by Nina Bruhns
Undercover…
Undercover vice cop Russell Bridger hates his new assignment doing surveillance on the home of a suspected traitorous spy. That is, until he receives orders to cozy up to the man’s sweet, beautiful neighbor…and find a way to move in with her for the duration. But things don’t go as smoothly—or seductively—as he’d hoped when she tells him she hates cops with a passion and wants nothing to do with him, his lies, or his damn assignment.
Or under the covers…?
Cops in Mary Alice Flannery’s family keep dying, and she doesn’t think she can take another shot to her heart. So when the infinitely sexy road crew guy she’s crushing on big time turns out to embody her worst nightmare, she must decide what kind of future she wants…safe and lonely, or wild and dangerous but filled with love?
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Discover more mystery and suspense titles from Entangled Ignite… Running Wilde
Killer Curves
Fighting for Keeps
Wanted
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Nina Bruhns. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Ignite is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Cover design by Louisa Maggio
Cover art from iStock
ISBN 978-1-63375-385-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2015
For Beverly, and all my friends at SMCNS. Thanks for teaching me all about kids.
Prologue
Pasadena, California
three years ago
Where the hell had he come from?
Pasadena Police Detective Sergeant Russell Bridger straightened and peered through his binoculars in annoyance at the young bicycle patrolman who came wheeling into the alley where Bridge’s vice squad team had set up today’s sting—the culmination of two months of risky undercover work and careful planning. This was not good. The targeted meth dealer was due to turn up any second now, along with the buyer, complete with heavily armed entourages. According to the team’s CI, today’s meet was supposed to be a major buy. And both parties had nasty reputations for shooting first and asking questions never.
This kid was going to get in the way.
Shit.
“Who the fuck is that?” Jose’s growl came over Bridge’s earbud, along with the colorful curses of four other team members.
Jesus, could he look any more out of place in this rough neighborhood, with his new bike, shiny badge, and summer uniform of neat navy-blue shorts, crisp short-sleeved shirt, and APD baseball cap? Hell, he barely looked old enough to shave. Had he graduated from the academy last week, or what?
“Hold your positions,” Bridge murmured into his com. “Hopefully the kid’s just taking a shortcut.”
Or not.
Bridge gave a mental groan when the rookie glided to a stop, dismounted his bike, and approached a homeless guy sleeping against the dirty brick wall. A homeless guy who was actually Chen, one of the team.
Right about that same time, a trio of trailer trash ninjas appeared in the mouth of the alley. The one in the middle was carrying an incongruously nice aluminum briefcase, filled with money no doubt, and the two flanking him were armed to the teeth.
Fuck.
“We got movement, Sarge,” Flip reported from his position on the roof. “Target’s vehicle approaching from the east.
Holy hell. “Chen, get that kid out of here, now,” Bridge ordered. “Light a goddamn fire.”
There was another round of curses in his ear as a sleek white Mercedes halted at the other end of the alley, blocking it off. Three bad guys emerged from the car with noticeable bulges under their fancy suits.
Effectively making the kid a bicycle rookie sandwich from hell.
Fucking damn it.
Bridge didn’t even stop to think. He threw the binoculars at Jones, touched the Glock 21 tucked under his ratty, oversized T-shirt, and stumbled from his concealed doorway out into the alley, singing a loud, wheeling, drunken version of O Danny Boy. It was the first tune that popped into his mind. Possibly from too many gleefully boisterous renditions by his dad upon every single solitary festive occasion in his whole damned life.
Bridge almost smiled. But that would have blown his cover.
Chen said something sharply to the rookie, who proceeded to frown, then look up and down the alley like a fucking navy-blue neon sign that screamed Hey bad guys! Police set-up!
A feeling of absolute impending disaster swept over Bridge nanoseconds before the hail of bullets started flying. He started to run.
And lunged for the kid.
Chapter One
Sierra Madre, California
Three years later
May
Mary Alice Cathryn Flannery did not make mad, passionate love to men on the hood of her car.
Didn’t matter how hunky the guy from the r
oad construction site down the street from her Sierra Madre Canyon cottage was. She had no plans to ask him out on a date when he stopped her vehicle on the way to work—or even flirt with him—and she definitely would not be having monkey sex with him on the hood of her SUV.
Which made it somewhat mortifying that he’d invaded her dreams all night, doing just that.
