by Beth Ciotta
Jean-Pierre flitted around the kitchen cleaning up. Rudy returned to the table, sat, and studied her as he sipped his coffee.
She fidgeted. “What?”
“How is it possible that you and Sofie are half-Italian and neither one of you cooks?”
“I cook.”
“Nuking ready made soups and TV dinners doesn’t count.” Rudy shook his head. “You eat poorly. Sofie doesn’t eat at all.”
She purposely laid down her fork so as not to clang it against her plate. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
Jean-Pierre made a strangled sound. “Dangerous territory, mon amour.”
Rudy waved him off. “No, I’m not saying you’re fat. Why do women always go there? Good nutrition isn’t always about losing weight. It’s about maintaining good health.”
“I’m fit.” She downed the rest of the orange juice. At least she was chock full of vitamin C.
He snorted. “You’re a cream puff. I’m thinking you should follow Sofie’s example.”
“And starve myself?”
“No, smarty pants. Join our Tae Kwon Do class. Exercise your mind and body and learn how to defend yourself in the process.”
She didn’t like where this conversation was going. “I can take care of myself.”
“What would you do if someone attacked you?”
“I don’t know. Scream, I guess.”
“That would be my first reaction,” Jean-Pierre said.
Rudy glowered.
“Someone told me once that you should scream, Fire! Even if it’s a mugging or attempted rape. They said people are more likely to run to your rescue if they think it’s a fire.” She cast Jean-Pierre a befuddled look. “Isn’t that horrible?”
“Shocking.”
Rudy frowned, closed his eyes as if counting to three, and then focused on Lulu. “This is unacceptable. If you don’t want to come to class, I’ll give you self-defense pointers myself.”
“What’s this sudden concern about my being attacked?” Then it dawned on her. She narrowed her eyes, drummed her fingers on the table. “You’ve been talking to Murphy. Mr. I-don’t-like-where-you-hide-your-house-key. Well, he’s just totally paranoid.”
“He has good reason to be concerned,” Rudy said.
She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Jean-Pierre cleared his throat. “We have been sworn to secrecy.”
She crinkled her brow. “By who? Murphy?”
“Jake.”
Lulu gritted her teeth as her temper began a slow burn. “Jake who?”
“Jake Leeds,” Rudy said, sliding an exasperated glance at his partner. “Afia’s husband.”
Rudy’s best friend. The sweet young woman she’d met at the daycare center. “Isn’t he, like, a private investigator?”
“Exactly so,” said Jean-Pierre.
Her leg bounced with nervous energy. “What’s he got to do with anything?”
“He’s a friend of Murphy’s.”
“Yes, but …” she hopped up out of her chair and began to pace. “Oh, my, God. What’s Sofie gotten herself into?”
Again she caught the two men trading looks.
“What? What?” She stopped in her tracks and threw up her hands. “Stop doing that. Whatever it is, whatever you know—just tell me.”
Rudy rose with a sigh. “Calm down, honey.” He gripped her shoulders and guided her back into a kitchen chair. “Just sit for a minute. Take a breath.”
“Have a cinnamon roll,” Jean-Pierre said, setting the entire tray in front of her.
“I don’t want a cinnamon roll. I want to know what’s going on.”
Rudy frowned and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “When Murphy gets back—”
“He’s coming back?” she squeaked.
“He’s moving in for a while.” Jean-Pierre dropped into the chair next to her. “Sofie invited him—”
“Oh, no. Uh-uh. No way.” She rose stiffly and backed toward the kitchen door. “If Sof’s in so much trouble that she needs a bodyguard, we’ll just go to the police.” How was she supposed to function in close quarters with a man who made her soul soar? A man who made her do idiot things like suggesting sex in a closet? Oh, no. No no no!
Rudy got to his feet, frowned down at Jean-Pierre. “You suck at this undercover stuff.”
“You are the one who lost his cool and brought up the attacker,” Jean-Pierre countered.
“What are you, Starsky and Hutch? What attacker?” Lulu threw up her hands and stormed out of the kitchen. Her heart thundered in her ears. She wanted answers and she wanted them now. She marched to the base of the steps and yelled up at her sister just as she’d done countless times when they were kids. “Sofie! Wake up! Get your butt down here!”
