The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

Safe? She’d be out of her mind to believe that.

  But he felt so good, the last thing she wanted was to leave the warmth of his body. And he’d promised she would be safe—for the moment, anyway—and as nuts as it was, she believed him.

  So she yielded to her weakness and murmured her assent. “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Count on me.”

  After a few moments she gave in to it completely, and whispered, “Bridge?”

  “Yeah, Angel.”

  “How long do you suppose it would take you to count to a hundred?”

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Thirty-Four

  Bridge leaned back at his desk in frustrated—but blissful—contentedness. He hadn’t felt so thoroughly kissed in decades. He grinned as he applied his newly acquired Chapstick, feeling like a horny teenager. He’d forgotten just how torturously aroused one could get sucking face. Well, and one or two other places.

  He’d been an hour late for the task force meeting, but it had been worth the tirade. Special Agent Grayson would get over it, eventually.

  Gulping down a cup of coffee, Bridge tried to wipe the silly grin off his face and get back to work. He was supposed to be writing reports, conclusions, and recommendations on the Watson case. Not mooning like some lovesick puppy.

  But he had to admit it, lovesick he was.

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about this development, but it was high time he stopped kidding himself. He was falling head over heels in love with Mary Alice Cathryn Flannery. The question was, what was he going to do about it?

  Captain Trujillo breezed by the desk, calling out, “How’s it going, Bridge?”

  “Great!”

  Trujillo stopped on a dime and did a one-eighty, raising a wary brow. “Really, now.”

  “Couldn’t be better.” As the cap’s other brow shot up, Bridge scrawled his signature on the bottom of a report and slapped the jacket shut. “Can you see that Grayson gets this before he blows a gasket? I’ve got a couple of things to do before my shift on Watson starts.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Thanks, Cap.” He rose, grabbed his new Panama brim, and eased it onto his head. It felt a little strange, and he probably looked like a damn pimp, but he figured he owed it at least a week before deciding if he could trade in his old baseball cap. Old habits died hard, and he wanted to start out slowly, one old habit at a time.

  He came to with a jerk when he realized Trujillo was still standing in front of his desk, a suspicious look on his face.

  “So... What have you been up to that’s put you in such a good mood? Dare I ask?”

  Bridge shot the cap a lopsided grin and stuffed the file into his hand. “Math,” he said, tipped his hat, and strolled out the door into the bright June sunshine.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Bull,” Nancy whispered succinctly in Mary Alice’s ear. “If that’s an allergy on your face, I’m Mother Theresa.”

  Mary Alice forbade herself to blush, instead gluing her attention on the student reports they were discussing at the teacher’s meeting at school that morning. “Shh!” She giggled.

  “Yes, shellfish can be very unpredictable,” Lucinda, their director, agreed in response to her previously stuttered excuse. “Now, Mary Alice, tell us what progress you’ve been making with Ivy.”

  Mary Alice nodded and tried to concentrate on her favorite student instead of her newest favorite morning pastime. “Ivy’s social interaction with most of the other children is good and has been steadily increasing. But she still has difficulty dealing with the parents who are working in the group.”

  “Has she started talking at all yet?”

  Mary Alice shook her head sadly. “There are times I feel she really wants to break through, but I just haven’t found the key yet.”

  “Well, keep working at it. But we may have to resign ourselves to starting over after summer vacation. Are there any more students to discuss? No? Then—”

  The office door opened and a large shadow fell across the transom. Mary Alice’s heart leapt as she looked up and saw Bridge standing there, a cardboard box balanced on his lean hip.

  “May I help you?” Lucinda asked him, obviously puzzled.

  Mary Alice felt an elbow poke her in the ribs.

  Bridge glanced around at the five teachers seated on the window seats lining the office walls, and his eyes homed right in on her.

  “I’m here to see Mary Alice, ma’am.” He tipped his Panama hat like a gentleman, but his polite manner in no way disguised his wickedly roguish smile. “I’ve brought some things for her class.”

