Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed

by Beth Ciotta

  Nuns and puppies. Nuns and puppies.

  “So men at war turn you on?”

  He scrunched his brow. “What?” Then he realized she was finally acknowledging his hard-on. He glanced at the screen, soaked in the replay of a U.S. missile strike. Though it did inspire him to cheer OohRah!—once a Marine, always a Marine—it wasn’t an aphrodisiac. Two choices here. Admit the truth—she turned him on—or change the subject. “Tell me about The Spookytown Scare.”

  Her head lulled right. “Tell me what you did before you were a protection specialist.”

  He met her gaze and allowed himself to bask in her tender regard, unable, this moment, to deny her anything. “I served in the military. MEU SOC.”

  “Which stands for …”

  “Marine Expeditionary Unit. Special Operations Capable.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” When he didn’t comment she added, “What does that mean? What did you do?”

  The list was long and varied. He chose a few select tasks, purposely excluding things like ground offensive combat and hostage extraction. “Peacekeeping/ Enforcement. Humanitarian/Disaster Relief. Security Operations.”

  “Sounds very noble.” She glanced back at the screen. “Did you ever have to shoot your gun?”

  “I encountered hostiles, yes.”

  “And?”

  Mentally, he took ten paces back. Distance is key. Distance equals survival. “You don’t want to know particulars.”

  “You mean you don’t want to talk about it.” She winced as the camera zoomed in on the carnage of a roadside bomb.

  Murphy reached for the remote and searched for a sitcom. “Tell me about The Spookytown Scare. What’s an eyeball relay?”

  She turned toward him, her hands pillowed beneath her head, a smile curving her full lips. “It’s really cool.”

  She described the relay, and he had to admit if he were a six-year-old kid, “cool” would be his response. “Pass the Skeleton” sounded equally fun. So did “Spider Bowling.” Where did she get these ideas? What impressed him most was the loonytale itself. She’d managed to point out the ugliness of prejudice and the beauty of working together within an action-packed interactive story. He turned toward her, transfixed by her imagination and enthusiasm as she narrated the setup.

  “Once upon a time there was a wacky, eerie, magical city called Spookytown. Wizards and witches lived in Spookytown. Bats and cats lived in Spookytown. Monsters and mummies and ghouls and ghosts. Creepy creatures, big and small, they all lived in Spookytown. And mostly they all got along. Mostly.

  “There were a few troublemakers,” she said, crinkling her brow. “Frankie Frankenstein, Wanda Witch, Gus the Ghost, and Scarlett Skeleton. But mostly everyone ignored them. Mostly.

  “One year these pesky troublemakers stirred up a pesky batch of trouble. That year, Wardorf the Whimsical Wizard of Spookytown almost canceled Halloween. Almost. It was the scariest time ever in Spookytown. Thus, they called it the Spookytown Scare.”

  Murphy smiled as she went on to describe how she’d divide the children into four groups—representing the divided town—and how each would have a specific response every time she called their group name. The Freaky Frankensteins growled, the Wacky Witches cackled, the Ghastly Ghosts booed, and the Scary Skeletons moaned.

  For a few blissful moments he was an innocent, carefree boy totally absorbed in a new-fangled ghost story. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed. This … good. As her lids drifted shut and her words dissolved into a halting whisper, Murphy acknowledged the ache in his chest for what it was. Apparently he did do women who carried pink poodle purses and lived on Mars. At least this one.

  Lulu had fallen asleep in the midst of the Freaky Frankenstein rebellion, leaving him wanting more. Much more. He reached over and gently smoothed golden curls from her sweet face, as sunshine flooded the dark crevices of his heart. No wonder he hadn’t recognized that curious ache right off.

  This was a first.

  He was in love.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She was in trouble. Tangled in bed sheets and snuggled against something warm, Lulu woke up smiling. She smelled fabric softener and fruit and spice. Heaven, she thought. Then she opened her eyes and realized that heaven was Colin Murphy. And she wasn’t just snuggled against this hunky gift to mankind; she was wrapped around him like a ribbon.

