by Beth Ciotta
Wasn’t he?
She pondered his odd reaction to her comment on disappointing children while finishing her meal. What was up with that? Had his parents bailed at a time when he’d really needed them? Or, as an adult, had he let down a nephew? An acquaintance? A son?
Murphy, who wasn’t much of a talker by her standards, ate in companionable silence, refilling her empty wine glass before he cleared their dinner plates. By the time he served the mixed chicories and apple salad, she had a pretty hefty list of questions and observations. Maybe it was her curiosity, maybe it was the wine, but she could no longer curb her tongue.
“Thank you for making dinner,” she said, aiming for a casual segue. “It was delicious. You’re an incredible cook.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks. Both of my mothers loved to cook. Guess it wore off.”
Two moms? She jumped on that subtle clue eager to unravel the mystery of Colin Murphy. “Viv does the same thing,” she noted, stabbing a leaf of radicchio. “Serves salad after the main course. Very Italian of you.”
“I grew up in an Italian household.”
“You did?” The plot thickens. “Given your name, I assumed you were Irish.”
“I am.”
She waited for him to elaborate. Instead he sipped his wine. Jeez. “So you’re … adopted?”
He nodded.
“But you kept your last name.”
Another nod.
For cripes sake. It was like talking to a tree stump. A very attractive tree stump, but nonetheless … Intrigued, Lulu pushed aside her salad and concentrated on the secretive man across the table. It felt good to focus on something other than her dilemma. “So what are your adopted parents’ names?”
“Manny and Rosa Bogart. And before you ask about brothers and sisters, none by blood, one by choice. Joe Bogart. He’s the FBI agent I told you about.”
Well, hello. That explained why he took the agent’s word as gospel. She could tell by his tone of voice that he was fond of the Bogarts, especially his brother. It warmed her heart to know that he had people he cared about, and who undoubtedly cared for him. He seemed like such a loner.
Murphy stood to clear the table. She tried to help, but he relieved her of the plates and shooed her toward the open living area with the vaulted ceiling. She really liked that room. The fireplace. The big screen television. Furniture. “It’ll take me all of three minutes to load the dishwasher,” he said. “You’re my guest. Take your wine in and relax.”
She had to admit she was bone tired, emotionally drained, and a tad tipsy. That brown leather sofa looked darned enticing.
“I grabbed a few DVDs from your collection,” he said as he rinsed the flatware. “Thought we could watch a movie tonight.”
“Sounds nice,” she mumbled, transfixed by his large, strong hands. She suppressed a sigh as she played back the wondrous feel of those long tapered fingers tunneling into her hair and holding her captive while he kissed the daylights out of her. The man was a champion kisser. Blue-ribbon. And that boardwalk kiss had only been for show. Imagine if his actions were fueled by honest-to-God, heartfelt passion. Imagine what he’d be like in bed.
“You all right?”
She started. “What?”
“You’re flushed.”
“I’m hot. I mean, I’m warm. I mean, it’s the wine. I’m fine. Just a relic. I mean a light-weight.”
He grinned. “Maybe you should go sit down.”
Maybe I should keep my head out of your pants. Forcing a weak smile, she attacked a frying pan with a scouring pad while he dropped the rinsed flatware into the dishwasher’s basket. She’d never understood the advantage of a dishwasher if you had to scrub and rinse everything in advance. She preferred washing dishes the old-fashioned way. Then again she’d never owned a dishwasher. She wondered if it had come with the house or if Murphy had actually visited an appliance store. On second thought, she couldn’t imagine him wrangling with a pushy salesman. More than likely he’d cruised the Internet on that fancy computer rig in his library. One-button shopping. The man didn’t own much in the way of furniture, but he sure had a lot of electronic gadgets.
He glanced sideways. “You’re still here.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Another one?”
From the twinkle in his eye she could tell that he was teasing, so she smiled and plowed on. “Why did you buy such a big house?”
“Investment.”
That’s it? That’s all? Investment? Intent on getting to know this man, she ignored the comfy sofa and wiped down the counter. “Ever been married?”
