BRIDGER'S LAST STAND Read online

  "How do you like your eggs?" she called brightly, once she'd made a clean getaway.

  "Scrambled." She heard the faint answer. "And done. I hate runny eggs."

  "Duly noted," she muttered as she reached for the coffee.

  Before she even had a chance to pour the water into the coffee decanter, Bridger was standing in the doorway of her kitchen. So much for escape. He watched her with dark, all-seeing eyes, squinting slightly as if he were calling upon all his investigative powers. Frannie wished, silent and deep, that she'd had the sense to get dressed before starting the coffee.

  She took a deep breath and smiled. It was a friendly, distant and reserved smile—she hoped. "The coffee will be ready soon," she said brightly. "I'm just going to get dressed real quick and then I'll make you bacon and eggs before you have to leave."

  She waited for him to move aside, to clear the doorway so she could pass. He didn't move.

  "Before I leave?"

  "It's the least I can do to thank you." She took a single step closer to the door and Bridger, who blocked her exit quite effectively.

  He was solid as a rock, and showed no inclination that he planned to move anytime soon. And the way he looked at her! If she hadn't actually seen him laugh in Rick's, she'd think that hard face was incapable of so much as forming a smile.

  She didn't back down. He hesitated a moment longer, and then like a wary sentinel he stepped back to allow her to pass. She didn't look directly at him as she scooted by, but out of the corner of her eye she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, and she noted with interest the stubble on his chin.

  "We'll talk about it after you dress," Bridger said lowly. Safely past, she turned around to look at him. He was lounging in the doorway once again, facing her. "We'll talk about what?"

  "My leaving."

  Frannie's heart did a flip-flop in her chest. It sounded as if he didn't plan to leave at all. What on earth had she done? Malcolm Bridger was everything in a man she'd shied away from. He was hard, demanding, and way too testosterone laden for her tastes. She wanted a man who would be sensitive and gentle, one who knew how to take no for an answer.

  She had a sinking feeling Bridger had never taken no for an answer.

  It would be best, she decided, to argue with him after she was dressed. Maybe after the first cup of coffee. Or two. She'd feel stronger, then, and maybe the caffeine would help her shed this feeling that she'd like him to stay.

  She took her time dressing, pulling on a pair of jeans and a pale pink sweater, and then spending several minutes in the bathroom.

  Frannie loved her old bathroom. Her house wasn't large, but the single brightly lit bathroom was large enough to be called luxurious—in an old-fashioned way. The claw-foot bathtub was decadently long and deep, and there was lots of counter space around the sink. A huge, gilt-framed mirror with a slightly distorted image on one side hung over the sink. She had a big linen closet, a pink clothes hamper near the almost new toilet, and in the middle of the floor there was a pastel braided rug.

  She washed her face, hoping it would help her clear her mind, and then she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, ruffling the strands that were so much softer without Darlene's styling spray. A little lipstick wouldn't hurt, she decided, putting on a dab of pink lip gloss. She was reaching for the mascara when she realized what she was doing. There was an attractive man in the kitchen, so she prettied herself up. Just like her mother.

  Before she left the bathroom she vigorously wiped the lip gloss off her mouth with a tissue.

  She was annoyed enough with herself to be really annoyed with Bridger when she stepped into the kitchen and found he'd made himself at home. He sat at her oak table, a cup of coffee in one hand and the receiver from her wall phone in the other, the long cord stretched almost tight behind him.

  "If I haven't taken a sick day in years—" she was just in time to hear him say "—then I'm due. Hell, I might even take two."

  A sick day. So he really wasn't planning to leave. Frannie was relieved and angered at the same time. With her back to him she fixed her own cup of coffee.

  "Call me when you get the report from Birmingham," he said softly. Then he recited her phone number, and added, "If I'm not here try me on the cell phone."

  Now she was more angry than relieved. Bridger planned to stay, and he hadn't even had the courtesy to discuss it with her.

