wrong with having nice things? You like food and art, too. I don't know why you have to pretend you're 'just a simple guy.'"

"Because that's what I am," he said grimly.

"I'm telling you that your choices are no more valid than mine. You could stay. You said you wanted to. I'm sure we could find a job for you."

"Find a job for me? What? Get me a uniform, so I can do security at Chase Beauty? I don't think so." His voice was harsh.

"Nick, don't be this way." She couldn't talk about it now. Her mind was bursting with worry. Nick had asked her to come away with him. But how could she? She'd be abandoning everything she'd built, everything that had built her into the person she was. A person Nick didn't even understand. Or respect, no matter what he said.

She had to get out of here. Handle one thing at a time. One thing she understood—her work. "I've got to go, Nick. We'll talk later when I can think straight."

"Don't," he said.

"I have to." She loved him, but she couldn't deal with this now. If he loved her, he'd understand. They could sort it all out later. She had a curious sense of relief as she drove away. As if she'd saved herself from something dangerous.

Miranda looked at her watch. Nick was due any minute. Two weeks had passed since they'd solved the cosmetics caper and Nick had asked her to come away with him.

They were going to have their "talk" finally. She'd been busy with the crisis at Chase Beauty, but that hadn't been the only reason they hadn't gotten together.

Nick had been cool on the phone whenever they'd talked. He'd been wounded by her not saying she'd go away with him. She understood that, though it was just more evidence of how different they were. If he knew her at all—respected her at all—he would have supported her, offered to help her, and not tried to convince her to give up.

She would apologize to him now, hope that he'd calmed down enough to realize it didn't mean she didn't care about him or love him. Though they hadn't even said those magic words to each other. Love had been between the lines with them. Like so much between them.

She wanted to work things out. She did. She'd managed that at Chase Beauty, after all. How could Nick be any more impossible than that?

After some hard-core negotiations, Miranda had bought a year to turn a profit on Naturally Better Than Nature. The industry scoop that Raul Quintero had rounded up—showing the need for her products—had boosted her position. Lilly's research on other firms had been useful, and a downward tick in real estate values made the drugstore chain less attractive and brought the wafflers to her side.

Theo was fuming, but he was a businessman, after all, and once she'd succeeded, he'd come around.

If all went well, Naturally Better Than Nature would reach drugstores across the U.S. within three months. Everything was working out. Everything except Nick.

She opened the door to him, her heart pounding in her ears. "Nick," she said, hardly breathing.

"Miranda." His eyes were opaque, his face still and guarded. Completely inscrutable. Like the cop he used to be. Like a stranger. Her heart ached.

She hugged him, but he held himself back, keeping minimal contact.

"How are you?" he asked, moving past her, still limping from when he'd fallen in her bathroom two weeks before. He stepped down into the living room.

"I'm fine. Good, actually," she said, following him.

"I see that." His gaze heated for an instant, then faded to sadness. He sat on the sofa.

"How about you? You're limping."

He shrugged.

"You should have listened to me and taken care of your ankle. Rest, ice, compression…" Her words faded as he failed to smile. "What have you been doing?" she asked him.

"Keeping busy. I've been working at my buddy's restaurant."

"That's nice."

"Yeah." But he wouldn't let her into whatever joy that gave him. "I ran into Mrs. Faraday in the elevator. She tells me the place is going condo."

"Yes, we're forming an association. I'm thinking of running for president."

"You'll be good at that."

"Thanks," she said. Was that disapproval? She couldn't read his tone or the emotion in his dark, dark eyes. When she'd been falling in love with him, she'd believed he was letting her in, and that she understood him. She'd been wrong. Those rose-colored glasses again. "We're getting the place renovated."

"So, everything worked out. At Chase Beauty, too?"

She told him her plans, everything. She tried to sound relaxed, but her excitement bubbled over.

Nick nodded quietly, smiled occasionally, his expression subdued. "So things turned out the way you wanted," he said. "All for the best."

"No. Not everything. I miss you, Nick."

"Do you?" he said.

"I was hoping we could, um, start over, maybe. I mean we both said some things in the heat of the moment."

"In the heat was truth, Miranda," he said. "We don't see the world the same way. We don't want the same things. You were right."

