Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed

by Beth Ciotta

  She tugged on a pair of lime-green cotton briefs, a far cry from that pearl thong. A thong that had incited a sexy glimmer in Murphy’s smoldering brown eyes. A glimmer that had spurred a naughty fantasy in her normally squeaky-clean mind. But instead of enjoying the graphic daydream and the sensual tingling between her legs, she’d panicked.

  After Terry had walked out, she’d shut down sexually. It was safer that way. She was safer. But Murphy ignited fierce desires that burned through her personal fire curtain. Every time they touched, she burned. She’d never burned for a man. It unsettled her about as much as the gun she’d seen holstered to his belt when he’d pushed off the sofa. Calling him socially was not an option. Even if she did get past her own shyness, she’d never get past that gun.

  She wondered if he’d ever killed anyone.

  Her stomach flipped. Not because she was intrigued with Murphy and his dangerous career, she rationalized, but because she was starving. Eight o’clock in the evening and, except for a piece of birthday cake, she hadn’t eaten since this morning. Practice what you preach, Lu. She plucked up the phone and speed dialed Pizza Piazza while searching her room for a pair of comfy jeans and her favorite T-shirt. “Yeah, hi. This is Lulu … Ross.” Sigh.

  “Small cheese pie and a can of cola, Princess?”

  She used to feel special, the way Franco knew her order. Tonight she felt pathetic. “Yes, please.” She pushed aside her tiara in search of her bubblegum lip gloss as Franco rattled off the price and the estimated time of delivery. She probably imagined him muttering, “Get a life, bella.” Probably imagined the zap when her fingers connected with the crisp white business card—she had a stellar imagination—but she was restless, and lonely, and okay, a little spooked from that one-sided phone call. “No, wait.” She stared at the raised print. The name. The number. “Call if you need me.” Her heart pounded. Be adventurous.

  “Cancel that order, Franco. I’m going out.” She signed off, her hands trembling at the thought of a one-nighter with Colin Murphy. Colin. Sexy name. Sexy man. Irish.

  Falling is easier than rising.

  She shook off the disquieting Celtic saying. She’d fallen for Terry in high school and she’d yet to regain her footing. Sighing, she punched in a series of numbers. Her tense shoulders sagged with relief when a familiar voice answered, “Oui?”

  “Hi, Jean-Pierre. It’s me.”

  One of these nights I’ll get back in the dating game, she thought, while pocketing Murphy’s business card.

  Just not tonight.

  Chapter Five

  Murphy glanced down at his cell phone willing it to ring. Six hours since initial contact and he’d yet to hear from Bogie. It wasn’t the waiting that chafed—he was well acquainted with the boredom of surveillance—it was the lack of information. The sooner he knew specifics, the sooner he could devise a plan. If he was to maintain covert protection twenty-four/seven he’d need to contact a relief man, someone to sit watch while he grabbed a couple hours of sleep, showered, and changed into fresh clothing. Unfortunately, the core members of his protective team, the four men he trusted most in this world aside from Bogie, were on holiday. After six months on assignment in Washington DC and a month with Albert Nibler, the eccentric convenience store mogul, the team had agreed to take a three-week break. Even though he knew they’d come running, Murphy refrained from making that call. Rejuvenation was key for a sharp mind and steady nerves. His team was superior. He aimed to keep it that way. He had another ace up his sleeve, a trusted local. A pain in his ass, but a top-notch professional.

  If the threat necessitated one-on-one coverage, he’d have to have a heart-to-heart with Lulu. He’d have to encroach on her lifestyle in a major, personal way. That option, though tricky, held a thrill factor hard to ignore.

  He’d participated in countless high-risk operations and met a lot of interesting people, saintly and disreputable. But he’d never experienced a phenomenon like Lulu Ross. Fifteen minutes in her company and he was captivated. Part of him wanted to bury himself inside of her, to meld with all that sunshine and goodness. The other part, the logical, cynical part, wanted to give her a full-body shake, a wake-up call to his world. The real world. A chaotic, dismal battlefield overrun by drug dealers, rapists, kidnappers, and assassins.