She swiveled to find Rudy and Jean-Pierre standing directly behind her. “Where’s Murphy?”
“We don’t know.” Rudy held up his hands in self-defense. “Swear.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Would Jake know?” She yelled up the stairs again. “Sofia Chiquita Marino!”
“Probably.”
Jeez, it was like pulling teeth. “Well, where the heck is he?”
Jean-Pierre cocked a head toward the front of the house. “Outside. Making sure no bad guys get in.”
“Oh, for … I suppose he’s wearing a trench coat and hiding in the bushes.”
Rudy smirked. “No. He’s wearing a cute denim ensemble and sitting in his Mustang. Now will you please come back into the kitchen and—”
“Does he have a gun?”
The two men looked at each other.
Blood pounded in her ears. “It’s a sunny Sunday morning, and this house sits one block from the boardwalk and beach. Do you have any idea how many children ride their bikes up and down this street? And your friend’s out there with a gun, ready to shoot it out with the bad guys?”
Rudy jammed a hand through his hair. “Well, I don’t think—”
“Obviously!”
Sofie skidded down the stairs in a skimpy satin robe, hair mussed, eyes wide. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Lulu glared at her sister. “This is all your fault!” she shouted and then flew out the door with the force of a tornado.
Chapter Ten
The calm before the storm. Murphy acknowledged the familiar sensation, his muscles knotted with anticipation as he stepped into the Jacuzzi shower. Charged air. Eerie quiet. Unstable conditions ripe with the threat of disaster.
He braced his hands on the granite wall and lowered his head. Four pulsing jet sprays pounded the hell out of his tense body. Even though he’d achieved REM sleep, his power nap had been a bust. He’d dreamt, vividly, of Lulu. A fairytale princess who tasted like bubblegum. An adventurous mermaid hunted by a voracious predator.“Shark,” she’d whispered.
He’d jerked awake in a clammy sweat.
Preying on an innocent. Someone who dedicated her life to children. A woman who carried a poodle purse and said words like “jeez” and “crap.” He knew this was a sick world. He’d learned that when he was ten years old and his Ma and Da had died in a fire. And all because Charlie Murphy had stood up to “the bad guys.”
Senseless violence.
Murphy lifted his face to the shower spray, willing it to wash away the shitty feeling of helplessness. If Bogie hadn’t invited him along on a family camping trip that fateful weekend, he would’ve died that night too. He’d dealt with the guilt long ago by making a personal commitment to protect the innocent. Bogie had made the same commitment, two weepy, snotty-nosed, ten-year-old boys signing a pact in blood.
But his friend had chosen a different path. A path that consistently steered him into Mafia waters. Only this time Murphy feared he was in over his head. Bogie still hadn’t called. Which meant he couldn’t call. Not without blowing his cover.
Somehow, someway, Lulu had crossed paths with Bogie and an underworld slime ball.
“Don’t tell her she wa
s drugged. She’ll think it’s the end of the world.”
Sofie had verified his suspicions that Lulu was a poster girl for sugar and spice and everything nice. Untainted. Untouched by the cynical world. Talk about a rarity. And all he could think about was corrupting her. Getting in her ruffled bloomers and driving her to orgasm … again and again.
Murphy swore under his breath as he scratched shampoo through his hair and soaped his thrumming body parts. This op was a personal nightmare. Being sexually attracted to the principal was a major pain in the ass, unprofessional, and risky. Maintaining emotional distance was essential to clear thinking.
He tossed the soap in the caddy. “I’m screwed.”
In addition to Lulu, Bogie was involved. He’d pondered the dilemma after Sofie had gone to bed, her words ringing in his ears. “How are you going to protect my sister?” The answer was simple. By moving in. By shadowing her every move. Although, without his team, the actual execution would be slightly more complicated.
Never one to shirk a challenge, Murphy had placed a call to Jake and then hauled ass home, an isolated four-bedroom Tudor nestled in the Pine Barrens, to regroup and pack a suitcase.
The suitcase was packed. Regrouping was another matter.