  He might as well have said, “I’ve come to carry her off and ravish her.” Her reaction his words produced in her pulse and her temperature couldn’t have been any stronger. Again, the jab of an elbow registered subliminally.

  “How nice,” said Lucinda, beaming like a mother hen. “Mary Alice, can you take the box from him?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of letting her carry this heavy thing,” he assured Lucinda, then turned to Mary Alice. “Maybe you could show me where to put it?” He lifted a devilish brow.

  “Y-yes, of course,” she stammered, continuing to stare up at him until she realized she was supposed to be moving. She jumped to her feet, spilling the papers in her lap all over the floor.

  Next to her, Nancy let out a snicker.

  Stacy, the kindergarten aid, hadn’t taken her eyes off Bridge since he’d arrived. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Mary Alice?”

  Ignoring Stacy, she started walking to the door, but nearly tripped over the heap of papers on the floor.

  Nancy stifled another chuckle. “I’ll get ’em, hon. You go on ahead.”

  “Thanks,” Mary Alice said absently, then smiled at Bridge as she led him off.

  “Who was that hunk?” she heard Stacy quietly persist. Through the closing door, Nancy’s innocent voice drifted back as she and Bridge walked through the Pre-K room. “Russell Bridger. He’s in paint removal, I believe.”

  Bridge gave Mary Alice an incredulous look.

  “Don’t ask.”

  Grinning, he stroked a finger over her cheek. “New blusher? Nice shade.”

  “Mm-hmm. It’s called barbarosa. You brute.”

  His grin didn’t even flicker. “Next time I’ll shave first.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She slanted him a glance, aching to kiss him right there in the middle of the Pre-K. She’d forgotten what a virile specimen of manhood he was. After all, it had been two whole hours since he’d held her tight against his hard body and kissed her into a quivering pool of gelatinous mush.

  “Wanton,” he admonished in a gravelly voice, giving her a quick goose on the bottom as they went through the door to her own Toddler Group.

  Immediately, they were surrounded by a dozen three-year-olds.

  “Who’s dat?”

  “What’s he got?”

  Little Marina’s stage-whispered “Is dat youwr boyfwiend?” got a smile from Bridge.

  “Yes, but it’s a secret,” he whispered back, loud enough so all could hear. He winked, including Mary Alice in its reach. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Ow-kay,” Marina assured, then ran over to her mother, who was working in the group that day, and shouted, “Mommy! That’s Miss Mawry Alice’s boyfwiend!”

  Mary Alice tried to ignore the heat that crept up to her ears, but relished the warmth that rushed to her heart at hearing him claim her as his own. Even to a three-year-old. It was crazy. They would never work. Not in a million years. But, there it was. She wanted to be his. Only his.

  She watched Bridge squat down and set the cardboard box on the floor and open it. “I brought you guys some good stuff.”

  “Wow! Hats!”

  “Vests! Yeah!”

  “Oh, Bridge. You went back to the hat booth,” she exclaimed.

  He shot her a self-satisfied grin.
“Yep. Didn’t even notice, did you? Picked them up from Mrs. Daniels this morning.”

  The kids tumbled the box and scrambled for the treasures, donning the hats and scattering to the corners of the room and out through the double doors to the yard. Little Jarrod hung back and eyed the box covetously from behind an easel a few yards away, and Ivy, of course, watched from the safety of Mary Alice’s skirt.

  Bridge gave Jarrod a wink and sat down amidst the wreckage of spilled box contents and stirred around with a hand among the leftover hats. Flipping off his Panama hat, he pulled out a corduroy tennis visor with an aardvark perched on the bill, and placed it on his head. Jarrod grinned shyly in amusement.

  Warmed and smiling all over, Mary Alice slowly backed away to the outside doors, letting Bridge work his magic. Surprised, she realized that Ivy had stayed behind, transfixed by the big man playing so incongruously on the floor.

  Pursing his lips, Bridge discarded the aardvark and plucked up a baseball cap fitted with twin cool cups on either side of the crown. Two attached flexible tubing straws flapped in the air beside them. Mary Alice could barely suppress her laughter at his ridiculous appearance when he set it on his head. Jarrod giggled, and took a few cautious steps toward him.

