Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Colin Murphy was a man of mystery. Forget the part about being an international protection specialist and all the encompassing intrigue. He lived in a fourteen-room house—alone. Only five of the rooms had furniture. None of those rooms contained anything outside of basics. No wall hangings. No knick-knacks. Nothing to suggest he had any interests or hobbies.

The architectural wonder looked as though it was spanking new, and from the severe lack of furnishings, Lulu had assumed Murphy had only recently moved in. She’d been shocked to learn that he’d had the place built six years ago and had since called it home.

In her opinion there wasn’t anything homey about this house, although it had grand possibilities. The master bath alone had caused her eyes to bug. Sofie would kill for that much vanity space, but it was the two-person hot tub that made Lulu drool. If she ever needed a therapeutic soak it was now. She was wound up tighter than a cheap watch.

She eyed the bottle of Chablis that Murphy had just set aside. She’d refused a glass when he’d offered, more out of habit than anything. She’d never been a drinker. But it occurred that a few sips might be the ticket for calming her just enough to get her through this dinner. She’d neatly avoided Murphy for a good four hours after he’d given her the grand tour. Hiding out in the guest bedroom—the only furnished room on the second floor—she’d booted up her laptop computer and had worked diligently on an upcoming loonytale. It had been a fabulous way to escape reality. For two hundred and forty glorious minutes all was right with the world. No stalker. No drugs. No Murphy.

Until he’d knocked on the door to announce that he’d cooked dinner.

She’d envisioned sitting at the ultra-modern, ultra-impersonal luncheonette counter scarfing down a plate of Hamburger Helper. That would have been doable. Just her luck the man was a veritable Bobby Flay. Red Snapper with Sweet Garlic Rice. The finely garnished food smelled more decadent than Jean-Pierre’s cinnamon rolls, and looked too pretty to eat. Murphy had gone all out, including setting the kitchen table—which had a magnificent bay window view of the surrounding woods—for two.

Reality check. She was spending the night, all night, alone with a gorgeous, dangerous hunk.
“Do you have a condom?”
sprang to mind.

Supremely self-conscious, Lulu clasped her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. “On second thought, maybe I will have a little wine.”

His lips curved slightly as he poured her half a glass. “Sofie called me a half hour ago. The federal agent I told you about made contact with her.”

Heart pounding, Lulu reached for her glass. “Why Sofie? Why not you?”

“Circumstances.” He left it at that, saying, “The point is, this should be over within a week.”

A week. She could endure this insanity, Murphy’s twenty-four/seven
protection
for a measly week, couldn’t she? She tore her gaze from his handsome face and tried to dissolve the lump in her throat with a sip of wine. Actually it was quite tasty. Like Murphy.
Don’t think about that sinfully delicious kiss.

“That’s not to say that we don’t have to take precautions.” He scooped up a fork of rice. “I’d like you to reconsider clearing your schedule. It would simplify things.”

“For you maybe.” She dipped the prongs of her fork into her fish, marveling at the texture and aroma. Big difference between Murphy’s delicacy and store-bought fish sticks. “Personally, I can’t afford to lose the income. Nor am I willing to disappoint forty-five children and their parents.”

Murphy chewed his food, cocked an inquiring brow.

“Friday evening I’m appearing at a Halloween party. I’ve been asked to create a loonytale for two first grade classes. I’m calling it
The Spookytown Scare.
I racked my brain trying to come up with appropriate games to go with the interactive tale. The eyeball relay should be a hoot.” She snickered.
Balancing creepy rubber eyeballs on spoons while they raced toward their partner. A guaranteed hit.
“Anyway, those kids are counting on me. You wouldn’t know what that’s like but … “ His icy look stopped her cold. It was fleeting but as brisk as an Arctic wind. She sipped more wine, concentrated on her fish. “Anyway, I’m not canceling.”
What was that about?

He changed the subject before she could ask. “What about the rest of the week?”

“I’m off Thursday. Tomorrow through Wednesday I’m booked at the Carnevale. Six hour shifts. Noon to six.” She squirmed under his regard. “If you don’t want to drop me off I can always call a cab.”

“You don’t get this, do you? I’m not letting you out of my sight, Princess.”

She got it. She wasn’t dense. Just nervous. “What about tonight?”

