Stop in the Name of Love

by Nina Bruhns

  And heaven help her, if he kept looking at her like that she was totally in danger of taking him up on them. She attempted a stern frown, but his smile was so winning she couldn’t help but fall even further under its spell. Damn the man.

  She shook her head in amused resignation. “I won’t change my mind, I want you to know that.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not.” He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Come to the party and give me a fighting chance.”

  “No assumptions?”

  He shook his head and crossed his heart. “No assumptions.”

  She took a deep breath and prayed she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. “The Historic Rose ladies will be here at four-thirty. I’ll leave the shed unlocked so you can get to the mower.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bridge walked into the station house an hour later still half aroused. Even a punishing cold shower hadn’t doused the flames Mary Alice had ignited in his cock. The memory of her breasts skimming over his bare skin sent him running for the water cooler even before he hit his desk.

  Damn, he had to get it together.

  But he couldn’t help giving himself a congratulatory pat on the back at getting her to agree to another date. And he didn’t harbor any illusions about it being for business purposes, either.

  A prick of guilt at deceiving her about his profession made him crush the paper cup in his hand and fire it into the waste basket. He’d have to find out just how deep this aversion to cops she’d mentioned really ran. Maybe someone at the station would know what had happened to her fiancé to make her hate his profession so much. He was heading for his desk when someone yelled out that Sam Grayson, the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Charlie Watson task force, wanted to see him up in Captain Trujillo’s office.

  Grayson was competent, if nothing else. And helping the FBI with the case against Watson was turning out to be far more interesting than Bridge had thought at first. Charlie Watson worked for one of the big computer software companies contracted by the federal government, Conrex Data Systems, as a vice president—emphasis on vice. He was known to be stealing top-secret technology from the company and selling it to China for some major bucks. The FBI had a certain amount of evidence against Watson, but they wanted rock-solid proof, as well as the identities of the Chinese spies involved so they could also be tried, or at least flagged and deported.

  Sam Grayson was a young, good-looking hotshot. And full of himself, as were most FBI SACs Bridge had met over the course of several past joint operations.

  This should be fun.

  He grabbed the Watson file and went upstairs.

  “We did a deeper background on the Flannery woman,” Special Agent Grayson informed him, “and she still came up clean. You find anything to think otherwise?”

  “No,” Bridge muttered, wondering where this was going. Naturally, they’d investigated Mary Alice’s background before the op, but did this mean the FBI actually suspected her of being involved in Charlie’s treason?

  “How close have you gotten to her?” Grayson asked.

  Bridge stiffened at the man’s insinuating tone. A few days ago he’d mentioned his plans to ask her out and pump her for information about her neighbor. Now he regretted his big mouth. “Barely past small talk,” he said.

  “No chance of you spending a few nights with her?”

  Fighting the urge to smash the guy’s pretty-boy face in, he kept his own impassive. “Highly doubtful.”

  “Too bad.” Grayson looked up from the file he’d been perusing. “Watson’s made the night shift. He reported them to the Sierra Madre PD as suspicious loiterers. Having anyone posted out on that narrow street is too damned conspicuous.” He sighed. “You’ll just have to tell her about the operation and pray she doesn’t blow us out of the water.”

  Bridge scowled. “Wait. What are you saying?”

  “We want you in her house, Bridger, every night, starting tomorrow, babysitting Watson.”

  “Are you kidding me? That could be dangerous for her. She’s a civilian.”

  “Her property is the only one with a good view of his whole place. It would just be a staging area for the stakeout. No danger involved. It is imperative we find out who Watson’s Chinese handler is. It’s critical to our whole case. Flash your badge and fix it with the Flannery woman. Use the obvious cover to avoid Watson suspecting something.”

  Obvious? What the hell?

  Ignoring the quick kick of excitement that hit his gut at the possibilities implied in what Grayson suggested, Bridge shook his head. “No dice. She won’t do it.”

  Captain Trujillo, who had been sitting quietly, spoke up. “Why not?”

  “She’s a bit old-fashioned about that kind of thing.”

  The cap’s brows shot up.

  “Besides, she hates cops,” Bridge added, realizing his mistake too late.

  “That’s quite an analysis for barely past small talk,” Grayson commented dryly, a knowing look settling on his disgustingly GQ features.

  “Stuff it, Grayson,” Bridge snapped, making the cap’s brows furrow.

  “I take it you didn’t tell her you’re on the job,” Grayson said, ignoring the insult.

