Bachelor Boss

by Christie Ridgway

  Tamara and her palpable hopes for a happily-ever-after life story, with him starring as the male lead.

  It was why he’d been forced to end what had been pleasantly pleasant enough. When she’d started making noises about shared vacations and opportunities to meet her parents, he’d felt honor-bound to halt her building expectations. He just didn’t think that type of happy ending was written into the Carlo Milano movie script.

  Not that he didn’t believe in happy endings. He’d seen his sister and many of his friends successfully couple up. Not for a minute did he doubt their commitments to their lovers. He went to each wedding wishing them all the best.

  But at one wedding…At one wedding he’d started letting go of the notion of a lifelong romantic partnership for himself.

  Then, when he’d lost his police partner to an unfair and untimely murder…he’d been certain he was destined to do the life thing solo.

  Not to mention it just seemed simpler that way.

  “La Jolla isn’t in this direction,” piped up the young beauty beside him. “I thought you said the party was in La Jolla.”

  He kept his focus out the windshield instead of glancing again at the blonde wrapped in salsa that was little Lucy Sutton all grown-up. Curse whatever combination of curiosity and kindness had prompted him to ask her out in the first place.

  Kindness.

  Right. The truth was, the water-cooler incident in the break room had snapped something inside of him. One moment he’d been remembering her as a bubblegum-popping tweenie, the next he was seeing her as a woman. Desirable. Beddable.

  Though not available, of course. Not available to him, anyway. There were several reasons that made that a fact: she was an old family friend and almost like a little sister to him; her brothers were among his best friends and would beat him to a pulp if he and Lucy hooked up and he ended up hurting her; and he’d never forgive himself if—when—that very likelihood came to pass.

  Still, aware of all that, he’d opened his big mouth and extended the invitation.

  So here he was with Lucy. Desirable. Beddable.

  Pure trouble.

  His years as a street cop, then as a detective, then as a security expert had finely honed his instincts, and his instincts said she was mischief in the making. Lucy Sutton wearing that dress and looking like that in it was going to be up to her curvy hips in trouble tonight if he didn’t stay on the ball.

  “Carlo?”

  He sighed. “We’re making a stop before the party.” Thank God. Anything to minimize the amount of time he’d have to be on guard-dog patrol. “You wouldn’t by any chance dislike loud music and large crowds?”

  He caught her grin out of the corner of his eye. “I love loud music and large crowds.”

  “Figures,” he grumbled.

  She laughed. “Why are we going, then, if you dislike the party scene so much?”

  “You know. It’s a work obligation.” His calendar bulged with them. In a convention town that was also home to major league sports teams and that hosted big-name golf tournaments, as well as big-star rock concerts, McMillan & Milano’s services were in constant demand. “The company’s in charge of security for the Street Beat festival three weeks from now and I’ve got to put in an appearance and do the good ol’ grip-and-grin for at least a few minutes.”

  Fewer than few, if he could get away with it. If Lucy Sutton had rattled him, not only a family friend but a man known as Mr. Keep-It-Light-and-Loose, what effect might she have on males who were actively prowling?

  He shook his head. She was heading for trouble, all right.

  Flipping his car’s signal indicator, he turned right into the driveway of a well-maintained two-story, his gaze noting that the landscaping crew was keeping the hedges manicured and the lawns fertilized per his orders. The porch light added a cheery brightness to the entry, complete with a wreath of dried fall foliage on the front door.

  “Come in with me,” he suggested to Lucy. “You’ve met Germaine McMillan before, haven’t you? I said I’d stop by and take care of a minor repair for her.”

  Again, he kept his eyes off Lucy’s legs as she exited the car. But he couldn’t keep her light scent away from his nose as they waited for Germaine to answer the ringing doorbell. The fragrance had caught his attention in the break room at the office, too, and remembering that brought back that quick flash he’d had of her plump, pretty breasts rising from the white lace cups of her bra.

  To distract himself from the memory, he ran his hand over the molding around the doorjamb. Good. The paint was tight.

  For some damn reason, so the hell were the muscles south of his waistline.

