BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "No, nothing's happened," she said brightly, moving Bridger aside with a hand on his arm so she could see Reese's face and he could see her. She thought about smiling to reassure him, but then she remembered that he had just recently fired her without good cause. "What do you want, Reese?"

  Bridger looked down at her. "This is Reese?"

  Frannie ignored the insulting question and focused on her ex-fiancé, ex-boss, ex-friend. Reese had his pale, thin hair pulled back in a ponytail, and his gold-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly look. He looked more like a college student or a young professor than an entrepreneur. In his well-worn khakis and blue-and-white-checked cotton shirt, he was the picture of casual youth and vigor, of beauty and intelligence, appearing to be easily a full five years younger than his thirty-three.

  Next to Bridger he was pale and small and, well, insignificant. She couldn't believe that she'd ever shed a tear or lost a minute's sleep over this man. "What do you want?" she asked again.

  Reese glanced up at Bridger. "Can I come in?"

  In defeat, Frannie turned away from the door. "Sure. I'll make us a fresh pot of coffee." Just what she needed—Bridger and Reese sitting, together, at her kitchen table. The only two men she'd ever slept with, staring at each other over coffee while she tried to make inane small talk.

  Reese glanced suspiciously at Bridger, who was right behind him, as he entered the kitchen. "Can I speak to you privately?" he asked softly.

  Frannie barely looked at Bridger as she answered. "No. Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Detective Bridger."

  "Detective Bridger," he repeated suspiciously. "Are you in trouble?"

  "No." She made the introductions briefly and almost painlessly, while Reese and Bridger sized each other up in a way that was, well, primal. They were two males challenging one another over the only female in the area, and she could practically smell the testosterone flying about the room. It was no contest: in the wild or in civilization, poor Reese didn't have a prayer.

  While they glared, she realized that she had never loved Reese. Somehow he'd convinced her that their dreams were the same—family, home, commitment. She'd tried to make herself love him, perhaps, since he not only professed to want the same things from life she did, but because he so perfectly fit her notion of the ideal man. Handsome, gentle, intelligent … this was not a man who would ever raise a hand to another living being, or express his anger by shouting or slamming doors. He'd be a good father, as gentle with his children as he was with the rest of the world.

  But he was also somewhat passionless, and next to Bridger he positively paled. Her few awkward couplings with Reese bore little resemblance to last night's remarkable events. She'd never loved him; no wonder their relationship had unraveled.

  Reese looked away first, breaking the staring contest. "Frannie. I need you to come back to work. I really need that on-line catalog completed by the end of next month, and if I don't do something fast I'm going to lose my biggest client." He appeared to be disturbed. "You know how Teddy Rigsby can be. He loses his temper over the smallest things. He got too many pralines and not enough divinity in the last shipment for his specialty shops, and he called, raising hell as usual. Sharon burst into tears and told him we didn't need his business if he was going to talk to her that way." He glanced up sheepishly. "When he asked for you and she told him you'd been fired, he hit the roof." What came next obviously pained him. "The office is falling apart without you."

  It was evil, perhaps, but she smiled. "What's the matter, the new girl can't handle it?"

  He took the mug of coffee she offered. "Sharon can hardly type," he muttered.

  "And you thought she could do my job?"

  Reese took his coffee to the kitchen table and sat down as if he were very, very tired. "She took a few computer classes, and she said she could handle it, and … I hate to admit it, but she insisted that I fire you. She was jealous."

  Frannie laughed out loud. "Of what?"

  Reese lifted sad, green puppy-dog eyes to her. Oh, he always did this when he wanted something! "She sensed that there was something between us, still, and she just wouldn't let it go."

  Frannie took a chair, not too close to Reese. He'd known first that marriage for the two of them would never work, and after a difficult discussion she'd had to agree he was right. Sharon thought there was something between them? She and Reese both knew there had never been anything real between them.