  It was a clichéd shame, but sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind. She’d waded into a pool of deep shit. How in the hell was she going to see her way out wearing rose-colored glasses?

  At this point, even with his eyes wide open, he was operating in the dark. Until Bogie called all he had to go on was gut instinct and logical assessment. All signs pointed to his current number one theory: the princess had a dangerous admirer. The question was how dangerous? How far would the stalker go? Was she a fixation to be adored from afar? Or would he make physical contact? Could this escalate into a potential kidnapping with the threat of sexual assault? It wasn’t a pretty thought, but Bogie didn’t mix with pretty people.

  Murphy didn’t look forward to having that particular discussion with the princess. He could picture her rolling those nut-brown eyes. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about her flipping out and falling apart, because she wasn’t going to believe him. She struck him as a free-spirit, the type who operated under the illusion that bad things only happen to other people. He could envision her gliding through life on her pink-wheeled roller skates, head in the clouds, oblivious to political, criminal, and world affairs. He’d be surprised if she watched CNN or read the newspaper, although she probably devoured the comics.

  Once upon a time he’d been that innocent and carefree. Yeah. When I was five. He wasn’t sure if he was appalled or envious.

  Speak of the devil, or in this case, the angel, Lulu burst through her front door and trotted toward her car wearing … could it be? Yes, thank you Jesus, jeans and sneakers. She’d thrown on another shaggy coat, only this one was waist-length and either white or pink in color, he couldn’t tell. Given that her yard lamp bathed the perimeter in rosy hues, even her madcap curls, now divided into two perky pigtails, looked pink. No mistaking the color of the poodle purse.

  He shook his head as he fired up the Jag. If Bogie were a prankster he’d begin to suspect this case was an elaborate joke to lighten his dark mood. Except Bogie never joked about work, and Murphy hadn’t let on to his friend that he’d been in a funk. Bogie would want to know why. Murphy didn’t have an answer. Besides, delving into his psyche was not his idea of fun. He’d get over this … restlessness. Distraction was the key. And the mother of distractions had just backed her pink Beetle out of the driveway.

  He glanced at his digital clock as he maneuvered the Jag two car lengths behind the Bug. It was 2100 hours on a Saturday night. “Where are we headed, Princess?” In anticipation of Bogie’s call, he fit his headset over his right ear while cursing Lulu’s driving. The woman drove like a maniac, swerving in and out of heavy traffic as she barreled toward the bright lights of Atlantic City. Disregarding the speed limit, she gunned through multiple yellow lights. Murphy ran two reds in order to keep her in sight. Luckily there weren’t too many pink Beetles on the road. On the other hand, she was an easy mark for a stalker.

  Another topic of discussion: less obvious transportation.

  At first he’d thought she was heading for a casino like the rest of the incoming traffic, but she continued north on Atlantic Avenue toward the Inlet, a section of town presently under reconstruction because of a city-funded renewal project. After making a series of turns and navigating a new single-home subdivision, they came upon a row of Victorian town homes. Lulu zipped her car into a tight space between an SUV and a stretch limo. She hopped out and race-walked for the door marked one-thirty-four.

  Murphy parked the Jag across the street, two doors down. He had his night-vision binoculars in hand in time to see her move into the arms of a good-looking, shaggy-haired man. He kissed her on both cheeks, hugged her close, and then pulled her inside and shut the door.

&nbs
p; “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  Then who was Mr. Friendly?

  He spent the next hour replaying that affectionate hug, wondering what they were doing inside that townhouse, and fighting off an obnoxious opponent: jealousy. He was beginning to think that he should’ve taken his teammates’ lead and escaped to a tropical isle to refresh. Sucker punched by the green-eyed monster. A freaking mindblower exacerbated by the fact that Lulu was a veritable stranger.

  Twenty minutes later, Bogie still hadn’t called and Murphy’s need for information escalated. His principal exited the townhouse flanked by two men. Mr. Friendly and a hulking guy that could have passed for Sylvester Stallone on steroids. All three climbed into that stretch limo, Sly at the wheel.

  Time to go with the ace up his sleeve: the trusted local, Jake Leeds. A private investigator with an agenda Murphy respected. Too bad Jake had a bug up his ass. At one time they’d actually been pretty tight. But that was before Murphy had slept with the man’s sister.