“No.”
“Ever wanted to get married?”
“No.”
So he was either commitment shy or he’d yet to meet the woman of his dreams. Hmm. “Have any children?”
“No.”
“Ever want to have children?”
Pause.
Crap. She draped the damp cloth over the edge of the sink and washed her hands.
He closed up the dishwasher and hit the on button. “It’s a fuc—sorry, screwed up world,” he finally said. “Why would I want to bring a kid into it?”
Despite his vulgar language, his answer should’ve had her bouncing off the walls with glee. He didn’t want to have children. A gift from above. A sexy, intelligent man minus the powerful drive to procreate. But it was the weariness in his voice that kept her joy at bay. “Your kid could make a difference in the world.”
He picked up their wine glasses and headed for the sofa. “Making a difference entails taking risks.”
She trailed after, trying to decode that statement. Settling on the opposite end of the sofa, she untied and toed off her sneakers, and tucked her bare feet beneath her. “So you don’t want to have a kid because you’re worried he or she might get hurt?” Surely he wasn’t that flappable. Not the gun-wielding protection specialist.
“It goes a little deeper than chipped teeth and skinned knees, Princess.”
“Of course it does.” She spouted off fears that must run through every parent’s mind. “What if your kid’s riding his bike and gets hit by a car? What if he gets snatched up by a kidnapper? Or molested by a pedophile?” Her stomach curdled. As much as she tried not to think about it, those things did happen.
“What if your kid gets caught in a cross fire?” he added, proving he was just as good, if not better, at the what if game. A muscle jumped under his left eye. “What if she gets buried in a mudslide or drowns in flood waters? What if he starves due to political chaos?”
He stopped suddenly, and she realized her eyes were wide with horror. She couldn’t help it. His God-awful scenarios had sucked the air from her lungs. She held his troubled gaze while massaging an ache in her chest. “You’re not hypothesizing. You’ve seen those things.”
He broke eye contact and took a healthy swallow of wine. “How the hell did we get on this subject?”
“I asked if you wanted to have children.”
“I’d make a lousy father.” He quirked a self-deprecating smile as he set aside his glass. “I should’ve left it at that.” He reached for the TV remote, thumbed on the power.
She disagreed. He’d make a great dad. Despite the fact that his occupation entailed carrying a gun and no doubt coming to occasional blows, he was intelligent, patient, and caring. Her heart broke for this man. She wanted to know how he’d come to be so cautious and cynical. She wanted to ask how and why he’d witnessed those awful things, but clearly he’d ended the discussion.
She glanced at that screen. That huge mega-sharp, ultra-expensive plasma screen. The Adventures of Robin Hood. A classic. She’d invested in the collector’s special edition DVD with all the bells and whistles. He’d probably picked it for the adventure, but it was the romance between Robin and Marian that won Lulu’s heart. She made it through the opening credits, before risking another glance at her host. “Colin?”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
He glanced over, wary.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll come to you.” She scooted over and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t freak out or anything. I just thought you could use a hug.”
He let out a breath, pulled her onto his lap. “Hon, if anyone needs comforting it’s you. You’ve got an enamored mobster on your tail.”
“I’m not worried. You’re really good at your job, right?”
He smiled. “Right.” He relaxed against the sofa, stroked her hair, and fell silent as they both seemingly focused on the movie.
She ignored the tingling between her legs, the almighty pull to tilt her face up for one of those blue-ribbon kisses. She told herself that this was about comforting Murphy, not exploring her ever-increasing sexual urges.
She forced her attention to the on-screen action—Robin and Marian, the rebel and the maiden—but her mind whirled with another adventure. Lulu and Murphy—the princess and the bodyguard. Lulled by his warm caress and the lingering Chablis, Lulu closed her eyes, and gave over to her imagination. If nothing else, she could dream.
“Wake up and smell the espresso, Rudy. You’re in love.”
