BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Don't get me wrong," Frannie continued as if she could read his mind. "What you do is important, and honest, and brave. Without you, who would look out for that woman and other victims like her who can't look out for themselves? But not everyone is cut out to be a cop, and not everyone is cut out to carry a weapon."

  "Frannie…"

  "I won't have one," she finished in a voice that was soft and yet so strong he knew he didn't have a prayer of changing her mind.

  Mal came up out of his chair. "You won't have one," he mumbled. He paced the small room, glancing down at the collection of angels on her end table. She'd added the new one immediately on arriving home, making space for it between a tall, skinny, winged figurine and a brass angel with a bent halo.

  He finally stilled himself, sitting on the sofa next to Frannie. As he had been since he'd seen her at the antique store this afternoon, he was consumed with the urge to touch her. So far he'd controlled the urge. After all, it wouldn't do to scare her off, not now when he needed her to allow him to stay close.

  With one very easy hand, he touched her shoulder. The solid contact gave him an unexpected comfort, but it wasn't nearly enough. "I understand your reservations, I really do, Frannie. But you have to understand that this guy means business. He's killed once. He'll do it again."

  He wanted to scare her, and from the look in her eyes he'd succeeded.

  "Do you know what I was thinking last night when that man was pointing his gun at me?" Her whispered question was breathy, somehow insubstantial. "I was remembering my stepfather, the second one, who liked to wave his gun around as if it would make him big and strong and special. He was none of those. He was just … mean."

  His hand traveled up to her cheek. "He hurt you." The very thought filled Mal with an unexpected rage.

  "A little," she whispered. "But you see, I can't … I don't want to…"

  The kiss that silenced her was instinctive. Mal covered Frannie's mouth with his and tasted her sweetness and fear and confusion. He wanted to erase every bad memory she held. He wanted to replace each and every one with something good. A slow dance, a kiss in the rain, a lurching elevator … and much, much more.

  She melted against him, her mouth surrendering first, her body following inch by inch as she fell against him until it seemed she touched him everywhere. Just as surely she drifted back until Mal was leaning over her, his body taut, his mouth slanted over hers to deepen the kiss. Together they generated a mindless, all-consuming heat that drove away everything else until all that mattered was this touch.

  They could finish their one-night stand here and now, on a plush sofa with angels looking over his shoulder and a hint of the little remaining daylight slicing through the venetian blinds. That would suit him just fine, and apparently it suited Frannie, as well. She had to be able to feel the ridge pressing against her thigh, had to know that all he had to do was touch her and he was ready, and yet she didn't back away.

  Her tongue slipped inside his mouth, and her hand moved slowly up his back, the caress feathery light as her mouth and his found a rhythm that promised so much more. Yes, here and now, just this once.

  It wasn't until he lowered his head to kiss her throat that he realized she was hanging on to his necktie as if she were holding on for dear life. Her eyes drifted closed, her head dropped back as he touched his lips to her long, white throat.

  She smelled and tasted wonderfully female, deliciously sexy, and Mal was overcome with a primitive urgency to touch and taste more, to savor every newly heightened sensation.

  Frannie was as wonderfully lost as he was. He knew this as a fact, could feel as well as see it. With a series of subtle shifts of her body she came closer to him, as if to leave a breath of space between them would be a sin.

  He slipped a hand beneath her pale pink sweater to touch her breasts, his thumb finding and flicking over one hard nipple beneath a thin, silky bra. The front closure snapped open easily in his fingers, and he touched the bare skin of her breasts, running his fingers over the soft globes as he took her mouth again.

  "Bridger." His name was whispered between a series of soft, swift, endless kisses. He didn't want to take his mouth from hers. Heaven help him, what if she was trying to tell him to stop?

  "What?" he whispered, his mouth a hairsbreadth from hers.

  "We're too different, you and I," she said as she kissed him quickly again.

  "I know." Dammit, she was going to call an end to this, and he wasn't ready or willing to walk away. But if Frannie said to walk away…

  "No future," she whispered. "But we have to finish this, don't we? I need to finish this with you."