His normally buried emotions were abnormally floating near the surface. Although he’d effectively protected Lulu for a few hours by entrusting her to Jake and the dynamic duo, he could do nothing to shield his childhood friend and surrogate brother. Special Agent Joseph Bogart was fearless. He also had a heart as vast and deep as the Atlantic, and that, Murphy had always sworn, would be his lethal downfall.
He told himself to trust in Bogie’s superior judgment and abilities. He adjusted the faucet for a frigid blast of cold and ordered himself to get a grip.
By the time he’d rinsed off and dressed in fresh jeans and a knit pullover, he had it together. Calm, rational, and objective. Mr. Cool.
Until his cell phone rang and Jake said, “Cute and bubbly? She’s a freaking nut! She threatened to call the cops unless I drove away or came inside the house.”
Murphy reached back and massaged a twinge in his neck. “Where are you now?”
“Hiding out in her bathroom. Mark my words, this will be the longest leak of my life. She accused me of endangering children!”
“She likes kids. A lot.”
“Well, so do I. I also like my Glock. I can’t believe I let her talk me into handing it over.”
Neither could Murphy. Then again, she had juggled her way out of a speeding ticket. Innocent, but enterprising. He smiled. The tension in his shoulders eased. “You’ll get it back.”
“I better.”
Jake relayed the details of the confrontation. Murphy nabbed his suitcase and exited the organized sanctity of the master bedroom. His gaze skated over the spacious living area as he whizzed through the downstairs conducting an habitual security check. Everything in its place, not that he owned anything outside of essentials. There was a certain comfort level in living simply. Though he was certain the packrat Marinos would disagree. Only someone who’d lost everything would understand. “I need to swing by the pub and take care of some business. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
“Handle business over the phone and make it thirty. I think Gallow’s about to crack. Your Pollyanna princess almost made JP cry. She’s brutal, man.” “What about her sister?” “Tough on the ego. Easy on the eyes.” “Easy on the eyes?” Murphy shrugged into his leather jacket, and moved toward the front door. “You are happily married.” Sofia Marino was a walking, talking centerfold. Not that he’d been affected by her blatant sexuality. Still he appreciated the package.
“Deliriously in love. So shoot me. I’d shoot myself,” Jake snarled into the phone, “but I don’t have my fucking gun!”
Smiling, Murphy initialized the house’s security system. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
Lulu rarely wigged out. But when she did, it was ugly. She’d pace, rant, lecture, and go for the jugular. Certain things pushed her buttons. Cruelty to humans and animals. Someone threatening a friend or family member. Violence. She’d imagined a renegade bullet hitting an innocent child, and she’d seen red.
Jake Leeds had endured the brunt of her rage. He’d talked a cool game, but trying to reason with her only made her angrier. “How can you justify hurting someone?” she’d shouted. It wasn’t until she’d threatened to call the police that he’d relinquished his gun. Begrudgingly.
She’d taken it. Begrudgingly.
She’d felt nauseous, as she’d wrapped her fingers around an implement of death. What kind of person aimed and shot at another person? Did the shooter experience pangs of remorse when he hit his target? She supposed soldiers and police officers felt justified, and rationally she understood that, but did they feel remorse? How did someone kill and live with it? Self-preservation, she imagined, would entail hardening one’s heart. Developing a tough hide.
Jake Leeds, she’d decided after five minutes in his company, was definitely tough. Talking him out of his weapon had been a cinch compared to obtaining information. He’d answered all of her questions with a dry, “Ask Murphy.”
Frustrated, she’d laid into Sofie, who’d stonewalled her with a grumpy, “I haven’t had my coffee yet.” So she’d turned on Rudy and Jean-Pierre. She couldn’t remember half of what she’d spewed, but it must’ve been pretty rough. Jean-Pierre had clammed up. Jake had fled for the bathroom. Rudy had shot a scathing look, saying, “We’re on a need-to-know basis, Lulu. We know that you’re in danger.”
“You mean Sofie’s in danger,” she’d corrected.