  "So because your girlfriend is delusional, you want me to come back to work for you, work long, extra hours for little or no extra pay, and pull your fanny out of the fire with Rigsby."

  "Basically, yes."

  Yesterday she would have jumped at the chance to have her job back without so much as a second thought. It would mean security, stability, it would mean no job hunting and she wouldn't even have to consider selling her house. "No," she said softly and surely. "More coffee?"

  Reese knew her too well. Obviously he'd expected her to jump at this chance. "No?" There was a moment of puzzlement on his face, and then a smug satisfaction crept in and took its place. She positively hated this expression. This was the Reese wins look. "I get it. You want a raise. Okay, I can give you five percent now and another five percent in six months."

  "You promised me that raise last year." Frannie sipped her coffee, and as she returned the cup to the table she glanced at Bridger, who continued to stand behind her like a sentinel. She knew him well enough to know that the very small twitch at the corner of his lips was the beginnings of a smile.

  "Ten percent now, then," Reese said.

  Frannie smiled. "No."

  The smug expression disappeared. "You want me to eat crow, is that it? Okay, I was wrong, I'm sorry. If you'll come back you'll get the raise and I swear I won't dock you even if you come in an hour late."

  Frannie took a deep breath. "No," she said as she exhaled. "I've decided to look elsewhere for employment. There are lots of companies in the area who would appreciate a good computer programmer. If I have to drive to Huntsville every day, so be it. If I have to look for a while to find the right place, I can do that, too."

  Once the decision was made she was happy with it. It was long past time to move on.

  "You've made up your mind, haven't you?" Reese pushed his half-empty mug to the center of the table.

  "Yes."

  "Well, then," Reese said as he stood. "I'm wasting my time here." For a long moment he looked down at Frannie, and she could see that he was irritated and out of sorts, and yet he remained amiable. Nothing ruffled Reese's feathers for long. His glance shot quickly to Bridger and then back to her again. "Who is he?"

  She didn't hesitate. "A friend."

  Reese leaned slightly forward and whispered, "I think he's a bad influence on you, Frannie. I've never known you to be so reckless."

  He sauntered toward the door. "I'm going to make a pit stop." Just outside the doorway he halted. "I can use your bathroom, can't I?"

  "Sure."

  Bridger waited until the bathroom door closed. "A friend," he muttered. "First your mother and now this jerk. A friend."

  "What did you want me to tell him—the truth?" Frannie said. "I don't think so."

  They waited in the living room, side by side but not too close, until Reese came out of the bathroom. If anything, he looked more agitated than he had when he'd gone in.

  "Frannie," he said tensely. "Can I speak to you privately? Please."

  Frannie nodded to Bridger, and he rambled into the kitchen, perhaps to make a phone call, perhaps to pour himself the cup of coffee he'd refused earlier. When he was gone, Reese lifted and opened a fist. A ball of foil lay on his palm.

  "What is this?" he asked softly.

  Frannie swept the condom wrappers off his palm. "None of your business, that's what they are."

  Reese took a deep breath. It was, she knew, his way of calming himself. "When did you meet this Detective Bridger, Frannie?"

  "A few hours afte
r you fired me," she snapped.

  She shocked him. His face turned red, and he damn near sputtered. "You barely know the man and you're … you're…"

  Frannie walked past Reese, opened the door and showed him the way out. "Good luck finding a new programmer," she said with a smile.

  He came to her but didn't leave. Instead, he took her hand and held it tenderly. "I'm worried about you, Frannie," he whispered. "You're not yourself. I only want to help, and that's the truth."

  "Trust me," she said as she removed her hand from his. "I have all the help I need."

  Bridger chose that moment to saunter back into the living room. And more help than I want.

  Reese didn't need another invitation to leave. One quick look at Bridger and he was gone.

  Bridger was quiet as they listened to the car on the street being started and driven quickly away. But when all was silent he stared her down.

  "You were engaged to that?"

  Frannie clutched the foil wrappers in her hand. "For a few months, yes."

