Murphy's Law

by Rebecca Sinclair

  Garrett frowned. Outside the room, he heard the cat scratch at the door. The feline meowed a protest when access wasn't immediately granted. “You want me to lie?” he asked, his stuffy nose giving his voice a nasally timbre.

  “Yes. No! I mean—” Her shoulders slumped and her chin dipped. She sighed heavily. On anyone else, that pose would have looked weak, defeated. Why didn't it look that way on her? “I don't know what I mean,” she admitted softly.

  Garrett felt an odd, yanking sensation in his chest. At first he thought his allergy was intensifying, in spite of the medicine. He soon realized that wasn't the case. The feeling had something to do with this woman. Whenever he looked at the top of her curly brown head, now bent so he couldn't see her face, he felt that same warm tug. It was something he hadn't felt in years, something he was surprised as hell to feel now…especially for a complete stranger.

  He cleared his throat. “I do have a good explanation.”

  “Great! I'd like to hear it. So far, I've only come up with two possibilities.” She glanced at the duffel bag, now resting on the carpeted floor near her hip. “Neither is very flattering.”

  “This should be good.” Garrett stared at her until her attention reluctantly returned to him. Anxious green meshed with inquisitive blue. “Let's hear them.”

  The fringe of brown curls brushed her shoulders when she shook her head. “You don't want to. Trust me.”

  “Yes, I do. Go ahead, tell me.”

  She hesitated, shrugged. “Okay, let's see.” She pushed to her feet, crossed the room, coming to stand in front of the window at the foot of the bed. Tucking the tips of her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans, she leaned a slender shoulder against the window frame. Her gaze strayed out over the snowy night. “Obviously, you could be a bank robber. That would easily explain the money in your duffel bag. Only that doesn't quite work.”

  “Why's that?” Garrett asked, his gaze straying down the taper of her neck, over the tight set of her shoulders, the slender line of her back. The hem of her sweater had ridden up when she stood. His gaze caressed the curve of her bottom, temptingly outlined by the jeans.

  “It's Saturday,” she said. “All the banks are closed.”

  “Not all of them. Besides, they were open yesterday. I could have robbed a bank then.”

  The woman glanced at him from over her shoulder. A sketchy smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “The last town I passed on my way here was Greenville, and that was a good hour's drive. In dry weather. I'm guessing it would take a lot longer in a blizzard. To be honest, it didn't strike me as the Banking Capitol of the World. I wouldn't be surprised if the bank—I doubt a town that size would have more than one—rolls up it's drive-thru teller window at five o'clock sharp every Friday, right along with its sidewalks. If it has a drive-thru window, and I doubt it. Besides, that doesn't explain the jewelry. Unless you want to add housebreaking to bank robbing.”

  “What was your other guess?” He'd figured robbery would be her first. She hadn't disappointed him.

  She shrugged, averting her gaze back out the window. “My second was that the money and jewelry and…and whatnot, are really yours. But that doesn't make sense, either. I'm no expert, but that jewelry's got to be worth a fortune. And who in their right mind carries around so much money in an old duffel bag? Isn't that what God made banks for? As for the gun…I don't want to talk about that.”

  Garrett grinned. He had to give her credit, not only was she pretty, she was smart. “Didn't you say the banks around here are all closed for the weekend?”

  “I said I think they are. That's why it doesn't make any sense.”

  “Explain.” Garrett stared at her profile, saw the way she nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. He swallowed hard.

  “Okay. The money and jewelry had to come from somewhere, right? Now, maybe I'm wrong, but a couple thousand dollars isn't the amount of money anyone who lives in the backwoods of Maine could earn in a day.”

  “Who said I earned it in a day?”

  She glanced at him. “You did. You said the banks were open yesterday.”

  “So?”

  “So,” she said, “if you had the jewelry yesterday, you would have put it in a safety deposit box and opened a bank account for the money. Put it somewhere where it would be safe.”

  “You know me that well, do you?”

  “I don't know you at all. I'm just going by impressions.”

  “And what kind of impression have I given you?”

