by Nina Bruhns
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Bridge rolled into the station the next day after his road crew shift was over, Captain Trujillo called him up to his office.
“Got your message last night,” the cap said.
Bridge grunted noncommittally. He’d called in late to report his failure to arrange the move-in at Mary Alice’s place.
“And Miss Flannery phoned me this morning.”
Drilling a hand through his hair, Bridge dropped into a chair, preparing himself for an ass-chewing of epic proportions. “Thought she might.”
“You can move in tonight.”
His head shot up. “I don’t understand. When I left she—”
Captain Trujillo held up a hand. “She still doesn’t like it, but I was able to convince her it was her civic duty to cooperate with us. Her father would roll over in his grave if she refused, and she knows it.”
“You told her it would be me?” Bridge hardly dared to hope.
The cap tapped a pencil thoughtfully on his desk and nodded. “You can pick up a key from her any time before seven. She’s going to stay with a friend for the duration. You’ll have full run of the cottage.”
Bridge didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious at the captain’s news. He wouldn’t touch her again—he swore he wouldn’t—but if he was going to be in her house, he really wanted her to be there with him. He felt cheated. Like a kid opening a beautifully wrapped present on Christmas only to find an empty box—a sibling’s cruel prank.
After checking in with the task force, he headed home, showered, grabbed a toothbrush and change of clothes, then drove over to her place. When she answered his knock, she wouldn’t even look at him. Her hair was wound so tightly in its bun her eyes tipped up at the corners. She wordlessly handed him the key at her front door, stalked down the driveway, and drove off, stiff-backed and thin-lipped, without a backward glance.
Okay, then.
So much for her being there with him. Or ever speaking to him again.
God, sometimes he hated being right.
He ground his teeth and went inside, feeling out of place and decidedly out of sorts. After checking out the rooms he hadn’t seen last night, he decided to set up his surveillance gear, alarms, listening devices, and his laptop in her spare bedroom, which she used as a home office.
Too bad there wasn’t a guest bed in there, too, along with the desk and bookshelves. The only choices for sleeping seemed to be either Mary Alice’s bed, or on a short, antique couch which looked like it had been designed by the Marquis de Sade.
Which was only fitting, since this whole scenario would no doubt have suited the Marquis’ torturous sensibilities perfectly.
Bridge chose the couch.
And for two long afternoons and even longer nights after knocking off the road crew, he rattled around her bungalow, desperately manufacturing ways to keep himself occupied while watching the singularly boring and inactive Charlie Watson. And trying not to think about Mary Alice Flannery.
He cursed his weakness for the damned woman.
He was going crazy. Sitting in her living room after it got too dark to work or prowl around outside, everywhere he looked he was reminded of her—and of the disdain for him she’d shown by leaving. Closing his eyes didn’t help. He was only assaulted by the seductive, lingering scent of her sweet strawberry shampoo.
His first night there he’d discovered the shampoo bottle sitting on the edge of her old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. He’d done his best to avoid it and the memories it stirred. But on his second night, after doing a late perimeter check of Watson’s place, he finally surrendered to the inevitable. He set his motion detector beeper on the bathroom counter and soaked in the tub until the water went ice cold, just squeezing that shampoo bottle and breathing in the scent. Imagining what it would be like to have her there with him in the tub, her hair loosened from its horrible up-do and cascading over his bare skin, her eyes warm and gazing at him with desire, her arms tender and loving.
As they had been the other night.
Get real, Bridger.
After dragging himself out of the tub and suffering through a lengthy self-lecture on the futility of such fantasies, he moved the beeper to an end table in the living room and tormented himself again attempting to catch a couple hours sleep on the overstuffed, undersized torture sofa. He found a quilt and wrapped himself in it, only to find he was again surrounded by the smell of the woman he’d do anything to forget.
The woman who had haunted his every waking thought now for two punishing days and two tormented nights.
He couldn’t sleep.
Not without dreaming.
And every time he closed his eyes he would dream of his mother singing in her garden back home. He’d reach out to her, but she would always slip out of his grasp and start to walk away.
“Mama,” he’d call, and she would turn to him.
But always, it was Mary Alice’s face that looked sadly back at him.
He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. Even Charlie Watson seemed to be in on the conspiracy, not going out except to his job, and not receiving any interesting visitors, or even packages that Bridge could check out the labels on.
In short, he was going stark, raving mad.
On the third day of hell, he walked up the street from his truck to Mary Alice’s cottage, sighed, and scoped around for Jose and Enrico, the two gardeners who had been tending Mary Alice’s yard when he’d knocked off from his final shift on the road crew an hour ago.
He’d nearly forgotten about Watson’s guys doing her lawn every week. Since Bridge had mowed it just a few days ago, they’d decided to trim some bushes instead. Upon discovering the two men in the bungalow’s yard earlier that afternoon, and desperate even to hear the sound of her name spoken aloud, he’d spent a few minutes discussing the garden with them, exchanging lawn tips, and sharing a chuckle over Watson’s obsession with his precious water lilies. They’d been curious about Mary Alice’s new live-in boyfriend, and he’d endured a few male barbs about his intentions concerning her.
