Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed

by Beth Ciotta

  “You do now.” He had his hands in her hair, his mouth on her lips before she could utter don’t, or help, or whatever was on her fascinating mind. She tasted of bubblegum, oranges, and sunshine. He nipped and suckled her lush lips until she sighed and opened to him. He was ruthless in the invasion. He claimed her sweet tongue and feasted, tasting victory when she moaned into his mouth.

  She clung to him. She retaliated. She coldcocked him by slipping eager fingers beneath his shirt, and digging her nails into his back muscles. She moved in for the kill, hooking a leg around his own, and grinding against his erection. She wanted more and he wanted to give it. Right here, right now, on the damned public boardwalk.

  Blood surged to his groin, urging him to spirit her beyond the privacy of the dunes. His analytical mind advised retreat.

  Hands framing her face, he eased back and dropped his forehead to hers. Controlling his breathing and other traitorous body parts took keen concentration. Regardless, he was tuned into her stillness.

  Charged air. Eerie quiet. The calm before the storm.

  “Do me a favor, Princess,” he said softly. “Don’t slap me, curse me, or knee me in the nuts. I’d like for Flora and the rest of the enraptured audience to believe we’re lovers.”

  So that kiss had been a strategic ploy? Heart thundering in her ears, Lulu feigned a calm she didn’t feel. “Lucky for you, I’m a talented actress.” She hadn’t realized how talented until this moment. Molten lava flowed through her veins. Her private parts throbbed and tingled. The only thing that would have made that torrid kiss hotter was if they’d been rolling around in the surf like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here To Eternity. Yet her tone was even, her expression placid. Somehow, she even managed to conceal her trembling. After all, her dignity was at stake.

  Murphy’s mouth hitched into a lopsided grin.

  She wanted to smack him. Ever the diplomat, she balled her fists at her sides. “I find it hard to believe that I’m in real danger, but I seem to be in the minority. So, for now, I’ll go along with this stupid boyfriend ruse.” She glanced inland, grimacing when loose-lipped Flora waved. In less than an hour, the whole neighborhood would know of their public display. Jaw set, she looked back to Murphy. “But you’re not moving in.”

  “The threat level necessitates coverage twenty-four/seven.”

  “I’m really beginning to despise that term. Whatever happened to ‘around-the-clock’?”

  His grin widened as he pushed her arms through the sleeves of his jacket and ushered her back down onto the street. “If you’re worried about your reputation …”

  “Of course, I’m worried about my reputation,” she gritted out as she breathed in the manly scent of leather and spicy aftershave. She felt oddly sexy wearing Murphy’s jacket, the lining still warm from his body heat. What would it feel like to wrap herself in his bed sheets? “Children look up to me,” she said, refusing to let her imagination take flight. “I’m supposed to set a good example. I can’t openly live in sin.”

  “Isn’t that a little old-fashioned?”

  “If having standards and morals is old-fashioned, then, yes, hellooo, meet a dinosaur. Go ahead and laugh. Most people do.”

  He squeezed her elbow. “I’m not most people.”

  “Bad enough that I’m divorced,” she blurted, not wanting to ponder his unexpected acceptance of her archaic views.

  Murphy glanced down at her and she cringed. She really hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He held silent as he whizzed her past her wide-eyed neighbors. Whatever Flora was whispering to Mr. Thorndyke must’ve been pretty juicy. He didn’t even notice Fluffy peeing on his beloved hedges.

  Once they were out of earshot, Murphy picked up their discussion. “Did you try to make the marriage work?”

  “For all the good it did me.” She winced at the bitterness in her voice. What was wrong with her? Usually she kept the disappointment and hurt bottled.

  “So he left you?”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” she said in a backpedaling rush. “I wasn’t the woman he thought he married.” She read the curiosity in his gaze and knew she’d just made things worse. Anticipating an awkward question, she quickened her pace. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He easily kept up. “Then let’s talk about my moving in.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. You’ll just have to find another way to protect me. That’s if I truly need protection.” Denial, just now, was the only thing that kept her fried brain from exploding. Sam Marlin’s car was parked up ahead. She hoped he hadn’t delivered another gift. She’d had enough drama for one day. She sailed into her house and up the stairs. She didn’t want to face her sister and friends right now, and surely Murphy would understand her need for privacy after all he’d just dumped on her plate. She swept into her bedroom just as her cell phone rang.