  The chair scooted across the floor, and a moment later Bridger muttered a goodbye and slapped the receiver into the hook. Frannie kept her back to him, taking deep breaths alternated with long swigs of coffee to prepare herself for the unavoidable confrontation.

  She gathered the bacon and eggs from the refrigerator without so much as glancing in the direction of the kitchen table. Her mind was made up. She'd feed him, thank him for coming by last night, and then she'd see him to the door and send him home.

  Her first clue that Bridger was directly behind her was the warm brush of fingers across her neck. She was so unprepared for the contact that her whole body jerked in response. The egg in her hand went flying, and an arm shot past her to catch it in the air. The egg landed, unbroken, in Bridger's palm.

  "You're still a little jumpy," he said softly as he returned the egg to the carton.

  A little jumpy. That was the understatement of the century. She was terrified, nervous, and her heart was beating a mile a minute. And last night's intruder had nothing to do with her anxiety.

  "Forget about breakfast," he said, taking her hand and leading her away from the counter. "You need to sit down and drink your coffee."

  "No, I said I'd feed you and then you have to go," Frannie said as Bridger led her to the round oak table.

  "I can't leave you here alone, not in this condition."

  "What condition?" Frannie took her hand from Bridger's and turned to face him. "I'm fine, thank you. I can take care of myself. You are not responsible for…"

  He kissed her. She should have seen it coming, should have seen the subtle change in his eyes and the tilt of his head and the parting of his lips. At first she was so surprised she couldn't move. And then a shifting of his mouth over hers elicited a response she couldn't deny, and she kissed him back.

  All her fears melted away, bit by bit, inch by inch, and Frannie was overcome by the same sensation that had overwhelmed her the night they'd met. She was safe here.

  She wrapped her arms around Bridger's waist and held on tight as he teased her lower lip with his tongue and her knees went weak. This was the kind of kiss to get lost in, a kiss that went on and on until there was nothing else in the world but this.

  Bridger buried a hand in her hair and held her close, deepening the kiss. Everything inside her clenched and unclenched, and a small moan formed deep in her throat.

  It would be so easy to finish what they'd started at the Riverwatch Hotel, so very, very easy.

  She slowly pulled her mouth from Bridger's. "Why did you do that?" she whispered.

  "I don't know."

  * * *

  Mal watched Frannie's back as she whipped eggs and turned bacon. Her long neck with its soft curl of pale blond hair cried out to be caressed. Her backside in those tight jeans needed to be touched. Heaven help him, the harder he watched her the harder he got. This was getting very, very dangerous.

  If he had any sense at all he'd put a patrol car outside her front door and he'd walk away. Hell, he'd run away. Not likely. If he'd had any sense left that last kiss had destroyed every lick.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted a woman this much. Maybe he never had. There was some kind of cosmic joke going on here, wasn't there? Thirty-seven years old, and he was smitten.

  Malcolm Bridger didn't get smitten.

  It wasn't Frannie, he decided, wasn't some freak of chemistry. It was the memory of an unfinished one-night stand that haunted him, he supposed. They'd come too close to back away. He'd wanted her too much, too hard, and he'd thrown his chance away. He wished with everything h
e had that he'd reached out and awakened her, when he'd come out of the bathroom and found her asleep. If he had, he wouldn't be suffering this way.

  If you waved a lollipop under a kid's nose and never let him taste it, he'd be forever obsessed with what he couldn't have. Frannie was his lollipop. Lord knows, he wanted to lick her.

  She put a full plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast before him, and refilled his coffee before bringing her own plate and coffee mug to the table and sitting down across from him.

  "Thanks," he said, unable to look her square in the eye at the moment, afraid he'd lose what little control he had left and say exactly what was on his mind. "This is good." He wondered what she'd say if he told her he'd much rather have a lollipop?

  Frannie picked at her own plate, and finally pushed it away. She cradled a white mug that had pink hearts around the rim, and when he worked up the nerve to look at her he saw that she was staring at him. She wasn't afraid now.

  "It won't work, you know," she said softly.

  "What won't work?"

  "You and me."

