Stop in the Name of Love

by Nina Bruhns

  Torn, she put down her fork. “You don’t have to do all this. I happen to know fixing fences and rose arbors isn’t part of a cop’s job description.”

  He took a swig of iced tea, then twirled it in his hand. “Easier to keep watch from outside.”

  “I do have a hammock.”

  His lips curved. “Now, how suspicious would that look, your new boyfriend spending the whole day in a hammock without you?” He shook his head. “Dead give-away.”

  She shook off an instinctive shiver at the word “boyfriend.” She couldn’t believe she’d gone along with that ruse. Her father’s old friend, Captain Trujillo, had suggested it when she called him to say she was moving back in…hoping she could talk him into kicking out Bridge in favor of someone less…disturbing. Instead, Trujillo had seen right through her protestations and turned the tables on the idea. In a moment of shocked witlessness, she’d agreed to let Bridge pose as her boyfriend.

  She picked up her fork again and toyed with her salad, thinking of all the days Jack had spent in the hammock without her, back when it had hung in her parents’ backyard. “Still. I’m starting to feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” she managed.

  He raised a brow.

  “The situation,” she corrected, fumbling with a tomato.

  He raised the other.

  God.

  “Having a man around.”

  He cocked his head and she slammed her eyes shut.

  “To fix things and such.”

  “No need,” he said, finally rescuing her from herself. “I told you, I enjoy doing it. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to putter.”

  She stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes. How could any mortal man look so good sitting at a picnic table with dead leaves clinging to his shirt and gardening gloves sticking out his back pocket?

  She had to remember she wasn’t interested in him, mortal or no. Besides, he wasn’t attracted to her unless his job depended on it. He’d made that crystal clear by ignoring her for the past three days.

  But if she wasn’t interested, then why did her heart still flutter every time she looked at him or heard his deep voice?

  He lifted a forkful of potato salad to his mouth and, suddenly, she noticed his knuckles were scraped and raw. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

  “It’s nothing.” He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand.

  “The nails on that arbor looked awfully rusty. When was your last tetanus booster?”

  “Probably last time I got shot.”

  She blanched, staring at him for an endless moment, her heart stalling in horror. Then she slammed down the lid on her knee-jerk reaction and jumped to her feet. “You should put some antiseptic on it. I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the house.

  Last time I got shot.

  The graphic, disturbing reminder of his profession had her stomach lurching. Against her will, visions of, first Jack, then her father, lying in some alley in a pool of blood, flashed through her mind. She grabbed the bathroom sink and took a deep, cleansing breath, pushing the images away. She’d thought she had managed to banish those vivid memories long ago, but Bridge’s unexpected statement had caught her by complete surprise and she’d reacted badly. He probably thought she was a complete wuss.

  Straightening, she pulled the yellow tube of antiseptic and some cotton balls out of the medicine cabinet, and returned determinedly to the picnic table. “Let me have your hand.”

  For a few seconds he didn’t move. Then, with the look of a man indulging a woman in a silly but harmless whim, he gave his hand over to her.

  Feeling at once terribly self-conscious about touching him, she forced herself to take hold of his fingers. They were long and bronze against her much paler, smaller hand. She could feel his pulse beating in his fingertips. They were warm. So warm she thought hers might melt away under them.

  Swallowing heavily, she swabbed his knuckles with a water-soaked cotton ball, then dried them and gently spread on a layer of antiseptic cream. He watched her face the whole time, an inscrutable look on his own, ignoring his hand completely. Red-cheeked, she suddenly realized she’d been stroking his fingers much longer than necessary.

  Struggling against the urge to kiss away the hurt, she placed his hand on the table. “All done.”

  “Thanks.” He pulled it back and quickly finished up his lunch without another word.

  She really hated this awful tension between them. She was sick of walking a tightrope between suspicion and lust. She wanted their fun, comfortable friendship back. They had been so relaxed and happy together before his confession—when they weren’t all over each other—and she missed that.

  To be honest, she missed the being all over each other part, too. But she wasn’t going there again. Still, talking would be nice.

  Maybe if she apologized for doubting his honor. Perhaps then she’d get back the other Bridge—the new friend she’d been growing so fond of.

  He started gathering up his lunch dishes.

  She quickly ventured, “Captain Trujillo said you argued to keep me out of this case. But the FBI SAC ordered you to use my house, however you had to get my permission.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. Crumpling up his napkin, he tossed it on his empty plate. “It was really the only option.”

  “I accused you of all those horrible things. I’m sorry.” And she really was. On more than one level.

  “No big deal,” he said. “You had every right to be angry.”

  “Maybe so, but not to go off on you like that. I know you weren’t trying to—” She faltered. “That you wouldn’t have—”

  With a grim expression he stood and picked up his plate and glass. “Don’t make me into something I’m not, Mary Alice. Believe me, if you’d been willing, I would have screwed your brains out in that truck and walked away a very happy man. But I would have walked away.”

  As if to demonstrate, he turned and walked away from her then, disappearing through the door that led into the kitchen.