  She snatched up the receiver, eager for a distraction. “Lulu’s Loony—”

  “Who’s Chaz?”

  Her nerves jangled at the sound of a man’s abnormally quiet voice. “Who is this?”

  “Is he the one you danced with last night? The one who drove you home?”

  Lulu faltered as the dam of denial broke and stark reality flooded her senses. Panic and anger warred as she grappled to steady her voice. “Did you drug me?”

  “I’m sorry you got ill. It was unfortunate.”

  “Why?” Her brain and temper exploded. “Because it blew your plan to take advantage of me when my inhibitions were down?”

  “I enjoyed watching you dance. Your smile … has an effect on me.”

  “Well, drugs have an effect on me,” she blurted into the phone. “A big, fat negative effect. You want to make me smile? Promise me you’ll never pull another stunt like that. Drugs are illegal and immoral and … dangerous. Promise me—”

  “That man,” he repeated softly. “The one who drove you home. Who is he?”

  His directness, his eerie calm chafed. She heard a soft rap, glanced up and saw Murphy looming on her threshold. She held his gaze, absorbed his strength. “My boyfriend.”

  The pregnant pause was frightening, but his final words inflicted more horror than a slasher movie. “He’s not good enough for you,” he ground out. “None of them are.”

  She sat there frozen, as silence droned in her ear. It rivaled the buzzing in her head.

  Murphy walked over, pried the phone from her grasp, and punched buttons.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking the last incoming call.” He shook his head. “No number.” He powered off and laid the cell on the nightstand.

  She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Only one thing was clear, the mystery caller had blown over her concerns about drugs. “He wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “I doubt he’s a reasonable man.” Murphy sat down next to her. “What did he say?”

  “He said you’re not good enough for me. That none of them are. None of who?”

  He scraped a hand along his jaw.

  Her skin prickled. More creepy suspense. “What?”

  “I’m not sure. What else?”

  “He wanted to know if you were Chaz. I thought maybe the call was about Sofie, but then he asked if that’s who I was dancing with last night, if that’s who took me home. He asked who you were, and I said my boyfriend. And, well, you know the rest.” She realized then that she’d grabbed Murphy’s hand. She relaxed her grip, sighed. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He squeezed her fingers when she tried to pull away. “You and I are going to be real cozy from here on out, Princess.”

  At this moment she wanted that more than anything. She wanted to take refuge in Murphy’s arms, give herself over to his protection. Evil had officially infiltrated her happy-go-lucky world.

  Part of her was numb with disbelief. Another part, scared. But mostly she was angry. How many other women had this man hassled? Was he completely without morals?

  “I don’t want that creep
anywhere near this neighborhood. At least ten children live in this area.” She turned baleful eyes on Murphy. “And what about Flora and Mr. Thorndyke? They’re both in their seventies. Defenseless as babes.”

  He smoothed his thumbs over her knuckles. “He’s not interested in your neighbors, Luciana.”

  “What about Sofie? What if he tries to break into the house? What if she’s here and tries to take him down with a karate chop or something? What if she only damages his ego? What if he retaliates?”

  Murphy angled his head, his lips curved in a soft smile. “That’s a lot of what ifs.”

  “And what if someone, like Mr. Thorndyke or Flora, spots him coming out of the house? Wouldn’t he feel compelled to dispose of witnesses? Don’t mobsters cut off people’s body parts?” Her chest ached as the walls of reality closed in. She couldn’t breathe.

  Murphy drew her into his arms and stroked his hand down her back. “That imagination of yours is downright wicked, babe.”

  “Things like that happen, don’t they?”

  “Yeah.” He tightened his hold, nuzzled his chin on her head. “But not on my watch.”

  His reassurance fell on deaf ears. She’d already concocted the worse case scenario. She refused to give it the slimmest chance of playing out. Alternate scenario … Alternate ending … She pushed off Murphy. “Do you live around here?”