  He knew he should grin and tell her there was no you and me, nothing to make work, no future, no past. Too bad he couldn't manage to work up a grin, at the moment.

  "Why not?"

  She tried a smile, a weak, rather sad smile. "You're not my type."

  "You're not exactly my type, either," he muttered, and Frannie's reluctant smile blossomed to a real one.

  "I didn't think so."

  The awkwardness that hung between them faded away rather than disappearing suddenly. He could look at her, she could smile. "Mind telling me exactly what you think my type is?"

  Frannie placed her elbows on the table and leaned slightly forward. "Big hair, small brain." Ah, what a wicked smile she had. "A woman who doesn't mind being told what to do and when and how to do it. She won't mind if you don't call for a couple of weeks, and when you do call she'll be thrilled to hear from you." Pale eyebrows raised slightly. "And if you never call, well that's all right, too."

  "You make me sound like a real jerk."

  She took a sip of coffee and shrugged as though to say "If the shoe fits…"

  Anxious to turn the subject around, Mal pushed his plate away. "I imagine your type of man is sensitive and considerate and always politically correct. No hair, big brain."

  She flashed a huge grin at that.

  "A man who doesn't mind being told what to do and when and how to do it," he continued. "Whether you admit it or not, you like being in control. Did your—" he snapped his fingers as he searched for the name "—the toad, what's his name?"

  "Reese," Frannie said softly. She wasn't smiling anymore.

  "I'll bet Reese let you call the shots, didn't he, Frannie?" Somehow, he knew he had this one right. "When you said jump, he asked how high. Did he ever refuse you anything? Did he ever tell you no?"

  She stared into her coffee, unsmiling and tense. It wouldn't work? Damn straight it wouldn't.

  "I hope you don't expect an answer to those ridiculous personal questions," she said frostily.

  "Not really."

  No, an answer wouldn't help him now. Like it or not, he was responsible for Frannie. She was in this mess because he'd taken her to the Riverwatch Hotel. Her life and peace of mind had been endangered, and it was his fault. Until things were set straight, he was going to be a part of her life—no matter what she said.

  Frannie lifted her gaze to him again, and he had a feeling it was a brave move on her part. She stared him down, getting ready for battle.

  "Thank you for coming when I called last night, Detective Bridger," she said with a formal distance in her soft voice. "If you've finished your breakfast, I think you'd better go now."

  Mal glanced at his empty plate, and then he lifted his eyes and stared at Frannie. "No," he said softly.

  His response took her by surprise. Blue eyes widened, pink lips parted slightly, and there was a crack in the tough veneer she'd tried to hide her fear and anxiety behind. "What do you mean, no?"

  She was right. This would never, never work. "I mean that until I'm satisfied that this is over, you're not getting rid of me."

  "But you can't…" She placed her mug on the table. Hard. "If I ask you to leave, you have to leave." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you?"

  "I see I was right. Nobody ever tells Frannie Vaughn no."

  She tried for a stern expression again. "You really, really have to leave now."

  Mal smiled. "No."

  * * *

  Chapter 6

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  Frannie watched Bridger out of the corner of her eye. What exactly was she to do when she had a cop camping out in her kitchen? She supposed she could call Sergeant Dixon and demand that he take this watchdog away, but she didn't want to get Bridger in trouble.

  As she pretended not to watch him, she admitted to herself that maybe she didn't want him to leave.

  Bridger had spent most of the morning on the phone, and he'd been doing more listening than talking. He took notes, a scribbled mess she had no hope of deciphering when she glanced over his shoulder to study the page. He sat at her table, propped his feet up on a kitchen chair, leaned back and made himself at home.

  Silently, and against her will and better judgment, she liked it. She washed and dried dishes while he carried on with his business, and she listened to every word he said. He had a soothing voice, deep and smooth, that was pleasant to listen to. The clatter of dishes didn't seem to bother him, any more than her presence in the room seemed to bother him. It was all very comfortable, even warmly domestic.

  She frowned at the last of the dishes, her own coffee mug. There was nothing domestic about Detective Malcolm Bridger.

