What the hell could he say to that? “My mother liked it.”
As soon as Ben delivered the martini, ice slivers and all, Miranda tapped it against Nick’s mug. “Cheers, Nick,” she said, then gulped the drink. She gasped once, then blinked hard. “Whew.”
“You’re tossing those back awful fast.”
“No kidding.”
His curiosity got the better of him. “So, what’s the deal?”
She turned her body toward him, nailed him with a look. “Tell me something, Nick. Do I strike you as sexless?”
It was his turn to choke on his drink.
“I mean, do I seem like a woman who doesn’t like sex?”
This was a minefield Nick didn’t care to stumble through. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“I like sex as much as the next woman,” she declared, though she didn’t sound convinced. She looked him over, making every muscle in his body tighten. “Like, for example, I could see myself having sex with you—no problem.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He heard Ben snort. Okay, real lame, but, hell, how was he supposed to respond? Your place or mine?
“Theoretically, of course,” she said.
“Oh, of course.” His parts eased a bit.
Miranda swiveled back to the bar. “Hit me again,” she said, clinking her glass on the counter. She was oddly blunt for a woman so obviously refined. That made him smile and intrigued him a little.
“You might want to let the first two breathe,” Nick warned. “Straight gin packs a wallop.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Still, Nick caught Ben’s eye to make sure he would dilute the drink. Otherwise, Miranda would be throwing up her guts in the bar’s less-than-elegant john, and it would be a shame to ruin that incredible dress. He could practically see the texture of her skin through the fabric.
“What brings you to the Backstreet?” he asked. She stood out in this place like a Ferrari Testerosa in a Kmart parking lot. Her dress was designer, her hair perfect, her makeup as artful as a model’s, and the diamonds she wore flashed the myriad prisms of the real deal. Pure class. In fact, she was exactly the kind of pampered female he had no interest in—the kind his ex-wife Debbie had aspired to be but couldn’t manage on Nick’s salary.
“It was handy,” she said, shrugging.
“You seem a little overdressed for this place is all.” She wasn’t a suspect he was interrogating, but he had to figure her out.
“I was somewhere more formal, and I—” She glanced at him but couldn’t meet his eyes. “I got some bad news, so I had to get away. I just came in. On impulse.”
“Impulse, huh?”
“Yeah. I tend to jump into things without thinking, and then regret it later.” She looked sad, but not down for the count.
“How about now? You gonna regret this?” The words came softer than he’d intended, but her shaky bravery got to him.
She looked at him for a long, silent minute. “No,” she said finally. “Not this time.”
Her words cracked his customary cool and he said what he felt. “I’m glad.”
She flashed him a smile so bright it hurt, and he wanted more—more smiles, more Miranda. The urge to help her gripped him like a fist.
Just then, Ben set the watered-down drink in front of her, offering a welcome distraction. She lifted the glass, tapped it against Nick’s stein, then chugged it, immediately motioning to Ben for another. “They always water their drinks?” she muttered to Nick.
Nick winced. “How about if you let the third one percolate?”
She seemed to consider his words, how she felt, then nodded slowly. “We’ll see.”
“Care to share the bad news?”
“Oh, that.” Miranda’s smile slipped, and she snatched her lip between her teeth before she continued. “Let’s just say I’m no longer engaged.” She tossed back her hair, sending a wave of dense perfume his way.
“I see. And I’m guessing it wasn’t your idea?”
“Oh, it was my idea, all right,” she said, but she stared at a wet spot on the bar.
“But you had no choice.”
She looked up. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Nah. I’ve just been there before,” he said. “I got divorced a few months back.” What was this, true confession?
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Turned out we wanted different things.” He’d wanted a quiet life with her, she’d wanted an ambitious assistant to the mayor, a fact he’d learned when he found them in bed. His bed.
“Exactly,” she said, almost as if she’d read his mind. “Then you know how I feel.” She lifted her just-arrived martini to her lips. Their eyes met over it.
“All I can say is…his loss,” Nick said.
“That’s kind of you, but I don’t think he’ll even notice.” Then she studied his face. “Can I ask you a favor, Nick?”
Uh-oh. “Sure.”
“Keep me company while I get drunk? Make sure I don’t do anything really stupid?” Tears made her eyes shine.
“I’d be honored.” He held out his hand to shake on it. Hers was warm and slender. He felt a jolt.
She must have had a similar sensation because her eyes went wide, then smoky.
Heat began to pump through him as his body went on automatic pilot. How about sex? Would that be really stupid?
“Let’s sit over there and talk,” he said, motioning toward a back booth, away from Ben’s snorts and the curious eyes of Nick’s squad mates.
Talk? Him? The guy who lived for the quiet of a moonlit sail? The guy whose ex-wife had accused him of giving her the silent treatment? What was he thinking?
She nodded, then stood, wobbling a little, so he took her arm. He guided her to a booth, where she sat beside him—and too close—wiggling her bottom on the seat with such natural sensuality he felt it clear to his bones.
She turned toward him, resting her elbow on the table, her head on her fist in a way that made her breasts swell upward from her dipped neckline, and said, “So, tell me about yourself.”
With all the alcohol bubbling in her bloodstream, Nick knew that what he ought to do was send Miranda back to her pricey neighborhood in a cab, but instead he did what she wanted. He told her about himself.
It was that or kiss those lips she was aiming his way, and that would be stupid. Real stupid. He suddenly wished he’d heeded that car alarm and beat it out of there when he first saw her. Too late now.
“Well,” he said on a sigh, “I’m a cop.”
“A cop?” Her sharply tweezed brows shot up and she lifted her head from her fist. “How interesting.”
“I guess.” He watched her fit him to her image of a cop—a blue-collar guy who saw the world in terms of right or wrong, legal or illegal, with no shades of gray. Pretty close, except he had the urge to tell her he had a minor in art history. But what was the point? He’d never see her again.
“You do look dangerous,”