"But…"

"I was glad I could help you. Though you didn't even really need me. You solved the case yourself, as it turned out."

"I did need you. If it weren't for you, I would never have—"

"Forget it, Miranda." His eyes sparked heat for the first time. "Let's not make more of this than there was."

And what was there? She wouldn't ask, couldn't bear for him to pretend this was only chemistry and temptation. She'd try one more time. "Look, I'm sorry I've been tied up these past two weeks. Surely, you can understand. All I'd built was at risk. I had to act fast or I would have lost everything."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Miranda. It's your life. You have to do what makes you happy."

"So you're just giving up on us?" She felt heavy, weighted and sinking into the floor.

"There is no us. You needed me a couple of times. That's all. A year ago, you got jilted and you needed someone to get you through that. This time, you were robbed and you needed my help. Maybe we both wanted more, but it's not there." The hard look was back in his eyes. He was a stubborn man and there was no give in him.

If he was willing to quit just like that, then what was the point? Even if he was wrong, she knew that once the intensity faded, the fact that Nick despised her life—and, when it came down to it, her, too—would ruin everything.

"I guess you're right," she said. "There wasn't an us to give up on."

"Then we agree." He gave a humorless laugh. "That's a first."

She couldn't believe he could joke. Her heart was breaking. "Nick," she choked out.

"Sorry. Not funny." Pain crossed his face, then he patted her knee. "I'd better get going."

She looked up at him, wanted to call him back, wanted to tackle him as she had Thad Tims, make him change his mind, but she knew he was right.

She followed him to the door, opened it for him. "When will you leave for the Sea of Cortes?" she asked, fighting the wobble in her voice.

"When I make enough money. I promised Ricardo I'd cook for him for a while. But I'd like to go soon. Get away." From you.

He didn't kiss her goodbye. He didn't even touch her. "Have a nice life." He tipped his nonexistent doorman's cap, reminding her of the day when he'd carried in her bags. So many doors to open, so little time. And then he was gone.

Of all the times for Miranda to agree with him. When they were breaking up. He shouldn't be surprised, though. She practically glowed with happiness about her cosmetics crap. There was no place in her life for him. She'd needed him and now she didn't.

He'd almost folded, asked her to stay with him on his boat for a few days, see how she'd like that life, but caught himself in time. She'd gotten what she wanted and it wasn't him. He climbed into his Jeep, ignoring the way her scent seemed to cling to everything she'd touched, including his car seat, and drove out to Lake Pleasant. He was due at the restaurant the next morning. He looked forward to it, actually. It kept his hands and mind busy. He liked the crew. Liked creating that way.

It was late by the time he got to Nick's Lady. The desert smelled of creosote with a faint tinge of fuel left by the day's motorboaters. The breeze was cool, the moon full, the lake completely still, except for the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface.

He grabbed a cold beer and flopped onto his bed, taking with him the photo of the Sea of Cortes, so he could conjure up the passion to get there. But the ocean looked dull, the sand like cement. The whole thing seemed lifeless. Was Miranda right? Was he running away?

He had enjoyed working on the case, beyond the pleasure of being around Miranda. He didn't want to go back to police work. He was done with that. But he had to admit he wasn't as sure as he used to be that sailing off into the sunset was what he truly wanted. He liked a simple life. But he liked nice things, too. Fine wine, the symphony, the art museum, and cooking. He loved working at the restaurant.

But he was leaving. That was the plan he'd worked on for a year, damn it! Miranda had turned his head around, messed up his mind. He'd fallen in love with her and that had made him blind to what he really wanted.

Even now, he kept remembering her here on the bed, breathless with passion, as if feeling so much amazed her. Making love to her had been intense, and he'd wanted to never stop giving her pleasure. Ever.

The boat felt confining to him all of a sudden. Was this mattress getting lumpy? He adjusted the pillow under his head. Hell. More Miranda scent. Damn that woman. She'd ruined his sleep already. Had she ruined his boat for him, too?

13

« ^

"I'm sorry," Miranda said to Mrs. Faraday and Nadine Morris through the dish towel she held over her mouth. All three were coughing into cloths in the hallway outside her apartment, while Charlie used the fire extinguisher in Miranda's kitchen. It was a week after she and Nick had said their final goodbyes.

