by Nina Bruhns
“Ah, the York and Lancaster, named for the feuding families in the War of the Roses. Truly the essence of the old garden roses, don’t you think? Beauty and history.”
The three elderly ladies sat transfixed on the sofa, staring past her, mouths agape. Miss Beadle’s eyes had widened like cabbage roses in full bloom, and an appropriately rosy color had crept into her cheeks. Filled with foreboding, Mary Alice gripped the chair arms and turned.
Bridge stood there, naked from the waist up, still misty and gleaming from his shower, a hand towel draped casually around his neck.
She was going to kill him.
Just as soon as she recovered from the paralyzing shock of seeing him stroll across her living room floor in nothing but low-slung jeans, acting as if he belonged there. And then having the audacity to lean down and kiss her on the cheek!
“Darling, I believe I hear the water boiling. Shall I make you ladies some tea?”
She narrowed her eyes at him in warning.
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Underwood declared, and snapped her mouth shut.
“Me, neither!” said Miss Beadle with a distinct sigh, her awestruck gaze riveted to the sight of Bridge padding away across the hardwood floor.
“Would you prefer jasmine or rose hip?” he called from the kitchen. He stuck his head out. “Or perhaps you’d like to try something more decadent, like peppermint mango? Hmm?” He winked at Mrs. Wyeth, who turned as scarlet as a Chrysler Imperial in July.
Miss Beadle actually giggled. “Oh, decadent, absolutely, please!”
Mary Alice sank back in her chair and covered her eyes.
“Who is that man?” Mrs. Underwood demanded, flipping quickly through her notebook with a frown.
“Tea cakes, ladies?”
Mary Alice peeked out from between her fingers. The towel from his neck was now draped over his arm in the best maître-d form. Bridge had loaded her silver serving tray with the fruits of her baking efforts and was offering them to Mrs. Underwood. Miss Beadle looked from the tray to Bridge’s chest and back, apparently unable to decide which she’d rather sample.
“Mary Alice, sweetheart, aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming guests?”
She dropped her hands, glared savagely at him, then plastered a smile on her lips as she made the introductions one by one. “And this is Russell Bridger. He’s a… He’s my…” She stuttered to a stop, flustered beyond rational thought.
“Fiancé,” he supplied smoothly, without blinking an eye.
It was all she could do not to jump up and wring his tanned, corded neck.
Mrs. Underwood flipped madly through her notebook. “This is most irregular. In your application for membership you make no mention of—”
“It was all rather sudden,” Bridge supplied with a grin. “In fact, there is an engagement party tonight.”
“Russell Bridger!” Mary Alice sputtered. “You are—”
“Half naked, it seems.” He cut her off, waggling his eyebrows. “Excuse me a moment, ladies.” He stuck the tray in her hands and absconded into the bedroom.
Of all the impossible—
“How delightful,” Miss Beadle crowed, piling her plate high with an assortment of cakes and trifles from the tray Mary Alice was white-knuckling. “Congratulations to you both. Such a handsome young man your fiancé is, and he obviously knows a thing or two about roses, too.”
Mary Alice opened her mouth to give a scathing reply and correct the outrageous notion that she was in any way involved with the reprobate.
But before she could utter a word, he’d returned. “Yes, Mary Alice has been teaching me all she knows.” He smiled guilelessly. “About roses.”
His smile flashed brilliant in the sunlight pouring through the mullioned windows, breaking her train of thought with its heated undercurrents. Tucking in a polo shirt, he went back to the kitchen for the tea things.
Speechless, she watched him seat himself and pour for them, chatting all the while, until even Mrs. Underwood’s stodgy attitude had melted under the warmth of his attention.
Good lord, the man was dangerous. More than dangerous. If he was capable of worming his way into the enthusiastic approval of even these lofty ladies, what possible chance did she stand against such a formidable arsenal of charm and attraction? She swallowed, her knees feeling weaker already.
