"That's the noise my car's making." A man with a reverberating deep voice was repeating a short phrase, quick, choppy and harsh, the sound vibrating through tinny speakers. It sounded just like the engine of her Buick.
Bridger relaxed visibly and led her back to the bar. "I don't know a lot about cars, but I'd say that's at least a five-hundred-dollar noise."
"That's what I was afraid of."
They reclaimed their stools, side by side. The place was uncomfortably empty without the chattering women they'd listened to all evening. Frannie played with what was left of her drink. It was melted, unappetizing, and she'd had her limit, anyway. But she didn't want to leave. What did she have waiting for her at home? She loved her little house, but there was nothing—no one—waiting for her there. There were just messages from her mother and a little harsh reality, and she was in no mood to face either at the moment.
An old man, the last of the night's crowd but for Bridger and Frannie, tossed a bill onto the table and weaved his way to the door, waving over his shoulder to Benny.
"He's not going to drive, is he?" Frannie asked as she watched the man stumble, check the floor for a nonexistent hazard, and move on.
"No," Bridger answered. "He lives around the corner in that old department store they converted into apartments a couple years back."
"Last call," Benny called cheerfully, and they twirled around to face him as he placed two fresh drinks on the bar. "This round's on me."
The jukebox was silent at last. Benny was turning the chairs up on the tables that were scattered throughout the room, preparing to sweep up and close for the night.
Frannie didn't want to go home. She played with the drink before her, stabbing at the frozen concoction with her straw and drinking nothing, delaying the inevitable. Bridger was gloomy again, as miserable as he had been when she'd first arrived and seen him sitting there staring into his drink. Maybe he didn't want to go home, either.
They hadn't talked about the shooting since he'd told her what happened, but it had to be on his mind. He'd saved lives today, but he'd also taken one. That couldn't be easy. She glanced again at the gun he wore.
She liked Bridger too much. It wasn't just that he was pleasant to talk to, or that he was a great dancer. He had a kind soul, and she'd known it after talking to him for five minutes. She sat beside a kind soul in a six-foot-plus body, a guardian angel with a gun strapped to his belt, a man who could love a woman and protect her from anything.
Two drinks and she was hallucinating. "Good night, Detective Bridger," she said, a false brightness in her voice as she slid from the bar stool and put those ideas out of her mind. "Thanks for commiserating with me."
He mumbled something that sounded like "any time," but she couldn't be sure.
"Good night, Benny," she said without looking back. "I'm going to make one stop and then I'm headed for home."
She really didn't want to go home, back to the house that was small and yet too big for one person, back to the messages from her mother that she would eventually have to answer, back to the reality that she didn't have a job anymore. She was at a crossroads, and she didn't know where to go from here.
When she came out of the rest room, she was surprised to find Bridger waiting for her. He was leaning against the wall by the pay phone with his head down and his hands in his pockets. As the ladies' room door swung closed, he lifted his head.
When his eyes latched on to hers her heart skipped a beat. Malcolm Bridger had cop's eyes: eyes that had seen too much and never missed anything. How could eyes like that be anything but lonely?
"I can't let you drive home," he said softly.
"I walked," she said quickly. "I wanted to show that good-for-nothing car of mine that I didn't need it. My house isn't too far, I don't think it took me twenty minutes to get here." Of course, it had started raining on her when she'd been halfway to Rick's. Maybe walking hadn't been such a good idea after all.
"I'll drive you," he said, never moving from the spot where he'd planted his feet. She had the impression it was a statement, not an offer.
She was treading on very dangerous ground, and she knew it. She should play it safe, brush him off, call a cab, maybe laugh at him for good measure. Frannie Vaughn did not make a habit of picking up strangers in bars. She was a good girl, a cautious woman. Her mother had taught her well, by bad example if not design.
So why did she have the overwhelming desire to walk into Detective Bridger's arms and ask him to hold her tight? Why did she want to bury her face against his chest and breathe deeply once again? Loneliness, certainly. Lust, maybe. She wasn't particularly well acquainted with the latter.