  “Smithville.”

  Thirty minutes from the Carnevale. Perfect. She wouldn’t have to miss any work. Sofie could move in with Rudy and Jean-Pierre. They’d keep her safe. Meanwhile the bad guy would have no reason whatsoever for coming into this neighborhood.

  Heart pounding, she bounced up off the bed, raced into her walk-in closet, and tossed out three suitcases.

  Murphy stood. “Going somewhere?”

  Upcoming loonytales whizzed though her mind as she snatched costumes from hangers. Brow damp with sweat, she told herself she wasn’t running away, but taking a creative approach to self-defense. Told herself she wasn’t moving in, just staying over … temporarily. She utilized her acting skills and met Murphy’s challenging gaze with a calm, determined smile. “Plan C.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jake steered his car into his driveway and cut the engine. He sat there clutching the wheel, staring at the Victorian money-pit he and Afia had been slowly refurbishing, and pondered the Princess Charming calamity. He wanted to clear his head before he faced his beautiful, intuitive, and highly inquisitive wife. The last thing he wanted was for her to ask, “What’s troubling you, Jake?” Because “Nothing, baby,” would be his response—a bald-faced lie.

  Plenty troubled him.

  He’d tried to shake the nagging sense of foreboding. Had tried to reason things out on the way home. After all, Murphy had spirited Lulu away to his fortress in the woods. No way in hell was anyone going to get to her there. And he doubted the stalker would make a play during her appearances at the Carnevale. Too public. Too well-lit. Even if he did try to grab her, Murphy would be there, and he’d have the bastard for lunch.

  Regardless–Jake had a bad feeling that stemmed from troubling facts.

  Fact: Joe Bogart worked with the organized crime program.

  Fact: Anthony Rivelli, who used to work at the Carnevale and now worked at Oz, had a past connection with the Falcones, New Jersey’s slipperiest crime family.

  Fact: Rivelli also had a past connection with Jean-Pierre, and as a result both JP and Rudy worked part time at Oz.

  Fact: Lulu worked at the Carnevale.

  Fact: She was drugged at Oz.

  Was Lulu’s stalker a Falcone? Were the Falcones being set up by the FBI? Was the investigation somehow connected to Oz? Had Rivelli lied when he’d said he’d broken his engagement to the mob boss’s daughter?

  He should’ve discussed these suspicions with Murphy, but he had no hard evidence and, where Anthony Rivelli was concerned, Jake constantly felt like he was walking on egg shells. One of his past investigations had turned up a dirty little secret on Rivelli. A secret Afia felt she and Jake were obligated to guard. He didn’t agree, but Afia was adamant, and he’d do just about anything to make her happy.

  She wouldn’t be happy if Rivelli’s job was compromised, yet again, as a result of one of Jake’s cases. Only this wasn’t really Jake’s case, it was Murphy’s … and Bogart’s. He’d give the agent until tomorrow to call Murphy with details. In reality, it had only been twenty-four hours since the fed’s initial contact. With any luck he’d point the finger at someone other than a Falcone. If Bogart didn’t reestablish contact, Jake would clue Murphy in on his concerns. Later tonight, he’d do some digging via the information highway, see if he could verify, or refute, a connection between the Falcones and Oz.

  Just now he wanted to hold his wife in his arms. A few months ago Angela Falcone had aimed a gun at Afia. The memory still shook him.

  Jake bolted for the house. He opened the front door and faltered on the threshold, thrown off by the absence of Mouser. The black-and-white cat never failed to greet him.

  Don’t panic. Just because the old tom’s getting up in years doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.

  He whipped off his jacket and ball cap and placed his recovered Glock in the top drawer of the Queen Anne bureau. He swept through the sitting room, the living room—no Mouser. He didn’t spot even one of their six cats.

  Maybe Afia was serving up kitty treats. She spoiled those fur-balls worse than he did. But his sweet-natured wife wasn’t in the kitchen or laundry room. She wasn’t anywhere downstairs.

