The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

She jumped and whirled around, grasping the edge of the kitchen counter. “Bridge, you’ll really have to stop scaring me like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  She winced inwardly, wondering if he noticed she’d accidentally called him Bridge, not Sergeant Bridger. “How anyone can sneak around wearing cowboy boots— What?”

  He was looking at her—her hair to be specific—with a peculiar expression on his face.

  Embarrassed, she reached up self-consciously and grasped a lock of the unruly mess. She’d really meant to put it up in a bun. “Scary isn’t it? Be thankful you don’t have to look at it every morning.”

  His hooded gaze dropped to hers.

  Damn.

  She faltered, heating from the unintended innuendo. “In the mirror, I mean.” Spinning back to the sink, she busied herself with the potato salad she was fixing for lunch.

  After an endless moment of silence, he said, “I was just thinking how pretty you look today. I like your hair down.” Before she could possibly think of an appropriate response, he went on, “Do you have an old coffee can I could use? Or something like that?”

  She nodded and opened the cupboard under the sink where she kept the stuff she saved to use at school. “Down here. Take whatever you like.”

  They both stooped down at the same time, meeting eye to eye in front of the cupboard.

  “Quite a choice,” he said, not looking at the cans at all. Then he cleared his throat, picked out a large green can, and strode out the door, leaving her wondering what exactly had just happened.

  At lunchtime they sat across from one another at a picnic table under the big magnolia in her back yard, straining to make polite conversation. It wasn’t like she could eat without inviting him to join her. Her mother had brought her up right, even if his hadn’t.

  “What are you working on today?” she asked.

  In the last three days, he’d managed to mend the wobbling pickets in her fence, repair the sagging shed door and back porch stairs, and trim several undisciplined trees. And all morning she’d heard mysterious noises coming from inside her ancient garage.

  “I found an old rose arbor stashed in the backyard. Thought I might have a go at restoring it.” He glanced at her uncertainly.

  She sat up. “Really? Do you think it’s possible?”

  “You like it?” His expression warmed.

  “I love it. I just thought it was beyond repair.”

  His face relaxed. “It’s falling apart, all right, but mostly because the nails are rusting out. Wrong kind. Replace them, slap on a fresh coat of paint, and it’s good as new. The wood itself is in great shape. I think it’s teak or something.”

  Torn, she put down her fork. “You don’t have to do all this, you know. Fixing fences and rose arbors can’t be part of a cop’s job description.”

  He took a swig of iced tea, then twirled it in his hand. “Easier to keep watch from outside.”

  “I do have a hammock.”

  “Now, how suspicious would that look, your new boyfriend spending the whole day in a hammock without you?” He shook his head. “Dead give-away.”

  She shook off an instinctive shiver at the word boyfriend. She couldn’t believe she’d gone along with that ruse. Her father’s old friend, Captain Trujillo, had suggested it, and in that moment of shocked witlessness she’d agreed.

  She picked up her fork again and toyed with her salad, thinking of all the days Jack had spent in it without her, back when it had hung in her parents’ backyard. “Still. I’m starting to feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” she managed.

  He raised a brow.

  “The situation,” she corrected, fumbling with a tomato.

  He raised the other.

  God.

  “Having a man around.”

  He cocked his head and she slammed her eyes shut.

  “To fix things and such.”

  “No need,” he said, finally rescuing her from herself. “I told you, I enjoy doing it. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to putter.”

  She stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes. How could any mortal man look so good sitting at a picnic table with dead leaves clinging to his shirt and gardening gloves sticking out his back pocket?

  She had to remember she wasn’t interested in men, mortal or no. Especially not this one. Besides, he wasn’t attracted to her. He’d made that crystal clear.

  So, then why did her heart still flutter every time she looked at him or heard his deep voice?

  He lifted a forkful of potato salad to his mouth and suddenly she noticed his knuckles were scraped and raw. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

  “It’s nothing.” He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand.

  “The nails on that arbor looked awfully rusty. When was your last tetanus booster? “

  “Probably last time I got shot.”

  She blanched, staring at him for one endless moment, her heart stalling in horror. Then she slammed down the lid on her knee-jerk reaction and jumped to her feet. “You should put some antiseptic on it. I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the house.

  Last time I got shot.

  The graphic, disturbing reminder of his profession had her stomach lurching. Against her will, visions of first Jack, then her father, lying in some alley in a pool of blood, flashed through her mind. She grabbed the sink and took a deep, cleansing breath, pushing the images away. She’d thought she had managed to banish those vivid memories long ago, but Bridge’s unexpeted statement had caught her by complete surprise and she’d reacted badly. He probably thought she was a real ninny.

  Straightening determinedly, she pulled the yellow tube of antiseptic and some cotton balls out of the medicine cabinet and returned to the picnic table. “Let me have your hand.”

  For a few seconds he didn’t move. Then, with the look of a man indulging a woman in a silly but harmless whim, he gave his hand over to her.