But apparently Jose and Enrico had finished and were now gone.
Bridge hoisted the duffel bag with fresh clothes he’d brought over from his place for the weekend, grateful he wouldn’t have to do a grimy load of road crew laundry every night any more. The task force had picked up chatter that Watson’s buy was happening soon, so the captain had insisted Bridge go on surveillance duty full-time. A rookie officer, Jason Deane, was taking over his undercover spot on the construction crew starting on Monday.
Bridge headed into the house, taking the front steps two at a time. But when he inserted the key in the door, it swung open, unlocked. He froze, his cop instincts instantly setting off inner alarms.
Dropping his bag, he quickly grabbed his small back-up gun from his boot holster. Easing himself through the door, he quietly shut it. It was still full daylight, so he could readily see that nothing in the open-concept living-dining room had been disturbed. Sliding along one wall, he peered down the hallway to the bedrooms.
Clear.
He sprinted for the kitchen, pausing before he whipped in, crouched with weapon raised, aiming first left, then right.
Empty.
He sucked down a breath, slipped around into the hall. Breaking a light sweat, he crept along the wall. Checked the spare room. The bathroom.
No one.
Only Mary Alice’s bedroom was left.
Door closed.
He listened intently.
There! A soft scrape. Something being dragged along the floor.
He leaned against the door jamb. Took a deep breath. Collected himself.
If Watson had discovered the motion detectors the FBI techs had installed around his property, he could have put two and two together and deduced the man staying at Mary Alice’s might not be her new lover, but a Fed. He’d be out to investigate the possibility and eliminate the opposition, if necessary.
B
ridge gripped his weapon, thinking wistfully of the Berretta in his gym bag. Hell, the pea shooter he was holding now wouldn’t stop a determined chipmunk. He wasn’t even carrying his handcuffs.
Nothing to do about it now.
Stretching out his fingers, he finessed the doorknob until the latch clicked open. His adrenaline surged.
He burst through the door, launching himself at the figure leaning into the closet. “Police! Freeze!”
She screamed.
“Jeezus!” he yelled, yanking his weapon away from Mary Alice’s neck. He spun away from her and bent over at the waist, gripping his knees, heart thundering. “What the hell are you doing here? I could have killed you!”
Chalk white, she stood plastered to the corner of the room, her eyes wild, peeking over her trembling hands as they clamped tight against more screams he could tell wanted to escape.
He holstered the gun in his boot, then straightened. “Are you all right?”
She nodded once, loosening the death grip on her mouth and lowering her hands to grab her arms instead. She was still shaking.
Damn. In a single stride, he’d pulled her into his arms, holding her close, soothing the shakes that wracked her body. “God, honey, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you— I thought you were Watson.”
“No. It’s not your fault,” she whispered hoarsely against his chest. “I’m sorry I’m being such a baby. I just have this thing about guns. My fiancé and my father—”
Guilt washed over him at the reminder. This was exactly why she didn’t want to be around cops. And he’d brought it right into her bedroom.
Just as his dad had done to his mom.
Anguish filled him as he remembered once when he was about seven and his dad had been away on a three-day stakeout. After the first night, his mom had taken to her bed and stayed there, just staring at the wall. Bridge had felt so helpless, watching her fold into herself more and more, and lose touch with reality.
He’d tried to tell her Daddy was a good cop and was being extra careful. That he’d be okay. But Mama had just looked at him with her dark, doleful eyes.
“My baby boy,” she whispered, beckoning him into her embrace. He’d held her for hours that time, singing their favorite songs to her in a high, shaky voice, desperately feeling like nothing he could do or say would help.
And he’d been right.
He knew now, as an adult, that she had more psychological issues than simply being married to a police officer. That she had been mentally fragile to the extreme and might not have made it even if she’d been married to a poet or a baker. But that was his head talking. And what he always heard was his heart whispering that promise he’d made her as she lay dying.
“Don’t do this to another woman, mijo. Promise me you’ll only marry a strong, independent woman. A woman who won’t fall apart if you’re—”
Her expression had gone utterly stricken then, and her words had died, along with the little light left in her eyes. He’d called to her, grasping her hand in grief and distress as she’d slipped away from him forever.
Holding Mary Alice now, Bridge steeled himself against the wellspring of emotions bubbling up within him. As much as he wanted her, wanted to try for something real with her, he had no business with a woman like Mary Alice. She had too many bad memories. She’d never be able to make a life with another cop. And he refused to kill her sweet, gentle spirit, watching it wither and die as she waited at home, worrying over another man whose whole world was filled with violence and uncertainty. Another man who one day might not return home because of the profession he’d chosen.
Eventually Mary Alice stopped trembling, and he let her go, but only after wrapping her tenderly in a fuzzy blanket from the bed.
And silently vowed never to hold her again.
That was when he spotted the overnight bag sitting on the floor by the dresser.
“What are you doing back here?” he asked with a frown, crossing his arms and pinning his hands beneath them so he wouldn’t reach for her again.
