Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