  She shook her head, studying him carefully. “The leather bomber jacket you were wearing when I found you was not cheap, or second-hand. The jeans I cut off you weren't bargain brand. A man doesn't earn the kind of money to buy clothes like those working for a logging company. And logging companies don't pay in jewelry.”

  Garrett sneezed, sniffled, nodded. Yup, she was smart. Too much so. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Damned if I know!” The woman pushed away from the window and approached the bed. “Okay, mister, let me give it to you straight.” She counted each complaint off on long, slender fingers. “First, I've had a real bad week. Second, I've been on the road since dawn. Third, my car broke down three times between Providence and here. Fourth, between buying a new tire and a used battery, I'm broke. Third, I'm so tired I could spit.” Her gaze narrowed on him. “Does this give you any indication at all of what kind of mood I'm in?”

  She sat on the edge of the mattress. Garrett saw her eyes widen when he winced and sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Oh, no. Oh, sheesh, I'm sorry.” The woman jumped to her feet, then knelt on the carpeted floor beside the bed. Her cool fingertips instinctively smoothed the pain-deep creases from his brow. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  The concern in her tone made Garrett suppress the sarcastic reply that automatically sprang to mind. It didn't hurt that at the same moment a whiff of her Ivory Soap scent tickled his nostrils.

  “A little,” he lied tightly. “Don't worry about it, I'm fine.”

  Fine, if one discounted the agony that was tearing through his thigh like a bolt of white-heat. He couldn't discount it, although he tried. The woman obviously felt guilty enough about inadvertently jarring his leg. Why make her feel worse? Besides, the sweetness of her touch was melting the pain away with surprising speed. And speaking of his wounded leg…

  Garrett's attention strayed down, over himself. He frowned.

  He was still wearing his front-pocket white T-shirt and his jockey shorts. That was all he wore. From mid-chest down he was draped by a thin, brightly colored sheet splashed with enormous…turtles? Yes, they were definitely turtles. Huge and deformed, the things were wearing eye-masks and carrying a variety of lethal, oriental weapons.

  “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” she explained, apparently reading the question in his eyes. “You don't have kids, do you?”

  Oddly enough, it wasn't the question Garrett had been entertaining. Oh, no, nothing so simple. Instead, he'd been wondering if this woman was the one who'd taken his clothes off. Wondering, also, how he could possibly have slept through such an event.

  Deciding her question was safer than his, that was the one he addressed. “Kids? No, I don't. How can you tell?”

  She nodded to the bedspread—which was crumpled in a ball near the door—then to the two inch thick wallpaper border edging the top of all four of the bedroom's walls. Garrett hadn't noticed the border before. He did now. It was decorated with those hulking, overgrown, armed-to-the-teeth turtles.

  “If you had kids, you'd know who the Turtles are.”

  “For the first time in my life,” Garrett grumbled, “I'm glad I don't have kids.”

  The woman arched one brow and gazed at him levelly. “I'd suggest you get used to the Turtles. Especially since you're going to become real familiar with them in the near future.”

  “I am?”

  She nodded. “Yup. You're going to be buying Dana—that's my nephew, whose bed you're in—a
nother set of sheets and a bedspread to match. Ones that look just like those.” The woman wrinkled her nose. The gesture was oddly endearing. “You bled all over his. They're going to have to be replaced.”

  Her smile faded. Garrett missed it, more than he should have. “Sorry,” he said. The word tasted rusty on his tongue, so rarely did he use it. “I guess now would be a good time to thank you for taking me in and fixing me up, huh?”

  “You can thank me after you tell me where all that money and jewelry came from.”

  Christ, she didn't let up, did she? Not that Garrett could blame her; were the situation reversed, he'd be interrogating the hell out of her. Of course, interrogation was part of his job…and he was good at his job.

  “You don't want to know about the gun?”

  “Not particularly. I put it where you can't find it, so it's no longer a major concern of mine.”