"I got distracted and the blend got away from me." The truth was she'd found one of Nick's socks under her bed and gotten sidetracked by a daydream about him. Over a sock, for God's sake. She was a mess.

"At least it smells like roses," Mrs. Faraday said. "Charbroiled ones."

"I'm so, so sorry," she said, blinking her eyes, which stung from the rose-scented smoke. "I'll be moving my lab to Chase Beauty soon. I need to be closer to the factory now anyway."

"Good, 'cause if you weren't the condo board president, we'd have to boot you out on your hiney," Irene said. Then she gave Miranda one of her laserlike onceovers. "Call the man. Even with gray clothes, bad hair and orange blotches you were better off than you are now. You look like you've got consumption."

"Consumption? What's that?" Nadine asked.

"Never mind. The point is she looks b-a-d, don't you think?"

Nadine looked her up and down. "You've looked better."

"I'll be okay," Miranda said, wishing Irene's radar weren't so accurate. "These things take time."

"Time, my hiney. You're in love, my dear, and if you let him get away you'll never forgive yourself."

"Take it from me," Nadine chimed in. "Good men like him don't grow on bar stools. I've been out there looking for a while, and it's sad, sad, sad."

"I appreciate the advice," she said. Their words set off panic in her. Were they right? Maybe, but what could she do about it? Nick had given up. She couldn't make him care, could she? No one changed Nick Ryder's mind about anything.

Charlie came out of her apartment with the fire extinguisher, shaking his head. "I think you're going to have to replace that oven, Miranda."

"I know. It was stupid. I lost track of time." The excitement over, Nadine and Irene headed back to their poker game.

Charlie patted Miranda's shoulder and gave her a kind look that for some reason brought tears to her eyes. "Give the boy a chance, why don't you, Miranda?"

"I wasn't the one who gave up on us, Charlie. It was Nick. He—"

"Peas in a pod," he said, shaking his head. "I'd sure appreciate it if you two would quit tripping over your pride and straighten this thing out. Maybe then Nick would quit making messes in my kitchen and you would stop trying to burn the place down."

After Charlie left, Miranda went back inside to wipe off the soot and start over on the decoction. Something he'd said stuck with her. Peas in a pod. Charlie thought she and Nick were alike? Nothing could be further from the truth. It was their differences that made their relationship impossible, not their similarities.

"Oh, my God. What did you burn this time?" Lilly said, coming into the kitchen.

"I didn't put enough water in the rose decoction."

"Miranda. We need that for—"

"I know, I know. I got distracted."

"Let me help." Lilly grabbed a rag and started wiping off the oven hood. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish you'd try to work things out with Nick. At least then maybe you could focus."

"You don't even like Nick, Lilly."

"I'm not the one who's in love with him."

She laughed humorlessly. "A lot of good that's done me."

"Weren't you the one who told me if you love someone you can work things out?"

"Yes, but—"

"You were right," she said.

Miranda looked closely at her assistant's face and noticed a light in her eyes. "Did something happen with Theo?"

"We worked it out," she said, her face softening. "We're not out of the woods, yet. But we're going to see how it goes."

"That's wonderful, Lilly," Miranda said, giving her a hug.

"I know. It's so strange. I didn't really believe he could care about me. Not seriously. I mean I'm so out of his league. But it turns out he was fine. Well, mostly fine. As fine as Theo can be. He's a difficult man. The problem, though, was me. I was scared to trust it. Afraid to get hurt, so I was holding back and blaming him."

Miranda stared at Lilly, stunned at how Lilly's words echoed in her own heart. "Oh, dear."

"What?"

"I just realized I might be doing the same thing—using my work as an excuse to hold back from Nick."

"You think so?" Lilly said with heavy irony.

"But Nick doesn't respect my work. And he's too negative. We could never be together. We'd drive each other crazy."

But Lilly just looked at her, one brow high with skepticism.

