by Beth Ciotta
“Where’s your sister?” Joe asked, after stooping and reading a gift card.
“Murphy’s house.” Before he could argue otherwise she latched onto his arm. “I’m coming with you.”
Fear is not an option. Weak from her creative stint as aggressor, Lulu collapsed on top of Murphy, adopting the Marine motto as her own. She was also fond of “OohRah” and “Let’s rock and roll,” both of which she now equated with mindblowing sex.
Slick with exertion, she pressed a kiss to Murphy’s neck, tasted salt. Sweat was never so sexy. She sighed. “I saw stars. No, I saw another galaxy!” She didn’t care if he thought she was daft, she wanted him to know how she was affected by their lovemaking. When he didn’t respond, she noted his controlled breathing, lifted her head and saw that his eyes were closed. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, just having a quiet heart attack.”
She smiled. “Is that similar to seeing stars?”
He grinned.
Her stomach did a funny flip. How had she ever thought him quietly handsome? He was heart-stopping gorgeous. He lazed open his eyes and peered up at her with such intense affection, her breath caught in her throat.
He framed her face in his hands. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
Her pulse raced as he stared up at her for what seemed an eternity. Okay. Her turn to have heart palpitations. No one, not even the man she’d been married to for ten years, had ever called her beautiful. Cute. Perky. A living doll. But never beautiful. And not just beautiful, but f—ing beautiful! How was it that a vulgar word could sound so tender? Overwhelmed, she blinked back tears and summoned an ornery smile. Wiggling against his amazing body, she purred, “I like being on top.”
Smiling, he smoothed his hands down her back sending a delicious chill up her spine. “I got that distinct impression, tiger.”
Tiger. She liked that. She also liked the way he brushed his fingertips over her backside, eliciting sensual shivers. Desire knotted her belly, even as she second-guessed her lovemaking skills. “Was I too loud?”
“I like loud.”
“Too wild?”
He studied her a moment. Again, she caught that flicker of affection, as one of his hands came up to smooth her curls out of her face. “You were perfect, honey.” In the next instant, he finessed her onto her back. Stretched out alongside her, he propped himself on one elbow, using his free hand to caress her curves. “Lulu, when this is over, I don’t want this,” he interlaced his fingers with hers, “us, to end.”
“Wow,” she croaked past the lump in her throat. “So I was that good, huh? Who knew?” If she didn’t joke about it, she’d cry. All those years of trying to nudge Terry into trying something slightly exotic, just for the physical thrill. But Terry wasn’t interested in exotic. He was interested in making babies. Sex with Terry had been a means to an end. In the end she’d felt like a failure as a woman. Barren. Undesirable.
Murphy squeezed her hand. “It’s not about the sex, although—”
“I need it to be about the sex,” she blurted. She palmed her brow. What a stupid thing to say.
“Okay.”
She glanced sideways. “Okay?”
“For now.” He leaned over, banished her worries with a deep kiss, and then eased back with a devilish smile. “Hungry?”
She waggled her eyebrows, shifted, and walked her fingers down his amazing abs.
Laughing, he rolled out of bed before she got her hands on JT. “I need some chow and a break if we’re going to go another round. Or two,” he added with a gleam in his eye.
Grateful for the levity, she scrambled to her feet, dragging a sheet with her. “Where the heck are my clothes?”
“The library.” Crossing the room in all his naked glory—an image she’d carry to her grave—Murphy snagged a blue oxford shirt from his drawer and tossed it to her. “Put this on.” He cocked a sexy brow when she dropped the sheet. “No panties.”
She shrugged into his shirt, smiling when he snatched up a pair of boxer shorts. “No shirt.”
Grinning, he crossed to the bathroom. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Murphy showered in record time. He’d never been so intrigued or perplexed by a woman in his life. He’d been so sure that her ex had done something to turn her off to sex, and yet she was enthusiastic and insatiable … as long as they didn’t slam missionary style. That restriction bothered the hell out of him. He wouldn’t push her into anything she didn’t want, but he’d help her get over that inhibition if it killed him. A distinct possibility given her staying power. The woman was tireless and prone to multiple orgasms. In short, she was every man’s dream girl.
