Stop in the Name of Love

by Nina Bruhns

  “Yeah? I can think of a lot more developmentally appropriate uses for that soap,” he dared, his eyes sparkling.

  She hiked a brow at his use of the term she’d used in their earlier conversation about her work at the nursery school. “Oh, really?”

  “Yep. I could let you soap me up in more appropriate places, and see what develops.”

  She tried desperately not to blush or giggle, but lost on both counts. “Bridge!”

  The smile he gave her was bad boy naughty. “Time out?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay, how about on the dance floor?”

  She glanced in consternation at the small stage where a four-man band had begun to play without her even noticing. “Um. I’m not the world’s best dancer…”

  “I’ll show you the steps. Come on, angel. Live dangerously.”

  Like she needed more encouragement.

  He rose and offered his arm, and a guilty thrill of excitement zinged up her spine. Hesitantly, she curled her fingers around the roped muscles of his forearm. And prayed the heat from his skin wouldn’t melt her common sense quite as easily as it was dissolving her knees.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Bridge led Mary Alice onto the wooden floor, the band launched into a typical country tune about some poor guy having loved and lost. He pulled her close to his chest, and at first she resisted his tug. He could tell she’d planned to keep a proper distance between them. But he smiled when, after a few moments, she slipped into his arms and sighed out loud, nestling close against his body.

  He really had to get hold of his rampaging hormones, or before he knew it, he’d be trying to talk her into things he shouldn’t.

  Still. She was awfully nice. And she smelled so incredibly—

  “How do you like living in the Canyon?” he asked, forcing himself out of his inappropriate musings.

  Sierra Madre Canyon was a narrow, winding alcove crammed with one-way streets and every type of home imaginable. The old neighborhood had been renowned for its quirky, artistic bent—and lack of parking—since the fifties. Somehow, it suited her.

  “I love it. So quiet and peaceful. And I couldn’t ask for better neighbors.”

  Jesus.

  He stumbled over his own feet at the reminder.

  “Something wrong?” she asked when he cursed.

  “Damn. Sorry!” He’d completely lost the rhythm of the dance.

  He’d gotten so wrapped up in enjoying himself that he’d totally forgotten this date was not a date.

  Strictly business.

  “We can sit down if you’re tired,” she said, about to step away from him.

  “Hell, no.” He pulled her back. “Go on. You were saying something about your neighbors?” He swayed them into the dance again.

  “Oh, just that everyone is so friendly.”

  He forced his mind back on track. “I gotta say, that guy who lives next door to you seems a little strange.”

  “Charlie? Strange?” she said, startled, then shook her head. “No, not at all.”

  “Charlie?” he said pointedly, leaning backward to look into her face. “You know him pretty well, I take it?”

  She glanced at his frown, and her brows flickered. “Not really. Just in the usual neighbor kinds of ways.”

  “Such as?” he asked, unable to prevent the edge that crept into his voice.

  Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, you know, he keeps an eye out for suspicious characters lurking about, and such. He’s a really nice guy. He has this lily pond he’s always fussing over.” She rolled her eyes with a grin. “It drives his gardeners batty. He constantly makes Jose and Enrico wade in and pull out the yucky dead lily pads.” Her eyes twinkled. “On the other hand, every Friday he sends them over to do my lawn, so I can’t complain.”

  “Mighty generous.” Bridge wondered what she was expected to do in return.

  “You haven’t seen my attempts with a lawn mower,” she muttered as he led her back to the table when the song ended.

  “Call me next time, and I’ll come watch,” he drawled, and held her chair for her. “So, I hear ol’ Charlie throws some wild parties.”

  She grinned. “Once a month, like clockwork.”

  “Doesn’t the noise bother you?”

  “Nope. He always invites me.”

  He choked on a gulp of margarita and stared at her. Well, well. The pretty nursery school teacher certainly could come out of left field. Definitely more layers to her than he’d have guessed. That prim, angelic image was beginning to tarnish big-time.

  Perhaps he should do some re-evaluating of his strictly business angle.

  As they finished eating, Bridge wondered what other surprises he might uncover if he dug deep enough. Good ones or bad?

  He wasn’t sure he was up to finding out. He’d be sorely disappointed if Mary Alice was even remotely involved with a scumbag like Charlie Watson.

  Though, he didn’t think that was possible.

  He hoped to hell it wasn’t.

  Either way, her impish innocence might just be Bridge’s own downfall. He was already way too attracted to this woman for his own good. He needed to be careful.

  Even setting aside his promise to his mom, he wasn’t cut out for serious relationships. Mary Alice was absolutely right. Cops were terrible husband material. His parents’ marriage had proven that in spades.

  His mother had been so young, and she’d loved his father so much. But every time Dad was late from work, Mama had withdrawn from them both a little more. As a boy, Bridge couldn’t understand the debilitating stress she’d felt from not knowing if something had happened to Daddy out on the mean streets of L.A. Slowly, bit by bit, her nerves had deteriorated. In the end, the anxiety became too much for her to cope with.

  Dad’s job as a cop had killed her just as surely as Mary Alice’s fiancé had been gunned down in the line of duty.