  Oh, boy.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs as she vacillated between euphoria and depression. She’d come to his room last night because she’d been truly spooked, but more than that she’d been aroused. She’d dreamt of getting down and really dirty with Murphy. She’d awakened wet and aching for something between her legs, specifically, Murphy’s John Thomas. The remnants of a glass of wine had given her the courage to come knocking. But then she’d walked in and found herself staring at the star of her naughty fantasy and, surprise, bonus, Mr. John Thomas himself.

  Her dream hadn’t done the pair justice.

  Murphy had an incredible body. A hard body. Toned, defined, trim. What kind of rigors did one have to go through to get that buff? She’d shuddered at the thought of five-mile-runs and weight machines. Then her gaze had landed on JT and her body had pulsed with a different kind of appreciation. No doubt about it, the former soldier/present bodyguard was a work of art. Was it any wonder she’d stood there gawking?

  Unfortunately, the heat of the moment had fried her brain. Courage went on holiday, and Lulu went on auto-pilot. Instead of being brazen, she’d waited for him to take the lead. He was naked. He had an erection. They were halfway there. All he had to do was snatch her up, toss her on the bed, and rip off her clothes. Instead, he’d tugged on boxer shorts and a baggy Tee. The message clear: No sex.

  A huge disappointment. But then he’d climbed into bed and had invited her to join him. To her credit she’d refrained from doing the happy dance. Barely.

  She was truly pathetic. All they’d done was talk—no kissing, no fondling, and yet it had been the most sexually-charged night of her life.

  Suppressing a sigh, Lulu contemplated her current situation. Were she Sofie, she’d slip her hands beneath Murphy’s underwear and coax him awake. Surely that would arouse—ha!—his interest. But she wasn’t Sofie. Her experience with men was limited. Her experience was with Terry. Period. She’d never been the aggressor. She didn’t know where to begin.

  Confidence shattered, she held her breath and gingerly extracted her limbs from Murphy’s. Escaping now was the only way to avoid further embarrassment. If he woke up, how would she explain the fact that she’d practically slept on top of him?

  Cursing herself a supreme loser, she eased from his bed and tiptoed from the room. She needed to busy her mind. She needed to feel feminine and useful. She wanted to do something nice for a man who’d provided humanitarian relief and encountered hostiles.

  To think she’d thought she was making a positive difference via her loonytales. Suddenly her world felt very small and her contribution woefully insignificant.

  Sadly, it occurred to her, maybe it was time for her to grow up.

  Murphy stared up at the ceiling, slightly disoriented. He’d felt Lulu stir against him and for the first time in his life he’d been paralyzed. He’d wanted to hold her fast. Midway through the night she’d tossed an arm over his chest, then a leg over his thighs. He’d worked an arm under and around her, pulling her closer. In answer she’d moaned and snuggled her face into the crook of his shoulder. Her hair tickled his face and her knee rested a little too close to his nads, but he would’ve stayed that way for a week and a day.

  He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d slept with a woman without having sex. Yet he couldn’t remember ever feeling this satisfied. The morning after, and he wanted it to go on forever.

  She wanted to disappear.

  He’d let her go without letting on he was awake. Knowing her, as he was beginning to feel he did, he imagined that, come the light of day, she’d re
verted to her old-fashioned senses. So she’d saved them the awkwardness of morning breath, bed-hair, and inane small talk. She’d slipped away. And now, he was lying here cursing himself for letting her go.

  Colin Murphy: paralyzed. His team would never believe it. Not that he had any intention of sharing. This qualified as a bona fide kiss-and-don’t-tell op.

  His cell phone chimed. His brain reconnected to his body. Halle-freakin-lujah. He snagged the phone from the nightstand. “Murphy.”

  “You alone?”

  Unfortunately. “Yeah. What’s up, Jake?”

  “A lot. Listen I’ve only got a few minutes before Afia climbs out of the shower. I don’t want her to walk in on this discussion.”

  Murphy swung out of bed and headed for the master bath. “I’m listening.” He shut the door, turned on the faucet, and nabbed his toothpaste out of the medicine cabinet.

  “I did some digging late last night. Major expedition. Came up with some disturbing dirt.”