Rudy didn’t shift. He didn’t wince or frown or laugh. He just stared at Sofie as the bomb she’d hurled lobbed him in the chest. His breath seized as he waited for the explosion. Afia had made the same observation months ago, after he’d first acknowledged an attraction to Jean-Pierre. He hadn’t argued. It was definitely that giddy, walking-on-air feeling that most people attribute to being “in love.” But this was different. This was deeper, darker, and frightening in its intensity.
Sofie’s bomb scared the hell out of him.
He wouldn’t have confided in her but Afia was off-limits just now, and his houseguest had walked in while he’d been trying to numb his heightened emotions with a bottle of Merlot and an ear blistering session with ABBA’s greatest hits. He’d been obsessing on this afternoon’s bizarre blow out. The way he’d felt when Lulu had railed into Jean-Pierre. He’d wanted to get in her face and to hurt her as deeply as she’d hurt his lover. He’d never yelled at a woman. Not once. Not for any reason. Knowing that she was upset was the only thing that had enabled him to keep his anger in check.
Other feelings were an entirely different matter. He’d experienced a sharp pain in his chest, so severe, that for a split second he’d imagined he was having a coronary. It was the first time he’d seen Jean-Pierre genuinely upset, and he’d felt sick. All he wanted to do was make it right. His physical reaction to his partner’s emotional pain was so over-the-top it had thrown him for a cataclysmic loop.
He’d been relieved when Jean-Pierre had received a phone call from Ruby Slippers regarding a distraught queen and an emergency wardrobe crisis. He’d thanked his lucky stars when Sofie had been called in to cover a shift at the Carnevale, allowing him total privacy to spaz out.
But then she’d returned home an hour early, catching him two-thirds of the way through the bottle and mid-chorus on “Take A Chance On Me.” She’d badgered him until he’d spilled his guts. Now life as he knew it was about to be blown to smithereens. Just as soon as he acknowledged that bomb.
“Denying the truth won’t change it,” Sofie said, as if reading his mind. “You might as well suck it up, admit it, and get on with life. A life with a sexy, talented partner with a heart of gold, I might add. A devoted partner who’s willing to work himself into the ground to make your dream come true. Do you know how lucky you are?”
The question of the week. “Yeah, I know how lucky I am.” That was the problem. Jean-Pierre, their relationship, was too good to be true. After years of playing the field, he’d poured his energy into turning his life around. Six months and a stack of self-help books later and—Ta-dah!—there was Jean-Pierre. It was too flipping simple. It couldn’t be this easy. And now he’d complicated matters by falling in love with the man.
BOOM!
“Ah, hell.”
Sofie huffed an exasperated breath and grabbed the bottle out of his hand. “Why are you so freaking upset?”
“Why are you so freaking angry?” Rudy watched while she poured herself a glass of wine, only too happy to focus on someone else’s problems.
“Because my life sucks!” She slammed down the bottle and whirled on him. “I had the bad sense to believe a man when he said he loved me and promised me the world. I’m almost thirty and I’m thousands of miles from Hollywood. Instead of standing on a stage or in front of a camera, I’m standing in front of a frickin’ sweepstakes bin. My sweet sister’s being stalked by a maniac, and my hands are tied because of an arrogante mucca who thinks I’m eye candy!”
Rudy pushed out of his recliner. He had his arms around Sofie just as she burst into tears. She’d lost him at arrogante mucca, but he heard her other woes loud and clear. His own troubles fell by the wayside as he stroked a comforting palm down her spine. “Nothing’s going to happen to Lulu, honey. She’s got Murphy and Jake. She’s got us. And for the record, you’re two years from thirty and one hour from the Philadelphia airport. If you wanted, you could be in Tinseltown by tomorrow morning.” He gave her a quick squeeze and then guided her to the couch. “Now, let’s talk about the asshole who broke your heart.”
His chest hurt like hell. Murphy told himself it had everything to do with the CNN report he’d just watched on the conflict in the Middle East and nothing to do with the conflict raging within. He’d survived enhanced training programs, Desert Storm, and natural and man-made disasters. He could sure as hell survive Lulu’s hugs. He could stand fierce in the face of her good will. He refused to be charmed by her antiquated values. As far as wanting to ball her brains out, well, he continued to wrestle that demon.