She, who hadn’t so much as looked at a man in three years, was suddenly having erotic dreams about the muscle-bound brain trust holding up a freaking stop sign on a road crew.
She was losing it. No doubt about it.
She bent down and swooped up the shards of her favorite coffee mug, flinging them into the kitchen rubbish bin—right on top of the remains of the half dozen eggs she’d splattered across the floor a few minutes earlier.
Seriously. They should make him put on a shirt. Every single female driver had her eyes glued to that ripped, tanned, hair-sprinkled chest. The man could cause an accident.
Sure, he was handsome enough to stir any woman’s blood—yeah, even hers. His body was hard and lean without an ounce to spare under those loose-hipped jeans. And the come-hither way he crooked his finger at her when he spun his sign from stop to slow, motioning her through the pitted construction site? Well, no wonder he induced snooze-button abusing dreams.
Still. It didn’t matter how provocative the sight of the man’s bare, muscular torso. Or how sexy the hint of spicy cologne, honest sweat, and canyon dust that drifted off that wide expanse of male flesh when he stood next to her open car window. Though granted, it was pretty darn sexy.
It was ironic, really. The first guy to get her engine going in three years, and his job was to hold up a stop sign.
Gawd. Was the universe trying to tell her something?
She yanked her flannel robe tighter over her breasts and groaned. The plastic noses of her Snoopy slippers clicked furiously on the hardwood floor as she marched to the bedroom and flung open the closet door. When she pulled a neat cotton blouse off its hanger, the top button sailed across the room, ricocheted off the vanity mirror, and landed smack in the middle of the unmade brass bed. She allowed one succinct expletive to escape.
Enough, already!
Gritting her teeth, she glanced at the clock. With the long trail of distracted disasters this morning, she was running super late. Quickly, she shrugged on a loose, shapeless T-shirt dress over an equally shapeless sports bra—her usual garb for her job as a nursery school teacher. Frumpy? Maybe. But it was comfortable and bleachable. That’s what counted.
She hurriedly ran a comb through her long red hair. Lord, it just got redder and redder every summer. Only May, and already the sun had turned it bright enough to stop traffic. With a grimace, she gave it a final swipe and wound it into a twist.
There was nothing about her appearance that would attract the attention of a certain broad-shouldered Adonis. Definitely nothing to make him pin her to the hood of a car, lift her skirt, and—
Good lord.
How on earth would she ever face him this morning—the raven-haired man who’d had the starring role in dreams that even now left her knees weak and her body aching?
She gave herself a stern mental shake, slipped her feet into clogs, and clattered down the hall. She grabbed the oversized canvas bag that doubled as her purse on workdays and sailed out the front door. When she reached the SUV, she squeezed her eyes shut, barely resisting the urge to lay a hand on the hood.
“Hey there, Mary Alice!”
Her eyes sprang open and she spotted her neighbor, Charlie Watson, waving to her. His huge contemporary home towered over her miniature craftsman cottage. Charlie stood on the edge of his beloved water lily pond pulling out dead leaves and fussing with the buds and blooms, as he did every morning before leaving for work. For a bachelor, the man was a bit obsessive about his water lilies. Of course, she didn’t blame him. She was the same way about her treasured roses.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Looks like it’s going to be another hot one,” he called over in a friendly voice.
She looked up at the sky, barely seeing it. She smiled and waved back. “Nice breeze, though.”
Charlie was a good neighbor—always keeping a protective eye out for her. His frequent parties were first class, if somewhat disorderly. And it was fun teasing him about his silly water lilies. He actually thought they were prettier than her roses.
With another wave, she turned back to her car. And frowned. There was a folded piece of paper fluttering under the windshield wiper. She pulled it out then gave a small gasp as she noticed the time on her watch. She’d barely make it to school before the kids got there at eight-thirty. Even worse than keeping the kids and parents waiting, she’d be forced to endure one of her boss Lucinda’s lectures on the virtues of punctuality.
Cramming the paper hastily into her pocket, she slid into the car, adjusted the seat-back straight up, and reversed out of the driveway, praying the stupid road construction wouldn’t delay her. Maybe they—meaning he—would be taking the day off.
The way her day was going? She should be so lucky.
Chapter Two
Another fucking day in paradise.
Bridger leaned his butt on the treads of a big yellow construction Caterpillar, stuck his grimy stop sign up in the air, and caught sight of a familiar blue SUV as it approached. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as the attractive female driver looked everywhere but at him.