Girl of My Dreams.
Murphy’s blood ran cold when he thought back on the way Lulu had approached Paulie Falcone. There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and she’d crossed it. Did she really think the man would back off simply because she’d told him to? Just the opposite. He’d probably take her rebuff as a challenge. If Bogie didn’t take Paulie down in that sting, Murphy would have to take the situation into his own hands. Whatever the cost, he aimed to hand back the Princess her fairytale world.
He glanced at the clock on his desk as he passed through the library. Bogie had promised to connect tonight. They hadn’t discussed a time. Come to think of it, they hadn’t discussed location. Shit. Bogie would assume that he’d secured the principal’s house. Well, hell. Rather than risk calling his friend’s cell, he maintained he’d figure it out. He better figure it out. If Jake didn’t get the answers he wanted tonight, the possibility loomed that he’d warn Rudy and Jean-Pierre away from Oz, potentially putting the sting, and Bogie, at risk.
His mood teetered on edgy, when suddenly the house rocked with a Motown classic. Apparently Lulu had located his CD player. He padded into the kitchen. The lighthearted scene bumped him back up to euphoric. Tousled curls bouncing, she danced back and forth between the fridge and counter, juggling food products and singing wrong lyrics to “I Heard it Through the Grapevine.” He forgave the way she butchered one of his favorite songs, because she looked so damned sexy doing it. Oh, yeah. His shirt and no panties had been a brilliant call. “What are you making, tiger?”
“Turkey sandwiches.” She held up a loaf of rye bread and a package of sliced deli meat. “This I can handle.”
“Good.” He moved in behind her and slid his hands up the back of her thighs and over her bare ass. “Because my hands are busy.”
She giggled and elbowed him back. “I thought you needed a break.”
“I was wrong.”
She looked over her shoulder and flashed an ornery grin. “You need to eat. You’re going to need lots of energy.”
“That so?”
Her eyes twinkled with mischief and—oh, yeah, that’s what he’d been waiting for—affection. She cleared her throat. “Um, do you like it spicy?”
He leaned back in, pressed his erection against her backside. “That’s a loaded question.”
She looked at him with a flash of heat, then rolled her eyes. “I was referring to your sandwich. Yellow mustard or brown?” She gestured to two jars. “You had both.”
He slid the brown mustard within her reach and brushed a kiss over her temple. “I could get used to this.”
She blushed, concentrating on opening the mustard jar. “Me, too.”
That’s all he wanted to know. Smiling, he gave her backside a light slap, and moved to the refrigerator. “Beer?”
“No, thank you. But I’ll take spring water if you have it.” She started singing again, the wrong lyrics again, while smearing mustard on slices of bread.
Murphy placed a cold bottle of water next to where she worked, and then hopped up and sat on the center luncheonette counter. Bare legs dangling, he swigged from the longneck bottle, and watched her hack up a beautiful beefsteak tomato. The woman was a menace in the kitchen, God love her.
She turned and handed him the sloppiest turkey sandwich ever made. At leas
t she hadn’t cranked up the stove. She stopped singing long enough to say, “I like this song.”
“Remind me to teach you the words someday,” he teased, then bit into the sandwich. Sloppy, but good.
She leaned back against the opposing counter, nibbled on her sandwich. “I figured out a few things about you.”
He thought about another kind of hacking, Internet style. Wondered how good she was tracking down data. Bracing himself, he took another pull on the longneck. “Like?”
“Well, for one, you listen to oldies. I peeked at your CD collection. Really limited, Murphy.”
“No more limited than your DVD and video collection.”
She scrunched up her nose. “I have tons of movies.”
“Yeah, and all of them have a happy ending.”
“Do you have something against happy endings?”
