BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  When Bridger lifted his head he had an almost contented smile on his face. "I've wanted to do that all night," he whispered.

  She raised a hand and placed her palm flat on his shirt. The contact steadied her, somehow. Through the wet fabric she could feel the heat and the hardness of his skin, the steady pounding of his heart.

  "You're soaking wet."

  "I know."

  "You really should…"

  He kissed her again, quickly this time. "I will."

  Bridger broke away and headed for the bathroom, shrugging off his jacket as he went and draping it over the back of the wonderfully wretched chair at the desk. When the bathroom door closed behind him, Frannie took off her raincoat. She found a few hangers in the closet and hung the damp coat there.

  Her stockings, shoes and purse were soaked, and she shed them quickly, laying them on a small, bare table that rocked on one short leg when she touched it. Her sweater was relatively dry, and so was her skirt. While Bridger was in the bathroom she took them off, slowly, carefully, not allowing herself to think too much about what she was doing. She folded each piece neatly and placed the small stack on the dresser.

  Standing before the mirror above the dresser, wearing only a plain white slip and her sensible underwear, she had her first moment of panic. What in hell was she doing here? Yes, Bridger made her feel safe and warm and secure following a day when she'd felt only cold and uncertain. Yes, there was a connection between them she couldn't explain or deny. She wanted someone to hold her tonight, and she wanted that someone to be Malcolm Bridger.

  Her hair was damp and standing out at all angles, and she straightened it as best she could. Darlene's styling spray and the rain had not been overly kind to her hair. When she discovered it couldn't be straightened, she ruffled it energetically.

  Which was truly worse, a one-night stand with a perfectly agreeable stranger or yet another miserably lonely evening? Her nights were all the same—a little supper, a little television, maybe a book and off to bed by ten. It was becoming a comfortable routine, and she could see herself heading down the old-maid path.

  Even her house fit the spinster stereotype, complete with rocking chairs and afghans and plenty of knickknacks of her own. All she needed to complete the picture was a cat or two.

  There was something about Malcolm Bridger that touched her, that made her want to rebel against the routine she'd fallen into. Was he really so special, or had she sunk to a level of pure desperation? Maybe what she felt wasn't even lust. Maybe it was plain old fear.

  She turned away from the mirror, not really anxious to study her life or her image at the moment.

  The muffled roar of the shower told her Bridger would be a few minutes, and she went to the window to part the heavy drapes and look down on a peaceful, quiet town. She wanted peaceful and quiet, right? That's why she was here in Decatur instead of Birmingham or Atlanta or Nashville. She liked knowing her neighbors, being able to walk to the store or down the street to Darlene's to get her hair cut at a moment's notice. In this day and age crime was everywhere, but in this small town it didn't dominate the news or the minds of the residents. There were men like Bridger out there, watching the streets, keeping the town and its residents safe.

  In the distance, a flash of lightning split the night sky. The rain came down harder than before, and at that moment Frannie put aside all her fears and doubts, dismissed the questions she would never be able to answer. For now, all that mattered was that she felt wonderfully comfortable in this shabby room.

  She let the drapes fall closed and threw back the chenille cover on the queen-size bed. The white sheets looked clean and crisp and inviting, and she slipped into the enticing cocoon.

  This had been the longest, most horrible day of her life, but tonight had been sweet and wonderful. As she settled herself into the lumpy mattress it became the most decadently cozy place in the world. What a wonderful place to hide.

  Under the covers she curled into a ball. Rain pattered against the window, Bridger's shower roared, a boom of far-off thunder shook the night. Frannie smiled against the pillow. She was sheltered here. Safe. Nothing ugly would touch her tonight.

  * * *

  Mal cleared the mist from the mirror with the palm of his hand. He felt better—warm, almost dry, completely sober. Sober enough to wonder what the hell he was doing here.

  He was getting too old for this. Hell, there wasn't a single condom in his wallet, and in this day and age of safe sex you didn't pick up pretty and willing women in bars without one. Or two. Not that he'd so much as entertained the notion of a one-night stand in the past few years.

