Stop in the Name of Love

by Nina Bruhns

  What he needed was a plan.

  A good plan.

  And subtlety was optional.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “You’ve been keeping secrets from me, Mary Alice.”

  Charlie Watson’s voice sailed over the low picket fence dividing the side of her front lawn from his driveway.

  Mary Alice jerked her head up in alarm from the Stanwell Perpetual she had decided to dead-head after getting home from work that afternoon. “What?”

  “I’m crushed,” Charlie said, his tone teasing. “You have a new boyfriend.”

  She let out a silent sigh of relief. Honestly, she wasn’t cut out for this cloak and dagger stuff, even if her own father had been a cop. Knowing Bridge thought her neighbor was a ruthless criminal had her jumpy as a cat crossing a freeway every time she saw him now.

  She shook herself, remembering that she was supposed to be Bridge’s girlfriend. “Yes, I do have a new boyfriend,” she confirmed brightly.

  “From the road crew, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh.” She smiled over at Charlie. “But they moved him to another site this week,” she added, thinking he might be wondering why Bridge had suddenly disappeared from the crew out front.

  He locked the door to his red Porsche and ambled over to the fence, grinning. “Picking up a man right off the street. My, my. I would never have believed it of you, Mary Alice.”

  “Me, neither.” She grinned back. “He sure is cute, though. And all those muscles.” She fanned her face with a hand. “Wow.”

  Charlie snorted. “I’ll take your word for it.” Catlike, he jumped over the low pickets, landing close to her. “I guess he’s handy for yard work, if nothing else.”

  She glanced around at the recently neatly trimmed trees and bushes, the freshly painted fence, and her beautifully restored rose arbor. “He has a second floor apartment and misses gardening. For which I am very grateful,” she said with a low laugh, trying to cover her blossoming unease. Why all the interest in Bridge? Or was it just her over-active imagination?

  “Anyway, it’s good someone’s here to watch out for you. There were a couple of strange characters hanging around the neighborhood last week. I had to call the police.”

  “You’re kidding.” She looked out toward the street, at the construction guys just starting to pack up, and hoped he hadn’t also noticed that Bridge had left the crew and moved in with her the day after those “strange characters” had disappeared.

  “I’ll be glad when this damned road construction is over and done with, that’s for sure,” he muttered.

  “Tell me about it,” she said with a sigh. “I have to dust twice a day even to find the furniture.”

  “Hell, I need to take the boat out next week and can’t get it out of the damned driveway.” Charlie snapped off a delicate pink blossom from one of her rose bushes and stared down the street. His eyes narrowed.

  Mary Alice followed his gaze. Bridge’s truck was pulling in behind her car in the cut-out.

  “Speak of the devil,” Charlie muttered.

  At the sight of Bridge walking swiftly toward them, a lump lodged in her throat and her concentration took a nosedive. “Hmm?”

  Her emotions had gone completely out of control today. First in bed this morning, and then during the incredible hour at school. Bridge’s lethal combination of sensuality and sensitivity had swept her away completely.

  There was no denying, she was hopelessly in love with the man.

  But hopeless was the operative word. She had to stop weaving fanciful, impossible dreams of endless love and a happy future with Russell Bridger. He was a cop. And he didn’t believe in lifetime commitments. She had to remember that.

  She needed to be strong and resist the temptation to let herself be swayed by his gentle, loving ways. By his incredibly arousing body. By his protectiveness, and his understanding. She had to force herself to think of the long-term pain she’d be saving herself, not of the short-term heartache she would suffer when he walked away from her after this assignment was over. She could deal with that.

  At least, she tried to tell herself so. Over and over. But her heart just wouldn’t listen.

  And neither would her body. She couldn’t take her eyes off Bridge’s imposing figure as he approached.

  The man was gorgeous. Tall and lean, dark and angular, thighs rippling under snug jeans. Today, his bright orange construction vest covered a white T-shirt that stretched tantalizingly over his broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. He still hadn’t shaved, she noticed, her mouth going dry as the Mojave Desert in August.