"I need some fresh air," she said, and tearing her eyes away from Bridger, she headed for the door. He fell into step behind her, reaching past to open the door before she could do it herself. His arm almost encircled her and Frannie held her breath. When he stood this close something inside her changed, tightened and whirled and hinted at something more. This time, she was certain the daiquiris had nothing to do with her reaction. As she stepped through the door, Benny yelled a cheerful good-night.
The spring air had turned muggy and too warm, but the rain had stopped. Frannie stepped onto a wet sidewalk that was sporadically lit by streetlamps down the deserted avenue.
"I should just walk," she said, looking away from Bridger and down the long street. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her raincoat, and found the beginnings of a small hole in the left one. She worried it nervously with her middle finger.
It really wasn't all that far from Bank Street
to her little house on Oak, and the walk would do her good. A wave and a smile and a cheerful good-night, and this was over. But she hesitated. She didn't want to be alone. Not tonight.
"I'll walk with you," Bridger offered.
Frannie had only known him a few hours, but she didn't imagine he was accustomed to anyone refusing his commands.
"I shouldn't be driving until my head clears a little, and besides, it's really not safe for you to walk home by yourself this time of night."
He was right, of course, though she hadn't given it much thought. And to be honest, she wasn't quite ready to tell Detective Bridger good-night. Against all her better judgment, she wanted him to lean close to her again. Just once. "This way," she said, pointing in the proper direction.
Downtown Decatur was deserted at this hour. After the music and chatter of Rick's, the silence was overwhelming. There was just the sound of their footsteps against the wet pavement, her sensible heels and Mal's shiny polished black shoes loud in the night, and the distant wail of a siren. Their images were reflected in the windows they passed, two figures together and yet separate, silent and lonely and dark. Why was she shivering?
As they passed one window, Frannie stopped without warning. Bridger stepped on, beyond her, and then did an abrupt turnabout.
"Are you all right?" he asked softly. She couldn't see his face nearly well enough. A colorless light from a street-lamp illuminated one half of his face, but she couldn't see his eyes clearly enough to suit her.
She took a step forward, toward him, and cocked her head to one side for a better angle of vision. "No," she confessed. "I'm not all right. This has been the worst day of my life. The very worst, and I don't want to…" She stopped suddenly. Bridger would think she was insane if she said what she was thinking aloud. What if he didn't feel it? The connection, the comfort.
Impossibly, he smiled, and the smile did good things to that hard face. Two long strides and he stood before her. The smile faded, and with a steady finger he lifted her chin so she was looking straight into dark, lonely eyes.
Thank God, he was going to kiss her. Relief shuddered through her, and Frannie closed her eyes as his mouth descended toward hers. She expected the contact but still, when Bridger laid his lips over hers, it was a shock. His mouth was warm and firm, and the kiss was perfectly innocent—for a moment.
As the kiss changed, his
arms stole around her, hard, comforting arms that encircled and protected her. Her lips parted, his tongue tested and teased, and her insides turned to liquid fire. Just like that. Amazing.
She heard the rain before she felt it, fat drops that splattered on the sidewalk and her coat and Bridger's shoulders. A single drop found her face before he led her under the awning of the store they'd just passed.
His lips never left hers as he all but danced her to the window. The contact was light as his lips grazed across hers, then harder as he fastened his mouth to hers hungrily. The glass behind her and Bridger's arms around her provided all the support she would ever need. The rain came faster and harder all around them, but together they were safe here. Safe and warm.
Without warning, Bridger's mouth left hers. Frannie gasped, and fought the urge to grab him and bring his lips back to hers. His body leaned against hers, heavy and solid, and his arms held her tight.
"I think we'd better stop right now," he whispered huskily. "Before you get more than you bargained for."
Frannie slipped her hands beneath his jacket, placing her palms against his waist. Beneath her hands he was solid, warm and hard and comforting, and the touch grounded her. More than she bargained for.