  “Didn’t want to break cover.” He glanced guiltily at the captain, who was now staring down at his hands, neatly folded on his desk. He obviously knew something Bridge didn’t. “Do you know what happened to her fiancé, Cap?”

  The older man sighed, and nodded. “Her father, Officer Seamus Flannery, was a good friend of mine. We came up through the ranks together until I made lieutenant. He was a good man and a better friend. But he chose to stay in uniform rather than trade it in for a suit and a promotion. He was a bit like you, Bridger.” Trujillo shot him a humorless smile and continued. “Anyway, the fiancé, Jack Maxwell, went out on a robbery-in-progress call. Got caught in the crossfire. DOA.” The cap looked up. “They’d known each other since they were kids. Seamus had always thought of Jack as the son he never had.”

  “Jesus,” Bridge muttered.

  “A month later, Seamus was shot down in an alley behind some greasy spoon. Couple of punk teenagers. Totally senseless and unnecessary. Mary Alice took both deaths hard. Real hard, especially coming right on top of each other like they did.”

  Bridge frowned, his heart stalling. “Shit. Her father was killed, too?”

  The cap nodded. “It was her father’s death that really pushed her over the edge. You see, Seamus’s brother was also killed in the line of duty, out in Boston, when Mary Alice was a teenager. Her favorite uncle, and all. She’d never really gotten over that, and it made her worry about her old man. Used to call the station here every day to make sure Seamus was safe. Every day for ten years. Till the day he died.”

  Bridge slumped back in his chair, blowing out a long breath. Fuck. It was worse than he’d ever imagined. No wonder Mary Alice avoided getting involved with cops. When she found out what he did for a living, she’d never speak to him again, let alone—

  “Well, that’s all very touching,” Grayson cut in, “but we still need her cooperation. We can cover tonight by hiding someone in the bushes, but that won’t work long-term. I don’t care how you manage it, but I want you in her house by tomorrow night, Bridger.” The feeb stood, gathering his papers. “That’s an order.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Who’ve you got to take over on the road crew?” Bridge asked, swallowing his instinct to tell the guy where to stuff it.

  “You, Detective Sergeant. Just until we can get Jason Deane set up in a day or two.”

  “When the hell am I supposed to sleep?” he asked incredulously.

  “While Watson’s at work tomorrow we’ll install motion detectors around his property that will set off an alarm on your laptop if anyone’s approaching. We’re already monitoring his phones. You’ll really just need to watch the monitors, do an occasional perimeter check, and investigate anything that looks or sounds suspiciou
s. Plenty of time for sleeping.” He shot Bridge a smug leer before exiting the room. “Or, you know, whatever.”

  When he was gone, the cap scrubbed his face with his hands. “God, what a—”

  “Do I really have to do this?” Bridge demanded, irritated as hell at not being able to tell Mary Alice about himself on his own timetable.

  “Sorry, Bridge. My hands are tied. That new head honcho at the FBI’s L.A. field office is from out East and used to lots of cooperation from local jurisdictions.” He paused and lasered him a look. “Listen, you aren’t hustling Mary Alice are you?”

  Bridge didn’t bother to be offended. The captain was more than familiar with his exploits with the opposite sex. But Bridge had never let his activities interfere with the job. The captain knew he could rely on that. “She’s awfully sweet,” he hedged.

  “Yeah. That’s right. Not your type at all,” the cap said firmly. “Leave her alone, Bridger. Work this from a different angle. That is an order, too. If she gets hurt, I’ll bust your butt to meter maid instead of promoting you to lieutenant.”

  Bridge looked up, surprised. “I’m not in the business of hurting women. You know that, Cap. They just…like me. What can I say?”

  “This one’s not the same as the others. Hands off—on pain of Traffic duty.”

  Biting back an argument, Bridge walked out. What he did on his own time was none of the captain’s business. Besides, he was on the FBI’s ticket now, and Grayson had just ordered him to move in with the woman and pretend to be her boyfriend.

  He shot a hand through his hair. The fact that the cap was right just made him angrier.

  Hell, she was too good for the likes of Bridge. He lived hard and loved harder, never tying himself down to one woman. He’d made a promise to his mama and he intended to honor it until the day he died. Besides, if he hadn’t known it before, the minute Trujillo had related Mary Alice’s full story, Bridge understood for certain he’d never stand a chance in hell with her, once she knew the truth about him.

  So what was he thinking, even considering putting moves on her while undercover? It was damn certain he’d never be able to offer her even a tenth of what she deserved. And she deserved the best.

