by Nina Bruhns
Bridge had to agree.
What was with him, anyway? He still wanted her. Like crazy, he wanted her. And he was fairly certain with very little persuasion he could have her again.
So, what was holding him back?
He jettisoned a frustrated breath. He just hated it when his capricious sense of honor reared its untimely head. It was damned annoying. What was it about this woman that made him want to tuck her under his wing and protect her, rather than tucking her under his body and—
“Bridge?”
Her voice fired him out of his uncharacteristic thoughts. “Yeah, Angel?”
“You going to stand out there all night?”
She was leaning against the door jamb, looking so pretty and fragile and inviting. He wanted to scoop her up and kiss her until she forgot all about cops and shootings and her dad and fiancé’s deaths, and the fact that she’d ever known any other man but Bridge.
Damn, but he had it bad for her.
He sighed. “Think I’ll move your car into the cut-out so you can get to work tomorrow morning.”
She nodded and went to get the keys. He could feel her eyes on him the whole time he walked to the car and back. Afterward, they went to the backyard where he stoked up the grill and uncorked a bottle of wine for her. Too bad he was still on duty and couldn’t drink half that bottle himself. He could really use a drink.
Relaxing in a lounge chair with an iced tea, Bridge toasted her and the private paradise he found himself sitting in. “Man, I could get used to this.”
In the other chaise, she smiled. “Uh-oh, the big bad bachelor shows signs of cracking.”
He closed his eyes and basked in the cozy warmth of twilight. A pair of mourning doves called out from the roof of the house, their melancholy song wafting about the yard.
“What the hell. Gorgeous evening, a beautiful woman, good food. A man’d have to be insane not to appreciate it.”
“But only for the short term.”
He lifted a shoulder. He didn’t dare open his mouth. He might say something he’d regret. Like, hell no. For an entire lifetime.
“What makes a man like you so opposed to marriage and kids?”
God. He so did not want to go there. “Why does that bother you so much?”
The doves took wing and circled the yard once before heading off up the canyon, flying so close their bodies practically touched.
When she didn’t answer, he rolled his head on the chaise and looked at her. She had showered and changed into another one of those cute, silky dressed she favored. This one hung loose around her body, reaching to her calves. It flowed over the side of the chaise lounge, dangling onto the grass beside it. She’d left her hair wild and free like he loved it, and still-damp wisps curled about her head like a halo. She looked just like an angel.
What would she do if he just swung off his chaise and onto her? The backyard was so private, no one would see them. Even Watson’s view was obstructed by the many trees along his property line. Bridge could—
“Who was she?”
Mary Alice’s question yanked him out of his fantasy. He blinked and shifted, suddenly uncomfortably. “Who?”
“The woman who hurt you so badly.”
He pressed his lips together. “Who says there was a woman?”
“I do.”
A sliver of guilt stabbed through him and he forgot all about his libido. He’d unwittingly dragged Mary Alice through hell today at the street fair. He figured a little turn-about was probably fair play.
He sighed. “My mother.”
As they grilled the shrimp kabobs and ate, he told her about his mom and how kind and gentle she’d been. How much she’d loved his father. How hard it was on the two of them when his dad was gone for days at a time on some undercover assignment or another.
They moved to the living room for coffee, and he talked through his frustration over how powerless he’d been to help her depression.
“I felt she wanted to be there for me, but she just didn’t have the strength to fight the black moments. Dad was gone more and more, and she just gave up.”
Mary Alice gave him a sympathetic look. “That must have been awful for you.”
“She needed help—should have been seeing a therapist. Or something.” He battled back from the unbearable pain that swallowed him every time he remembered how little he’d done to help her. “I should have said something to Dad.”
Her expression turned incredulous. “But you were just a little boy. How could you possibly have known?”
“I knew. When she had the stroke...” He soughed out a long breath. “I was holding her when she died. She’d refused to go to the hospital. If only I’d—”
“Oh, Bridge, you can’t possibly blame yourself for what happened!”
He slashed a hand through his hair, wrung out from spilling his guts. “Maybe, maybe not. What’s important is, I can’t put some other woman through that same torture. No woman should need therapy to deal with her husband’s job.” He glanced up from his chair. “You of all people should understand that.”
Mary Alice sat on the sofa, looking suddenly owlish. “Yes, I guess I do.” She twisted her hands in her lap, studying them as if they could give her insight into the predicament they found themselves in. “My God, even if we wanted to, we really wouldn’t stand a chance, would we?”
He wanted to tell her yes, they would. That, for her, he’d be willing to risk everything and gamble on a different outcome. If she’d been any other woman with any other past, who’d had any other father, uncle, and fiancé, Bridge might have said the words.
But he knew, of all the women he could choose to fall in love with, this was the one woman who was sure to react to the pressures of his profession exactly the same way as his mother had. She’d even said so herself.