He considered her crestfallen expression, realizing suddenly that she looked adorable whether she was laughing, frowning, or screwing her face up in disgust. He imagined himself waking up next to “adorable” every morning for the rest of his life, and grinned. “No. As a matter of fact, I’m hoping for one of my own.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Her face burned red under his pointed regard. She abandoned her half-eaten sandwich and twisted the cap off her water. “I also know why you haven’t furnished this house properly. No collectables. Essentials only.” She sipped from the bottle before continuing. “What’s here today could be gone tomorrow, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Just because you lost everything once, doesn’t mean it will happen again.”
“You’re telling me not to live in the past.” Murphy tossed back another swallow of beer, nailed her with a meaningful look. “Good advice, Princess.”
She twisted her lips into a pout. “I like Tiger better.”
“Why?”
“Because princess makes me sound like a Goody Two-shoes.”
“You are a Goody Two-shoes, hon. That’s what I love about you.”
Whoa.
The devastated look in her eyes suggested he’d said something wrong. Shit. Was it the L word? It’s not like he’d said I love you, which he did, but figured it was way too soon to admit. Well, damn.
“I thought you saw something different in me.”
He set his beer aside, but held his place. “You lost me.”
She swallowed hard, shrugged. “If you think of me as sweet or pure, you know, like a Madonna type, then you won’t want to, you know …”
“Ball your brains out for the carnal thrill of it?”
She blushed. “I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but,” she took up her sandwich, picked at the crust, “yeah.”
Okay. He was getting a bead on good old Terry now. Missionary only. Conservative or staunchly religious. Sex for a reason, not sex for fun. Or maybe he just couldn’t get it up unless she was flat on her back, the good, submissive wife. What he didn’t get was why she was too embarrassed to talk about it. He thought back on something she’d said, Christ, was it just yesterday? Something about not being the woman her ex thought he married. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, because I’m guessing here, I assume your husband didn’t like it when you got too loud or too wild.”
“Ex-husband, and something like that.”
“If that’s why he left you, the guy’s a moron.”
“He left me because I’m flawed.”
Murphy curled his fingers into the counter, checked his temper … to a degree. “What the hell does that mean?”
She glanced away. “Can we not talk about this?”
Flawed? Murphy rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure how to handle this. He wished to hell she’d be more specific. Flawed? “I’ve never known anyone like you, Luciana. You’re vibrant, caring, sweet, sexy …” I want to grow old with you.
She raked her teeth over her lower lip, met his gaze. “You think I’m sexy?”
The music track changed over to Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On.” Ooh, baby. “Angel, imp. Princess, tigress. I get hard just looking at you.”
“Really?” She grinned, and his heart swelled in recognition of her vulnerability.
“And you’re talented.” He winked. “In more ways than one.” Digging that she was smiling now, not just smiling, but beaming, he reached into the ceramic bowl to his left and tossed her one, two, three oranges. She caught them, just the way she’d caught the clubs Trixie had flung her way, and smoothly juggled them into a continuous arc. “Great hands,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, with a lopsided grin.
“Guess you’ve heard that one, huh?”
“If I had a nickel.” She reversed the pattern. “You know the eyes factor in, too. Eye and hand coordination and lots of practice.”
He swigged the rest of his beer, truly entertained. “I could never do that.”
“Sure you could. It’s a simple three-ball cascade. You teach me the words to Grapevine, and I’ll teach you to juggle.”
He laughed. “Deal.”
She squealed, a freaking shrill shriek, and launched the oranges—one, two, three—past his head. A blur of fast flying fruit. What the—
“Fuck!”
He turned in time to see Bogie dodge the second and third orange. Between the pained curse and the way he was palming his eye, Murphy was relatively sure the first ball of Florida sunshine hit its mark.
“It’s Paulie’s goon!” she cried to Murphy. “Take cover!”
Murphy sprang from the counter and snatched up Lulu before she lobbed the bottle of spring water. He tried not to laugh, she thought she was protecting him after all, but it was damn difficult. Especially since Bogie looked stunned. A rarity. He glanced away from his injured brother, spoke low in Lulu’s ear. “Assaulting a federal agent is against the law, hon. You might want to think twice about hurling that bottle.”