  The problem was, he liked her. Really liked her. He was at such peace with himself when he was with her. Inner peace was something he’d had damned little of in his lifetime. And she was so soft and sexy, the tug of longing in his belly nearly threatened to overwhelm him every time he looked at her.

  He should leave her the hell alone. For her sake. For his own damn good.

  But how could he stay away when he was supposed to move into her house, where they’d be together every day?

  And every night.

  This whole thing was nothing but a disaster waiting to happen.

  He jetted out a breath and dropped into his desk chair. But orders were orders.

  So what the hell was he supposed to do?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bridge leaned against the long handle of the push mower and swiped his bandanna over his sweaty forehead. He stifled a sneeze from the pungent scent of freshly mowed grass and tucked the soaked fabric back into his pocket. He wanted a shower bad. Real bad.

  He looked toward the bungalow.

  Mary Alice had barely glanced up as she’d hurried past him into the house an hour ago, tossing him a quick wave of the hand. Nor had she cast him a glance through the kitchen window since.

  Boy, those ladies from the historic rose club really had her in a meltdown. Even from here he could tell she was rattled.

  She probably wouldn’t even notice if he slipped into her house and took a quick shower. After a day of working on the dusty road crew, and an hour of wrangling grass with the stubborn, primitive mower, he didn’t feel like driving home and then coming right back to get her for Gary’s engagement party…

  A shower would take him two minutes flat. In and out. Then maybe he’d sneak over to Watson’s and snoop around for a bit while she was being interviewed.

  Yep. Sounded like a plan.

  He stowed the mower back in the shed, fetched his gym bag with fresh clothes from the truck, and bounded up the front steps.

  “Mary Alice?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  A wall of delicious smells hit him as he slid out of his boots on the porch and stepped into the living room, smelling his way to the kitchen. “Mmm. What’s baking?”

  “Tea cakes.”

  She’d changed into the prettiest summer dress he’d ever seen. It was all slinky and ivory lace and satin, and her hair flowed wild and free about her shoulders. He almost forgot to breathe. “Jesus, you look beautiful.”

  She glanced up and gave him a flustered smile. “Oh. Thank you.”

  He tore his eyes from her and looked around the small, serviceable kitchen. Every available surface was covered with home-baked goodies and teacups. “Holy shit. How’d you manage all this in an hour?”

  “I made most everything last night. I just have to get it all presentable today. I’m going crazy.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll knock ‘em dead.” He helped himself to a cookie. “Can I borrow your shower? Hate to go all the way home, and all…”

  “I’m never going to get all this ready in fifteen minutes!” she lamented, turned, and pulled a pan of cinnamon cakes out of the oven. “What did you need? I’m sure you’ll find it in the shed.”

  He chuckled and hoisted his bag. “No worries. I’ll be done in a flash.” No sense distracting her even more.

  “Okay,” she said, already oblivious to his presence. She glanced at the wall clock and started counting off on her fingers all the things still left to do.

  He’d been in dozens of these old Craftsman cottages, so he knew exactly where to find the shower. He’d just shed his clothes onto the floor and was reaching for the faucet handle when he heard the doorbell.

  Uh-oh.

  “Damn, they’re early,” he murmured solemnly to his reflection in the mirror.

  Slowly, it grinned back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the doorbell sounded for the second time, Mary Alice stared at her watch in abject horror. Oh, no! They were ten whole minutes early. In dismay, she looked around the kitchen and out into the living room.

  Well, nothing to do about it now.

  Everything would be fine.

  After turning up the flame under the teakettle, she went to answer the door. A formidable trio of women stood facing her.

  “Miss Flannery?” The tall, bird-like woman didn’t wait for an answer, but announced loudly, “This is Mrs. Wyeth, Miss Beadle, and I am Mrs. Underwood. We are the committee from the Historical Rose Society.”

  Mary Alice opened the door wider. “Yes, won’t you please come in?”

  Mrs. Underwood’s gaze swept haughtily over a pair of muddy black construction boots that stood casually on the porch next to the welcome mat. Mary Alice scowled. What on earth were they doing there?

  The intimidating ladies sailed into the house, their eyes taking in every single detail. Quickly forgetting the boots, Mary Alice nervously motioned them into the antique sofa and chairs arranged in front of the brick fireplace. “Please, have a seat.”

  Sitting tidily on the edge of the sofa, the steel-haired Mrs. Underwood pulled a fat, leather-bound notebook from her purse. “The interview will proceed in the following manner,” she began.

  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 asked, 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 interestin
g 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. She 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, part of her Master Plan. 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.

  Mary Alice had 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.