Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn AtkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
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,