Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins

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