Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed

by Beth Ciotta

  “Okay … Your Highness.” The left side of his mouth lifted as he gestured to her crown. “Did you just win a beauty pageant or something?”

  Yeah, right. At least he was intrigued. Maybe if she distracted him with conversation, he’d forget about the ticket. “Actually,” she said, adjusting her tiara, “I’m a princess. A fairytale princess,” she added before he assumed she was delusional, although she wasn’t sure the embellishment helped. “I’m a professional performer.”

  “That so?” He glanced in her back seat, noted her props, and then thumbed up the brim of his official cap giving her a prime view of a pair of amused blue eyes. “What exactly do you do, Princess?”

  “Interactive storytelling is my main gig.” He looked unimpressed, so she added, “I also juggle.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You juggle?”

  Bingo!

  “What do you juggle?”

  “Balls, torches, machetes, clubs. I’m pretty versatile.” She had to be to compete with the other tri-state jugglers.

  He straightened. “Would you mind stepping out of the car?”

  What now? She opened the door and climbed out, resisting the urge to reach back in and grab her coat. Darn, it was cold, but her bulky, ankle-length coat would effectively conceal her pretty gown, and though she hated to stoop so low as to bedevil a cop to avoid a ticket, at this moment she had no pride.

  He crooked a finger. “Follow me.”

  Oh, no. Was he taking her in? For speeding? Did she have more tickets than she realized?

  When they reached the patrol car, the other trooper stepped forward. Between the uniforms, the guns, and their superior physiques, she supposed most people would be intimidated, or at the very least impressed. Most of her girlfriends, jeez, even Rudy and Jean-Pierre, went ga-ga for bulked-up crime fighters. Cops, soldiers, secret agents. Men trained in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. Men who kick butt.

  Violence, in Lulu’s estimation, had been glamorized by Hollywood. The world would be a better place if people conducted their battles with words. Diplomats were sadly underrated. She smiled at the state troopers, totally unaffected by their macho personas.

  Trooper number two braced his hands on his hips. “What do we have here?”

  “A princess,” his partner said. “Princess …” “Blue eyes” looked to her.

  “Charming.” She fluffed her pink crinoline skirt to keep from rubbing her goose-pimply arms. “But you can call me Lulu.”

  Both of the men smiled. “Blue eyes” spoke. “Lulu juggles.”

  “Really,” said trooper number two. “Can you juggle something for us?”

  Will you forget about the ticket? “I could,” she said, “except I don’t have any of my equipment with me.” She’d stowed her clubs and balls in her locker at the Carnevale. Her rings were at home. “Wait,” she said when “blue eyes” frowned. “I can get creative.” Creativity was her middle name. She glanced at their utility belts, didn’t figure they’d hand over their guns or batons, so she settled on an alternate suggestion. “Do you have three flashlights?”

  “Just one.”

  She wasn’t beaten yet. “It has batteries, doesn’t it?”

  The troopers laughed, and the next thing she knew she was juggling her heart out on the side of the Garden State Parkway and treating them to impromptu banter. “Check out this routine, boys. It’s high energy, electrifying. This could really light things up!” Juggling flashlight batteries in a princess gown and a tiara. She had to look like an idiot, so she milked it for all it was worth, ending with a flourish. The things she’d do to avoid a speeding ticket, although this was way better than relying on her feminine wiles. That was Sofie’s strength.

  When all was said and done, they let her off with a warning.

  Today was her lucky day.

  She stuffed herself into her Bug, waved good-bye, cranked the heater, and drove 65 mph the rest of the way home (even when the speed limit dropped to 45). Admittedly she had a short attention span, and before long she was thinking about fireworks and temptations instead of sirens and warnings. She was thinking about Murphy, and suddenly the car was racing as fast as her heart.