  He glanced over at the sweet woman sitting across from him.

  And yet, could any man with a pulse possibly resist Mary Alice’s cute freckles and the prospect of holding her enticing, satin-covered curves close to his body?

  He sighed ruefully. Not this man.

  The band returned from a break, and the first riff of a lively two-step came over the speakers.

  “Come on, let’s work off some of all this food,” he suggested.

  When she rose, she discretely wiped a bead of perspiration from her brow.

  “Why don’t you take off that jacket?”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “What’s the matter? Shy?” he challenged.

  Her chin went up, just as he’d known it would. “Of course not.” She shrugged off the jacket. “It did get a little warm out there last time.”

  He let his gaze glide down the smooth, slippery fabric of her barely-there dress, and back up again. Damn. It was likely to get downright scorching out there this time.

  Oh, yeah. Definitely time to re-evaluate.

  The band played a Cotton-eyed Joe after a couple of two-steps, and then a country swing number. He couldn’t remember having so much fun in ages, teaching her the steps and feeling her become more and more confident whirling in and out of his arms. When the last strains of the swing tune faded, they were laughing like a couple of teenagers.

  She reached up, attempting to put right the French twist their dancing had loosened. Her mass of red hair curved upward, wild and loose, to the twist, tendrils curling about her temples, like a sensual model in some old-fashioned painting.

  “Lord, you’re good on your feet,” she said with a grin, catching her breath.

  He chuckled. “And on my knees, and lying down…” He hardly recognized his own voice, it had suddenly turned so deep and suggestive.

  She froze on the dance floor, and a deep blush started at the apples of her cheeks and spread outward. Mesmerized, his gaze dipped and followed the rosy stain as it fanned across the exposed swell of her breasts.

  He met he
r eyes and slowly reached for her. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured as she melted into his arms.

  The next dance was slow and romantic, and the woman he held was warm and soft. He wrapped himself around her and surrendered to the moment, drowning in the feel of her silky body under his hands, her curves pressing enticingly into him, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of strawberries and desire.

  And found himself wanting more of it all.

  Damn, he wanted her. In the worst way.

  He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. He’d never been drawn to a woman like her before. He knew she’d want more from him than just hot sex. A lot more.

  And for the first time ever, he was suddenly afraid he might want to give it to her—to try a normal relationship with a real woman, not a quick fling with a superficial groupie who was only attracted to his badge or his overrated charm.

  No, Mary Alice was different. She was genuine and honest and pure. Her quiet grace and innate goodness reminded him a lot of his mama. That alone should scare the hell out of him.

  Not to mention the fact that Mary Alice hated cops with a passion.

  Which meant that either Bridge could never, ever be honest with her, or that she’d bolt as soon as he told her who he really was.

  How ironic was that?

  Hell, no, it would never work. They would never work. Everything was stacked against them. Bridge had no business toying with her.

  But dammit, he was only a man.

  And there was just something about this woman that called out to him, to the part of him he kept carefully hidden, to the loneliness in his soul.

  Once, just once in his life, he’d like to touch a woman who turned his hard, harsh world to wonderfully tender mush, and eased the aching in his heart.

  When the song ended, he whispered in her ear, “It’s getting late. Shall we go?”

  The only question was…did he dare?

  Chapter Twelve

  Mary Alice was sure Bridge would kiss her right there on the dance floor.

  When he turned away, she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or immensely grateful. The memory of their earlier get-it-out-of-the-way kiss lingered in her blood, trying to obliterate what was left of her good sense.

  Under no circumstances should she let him kiss her again. He was a laid-back charmer and an obvious player. He would love her and leave her. Not the kind of man she should take a chance on—especially the first chance she’d even dared contemplate since Jack.

  She’d had all the misery she could take in the love department and had no intention of setting herself up for more. Not if she could prevent it by being smart. The three most important men in her life had been cruelly taken from her, and she couldn’t stand it if she fell for another man, only to have her heart ripped to shreds once again. Which was sure to happen with a man like Bridge. Better by far to leave the whole thing alone before it ever got started.

  And if for some crazy reason Bridge felt differently, she could just point out his own words. He wasn’t really interested in her. Not for anything serious. He’d said as much plain as day just moments ago—he wasn’t the marrying kind of man. But she wasn’t the meaningless affair kind of woman.

  Still…she couldn’t help but wish for just one more lingering taste of Russell Bridger’s talented lips before she said good-bye. He had the most uncanny way of disarming her defenses with his hard, masculine body, and making her long for things she hadn’t let herself think about in three years.

  By the time he’d driven her home and parked his truck in front of her house, her pulse had doubled. He set the brake, killed the engine, and looked over at her.

  “I had a wonderful evening, Bridge,” she said, reaching for her purse. “Thanks so much.”

  “My pleasure.” After releasing his own seat belt, he squeezed the button to free hers. His eyes followed the belt as it glided up and over her breasts to the roll-up casing. “I hope we can do it again soon.”

  She fiddled with her purse strap. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  His surprised gaze sought hers. “No?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she rushed to explain. “I do. You’re very attractive and…” She cleared her throat. “But, well, I’m just not—” She looked up, helpless to get the words out.