  “Hit me.” He scrubbed his teeth while listening.

  “That renovation on Oz last year, the one where they added on Flying Monkeys? Karl Jackson had a silent backer. Vincent Falcone.”

  Murphy’s shoulder muscles bunched. He’d known they were dealing with the mob. But the Falcones? Christ. He rinsed and spit. “Bogie made contact with Sofie last night. He told her to stay away from Oz. Told her Lulu’s admirer is a dangerous man with a reputation for abusing the women he’s obsessed with.”

  “There are rumors that the big guy has a thing for younger woman. Speculation as to more than one unsolved murder linked to the Falcones. The feds have been after this guy for years.”

  “Yeah, and maybe they’ve found a way to get to him through Oz. But he’s not my mark.” Murphy splashed water on his face. “Vincent’s gotta be pushin’ seventy. The bastard that drugged her, the one she recognized from Ruby Slippers and a birthday party, was younger. She pegged him in his late thirties, early forties. Average height and weight. Short, black hair.”

  “You’ve just described any one of a dozen wise guys in the Falcone organization.”

  “I know.” He toweled his face dry, padded back into his bedroom. “Listen, Jake, I appreciate the information and your concern, but we need to pull back. Obviously, the Bureau is coordinating a sting. Bogie needs Lulu’s stalker to make the score. He said it’ll be over within a week. He wants me to do my job, so he can do his. My job is to keep Lulu safe.”

  “What about Rudy and Jean-Pierre?”

  “What about them?”

  “They work at Oz. What if they get caught in the middle of whatever’s going down?”

  “What if they’re essential to whatever’s going down?”

  Jake lowered his voice to a growl. “Are you saying they’re willing participants in a criminal activity?”

  “I’m saying they could be playing an unwitting part. If they both pull out it could blow the case, or at the very least, raise suspicions.” Bogie was undercover. If he got burned … He shut down the vivid consequences springing to mind. “The feds aren’t in the habit of endangering innocents.”

  “Shit happens.”

  He couldn’t argue that point. “Sometimes the payoff is worth the risk.” Taking down the Falcone organization—a network of unscrupulous dickheads much like the ones responsible for his parents’ deaths—sure as hell qualified. Murphy stabbed his legs into a pair of jeans, his mood darkening.

  “I’m not risking Rudy’s and Jean-Pierre’s safety,” Jake said, his gruff tone laced with fire. “And there’s something else. Anthony Rivelli, Rudy and JP’s immediate boss. He has a past with Vincent Falcone’s daughter. I thought he’d broken off. I need to know if he’s mixed up in family business. It’s … personal. I need specifics about that sting, Murphy.”

  “I don’t have specifics.”

  “Then get them. You’ve got ‘til the end of the day.”

  Jake disconnected and Murphy tossed the cell on his bed. “Fuck.” Damn Jake and that overprotective streak. If he endangered Bogie in any way, swear to God … He shook his head. Yeah, okay, so he’d just called the kettle black. They were both concerned about friends, but dammit, how was he going to get specifics unless he contacted Bogie—whose cell phone was being monitored.

  This morning was off to a freaking amazing start.

  He stepped into the hall and experienced sensory overload. His nostrils twitched at an acrid stench. The smoke alarm screeched in unison with a woman’s scream. Murphy’s feet sprouted wings and he flew like a bat out of hell toward the commotion. When he hit the kitchen, he was smacked with a nightmare out of his past. Eye-tearing smoke, scorching flames, and a wild-eyed woman running for her life. Except it wasn’t his Ma, but Lulu, and the fire was contained to a skillet.

  “Drop it,” he ordered, while grabbing a fire extinguisher from under the sink. But she continued her panicked trek toward the back porch door. The flames licked higher, wider. Blood running cold, he discharged the dry chemical dousing the fire, enshrouding Lulu in a white fog.

  She dropped the pan with a yelp.

  Murphy dropped the extinguisher with a curse and disengaged the alarm. He pulled the gasping woman into his arms examining her for burns. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I … yes. I guess.” She coughed, waved away smoke, and palmed her forehead. “I think I singed my eyebrows.”