  Feeling at once terribly self-conscious about touching him, she forced herself to take hold of his fingers. They were long and bronze against her much paler small hand. She could feel his pulse beating in his fingertips. They were warm. So warm she thought hers might melt away under them.

  Swallowing heavily, she swabbed his knuckles with a water-soaked cotton ball, then dried them and gently spread a layer of antiseptic cream on. He watched her face the whole time, an inscrutable look on his own, ignoring his hand completely. Red-cheeked, she suddenly realized she’d been stroking his fingers much longer than needed.

  Struggling against the urge to kiss away the hurt, she placed his hand on the table. “All done.”

  “Thanks.” He pulled it back and quickly finished up his lunch without another word.

  She really hated this awful tension between them. She was sick of walking a tightrope between suspicion and lust. She wanted their fun, comfortable friendship back. They had been so relaxed and happy together before his confession—when they weren’t all over each other—and she missed that. To be honest, she missed the being all over each other part, too. But she wasn’t going there again. For her own sake. Still, talking would be nice.

  Maybe if she apologized for doubting his honor. Perhaps then she’d get back the other Bridge—the new friend she’d been growing so fond of.

  He started gathering up his lunch dishes.

  She quickly ventured, “Captain Trujillo said you argued to keep me out of this case. But the FBI SAC ordered you to use my house once I’d given permission.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. Crumpling up his napkin, he tossed it on his empty plate. “It was really the only option.”

  “I accused you of all those horrible things. I’m sorry.” And she really was. On more than one level.

  “No big deal,” he said. “You had every right to be angry.”

  “Maybe so, but not to go off on you like that. I know you weren’t trying to—” She faltered. “That you wouldn’t have—”

  With a grim e
xpression he stood and picked up his plate and glass. “Don’t make me into something I’m not, Mary Alice. Believe me, if you’d been willing, I would have screwed your brains out in that truck and walked away a very happy man. But I would have walked away.”

  As if to demonstrate, he turned and walked away from her then, disappearing through the door that led into the kitchen.

  And her heart quietly broke in two.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bridge carefully set his dishes down on the counter—before he could throw them at the wall. He drilled his hands through his hair and cursed himself long, hard, and vile. He’d never actually hated himself before. Not until this past week.

  Turning on the tap full blast, he stuck his fingers under it and scrubbed at the antiseptic lotion till his raw knuckles sang with the sting of the hot water.

  He looked out the window and saw Mary Alice sitting at the picnic table, every bit as cowed as during that horrible moment he’d held a gun to her neck. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped, and her pretty hands were clasped tightly in her lap. He’d bet good money they were shaking.

  God, he was a son of a bitch.

  He had to keep away from her.

  He wanted her in the worst way. And the best way. But he couldn’t commit to spending the rest of his life with her—or anything more than a short time. And she’d want more than that. But he wouldn’t risk it. He couldn’t. Especially not this woman, who had already managed to turn his world on its head.

  She just didn’t understand. He couldn’t ask a woman to stay with him. Not if he really loved her.

  He shook his head at his own bizarre reasoning. Even to himself, it sounded hollow. Like a lame excuse rather than a solemn promise.

  Funny, it had never rung false before.

  Then he thought of his mother, and the way she’d been taken from him. The death certificate said heart failure, but he knew better. That’s not what had killed her. She could have fought the depression, might have won, but she had deliberately chosen not to. Every time Dad had been late coming home, she was convinced he wasn’t coming back at all. She’d retreated further and further, gotten more and more remote, until finally even her baby boy hadn’t been able to bring her back.

  Bridge inhaled a long, deep breath, and released his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sink. His mother might have been overly fragile, but the fact was, every cop’s wife had a hell of a life. Not something any woman should have to endure, let alone a woman with so many reasons to avoid it. He’d be damned if he’d let Mary Alice, or anyone like her, sit at home and worry—possibly into an early grave—over him.

  He just couldn’t do it.

  So he spent the afternoon taking apart the rose arbor, pouring his frustrations into sanding the pieces till they were smooth as silk, smooth as Mary Alice’s thighs, to his touch. He caressed the curves of the wood with his thumbs, closed his eyes, and let his mind take him where he wanted to be. Instantly, his body was as hard as the wood beneath his hands.

  Groaning, he threw aside the sand paper and opened a can of white paint. He had to exercise an iron grip on himself to keep from running to her, getting down on his knees, and begging for her forgiveness. But doing so would surely lead to him to hug her, touch her, kiss her. And more. And that would be disaster.

  No. He had to get hold of himself. Put a leash on it. He was a grown man, for godsakes, capable of rising above the temptation of this situation.

  Yeah, right.

  He sighed despondently. That damned promise had always been so easy to keep before. What the hell had happened over the past week to make him think of nothing more than how much he wanted to break it?

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next morning, Mary Alice woke to the smell of bacon frying. For a second, she thought she was back at Nancy’s, but when she opened her eyes the fog cleared from her brain as she recognized her own room.

  Well, most of the fog cleared. A slight headache thumped against her temples. She moaned in self-recrimination and staggered out of bed. She’d had three glasses of wine with dinner last night—something she never did.