  He switched on his headlights and followed the limo at a discreet distance while getting the private investigator on the line.

  Jake answered on the fourth ring. “If this is about Joni—”

  “It’s not.” Amazing how Caller ID had negated automatic cheerful greetings.

  “Because she’s happily married.”

  “To Carson. I know.”

  “They have a new baby daughter—”

  “Kylie. Your niece. I know. I just spoke to Joni last week. Congratulations, Uncle.”

  The man grunted. “Every time I lament the fact that that sweet baby’s father is a musician I remind myself that it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been you.”

  Murphy plowed on, ignoring an increasingly familiar ache in his chest. “Whether you believe it or not, Jake, I really do love your sister and wish her only the best.”

  “Then stay out of her life.”

  “Can’t do that. Listen, can we move past this?”

  “No.”

  “Great.” Murphy blew over the man’s hostility, banking on his core ethics. “I need an ID on two men. They just escorted my principal, a woman, out of a townhouse and into a limousine.”

  “Against her will?”

  Jake’s swift change of tone came as no surprise. When the safety of women and children was at stake, the man was blind to all else, including ancient grudges. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure. I don’t know what I’m dealing with, Jake. I’m acting on a tip that this woman’s in danger. I have no specifics.”

  “Hold on. I’m booting up my laptop. Is she a local?”

  “Lives in Margate. Luciana Ross.” He dictated her home address. “Might’ve picked up a stalker. I need your help and I need this to remain between us.”

  “Got it.” No questions asked.

  Murphy’s tension eased knowing he had a trusted ally on the case. Now if Bogie would just call.

  “Let’s start with the two men,” Jake said. “Determine if she’s in immediate danger. What’s the address of the townhouse?”

  Murphy recited the information along with the limo’s tag numbers, while negotiating bumper-to-bumper traffic. They were back in the heart of Atlantic City.

  Jake sighed. “Is this a joke?”

  “Am I laughing?”

  “I know that address as well as my own. It’s the residence of Rudy Gallow.”

  “Approximately five foot ten? Mid-twenties? Wavy, shoulder-length hair?”

  “That’s Jean-Pierre Legrand. Rudy’s partner. Rudy’s six-three. Short, dark hair. Coatee.”

  “The one driving the limo. Is he in the business?” Built like a football player. Big as a barn and mean-looking. Gallow fit Lulu’s stereotypical description of a bodyguard to a tee.

  “No. I know he looks menacing, but he’s cool. He’s a chauffeur. Runs a limo service.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He’s my wife’s best friend.”

  “No shit.” Murphy raised an amused brow. “You’re comfortable with that?” Jake was a control-freak. Over-possessive and overprotective of those he loved. No one knew that better than Murphy. And, according to Joni, Jake was head over heels, crazy in love with his new wife, Afia. He couldn’t imagine the controlling P.I. embracing a cozy friendship between his wife and another man. Especially when that man had the face and body of a Hollywood action star.

  “You can relax,” Jake said. “Luciana’s in safe company. Although I can’t say the same for Rudy and JP, can I?” He swore. “Afia’s not going to like this.”

  “Afia’s not going to know.”

  “Right.” He swore again. “How long have you been on the case?”

  “Since this afternoon.”

  “And you have zip on your client?”

  “Nickname’s Lulu. Stage name’s Princess Charming.”

  “An actress?”

  “Works with kids.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Cute, bubbly, young. A real Pollyanna. She’s got a man-magnet sister and a dotty grandmother. Other than that, I’m clueless,” Murphy admitted. “Can you run a background check?”

  “Give me an hour. How do I get in touch?”

  “My cell. If I don’t answer, leave a text message.”

  “You’re flying solo on this?”

  “The team’s on hiatus.”

  Jake made a sound in the back of his throat. “Didn’t figure I was your first choice.”

  “You’re my only choice in this instance.” Murphy reflected on his conversation with Joni. On Jake’s domestic bliss and how he and his wife were trying to have a baby. The man deserved to know what he was getting into. “Joe Bogart’s involved.”

  Five seconds of silence followed by a muffled, “Fuck.”