  All he could do was mutter something between a moan and a contented hum.

  "But not here," she said, and this time she did draw away slightly. "We're only going to do this once, Bridger, and I'd rather it be in a big soft bed than on a couch that's much too small for you."

  It should have surprised him that she thought so much like he did, but it didn't. Different as they were, he sometimes knew what she was thinking and there had been moments when she seemed to read his mind, as well. Finally they were going to finish their one-night stand, and they were going to do it right.

  * * *

  She was so caught up in the kiss that nothing else mattered. Sandwiched between Bridger's hard body and the soft couch, she was caught in a gentle trap she had no desire to escape. His tongue swept inside her mouth and a hand settled in her hair.

  From the moment he'd placed that gentle hand on her shoulder, she'd known this would happen. The very air in her lungs changed when he touched her, and she came truly alive. And with every caress that followed, with every kiss, she fell deeper and deeper until there was no way out.

  They sat up, still kissing, and when their mouths broke apart Bridger stood. Both hands clasping hers, he pulled her to her feet. She didn't feel steady, not steady at all. Her insides churned, her knees quivered. As if he knew how she felt, Bridger put his arm around her shoulder and steadied her as they walked away. Across the living room and down the hall, he supported her. And touched her. Fingers in her hair, across the back of her neck, up and down her arm.

  Frannie shuddered, and she didn't know if it was anxiety or anticipation. Maybe it was both.

  Standing beside her bed, Bridger undressed her slowly. He took the hem of her sweater in his hands and very easily pulled it over her head, and then he slipped the unfastened bra from her shoulders. Some of the fire of their fumbling on the couch was changed, but it wasn't gone. It simmered now, slow and steady and certain.

  She wanted this. More than that, she had to have it—just one night. His fingers brushed over her skin lightly, barely there, and yet she could feel the warm touch more intensely than she'd ever felt anything before.

  He finished undressing her with a slow deliberation, never hurried, until she stood before him wearing nothing at all. Strangely enough she felt no shyness or trepidation, just a mounting desire and a certainty that this was right.

  Frannie wondered, as she reached out and grabbed Bridger's tie and kissed him hard and quick, if this connection, this conviction she felt, was love. She had a curiously sinking suspicion it was.

  She helped him undress as he had helped her, her fingers slowly unfastening the buttons of his white shirt and loosening his tie. He'd already taken off his weapon and his badge, leaving them discarded on a table by the bedroom door, so she had only to unbuckle his belt and slide the zipper down.

  Bridger had a hard, beautiful body—not too wide, not too thin, all muscle with a sprinkling of soft dark hair. The very structure of his body was such a contrast to her own that it was fascinating to watch the way his chest pressed against her breasts, the way his long leg looked next to hers, the way his hip curved and his shoulders overpowered her.

  He was big and hard and on the brink of losing control—she could see that truth in his eyes and in the tension in every muscle in his body, in the heat and silent demand of the
arousal that pressed insistently against her. And still she felt undeniably safe here.

  They didn't fall to the bed, but practically floated there. Bridger supported her, and the slow, leisurely process seemed to take forever. Her legs were parted and he rested between them, fitting to her body as if they'd been made for each other, as if they'd been made for this.

  Where the tip of his arousal barely touched her, she throbbed, as if every beat of her heart pulsated there. Her body was ready for him now, waited impatiently to be filled and stroked and fulfilled.

  But he didn't thrust to fill her. Instead he kissed her again, a long, slow, deep kiss that made her feel as if she were dissolving into the bed, as if she were fusing with Bridger. He became, in that instant, a real and true part of her. Even though they were not yet together, even though he waited, he was a part of her, a part she'd never let go.

  His mouth left hers and slowly traveled lower, kissing her throat and the side of her neck, mumbling soft words she couldn't understand, finally settling over one breast and suckling until she thought she would scream from the sheer pleasure.