Ah, the lovely Miss Flannery. Finally.
He straightened a bit and deliberately flexed the muscles in his sign arm. Oh, yeah. She was peeking. She just didn’t want to admit it.
Cute. Most of the women driving by made no secret they were ogling him. He grinned. He felt so objectified.
When Chief Trujillo had told him last week he’d been loaned out to the FBI to serve on the Charlie Watson joint task force, Bridge had protested long and loud. The feebs were so damn stuffy. Rule-followers. They wore suits to work. Then insult was added to injury when his assignment turned out to be this lame undercover stakeout gig in the sleepiest damn ‘burb in the entire San Gabriel Valley, spending eight hours a day playing traffic cop along a dusty road-construction detour in the quaint and trendy Sierra Madre Canyon. Just to keep an eye on their suspect Charlie Watson’s house…on the off chance he took his treasonous activities home with him. Which, so far, he hadn’t. Naturally.
Okay, okay. There were a hell of a lot worse ways of spending one’s day than basking in the warm California sunshine with your T-shirt hanging out of the back pocket of your jeans, watching the ladies gawk at your bare chest. And Bridge had done most all of those worse things. Being in Pasadena Police Department’s Special Investigations Section—i.e. the vice squad—pretty much guaranteed there would be blood, drugs, prostitutes, gunplay, or all of the above, as part of your day. And Bridge loved every minute of it.
He was pretty sure the chief had put the feebs up to choosing him for this plum assignment. Bridge was on Trujillo’s shit list because, although he had made the promotion list three years in a row now, he steadfastly refused to give up his wild and woolly job in SIS for a lieutenant’s badge and a desk. Hells no. Bridge liked his life exactly as it was. Exciting, never the same, no ties, and no responsibilities beyond himself and the job he loved. Well, and his dad, of course. But Dad was Dad, and quite capable of taking care of himself.
Still, Bridge had to admit the gig had its upsides, FBI or no. Beat the hell out of sweltering in a sardine can on wheels sucking down hot coffee just to stay awake, which is what he normally did on stakeout duty.
Okay. Maybe the chief wasn’t as pissed at him as he’d thought….
The blue SUV crunched to a halt several yards in front of him and Ms. Flannery made a big show of fussing with something on the seat beside her.
Bridge pushed himself off the big Cat, tucked his sign under his arm, and sauntered up to her car. According to her file, she wasn’t much younger than he was, but she came across that wa
y. There were freckles sprinkled on her nose, and yesterday there’d been a little smudge of green paint on her cheek when she came home.
Very cute.
Not that he had any interest in cute. Absolutely not his speed.
Even so, a strand of long, reddish-gold hair had fallen out of her ugly bun, and he had to make a conscious effort not to reach over and tuck it back in.
Or maybe tug out a little more.
Once he’d recognized her as Charlie Watson’s neighbor, he’d made sure he stopped her car at the front of the line so he could begin flirting with her, casually starting up an acquaintance that might be useful to him in the stakeout.
Draping an arm across the bottom of her open window, he looked in at her and smiled. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
“Oh!” A pair of sunglasses flew from her hand onto the vehicle’s floor.
He pushed his hard-hat up with a forefinger and peered down at the shades, his gaze lingering for a moment on her fine, shapely legs. Instinctively, his gaze was drawn to the ring finger of her left hand resting nervously on the steering wheel—even though her background check had already told him what he’d find. Nada.
Okay, so maybe she had piqued his interest. Just a little.
He gave her a slow, easy grin. “Sorry to delay you, ma’am. Just have to radio ahead and make sure none of the trucks are heading this way.”
She smiled back uncertainly. “Um. Sure.”
Damn, she was sweet.
Straightening, he folded his arms across the edge of her car roof, deliberately letting her get up-close and personal with his chest. In his imagination, he could see her cheeks flood with rosy color, as they had morning and afternoon for the past three days, every time he spoke with her.
He chuckled. He hadn’t thought women actually blushed anymore. Judging by her increasingly flustered reaction to him, his campaign to attract her attention was working.
Stifling a grin, he spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Deke, we got anything coming our way?”
The radio squawked back, “You’re clear, Bridge.”
“Thanks, bro.” He bent back into her window. Yep, her cheeks were red as sweet, ripe strawberries, so real he could even smell them. This assignment was definitely growing on him. “Okay, ma’am. You’re all set.”