  Cool, Mary Alice, be very cool, she admonished herself as he came up to her and Charlie.

  “Hi, baby,” he said simply, and swept her into his arms, his mouth covering hers in a breathtaking hello kiss. “I missed you.”

  Heat sizzled everywhere he touched. He held her intimately against his body, apparently unwilling to surrender her even as his head rose and he took inventory of her neighbor. “Hi. I’m Russ Bridger.” He didn’t have to add, “And this woman is mine.” The look he cut Charlie said that plainer than words.

  Mary Alice wondered suddenly if this was Bridge-the-cop playing his undercover roll to the max, or if it was Bridge-the-man staking out his territory in the face of a potential rival. She couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through her at being the object of his claims and desires, and felt her body yield to his.

  Charlie stuck out his hand. “Hi. Charlie Watson. I live next door.” He tipped his head toward his house.

  Bridge kept his left arm firmly around her while he extended his right. “Nice place you have,” he said noncommittally.

  “I came to invite you guys to a little party I’m having Saturday night. Mary Alice always comes over. I hope you’ll be able to make it too, Russ.”

  She wriggled around in his grip so she faced Charlie, her mind clicking back to the reason for Bridge’s being there. What a break for him to have been asked into Charlie’s home.

  But before she could accept, he said, “I don’t know. Mary Alice and I have been enjoying staying in evenings lately.”

  Ears burning, she reached back and jabbed him with her elbow, gratified when he let out an oof. “Don’t be silly. Of course we’d love to come, Charlie. It’s very nice of you to invite us both.”

  With a satisfied smirk, Charlie looked from her to Bridge. “Good. I’ll expect you about nine o’clock, as usual. See you ‘round, Russ.” He flipped the flower in his hand onto the ground and leapt back over the fence.

  Bridge tightened his grip around the front of her body, and something hard dug into her shoulder blade. He murmured, “Count on it, Watson.”

  As soon as Charlie was out of earshot, he muttered, “Asshole.”

  She slipped around in Bridge’s arms and peered up at him. “What’s gotten into you?”

  He braced his legs apart and snuggled his face into her neck. “You.” His hands found her bottom and lifted her into him as he kissed the sensitive junction between her neck and shoulder. “I didn’t like the way he was making time with my woman.”

  His woman? Mmm, she did love the sound of that.

  She smiled into his hair, then reluctantly took a step backward. “He wasn’t. And I’m not your woman, Bridge.”

  He ran a thumb down the side of her face. “Then why do you wear my mark on your cheeks?” He darted a glance over the fence. “And why else would he be staring down the front of your dress?”

  “I like how you kiss,” she said absently, frowning down at her neckline. No, he had to be kidding. Looking up, she caught him grinning and mocked a scowl. She decided to change her tack. “You almost threw away a perfectly good opportunity to get inside his house without a warrant. Good job, Dirty Harry.”

  “Hey, watch it.” He smacked her bottom.

  “Ow!” She skipped away from him. Laughing, she backed up the walkway to the door, holding her hands behind her protectively.

  “I’ll show you Dirty
Harry, and you won’t be laughing then,” he called after her with a cartoon-villain chuckle. “Put on some coffee, woman. I have to get something from the truck.”

  She made a face at him. She should let him make his own damn coffee. But she went in and did as he asked, anyway. Where were her feminist streak and fine Irish temper when she needed them?

  Undoubtedly keeping her good sense company, wherever that had gotten off to.

  The front door closed just as she pressed the brew button on the coffee maker. Behind her, she heard Bridge walk into the kitchen, his boots hardly making a sound.

  She smiled. She was getting better at knowing when he was sneaking up on her. “You know, you really—” She turned and exclaimed, spotting the huge bouquet of roses he held out to her. Her heart skipped a beat, and she immediately forgot whatever scolding she’d been about to give him. “Oh, Bridge! They’re beautiful!”

