The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  Mary Alice lowered herself nervously onto the chair opposite.

  “First we will ascertain if you have the proper knowledge to be admitted as an apprentice docent. If you pass that part of the test, we will proceed to—”

  “A tour of your lovely garden,” Miss Beadle interjected, smiling kindly at her. “My, what a darling cottage you have here! Is that the kitchen?” she said, casting a covetous glance toward the open pocket door. Miss Beadle was the opposite of Mrs. Underwood in most everything Mary Alice could see. She was short, plump, and had wildly frizzy hair dyed an interesting shade of henna red.

  “Thank you, yes, it—”

  “As Mrs. Underwood was saying,” the third woman, Mrs. Wyeth, cut in, “we’ll evaluate your roses and determine if any are worthy of note in our—” She halted as the unexpected sound of running water floated from the hall into the room, and turned her large, bespectacled eyes toward the source of the disturbance. “What’s that?”

  Mary Alice peered in consternation toward the bathroom. “I can’t imagine...” It sounded oddly like— “Oh!”

  Suddenly, she put together the boots on the porch and Bridge’s appearance in her kitchen a few minutes earlier toting a gym bag. Oh, my God. He was in her house. Taking a shower

  “It’s nothing,” she assured them uneasily. “Do go on.”

  Good grief. What would she do if he suddenly appeared, dripping wet and asking where the towels were? She nearly choked. “Um... You were saying, if there are any roses worthy of note...?”

  “We will make a recommendation and the full board will come out to view the specimens. Upon approval, photos will be taken and you’ll be given instructions for harvesting seeds.”

  “I had no idea it was such an involved process.” Mary Alice surreptitiously glanced toward the hall.

  “We are very selective in choosing both our new docents and the roses for our registry,” Mrs. Underwood stated, and squared her shoulders. “They must be worthy of the honor, in all respects.”

  Mary Alice pulled in a steadying breath and sat up straight. She could do this. It was important to become a docent, as part of her plan for the future. And she would happily face any number of snobbish society matrons for Mrs. Trent. To see the look on the old woman’s face when she could walk into the retirement home and show her the page in the Pasadena Historic Registry describing her beloved roses. She just had to concentrate, that’s all. She would prove she was just as worthy as any one of their uppity members.

  She’d studied the culture of old roses in her spare time for two whole years, but still their questions were difficult. She was hesitating in panic over her answer to one involving the history of the Tudor Rose, when a deep, masculine voice behind her nearly startled her out of her chair.

  “Ah, the York and Lancaster, named for the feuding families in the War of the Roses. Truly the essence of the old garden roses, don’t you think? Beauty and history.”

  The three elderly ladies sat transfixed on the sofa staring past her, mouths agape. Miss Beadle’s eyes had widened like cabbage roses in full bloom, and a distinctly rosy color had crept into her cheeks. Filled with foreboding, Mary Alice gripped the chair arms and turned.

  Bridge stood there, naked from the waist up, still misty and gleaming from his shower, a hand towel draped casually around his neck.

  She was going to kill him.

  Just as soon as she recovered from the paralyzing shock of seeing him stroll across her living room floor in nothing but low-slung jeans, acting as if he belonged there. And then having the audacity to lean down and kiss her on the cheek!

  “Darling, I believe I hear the water boiling. Shall I make you ladies some tea?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him in warning.

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. Underwood declared, and snapped her mouth shut.

  “Me, neither!” said Miss Beadle with a distinct sigh, her awestruck gaze riveted to the sight of Bridge padding away across the hardwoods.

  “Would you prefer jasmine or rose hip?” he called from the kitchen. He stuck his head out. “Or perhaps you’d like to try something more decadent, like peppermint mango? Hmm?” He winked at Mrs. Wyeth, who turned as scarlet as a Chrysler Imperial in July.

  Miss Beadle actually giggled. “Oh, decadent, absolutely, please!”

  Mary Alice sank back in her chair and covered her eyes.