“Well, shall we get these questions over with, Mary Alice?” Mrs. Wyeth said.
She snapped her attention back to the interview.
Mrs. Wyeth smiled at Bridge over the wire rims of her bifocals. “Just a formality, you know.”
He nodded graciously and leaned back in her best chair, resting his bare foot on the comfortably worn knee of his jeans. Sitting there, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, he looked the height of tamed, tethered, and domesticated male.
Ha.
Appearances had never been so deceiving.
The rest of the interview flew by. Bridge hardly uttered a word, only tossing in an occasional distracting comment when she found herself faltering over an answer. She could feel his support in his every nod and smile. By the time the group wandered out into the garden, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have his arm slip around her waist.
“Fiancé?” she asked in a fierce whisper to hide the excitement that shot up her spine at his touch.
“Just thinking of your reputation, angel,” he whispered back. “Of course, I could always tell them the truth—”
“Don’t you dare!” She squirmed out of his grasp.
“I must say,” Mrs. Wyeth declared from the middle of the garden, turning in a circle for one last look. “I’m well pleased with everything I see.”
It was all Mary Alice could do not to kick Bridge in the shins when he casually skimmed his gaze over her breasts and murmured with a grin, “Me, too.”
When the tour was concluded, Mrs. Underwood made a final entry in her notebook with a flourish. “Two of these varieties I don’t believe I’ve ever seen before. You can be sure our report will be favorable.”
Miss Beadle beamed. “Oh, yes. We’ll so be looking forward to seeing both of you when the full board visits.”
The old lady nearly swooned when Bridge bent to brush a quick kiss good-bye over her cheek, then did the same for the others.
“Oh, my!” They were still fussing and exclaiming when they piled into Mrs. Underwood’s sedan.
The man was a genuine menace.
He caused the kind of thrillingly guilty reaction only a true bad boy could bring out in a woman, young or old.
When their car had safely departed, Mary Alice turned to him and rolled her eyes. “You are a brazen gigolo,” she scolded, only half joking. “You ought to be ashamed.”
“Who, me?” He batted his dark eyelashes innocently.
“You.” She poked him in the chest. “Dazzling them with your gorgeous body so they wouldn’t notice I had no idea how to answer half those questions.”
A brow quirked along with his grin. “You think my body’s gorgeous?”
She slammed her eyes shut. Open mouth, insert foot. Like she wasn’t in enough trouble without giving him any more encouragement. She cleared her throat and opened her eyes, startled when he was standing right in front of her.
His other brow went up expectantly, waiting for an answer.
She huffed out a breath. “Fine. Yes. I do.” Slipping past him, she strode into the house. She could almost see the smug expression settling on his face. She grabbed the tea tray and started cleaning up, determined not to get into that discussion.
He took the tray from her and stood patiently as she loaded it with dirty cups and plates. She didn’t dare look at him. Or his gorgeous body.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, following her into the kitchen, where he set the tray down on the counter. “I like yours, too.”
“Bridge, please.” She didn’t want to hear this. She was having enough trouble ignoring how adorable and likable he was wi
thout muddling her thoughts even further with his obvious physical merits. Dangerous, she reminded herself.
“Just stating facts. Look, my hands are in my pockets.”
“Then take them out and pass me those dishes.”
He was subtle, she had to give him credit. As they loaded the dishwasher and wiped tables, he brushed her arm just a couple of times, and only once did he stand too close behind her—when he was reaching past her at the sink to grab the sponge. For a fleeting moment his hand settled on her hip, his whole torso pressing against her back. But before she had a chance to fully savor the feeling, he was gone.
Damn the man. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Driving her to distraction.
Chapter Eighteen
Mary Alice was glad Bridge had urged her to change out of the modest dress she’d worn for the interview, because it was way too nice-girl for the boisterous, hole-in-the-wall Cuban restaurant where the engagement party was held.