  He could have kissed Germaine for choosing that instant to open the door. Actually, he did kiss her, an obligatory peck on her soft cheek that dimpled as he moved away and brought his companion forward.

  “Do you remember Lucy Sutton?” he asked his partner’s widow. “I’m sure you’ve met her before, as well as various other members of the Sutton family over the years.”

  “Of course!” Germaine appeared delighted by the company, which was part of the reason why he’d scheduled the stop. Like the landscaping, he could have hired out the minor repair. But without children or grandchildren of her own, Carlo knew the older woman enjoyed his visits. Just as he’d felt obligated to keep Patrick McMillan’s name as part of the security firm the two of them had dreamed up before Pat’s death, Carlo felt obligated to be the family Germaine didn’t have. “Can I get you two some coffee and dessert?” she asked.

  They followed her into the immaculate living room, where fresh vacuum trails showed clearly on the cream carpet. “Nothing for me, thanks,” Lucy replied. “We’re on our way to a party.”

  Germaine sat down on the floral couch and Lucy followed suit. “I shouldn’t be keeping the pair of you, then.”

  Carlo waved his hand. “There’s no rush. We have plenty of time. The party’s bound to be boring, anyway.”

  And Lucy would be a whole lot easier to watch over among the flower fields that were Germaine’s upholstered furniture than she would be at a party filled with rock musicians, businessmen and media types.

  “Oh, you,” Germaine scolded. “A man your age should enjoy a little nightlife.”

  Lucy leaned toward her. “We’re not even there yet and he’s already grumping about the music being too loud. Who knew what a fuddy-duddy he’d turn out to be?”

  “Fuddy-duddy?” He frowned at her. Fuddy-duddy? For some reason the teasing jab ignited his usually cool temper. “Is that what you think? But coming from someone dressed in nothing more than a scanty pair of handkerchiefs, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Lucy’s spine straightened. She looked a little bit insulted, too. “Handkerchiefs? I’ll have you know this dress is—”

  “Outrageous?” Fuddy-duddy. He couldn’t get the insult out of his mind. “An invitation to pneumonia?”

  Her berry-colored mouth fell open and her blue, blue eyes narrowed. “You’re—”

  “Children, children,” Germaine interrupted, her voice verging on laughter. “Maybe we should change the subject.”

  “You’re right.” Annoyed by his own out-of-character reaction to Lucy’s silly jibes, Carlo shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll do better than that and in fact change the washers of the dripping faucet like I said I would.”

  Germaine started to rise, but he shook his head. “I know where I’m going and I know where you keep Pat’s tools.”

  He couldn’t exit the living room fast enough. If he didn’t already know that Lucy had potential to be a snag in the smooth path of his planned evening, that last exchange would have been proof positive. How the hell had she gotten under his skin so fast?

  Fuddy-duddy. Grumping. Good God, he didn’t grump. How ridiculous.

  But damn, if the descriptions hadn’t rankled.

  Passing the hall portrait of his late partner on the way to the dripping bathroom faucet, Carlo felt his mood di
p even lower. As he tinkered, he thought of Pat’s stocky frame and square, capable hands. The man should be here, Carlo thought on a sudden stab of sadness. Pat should be here, working out of his own red toolbox while looking forward to an evening of yet another TV documentary on military history, as well as a slice of his wife’s famous mocha cheesecake.

  Instead, Carlo’s partner was gone.

  Gone forever.

  Upon completion of the repair, his footsteps were as heavy as his frame of mind as he returned to the living room. Hesitating at the archway, he listened to Germaine’s amused voice.

  “Then he turned the corner as fast as his old legs could go, wheezing, he said, sure that he’d lost the suspect, only to find the teenager caught on a cyclone fence, hanging upside down by his own oversize trousers.”

  Carlo remembered the moment as if it were yesterday and he couldn’t resist adding to the story. “His own oversize trousers that had fallen down to his ankles, leaving his, uh, assets flapping in the breeze.” Coming farther into the room, he couldn’t help but grin at the memory. “Pat picked up the fancy cell phone that had fallen out of the boy’s pocket and took a picture for posterity, while the dumb kid yammered on and on about police brutality.”