“What about it?”

“You said you’re not letting me out of your sight. Are we sleeping in the same room?”

His dark eyes sparked with amusement. Probably because her voice had warbled. She steeled herself for a Sofie-like comment. She wouldn’t blame him for poking fun at her. She did sound like a skittish relic. Oh, God, she thought with sudden clarity, I
am
a skittish relic.

“I hadn’t planned on bunking with you,” he said, surprising her with his professional tone and expression. “But if it would make you feel safer—”

“It wouldn’t.” She already felt as if she were dancing on the edge of a cliff. Her heart bumping and fluttering as she openly courted danger. Her face flushed with a rush of heat as she acknowledged ulterior reasons for moving into Murphy’s home. This wasn’t solely about protecting herself from a stalker—because, really, that aspect was still so totally surreal. This was about getting closer to Colin Murphy. Or as Sofie had put it, sampling life and lust. Lust was something she’d never experienced with Terry. Affection, yes. Love, yes. But never lust.

Murphy tapped into a foreign part of her, a passionate, uninhibited slice of her conservative being. It would have been easy to blame the dirty dancing and the couch kiss on that mood elevating drug, but it was the kiss on the boardwalk that spelled out the truth. She was h-o-t for Colin Murphy who was unbelievably s-e-x-y. When she’d asked about their sleeping arrangements her voice hadn’t cracked with dread, it had hitched with hope.

Unfortunately, his response had only reinforced her theory that his interest in her was purely professional. Logically, she knew it was for the best. As a lifetime partner he was all wrong.

Wasn’t he?

She pondered his odd reaction to her comment on disappointing children while finishing her meal. What was up with that? Had his parents bailed at a time when he’d really needed them? Or, as an adult, had he let down a nephew? An acquaintance? A
son?

Murphy, who wasn’t much of a talker by her standards, ate in companionable silence, refilling her empty wine glass before he cleared their dinner plates. By the time he served the mixed chicories and apple salad, she had a pretty hefty list of questions and observations. Maybe it was her curiosity, maybe it was the wine, but she could no longer curb her tongue.

“Thank you for making dinner,” she said, aiming for a casual segue. “It was delicious. You’re an incredible cook.”

“You’re welcome. And thanks. Both of my mothers loved to cook. Guess it wore off.”

Two moms? She jumped on that subtle clue eager to unravel the mystery of Colin Murphy. “Viv does the same thing,” she noted, stabbing a leaf of radicchio. “Serves salad after the main course. Very Italian of you.”

“I grew up in an Italian household.”

“You did?” The plot thickens. “Given your name, I assumed you were Irish.”

“I am.”

She waited for him to elaborate. Instead he sipped his wine. Jeez. “So you’re … adopted?”

He nodded.

“But you kept your last name.”

Another nod.

For cripes sake.
It was like talking to a tree stump. A very attractive tree stump, but nonetheless … Intrigued, Lulu pushed aside her salad and concentrated on the secretive man across the table. It felt good to focus on something other than her dilemma. “So what are your adopted parents’ names?”

“Manny and Rosa Bogart. And before you ask about brothers and sisters, none by blood, one by choice. Joe Bogart. He’s the FBI agent I told you about.”

Well, hello.
That explained why he took the agent’s word as gospel. She could tell by his tone of voice that he was fond of the Bogarts, especially his
brother.
It warmed her heart to know that he had people he cared about, and who undoubtedly cared for him. He seemed like such a loner.

Murphy stood to clear the table. She tried to help, but he relieved her of the plates and shooed her toward the open living area with the vaulted ceiling. She really liked that room. The fireplace. The big screen television.
Furniture.
“It’ll take me all of three minutes to load the dishwasher,” he said. “You’re my guest. Take your wine in and relax.”

She had to admit she was bone tired, emotionally drained, and a tad tipsy. That brown leather sofa looked darned enticing.

“I grabbed a few DVDs from your collection,” he said as he rinsed the flatware. “Thought we could watch a movie tonight.”

“Sounds nice,” she mumbled, transfixed by his large, strong hands. She suppressed a sigh as she played back the wondrous feel of those long tapered fingers tunneling into her hair and holding her captive while he kissed the daylights out of her. The man was a champion kisser. Blue-ribbon. And that boardwalk kiss had only been for show. Imagine if his actions were fueled by honest-to-God, heartfelt passion.
Imagine what he’d be like in bed.