He had the boner to prove it. He’d been hot and hard, oh, a good three hours now. The moment she’d curled up on his lap, Russell the love muscle had sprung to life. Fortunately, she’d fallen asleep ten minutes into the movie. It had saved him from trying to explain his predicament.
Man, he was an ass. Her intentions had been pure, not sexual. She’d tried to comfort him because, Christ, for a moment he’d put his guts on the table. He still couldn’t believe it. He never talked about those humanitarian ops. But Lulu had a strange effect on him. She started talking about marriage and kids, and his insides twisted in a new and painful way. Talk about taking risks. He’d lost a mother and father. He couldn’t imagine losing a wife and child. Not when he could so easily imagine one thousand freaking calamities.
But then she’d fallen asleep in his arms and, for one hundred and two minutes, the running time of The Adventures of Robin Hood, all was right with the world.
If they awarded medals for superhuman control, he’d be polishing a couple right now. One for carrying her upstairs to the guest room instead of depositing her in his bed. Another for enduring the major discomfort of a stubborn erection. Waxing the soldier wasn’t an option. The object of his desire was sleeping just upstairs. He’d already tried a cold shower, although another might not—his body tensed at the sound of creaking—hurt.
Strike that. The object of his desire was descending the stairs. Damn.
“Colin?”
His heart fluttered at the sound of her shaky voice. “I’m in here,” he called out. Worried that she’d suffered a panic attack, he kicked off his sheets, swung out of bed and reached for his boxers. “Hold on. I’ll be out in a—” he glanced up at a soft intake of breath “—flash.” Oh, shit. She was standing on his threshold. She’d changed into a pair of baggy pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt. He, on the other hand, was buck naked.
The lights were out, but his nineteen-inch television was on and illuminating him in all his seven-inch glory.
Ooo-kay. Here’s the part where Miss Goody Two-shoes runs screaming from the room. Except she just stood there. “I can’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us.” Okay, bonehead. Step into your shorts. You’re holding them in your right hand. All you have to do is bend down
and …
“It’s too quiet upstairs,” she said, shifting her weight, but not her gaze. “And dark. I turned on a light but, well, my imagination …”
“Yeah, you’ve got a whopper.” He regained his senses enough to stab one leg into his boxers.
“I changed my mind. I would feel safer if we …” She glanced at his rumpled bed.
“Slept together?” Holy Christ. He yanked his shorts up and over his package, for all the good it did. His pole tented the thin fabric. He’d felt less self-conscious in the raw.
Lulu glanced toward the television, wrung her hands. “Did I come at a bad time?”
He blinked at her word choice, stifled a laugh. Then he realized he’d muted the audio, and she wasn’t standing at an angle where she could see the screen. Great, so she thought he was watching porn. “Just catching up on the news.” Snap out of it, Murphy. He pulled on a fresh T-shirt and snatched up one of four pillows. “Climb in. I’ll bunk on the floor.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Trust me, I’ve slept on worse.”
“No, I … really. I wouldn’t feel right putting you out. I …” She threw up her hands, sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal. Even though your house is minutes from civilization, it’s so secluded within the pines, I feel like I’m in the boonies. I’m a little freaked out from that creep’s phone call today. I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow, but tonight, I just …” She tugged at the hem of her thigh-grazing shirt. “I don’t want to sleep alone. I know it’s an imposition.”
“It’s not an imposition.” He climbed back into bed, pulled back the covers and motioned her over. He could do this. Nuns and puppies. Nuns and puppies.
She climbed in next to him, right up against him, though she was careful to keep her hands clasped to her chest. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept with a man. I mean in the same bed. I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” Christ.
“This is really nice of you.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You really are watching the news.”
Since she was looking at the television, he lazed his head left and looked at her. Her face scrubbed free of makeup, her hair tousled, she looked pure and wild, and man he wanted to kiss her—slow, wet, deep. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss, but he couldn’t go there. Couldn’t even think about it. He was nice.