"I guess I needed a reason to keep from putting my heart on the line." She certainly hadn't offered any compromise. She'd been as stubborn as he had. It had been her way or the highway, too. She hadn't even told him she loved him. Had barely let herself realize it. When he'd asked her to go away with him, she'd slammed the door to the idea. The truth was, she was grateful to have her work crisis as an excuse. Why else hadn't she driven to his boat and made love to him and worked out a way to be together right then?

"It's not just you, Miranda," she said. "Nick knew how important your work was to you. He could have given a little."

"But work isn't everything." She needed love, too.

"So take your own advice. What did you tell me? 'If you love each other you can find a way'?"

"Yeah. Sounds like me."

"Call him. I'll go order another shipment of rose petals," Lilly said, and marched off.

Miranda stood there thinking, riveted to the floor of her lab, frozen in front of her charred oven. Could she risk it? If Nick loved her, yes. But did he? He was so stubborn he might not admit it. She couldn't call him. Too humiliating. She had to see his face. She'd have to get past his pride to what he really felt. She had to get his attention, test his feelings. And she thought she knew exactly what would do the trick.

"Don't you get enough of cooking at Ricardo's?" Charlie asked him, swigging a long-neck while he watched Nick pour the perfectly blended chocolate mixture into the miniature soufflé pan.

"I'm trying out something new. You should be grateful."

"Grateful? I'll have pans I've never heard of to clean up after this. Why don't you take that offer and stay?"

Ricardo had told him he was planning on opening a second restaurant and offered to make Nick head chef.

"I'm not sticking around long enough for that," he said, shaking his head. Strangely enough, the idea had had a definite appeal. Charlie must have picked up on his enthusiasm.

"Come on, pal. I know you. You don't want to sail away. You think you have to on principle. Because of Miranda."

"Not true," he said, shaking his head firmly.

Charlie muttered something about peas in a pod, then spoke up. "You know what your problem is?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"You've got to give people a break. Being a cop makes you hard. That's what my Mary taught me, God rest her soul. Everybody's not a perp in the making, my friend."

"I know that."

"Just stop being an ass and admit you love her. Give a little. She's waiting for you to say the word."

"Miranda? I don't think so."

"Oh, yeah. She told me."

"She what? She said that?" He slopped a little chocolate onto the counter. His heart thunked in his chest. What a sap he was.

"Not in so many words, but the woman misses you so much she practically burned down the Palm View. Talk about a cry for help."

"Oh, for God's sake, Charlie." His heart resumed its normal rhythm and he slid the pan carefully into the oven. "Everybody doesn't get a soul mate like you and Mary. Miranda Chase is in another world. One where I don't belong. I already went through that once with Debbie. I'm not doing it again. I could never please her. She'd try to change me."

Charlie caught his eye with a look.

"Okay, okay." Miranda wasn't like Debbie. He knew that. But she'd kept poking at him that time, tried to tell him he didn't want to leave, that he wasn't a simple guy. She'd nag him to improve himself, put on a suit, buy some stocks. She wouldn't be able to stop herself.

He was better off out of this. Better off leaving. "Let's dig into that Chilean sea bass. I tried a new stuffing."

Charlie sighed, crossed himself as if he was about to enter combat and tromped back to the dinette. The man had no appreciation for the finer things in life. At least Miranda had valued his cooking. But you couldn't make a life out of good meals and good sex. God help him, but sometimes, late at night on his now-lonely boat, he was willing to try.

The next day, he picked up his mail at the dock and started flipping through it. Circulars, a letter from the dockmaster in Ensenada. And a linen envelope emblazoned with the frilly logo of Chase Beauty addressed to him in Miranda's hand. He ripped it open, his heart thudding in his chest. It was a short note: "Your ticket to the Sea of Cortes." Wrapped in the note was a check. A huge check.

Even though he'd told her he didn't want her money. Damn the woman. She'd never heard a word he said. She was trying to help him, or she wanted to get rid of him. Either way, she was wrong. He'd never take her money, no matter how much he wanted to leave. He started to tear up the check, then he stopped.

He'd tell her what he thought of this. He'd tell her she couldn't buy everything she wanted. And then he'd tear up the check. In her face.

As he stomped to the Jeep, he got madder and madder. All the while, he tried to ignore the hunger to see her that hummed in his blood.