“You all right?”

She started. “What?”

“You’re flushed.”

“I’m hot. I mean, I’m warm. I mean, it’s the wine. I’m fine. Just a relic. I mean a light-weight.”

He grinned. “Maybe you should go sit down.”

Maybe I should keep my head out of your pants.
Forcing a weak smile, she attacked a frying pan with a scouring pad while he dropped the rinsed flatware into the dishwasher’s basket. She’d never understood the advantage of a dishwasher if you had to scrub and rinse everything in advance. She preferred washing dishes the old-fashioned way. Then again she’d never
owned
a dishwasher. She wondered if it had come with the house or if Murphy had actually visited an appliance store. On second thought, she couldn’t imagine him wrangling with a pushy salesman. More than likely he’d cruised the Internet on that fancy computer rig in his library. One-button shopping. The man didn’t own much in the way of furniture, but he sure had a lot of electronic gadgets.

He glanced sideways. “You’re still here.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Another one?”

From the twinkle in his eye she could tell that he was teasing, so she smiled and plowed on. “Why did you buy such a big house?”

“Investment.”

That’s it? That’s all? Investment?
Intent on getting to know this man, she ignored the comfy sofa and wiped down the counter. “Ever been married?”

“No.”

“Ever
wanted
to get married?”

“No.”

So he was either commitment shy or he’d yet to meet the woman of his dreams. Hmm. “Have any children?”

“No.”

“Ever want to have children?”

Pause.

Crap.
She draped the damp cloth over the edge of the sink and washed her hands.

He closed up the dishwasher and hit the on button. “It’s a fuc—sorry, screwed up world,” he finally said. “Why would I want to bring a kid into it?”

Despite his vulgar language, his answer should’ve had her bouncing off the walls with glee. He didn’t want to have children.
A gift from above. A sexy, intelligent man minus the powerful drive to procreate.
But it was the weariness in his voice that kept her joy at bay. “Your kid could make a difference in the world.”

He picked up their wine glasses and headed for the sofa. “Making a difference entails taking risks.”

She trailed after, trying to decode that statement. Settling on the opposite end of the sofa, she untied and toed off her sneakers, and tucked her bare feet beneath her. “So you don’t want to have a kid because you’re worried he or she might get hurt?” Surely he wasn’t
that
flappable. Not the gun-wielding protection specialist.

“It goes a little deeper than chipped teeth and skinned knees, Princess.”

“Of course it does.” She spouted off fears that must run through every parent’s mind. “What if your kid’s riding his bike and gets hit by a car? What if he gets snatched up by a kidnapper? Or molested by a pedophile?” Her stomach curdled. As much as she tried not to think about it, those things did happen.

“What if your kid gets caught in a cross fire?” he added, proving he was just as good, if not better, at the
what if
game. A muscle jumped under his left eye. “What if she gets buried in a mudslide or drowns in flood waters? What if he starves due to political chaos?”

He stopped suddenly, and she realized her eyes were wide with horror. She couldn’t help it. His God-awful scenarios had sucked the air from her lungs. She held his troubled gaze while massaging an ache in her chest. “You’re not hypothesizing. You’ve seen those things.”

He broke eye contact and took a healthy swallow of wine. “How the hell did we get on this subject?”

“I asked if you wanted to have children.”

“I’d make a lousy father.” He quirked a self-deprecating smile as he set aside his glass. “I should’ve left it at that.” He reached for the TV remote, thumbed on the power.

She disagreed. He’d make a great dad. Despite the fact that his occupation entailed carrying a gun and no doubt coming to occasional blows, he was intelligent, patient, and caring. Her heart broke for this man. She wanted to know how he’d come to be so cautious and cynical. She wanted to ask how and why he’d witnessed those awful things, but clearly he’d ended the discussion.

She glanced at that screen. That huge mega-sharp, ultra-expensive plasma screen.
The Adventures of Robin Hood.
A classic. She’d invested in the collector’s special edition DVD with all the bells and whistles. He’d probably picked it for the adventure, but it was the romance between Robin and Marian that won Lulu’s heart. She made it through the opening credits, before risking another glance at her host. “Colin?”