  But Frannie Vaughn was more than pretty and willing. She was irresistible. Maybe it was the legs, or the big blue eyes. And then again maybe it was that slightly crooked smile of hers, a mesmerizing smile she'd flashed a few times tonight.

  "You have had a bad day," he mumbled to the man in the mirror. He needed a shave. He needed coffee. He needed to sleep for about three days.

  But the truth of the matter was he needed Frannie. Here, now, and then again. Consequences be damned.

  He needed Frannie to wash away the memories of this day. Needed her to make him forget that life was so fragile it could be taken away in a split second.

  She'd done that all night, with her smile and her dance, with her laugh. With a kiss that wiped away the image that had been planted foremost in his mind all day—a man dead, a woman screaming, a kid crying as he held on to his mother's skirt. That little boy had been as scared of Mal, when it was all over and done, as he'd been of the man who had taken a shot at his mother. Mal remembered, all too vividly, looking at the kid and seeing pure terror in his wide, tear-filled eyes.

  But for tonight, Frannie would help him forget. He wrapped a towel around his waist, turned away from the condemning face in the mirror and opened the bathroom door.

  Frannie was a lump in the bed, and all he could see was her shock of blond hair. The lights were still on, each and every one of them. So she wasn't shy. Good. If he was going to make a mistake it might as well be a big one. If he was going to have sex with the perfect stranger he was going to do it right. All night and into the morning. Hard and fast the first time, slow and easy the next. With lights burning all around them, in the dark, in the sunlight. Laughing one minute, crying the next.

  His earlier doubts were gone, swept away in the moment it took these images to become crystal clear in his head.

  And then she snored.

  It was a very small, quite feminine noise, but it was definitely a snore.

  "Frannie?" he whispered as he stepped to the side of the bed. She was lying on her side, curled into a little ball of pale skin and white sheets. Her pink lips were parted, just barely, and her eyelashes lay dark and still on creamy cheeks. He could reach out and touch her, easy fingers against her face or her shoulder, in her hair, and she'd wake.

  But he wouldn't. Frannie wasn't just dozing, she was out like a light.

  He was frustrated, and at the same time a small part of him was relieved. With the effects of the Jack Daniel's fading, he knew very well what had happened here. Neither of them had wanted to be alone tonight, and so they'd found and clung to each other in the storm.

  "Misery loves company," he whispered.

  Rain beat against the windows, and thunder rumbled close by. Hell, he wasn't going anywhere tonight. He grabbed a blanket from the high shelf in the closet, turned off all the lights but the one in the bathroom, and, wearing only a Riverwatch Hotel towel, he very carefully lay down beside Frannie. The bed dipped and creaked, and a sleeping Frannie rolled toward him. Her body heat seeped quickly through the covers to warm his body, the softness of her breasts pressed against his arm, and he considered, again, reaching out to wake her. He needed her, needed another kiss, her body beneath and around his, warmth, passion. He needed to get lost in her tonight.

  For some reason she trusted him. Enough to come to this place, enough to sleep beside him wi
thout so much as stirring. That naive trust made him think twice about reaching out to her. She must need this sleep she'd fallen into so quickly and completely.

  He wouldn't get what he needed, not tonight. He knew that and accepted the fact grudgingly. So what should he do now?

  Nothing, nothing at all. It was a big bed, Frannie was under the covers and he was on top, and dammit he was too old and too tired and not nearly noble enough to even consider sleeping on the floor.

  * * *

  Frannie didn't dream at all. She slept a deep and complete sleep that was exactly what her body and her mind had demanded. When she woke she didn't open her eyes, not right away. She was warm, and her body had burrowed into a comfy place in the soft mattress, and the arms around her were snug and secure.

  Arms. She opened one eye and found herself staring at a broad, muscled, only slightly hairy chest. Bits and pieces of the previous night came back to her, enough for her to know who he was, at least. Detective Malcolm Bridger, fellow hater of disco and a really good kisser.

