Lipstick On His Collar. Dawn Atkins
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Maybe her preliminary samples? She hurried to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and yanked open the heavy door. The comforting scent of herbs billowed out.
Nick, at her side, made a face. “Why does your refrigerator smell like Ben-Gay?”
“That’s mint and eucalyptus,” she explained, shifting the jars and tubes on the shelves. The fresh herb containers seemed fine, except…was that lid loose? She looked more closely. “I think I’m missing some vanilla beans,” she said, “and the dried lavender seems low….” It was hard to tell, but she felt sure the containers had been handled.
Nick looked skeptical.
“You think I just imagined this, don’t you?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure you wouldn’t drag me in here just for the adrenaline rush,” he said, but she could tell that was exactly what he thought. “We can report this, but I don’t think the police will be too gung ho about chasing down a guy with a pocketful of spice and some dried flowers. Unless you can smoke it, snort it or shoot it. Can you?”
“Of course not. And I don’t appreciate your making jokes.”
“Sorry. Just easing the tension. Why don’t you check your valuables? Maybe something has been stolen.”
Miranda looked up from her search through the refrigerator and glared at him. “My formulas are the most valuable thing I own. Just forget it, okay? I’ll deal with this myself.”
“If it makes you feel better, we can call the precinct.”
“I’m sure the police won’t take this any more seriously than you. The people after my formulas are not your standard criminals anyway.”
“Suit yourself.” She saw he was holding back a smile. On top of everything else, now Nick thought she was a nut case.
“You probably have more important things to do downstairs.”
“Right.” He touched his cap again. “So many doors to open, so little time.” He smiled his crooked smile, then headed for the front door.
She followed him.
His hand on the knob, he turned to her. “If something happens, Miranda, call me.”
“Something did happen. You just don’t believe me.” She paused. She wasn’t showing much gratitude. Nick had leaped to her rescue, no questions asked. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Lilly was looking for a formula for some reason before she left. Thanks for checking, Nick.”
Nick’s face softened. “Call me if you need me. Really.” He touched her arm, and she felt the heat clear to her toes. He walked away and she couldn’t take her eyes off him as he stepped into the elevator and turned to face her. Please stay, she thought desperately as she waggled her fingers in farewell.
Be brave, she told herself after he’d gone. Maybe this was all in her head. To banish the prickling sensation that still crawled up her spine, she focused on the totes on the kitchen counter, unzipping the first. Dry-ice vapor swooshed out, then crawled like a low fog along the counter.
She pulled out a container of chili blossoms, then put the rest and the bottles of essential oils into her supercooled refrigerator. From the bottom shelf, she extracted three sample jars of creams she’d use as a base to test varying concentrations.
The chamomile from Germany should have arrived by now, she thought. When was the courier truck due? She decided to check the order date, so she padded down the hall to the office, wondering what possible reason Lilly would have had to go through the cupboards.
Lost in thought, Miranda opened the office door…and ran smack dab into a skinny man. She shrieked. He shrieked.
He was only a kid—barely out of his teens—and scrawny, with bloodshot eyes in a pale, hawkish face. He pushed roughly past her, and she caught a flash of a tattoo on one arm, a sweat-stained muscle shirt and tattered jeans. She also noticed he had on latex gloves like her dentist wore and held a backpack. A backpack that probably contained whatever he’d stolen from her.
Without thinking she grabbed for it, catching a strap and yanking hard.
The kid swore and twisted the pack so that the straps tightened on Miranda’s fingers.
She yelped and let go.
The kid ran down the hall, and Miranda chased after him. Somewhere inside, she knew this was insane—another case of leaping before she looked—but by then she was close enough to try for a tackle.
She lunged, grabbed, and the kid thudded onto the polished wood of the hallway. Miranda’s nylons made her slide, so she lost her balance and twisted her ankle before she landed on him, her jaw slamming onto his jeans-clad legs. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth—she’d bitten her tongue—but she ignored the pain and held tight to the kid’s legs, which smelled of motor oil and sweat.
Though slight, he turned out to be wiry, and he twisted and kicked against her arms. Afraid of what he’d do to her once he got free, Miranda held on for dear life. The back of his thigh bumped her jaw again. “Ow!” she yelped, tasting more blood. “Ho still, will ya?” Her hurt tongue made it hard to talk.
“Let go, for chrissake,” the kid said, practically whining.
“Gib me back wha you took!” Miranda wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer, she could tell. She needed help. They were in the hallway and the apartment walls were so thick no one could hear, but she shouted anyway. “Help!”
At the sound, the thief gave a powerful lunge and slipped from her arms. She grabbed at his leg, but all she ended up with was a sneaker. She dropped it and made a last grab at the backpack, but he kicked her off, connecting with her eye, and scrambled to his feet.
Dazed, Miranda fell back. Her head spun and her eye throbbed. This kind of thing looked a lot less painful in the movies. She shook her head to clear it, ignored her aching eye and struggled to her feet. She ran after the kid in a hip-hop gallop that favored her twisted ankle. She knew she should stop—it hurt like crazy and this was foolhardy and dangerous—but she was running on impulse and couldn’t stop herself.
In the entryway, the kid tripped on the marble step. As he stumbled, his backpack knocked the Chinese vase full of roses to the floor. It shattered noisily.
But the kid’s slip gave Miranda a chance to grab one leg. He kicked at her with the other, whacking her other eye. That did it. She bit the back of his leg through the jeans.
He swore.
There was a knock at the door and the thief froze.
Relief flooded Miranda. “Help!” she yelled.
“Miranda?” Nick. How had he known?
“Help!” she shouted again, listening to Nick try the door. At the same time, with a burst of terrified jerks and a sharp kick to Miranda’s solar plexus, the thief broke free. While she gasped for breath, he scrambled to his feet, his one sneaker squeaking against the marble, threw the backpack strap over his shoulder, and took off toward the back of the apartment and the other door, no doubt.
Miranda was doubled up, gasping for air, when the front door flew open. Clearly, Nick had used his master key.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He’s…that…way,” she managed, pointing down the hall, still lying down.
“Are you all right?” He squatted beside her and helped her sit up, his eyes sweeping her face.
“Go…get him….” She gasped for air. “Quick.” She pointed down the hall.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Knocked…my breath. Just go!”
Finally he seemed to grasp what she meant, pulled his gun and took off down her hall.
Dizzy and aching, Miranda rested her cheek on the entry step while she waited for