  He laughed. “Pat told him the only brutal thing about the event was his having to be subjected to a view of the kid’s skinny butt.” Laughing again, he recalled the expression of insulted outrage on the perp’s upside-down face.

  “Oh, Carlo.”

  The odd note in Germaine’s voice zeroed his gaze in on her. “What?”

  She smiled. “It’s good to hear you laugh. It’s good that we can remember my Pat with lightness in our hearts. He’d want that.”

  Carlo felt the smile he was wearing die as yet another pang of sadness sliced through him. All that Pat had wanted was to grow old with his beloved wife. Just a few relaxed and peaceful years of happily-ever-after.

  He turned away, embarrassed by his sudden grief and just as determined to hide it. His hand speared through his hair and he cleared his throat. “Anything else I can do for you, Germaine?” His voice still sounded thick.

  “No, but, Carlo…” Germaine’s own suddenly teary voice filled with a sympathy he couldn’t handle, yet couldn’t run away from, either. Without looking at her, he sensed her rising and he steeled himself, desperate not to be weakened by any more emotion.

  But then Lucy was there first, her hand looping around his arm. “Well, then I think we should be going, Germaine. I have to get the fuddy-duddy to the party before he turns into a pumpkin.”

  A new jolt of annoyance overrode his other feelings. Fuddy-duddy again! Pumpkin. He shook his head, frowning down into her bright face and naughty smile.

  “Brat,” he murmured. Okay, beautiful, but a brat all the same.

  Germaine brightened. “Yes, yes. You must go on to your evening out.”

  Lucy’s answer was to tug him toward the door. “Did you hear that, Carlo? Let’s get a move on or next thing I know you’ll be too busy filling out your AARP membership forms to find your way to a party.”

  Half-amused by her burst of energy and half-bemused by her second round of insults, he allowed her to pull him through the front door and toward his car. Even without a rock band, she was already dancing along the pavement and chattering away about the stars, the clear sky, how happy she was to be back in San Diego, which always held a hint of ocean in the night air.

  When he pulled out of the driveway, he realized he was smiling again. Relaxed. She took a breath and he took advantage of the brief moment of quiet. “Lucy, I’m…”

  “Feeling better?”

  His head jerked her way. Her gaze was on him, her eyes big. Empathetic.

  She knew.

  She’d known he was close to losing it back there in Germaine’s living room.

  It was as embarrassing as hell to realize, but now it was clear that Lucy had intentionally come to his rescue. By stepping in with her sassy attitude and smart remarks, Lucy had given him the time and the distraction necessary to compose himself. Germaine hadn’t needed him dumping his sorrow on top of her own.

  Lucy had made sure he didn’t.

  “Lucy…” He was at a loss for words, still embarrassed that she’d read him so easily. Swallowing, he tried again. “You…”

  She sent him that bright brat smile and fiddled with the hem of her too-short dress. “Look great in a pair of handkerchiefs, right?”

  His gaze fell to her half-naked legs, then jumped back to the impish curve of her bright berry mouth. His blood rushed south and he felt that recognizable tightness at his groin. Of course, it couldn’t be because of Lucy and how good she smelled and how delectable she looked in that dress. She was an old family friend, so it wasn’t—

  Oh, fine. What the hell. Why deny it? He was a man, with all the normal male responses. The truth was, old family friend or not, Lucy Sutton turned him on.

  The admission sent his cop instincts hog wild again. This time they had another loud-and-clear message. Be careful, they told him. Be very careful.

  She was still the little sister of some of his best friends, Elise and the sisters’ brothers, Jason and Sam.

  The Suttons and the Milanos had been connected for years and would continue to be connected for years to come.

  So don’t risk introducing awkwardness into the mix.

  So don’t risk getting too close to a woman who’d already shown herself adept at understanding his moods.