  “The old varieties aren’t very good for cutting, so my mom kept a few teas, too. Thought you might like these.”

  A few perfect white buds were mixed in with a large bunch of fragrant, mauve-colored blossoms. He’d even cut ferns to give the bouquet a nice frame. She inhaled the delicious, spicy fragrance, and hummed, “Mmm. They’re wonderful. Thank you.”

  Accepting the vase from him, she took it to the living room where they could both enjoy the flowers. She knelt by the low coffee table and fussed a little with the arrangement.

  “Speaking of roses, I got a letter today from the Historical Rose Society, confirming the board’s appointment here Friday.” Her fingers found a curly strand of ribbon among the flowers. “What’s this?”

  Then she looked up, saw him, and let out a big gasp.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Bridge watched Mary Alice’s horrified reaction to the sight of his weapon in its shoulder holster and the badge hanging from his T-shirt pocket. He’d put them on when he fetched the flowers.

  Her face paled, her eyes widening in shock, and her hand flew to her mouth. “What are you doing with those?” she squeaked.

  He went to the coffee table and knelt down in front of her, bringing them eye-to-eye. Gently, he removed her hands from her cheeks and held them in his. “I’m a cop, honey.”

  Her gaze faltered badly, then dropped to the Beretta hanging at his side. “But why wear them now? You’re supposed to be undercover, aren’t you?”

  “SAC Grayson just called to let me know his informant is sure something’s cooking with Watson and he’ll make a move any time. I have to be ready.”

  “So soon?” Lines of fear were suddenly etched around her pretty green eyes. “Will you be in danger?”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “No more than usual. Don’t worry. I’m very good at what I do. Ask anyone.”

  “So was my father.” She sank back on her heels, and her eyes squeezed shut. “Sorry. I have no right.”

  “You have every right,” Bridge said softly, his heart going out to her. “I’ve been officially upgraded to “boyfwiend,” remember?”

  She opened her eyes, joy lighting them again. “Oh, Bridge, you were wonderful at school today. I’m so glad I had the recorder set up. I’ll treasure that tape of you singing forever, and so will the kids.”

  He smiled, remembering how comfortable it had been. How contented he’d felt strumming the guitar for a bunch of toddlers. “I had a good time. I didn’t realize kids could be so much fun.”

  He looked down at her and she looked up at him, and he’d put good money on that they were both thinking exactly the same thing. “Mary Alice—”

  “Bridge—”

  They both laughed, and suddenly he felt shy for the first time since he was five. “You go first,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  “I just wanted to tell you how special what you did today was to the kids, especially Ivy. You simply have no idea…”

  She took a deep breath and looked back at his shield, a sad expression capturing her lovely face. Slowly, she reached out to touch the badge. Her hand shook slightly as she ran her fingers around the edge, then over the pattern of city hall, the letters spelling Pasadena, and his number.

  “You are a cop,” she whispered, as if reminding herself.

  She lifted her hand and touched his chin, then traced his jaw with the same trembling fingers that had tested the cold metal on his chest. After a moment, she moved on to his lips, his cheekbones, his ears.

  “A cop who doesn’t believe in marriage,” she said.

  He wanted to cry out in protest. Yes, he did believe in marriage. He did. Just not for himself.

  But he didn’t speak, for fear of breaking the hypnotic spell of her seeking fingers. His face felt alive with nerve-endings, tingling and tickling where she touched him, the cells of his skin crying out with loss when her fingers moved on.

  He closed his eyes and let her explore his eyebrows and lashes, his eyelids. He felt her brush back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead, then bury her fingers among its mates. He let his head fall back, loving the sensual way she stroked his head, rubbing small circles with her fingers at his temples, across his forehead, behind his ears.

  She trailed them along his neck, across his shoulders, and down his arms until her hand met his gun in its holster. Slowly, she drew the weapon out of the leather.

