Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins

were so strong, so sure….

      Nick set the ice bag on her ankle.

      “Ow! Yow! God, that hurts!”

      “It’ll settle down in a minute.”

      “I prefer the sprain, thank you. Ouch. Ooh.”

      “What a cranky patient you are. I bet you’re hell on wheels with a cold. Where do you keep the aspirin?”

      “In the medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” she said grumpily. As he set off, she called out, “Bring me the Restorix, please. The triangular jar. I hate wasting good steak.” She felt like a fool holding raw meat to her face, but it did soothe the sting. She closed her eyes and breathed in the beefy smell.

      Nick returned, and she exchanged the steak eye patches for pills and water. “Aspirin with codeine,” he said. “Stronger.”

      “From my wisdom tooth extraction. But I’ll get sleepy.”

      “Sleepy is good. Take them,” he commanded. “Your ankle’s going to hurt.”

      “I have work to do.”

      “Forget work. You’re going to rest if I have to tie you to the bed.”

      She stopped, the suggestive image more than her jangled nerves could bear.

      “Anyway, first aid for a strain is RICE—rest, ice, compression and elevation. You need to get your foot up.”

      “Who needs the hospital when I’ve got Dr. Nick.” She sighed and took the pills, then handed him the water glass and reached for the Restorix he’d also brought.

      “Allow me,” he said. He unscrewed the lid and scooped some cream with an index finger, which he began to apply to her face. “You may have a point about this being better. Raw beef does draw flies.”

      She smiled and held her breath while he feathered the cool cream along her cheekbones and eyelids. His touch was so gentle she softened all over. She couldn’t help but look into his face as he worked. In this light, his irises were velvet brown, his pupils wide and black. The crinkles at the edges of his eyes made him look wise and wicked. Her gaze drifted downward, following the strong line of his cheek to a barely visible hair-thin scar along his jaw—a striking outline of his face that made him look dangerous. And sexy as hell. When she’d picked him out at the Backstreet, she’d had an incredibly good eye.

      “There,” he said, admiring his handiwork.

      “Thanks,” she breathed.

      His gaze held hers. “How’s the pain?”

      “Better. I guess I’m lucky the robber didn’t stick around. Who knows what more damage I could have done to myself.”

      “Bingo.”

      “How did he get into my apartment, anyway?” she asked to give him something policelike to do.

      Nick looked up at her door from where they sat on the foyer step. “That’s no trick. Credit card on the latch will do the job in five seconds. You have no dead bolt. Bad idea.”

      “This building is very safe,” she argued. “I mean we have a security guard—” She stopped, realizing how he might take that.

      Nick flinched, then forced a smile. “That would be me, see. I don’t know how he got past me in the lobby.” His brows knit in thought. “The elevator jammed this morning. Maybe he came in during the confusion with the fire crew.”

      “He was in my home. It’s so creepy…” Miranda said slowly, her heart going cold as what had happened began to sink in. The thug had sneaked into her apartment, touched her things, probably taken items, and listened while she and Nick searched the place. Picturing that, fear rose like a wave inside her.

      “You feel violated,” Nick said. “That’s normal. But don’t worry. We’ll get this guy.”

      But she hardly heard him because the moments with the punk were coming alive in her head. Again she tasted the stiff denim of his jeans, the blood in her mouth. She felt his legs as he’d struggled in her arms, the terror that he’d get free and hurt her. Again the odor of motor oil and dirt filled her nose. She could hardly breathe for the wash of feeling.

      She looked at Nick, hoping he could pull her out of the memory. “I—I—” She couldn’t get the words out. “Oh…oh, dear.” Then she just burst into tears.

      “Ah, Miranda.” Nick pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “It’s okay,” he said, rocking her, his voice a soothing rumble in her ear. He patted her back.

      “I’m s-s-sorrry,” she said between sobs. “I think I’m just t-t-tired.”

      “Cry it out. It’s all right.”

      His arms felt as comforting and familiar as a dear friend’s. Pressed against his chest, she could hear his steady heartbeat—maybe a little faster than normal. He smelled of wool and clean sweat and some old-fashioned aftershave.

      She breathed it all in, let herself rest in his arms. Gradually her fear subsided, along with the pain in her leg and face. Then she felt embarrassed to be huddled against him, so she pulled away. “I’m acting like a baby.”

      “Nah. This is scary stuff.”

      “I’m glad you were here, Nick.”

      “Hell, you didn’t need me. In another minute, you’d have had him hog-tied in your nylons, begging for mercy.”

      “Anyone else would have done the same.”

      “No. Believe me, they wouldn’t. You’re unique.” He shook his head as if that weren’t entirely a good thing. “Anyway,” he sighed, “the cops in this precinct are good. They’ll get him. He’s probably a junkie after whatever he could grab.”

      “We don’t need the police, do we? Couldn’t you call and cancel the order?”

      “This isn’t a pizza delivery, Miranda.”

      “I just don’t want cops traipsing through here.”

      “They’re not going to bust down the door. If this guy is working the area, we’ll need to warn your neighbors anyway. Before the detectives get here, let’s see what’s missing. Hold on to your ice pack.”

      She barely had time to grab the baggie before Nick lifted her into his arms, and she found herself staring into his eyes, being carried off like a bride swept to bed by her groom.

      “I c-can walk,” she said, vividly aware of how each of Nick’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her thighs.