  “Who is that man?” Mrs. Underwood demanded, flipping quickly through her notebook with a frown.

  “Tea cakes, ladies?”

  Mary Alice peeked out from between her fingers. The towel from his neck was now draped over his arm in the best maître-d form. Bridge had loaded her silver serving tray with the fruits of her baking efforts and was offering them to Mrs. Underwood. Miss Beadle looked from the tray to Bridge’s chest and back, apparently unable to decide which she’d rather sample.

  “Mary Alice, sweetheart, aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming guests?”

  She dropped her hands, glared savagely at him, then plastered a smile on her lips as she made the introductions one by one. “And this is Russell Bridger. He’s a— He’s my—” she stuttered to a stop, flustered beyond rational thought.

  “Fiancé,” he supplied smoothly, without blinking an eye.

  It was all she could do not to jump up and wring his tanned, corded neck.

  Mrs. Underwood flipped madly through her notebook. “This is most irregular. In your application for membership you make no mention of—”

  “It was all rather sudden,” Bridge supplied with a grin. “In fact, there is an engagement party tonight.”

  “Russell Bridger!” Mary Alice sputtered. “You are—”

  “Half naked, it seems,” he cut her off, waggling his eyebrows. “Excuse me a moment, ladies.” He stuck the tray in her hands and absconded into the bedroom.

  Of all the impossible—

  “How delightful,” Miss Beadle crowed, piling her plate high with an assortment of cakes and trifles from the tray Mary Alice was white-knuckling. “Congratulations to you both. Such a handsome young man your fiancé is, and he obviously knows a thing or two about roses, too.”

  Mary Alice opened her mouth to give a scathing reply and correct the outrageous notion that she was in any way involved with the man.

  But before she could utter a word, he’d returned. “Yes, Mary Alice has been teaching me all she knows.” He smiled guilelessly. “About roses.”

  His smile flashed brilliant in the sunlight pouring in through the mullioned windows, breaking her train of thought with its heated undercurrents. Tucking in a polo shirt, he went back to the kitchen for the tea things.

  Speechless, she watched him seat himself and pour for them, chatting all the while, until even Mrs. Underwood’s stodgy attitude had melted under the warmth of his attention.

  The man was dangerous. More than dangerous. If he was capable of worming his way into the enthusiastic approval of even these lofty ladies, what possible chance did she stand against such a formidable arsenal of charm and attraction? She swallowed, her knees feeling weaker already.

  “Well, shall we get these questions over with, Mary Alice?” Mrs. Wyeth said.

  She snapped her attention back to the interview.

  Mrs. Wyeth smiled at Bridge over the wire rims of her bifocals. “Just a formality, you know.”

  He nodded graciously and leaned back in her best chair, resting his bare foot on the comfortably worn knee of his jeans. Sitting there, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, he looked the height of tamed, tethered, and domesticated male.

  Ha.

  Appearances had never been so deceiving.

  The rest of the interview flew by. Bridge hardly uttered a word, only tossing in an occasional comment of distraction when she found herself faltering over an answer. She could feel the strength of his support with his every nod and smile. By the time the group wandered out into the garden, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have his arm slip ar
ound her waist.

  “Fiancé?” she asked in a fierce whisper to hide the excitement that shot up her spine at his touch.

  “Just thinking of your reputation, Angel,” he whispered back. “Of course, I could always tell them the truth—”

  “Don’t you dare!” She squirmed out of his grasp.

  “I must say,” Mrs. Wyeth declared from the middle of the garden, turning in a circle for one last look. “I’m well pleased with everything I see.”

  It was all Mary Alice could do not to kick Bridge in the shins when he casually skimmed his gaze over her breasts and murmured with a grin, “Me, too.”

  When the tour was concluded, Mrs. Underwood made a final entry in her notebook with a flourish. “Two of these varieties I don’t believe I’ve ever seen before. You can be sure our report will be favorable.”