  When he placed his hand between her legs and touched the nub that was hidden in her pale curls, she practically came up off the bed, the sensation was so unbearably intense. He continued to stroke her, his fingers dancing over and just barely inside her, until every semblance of peace was gone and she was aching for him.

  From out of nowhere he pulled a foil-packaged condom, and while she watched he ripped it open and started to put it on. She helped, to hurry the process along and to touch him, each need coming to her in equally powerful waves. He was hard and hot in her hands, and when his shaft was sheathed in the protection, she took her hands away and he surged to fill her.

  Yes. Frannie closed her eyes and reveled in the fullness and pressure of their long-awaited joining. Yes. Bridger rocked his hips, withdrawing and filling her again, impossibly deeper. More. She moved with him, as they instantly found the primal rhythm that had drawn them to each other from the beginning. It was the most amazing feeling, to so truly and fully be a part of another human being, heart and soul, spirit and mind—one body.

  Waves of pure pleasure grew and changed and washed over and through her body, until there was nothing but pleasure so intense she cried out and arched off the bed and into Bridger. The sensations overcame her, shooting through her body as she grasped him to her. He drove impossibly deep, deeper than ever before, and she felt his own shudders as he held her tight.

  Together they practically melted into the bed. Frannie felt as if she could hardly breathe, and Bridger's breath was coming as labored as her own.

  At that moment she was sure she could stay in this bed forever and be wonderfully, blissfully happy in Bridger's arms. There was beauty here, and passion, and love. Everything she'd ever wanted was in her arms. A small frown wiped away the smile that was trying to form. No, she couldn't stay here forever. Not with Bridger.

  "I'm glad you had a … that you thought of…" All of a sudden she was tongue-tied.

  He cured her with a kiss.

  Rather than leaving the bed, Bridger pulled the covers over them and held her close. He seemed content—as content as a man like Bridger could ever be. Her head rested against his shoulder, and his hand played mindlessly with her hair.

  "I just have one question," he muttered.

  "What's that?"

  "When you said 'just once' did you mean one time, or one night?"

  She considered the question, but not for more than a split second.

  "One night."

  She glanced up to see him smile softly. A moment later he leaned over the side of the bed to retrieve his trousers. From the fat wallet in the back pocket he removed three foil-wrapped condoms, and with a casual flick of his wrist he deposited them on the bedside table.

  "Confident, weren't we?" Frannie asked, teasing.

  Bridger leaned over her, blocking out the last of the day's light that broke through the white lace curtains. Still there was enough light for her to see him smile. "Optimistic," he whispered.

  * * *

  Mal didn't know what woke him from a sound sleep, but he immediately tried to recapture the dream that had faded as he opened his eyes. He was on his stomach, a soft, white pillow was pressed against his face, and there was just a hint of sunlight outside Frannie's bedroom window. Very early morning sunlight.

  His stomach growled, and he remembered that he and Frannie had skipped dinner last night. As his eyes drifted closed he was assaulted with vivid images of the night that had passed. The thought of food had never entered his mind.

  When he realized Frannie was not in the bed he came fully awake, pushing his head off the pillow and glancing around the feminine bedroom. The white lace curtains, the pale and flowery bedspread that covered half his body, the pink and green pillows that were usually stacked neatly on the bed but had been pushed to the floor during the night, the silk flowers and colorful pictures and the pink ceramic jewelry box on the dresser, they were all hints of who Frannie was.

  He'd made his own mark here. There were four discarded condom wrappers on the floor by the bed, and a variety of masculine and feminine clothes strewn about.

  He could hear her in the bathroom down the hall, as she sighed and water slapped the side of her tub. Slowly he left the bed. This was a sight he had to see.

  The bathroom door stood open, and he stopped to lean against the doorjamb and look his fill. Frannie's back was to him, and pale blond hair curled softly against her neck. Everything about her was feminine and sexy and alluring, and she didn't even seem to try. She just was. The curve of her pale shoulder, the legs she'd wrapped around him last night, that was all he could see, but it was more than enough.