  Mary Alice’s heart swelled when Ivy stuck a finger in her mouth and actually smiled. But her heart nearly froze in her chest when Bridge turned to the little girl and winked at her, too, beckoning her closer. He had no way of knowing about Ivy. Mary Alice had to restrain herself from running to intervene. Let it play, she told herself, somehow trusting that Bridge would know the right thing to do.

  Hadn’t he always known with Mary Alice herself?

  Just then, one of the parents called to her from outside to come settle a dispute over the swings. Casting a nervous glance at the drama unfolding on the floor, Mary Alice reluctantly turned to the yard and went out to help the frustrated kids to use their words and inventiveness to solve the swing problem.

  A couple of minutes later, deep into that situation, she smiled to see Jarrod streak by on his way to the sandbox wearing the aardvark visor. When she was through at the swing set, she’d have to remember to go inside and dig Ivy out from her usual bed of pillows under the loft.

  It took everyone a little longer than she’d expected to come to an acceptable swing solution, and when she went back into the room, she didn’t see either Bridge or Ivy. Frowning, she glanced around. The inside-the-room-parent and a few kids were busy in one corner with the puppet theater, and another couple of children were looking at Lizzie the Iguana with magnifying glasses. A gentle plucking of guitar strings caught her attention from under the loft.

  Cautiously, Mary Alice peeked around a bookshelf blocking her view. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Ivy stood next to Bridge, his Panama brim nearly swallowing her head at a winsome angle. Ivy passed her fingers across the neck of the guitar, while her other little hand clutched Bridge’s forefinger. He was stooped over, and now he let himself ease down onto the floor beside the little girl, careful not to break the tenuous bond.

  “You like the guitar?” he quietly asked her.

  To Mary Alice’s surprise, Ivy looked over at him and nodded.

  Bridge nodded back. “Me, too. Does someone play for you?”

  She could see Ivy’s throat contract as she shook her head and looked sadly back at the guitar.

  Bridge sighed. “Me, neither. My mom used to play for me.”

  Ivy’s head jerked up and her eyes grew round.

  “Yours, too?” he asked.

  The little girl blinked, her eyes growing shiny, and Mary Alice placed a trembling hand to her own lips.

  Gently, Bridge picked up the guitar with his free hand and placed it on his lap. “My mom’s voice was so sweet and soothing. Whenever I’d get scared, she’d take down the guitar and we’d sing until I felt better.” He looked at Ivy from where he sat. “How about yours?”

  She drew a tiny finger across the strings, a look of heartbreak on her face, then nodded solemnly.

  “What was your favorite song?” he asked in a whisper.

  Mary Alice thought her heart would shatter. A tear broke loose from her pooled eyes, and in the moment when Ivy whispered back to him, “Puff,” she knew she would never love any other man but this one, as long as she lived.

  He began to strum on the old, out-of-tune guitar, and soon his deep voice blended with Ivy’s high thin one, singing about magic dragons and children’s fantasies. By the end of the song other kids had gathered around them, joining in a joyful chorus.

  Mary Alice wiped her eyes and punched the record button on a kid-proof digital recorder that was sitting on a shelf next to her. Then she waded into the circle, giving Bridge a tender kiss right on the lips, and scooped Ivy onto her lap and sat next to him singing songs until the parents came, her heart brimming with love.

  Stop in the Name of Love: Chapter Thirty-Six

  Bridge pulled into the driveway of his father’s house in El Monte, leaned back in the seat and contemplated his mother’s roses in the front yard.

  He was scared shitless.

  Something had happened to him back there at that nursery school with Mary Alice, and it had him running like a marked man. It couldn’t possibly have been him having those thoughts as he sat surrounded by kids, his pretty woman by his side, feeling more content and at home since...well, since forever.

  He’d actually been thinking about picket fences and planting roses. Imagining what it would be like to have his own kids. Fantasizing sharing his life and growing old with Mary Alice.