Charlie was away from the desk parking cars when he arrived, so he headed for the elevator. He'd surprise her. One last time. He was about to knock on her door when he heard scuffling sounds. Was something wrong?

The door was unlocked. He ran down the hall toward the noise and found Miranda in the kitchen kneeling on the chest of a skinny teenager, drowning him with the water sprayer. Splattered on the floor—and all over the kid—was some green glop.

"Cut it out!" the kid said, choking.

"How dare you break in here again!" she said, still squirting.

"I brought … phft! Phew! … the stuff back." He coughed and gasped.

"What's going on?" Nick said.

Miranda looked up at him. "Nick!" Relief filled her face. "This is Thad Tims, the rat who stole my formulas and broke into my safe."

"Get her off me, man," Thad pleaded. "I brought back the stuff. Look in the pack."

Seeing she had control over the kid, Nick went to the backpack a few feet away, opened it and found a tangle of jewelry and a pile of gold coins.

"You brought stuff back?" Miranda asked, releasing the sprayer trigger.

"All but a couple hundred bucks," Tims said, spitting out water. "Now get off me."

Miranda slowly slid off his chest.

Tims swiped at the green goo still in his hair. "What is this crap?"

"That's one-hundred-fifty-dollars' worth of chamomile stress pack."

"Well, it stings," he said. "Call me an ambulance. I need treatment."

"Relax. It'll purify your pores. Though it can't do a thing for your conscience."

"Help me, man," the kid said, looking pitifully at Nick.

"Listen to the lady," he said, trying not to burst out laughing.

"Are you telling me you want to make good on your crime?" Miranda asked Tims.

"Sort of."

"Because if you do, maybe we can work something out."

"Well, I—"

But Miranda didn't wait to hear what he had to say. She was spinning out her idea—a community service project at the Palm View that included walking Dexter, carrying bags, taking some of the burden off Charlie. Nick's heart melted at her spunk, her spirit, her fire.

He couldn't let this lady go. If for no other reason than just to see what the hell she'd do next.

Being around her made him feel alive. Away from her these weeks he'd been a dead man walking. She reached him where he didn't think he could be reached. His life would be empty without her. He hadn't missed the important things about her. He knew them all … to his soul. If this crazy world of cosmetics was what she wanted, then he'd come along for the ride.

Maybe he had been running away from a world that had disappointed him. What did it hurt to have hope like Miranda did? If an occasional look through rose-colored glasses got Miranda back in his life, then he was on it. Because one thing he knew for certain—without Miranda he had no chance of happiness at all. He could sail the world and all he'd be was lonely.

When the police arrived to collect the kid, he looked almost grateful to get the cuffs on and leave.

After they were gone, Nick walked close to Miranda. "I can't believe this," he said, faking a frown. "I leave you for a few days and I come back to find you beating up defenseless burglars again."

"Sorry," she said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Don't be sorry. I think you should consider a career in law enforcement."

"That's your specialty," she said, her eyes bright as she looked at him. He could see she was glad to see him. That was a start.

Now what? He didn't have time to figure it out, so he just said what was on his mind. "I love you, Miranda. And I can't live without you."

"Nick!" Miranda started to throw herself into Nick's arms out of sheer joy, but she stopped when he held up his hands.

"Hold it. We've got some things to work out first."

"Sure. Whatever. Anything." Her plan had worked. She knew everything would be fine.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out her check. "Like this." He ripped it in half. "Bad idea. I don't want you flashing your money around me. I pay my way. No one keeps me."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Why do you think I wrote the check? It was bait. If you came back to yell at me, then I knew we had a chance."

"You set a trap for me?"

"Absolutely. I learned from the master. Besides, you're too stubborn for anything else to work."

"I'm too stubborn? What about you, lady?"

"I admit, I've been a bit forceful about my opinions, somewhat overly firm."

"You mean pigheaded?" But he was grinning.

"Hold on. You're not exactly Mr. Flexibility."

"Okay, okay. Let's not start arguing again."

"You're right. We're both stubborn, so let's make that work for us." She took his hands and led him to the sofa, where they sat, knee to knee. "Remember when you said that you thought I'd be indomitable about love?"