  She'd made a lot of mistakes in her life, but this one was a doozy. Exactly what had happened last night? She didn't remember a thing after climbing between the covers and closing her eyes for a moment of rest while she waited for Bridger to finish his shower.

  He was still sound asleep, and she watched him for a few long minutes. When he was sleeping, he looked years younger. The tension was gone, though his features were still rock hard and somehow unyielding. It wasn't a pretty face, not by a long shot, but it was very, very nice.

  He'd broken his nose, she realized as she studied him further, but it had healed nicely. A tiny scar jagged above his right eyebrow, white and thin and old. His mouth was relaxed, not grim and determined as it had been on occasion last night.

  A blanket bunched at the end of the bed, tangled around his big feet, hanging over the side and to the floor. Long, muscular legs, dusted with dark hair, stretched up and up and up to his hips, where he wore a towel and nothing else. In the night the stark white towel had unknotted and twisted, and now it covered only the bare essentials.

  She'd said something last night about liking old, battered things, and he'd said, "You're going to love me," in a wry voice. He did look a little battered, but this morning he didn't look old at all. He looked oddly beautiful.

  Two daiquiris wouldn't make her forget anything, she was certain. She wore her slip and panties, and Bridger slept on top of the covers, she noticed. Maybe she hadn't forgotten anything about last night after all. Maybe nothing had happened.

  She had to get out of here. Very carefully, Frannie extricated herself from Bridger's hold. She lifted the heavy arm that encircled her waist, scooted toward the edge of the bed and, with deliberate ease, placed his hand on the mattress. The long fingers flexed, just once. His other arm was beneath her, and all she had to do was roll carefully away. She was terrified that she'd wake him. What would she say if he opened his eyes and whispered a gruff good-morning? If he took her hand and pulled her back into his arms with the intention of finishing what they'd started last night? She worried for nothing. Bridger was dead to the world.

  She sat up carefully, trying not to rock the mattress any more than was necessary. Her head pounded and ached, just a little, a gift from the daiquiris she was unaccustomed to. She would never drink again, she swore to herself as she rolled easily from the bed. She wouldn't ingest so much as one of Darlene's rum balls at Christmas.

  In the dim light cast through the half-closed bathroom door, she dressed quickly, stepping into her skirt and pulling the sweater over her head, watching Bridger the entire time for signs of life. His chest rose and fell with regularity, his eyes remained closed, he didn't so much as stir. She stuffed the panty hose into her purse and stepped quietly into her shoes, listening for a telltale squeak that might wake the man who was sleeping so soundly.

  When she went to the closet for her raincoat, she hesitated only half a second before grabbing a thin blanket from the top shelf and returning to the bed. For a moment she stood over Bridger with the blanket clutched in her hands. Without someone to hold on to, he was likely to catch a chill.

  Very carefully, she covered his wonderfully male body with the blanket.

  "Thank you," she whispered. She didn't know exactly what she was thanking him for. For spending the night talking to her and helping her forget her bad day, maybe. For not taking advantage of her last night, as he very well could have. For understanding.

  She walked backward most of the way to the door, watching his face as she retreated. If only she'd met him somewhere other than Rick's. If only they hadn't been drowning their sorrows and ended up in a hotel. They might have dated a few times and taken it slowly, and then, maybe … she spun around and unlocked the door, and walked out on Malcolm Bridger and her stupid what ifs.

  * * *

  "You're welcome," Mal murmured, opening his eyes as the door closed. If Frannie hadn't covered him with the blanket he never would have heard her leave, so he thought it only fair to allow her to make a clean getaway.

  He reached for the clock on the bedside table, turning it and blinking until he could read the numbers. Almost seven. On a normal day he'd be getting ready for work, but this was not a normal day. He'd be on desk duty until the investigation into the shooting was done, and Harry was pressing him to make an appointment with the psychiatrist who was available to the department. Just what he needed—a visit with a shrink who would ask him about his childhood and his feelings and why he was thirty-seven years old and had never been married. He decided then and there that if Harry did bully him into a session, he wouldn't tell the shrink about Frannie. It seemed only right that he keep her to himself.

