The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  That little fact had obviously not escaped his attention, because the expression on his face as he gazed up at them resembled a hungry wolf shocked to suddenly find a spring lamb napping in his lap.

  “You haven’t heard my proposition yet,” the wolf said.

  “Oh, I’ve heard it loud and clear.” She tried to escape, but his fingers caught her around the ribs and held fast.

  He winked. “I’ll mow your lawn if you come to an engagement party with me tomorrow.”

  She stopped wrestling long enough to hike a brow. He’d managed to surprise her.

  “A couple kids from the road crew decided to get married.”

  “Kids?”

  He shrugged, grinning. “With age comes wisdom. You wouldn’t let the wise old man go alone, would you?”

  She should, of course. That wisdom crack made her want nothing more than to challenge his über-chauvinistic attitude. But the way he held her suspended above him, his chest subtly caressing the tips of her breasts with each breath, completely obliterated the will to refuse.

  “You’re insufferable, you know that?” she gritted out.

  His grin went lopsided. “One of my more endearing traits.”

  A chorus of hoots and whistles suddenly rose from the street. “Yeow! Bridge!”

  “Doin’ a little public relations work on the side?”

  Mary Alice blanched, then squirmed to get out of his grip. Bridge groaned and she was fairly certain it wasn’t because he was embarrassed. Her leg had been thrown over his thigh when she fell, and she could feel his growing arousal pressing intimately into her. Her face blazed.

  “Got a wild one there, Bridge!”

  “Think she likes you!”

  Mary Alice scampered up with as much dignity as she could muster. Ignoring the teasing men—all of them—she gathered her gardening tools and walked coolly and calmly toward the backyard.

  “Better ask her to the party before she gets away!”

  “Mary Alice!” She heard Bridge follow her to the small wooden shed where she determinedly busied herself cleaning and putting away her tools. He peeked in and she saw him spy the old hand mower leaning against the wall.

  “Sorry about that.” He propped himself against the open door, still grinning. “So, do we have a deal?”

  She looked at him and tried to keep a serious face. She wanted so badly to poke that cocky, impudent, self-confidence of his and turn down his ridiculously transparent bargain. But against her will, her laughter bubbled up.

  What a sight they must have been, both covered in dirt, panting on the front lawn like a couple of hormonal teenagers. She clapped a hand across her mouth and giggled. “Oh, Bridge. What am I going to do with you?”

  His eyes filled with mischief. “I could give you a suggestion or two...” He unpropped himself and approached her.

  And heaven help her, if he kept looking at her like that she was totally in danger of taking him up on them. She gave him a stern frown, but his smile was so winning she couldn’t help but fall even further under its spell.

  She shook her head in amused resignation. “I won’t change my mind, I want you to know that.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not.” He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Come to the party and give me a fighting chance.”

  “No assumptions?”

  He shook his head and crossed his heart. “No assumptions.”

  She took a deep breath and prayed she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. “The Historic Rose ladies will be here at four-thirty. I’ll leave the shed unlocked so you can get to the mower.”

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Fourteen

  Bridge walked into the station house an hour later still half aroused. Even a punishing cold shower hadn’t doused the flames Mary Alice had ignited in his cock. The memory of her breasts skimming over his bare skin sent him running for the water cooler.

  Damn, he had to get hold of himself.

  But he couldn’t help giving himself a congratulatory pat on the back at getting her to agree to another date. And he didn’t harbor any illusions about it being for business purposes, either.

  A prick of guilt at deceiving her about his profession made him crush the paper cup in his hand and fire it into the waste basket. He’d have to find out just how deep this aversion to cops she’d mentioned really ran. Maybe someone at the station would know what had happened to her fiancé. Three years ago Bridge had still been working out in West LA.

  He was heading for his desk when someone yelled out that the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Charlie Watson task force, Sam Grayson, wanted to see him up in Captain Trujillo’s office.

  Grayson was competent, if nothing else. And helping the FBI with the case against Watson was turning out to be far more interesting than Bridge had thought at first. Watson worked for one of the big computer software companies contracted by the federal government as a vice president—emphasis on vice. He was suspected of stealing top-secret technology from the company and selling it to China for some major bucks. The FBI had a certain amount of evidence against Watson, but they wanted rock-solid proof, as well as the identities of the Chinese spies involved so they could also be tried, or at least deported.

  Sam Grayson was a young, good-looking hotshot. And full of himself, as were most FBI SACs Bridge had met over the course of several joint operations in the past.

  This should be fun.

  He grabbed the Watson file and went upstairs.

  “We checked out the Flannery woman,” Special Agent Grayson informed him, “and she came up clean. You find anything to think otherwise?”

  “No,” Bridge muttered, wondering where this was going. Since when was the FBI interested in Mary Alice’s background?

  “How close have you gotten to her?”

  Bridge stiffened at the man’s insinuating tone. A few days ago he’d mentioned his plans to ask her out and pump her for information about her neighbor. Now he regretted his big mouth. “Barely past small talk,” he said.

  “No chance of you spending a few nights with her?”

  Fighting the urge to smash the guy’s pretty-boy face in, he kept his own impassive. “None.”