And it was killing him. He knew he’d never find another woman who had Mary Alice’s combination of fun-loving wholesomeness, goodness, and natural sensuality. She appealed to every part of him—the man, the lonely soul searching for a real friend, the father in him crying to get out. She was perfect in every way. If he let her go, he’d never get another chance at this kind of happiness.
Yet, he knew if he pressured her and she stayed with him, she’d be miserable. He would be sentencing her to a life filled with anxiety and fear.
He chuffed out a breath. He just couldn’t do it. To her. To either of them.
“Tell me about Jack and your father. Then tell me if you really want us to have a chance.”
She swallowed, and slowly shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Have you ever talked about what happened? To anyone?”
Again, she shook her head.
He swiped a hand along his jaw. “I get that. I haven’t talked to anyone about my mom, either. Not until tonight. Thanks for listening.”
She gave him a bleak smile. “You’re welcome.”
“It must have been tough on you this afternoon, all those people talking about your dad and Jack, and the funerals. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I’d be putting you through.”
“I honestly thought I could take it.” She gave a strangled little laugh. “It’s been three years. I should be able to take it.”
“Not necessarily. You lost two of the most important people in your life one right after another. More, if you count your mother and future in-laws, who were doing their own grieving and no doubt didn’t have time to deal with yours.”
She closed her eyes, and he assumed she was lost in awful memories. Her bottom lip trembled. “I needed to be strong for her. She’d lost her brother the same way when I was little, and totally lost it for a while.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “There were all the arrangements to be made. Someone had to do it.”
He nodded. “So, you were the strong one.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
He scooted up to the edge of his chair, wanting desperately to reach for her, to give her the comfort she’d needed back
then.
“The guys from the station helped a lot,” she said. “After the funeral, someone would call every day to give me news on the case, and later the trial. Ask if I needed anything.”
“You didn’t go to the trial?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I went the first day, but had to leave. I couldn’t take listening to how—” Her face crumbled and she covered them with her hands.
Fuck this. In an instant he was next to her on the sofa, gathering her in his arms. “It’s okay, Angel. Let it all out. I’m here with you.”
He held her and rocked her and listened to her story as it poured out between the tears. About the horrible phone call about her fiancé, and the all the blood in the alley when she’d hysterically insisted that the idiot patrolman sent to bring her to the station stop at the crime scene on the way downtown. About the senseless motives of the arrogant young perps. And then having it happen all over again, only a few short weeks later.
The wrenching experience of seeing the two men she’d loved lowered into the earth in two flag-draped coffins, accompanied by bagpipes and gun salutes, just a month apart.
Eventually, the words stopped flowing and her sobs softened to hiccoughs. He kissed her hair over and over, stroking her back.
“Seeing them all again today, everything just came rushing back at me.”
“I could see that. I’m so sorry.” He handed her a pile of tissues from the box he’d fetched from the kitchen. “Feeling better now?”
She lifted her head from his tear-soaked shoulder, dabbed her eyes, and gave him a tremulous smile. “Yes. A little. No, a lot. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He pulled another tissue and held it to her nose. “Blow.”
“You’re spoiling me rotten,” she said after she’d taken the tissue from him and wiped.
“About time someone did.” He turned and lifted her onto his lap, circling her with his arms.
She sighed and nestled into his chest. “You know the worst thing that happened at the fair today?”
“What’s that?” With his fingers, he combed back the curls that had fallen over the side of her face.
“When I saw Jack’s parents,” she said softly. “Mrs. Maxwell took one look at me with you, and, well— When she said what she did about getting out more, she was giving us her blessing. I’ve never felt so guilty in all my life.”
For a moment he couldn’t speak for surprise. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure she never expected you to remain true to her son’s memory for the rest of your life, regardless of how much you loved him.”
She sighed heavily. “That’s the whole problem. When she said that, suddenly I realized I hadn’t loved Jack. Not like I should have.”
Bridge froze. “You don’t mean that. It’s been three years and—”
“No.” She shook her head with certainty. “Oh, I loved him, of course. We’d grown up hanging around together and everyone always assumed we’d get married, us included. He really was my very best friend. But when I watched you talking to his mom today, all I could think of was how happy I am when I’m with you, how good you make me feel. How much I wanted you last night. It’s an amazing feeling that takes over my whole body. My whole world.”
Jesus. “Mary Alice—”
She put her fingers to his lips. “I tried to remember just one time when I’d felt the same passion and desire with Jack, and I couldn’t. I just never did.” She looked into his eyes, her expression open and honest.
His heart stood still in his chest. “What are you saying, Angel?”
“I guess maybe I’m saying...I wish there could be a chance for us, after all.”
Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Thirty-Two
As far as shocks went, the one reflected in Bridge’s face at the confession torn from her soul registered somewhere between eight and nine on the Richter scale. Judging by his stunned reaction, Mary Alice figured her heart would be found in the morning, buried somewhere beneath the rubble. But before he could utter a single word one way or another, the beeper alarm for the motion detectors at Watson’s place went off.