  He inspected her face, her hands, her arms. “No, you’re okay.” Regardless, his heart drummed against his chest. He glanced down at the smoking pan, remembered a fireman’s words, “Your mother ran back into the inferno.” His boyhood rage exploded. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Lulu swallowed hard, licked her lips. “I was making you breakfast, and I don’t know what happened. I turned away from the stove to put bread in the toaster and when I turned back the eggs were on fire. I poured water on them, but the flames shot higher.”

  Un-fucking-believable. “Smother the flames with a lid or drench them with baking soda, but never use water. It only splatters the grease and increases the fire.” He squeezed her shoulders, trying to talk over the roar in his ears. “Never, ever, try to carry a grease fire outside. The pan will get too hot to carry, and you’ll spread the fire throughout the entire area. Not to mention the fact that you could have been seriously burned!”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I … It was an accident. You don’t have to yell. All I could think about was getting the pan outside before I caught the whole house on fire.”

  “I don’t care about the fucking house! I care about you.”

  She blinked at him as though he’d gone mad. Which he had. He’d smelled smoke, seen Lulu and the fire, and he’d thought the worst. What if … what if … what if!

  His adrenaline spiked. He tangled his fingers in her hair and jerked her body against his. He ravaged her mouth, a frantic, carnal kiss fueled by fear and passion. She clung to his shoulders, accepted his will as he worked his zipper and backed her against the wall. He had his jeans around his ankles, his tongue inside her mouth. His hands slid up and under her shirt, down her pants—a full body assault. No finesse, no foreplay. Just a mindless, primitive need to join.

  He hooked a hand under her knee, hiked her leg. Hard and aching, his shaft grazed slick, soft folds. Home. The welcoming warmth zapped his brain. Reality punched through the haze of white hot lust and socked him sane. No condom.

  Heart pounding, he eased away his lower body and softened the kiss to a whisper. He rested his forehead against hers and groaned his frustration. He realized then that she was trembling. He’d probably scared the hell out of her. “I’m sorry, Luciana.” His voice was thick, hoarse. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, not taking advantage. I shouldn’t have … This was a mistake.”

  He felt her tense as he tugged down her T-shirt. She nudged him back, and pulled up her pajama bottoms without a word. He yanked up his jeans, mindful that her hands were shaking. Holy hell, what had he done? “Why don
’t you go upstairs and get ready for work? I’ll clean this up. Fix us something else to eat. You like cereal?” He was an idiot. He’d tried to nail her, uninvited, against the wall. Like she was going to want to join him for a bowl of corn flakes.

  “Sure.” She didn’t smile, but she didn’t glare. She just hightailed it out of the room and up the stairs.

  Murphy dragged a hand down his face, and stared after her. In five minutes the charred eggs would be history, but it was going to take a hell of a lot longer for the smoke to clear.

  Lulu fell to her knees the moment she breeched the privacy of the guest room. Amazing that her rubber legs had carried her this far. She’d barely survived Murphy’s crushing assessment of their passionate encounter.

  A mistake? How could something that felt so right be wrong?

  Okay, the grease fire was a definite bummer. Murphy’s mini-meltdown, perplexing, and yeah, absolutely, a little frightening. But then he’d grabbed her and kissed her and she’d been reborn. Hello life!

  Sheer excitement had coursed through her veins when he’d pinned her against the wall. The anticipation, the wicked sensations—bliss with a capital B! He’d touched her intimately, her breasts, her hiney, her cootch, but there had been nothing intimate in his touch. He’d groped her like a man out of his mind with need.

  For her.

  It had been an incredible turn on. A wild, spontaneous coupling with no goal other than to achieve sexual satisfaction. His savage kisses alone had nearly sent her over the edge. Then he’d lifted her leg, preparing her for a non-missionary invasion, and she’d felt the beginnings of a mind altering shudder. She’d imploded at the feel of the tip of his penis, a quiet orgasm that had rendered her a trembling idiot. If she’d had a working brain cell left she would have slapped away his hands when he’d tried to readjust her clothing, grabbed JT herself, and slid him home. But she’d been too stunned by her hair-trigger orgasm.