  Bridge had grilled steaks and they’d sat out back under the magnolia again, relaxing over a glass of wine with the meal. Or rather, they’d tried to relax. She’d done her best to present a façade of sang froid against his cool, distant conversation, but the tension had proven too much for her, and she’d resorted to two extra glasses of wine to get through dinner. Now she cursed her weakness and bad judgment.

  And now she had to face the man and his stupid bacon. She gritted her teeth and considered sneaking out a window instead.

  Unfortunately, nature wouldn’t allow her that option, even if she could bang the sticky window screen open without waking the whole freaking neighborhood. For the first time since she’d bought her quaint old bungalow, she dearly wished she’d chosen a modern house—with a master bathroom instead of the single bath down the hall.

  But there was no way around it, she’d have to leave the sanctuary of her own room and brave seeing her house guest.

  Maybe if she was really, really quiet, he wouldn’t notice her.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Twenty-Six

  Naturally, he saw her right away.

  After two aspirins, a splash in the sink, a fresh dress, and a bit of make-up, Mary Alice felt much better. Still, when she ran headlong into Bridge as she came out of the bathroom, her legs were suddenly as wobbly as a Catalina tourist stepping off the hydrofoil.

  “Breakfast?”

  He looked suspiciously cheerful. And unbelievably attractive wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off PPD sweats and a spatula. Well, and holding a spatula.

  Mary Alice gave herself a firm mental admonishment and avoided looking below his neck. “I’m not really hungry,” she said, attempting to hurry past without touching him.

  “Nonsense. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He parked himself in front of her, blocking her retreat. “I made Denver omelets.”

  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be herded toward the dining room. “How’s a woman to refuse?” she mumbled.

  When she was seated, he placed a plate in front of her with the most delectable-looking omelet she’d ever seen, along with a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Smells wonderful,” she admitted, her stomach growling appreciatively. She reached for her coffee, but Bridge just continued to stand there, looking suddenly nervous. “What?” she asked warily.

  He stared at her for a moment, then seemed to gather himself. “I want to apologize,” he said, shocking her speechless. “I’ve been acting like a complete jerk, and I’m sorry.”

  Remnants of the pain she’d endured for the past few days zinged through her at his words. She couldn’t deny he’d hurt her badly, first with his deception and then by his cold attitude after returning. She licked her lips and grappled for something to say, but before she could formulate a single thought, he went on.

  “The truth is, I’m attracted to you. Very attracted. But I also know how you feel about getting involved—with me in particular.” His mouth thinned. “Being this close to you...well, I’m just having a little trouble dealing with the whole situation.”

  Her jaw dropped as her overloaded brain homed in on one phrase. I’m attracted to you.

  Surely he— No. He couldn’t possibly mean he was interested in her...interested interested. Not beyond a superficial physical desire. His pretty speech yesterday had made that abundantly clear. It was just sex he was interested in.

  The man had a hell of a nerve.

  She set her jaw. “And that’s supposed to excuse your behavior, I suppose?”

  “No.” Slowly, he scraped the second omelet from the skillet onto his plate. “It doesn’t matter how much I want to—” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “Nothing justifies taking out my frustrations on you.”

  Her face blazed and she looked
away, toying with the edge of the tablecloth. She figured she knew exactly what he wanted. “Bridge, please don’t. I—”

  “It’s not just sex, you know,” he interrupted, shocking her again. Was the man a mind reader?

  “Bridge, seriously—”

  “I like everything about you. Your generosity, your sense of humor. The way you love those kids you teach, and wear those pretty dresses instead of jeans. Even that man-eating lawnmower of yours that should be illegal makes me like you even more for not wanting to pollute the environment.”

  He reached for her hand and caressed the tender underside of her wrist, looking as earnest as an altar boy. “Please, Mary Alice. If I promise to be very, very good, can we go back to the way it was before? I miss you. I liked being your friend.”

  Stunned, she opened her mouth, couldn’t think of a thing to say, and shut it again. Her vision suddenly blurred. “I miss you, too, Bridge.”

  He smiled, and she held her breath as they gazed at each other for a long moment, happiness filling her to the brim.

  Then a mischievous grin slid over his lips. “Of course, the sex part ain’t bad, either.”

  Her breath whooshed out and she smacked his arm, blinking back the tears that had inexplicably dampened her eyes. “You are completely incorrigible.”

  He pulled her into a hug. “Another one of my more endearing traits.”

  His chest was warm and his arms strong and tender. And she knew if she stayed in them for one second more, she’d forget all about her new resolve to avoid him. So she pulled away. “Sex isn’t an option. I’m sorry, but it really isn’t.”

  He held up his hands, walked around to his side of the table and sat down. “I know. I know. You deserve a nice, stable guy with a nice, stable job. Someone who is willing to make all the right commitments. I can’t do that, so I’ll suffer in silence and not pressure you. I promise.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” she said, and forced herself to take a bite of omelet. It should have been delicious but it tasted like sawdust.