Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins

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.”