She plunked down on the bed, eyeing him, suddenly defiant despite the shadows of fear still playing in the depths of her eyes. “I live here?”
He was already painfully aware of that, thank you. “I thought you were staying with a friend as long as I’m—” He set his jaw.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, lifting her chin. “There’s been a change of plans. Nancy’s husband just got some disturbing news about his health. I don’t want to intrude on their privacy while they deal with it.”
He stared at her. “You’re moving back in?”
He wasn’t sure whether to pump his fist, or run as fast as he could back to the station and resign from the case.
She glanced at his face and scowled. He snapped his jaw shut but it was too late.
“Don’t worry, Detective Sergeant, you’ll still have the run of the house,” she said brusquely. “I’ll stay out of your way. You won’t even know I’m here.”
Yeah, that was real likely.
He turned and walked toward the bedroom door. “No problem. And I really wish you would call me Bridge.”
“Of course, you’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep, Detective Sergeant.”
He stopped dead and jerked a glance at her, then at the bed behind her. “I’ve been sleeping on the couch.”
She blinked. “Oh.”
Was that disappointment he saw flit through her eyes?
Who was he kidding? More like abject relief.
He gave in to the bitterness scratching at the edges of his heart. “Don’t worry, Miss Flannery. I’m here to do a job and nothing more.”
With that he strode out and closed the door firmly behind him.
Now, if he could just convince his loudly protesting heart that was all he wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mary Alice looked out the kitchen window to the back yard, searching for Bridge. He’d been avoiding her all morning, and that made her feel like crap. Okay, so she was still furious to the max with him for lying to her, and for nearly giving her heart failure when he’d assaulted her and practically shot her head off last night. But as much as she hated to admit it, she’d missed him. Missed him a lot.
How was that even possible?
When Nancy and Ben had gotten the frightening news from Ben’s doctor that a large tumor had turned up on his head scan, Mary Alice had known they needed their privacy to deal with such a scary and serious situation. Nancy had assured Mary Alice she was still welcome to stay, but the last thing her best friend needed during such a time was an extra wheel hanging around the house.
So, Mary Alice had decided that despite Bridge’s presence, she should move back home.
She hadn’t expected his negative reaction, nor his avoidance. She’d actually been worried she’d have to fend him off every time she turned around.
She should have known better. Once he’d gained access to her house, it was obvious she held little interest for him.
Which was a good thing. A very good thing.
He was a cop, and she did not get involved with cops. No way. No how.
Hell, she didn’t want to get involved at all. Not anymore. She’d learned her lesson. Just look at what had happened when she’d only contemplated the idea of it.
Even so, his complete rejection was more than a little humiliating. And yes, she was hurt by it.
“Mary Alice?”
She jumped and whirled around, grasping the edge of the kitchen counter. “Bridge, you’ll really have to stop scaring me like that.”
“Sorry.”
She winced inwardly, wondering if he noticed she’d accidentally called him Bridge, not Detective Sergeant. “How anyone can sneak around wearing cowboy boots— What?”
He was looking at her—her hair to be specific—with a peculiar expression on his face.
Embarrassed, she reached up self-consciously and grasped a lock of the unruly mess. She’d really meant to p
ut it up in a neat twist. “Scary isn’t it? Be thankful you don’t have to look at it every morning.”
His hooded gaze dropped to hers.
Damn.
She faltered, heating from the unintended innuendo. “In the mirror, I mean.” Spinning back to the sink, she busied herself with the potato salad she was fixing for lunch.
After an endless moment of silence, he said, “I was just thinking how pretty you look today. I like your hair down.” Before she could possibly think of an appropriate response, he went on, “Do you have an old coffee can I could use? Or something like that?”
She nodded and opened the cupboard under the sink, where she kept the stuff she saved to use at school. “Down here. Take whatever you like.”
They both stooped down at the same time, meeting eye to eye in front of the cupboard.
“Quite a choice,” he said, not looking at the cans at all. Then he cleared his throat, picked out a large green can, and strode out the door, leaving her wondering what exactly had just happened.
At lunchtime they sat across from one another at a picnic table under the big magnolia in her back yard, straining to make polite conversation. It wasn’t as if she could eat without inviting him to join her. Her mother had brought her up right, even if his hadn’t.
“What are you working on today?” she asked politely.
In the last three days, he’d managed to mend the wobbling pickets in her fence, repair the sagging shed door and back porch stairs, and trim several undisciplined trees. And all morning she’d heard mysterious noises coming from inside her ancient garage.
“I found an old rose arbor stashed in the backyard. Thought I might have a go at restoring it.” He glanced at her uncertainly.
She sat up. “Really? Do you think it’s possible?”
“You like it?” His expression warmed.
“I love it. I just thought it was beyond repair.”
His face relaxed. “It’s falling apart, all right, but mostly because the nails are rusting out. Wrong kind. Replace them with stainless steel ones, slap on a fresh coat of paint, and it’s good as new. The wood itself is in great shape. I think it’s teak or something.”