  Dammit, a night like the one that had passed should have cured him for good, he should be sick to death of lollipops.

  "Maybe I'm developing a sweet tooth," he mumbled, and Frannie glanced over her shoulder.

  Her smile was quick and real. "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "I hope I didn't wake you. But I swear, every muscle in my body aches. I woke up and just had to have a hot bath." She drew her legs up and her smile widened. "Join me?"

  The tub was long enough, and deep enough, and Mal didn't hesitate to accept her invitation. He stepped into the claw-foot tub and lowered himself slowly, facing her. The hot water surrounded him, and the heat seeped wonderfully into his own sore muscles.

  Once he was seated the water lapped dangerously near the rim of the tub. He took Frannie's feet and drew them around him, so her legs rested atop his. His arms hanging over the sides of the tub, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  He should be ready to make his getaway, call a patrol car to keep an eye on Frannie, and leave her and her broken angels and those big blue eyes behind. But he wasn't even close to ready to let Frannie go.

  One eye drifted open, and he saw that Frannie had adopted a pose much like his own. Head back, eyes closed, arms spread, it was a vulnerable position. She trusted him that much … as she'd trusted him throughout the night.

  Mal leaned forward slowly and brushed aside a wayward blond curl that touched Frannie's cheek. It was damp from the steam that had risen off the water. She didn't flinch at his touch, didn't even so much as open her eyes. Instead, she smiled.

  The smile was more than he could take. He cupped her head in his hands and pulled her to him for a kiss he shouldn't crave so damn much but did. She kissed him back, giving as good as she got in every measure. The kiss was lazy, at first, decadently slow, but it gradually changed, becoming harder, deeper.

  He'd never known a woman to respond so completely to his touch, had never gotten so much joy from watching a woman fall apart in his arms. Frannie made love as if she'd never known the sensations that came with every stroke, as if she were loving for the first time.

  She came toward him until she was practically sitting in his lap, her legs wrapped around him, her wet arms around his
neck. Steam from the hot bath had dampened her hair, making it curl around her face and dance as she moved her head to kiss his neck and shoulder, gently sucking at his damp skin.

  Mal dipped one hand beneath the water, finding the place where their bodies almost touched, his fingers caressing the nub that was hidden in thick blond curls. Frannie's response was powerful and immediate, as she drew in her breath and rocked slightly against his hand.

  She brought her mouth to his, and he kissed her deep, beneath the water stroking her with fingers that teased her entrance. Slowly but surely she surged against him, oblivious to the water that crested and lapped over the edge of the tub, splashing onto the bathroom floor. Her mouth left his and she let her head fall back.

  Watching Frannie's face, as he'd watched so often during the night, was an unexpected and intense pleasure all its own. Her eyes were closed, her well-kissed lips slightly parted, and he knew without a doubt that she was the most beautiful, most extraordinary woman he had ever known. She felt everything deeply. Pain, fear, pleasure, love.

  She came apart in his arms, climaxing with a ragged whisper and an undulation that sent another wave onto the floor. Her mouth found his again, and she kissed him hard and deep and almost frantically. Frenzied. He knew how she felt. The night was over.

  A hint of alarm welled up deep inside him. He wasn't ready for this night to be over.

  "It's just after six," he whispered as Frannie took her mouth from his.

  "I know." Slowly she distanced herself from him.

  "What time is the night over?" he asked. "Maybe … nine o'clock?"

  Frannie gave him a crooked smile. "Maybe noon."

  He wanted her right now, and that was impossible. He should have nothing left to give, no energy, no desire … no damn strength at all. Just looking at Frannie made him strong, in more ways than one.

  "I used all the condoms I brought. Hell, Frannie, I thought sticking four of those things in my wallet was being really optimistic." He ran one hand down her wet leg. "You don't by any chance have any lying around?"

  "No." She shook her head slowly and then took a deep breath. "And if I did they'd probably have dry rot."