  He turned to lean his back against the truck door, searching her face contemplatively. “Not that kind of girl?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not in the market for a…casual relationship.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He moved his arm up and rested it along the back of the bench seat, running a finger over the shoulder of her jacket. “It sure would be a shame to waste it, though.”

  She was almost afraid to ask. “Waste what?”

  “All the incredible electricity we’re generating with each other.”

  Oh, no. Now she was in trouble. “Sorry. I’m not into flying kites in the rain.” She smiled feebly. “Too dangerous.”

  His finger left her shoulder and strayed onto her neck, and he lightly drew his fingernail along the bare skin of her nape. Lightning streaked down her spine. She could practically hear the rumble of hormonal thunderheads gathering in the cab.

  He pursed his lips. “So, you prefer the more domestic variety of electricity, eh? Flip a switch in the comfort of your own home and, voila, a safe, predictable turn-on.”

  She tried not to be offended as she struggled to ignore his nail softly scoring her neck. “There’s something wrong with wanting safe?”

  “No, not at all. If you’re…that kind of woman.”

  She scooted a little closer to her own door, away from him. “Which works out well, because I am that kind of woman.”

  He slid after her. “Are you?”

  Gently, he caressed the back of her neck. His thumb and forefinger were callused, she noted absently, not just from the rigors of stop sign turning, but the pads roughened from hard, physical work.

  Fighting a losing battle not to enjoy his touch, she tried to focus. “I’m a nursery school teacher,” she said a little breathlessly. “I raise roses on the weekends and read romance novels in the evenings. And until tonight I hadn’t had a date in three years. I’d say that’s about as safe as it gets.”

  He tipped his head. “Makes me wonder what you’re hiding from.”

  It was a real effort not to let him see just how near the mark he’d hit. “Why would I be hiding?”

  His brow went up. “So, you’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Prove it. Come here.”

  He leaned in at the same time he pulled her closer, bringing her face to within inches of his. “Let me see the tip of your tongue.”

  Losing her nerve completely, she shook her head, keeping her lips firmly closed.

  “Who are you afraid of, Mary Alice? Me…or yourself?”

  She swallowed heavily. “Don’t be ridiculous. Neither.”

  “Show me.”

  There had to be something basically illogical about proving she didn’t want to hook up by letting him kiss her—if in fact that was what he was going to do. But she couldn’t have come up with a counter-argument if her life and future depended on it.

  And she had a sinking feeling they just might.

  “Fine,” she said, desperate to prove they were both wrong.

  His hooded gaze traced her mouth for a moment before locking onto her eyes. Her cheeks burning, she hesitantly poked her tongue out between her teeth.

  His grip on her neck tightened. She watched with a madly tripping heart as his face came closer and his own tongue emerged, stopping a hair’s breadth from hers. She wanted to close her eyes, but his hypnotic gaze held her paralyzed.

  He lowered a fraction and she tasted him. Warm and spicy, with a hint of lime. Then he proceeded to torture her. Teasing her senses with the very tip of his tongue, not allowing more contact than the size of the rounded end of a well-used crayon.

  Oh. My. God.

  She
thought she’d pass out from the sheer eroticism of the act.

  Very gradually, he increased the area of contact, skimming his tongue back and forth along the edge of hers, then over the top and around in a circle. Every molecule in her body throbbed. Feelings and sensations she’d never known she was capable of surged through her, carried on the incredible power of the sensual current he’d created between them.

  She wanted more. But his firm grip on her neck prevented her from moving closer.

  Finally, in frustration, she stretched her tongue as far as it went, trying to capture his quicksilver touch.

  His thumb skimmed around and found her chin, urging it down. Suddenly, they were mouth to mouth, deep inside each other, his tongue thrusting, claiming her, marking her with his profoundly male taste. Coaxing and teasing. Seducing her with heavy hints of sensual pleasures she’d only dreamed of. Pleasures she had dreamed of. Like…last night.

  Of their own volition, her fingers sought his shoulders, his hair. She wanted to touch him, to pull his body to her. Wanted to abandon herself to his mad, sensual dance, and allow him to discover the secret yearnings she’d kept hidden so deep inside for so long. So very long.

  Abruptly, she stilled.

  Oh, Lord, what was she thinking?

  She jerked back, and he let her slip away just far enough to elude him.

  “You have fantasies about sweaty men on road crews,” he whispered into her ear. “You eat your dessert before your dinner, and you let a man you barely know kiss you to within an inch of your life. But you want me to believe you like things safe? I don’t think so, Mary Alice.”

  “I do!” Frantically, she twisted and pulled at the truck’s door handle.

  “Run away if you like, angel. But you can’t escape what just happened. Let me show you how good it is to dance out here in the eye of the storm.”

  “No.”

  She jumped out of the truck and ran to the door of her cottage. As she struggled with shaking hands to fit the key into the lock, Bridge came up and took it from her.

  “Here.” He opened the door and reached around the jamb for the light switch. After giving the room a quick visual check, he turned to her. He smiled down tenderly, as if he knew the chaos he’d created within her, then he reached up to touch the wild strands that had fallen from her twist. “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”