  He snapped his head up and opened his eyes. “Baby…”

  She held it delicately in her hands, resting it palms-up across her lap. “Such a small thing to be capable of so much destruction.”

  He could see the struggle within her—a reluctant fascination clashing with the urge to throw it as far as she could. She was trying to come to some kind of terms with it, he figured, and resisted yanking the weapon from her hands. He watched her, knowing instinctively that his own future was being decided at that very moment.

  “It’s part of you, isn’t it?” She looked into his eyes. “As much as your hands or face. Or your blood.”

  Moment of truth. “Yes. It’s part of me. Of what I am. It always will be.”

  “Love you, love your gun.”

  His gaze locked with hers. “Do you, Mary Alice? Do you love me?”

  He thought he saw the answer in the deep green of her eyes as she looked at him. Or maybe it was only wishful thinking. Either way, he had to know for sure.

  Carefully, he lifted his weapon from her and reholstered it, then took her hands and kissed them. “I want to hear you say it.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes went liquid and fearful.

  A loud, strident beep suddenly screeched from his pocket, where he kept the alarm beeper.

  “Fucking-A,” he spat out in supreme frustration. “This guy’s got bad timing down to a fine art.” He snatched up the beeper and glared at it, furious over the untimely interruption. “It’s the front door. Watson’s going out. Damn it to all hell. Gotta go.”

  No choice. As much as it killed him to leave, he was on duty and had to do it. He kissed her fast and firm, then ran for the back bedroom to grab a jacket, his Kevlar, and his go-bag.

  When he came out she was screwing the lid on a thermos of coffee, studying it fiercely. “You haven’t eaten. Take some pears.” He plucked up a few of the fruits from the basket on the counter and put them in his bag, along with the thermos she gave him. “Thanks,” he said, tipping her chin up to face him.

  “Please, be careful,” she whispered.

  She looked so scared, he caught her around her waist and held her close. “I will.” Next door a car started, and he knew he had to hurry. “Will you be okay?”

  “Bridge, I—”

  “I’m going to be fine, sweetheart. I give you my word on that.”

  “Oh, Bridge,” she said brokenly. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  He swallowed the words that threatened to come out, then kissed her one last time, and strode quickly out the front door—before he made her promises he could never keep.

  Chapter Forty

  Bridge called Officer Deane
for backup on his cell phone and arranged to meet him at the parking lot of the upscale liquor store where Watson made his first stop.

  “We’ll take your car,” Bridge said when he arrived.

  He locked up his vehicle and slid into Deane’s Honda, just in case Watson recognized the truck.

  Watson spent an hour at the store, finally coming out with several boxes full of bottles, which he loaded into the back of his Porsche. An hour and a half later, after following him all over the city, they pulled up to the third grocery store Watson had visited, this one a small Russian deli.

  Jesus. The man took his parties seriously. Bridge could hardly wait for Saturday. His stomach was already growling.

  Good. Maybe his hunger would distract him from the fantasies that had been playing in his brain ever since he’d asked Mary Alice if she loved him. What would she have said if they hadn’t been interrupted? God, he wanted to rush home and find out.

  He dragged the last pear out of his bag and demolished it in four bites, tossing the stem next to the empty thermos. “Watson’s going to have to start strapping bags on the ski rack at the rate he’s going,” he muttered.

  Deane passed him one of the two sodas he’d just purchased while checking out Watson inside the deli. “This’ll be the last one, guaranteed.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He’s buying caviar. On ice.”

  Bridge shot him a grin. “Hot damn, we’ll make a detective out of you yet, Deane.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I better call Mary Alice and see if anyone’s dropped off my truck.” He’d arranged for a uniform to pick it up earlier.

  The Deane kid had the audacity to snicker.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Aw, hell, Sarge. It don’t take a detective to spot that Magnum you’re packing just thinking about her.”

  Bridge clamped his jaw in the face of irrefutable physical evidence. “Sometimes a man can be too good at his job, rookie.” He hit the speed dial for Mary Alice’s number. “It’s me.”