He’d also stopped her from pulling her hair into a neat braid as she’d planned and made her wear it loose. But she’d put her foot down at the mini-skirt he’d dredged up from somewhere in the back of her closet—the result of a momentary lapse in fashion judgment several years ago in an effort to spice things up with Jack. The slouchy cropped top Bridge had chosen for her was already pushing her out of her comfort zone. She still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten the idea he could tell her how to dress. It had just sort of happened in the confusion of hurrying to get ready.
She glanced around the bar, tugging unconsciously at the hem of the top. Her jaw dropped when he came back from the bar carrying one of those huge concoctions in a coconut shell, complete with umbrellas—and two straws. But he looked so cute thinking he was being clever, she could only laugh.
She didn’t know if it was the relief of having the interview over, and therefore two years of pursuing a major goal were well on the way to paying off, or if it was Nancy’s words that had suddenly come back to haunt Mary Alice. Whatever it was, she was feeling comfortable…and yeah, a bit reckless.
Bridge sat down beside her and pushed one of the two straws toward her. “Don’t look at me like that or I’ll make you share mine.”
The thought had definite possibilities.
She let herself relax and had a great time getting to know Bridge’s friends from the road crew and their dates. The food was heavenly, and after dinner Bridge led her to the dance floor and showed her the steps to a hot Cuban salsa. After three songs, she followed him back to the table, exhausted.
Laughing and still tingling from his hands on her, she took a long pull on their half-empty drink. “Is there any dance you don’t know?”
He snaked his arm around her shoulders. “I’m better at some than others,” he teased. “Interested in lessons?”
Licking the straw in her hand, she slanted him a glance. “Don’t think so. You’re too fast on your feet for me.”
He took the straw from her fingers and dipped it back in the drink, then put his lips to it and sucked. Her throat tightened when he swallowed and gave the straw’s tip a little flick with his tongue.
“I don’t know,” he murmured in her ear. “You’ve been following pretty well, so far.”
Mercifully—at least for her badly wavering willpower—just then the future bride and groom, Gary and Denise, jumped up and announced the start of the traditional party games.
Mary Alice groaned inwardly at the news that they would all be playing as couples, then almost groaned aloud when she saw the first game. It was a list of anagrams each competing couple had to unscramble.
Twenty Things You’re Likely to Find on a Honeymoon.
Chapter Nineteen
“Garter” and “condom” were easy.
Bridge quickly scanned the paper in Mary Alice’s hand and stifled a grin. Ooh, baby. Gary and Denise had taken no prisoners when they’d composed the list of anagrams for this silly party game. Bridge pressed close to Mary Alice and draped his arm over her far shoulder, pretending to hold up one side of the paper so he could see better.
He pointed to it and whispered a few more suggestions, enjoying how an enchanting blush crept up her neck to her earlobes. Her handwriting wavered badly when she wrote the naughty words next to the scrambled letters. The point of her pencil snapped when he murmured, “Hard-on,” in her ear.
Damn, he was having a good time.
Too bad it was all going to come to a crashing halt when he told her he was a cop…and had gotten orders to move in with her.
He sighed into her hair, then breathed deeply of its strawberry scent. Of the many women he’d dated through the years, he couldn’t remember ever feeling like this with anyone. Amused and relaxed, tense and horny, all at the same time. He loved what she did to him—his pretty, red-haired angel.
If he’d been looking, he couldn’t have found a more perfect candidate for serious companionship. She was smart and fun, sweet and sexy, all wrapped up in a feminine package that made his dick constantly stand up and take notice.
It was a real shame he wasn’t looking for serious companionship.
He leaned over and stole a kiss before whispering to her, “Orgasm.”
They ended up coming in last place because every time he guessed at a new word, testing the outer limits of his vocabulary and imagination, she started to giggle and couldn’t write.
The next two games didn’t go much better. They were having too much fun flirting with each other to concentrate on the task.
For the final competition of the party, everyone was herded onto the dance floor. Bridge cocked his head wryly at the life-sized cardboard cutout of a popular male actor that Gary proceeded to set up.