  It was too bad things hadn't worked out differently last night. He liked Frannie Vaughn, a lot. He liked her goofy haircut and her crooked smile and her legs. She had great legs. Ah, it would have been great to spend the entire night making love to the perfect stranger.

  He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, and dreamed of jukeboxes and blondes and great legs.

  The dream, disjointed as it was, didn't last nearly long enough. The disco pulse became irregular, punctuated by beats as intrusive and annoying as the familiar voice calling his name.

  Mal opened his eyes and rocked into a sitting position, checking the clock to see that nearly two hours had passed since Frannie had left the room. The drumbeat, a furious pounding on his door that echoed in his aching head, continued, as did the grating voice that called his name.

  "Just a minute!" he shouted, realizing too late that shouting was not the way to go this morning.

  He made his way to the door, the blanket Frannie had covered him with wrapped around his waist and trailing on the floor. One hand grasped the blanket, the other protected his pounding head.

  He wanted to throw the door open and scowl at the man on the other side, but he had to satisfy himself with opening it slowly and glaring with one eye opened and the other firmly closed. "What the hell do you want?"

  He expected Harry to flash his aggravating superior smile and make a joke, but his weathered face was serious. Too serious.

  "What's up?" Mal backed away from the door and let Harry, the second-best cop in Decatur, in his opinion, into the room. Harry was built like a bulldog, short and solid, and when he went after something he was just as tenacious as one. "How did you find me?" Mal glanced toward the bathroom, wondering if his pager was vibrating and beeping as they spoke. Then he remembered that he'd turned it off before going into the bar last night.

  "I didn't expect to see your name in the guest book of this rattrap, Mal," Harry said accusingly. "You want to explain to me what you're doing here?"

  Mal tried to think of a simple way to explain the night that had passed. I met a woman in a bar … he couldn't say that. It was raining … also no good, since his car was just a few blocks away. "No." He headed toward the bathroom and his clothes.

  Harry waited while Mal stepped into his now-dry
pants and shirt and strapped on the belt with his revolver and badge. He even grabbed the ruined tie from where it hung over the shower curtain, and slipped it around his neck. A glance in the mirror told him he was in bad need of a shave and a few more hours of sleep—and maybe a real vacation.

  He sat on the side of the bed to put on his socks and shoes, grateful that the socks were completely dry.

  "I called you a dozen times last night," Harry said accusingly. "I went to three bars, all the usual places, looking for you, and no one had seen you since you left the station. You turned your cell phone off."

  Mal remembered very well turning the cellular off and slamming it into the glove compartment as he'd parked on Bank Street

  .

  "I paged you, I went by your apartment. Darn it, Mal, Paula was worried sick."

  Mal actually smiled. Harry's new wife had him wrapped around her little finger. Poor Harry couldn't drink, curse or smoke anymore, thanks to Paula. She even had him on a diet, for all the good it was doing. Harry ate his salad and fruit at home like an obedient husband, but on the job he loved burgers and Twinkies as much as Mal did. The sergeant's little potbelly was there to stay.

  "I'm a big boy, Harry. I don't need to check in with you and Paula on an hourly basis just because I've had a bad day." The facts of that bad day came back, and his smile faded away. "I can take care of myself."

  Harry studied the hotel room with critical eyes. It was hell to be happily single, Mal thought not for the first time, and have a friend who was happily married. Paula, wife number three who at thirty-nine was ten years younger than Harry, was always fixing Mal up with a cousin or a friend she thought was perfect for him. She wouldn't approve of this. Harry couldn't keep his mouth shut, not where Paula was concerned, so she was sure to get all the ugly details. Mal knew he was in for lectures, finger shakings, and at least three blind dates with some of Paula's nice girlfriends. He shuddered at the memory of the last of those disastrous excursions. Last night hadn't ended as he'd wanted, and he was still going to have to pay.