She pressed a hand to her chest, gasped for a steady breath. “That’s Joe Bogart?”
“Man,” Bogie complained, snatching a cold beer from the fridge and pressing it to his cheek. “What is it with you Marino sisters?”
Sofie skidded into the room, took one look at Murphy and Lulu in their state of undress, and glared at Bogie. “I told you we should’ve knocked. But, no, you knew the security code.” She cursed, mumbling, “Asino arrogante,” under her breath.
That was it. The last straw. Murphy burst out laughing, even as Bogie scowled, and the sisters traded bemused looks. To think three days ago he’d been bored and depressed. Life was damn good.
Chapter Nineteen
“Glad one of us is having fun,” Bogie complained, rolling that cool beer bottle over what was sure to be a shiner. “We need to talk and I’m crunched for time. Think you can pull it together?”
“Sorry, bro.” Murphy couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed this hard. Ribs aching, he braced one hand on the counter and tried to catch his breath.
Blushing head to toe, Lulu tugged down the hem of her, his, shirt, and edged in behind him for additional cover. “I’m so sorry, Agent Bogart.”
“Call me Joe, and don’t worry about it,” he said. “My fault.” He ignored Sofie’s mumbled agreement, cracked open the beer, and chugged.
Murphy winked over his shoulder at Lulu, and then looked back at Bogie. “Why don’t you show Sofie into the living area? Offer her a beer or something. Where the hell are your manners?”
Sofie smirked. “What manners?” Her gaze bounced from her sister to Murphy, her lips curving into a wry smile. “Interrupt something, did we?”
Bogie steered the smart-assed, mocha-skinned beauty toward the living room. “You might want to put on some clothes before you join us.”
Murphy noted with amusement that the surly comment was directed at him, not Lulu. Curious. It’s not like Sofie had been visibly offended or intrigued by the sight of him in his skivvies. Even if that were the case, what the hell did Bogie care? Unless �
� Now wouldn’t that be interesting?
As soon as their unexpected guests were out of sight, Lulu scooted toward the library and picked up her jeans and sweater. “I don’t understand what’s so funny,” she whispered.
“You mean other than the part where you torpedoed a fed with fruit?” He copped her bra and panties, fondling the cool silk. “You know I’m growing kind of fond of pink.”
“Oh, for goodness …” She snatched back her underwear. “This is serious, Murphy. You don’t think he’ll press charges, do you?”
“And reveal the details of the assault?” Oh, yeah. The boys at the Bureau would have a field day with that one. “I think he’ll let it slide.”
He ushered her into his bedroom, pondering Bogie’s foul mood. Normally he would’ve seen the humor in being clocked by an orange. Especially an orange lobbed by a cute-as-hell, half-naked, half-pint. Instead he’d barked that he was rushed while practically shoving Sofie from the room. The friction between those two was tangible. Interesting. But not as interesting as whatever details Bogie had to offer on Paulie Falcone.
“I can’t believe how rude my sister was to your brother. Then again she hasn’t been herself lately.” She pulled on her panties and shed his shirt. “What did she call him anyway?”
His mouth watered at the site of her jiggling breasts as she wrangled with her bra. He had to squeeze his freaking package into his jeans. Nuns and puppies. Nuns and puppies. “You don’t speak Italian?”
“Grandpa used to mutter some phrases, but, no, I never picked it up.”
“It was slang, and she was mumbling, but I’m pretty sure she called him an arrogant donkey. Probably meant ass.”
She swept up her jeans, shook out the wrinkles. “I don’t think they like each other.”
“I don’t think they like that they like each other.”
She scrunched her brow.
“Never mind.” A thought occurred and he moved in before she could finish dressing. He hugged her, nuzzled her neck, her hair. “You smell good, tiger,” he whispered in her ear. “Like sex.”