  Chapter Three

  Murphy turned the corner in time to see his bubble-headed principal clipping a garbage can as she zipped her car into the driveway. He parked the Jag curbside, one house down. He’d easily tailed her north. The trip back had been more complicated. He’d had to drive past her when the trooper pulled her over for speeding. Luckily, there’d been a rest stop just ahead, and he’d been able to watch the proceedings through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He still couldn’t believe it. The woman had juggled three flashlight batteries in a ball gown and heels, visibly charming the pants off two of New Jersey’s best. Un-freaking-believable.

  The princess had a lead foot, great hands, and, apparently, multiple talents.

  She really had a way with children. He’d observed from a distance, his chest constricting when he’d witnessed an enthusiastic group hug on the front lawn–Luciana the center of attention. The scene had initiated a flashback to a time when he’d experienced a similar show of affection–from starving Somali children. Operation Restore Hope represented the best and worst of his military career. Sometimes even the purest of intentions went amiss.

  The princess, however, had hit a home run. Whatever she’d done inside that house, she’d won the hearts and devotion of twenty-some little rug rats. Even the boys. Impressive.

  She was a performer of some kind, obviously, specializing in children’s parties. A character, like a Barney or Elmo, only cuter. “Princess Charming,” he’d heard the little red-headed girl call her.

  He wondered if she’d been “in character” when he’d met her this afternoon. He knew from experience that certain actors slipped into their roles the moment they donned a costume. That had been the case with the Hollywood diva he’d had the privilege of protecting during a controversial film shoot four years ago. Maybe that was the case with Luciana. That’s why she’d been so bubbly. Bubbly suited a tiara and puffy pink dress. It also suited her nickname. She was a “lulu” all right.

  She burst out of the tiny car, an explosion of pink netting and purple shag, with the stuffed poodle looped over her shoulder. He imagined her in street clothes, because somehow that made the assignment easier. If he was lucky, she smoked, drank, and swore like a hip-hop artist. That he could deal with. “Bubbly” was a stretch. He couldn’t imagine any woman being that damned cheerful twenty-four hours a day.

  Why would anyone want to hurt kiddy-heroine Princess Charming? It didn’t make sense. He took off his sunglasses and hooked them over the visor, exploring another theory. Underneath that goody-two-shoes façade lurked a bitch on wheels. A woman who’d somehow pissed off the wrong people. Wrong people being Bogie’s specialty. Normally, by now, he would’ve made a few calls. Checked into her background. But not knowing how she tied into Bogie complicated matters. Specifics would help.

  For now, Murphy would have to play it by ear.

  Dusk loomed, the sky fading from cool blue to dismal gray. Still, he had no trouble making out her form as she wiggled and shimmied, trying to maneuver her overstuffed tote bag out of the backseat. He lost his mind for a second and imagined her wiggling and shimmying out of that gown. Imagined her, of all things, naked.

  Get a grip, man. She’s a freaking kiddy-heroine. You don’t do kids. You don’t do women who carry pink poodle purses and live on Mars.

  With a squeal she yanked the bulging bag free and shut the door with her hip. When she tried to step away, she faltered. A significant chunk of her skirt had caught in the door. He shook his head as she gingerly worked the fabric. Either she’d locked her keys in the car or she’d jammed the lock. She dropped the patchwork bag and bent down to jiggle the handle. That’s when Murphy saw a dented blue Lincoln zip by and slide into a parking place a few doors down from Lulu’s house. A squat, bruiser of a man wearing a rumpled suit and a long trenc
h coat emerged with a box tucked under one arm, double-chin lowered, gaze intent on Lulu.

  Shit.

  Seconds later, Murphy was at her side. “Need some help?”

  She yelped and straightened, her hands pressed to her corseted middle. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

  Not quite as bubbly as earlier today, he thought, but still pretty damned chipper. Especially for an adult who’d just spent two hours entertaining a large group of little kids. Attention span: zero.

  “Sorry.” He placed himself between her and the suspicious subject who was now a few feet away.

  What in the hell was in that box?

  “Did you lock your keys in the car?” he asked, ready to drop the grunt when he finally diddybopped into range.

  “No, I …”

  “Lulu!”

  She peeked around Murphy and groaned.

  “You know that guy?”