  He assessed her in one sweeping glance, inwardly wondering if she would believe the truth if he told her. Especially since the truth sounded more outrageous than a badly prefabricated lie. In the end, he decided it would be in his best interest to change the subject, and change it quickly. “Do you have any aspirin? My leg is throbbing like a son-of-a—er, it's throbbing like mad.”

  “You have a piece of metal embedded in your thigh,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I didn't even try to take it out.”

  Garrett watched her walk to the door and noticed, not for the first time, what a nicely packaged woman she was. The baggy sweater did nothing to conceal her shape. Just the opposite, the way it draped from slender shoulders to shapely upper-thigh only whetted a man's appetite and left his hands hungry to find out if the curves beneath were really as soft and shapely as the woolen folds hiding them suggested.

  She left the bedroom without a backward glance, closing the door firmly behind her. In the hall, he heard her talk softly to the cat. Moonshine. Who ever heard of a cat named Moonshine?

  Garrett sighed and relaxed against the pillow. With effort, he resisted the urge to rub the fiery pain from his leg. It wouldn't help. Aspirin wouldn't either, but at least asking for them had given him a reprieve. And a few minutes alone.

  He needed to think. To plan. To, hopefully, come up with some cockamamie story about the money and jewelry and gun that was so far from the truth it would have to be believable.

  Yes, that was what he needed to do. Garrett frowned, his gaze shifting to the closed bedroom door. So why the hell wasn't he doing it?! Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

  He must have hurt himself worse than he'd thought. It was the only reason he could think of to explain why, when he should be using this time to concoct an impromptu but reasonable lie, he instead spent the next few minutes contemplating the alluring curves hidden beneath a certain brunette's baggy sweater and snug jeans.

  Chapter 4

  Murphy's Law #4: If everything seems to be going well,

  you have obviously overlooked something.

  MURPHY GLANCED at the bottle of generic brand aspirin in her hand, sighed, and shook her head.

  What was she doing? The man, who was at that moment laying on Dana's bed, seemed nice enough…what she knew of him. Admittedly, she didn't know much. He was a stranger to her. A big, strong stranger—even wounded, he was physically the most intimidating man Murphy had ever met. A stranger who had broken into her brother's house, badly wounded, carrying only a ratty old duffel bag crammed full of money, jewelry, and Benadryl.

  And a gun.

  Nice men didn't carry around guns. Nice men also didn't carry around that kind of cash. As for the jewelry…well, who knew?

  The man had supplied no explanation as to where the money or jewelry or gun had came from. He'd skirted the issue nicely, thank you very much. Which only piqued her curiosity all the more. Didn't she have a right to be curious? Not to mention concerned? Of course she did!

  Not only had she taken the stranger in when she'd known it would have been better—easier, safer—to drive off and forget about him, she'd also overcome her own inherent weakness and tended his wounded thigh as best she could. That gave her rights, damn it! The least of which was the truth.

  Murphy shook four aspirin tablets onto her palm, snapped the lid back on, then set the bottle on the marble-textured bathroom countertop. She retraced her path to the bedroom. Moonshine followed, but she paid the cat no mind. Right now, she was too intent on getting answers. Honest answers.

  She opened the bedroom door. Like a magnet, her gaze was drawn to the bed. At first she thought the man was asleep. He was so quiet, so still. Asleep or…?

  Murphy gulped.

  Moonshine yowled a greeting and trotted over to the bed. His shaggy back legs launched him onto the man's chest.

  The man grunted. His eyes snapped open, his blue gaze locking on the cat, narrowing dangerously.

  Moonshine purred a greeting and curled up defiantly on the stranger's chest. His low, rumbly purr dared the man to swipe him off of the most comfortable bed the cat had found in months.

  As it happened, he didn't have to.

  Murphy hurried over, scooped Moonshine into her arms, and deposited the growling, unhappy feline in the hallway. “Don't look at me like that, bub,” she scolded, fist on one hip, the index finger of her other hand wagging at the offended cat in prim, school teacher fashion. “We've already discussed this. You aren't allowed in here. He…” She frowned as, over her shoulder she asked, “What's your name?”

