Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins
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Nick followed the trail of rose petals
They led straight to Miranda’s bedroom, lit with clusters of flickering candles. Soft jazz played and the air smelled of roses mixed with vanilla and spices. The trail of rose petals led to the bed where Miranda lay.
She was on her side in a suggestive pose, wearing white lingerie, transparent except for leafy vines that coyly covered her. She was breathtakingly beautiful—she looked like erotic innocence.
And she was trying to seduce him.
His capacity to think went south and his vow to resist her evaporated. Desire pounded through him and all he wanted was to put his hands all over her. Now.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I thought we might finish what we started….”
Who was he to fight her? He crossed the room, yanking off his clothes as he moved.
“I poured you a bath,” she murmured.
“Honey, if you think I’d let a bath come between me and you looking like that, think again!”
Dear Reader,
Do opposites attract? Or drive each other crazy? That’s what Nick and Miranda have to figure out. It turns out not to be their differences that keep them apart, but what they have in common—their stubborn single-mindedness.
Though Nick and Miranda come from different backgrounds, they share that “my way or the highway” take on the world. Miranda has to learn to let go of her ambition a little to let love in. Nick has to get past some tough things so he can move on to what he truly wants. Helping Nick and Miranda work out their “perfect blend” for a happily-ever-after brought me great joy, especially because their story had special significance to me—my husband and I had to learn the same lesson!
Of course, I'm not a cosmetics creator and my husband's not a former cop, but, believe me, we had our differences.
The sailing sequences in this book brought back fond memories, since my husband taught me how to sail—sailing was one thing we both loved (besides each other)! I also enjoyed my walk through Miranda’s world of natural cosmetics. Thanks to her, I now work with an aromatherapy diffuser in my office.
I hope Nick and Miranda’s story means as much to you as it does to me.
Yours,
Dawn Atkins
P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Please write me at [email protected] or visit me at www.dawnatkins.com.
Books by Dawn Atkins
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
871—THE COWBOY FLING
HARLEQUIN DUETS
77—ANCHOR THAT MAN!
Lipstick On His Collar
Dawn Atkins
For David, who showed me the magic of night sailing…and so much more.
Contents
Prologue
WHEN THE WOMAN IN RED burst through the door, everything at the Backstreet Bar stopped dead—the talking, the drinking, the smoking. And Nick Ryder’s heart. For a second, anyway.
Women rarely came to the Backstreet, and never alone, and this was one hot woman. Her red dress hugged curves all the way to her spiked heels, and a diamond necklace sizzled around her neck. She stood there, breathing hard, her black hair a mane around her face, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, while everyone stared—the off-duty cops at the tables, the regulars at the bar, even the guy about to kiss the seven into the corner pocket.
What the hell she was doing here, Nick couldn’t imagine. The Backstreet was a great place to throw back a brew with his squad mates at the end of a shift—dark and quiet, with a well-worn bar and a beat-up jukebox that only played blues—but to a woman like her, the place would be a dive.
She seemed to realize that and was turning for the door, when her gaze hit him square in the face. She paused, a smile flickered, then she headed straight for him. Had to be the reassuring look women claimed he had. The protect-and-serve thing had gone bone deep, he guessed.
She looked like trouble. Expensive trouble. But watching the tissue-thin dress slide over her breasts, hips and long, long legs, he thought, What the hell. He didn’t have anything else to do tonight except play pool, and he could always play pool.
For a second he thought he heard bells, but it was just a car alarm outside.
The lady in red slid onto the stool beside him, her perfume overpowering the mist of beer, ancient nachos and cigar smoke that wreathed the place, gave him a sad smile, then took a breath so shaky he had the urge to pat her. Instead, he tipped his beer mug in salute and smiled.
She accepted the gesture, then turned her attention to Ben, the bartender, who sliced Nick a look—what have we here?—before saying to her, “What’ll it be, ma’am?”
“A Santiago martini, please.”
“Say what?”
“Just a martini. Very dry. No olives, onions or twist. Float a few ice slivers, and be sure the glass is cold.”
“Comin’ right up.” Ben shot Nick a look. High maintenance.
When the drink arrived, she took it straight down like medicine, then gasped, pounding the bar with an open palm so that glasses rattled all the way along the mahogany counter. Nice nails, Nick noticed. Perfectly squared with a white edge. French, he thought, was the style. His ex had gone for the high-end stuff, too. On this woman, high-end seemed like minimum basic requirements.
“You okay?” Nick asked. He handed her a napkin to wipe her eyes, which had watered from the gin. They were puffy, too, so he knew she’d been crying.
“Thanks.” She dabbed under each eye.
“Name’s Nick,” he said.
She