  And her heart quietly broke in two.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bridge carefully set his dishes down on the counter—before he could throw them at the wall. He raked both hands through his hair and cursed himself long, hard, and vile. He’d never actually hated himself before. Not until this past week.

  Turning on the tap full blast, he stuck his fingers under it and scrubbed at the antiseptic lotion till his raw knuckles sang with the sting of the hot water.

  He looked out the window and saw Mary Alice sitting at the picnic table, looking every bit as beaten as during that horrible moment he’d held a gun to her neck. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped, and her pretty hands were clasped tightly in her lap. He’d bet good money they were shaking.

  God, he was a son of a bitch.

  He had to keep away from her.

  He wanted her in the worst way. And the best way. But he couldn’t commit to spending the rest of his life with her—or anything more than a short time. And she’d want more than that.

  But he couldn’t ask a woman to stay with him. Not if he really loved her.

  He wouldn’t risk it. He couldn’t. Especially not with this woman, who had already managed to turn his world upside down.

  He shook his head. Even to himself, his reasoning sounded hollow. Like a lame excuse, rather than a solemn promise being fulfilled.

  Funny, it had never rung false before.

  Then he thought of his mother. Her death certificate said it was a stroke, but he knew better. That’s not what had killed her. She could have fought the depression, might have won, but she had deliberately chosen not to. Every time Dad had been late coming home, she was convinced he wasn’t coming back at all. She’d retreated further and further, gotten more and more remote, until finally even her baby boy hadn’t been able to bring her back.

  Bridge inhaled a long, deep breath, and released his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sink
. His mother might have been overly fragile, but the fact was, every cop’s wife had a hell of a stressful life. Not something any woman should have to endure, let alone a woman with so many reasons to avoid it. He’d be damned if he’d put Mary Alice in that position.

  He just couldn’t do it.

  So he spent the afternoon taking apart the rose arbor, pouring his frustrations into sanding the pieces till they were smooth as silk—smooth as Mary Alice’s thighs—to his touch. He caressed the curves of the wood with his thumbs, closed his eyes, and let his mind take him where he wanted to be. Instantly, his body was as hard as the wood beneath his hands.

  Groaning, he threw aside the sandpaper and opened a can of white paint. He had to exercise an iron grip on himself to keep from running to her, getting down on his knees, and begging for her forgiveness. But doing so would surely lead him to hug her, touch her, kiss her. And more.

  And that would be disaster.

  No. He had to put a leash on it. He was a grown man, for godsakes, capable of rising above the temptation of this situation.

  Shit.

  That damned promise had always been so easy to keep before. What the hell had happened over the past week to make him think of nothing more than how much he wanted to break it?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next morning, Mary Alice woke to the smell of bacon frying. For a second she thought she was back at Nancy’s, but when she opened her eyes the fog cleared from her brain as she recognized her own room.

  Well, most of the fog cleared. A slight headache thumped against her temples. She moaned in self-recrimination and eased out of bed. She’d had three glasses of wine with dinner last night—something she never did.

  Bridge had grilled burgers, and they’d sat out back under the magnolia again, relaxing over a glass of wine with the meal. Or rather, they’d tried to relax. She’d done her best to present a facade of sangfroid against his cool, distant conversation, but the tension had proven too much for her, and she’d resorted to two extra glasses of wine to get through dinner.

  It was embarrassing to have a hangover from three glasses of wine.

  And now she had to face the man and his stupid bacon. She gritted her teeth and considered sneaking out a window instead.

  Unfortunately, nature wouldn’t allow her that option, even if she could bang the sticky window screen open without waking the whole freaking neighborhood. For the first time since she’d bought her quaint old bungalow, she dearly wished she’d chosen a modern house—with a master bath instead of the single bathroom down the hall.

  But there was no way around it—she’d have to leave the sanctuary of her own room and brave seeing her houseguest.

  Maybe if she was really, really quiet, he wouldn’t notice her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Naturally, he saw her right away.

  After two aspirin, a splash in the sink, a fresh dress, and a bit of make-up, Mary Alice felt much better. Still, when she ran headlong into Bridge as she came out of the bathroom, her legs were suddenly as wobbly as a Catalina tourist stepping off the hydrofoil.

  “Breakfast?” he asked.

  He looked suspiciously cheerful. And unbelievably attractive wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off PPD sweats and a spatula.

  Mary Alice gave herself a firm mental admonishment for her weakness, and avoided looking below his neck. “I’m not really hungry,” she said, attempting to hurry past without touching him.

  “Nonsense. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He parked himself in front of her, blocking her retreat. “I made Denver omelets.”

  Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be herded toward the dining room. “How’s a woman to refuse?” she mumbled.

  When she was seated, he placed a plate in front of her with the most delectable-looking omelet she’d ever seen, along with a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Smells wonderful,” she admitted, her stomach growling appreciatively. She reached for her coffee, but Bridge just continued to stand there, looking suddenly nervous. “What?” she asked warily.