  “Garrett,” he said, and Murphy noticed the man was looking at her oddly. Hadn't he ever seen someone talk to a cat before?

  She nodded, turning her attention back to Moonshine. “Garrett's allergic to you. You got that?”

  Moonshine plopped himself down on the plush blue carpet of the hallway and meowed. Loudly.

  “No arguments,” she reprimanded.

  The cat meowed again. Louder. After a few seconds, as though he hadn't wanted to go into the room after all, Moonshine stood, stretched, and strode lazily back toward the living room. Behind him, his thick tail swished indignantly.

  Murphy shook her head and shut the bedroom door.

  “Do you always do that?” a husky male voice asked.

  The man—Garrett, Murphy reminded herself—had a nice voice. Deep. Rich. The timbre was low and naturally throaty enough to send a hot current of awareness down her spine. She cleared her throat. “Do what?” she asked as she turned and approached the bed. A glint of amusement shimmered in those penetrating blue eyes.

  “Talk to that thing like it understands you?”

  “‘It' is not a ‘thing' he's a ‘he',” Murphy corrected sharply, Depositing the four aspirin tablets into Garrett's extended hand, she reached for the cup of water she'd set aside on the nightstand earlier. “And of course he understands me. Better than most people do, if you want the truth. And speaking of the truth…?”

  Garrett took the aspirin and cup of water fast, as though he was snatching any excuse to avoid her question, even if only temporarily.

  Murphy McKenna was not put off so easily. She took the empty cup when he offered it and put it back on the nightstand, her gaze never leaving his. “I want answers.”

  “I figured you would.”

  “And I want the truth. You owe me that much.”

  “I thought you said you wanted me to lie?”

  “I changed my mind.” She shrugged. “Just giving my womanly prerogative some extra exercise. Well?” she prodded when he said nothing.

  “Look, sweetheart, can't we talk about this later?” he said finally, weakly. “I don't feel so hot.”

  He didn't look too hot either, Murphy thought but didn't say. She couldn't. The truth was, wounded and pale or not, Garrett was still handsome. Handsome enough to make her breath catch. Handsome enough to make her heart beat faster. She'd be lying if she said otherwise. Still, putting handsome aside, after a split second's hesitation, she shook her head. “I want to talk about it now.”

  He sighed and closed his ey
es. Murphy was glad for the reprieve; trying to think straight while looking into those stunning blue eyes of his was not easy.

  “Where did the money and jewelry and gun come from? Please, don't lie to me, Garrett. If you do, I'll be forced to toss you right out of the broken sliding glass door you let yourself in through.”

  He cracked one bluer-than-blue eye open, raked her head to toe, then closed it again. “No you won't.”

  “Oh, really? What makes you so sure?”

  “You're not the type. Believe me, um…your turn, lady. What's your name?”

  She hesitated. “Murphy", she supplied finally, reluctantly.

  “Strange name.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  Garrett continued, “Believe me, Murphy, I know the type who could turn their back on a wounded man. You're not it. You already tried, remember?”

  Murphy glared down at him. This man hardly knew her. How could he be so sure of what “type” of woman she was? She didn't know, but he did. And damned if he wasn't right. She had tried to leave him, she hadn't been able to do it. “You could be wrong about me. Ever think of that?”

  “No. And I'm not wrong. It's my business to know these things.” A confident grin tugged at one corner of his lips.

  Murphy's gaze shadowed the movement, sweeping over his mouth, noting despite her desire not to the way a drop of water from the cup still clung to his lower lip. Her heartbeat staggered, and she jerked her gaze back to his closed eyes. He had long lashes for a man; thick and a shade or two darker than his sandy blond hair. Her tone only slightly breathless, she asked, “Wh-what kind of ‘business’ is that?”

  He opened his eyes. His gaze ensnared her. “I'm a cop.”

  Murphy bit her tongue to keep from laughing. A cop? Him? Was that the best story he could devise? Sheesh, how stupid did he think she was?!

  “Murphy,” Garrett said thoughtfully, as though testing the name on his tongue. His eyes narrowed, darkened. “Is that your first name or last?”