Heaven help her, she didn't want to spend the night alone. She'd joked all evening about this being the worst day of her life, but it was a fact. It was more than a lost job or a bad haircut or a funny noise in her engine. In truth, her mother's messages disturbed her more than all the rest.
Thirty-one years old, and she hadn't made a ripple in the sea of life, much less a splash. If she died on the spot she wouldn't be truly missed by anyone but her mother. Darlene, her hairdresser and her friend, might shed a tear or two, and Reese might feel a twinge of guilt for the way he'd treated her, but in a week or two it would be business as usual for the world around her. She was so tired of always being alone.
And in the middle of this crisis, along came Bridger. She was drawn to him in the strongest, strangest way, a way she couldn't begin to explain. She needed to touch him, to hold him awhile longer. With a bravery she didn't normally possess, Frannie rocked forward and kissed him. She surprised him, but his lips quickly molded to hers. Maybe, after the day he'd had, he didn't want to be alone, either.
* * *
Mal took Frannie's hand and they ran through the rain, back the way they'd come, to the nearest cross street. Raindrops fell, soft and plenty, over and around them as they ran. They turned the corner and there it was, its red neon light flashing garishly in the night and reflecting on the wet street and sidewalk. Riverwatch Hotel. The hotel had been in downtown Decatur for a hundred years, and perhaps it had once had a view of the river—from the roof. It had been elegant, perhaps even as little as thirty years ago; today it was just two steps up from a flophouse.
But it was close, and the rain was coming down harder. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
He pushed the door open and pulled Frannie into the lobby. The lights were too bright, showing off the faded and worn spots on the mismatched chairs and the wrinkles on the clerk who stood behind the counter. To his credit, the old man didn't even look surprised to have two late-night customers come in sopping wet.
The smile faded as his eyes lit on the gun on Mal's belt, turned to obvious suspicion when he noted the badge.
"I don't know anythin' about nothin'," the old man said as Mal stepped to the desk.
"Fine," Mal said, unable to resist wondering what went on in this old hotel. "I want a room."
The clerk narrowed his eyes and pushed the old-fashioned leather guest book slightly forward. Mal actually considered, for a moment, signing something clichéd like Mr. and Mrs. Smith. He took a quick glimpse at the names in the register, some scrawled and some neat, and noted several Smiths already among them, along with a Jane Doe and a number of Joneses.
Something was going on here. His reliable gut instinct told him there were probably any number of illegal activities taking place above his head at this very moment.
But for tonight, he wasn't a cop. It was rare that he found himself able to put who he was and what he did aside, even for a few hours, but tonight was different. Frannie made it different. He'd been wounded when he'd walked into Rick's tonight, and Frannie—with her big blue eyes and crooked smile and lazy dance—had made everything better. He wasn't ready to let her go, not just yet.
Whatever was going on here would still be going on tomorrow night, and the next, and the next.
He ended up writing his own name in the Riverwatch Hotel's guest book.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
The elevator was old and creaking and incredibly slow, and Frannie was sure that even in her slightly impaired condition she could have walked up the stairs to the fourth floor as quickly as this old elevator carried her.
Bridger hadn't said much since they'd left the lobby. He held her hand, though, and she found the gesture wonderfully sweet and intimate. His hand engulfed hers, but large and hard as that hand was, it was also tender and comforting. When his fingers twined through hers her heart jumped a little. She held on to him for dear life, and he held on to her just as surely. No kiss had ever been as intimate as this warm, tight connection.
As if Bridger knew what she was thinking, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her quickly. The light brush of his mouth across hers took her breath away, swept her up in a whirlwind of sensations so immediately intense and overwhelming they startled her. Her knees literally went weak.
"Second thoughts?" he whispered against her mouth.
She knew, without a doubt, that if she did have second thoughts Malcolm Bridger would let her go without so much as a single angry word. Tough as he was, Bridger was a gentleman in a world where gentlemen were rare. That certainty whisked away any fear she might have felt on this impulsive night.