  So what? he rationalized as the back of his neck prickled. So she’s upstairs sleeping, or showering, or cleaning. But it was impossible to think like a sane man with the certifiable Falcones on his brain.

  He took the steps two at a time.

  His mouth went dry when he entered their bedroom and spotted Mouser, Rosco, Barney, and Velma sitting side by side, staring into the master bedroom’s john. Mouser looked over his furry shoulder as if to say, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Heart in throat, Jake moved toward the sound of soft weeping.

  Holy Christ. His petite wife sat cross-legged on the bathroom’s cold tile floor in her underwear and his police academy T-shirt, her face buried in her hands. He had to step over four cats to get to her. The other two, Scamp, the loner who trailed after Afia like a puppy, and Gucci, the kitten she’d rescued from a shelter, sat protectively at her side.

  Jake squatted in front of her. “Afia.” He smoothed his hand over her glossy, waist-length hair. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  She wept harder and mumbled disjointed words into her hands.

  Willing his nerves steady, he glanced around the bathroom and saw a familiar box, the same brand as the previous month, lying opened on the sink. Understanding clicked. The home pregnancy test had registered negative. Again.

  Though disappointed, his body hummed with relief. This kind of hurt he could kiss away and make better. “Sweetheart, please don’t cry.” She was breaking his freaking heart. Jake sat on the floor and pulled her into his lap. “We’ll just keep trying. Trying is fun, right?” he teased.

  He tilted her chin up and met her watery gaze. Red nose. Puffy eyes. She’d never been a pretty crier. Then she laughed through her tears, and damn, his relief jumped back to concern, because, Christ, she was really losing it.

  Before he could say another word, she held up the pregnancy test strip.

  It looked different from the others. It looked … He blinked. “Are you … are we …”

  “Pregnant.” She planted a wet, salty kiss on his mouth and then threw her arms around his neck and hugged tight.

  Shaken, Jake clung to his wife as he felt the world tilt. He glanced toward the cats, swore they were smiling. He chuckled, his throat tight with emotion. “Holy shit. I’m going to be a dad.”

  Laughing, Afia pushed him back on the tile floor and tugged at his jeans’ zipper. “Let’s celebrate.”

  Confetti exploded out of spe
cifically designed cannons, peppering the casino lobby with scraps of bright colored paper. Facilities despised the mess, as did the slot technicians. Never failed, at least a few pieces of confetti would flutter onto the casino floor, slipping through cracks and mucking up the inner workings of the slot machines.

  But the patrons loved the hoopla—the colorful parade of stilt-walkers, magicians, jugglers, unicyclists, and the casino mascot. And most of all, they loved the free metallic bead necklaces the strolling entertainers passed out. Since most regulars gambled away the bulk of their weekly income, Sofie almost understood their bizarre enthusiasm for anything free.

  She watched the chaos, grateful she wasn’t on bead duty.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks. I got this sweepstakes entry in the mail. What do I do with it?”

  Stick it up your ass? Sofie bit back the tart reply. Definitely not on the casino-approved list of appropriate responses. Besides it’s not as if the old man deserved a bitchy reply. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been called in on her day off to cover a job that she hated.

  Although, in truth, she’d rather be here than twiddling her thumbs back at Rudy and JP’s townhouse. She wasn’t thrilled about imposing on the lovebirds—like she needed to be reminded of the bliss she’d lost out on with Chaz—but short of leaving the country it was the only way to insure her sister’s well-being. Lulu, the stubborn runt, had refused Murphy’s protection unless Sofie accepted equal protection from their friends. She could take care of herself, but she’d sucked it up and acquiesced, harboring an ulterior motive.

  You’d have to be an imbecile not to sense the attraction between Murphy and her sister. She wanted Lulu to move into the man’s house. She wanted them to have secluded privacy. Maybe then her straight-laced sister would be more inclined to let nature take its course. She kind of liked the idea of Lulu hooking up with a man so totally her opposite. The dreamer and the realist. There was a certain balance in that, a balance neither sister had ever achieved. Even though Sofie wasn’t fond of the male gender just now, she sort of liked Colin Murphy. She especially liked the way he looked at her sister. Like he’d kill anyone who hurt her.