  “Sam Marlin. He lives at 111 Lark Street West. We’re at 111 Lark Street East. Sometimes the delivery man confuses us.”

  That would explain the box. Still, Murphy held his position. Marlin was a suitable name, he decided. The man resembled a bloated fish.

  Fleshy lips curled down in a bitter pout, rounded shoulders hunched, Marlin grunted and thrust a white cardboard box at Lulu. “Another one.”

  Murphy intercepted the package. “Thanks.”

  Lulu shot him a baffled look and then smiled at the Marlin character. “Yes, thank you for bringing it over, Sam.” She studied the mailing label while giving her skirt another tug. “Hmm. No name, just Girl of My Dreams. No East or West, just 111 Lark. It could have been a gift for your mother. You have to admit, this time it wasn’t entirely the deliveryman’s fault.”

  “Mother doesn’t have any admirers.”

  “How do you know?”

  The man stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, once again pricking Murphy’s unease. He’d once witnessed an innocuous civilian hauling an AK-47 from behind a billowing Dishdasha. Dangerous suspects came in all forms. “What about all the other times?” Sam asked with a sullen huff.

  “No one’s perfect,” she said calmly.

  Except maybe you, Murphy thought. This guy was a prick. Lulu was not only patient, but kind. There went his bitch theory.

  “I called your number several times,” Sam complained.

  “Sofie and I were out all day.”

  “You’re always out. And I’m always getting your packages.”

  “Not my packages,” Lulu said. “Sofie’s. And you’re not always getting them. It’s just that lately there have been more deliveries than usual, so it seems like a lot.”

  Sam’s hands shot out of his pockets and up into the air. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Does to me.” Murphy pacified him with a bland smile. Come on, dude. Make a move so I can kick your whiney-ass into the next yard.

  The man squinted his eyes and twisted his chapped lips into a snarl. “Who are you?”

  “Sofie’s boyfriend,” Lulu said.

  “Actually—”

  “Another one?” Sam snorted in disgust. “Show people.”

  “Hey,” Lulu said, looking devastated. “That’s not nice. Just because Sofie wouldn’t go out with you—”

  “Stuck-up slut.” He turned on his rubber soles and stomped toward his car, his drab gray coat billowing behind him.

  “Sam Marlin, you take that back!” Fist raised, she lunged after him but her gown was still wedged.

  Murphy caught her before she took a header, pointedly ignoring how warm and soft she felt in his arms. Of course, she felt warm and soft. She was cocooned in shaggy fake fur. Big-eyed and cute as hell, it was like holding a freaking stuffed animal. “Easy, killer. I think he was referring to your sister.”

  “I know.” She blinked up at him, while batting away the curls that escaped her haphazard up-do. “Which is why I wanted to throttle him, not that I would have … actually. But I would have given him an earful … or something.” Her voice trailed off as she continued to hold Murphy’s gaze. He registered an unmistakable spark of interest in her long-lashed eyes just before she tensed and pushed out of his arms. “Actually, you should have handled him,” she said, her voice jumping an octave. “You’re her boyfriend.”

  “About that—”

  “No wonder she wants to dump you,” she mumbled, bending over and struggling with her gown. “She’s never gone for wimps.”

  For a moment he forgot about the uncomfortable possibility that they might share a mutual attraction. Murphy almost laughed. A former Marine, he’d been called a lot of things, but never a wimp. He would have had no problem decking Sam Marlin if he’d made a threatening move on Lulu. “Where are your car keys?”

  “It’s not the lock, it’s my dress. Somehow it jammed up the workings.”

  He sensed frustration and an underlying temper. A glimpse of the real deal? Bring it on. Please, Jesus, insert some reality into this bizarre assignment. He set the suspect package on the roof of her car and gave her a gentle nudge. “Let me have a look.”

  She straightened with a pout and folded her arms over her middle. “I can’t believe he called her a stuck-up slut. She’s not stuck-up.”

  Murphy raised one eyebrow and kept working.

  “She’s not loose either,” she ranted on, answering his unspoken question. “She’s just … social.”