“Saved by the bell,” she mumbled, eyeing it sardonically.
“Don’t count on it.” Bridge gave her a firm kiss, slid her off his lap, and ran for the spare room to fetch his night-vision gear. “It’s the perimeter alarm. I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder.
Just that quickly, he disappeared out the back door and was gone. Leaving her feeling uneasy about what he’d run into at Watson’s, slightly foolish, and extremely vulnerable. What insanity had possessed her to say something like that? It must have been the catharsis of having finally let out all those festering emotions about the deaths of Jack and her father, and the truth of her feelings about Jack. She felt wrung out, but strangely lightened.
As if maybe—just maybe—she really could finally get on with her life. A full life.
That must have been what prompted her reckless declaration to Bridge that she wanted to take a chance with him.
Next he would want to know what kind of chance.
And for how long.
Damn. How would she answer that? How could she possibly tell him she’d do anything he wanted, be anything he desired, if only he’d quit his beloved job? He’d probably laugh out loud.
Where the hell was he, anyway? How long would he be out there in the dark?
After about fifteen minutes of agonizing, she decided his reconnaissance was going to be a long one. Depending on who Watson’s visitor was, Bridge could be out watching for a few minutes or several hours. He’d told her that sometimes it wasn’t even a person, but a deer or coyote, or some other animal that set off the alarm, but he still had to make certain what had tripped it.
But the longer he was gone, the more anxious she became.
She glanced at the clock and sighed. Maybe this was a sign. She would put on her PJs and go to bed. If she was asleep she couldn’t worry about him. And when she saw him in the morning, with any luck he’d have forgotten all about the dumb things she’d said.
Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Thirty-Three
The next morning Mary Alice woke early. She’d been dreaming again. About Bridge. She lay for a moment on her side without opening her eyes, smiling to herself and luxuriating in that warm, sensual fog half-way between awake and asleep. Her body still hummed where he had touched her in her dreams, and the smell of him was so real she’d swear he had just left her bed. Her blood pumped thickly through her veins and she sighed out loud, wanting to hang onto the dream for as long as she could.
She licked her lips and moved her head so the warm breeze from the window flowed softly over her exposed neck.
Funny, she didn’t remember opening a window last night.
She rolled a little in order to let it cool the heat burning in her breasts from his dream touch. Something large and solid blocked her movement, and a hand closed around her breast.
Her eyes flew open. Holy crap. He was in bed with her! Pressed up against her back with one leg hooked possessively over hers, an arm coiled around her waist, and a hand kneading her breast through her nightgown. She sucked in a breath and tried to move away.
A low growl rumbled through his chest and he pulled her back, snuggling into her, then sighing contentedly. His breathing continued rhythmically in her ear.
He was still asleep. Thank God.
She took a quick sensory survey, and decided he must be on the outside of the disheveled quilt, and apparently still fully dressed. She could feel the hard metal of jeans buttons against her bottom, and when she looked down she could see the long sleeve of his flannel shirt above the hand that clasped her.
Swallowing, she watched in fascination as his hand continued to caress her, then tried to find its way beneath her nightgown. She knew she should stop him when his fingers worked one, two, three buttons loose.
Then again, what could happen? The man was on the other side of the blanket, fully clothed, and thankfully asleep.<
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“God, you feel good to wake up to,” he whispered in her ear.
She bit her lip. Okay. Two out of three?
He slid his hand over her, and she was lost down a spinning vortex of hot sensation. She moaned in pleasure, murmuring his name. The hand on her waist moved down to her hip and pressed it backward into the long, hard evidence of his intent.
“You feel pretty good, yourself,” she whispered back, unable to help herself.
He inched away and turned her on her back, then canted halfway over her. His mouth came down hard on hers, and the sharp tang of sleep quickly melted into the sweet taste of desire.
She felt him lower the blanket and spread open her bodice, baring her pebbled breasts to his touch. The pads of his fingers skimmed over the tips and they spiraled into taut points of achy longing. When he grasped one and rolled it, she arched up into him, gasping, her body shocked by ribbons of fiery pleasure.
He broke the kiss and nipped her bottom lip with his teeth. “Good morning, yourself.”
She looked up at him, barely able to focus because of the waves of sensation he had created within her. She hooked her arms around his neck, drowning in the sight of his dark, angular face above hers. His sensual eyes were hooded. The dusky shadows of sunrise danced across the black stubble of his morning beard. She gave a purr of feminine appreciation. “You look good enough to eat.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “You’ll get your chance, believe me.” He kissed her again. “But not this morning. I have to get up in fifteen minutes to go to the station. That’s not enough time for what I’ve got in mind. Not even close.”
She nearly groaned in disappointment, then realized with a start just how close she was to disaster. My God. This was not the way to keep her heart or her sanity intact.
She attempted to move away.
He made a noise of protest, holding her fast and burying his face in her hair. He must also have sensed her mental withdrawal. “Don’t go yet. You’re safe. Please.”