Lipstick On His Collar

“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 un-steadily down the sidewalk, crying, and he knew what he had to do. “Miranda,” he said.

She turned to him. The streetlight gave her a bronze sheen like the statue of a goddess.

He cut the distance between them, yanked her into his arms and kissed her hard.

She made a little sound of relief and desire and kissed him back. Their teeth collided, their tongues connected, frantic to make up for lost time. He held her so tightly he could tell she could hardly draw breath. Heat burned between them.

Somewhere the car alarm started up its rhythmic honking, but he could barely hear it for the lust screaming through him like a train through a tunnel.

After a few minutes of frenzied kissing, Miranda panted in his ear. “Please take me somewhere. Now.”

Beep…beep…beep…The car alarm bleated.

Shut up, he mentally told it. Some things you couldn’t fight. Fire shot along his veins and collected in flames below his belt. “You sure?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.