  Murphy scraped his hand along his jaw. “You want out?”

  “Hell, no. What do you take me for?”

  “A happily married man. Wouldn’t blame you for wanting to play things safe.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be happy if something happened to Rudy and JP. They’re my friends too. Afia would be devastated. Even if they don’t figure into this mess, what about the Pollyanna princess? Uh-uh. You called me, I’m in.”

  “Good.”

  “Where are you now?” Jake asked, pushing them past awkward niceties.

  Murphy stated his location while following the limo down a side street and into a crowded parking lot adjacent to Oz, a recently expanded multi-entertainment facility. Due center: Emerald City, a trendy dinner theater. The Wicked Witch west wing featured Flying Monkeys, a Euro-hip rave for partying twenty-somethings. Over The Rainbow skywalk and to the east stood Ruby Slippers, a popular alternative lifestyle dance club.

  “Oh, man,” the P.I. said with a smile in his voice. “You going in?”

  “If they do,” Murphy said, suddenly clear on why Jake wasn’t jealous of his wife’s relationship with Rudy Gallow.

  Jake laughed. “Watch your ass.”

  “You’re a riot, Leeds. Just call me when you have something.” Murphy signed off, pocketed his cell, and ditched the headset. His adrenaline pumped as he watched the trio link arms and hustle toward Ruby Slippers. A couple of Auntie Ems and a Lulu. Oh, and her little dog, Toto, the stuffed pink poodle wonder.

  This case was quickly progressing into the realm of the bizarre.

  He locked away his Glock on the chance the club’s bouncers patted down incoming clientele, left the Jag, and crossed the street. Saturday night in the gaming playground of the east. Suspicious characters abounded.

  He eyed the drunk propped up against a neighboring building with a brown-bagged liquor bottle tipped to his mouth. The two stiletto-heeled prostitutes cruising Pacific Avenue. A rowdy gang of bandana-headed teens. And, dead ahead, the line of patrons awaiting entrance into Ruby Slippers. The majority, mostly men, looked as though they’d stepped off the cover of GQ Magazine—hip hair, chic clothes. Somewhat of a clothing junkie himself, Murphy assumed he’d have no trouble
blending in—the objective if he were to keep an eye on Lulu—as long as he didn’t insult the first guy who asked him to dance.

  To think this morning he’d been hungry for a challenge.

  Chapter Six

  There is no hope of joy except in human relations. Rudy Gallow blocked out the deafening disco music and mentally chanted the obscure quote—Antoine de Saint-Exupery was it? He closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing positive thoughts. Nothing positive would come from reaching across the table and popping his roommate and current lover in his interfering pretty-boy nose. Jean-Pierre hadn’t known what a trial it would be for Rudy when he’d volunteered his chauffeur services to the current entertainment coordinator of Oz, Anthony Rivelli. Didn’t believe Rudy when he’d said he’d rather endure a business slump than get pulled back into the club scene.

  Or maybe he had, and this was all a test. A test to see if Rudy, the former King of Quickies, was capable of frequenting Ruby Slippers on a regular basis without being tempted to stray and indulge, well, in a quickie.

  Or worse, maybe after spending every night of the last four months with him, maybe Jean-Pierre was bored. Yes, they had a common love of gourmet low-cal cooking, classic movies, and Broadway musicals. But Jean-Pierre also liked to party. Rudy knew that before they’d hooked up, because he used to party himself. He’d never been into drugs, never abused alcohol, but he did like to dance.

  And screw around.

  Ruby Slippers had been his second home for several years. Being here now brought back a flood of memories–most good, most illicit. He knew at least a quarter of tonight’s patrons intimately.

  Hell.

  He lifted a full glass of cabernet to his mouth and drank deeply.

  Oblivious to his troubled thoughts, Jean-Pierre scooted closer and draped his arm across the back of Rudy’s chair. “This is nice, no? This working together?”

  “No.” The man’s naturally seductive voice coiled Rudy’s stomach into a delicious knot. Until he’d met Jean-Pierre, he’d never thought a French accent all that sexy. Maybe it wasn’t the accent as much as the man. Damn, he was turning into a sap.