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, as if he’d seen it all, done most of it, and wasn’t afraid of anything. Looking at him, she’d felt better, braver. Something—it felt like a hand on her back—had pushed her toward the empty seat beside him.
The evening heated up, and Nick had seemed to want her as much as she’d wanted him. She’d been gratified that she, the woman Donald had called an ice queen, had made tough guy Nick Ryder sick with lust. She’d felt powerful and womanly for the first time in her life. There’d been something wonderful between them, she’d thought.
When he didn’t call, the whole effect had been ruined. Instead of feeling sexy, she’d ended up feeling foolish. She’d thought of a number of reasons he hadn’t called—another woman, guilt, a transfer to Alaska—but now she knew the truth. He’d just been doing a Boy Scout routine.
It proved how clueless she was about men. And sex. And love, for that matter. She hadn’t loved Donald, she’d realized after the breakup. And she’d made way too much out of a one-night stand—pity sex, for God’s sake.
What bad luck that fate had crammed Nick into Charlie’s uniform and stuck him in front of her building to remind her. The only consolation was that Charlie would soon return and Nick would be gone.
She reached the ground floor, where her gaze fell on the totes Nick had left in the foyer. She’d just focus on her formulas. She always did better that way. She had important work to do—verification samples with the new decoction and a formula to figure out with the chili flowers.
She picked up the totes. In New Mexico, she’d located an herb farmer who’d breed chili to her specifications. He’d agreed to grow steady crops for her so Chase Beauty could afford to mass-produce her exclusive products. The new essential oils would finalize her other formulations—give them enough shelf life so the company could make a profit.
In six weeks, Miranda would unveil the cream to the company, along with the moisturizing lotion, mask, toner and scrub she’d already formulated. Not only would she create a new profit center for Chase Beauty, her family’s corporation, but she’d make a splash in the cosmetics world, too. And show her brother what she was made of, while she was at it. She couldn’t wait.
To