  Fuck.

  It was one thing for a man to admit he was in love. That, Bridge could contend with—given some strict lifestyle management techniques. But it was something completely different to start having mushy dreams about something that just plain wasn’t possible.

  He hopped out of the truck and wandered over to the roses. And it really wasn’t possible.

  Was it?

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the sweet, dusky scent of the blossoms, his mind conjuring up a picture of his mom in her gardening dress, kneeling among them.

  “What should I do, Mama?” he murmured under his breath. “I’m terrified.”

  He could almost hear his mother’s voice whispering among the fluttering leaves. Does she make you happy, darling?

  “Oh, yeah,” he whispered. “More than I ever thought possible.”

  Can you make her happy?

  He ran a hand over his temple and sighed. “I wish I knew, Mama. I wish I knew.”

  The squeak of a screen door brought him back to reality.

  “That you, Son? Come on in and have some lunch.”

  Bridge looked up and saw his dad standing at the front door of the house, motioning for him to come inside.

  “Hi, Dad.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and headed in, shaking off the uncertainty lingering in his heart. “What’s new?”

  While he listened to his father’s latest deep sea fishing adventure, complete with swordfish and, as usual, some curvy fifty-five year old, Bridge considered his options.

  He could go back to Mary Alice’s place, pack his bag, and bail. Probably the wisest choice, but the coward’s way out. Russell Bridger was a lot of things, but a coward wasn’t one of them.

  Or, he could keep his distance, ignore his feelings, and hope they would go away.

  Yeah, right.

  Or, he could go ahead and tumble her again, keeping his emotions locked up tight, then force himself to leave when things got too heavy to handle. The most tempting choice, but the chances of a clean getaway were slim at best. And Trujillo would have his job. Besides, Bridge’s irritating sense of honor probably wouldn’t let him do it, anyway.

  Which left only one other option that he could see. He’d have to face up to his feelings, confess, and throw himself on her mercy.

  And hope like hell she told him to drop dead. Because he didn’t know what he’d do if she’d been serious this morn
ing, and actually wanted to try having a relationship with him. A real relationship.

  What if the same thing started happening with her as had with his mom? What if he couldn’t stand watching it and had to leave her? It would kill her if that happened. Hell, it would kill him.

  Maybe it would be better to go back to option two, after all. He let out a deep sigh.

  “What’s eating at you, boy? You haven’t answered the last three questions I’ve asked you.”

  “Hmm? Sorry, Dad. A, uh...a rough case has got me second-guessing myself.”

  “Tell me about it, maybe I can help.”

  Bridge got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. “Why didn’t you ever get married again after Mama died?”

  His dad’s jaw stopped in mid-bite. “What kind of case are you working, anyhow?”

  Bridge chuckled humorlessly. “Not a case. Just wondered. It’s been over twenty-five years, and it’s not like you haven’t had ample opportunity.”

  “You know me, footloose and fancy free. Suits me.”

  “Even after you retired?”

  His dad looked offended. “What’s retirement got to do with it? I’m as fit as ever.”

  “No, I just thought... You know, your job affecting Mom the way it did, maybe that’s why you’d shied away from remarrying. Didn’t want to risk it happening again...?”

  His dad squirmed a little, and gave him a long, searching look. “I didn’t always make the best choices, but I loved your mother very much.”

  Bridge bowed his head over his coffee and jetted out a breath. “I know, Dad. It wasn’t your fault she couldn’t take the stress of being a cop’s wife.”

  “Russ, the stress was—” His dad stopped, shook his head, and said, “You thinking about getting married?”

  “Yeah. No!” Bridge looked up, aghast at his slip. “No way. Just getting in a little deeper with someone than I’m comfortable with.”

  “You’re worried because you’re a cop? Because of what happened with your mother?”

  Bridge nodded glumly. “Mary Alice reminds me a little of Mama. Sweet and sensitive.” He swiped a hand over his face. “Remember three years ago, two cops were shot in Pasadena a few weeks apart? That was her dad and fiancé.”