  Miss Beadle beamed. “Oh, yes. We’ll so be looking forward to seeing both of you when the full board visits.”

  The old lady nearly swooned when Bridge bent to brush a quick kiss good-bye over her cheek, then did the same for the others.

  “Oh, my!” They were still fussing and exclaiming when they piled into Mrs. Underwood’s sedan.

  The man was a menace.

  He caused the kind of thrillingly guilty reaction only a true bad boy could bring out in a woman, young or old.

  When their car had safely departed, Mary Alice turned to him and rolled her eyes. “You are a shameless gigolo,” she said with a smirk. “You ought to be ashamed.”

  “Who, me?” He batted his dark eyelashes innocently.

  “You.” She poked him in the chest. “Dazzling them with your gorgeous body so they wouldn’t notice I had no idea how to answer half those questions.”

  A brow quirked along with his grin. “You think my body’s gorgeous?”

  She slammed her eyes shut. Open mouth, insert foot. Like she wasn’t in enough trouble as it was without giving him even more encouragement. She cleared her throat and opened her eyes, startled when he was standing right in front of her.

  His other brow went up expectantly, waiting for an answer.

  She huffed out a breath. “Fine. Yes. I do.” Slipping past him, she strode into the house. She could almost see the smug expression settling on his face. She grabbed the tea tray and started cleaning up, determined not to get into that discussion.

  He took the tray from her and stood patiently as she loaded it with dirty cups and plates. She didn’t dare look at him. Or his gorgeous body.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said, following her into the kitchen, where he set the tray down on the counter. “I like yours, too.”

  “Bridge, please.” She didn’t want to hear this. She was having enough trouble ignoring how adorable and likable he was without muddling her thoughts even further with his obvious physical merits. Dangerous, she reminded herself.

  “Just stating facts. Look, my hands are in my pockets.”

  “Then take them out and pass me those dishes.”

  He was subtle, she had to give him credit. As they loaded the dishwasher and wiped tables, he brushed her arm just a couple of times, and only once did he stand too close behind her—when he was reaching past her at the sink to grab the sponge. For a fleeting moment his hand settled on her hip, his whole torso pressing against her back. But before she had a chance to fully savor the feeling, he was gone.

  Damn the man. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  Driving her to distraction.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Seventeen

  Mary Alice was glad Bridge had urged her to change out of the modest dress she’d worn for the interview to go to the engagement party, because it would have stuck out like a sore thumb in the hole-in-the-wall Cuban restaurant where the gathering was held.

  He’d also made her pull her hair from her neat braid and wear it loose. But she’d put her foot down at the mini-skirt he’d dredged up from somewhere in the back of her closet—the result of a momentary lapse of fashion judgment several years ago in an effort to spice things up with Jack. The cropped top Bridge had chosen for her was already pushing her out of her comfort zone. She still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten the idea he could tell her how to dress. It had just sort of happened in the confusion of hurrying to get ready.

  She glanced around the bar, tugging unconsciously at the hem of the top. Her jaw dropped when he came back from the bar carrying one of those huge concoctions in a coconut shell, complete with umbrellas—and two straws. But he looked so cute thinking he was being clever, she could only laugh.

  She didn’t know if it was the relief of having the interview over and two years of pursuing a major goal being well on the way to paying off, or if it was Nancy’s words that had suddenly come back to haunt Mary Alice. Whatever it was, she was feeling comfortable...and a bit reckless.

  Bridge sat down beside her and pushed one of the two straws toward her. “Don’t look at me like that or I’ll make you share mine.”

  The thought had definite possibilities.

  She let herself relax and had a great time getting to know Bridge’s friends from the road crew and their dates. The food was heavenly, and after dinner Bridge led her to the dance floor and showed her the steps to a hot Cuban salsa. After three songs, she followed him back to the table, exhausted.

  Laughing and still tingling from his hands on her, she took a long pull on their half-empty drink. “Is there any dance you don’t know?”