"No," she said as the elevator lurched to a stop. "No second thoughts."
They were stationary for what seemed like forever, and Frannie thought for a moment that the elevator was broken and they were stuck here for the night. She positively hated contrary elevators. Good heavens, she hated efficient elevators. The very idea of being stuck in this tiny, airless box all night caused a flash of panic. The panic didn't last, though. Bridger was here, with his wide shoulders and his warm hands. With his gentle voice and tender lips. If she had to be trapped … the doors finally groaned and opened slowly.
"Tomorrow," she said softly, as much to herself as to Bridger, "I take the stairs."
Still holding her hand, Bridger guided her down a hallway covered by carpet that looked to be at least fifty years old. It was thin and faded so that the vines and flowers against the dark background were almost unidentifiable. Perhaps the carpet had once been a rich burgundy, but it was impossible to tell now. Randomly placed lamps in the walls lit their path with low-wattage bulbs behind milky glass, casting a dim yellow light over everything.
At intervals, delicate armchairs with faded padded seats and tiny tables sat, sporting vases of dusty silk flowers. They were sad attempts to make the old hotel more than it was—more what it had once been.
This entire night was like a dream, where nothing was as it should be. Bridger, the rain, this old hotel, they were somehow unreal. What was she doing here? she asked herself. But she asked only once.
Their room was at the end of the hall, and Frannie felt her first real burst of apprehension as Bridger placed the key in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. The door creaked as it swung in, and Frannie held her breath. Then he reached in and flipped on a light, and her fears fell away.
The room was faded and old and out-of-date, like the rest of the Riverwatch Hotel, but it was also clean and bright and utterly charming. The air was a little musty, smelling like old books and mothballs, but she liked even that. She stepped inside with a smile on her face. It was like stepping into a dream.
"This is a wonderful room," she said. "Very shabbily chic."
There was a single queen-size bed covered in a white chenille spread, a scarred desk and chair, a matching dresser, odds and ends—a ceramic cat, a lace doily, a small clock—scattered about the room as if this were a maiden aunt's guest room rather than a seedy hotel.
Bridger closed the door behind him, reminding Frannie of exactly why she was in this shabbily chic room at nearly two in the morning. The thud of the door was an ominous and promising sound.
If her brain was functioning properly she would slip out of this room, run down the stairs and have the little man at the front desk call her a cab. She should run away, run for home with whatever dignity she had left. It wasn't too late.
Who was she kidding? If her brain was functioning at all she wouldn't be here.
Bridger placed his hand on her shoulder and brushed the side of her neck with his thumb, and a bolt of warmth shot through her, reminding her clearly that her brain had nothing to do with her decision to be here. Nothing at all. Tonight she was listening to her soul, to her body, even to, her heart. Not her brain.
"Chic?" he said softly. There was a comforting trace of humor in his voice.
"I like battered old things," she said, turning to face him. "They're warmer and much more interesting than anything new. You should see my house."
Malcolm Bridger had such a disarming smile, it made her heart skip a beat. That smile transformed his entire face, taking away the harshness but not the strength.
"Then you're gonna love me," he said as he lowered his mouth to kiss her again. Her dripping raincoat and his soaking wet clothes came between them as his mouth moved over hers in a softer caress than the one they'd shared in the rain, a sweeter, almost romantic kiss. He parted her lips with his tongue, teased and stroked and promised. A kiss like this could make a girl forget where she was, who she was. And tonight, Frannie wanted to forget.
Bridger's fingers slipped under the collar of her coat, pushed it gently aside, and then he placed his mouth against her skin, sucking gently there where neck became shoulder. A wave of pure sensation shot through Frannie at the moment of contact, a ripple that shook her to her toes. Hot lips lingered there for a long, wonderful moment, then traveled slowly to her shoulder.
BRIDGER'S LAST STAND Page 2