  “Too bad.” Grayson looked up from the file he’d been perusing. “Watson’s made the night shift. He reported them to the Sierra Madre PD as suspicious loiterers. Having anyone posted out on that narrow street is too damned conspicuous.” He sighed. “You’ll just have to tell her about the operation and pray she doesn’t blow us out of the water.”

  Bridge scowled. “What are you saying?”

  “We want you in her house, Bridger, every night, starting tomorrow, babysitting Watson. It’s the only property with a good view of his whole place. It is imperative we find out who Watson’s Chinese handler is. It’s critical to our whole case. Flash your badge and fix it with the Flannery woman. Use the obvious cover to avoid Watson suspecting something.”

  Obvious? What the hell?

  Ignoring the quick kick of excitement that hit his gut at the prospect of what Grayson suggested, Bridge shook his head. “No dice. She won’t do it.”

  Captain Trujillo, who had been sitting quietly, spoke up. “Why not?”

  “She’s a bit old-fashioned about that kind of thing.”

  The Cap’s brows shot up.

  “Besides, she hates cops,” Bridge added, realizing his mistake too late.

  “That’s quite an analysis for barely past small talk,” Grayson commented dryly, a knowing look settling on his disgustingly GQ features.

  “Stuff it, Grayson.” Bridge snapped, making the cap’s brows furrow.

  “I take it you didn’t tell her you’re a cop,” Grayson said, ignoring the insult.

  “Didn’t want to break cover.” He glanced guiltily at the Cap who was now staring down at his hands, neatly folded on his desk. He obviously knew something Bridge didn’t. “Do you know what happened to her fiancé, Cap?”

  The older man sighed, a
nd nodded. “Her father, Seamus Flannery, was a good friend of mine. We came up through the ranks together until I made lieutenant. He was a good man and a better friend. But he chose to stay in uniform rather than trade it in for a suit and a promotion. He was a bit like you, Bridger.” Trujillo shot him a humorless smile and continued. “Anyway, the fiancé, Jack Maxwell, went out on a robbery-in-progress call. Got caught in the crossfire. DOA.” The cap looked up. “They’d known each other since they were kids. Seamus had always thought of Jack as the son he never had.”

  “Jesus,” Bridge muttered.

  “A month later, Seamus was shot down in an alley behind some greasy spoon. Couple of punk teen-agers. Totally senseless and unnecessary. Mary Alice took both deaths hard. Real hard, especially coming right on top of each other like they did.”

  Bridge frowned, confused. “Wait. Her father was killed, too?”

  The cap nodded. “It was her father’s death that really pushed her over the edge. You see, Seamus’s brother had also been killed in the line of duty, out in Boston, when she was a teenager. Her favorite uncle and all. She’d never gotten over that, and it made her worry about her old man. Used to call the station here every day to make sure Seamus was safe. Every day for ten years. Till the day he died.”

  Bridge slumped back in his chair, blowing out a long breath. Fuck. It was worse than he’d ever imagined. No wonder Mary Alice avoided getting involved with cops. When she found out what he did for a living, she’d never speak to him again, let alone—

  “Well, that’s all very touching,” Grayson cut in, “but we still need her cooperation. We can cover tonight by hiding someone in the bushes, but that won’t work long-term. I don’t care how you manage it, but I want you in her house by tomorrow night, Bridger.” He stood, gathering his papers. “That’s an order.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Who’ve you got to take over on the road crew?” Bridge asked, swallowing his instinct to tell the feeb where to stuff it.

  “You, Sergeant. Until we can get Jason Deane set up in a day or two.”

  “When the hell am I supposed to sleep?” he asked incredulously.

  “While Watson’s at work tomorrow we’ll install motion detectors around his property that will set off an alarm for you if anyone’s approaching. We’re already monitoring his phones. You’ll really just need to watch the monitors, do an occasional perimeter check, and investigate anything that looks suspicious. Plenty of time for sleeping.” He shot Bridge a smug leer before exiting the room. “Or, you know, whatever.”

  When he was gone, the cap scrubbed his face with his hands. “God, what a—”

  “Do I really have to do this?” Bridge demanded, irritated as hell at not being able to tell Mary Alice about himself on his own timetable.

  “Sorry, Bridge. My hands are tied. That new head honcho at the LA FBI office is from out East and used to lots of cooperation from local jurisdictions.” He paused. “Listen, you aren’t hustling Mary Alice are you?”

  Bridge didn’t bother to be offended. The captain was more than familiar with his exploits with the opposite sex. But Bridge had never let his activities interfere with the job. The captain knew he could rely on that. “She’s awfully sweet,” he hedged.

  “Yeah. That’s right. Not your type at all. Leave her alone, Bridge. Work this from a different angle. That is an order, too. If she gets hurt, I’ll bust your butt to meter maid instead of promoting you to lieutenant.”

  Bridge looked up, surprised. “I’m not in the business of hurting women. You know that, Cap. They just like me.”

  “This one’s not the same the others. Hands off.”

  Biting back an argument, Bridge walked out. What he did on his own time was none of the captain’s business. Besides, he was on the FBI’s ticket now, and Grayson had just ordered him to move in with the woman and pretend to be her boyfriend.