  He snaked his arm around her shoulders. “I’m better at some than others,” he teased. “Interested in lessons?”

  Licking the straw in her hand, she slanted him a glance. “Don’t think so. You’re too fast on your feet for me.”

  He took the straw from her fingers and dipped it back in the drink, then put his lips to it and sucked. Her throat tightened when he swallowed and gave the straw’s tip a little flick with his tongue.

  “I don’t know,” he murmured in her ear. “You’ve been following pretty well, so far.”

  Mercifully for her badly wavering willpower, just then the bride and groom, Gary and Denise, jumped up and announced the start of the traditional party games.

  Mary Alice groaned inwardly at the news that they would all be playing as couples. And almost groaned aloud when she saw the first game. It was a list of anagrams each competing couple had to unscramble.

  TWENTY THINGS YOU’RE LIKELY TO FIND ON A HONEYMOON.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Eighteen

  “Garter” and “condom” were easy.

  Bridge quickly scanned the paper in Mary Alice’s hand and grinned inwardly. Ooh, baby. Gary and Denise had taken no prisoners when they’d composed the list of anagrams for this silly party game. Bridge pressed close to Mary Alice and draped his arm over her far shoulder, pretending to hold up one side of the paper so he could see better.

  He pointed to it and whispered a few more suggestions, enjoying how an enchanting blush crept up her neck to her earlobes. Her handwriting wavered badly when she wrote the naughty words next to the scrambled letters. The point of her pencil snapped when he murmured “hard-on” in her ear.

  Damn, he was having a good time.

  Too bad it was all going to come to a crashing halt when he told her he was a cop...and had gotten orders to move in with her.

  He sighed into her hair, then breathed deeply of its strawberry scent. Of the many women he’d dated through the years, he couldn’t remember ever feeling like this with anyone before. Amused and relaxed, tense and horny, all at the same time. He loved what she did to him—his pretty, red-haired angel.

  If he’d been looking, he couldn’t have found a more perfect candidate for serious companionship. She was smart and fun, sweet and sexy, all wrapped up in a softly feminine package that made his dick stand up and take notice.

  It was a real shame he wasn’t looking for serious companionship.

  He leaned over and stole a kiss before whispering to her, “orgasm.”

  They ended up
coming in last place because every time he guessed at a new word, testing the outer limits of his vocabulary and imagination, she started to giggle and couldn’t write.

  The next two games didn’t go much better. They were having too much fun flirting with each other to concentrate on the task.

  For the final competition of the party, everyone was herded onto the dance floor. Bridge cocked his head wryly at the life-sized cardboard cut-out of a popular male actor that Gary proceeded to set up.

  When Denise whipped out a black satin blindfold and a handful of small foil packets and push-pins, Bridge laughed out loud.

  Mary Alice sank back against him in horror. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

  Still laughing, he slipped his arms around her, savoring the feel of her firm backside curving into his thighs. “‘Fraid so, Angel.”

  “Ever play pin the tail on the jackass?” Gary asked with a snicker.

  “I can’t do this,” she groaned into her hands.

  When her turn came, Bridge tied the blindfold over her eyes, spun her around, and watched in amusement as she fumbled with the packet, unrolled the contents inside out, and poked the push-pin through the wrong end. But he managed to outshout the competition, giving her directions to the target. She hit it dead-on.

  A dozen male voices yowled as the pin drove home.

  Completely embarrassed, she gingerly chose their first prize from among the gaily wrapped packages and thrust it into his hands.

  “You open it,” she said, slipping behind him to hide in mortification.

  He yanked the ribbon off and pulled the paper from the package. He felt a truly devilish grin creep across his face.

  Mary Alice peeked around his shoulder into the box and gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Nineteen

  “Glow-in-the-Dark, Black Mamba, Heavy Duty—?” Mary Alice read the labels on their overflowing first-prize box aloud, then looked up at Bridge, mystified as he turned into her driveway after the party was over.