  "Why?"

  She turned away and headed for the bathroom and the trash can there. Why? It was a question she wasn't ready to answer, any more than she could answer the question that had been popping into her head all day. Why did she have to fancy herself falling in love with Bridger?

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  About two in the morning, Mal accepted the fact that he wasn't going to get any sleep. Frannie's couch was too soft and too short and too damn lumpy.

  And try as he might he couldn't forget that Frannie was sleeping somewhere on the other side of this wall, curled up in the big bed all alone. With no effort at all he could practically see her. She was probably wearing her football jersey instead of sleeping naked, as she had last night. Her knees would be drawn up, the cover pushed down to just past her waist, her head would be turned so that one side of her long throat was exposed. Oh, this was not good.

  He should be happy. The investigation into the convenience store shooting had cleared him of any wrongdoing, as he had known it would. Next week he would be back on full duty. Harry was still after him to talk to the psychiatrist, but today's demands to schedule an appointment had been less frequent and much less ardent. Poor Harry had his own problems to occupy his time and mind, impending fatherhood among them.

  Every good homicide cop knew the majority of evidence was collected in the first twenty-four hours after a murder, and as far as Mal was concerned they didn't have nearly enough. Stanley Loudermilk officially remained a suspect, and after the way Clarence Doyle had accosted Frannie in the drugstore, they had to consider him a suspect, too. But until they identified the body or found the murder weapon, they were stalled.

  Mal had great hopes of identifying the body soon. There weren't that many places in the area to get a quality tattoo like the one on Jane Doe's ankle, and every possibility was being checked out.

  Frannie had tried to send him home, but she'd stopped short of tossing him out. Knowing that the man who'd broken into her house was the killer scared her, as it should. She'd be a fool to run her only protection off, and Frannie Vaughn was not a fool.

  Last night's delayed but spectacular one-night stand should have him smiling, still. It had been everything he'd dreamed of, and more, and when he closed his eyes he could see and smell and taste and feel the woman on the other side of this wall, his senses coming alive with a memory so sharp it amazed him.

  He couldn't remember ever losing control the way he had with Frannie, couldn't remember ever feeling so contented and unsatisfied at the same time. The more he had her, the more he wanted her, and no good could ever come of that. No good at all.

  He'd seen her face light up when Harry had shared his disastrous news. Babies! They were nothing but trouble. They ruled your life and changed everything by their very presence. He'd seen it happen, with his sisters' kids and with strangers' children. Sure they were adorable when they were little, but like everything else in this world they grew up and changed—not always for the better.

  But Frannie wanted babies. He had seen it in her eyes as she'd listened to Harry talk about how pure and sweet they were. Those eyes had positively sparkled, and if he hadn't already known, if she hadn't already told him that they had no future, he would have known it then.

  He should be happy, but he wasn't. Sure he'd been cleared in the convenience store shooting, but that didn't change the fact that he'd killed a man. The Jane Doe murder and Frannie had distracted him from that fact but couldn't change it.

  Yes, they had leads in the murder, but they weren't enough. Would Frannie ever be safe if they didn't catch the butcher who'd slashed that blonde's throat?

  Frannie was at the center of it all, when you came right down to it. The upheaval, the dread, the certainty that they were still unfinished. The woman had worked her way into his mind, had wormed her way in so completely she was constantly there. Mal suffered—and, man, did he suffer—the strongest urge to leave this couch, collect the box of condoms from under her bathroom sink, and spend the entire weekend in Frannie's bed.

  But she'd made it clear they were done, and he wouldn't do anything to risk the uneasy balance they'd found. If she kicked him out, who would watch over her?

  He raised a hand to brush his fingertips across the wall that separated the couch from Frannie's bedroom. She was there, sleeping, resting, dreaming the sweet dreams of the innocent.