  He shot a hand through his hair. The fact that the cap was right just made him angrier.

  Hell, she was too good for the likes of Bridge. He lived hard and loved harder, never tying himself down to one woman. He’d made a promise to his mama and he intended to honor it until the day he died. He would never let any woman sit at home worrying herself into an early grave over him. Which is exactly what Mary Alice would do. The minute Trujillo had related her story, he’d known that. And she’d even said it herself in so many words last night.

  So what was he thinking, courting disaster with Mary Alice’s heart by making moves on her? He knew he’d never be able to offer her even a tenth of what she deserved. And she deserved the best.

  The problem was, Bridge liked Mary Alice . Really liked her. He was at such peace with himself when he was with her. Inner peace was something he’d had damned little of in his lifetime.

  And she was so soft and sexy, the tug of longing in his belly nearly threatened to overwhelm him every time he looked at her.

  He should leave her alone. For her sake. For his own good. But how could he, when he was supposed to move into her house, where they’d be together every day?

  And every night.

  This whole thing was nothing but a disaster waiting to happen.

  He jetted out a breath and dropped into his desk chair. But orders were orders.

  So what the hell was he supposed to do?

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Fifteen

  Bridge leaned against the long handle of the push mower and swiped his bandanna over his sweaty forehead. He stifled a sneeze from the pungent scent of freshly mowed grass and tucked his bandanna back into his pocket. He wanted a shower bad. Real bad.

  He looked toward the bungalow.

  Mary Alice had barely glanced up as she’d hurried past him into the house half an hour ago, tossing him a quick wave of the hand.

  After a day working on the dusty road crew, and an hour of wrangling grass with the stubborn, primitive mower, he hadn’t been prepared to be broadsided by the sight of luscious Mary Alice in shorts and a tank top.

  Boy, those ladies from the historic rose club really had her in a meltdown. She probably wouldn’t even notice if he slipped into her house and took a quick shower. He didn’t feel like driving home and then coming right back to get her for Gary’s engagement party...

  It would take Bridge two minutes flat. In and out. Then maybe he’d sneak over to Watson’s and snoop around for a bit while she was being interviewed.

  Yep. Sounded like a plan.

  He stowed the mower back in the shed, fetched his gym bag with fresh clothes from the truck, and bounded up the front steps.

  “Mary Alice?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  A wall of delicious smells hit him as he slid out of his boots and stepped into the living room, smelling his way to the kitchen. “Mmm. What’s baking?”

  “Tea cakes.”

  She’d changed into the prettiest summer dress he’d ever seen. It was all slinky and ivory lace and satin, and her hair flowed wild and free about her shoulders. He almost forgot to breathe. “Jesus, you look beautiful.”

  She glanced up and gave him a flustered smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

  He tore his eyes from her and looked around the small, serviceable kitchen. Every available surface was covered with home-baked goodies and tea cups. “Holy shit. How’d you manage all this in half an hour?”

  “I made most everything last night. I just have to get it all presentable today. I’m going crazy.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll knock ‘em dead.” He helped himself to a cookie. “Can I borrow your shower? Hate to go all the way home, and all...”

  “I’m never going to get all this ready in fifteen minutes!” she lamented, turned, and pulled a pan of cinnamon cakes out of the oven. “What did you need? I’m sure you’ll find it in the shed.”

  He chuckled, and hoisted his bag. “No worries. I’ll be done in a flash.” No sense distracting her even more.

  “Okay,” she said, already oblivious to his presence. She glance
d at the wall clock and started reciting things still left to do as she counted on her fingers.

  He’d just shed his clothes onto her bathroom floor and was reaching for the faucet handle when he heard the doorbell.

  Uh-oh.

  “Damn, they’re early,” he murmured solemnly to his reflection in the mirror.

  Slowly, it grinned back.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Sixteen

  When the doorbell sounded for the second time, Mary Alice stared at her watch in abject horror. Oh, no. They were ten whole minutes early. In dismay she looked around the kitchen and out into the living room.

  Well, nothing to do about it now.

  Everything would be fine, she told herself firmly.

  After turning up the flame under the tea kettle, she went to answer the door. A formidable trio of women stood facing her.

  “Miss Flannery, this is Mrs. Wyeth, Miss Beadle, and I am Mrs. Underwood. We are the committee from the Historical Rose Society,” the tall, bird-like Mrs. Underwood announced loudly.

  Mary Alice opened the door wider. “Yes, won’t you please come in?”

  Mrs. Underwood’s gaze swept haughtily over a pair of muddy black construction boots that stood casually on the porch next to the welcome mat. Mary Alice scowled. What on earth were they doing there?

  The intimidating ladies sailed into the house, their eyes taking in every single detail. Quickly forgetting the boots, Mary Alice nervously motioned them into the antique sofa and chairs arranged in front of the brick fireplace. “Please, have a seat.”

  Sitting tidily on the edge of the sofa, the steel-haired Mrs. Underwood pulled a fat, leather-bound notebook from her purse. “The interview will proceed in the following manner,” she began.