Dawn Atkins - Lipstick On His Collar

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 get there, she had to get busy. Forget Nick, she told herself, kicking off her shoes and tucking a tote under each arm. That had been a one-night mistake. Period. She padded down the hall to the kitchen.

The instant she entered, she knew something was wrong. There was a hesitation in the air—a shift—the same thing she’d felt when she’d walked into the apartment, only stronger. Her gaze flew from the center island, with its hanging pots and deep granite sink, to the tall cupboards that ringed the room, dotted by rows of cosmetic samples, canisters of herbs and dried flowers, and dark blue and brown jars of essential oils. Several of the cupboard doors were ajar. One was wide-open.

It was the one that held the hinged box where she kept her cosmetic formulas. The box itself sat crookedly on the shelf, the lid only half closed, as if someone had been looking through it, then hastily put it back.

The hairs on the back of Miranda’s neck rose and her heart began to pound. Someone had been in her lab. Messing with her things. Her skin tingled. How and who, and what if he was still here? Holding her breath, she backed out of the kitchen, her nylon-clad feet silent on the wooden floor. She had only one thought: Nick. I need Nick.

Luckily he was still waiting for the sluggish elevator, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his skintight uniform, whistling. “Come quick,” she whispered, motioning him to her. “Someone’s been here.”

Nick stopped mid-whistle and was at her side in an instant, alert, muscles coiled for action, his face an intent mask.

“In the kitchen. Someone’s moved my things.”

“Moved your things? You mean robbed you?” He looked her over, as if to be sure she was serious.

“I think so. I don’t know. But the guy might still be in there.”

That got him. He pushed past her into the room, pulling a gun from under his jacket as he went. She hadn’t even detected the bulge. Guns scared her, but for the moment she was glad Nick held one in his big, capable hands.

“Is there another outside door?” he snapped.

“At the far end of the apartment.”

He nodded and entered the foyer, holding the gun down with both hands. “Stay here.” He shot her a commanding glance, then moved forward.

Of course she followed. She didn’t think about it. She just did it.

Nick moved with bent knees, pivoting as he swept his gun in an arc across the visible space—foyer, living room, dining room. When he started toward the kitchen, she hissed, “He’s not there.”

Nick spun toward her, evidently startled by her voice. “I told you to wait outside.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He shook his head as if she were impossible.

“He’s got to be this way.” She pointed down the other hall.

Nick went where she indicated.

Miranda followed, feeling like she was in an episode of NYPD Blue, except there was no reassuring soundtrack or backup cops. This was real, not prime time. Her heart thudded in her chest.

They reached the first guest room, its door ajar. Nick leaned back, kicked it open, then lunged inside in the gun-ready position. Miranda heard a tearing sound and noticed the seam of his pants had split down the middle of his muscled behind, revealing a sliver of black silk boxers. “Damn,” he muttered, then moved forward a step. She followed, but he turned unexpectedly and she ran smack into his chest.

“For God’s sake, stay back!” he whispered.

“Okay, okay,” she said, backing up.

“Anything look disturbed?”

The room looked as peaceful and inviting as ever, in shades of pink and cream with floral accents. She breathed in the New England vanilla-lilac medley potpourri she’d chosen to match the room’s ambiance. “No. He wasn’t in here. I can feel it.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “What, you’re psychic now?”

She ignored the sarcasm, and went with him to check the other guest room, the guest bath, the den and the library, which all seemed untouched.

Upstairs, they looked through the master suite. Then Miranda unlocked Lilly’s rooms—bedroom, sitting room and bath. Nothing seemed amiss.

“No one’s been here,” Nick said.

“We missed the office downstairs.” She led him there and he gave it a cursory look, then holstered his gun. “If anyone was ever here, he’s gone now.”

“If? Of course someone’s been here. I can feel it.” The hairs on the back of her neck still stood up. “Come with me, and I’ll prove it.”

She led him into her lab kitchen, to the open cupboard where her formula box rested. “This has been disturbed.”

“He was stealing your recipes?”

“Exactly,” she said, then noticed his grin. “Recipes for my cosmetics, Nick, not Grandma’s pumpkin pie. And for your information they are very valuable. Cosmetics are lucrative. Our competitors would very much like to get their hands on my formulas.”

“So you keep them in the kitchen?”

“This is my lab, too, and they’re hidden in plain sight. No one but my assistant Lilly knows they’re here.” Of course, Lilly always nagged her to put them in the safe, a recommendation she ignored. “Who would expect them to be here, anyway? Industry spies would focus on our corporate offices.” Which was why she kept her products away from there, arranging clinical tests at an obscure lab, and never discussed her work with colleagues.

How could this have happened? Obviously, she’d been overconfident. “I lost the key to the box a couple of weeks ago, so I had to pry it open.” That had made it even easier on the robber.

Miranda flipped through the cards in the box. Everything seemed to be there, including her latest completed formulas. Had the thief been interrupted before he could steal anything? Or was he looking for something else? 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.”