  * * *

  She was exhausted, so why couldn't she sleep? Frannie rolled over again and again, trying to get comfortable. The last decent night's sleep she'd enjoyed had been in the Riverwatch Hotel, so her body should insist on a deep and complete rest in spite of the fact that her mind was spinning.

  Thoughts of Bridger, more than the memory of the intruder, kept her awake. The sound of his voice, the touch of his lips, the way his body molded perfectly to hers. She could smell him on the pillow, musky and soapy and male. Heaven help her, she could almost feel his body against hers when she started to drift off, had actually reached out once in a half-asleep moment to touch him. He wasn't there, of course, and the realization brought her to full awareness again.

  They'd had their night, and whatever had drawn them together was over. Finished, done, complete. Bridger was satisfied. He must be, since he hadn't once in this entire, long day tried to so much as kiss her.

  Frannie pulled the covers over her head. She wished with all her heart that she could forget her mother's numerous mistakes and just take what life handed her without question. So what if Bridger was all wrong for her? There were moments, wonderful, crystalline moments, when he was all right.

  * * *

  Frannie was making coffee when the phone rang. Even though it was after nine she was groggy and still half-asleep. Of course, the sun had been coming up when she'd finally succumbed to exhaustion.

  The caller ID was working, and she smiled when she saw Dixon on the display.

  "Hello."

  "Well, good morning," Harry said in a very cheery voice. He sounded as if he'd gotten a great night's sleep. "Is Mal up and about?"

  She sighed into the phone. Naturally Harry knew that Bridger had spent the night here. "No, he's still asleep. On the couch," she added.

  "Wake him up," Harry said with a hint of poorly disguised glee. "This is important."

  Frannie left the receiver hanging from the curling cord. She'd peeked in at Bridger on her way to the kitchen, and he'd been out cold. Sprawled across her too-small couch, he looked uncomfortable and rumpled and big. He was sleeping in his clothes, though he'd discarded the tie and his shoes. Pajamas would be better, but she had a feeling Bridger didn't own a pair of pajamas. He didn't wear his gun, of course, but it was on the coffee table, close at hand.

  "Phone," she said from a safe distance.

  He didn't stir.

  "Bridger." She raised her voice slightly. "Harry's on the phone."

  Nothing.

  She crossed the living
room to shake him gently, laying her hand on the arm that crossed his chest. As soon as she touched his arm he came awake, his eyes opening slowly and one hand drifting sensually over hers. His fingers closed one at a time, as he took that hand and held it gently.

  She could lean over and give him a kiss, as if he were her own sleeping beauty. A kiss on those full lips, or perhaps there at his throat where his heart beat so steady and true, to wake him, that was just what he needed. Maybe it was just what she needed.

  Oh, he looked so tempting it was gut-wrenching and heart stopping and completely unfair. Dark stubble covered his chin and his cheeks, and he was warm and wide, and the hand that held hers was firm and gentle. And his eyes, still more asleep than awake, looked at her with such longing and affection that she was sure, for an instant, that it didn't matter that they were totally unsuited for each other.

  "Some watchdog you are," she said softly. "An entire army could tramp through here and it wouldn't disturb your sleep."

  He came instantly awake and bolted upright, releasing her hand.

  "Phone," Frannie said, backing away. "It's Harry."

  Apparently in no hurry. Bridger rose from the couch, unfolding himself slowly and raking a hand through his short, dark hair. Standing, he no longer looked charmingly tempting. He was too tall, too big, too male.

  "You were sleeping soundly," she said as she turned and headed for the kitchen. "I was afraid the couch would be too small for you."

  He mumbled something that sounded vaguely obscene.

  "Anyway. I'm glad you got a good night's sleep," she said, forcing a false cheer into her voice. "I slept like a baby, myself." Up half the night. "As soon as my head hit the pillow I was out like a light." She didn't want Bridger to think she'd been mooning over him all night while he slept peacefully, without regrets and temptations.

  "Great," he mumbled sleepily as he grabbed the receiver.