Her sister had shoved her bed-mussed hair off her face, saying, “Rudy had it right. Now stop badgering everyone and … “ She sniffed the air. “Well, that smells decadent.” She gave a wistful sigh, and regarded Lulu with a sympathetic smile. “Indulge in a cinnamon roll, hon. God knows I can’t. I’m going to get dressed. Murphy should be back soon. He’ll explain.”
And with that the red haze of anger transformed into a purple swirl of confusion. She wanted to ask Sofie for details, but her sister was already halfway up the stairs. She wanted to ask Rudy and Jean-Pierre, but they escaped into the living room. Jake was MIA.
Her boiling rage cooled. Sofie wasn’t in danger!
Count your blessings.
Relief flooded through her, making her joints swishy. She dragged herself into the living room and sank down in Viv’s chair. Fear had robbed her of her usual calm. Fear that someone wanted to hurt Sofie. Fear that Jake might accidentally shoot a child. Mindblowing anxiety combined with the panic of having to deal with her attraction to Murphy.
She’d flipped.
Cheeks burning, she glanced over at Rudy and Jean-Pierre. They sat side by side on the couch in stony-faced silence. They’d never seen that side of her. Sofie had been unfazed, then again Sofie knew that soon after Lulu blew her cork, she fizzled out and quite often regretted her harsh words.
Well, she’d blown, fizzled, and now she was regretting big time.
“I’m sorry, guys. I freaked.”
Rudy grunted. “I’ll say. In addition to Tae Kwon Do, you might want to consider anger management classes.”
Shell-shocked, Jean-Pierre blinked and scratched his forehead. “Merde.”
Contrite, Lulu stared at the toes of her sneakers. When Jean-Pierre had repeated his “sworn to secrecy” plea, she’d railed, “What kind of a friend are you?” In truth, he was the best of friends, and she knew her jab had cut deeply. “I didn’t mean what I said, Jean-Pierre.”
“I know.” He cleared his throat. “Do not fret, Chaton. All is well.”
Rudy interlaced his fingers with Jean-Pierre’s, clearly worried his partner was still upset. “Where the hell is Murphy?”
“On his way.” Jake Leeds walked in and dropped into the rocker recliner.
Regret continued to sing through Lulu’s veins. She’d not only hurt Jean-Pierre. She’d ticked off Rudy.
“You’re not yelling,” Jake noted.
She glanced up, her voice thick with embarrassment. “I overreacted.”
He met her gaze, a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Can I have my gun?”
“Are you leaving?”
“No.”
“Then, no.” She regretted a lot of things, confiscating his gun was not one of them.
Sofie strode into the living room wearing funky-heeled, pointy-toed boots, slim-fitting black pants, and a bright red form-fitting T-shirt. Her subtle make-up and upswept ponytail suggested she was going for casual. She’d achieved stunning.
Lulu glanced over to see if Jake’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth. It wasn’t. Then again, he’d seen Sofie in a skimpy robe and had done little more than raise a brow. He must really love his wife, she thought with a pang. Rudy was right. Not all men were schmucks.
A knock on the door caused Sofie to spin on her heels and Lulu to sit ramrod straight.
Murphy.
Anxiety bubbled. She would have preferred hostility. Anger was preferable to confusion. Certainly preferable to excitement. The man had introduced chaos and guns into her safe, calm world. How was it possible that she was actually looking forward to seeing him?
She sprang to her feet as Sofie led the infamous bodyguard into the living room. He looked freshly showered and shaved, and to-die-for handsome in his casual, yet hip, attire. Again she noted how he and Sofie complemented one another. Dark hair. Dark eyes. They’d make beautiful babies.
She massaged an ache in her chest, her pulse quickening when she realized she was the object of Murphy’s sole attention.
“We need to talk, Princess.” His tone, like his expression, was eerily calm, as if to say, “Don’t panic. It’ll be all right.”
Viv had taken a similar approach when she’d sat the sisters down to relay the news that their dad and Sof’s mom had perished in a car accident. Lulu had been only seven at the time, but she well remembered the creepy suspense. Presently, her entire body buzzed with similar dread. She didn’t want to hear whatever Murphy had to say, but rather than running from the room, she balled her clammy hands into fists and stood her ground. “Where’s your gun?”