  He took another breath of her sweet, feminine perfume. Yeah, Milano, don’t risk getting too close. Because of the two people sitting in the butter leather seats of his Lexus, he had the sudden premonition that the one most likely to get into trouble tonight was him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carlo Milano was wrong about a lot of things, Lucy decided, as they entered the Street Beat party. One, the music wasn’t too loud, and two, judging by what other women were wearing who were in attendance, there was nothing unusual about her cocktail attire.

  “Fuddy-duddy,” she muttered to herself.

  He leaned closer. “What?”

  She glanced up. Okay, he didn’t look like a fuddy-duddy, not with those incredible dark lashes surrounding his incredible dark eyes, and not with the way his wide shoulders filled out his casual linen jacket. And she wasn’t the only one to have noticed his dearth of duddiness, either. She’d seen it in the eyes of other women they’d passed, and now, good Lord, now there was a tall, statuesque brunette wearing a slinky animal print sliding out of the crowd to close in on them like a leopard scenting a tasty meal.

  The feline woman was still two dozen feet away when she called out the name of her prey. “Carlo!”

  Lucy couldn’t help it, she stepped closer to him. Her hip brushed his groin, and she all at once recalled her plan for the evening. Not sticking close to Carlo. Not fostering dreams that couldn’t be.

  Remember? She was a single, sophisticated woman at a party. A single, sophisticated woman who should be looking for other single sophisticates, but of the masculine variety. Clearing her throat, she ignored the approaching woman and started edging away from Carlo’s body. “I think I’ll go—”

  “Stay,” he said against her ear. It felt more like a kiss than a command and she froze, making it easy for him to hook two fingers into the waistline at the back of her dress. She felt his knuckles press against her naked skin.

  “Carlo—”

  “I’ll give you a raise if you’ll just play along.”

  There wasn’t any more time to protest. The brunette appeared before them on a waft of Chanel No. 5. “Mr. Milano,” she said in a scolding voice. “This is beyond fashionably late.”

  Then the woman moved in for the kill—uh, greeting—and Lucy tried to edge away again. Carlo’s fingers curled tighter on her dress, though, plastering her as snugly against him as a “Hi, My Name Is” sticker.

  The action forced the other woman to settle for an air kiss in the vicinity of his chin
. Then she gave Lucy a cursory glance. “I’m Claudia Cox,” she said, holding out her hand even as her gaze returned to Carlo. “So…Who’s your little friend?”

  Lucy gritted her teeth and gave a little handshake as Carlo answered. “This is Lucy Sutton. She’s just back in town from Phoenix.”

  Claudia flicked another glance in her direction. “Really? I thought you were seeing Tamara.”

  His hand slipped out of Lucy’s dress to slide around her waist and then press possessively against her hip bone. She tried to look as if her knees were melting—for Claudia’s benefit—without standing as if her knees were really melting—for Carlo’s.

  “I’m with Lucy now.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and her scalp prickled from crown to nape.

  “Lucky Lucy,” Claudia commented, wearing a thin smile.

  Lucy thought it was time to chime in and prove to them all she still had a voice. “That’s just what I say to myself every time I hear this man say my name. It’s nice to meet you, Claudia.” Then she entwined her fingers with those of Carlo’s that were wrapped at her hip and tried to subtly peel them off before her dress started to smolder.

  His touch made her just that hot.

  Carlo allowed their joined hands to fall to her side, but stroked hers with a caressing thumb when Claudia’s gaze dropped to their fingers.

  “We need to set up a meeting,” the other woman told Carlo, her voice a bit sharp, “since it doesn’t look as if you’re prepared to talk business tonight.”

  Behind her, Lucy felt Carlo straighten. His thumb stopped its distracting movement. “What’s up, Claudia?”

  The other woman looked at Lucy. “Do you mind…?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, taking the hint. “I’ll just go over to the bar and leave you two alone—”

  “Sweetheart, you know I don’t like you out of my sight.” Carlo’s fingers squeezed hers. Tight.

  Lucy swallowed her wince. “Isn’t he cute?” she said to Claudia, then looked up at her date. “Darling, I won’t go far.”