"Yes."

"You're right. I was just afraid, I guess, to believe you really loved me, and I buried myself in work to stay safe. But now that I know you love me, I'll do whatever I need to do to make this work."

"Really?"

"Really. And I have a plan."

"God, no," he said, crossing himself, his dark eyes alight with amusement and love, "Not another plan." Then he perked up. "Unless there's a closet involved … and maybe one of those teddies…"

"Stop it. I'm serious. The way I see it is that we've both got to compromise a little. First of all, I may have been too harsh about you thinking Theo and Lilly were the culprits. As a cop, you're trained to look for the bad in people, so I have to understand—"

"No, you were right. I have been kind of sour on things. Charlie pointed that out to me. Maybe getting almost killed scared me more than I wanted to accept. And losing Debbie the way I did didn't help my faith in people. So, I may have been too quick to assume the worst."

"You're agreeing with me? Oh, my God." She touched his forehead to see if he had a fever.

"Not so fast. Your brother is still an ass."

"Granted, but he's still my brother and I love him."

"As long as I don't have to. Miranda—" he took her hands and looked into her face, his eyes the open, warm brown she remembered from the boat "—I'll never put on those rose-colored glasses of yours, but you can describe what you see through them and I promise to keep my heart open."

"Oh, Nick," she said, cupping her hands around his strong face. The tears in her eyes made his face waver before her. "And I'll try to be more realistic about things." She brushed away her tears. "Now, about my cosmetics… I know it's frivolous to you, but—"

"It's part of who you are, I know. I respect that."

"Good." She breathed a sigh of relief. "And I know that sailing is part of who you are, too."

"Right, except I've decided that—"

She couldn't let him interrupt her or they might start arguing again. "I figured out that once I get things under control at Chase, nothing says I can't work from the Pacific. I'd just need more space."

"Miranda, listen—"

"I don't mean you'd have to sell Nick's Lady. Maybe just expand the kitchen area."

"You don't expand a boat, Miranda." His eyes twinkled and he was clearly fighting laughter.

"Okay, how about a second boat then? Something with both our names on it. Nick and Miranda's Home Away from Home, something like that?"

"That's no name for a boat. It'd cover the damn hull. Listen—" He put his fingers over her lips. "I don't need to sail away to be happy, Miranda. I just need you. We can take trips—long trips—but I'm staying here. Ricardo's offered me a chef position in his new restaurant. Who knows, after I've learned the business I might open my own."

"How wonderful, Nick. I'm sure we could get financing for you and—"

"Uh-uh. I make my own way, Miranda."

"Of course. I just mean … I'm so happy … you're staying. That's so wonderful." She wanted to say everything at once.

She studied him, his face warm with love and adoration and finally felt all right. Gone were her doubts about what made a good man for her. He was right here on her sofa.

"Now, there is one thing that I insist on," Nick said.

"What's that?"

"We're getting married on Nick's Lady. At sunset."

"Getting married? Just a minute." Her heart pounded high in her throat. "You're forgetting something, Nick."

"Not negotiable," he said firmly. "I'm already doing a lot of things your way, putting up with cosmetics everywhere and, I'm pretty sure I'll be testing out more of your men's nonsense, and—"

She put her finger to his lips. "Shut up, you big lug. I just mean you forgot to ask me."

"Ask you what?

"To marry you, remember? And to swear your undying love, all that … junk."

"Oh. Right." Blush pinked his rugged features. "I see your point." He cleared his throat. Then with elaborate care, and with a wince because of his sprained ankle, he slid off the couch, lowered himself onto one knee and took her hands in his. "Miranda. I love you with everything I've got. You're all the woman I want. I want to be the all the man you need. Will you marry me?"

The knot in her throat was so tight she couldn't speak.

"So say yes, for God's sake," he hissed, wincing. "You're killing me here."

She nodded and blinked away tears. "Yes," she said, and threw her arms around him. Then she said the words she'd been afraid to admit even to herself but now felt as real and true as the heart beating in her chest. "I love you, Nick."

And then they kissed, long and slow and glorious as a night sail on the lake, and Miranda knew they'd find a way to blend their lives into the perfect formula forever.

* * * * *