When Denise whipped out a black satin blindfold and a handful of small foil packets and pushpins, Bridge laughed out loud.
Mary Alice sank back against him in horror. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
Still laughing, he slipped his arms around her, savoring the feel of her firm backside curving into his thighs. “’Fraid so, angel.”
“Ever play pin the tail on the jackass?” Gary asked with a snicker.
“I can’t do this,” she groaned into her hands.
When her turn came, Bridge tied the blindfold over her eyes, spun her around, and watched in amusement as she fumbled with the packet, unrolled the contents inside out, and poked the pushpin through the wrong end. But he managed to outshout the competition, giving her directions to the target. She hit it dead-on.
A dozen male voices yowled as the pin drove home.
Completely embarrassed, she gingerly chose their first prize from among the gaily wrapped packages and thrust it into his hands.
“You open it,” she said, slipping behind him to hide in mortification.
He yanked the ribbon off and pulled the paper from the package. He felt a truly devilish grin creep across his face.
Mary Alice peeked around his shoulder into the box and gasped. “Oh my God.”
Chapter Twenty
“Glow-in-the-Dark, Black Mamba, Heavy Duty—?” Mary Alice read the labels on their overflowing first-prize box aloud, then looked up at Bridge, mystified, as he turned into her driveway after the party was over.
Damn, she was an innocent. How had she managed to graduate from college without learning about this stuff? A horrible thought struck him. Surely, she wasn’t— Then he remembered her fiancé. Right. She’d probably been on the pill.
He cleared his throat with a grin, then shrugged, feigning modesty. “Sometimes you just need a little extra…you know. When things get wild.”
She rolled her eyes and continued to leaf through the box of assorted condoms while he killed the truck’s engine and pulled the brake.
“Super Silky, Swedish Tickler—” She frowned. “What on earth is that?”
Bridge squirmed in his seat, his pants suddenly way too tight. “Mary Alice, I don’t think I can have this conversation wearing clothes.”
Alarm flashed across her face. “You understand, I’m curious from a strictly informational standpoint.” She edged away from him. “I’m a teacher, and it appears I need to broaden my education.”
Seriously? He snapped off his seat belt and did the same for hers. “If it’s broadening you want, baby, I’m more than ready to oblige.”
Her eyes skittered down to the obvious ridge of his arousal beneath his jeans, which he did nothing to hide. The woman was playing with fire. No one was that innocent.
“But I’m more of a ‘show’ than a ‘tell’ kind of guy,” he added.
Her gaze jumped back to his and she swallowed heavily. “No assumptions, Bridge. Remember?”
“If I were entertaining assumptions, I’d have that Swedish Tickler on and be halfway into you by now.” He leaned back in agony and regarded her.
“You are so bad.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and he could see both desire and fear flit across her face.
Desire he didn’t dare take advantage of. He would only hurt her if he laid even one finger on her before admitting who—what—he was. Damn.
“Unfortunately, not bad enough,” he said with an exhale. He hooked his forefinger around hers where it lay on the bench between them. “Do I at least get a kiss good night?” Surely, a simple kiss or two couldn’t hurt before he lowered the boom. Because he sure as hell wasn’t getting any afterward.
She looked up at him through her long lashes and blinked uncertainly.
“Please?” Jesus, when had he ever begged for a kiss? But he wanted one that badly.
To his relief, she nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Thank God.” Stifling the overwhelming, desperate urge to flatten her under him on the bench seat, he slid closer, circling her with his arms. “So…how about a couple?” he suggested, his voice going husky.
She gave him a “nice try, buddy” look. But said, “Okay. But just two.”
“Right.”
As if.
He buried his fingers in her hair, tugging her head backward, then gave her two gentle brushes across her lips. He drew back and gazed into her sparkling eyes. She looked slightly disappointed at his withdrawal. Ha. “More?” he queried innocently.