  The lock popped and Murphy freed her gown.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He reached down and hauled up her patchwork bag. “Want the May Pole too?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll get it later,” she said, her voice losing its edge.

  By the looks of her backseat she’d intended to get quite a few things later and had forgotten. Her car was a toy chest on wheels. He shut the door, frowning when she made no move to lock it. Was she that trusting? Or that forgetful?

  An old-fashioned yard lamp flickered on, bathing the princess in muted, for chrissake, pink. Her neon lipstick had worn off along with much of her glitter. Yet somehow she still managed to sparkle. The temper tantrum he’d hoped for was history, but he could see her wheels turning. It was as if she’d already forgotten about Sam Marlin and his derogatory comment. Now she was openly contemplating Murphy.

  “I guess you took me literally when I said we could talk later,” she said, snagging the white box off the car roof. “Don’t tell me you waited out here the whole time I was gone.”

  “I didn’t.” He looped her burgeoning tote over his right shoulder, thinking she was a helluva lot stronger than she looked, and relieved her of the mystery gift.

  “I’m sorry I called you a wimp. It’s not that I approve of violence, in fact I teach against it, but I do think you should stand up for people you care about. Since you seemed so intent on picking my brain about Sofie, I just assumed you were head over heels. I can’t believe you didn’t defend her.” She sighed and looked at him as if he were the most pitiful creature on earth. “She’s really got you down, doesn’t she? All right. Come inside. The least I can do is listen.”

  He didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about, but at least he’d gained an invitation to come inside and talk. Progress. He wanted her out of that fairy princess costume and into her civvies. He wanted to meet the real Luciana Ross. Maybe then he’d get a clue as to why he was here. He followed her in silence to the door.

  She glanced over her shoulder as they maneuvered through the crowded porch. “You’re not one for chitchat, are you?”

  “Not really.” He tempered the answer with a smile, which is probably why she kept talking.

  “Sofie should be home in about an hour, so if you don’t want her to know you were here—”

  “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Oh.” She scrunched her nose. “You’re not going to make a scene or anything, are you?”

  “I make it a habit to avoid scenes.” Basic PS training had instilled the notion of shie
lding the principal from altercations, even if it meant ignoring an insult or personal provocation.

  “Me, too. Although in special instances I have been known to wig out.”

  He couldn’t imagine.

  She reached for the knob and twisted. “Crap. It’s locked.”

  As if it shouldn’t be. He swallowed a lecture on basic home security.

  “Hold on.” She rooted through her poodle purse. “It’s in here somewhere.”

  “Isn’t it on the ring with your car keys?”

  “No,” she said, as if he were nuts. “Then I’d get them mixed up. Oh, never mind.” She stooped down and retrieved a key from under the welcome mat.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You don’t have a spare key hidden somewhere?”

  “It wasn’t hidden.” Murphy took the key out of her hand. “It was under the mat. The first place anyone who wanted to break in would look.”

  “This is a safe neighborhood. Everyone knows everyone. Mostly,” she added as he slid the key in the lock and turned, “everyone’s nice.”

  “As nice as Sam Marlin?” He pushed open the door and stepped in, flicking on a wall switch and conducting a visual sweep before moving aside so that she could enter.

  She brushed past him, hung her pink poodle on the coat tree and shrugged out of her wooly mammoth coat. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘ladies first’?”

  Not when there could be an assailant lurking on the other side of the door. Mumbling a distracted apology, he moved into the living room, flipped on more lights. He peeked into the adjoining rooms.

  She schlepped in after him and kicked off her glass slippers. “Stop worrying. I told you, Sofie’s still at work. If you talk fast I’m sure you can pour your heart out in less than an hour.” She regarded him with a panicked expression as he moved back into the living room. “You can, can’t you? I mean this isn’t like a cry on my shoulder all-nighter thing, is it?”

  He grinned, thinking this Sofie must be one hell of a heartbreaker. Although he couldn’t imagine how she could possibly compare to her cute-as-hell sister. “Do Sofie’s boyfriends always seek you out for relationship advice?”