  He stared at her for a moment, then seemed to gather himself. “I want to apologize,” he said, shocking her speechless. “I’ve been acting like a complete jerk, and I’m sorry.”

  Remnants of the pain she’d endured for the past few days zinged through her at his words. She couldn’t deny he’d hurt her badly, first with his deception and then by his cold attitude after she’d returned. She licked her lips and grappled for something to say, but before she could formulate a single thought, he went on.

  “The truth is, I’m attracted to you. Very attracted. But I also know how you feel about getting involved—with me in particular.” His mouth thinned. “Being this close to you…well, I’m just having a little trouble dealing with the whole situation.”

  Her overloaded brain homed in on one phrase. I’m attracted to you.

  Surely he— No. He couldn’t possibly mean he was interested in her…interested interested. Not beyond a superficial physical desire. His pretty speech about the truck had made that abundantly clear. It was just sex he was interested in.

  The man had a hell of a nerve.

  She set her jaw. “And that’s supposed to excuse your behavior, I suppose?”

  “No.” Slowly, he scraped the second omelet from the skillet onto his plate. “It doesn’t matter how much I want to—” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “Nothing justifies taking out my frustrations on you.”

  Her face blazed and she looked away, toying with the edge of the tablecloth. She figured she knew exactly what he wanted. “Bridge, please don’t. I—”

  “It’s not just sex, you know,” he interrupted, shocking her again. Was the man a mind reader?

  “Bridge, honestly—”

  “I like everything about you. Your generosity, your sense of humor. The way you love those kids you teach, and wear those pretty dresses instead of jeans. Even that man-eating lawnmower of yours that should be illegal makes me like you even more for not wanting to pollute the environment.”

  He reached for her hand and caressed the tender underside of her wrist, looking as earnest as an altar boy. “Please, Mary Alice. If I promise to be very, very good, can we go back to the way it was before? I miss you. I liked being your friend.”

  Stunned, she opened her mouth, couldn’t think of a thing to say, and shut it again. Her vision suddenly blurred. “I miss you, too, Bridge.”

  He smiled, and she held her breath as they gazed at each other for a long moment, happiness filling her to the brim.

  Then a mischievous grin slid over his lips. “Of course, the sex part ain’t bad, either.”

  Her breath whooshed out and she smacked his arm, blinking back the tears that had inexplicably dampened her eyes. “You are completely incorrigible.”

  He pulled her into a hug. “Another one of my more endearing traits.”

  His chest was warm and his arms strong and tender. And she knew if she stayed in them for one second more, she’d forget all about her new resolve to avoid him. So she pulled away. “Sex isn’t an option. I’m sorry, but it really isn’t.”

  He held up his hands, walked around to his side of the table and sat down. “I know. I know. You deserve a nice, stable guy with a nice, stable job. Someone who is willing to make all the right commitments. I can’t do that, so I’ll suffer in silence and not pressure you. I promise.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” she said, and forced herself to take a bite of omelet. It should have been delicious but it tasted like sawdust.

  He was right. She did deserve a nice, stable man who wasn’t afraid of commitment. If she was going to take the awful risk of another relationship, she had to make sure her heart wouldn’t be broken because she chose the wrong man.

  Unfortunately, she suddenly couldn’t imagine herself with any man but Russell Bridger.

  Which left her…where?

  Fresh out of luck. Because he’d only love her, then walk away
. That’s what he had said. He would make love to her, then walk away a happy man.

  No, it wasn’t worth it. Better to be just friends.

  She eased a smile onto her face. If it was a bit more subdued than it could have been, well, it was honest. She did like him as a friend and was glad she could have at least that much of him.

  “Mary Alice?”

  She jerked her attention up, and realized he was waiting for her to say something. “Um…?”

  “So, friend, would you like to help me paint the rose arbor this morning?”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered, sensing her taste buds awaken again to the flavor of cheese and salsa. “I’d love to.”

  He winked, and she dug into the omelet.

  It would be all right. She would be all right. She’d just have to be vigilant. Keep her defenses up around him. Lots and lots of defenses. And she could absolutely not let him catch her off guard. Off balance. Because then she might do something crazy.

  And if she did something crazy, there would be no stopping herself. Or him. And she’d be lost for certain.

  Hopelessly lost, in love with Russell Bridger.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Uh-oh, Watson has company,” Bridge whispered under his breath to Mary Alice, watching a car turn into the neighboring drive.

  She was sitting next to him on the back lawn, cross-legged and leaning over a jumble of newly painted wooden arbor parts. The faded T-shirt and old cut-offs she’d changed into carried smears of white paint, as did her thighs where they weren’t covered.

  He’d been severely distracted by those thighs all morning and nearly forgot what he was saying when he glanced over at her. There was paint across her nose, too.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Do?” Damn. He was going to concentrate, that’s what he was going to do. He jumped up and asked in a loud voice, “How about some iced tea?” The woman had definitely scrambled his brains.

  “Uh, sure.”