  As she put away the mug, he stood and hung up the phone. "We'll have the guy before you know it, I promise."

  "And then you'll get out of my kitchen?" she asked lightly.

  He smiled, and her insides did an unexpected little flip-flop. Oh, he should smile more often.

  "Maybe."

  The doorbell saved her from coming up with a suitable response. True to his character, Bridger headed for the front door as if he lived here. With a sigh, Frannie followed.

  Sergeant Dixon didn't appear to be at all surprised that it was Bridger who opened the door. "I've got those photos," he said, waving a short stack of stiff Polaroids. He had a warm smile for Frannie. "I understand you had a little excitement here last night."

  Bridger filled him in as they headed for the kitchen. Frannie tried to interject a couple of times, tried to get Dixon to see that this intruder had nothing to do with the murder in the Riverwatch Hotel. She tried to point out that all kinds of unsavory characters lived just around the corner, and the gun-wielding man who'd broken into her home last night was surely looking for someone else. Drugs, she suggested as she poured Dixon a cup of coffee. He was probably looking for a stash of drugs.

  Dixon didn't buy it any more than Bridger had. As Frannie handed Dixon his coffee, Bridger, always the gentleman, pulled out a kitchen chair for her. She glanced up at him sharply and started to protest. She could stand just fine, thank you, and look down at the photos.

  But if he thought she needed to sit, maybe she did. Without actually uttering a word, Frannie lowered herself slowly into the chair.

  "Is this the woman you passed in the stairwell?" Dixon placed one photo in front of her, and Frannie glanced down. A quick peek, that's all she needed. But once she looked her eyes felt glued to the photo.

  This particular photograph was chosen for its sterility, perhaps. It had been taken in a morgue or a funeral home, she guessed. The body was lying on a metal bed, and there was no blood to be seen, no visible wound. A sheet covered her to the chin. Her hair had been combed, and she looked almost as if she were sleeping.

  Almost. There was no life left. The face that had been flushed was now white, the mouth that had been painted red and that had moved to speak was still and pale. The blonde was dead. Someone had pu
rposely taken her life in a most violent way.

  "Frannie?" Bridger whispered as he placed a steady hand on her shoulder. Had she really tried to push him away? She raised a hand and placed it over his, finding strength in the simple touch. How odd. She barely knew him, and yet somehow she knew him better than anyone else.

  What if he was right after all? What if the man who had done this was the same man who'd broken into her house and pointed a gun at her last night?

  "It's her," she said softly. "Does she have a name?"

  "Not yet," Dixon said, reaching out to scoop the photo off the table and add it to the stack. Thank goodness, he wasn't going to ask her to look at any more of those pictures. Perhaps they were of the crime scene. She didn't want to know, and most especially she didn't want to see.

  Harry Dixon slipped the pictures into an inside pocket of his jacket, leaned back in his chair and sipped at his coffee. "Paula's trying to get me to give up caffeine now," he said as he savored the hot coffee on his tongue.

  "You've given up everything else for the woman," Bridger said from his position behind Frannie. "Why not coffee?"

  "A man's gotta draw the line somewhere," Harry said gruffly, and then unexpectedly the most satisfied, most sentimental smile bloomed on the man's otherwise rugged face. It was quite a transformation. "I have news, Mal." He glanced at Frannie and paused.

  "Should I…" She started to rise, to leave the two of them alone for a few minutes, but Bridger's hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  "Don't tell me," he said wryly. "Paula's got you taking yoga classes. You're moving to the country to raise cows and apples." He leaned slightly forward. "You're a vegetarian."

  Harry just continued to smile. "Paula's pregnant."

  "Oh, that's wonderful," Frannie said. She could tell by the look on Harry's face that he was happy about the baby. Ecstatic even. "Congratulations."

  "Thank you."

  Bridger was oddly silent. There was no immediate congratulations for his friend; no amiable gibe, either. Frannie glanced over her shoulder. Bridger's face was stoic, unreadable, but the pressure of his hand at her shoulder increased slightly.