Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed (24 page)

Snatching a flashlight from the hutch, she flew up the darkened stairs and down the hall She had her sweater over her head and her jeans unzipped by the time she hit her bedroom. Her heart pounded in her ears, echoing like a monstrous clock.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Wielding the flashlight, she tossed her poodle purse on the bed, kicked off her pants, and wrenched open her closet door.

Her princess gown floated toward her like a pink, sparkly ghost.

Stunned, she staggered backward, a scream welling in her throat.

The gown lowered. A man’s face appeared, the flashlight casting eerie shadows and causing Lulu’s heart to jackhammer. Dark hair, beady eyes. A flash of teeth in a predatory smile.

Shark
!

“What do you mean you’re not with her?” Concern and anger warred within Murphy as he paced outside the entrance of Emerald City. Though the actual sting had taken place inside the vacant dinner theater, early bird patrons of Flying Monkeys and Ruby Slippers now crowded the street along with local camera crews. Operation Candy Jar was fast escalating into a media frenzy.

“I’m sorry, Murphy. Something happened to Afia. I’m at the hospital and …”

Jake’s voice faltered, stopping Murphy in his tracks. “Is she all right?”

“I think so. She’s resting now.” He cleared his throat. “Scared the hell out of me.”

Murphy commiserated. He was worried about his own loved one. “Why didn’t you take Lulu with you?”

“She said she couldn’t be around babies.”

“What the hell does that mean, and what’s it got to do with—”

“Afia’s pregnant.”

“Well, hell.” Murphy hitched back his jacket and slid a hand in his pocket, unclear on why she was hospitalized, unsure what to say. He opted for optimism. “Congratulations, Jake.”

“Thanks.” He cleared his throat again. “Listen, I’m sorry I deserted Lulu, Murphy, but she’s not alone. JP’s with her.”

The tension in his shoulders eased a bit. “That’s something I guess. Where did they go? His place?”

“What do you mean? I told her not to leave your house under any circumstance.”

“I called home. No one answered.”

“Did you try Lulu’s cell?”

Murphy dipped his chin, rocked on his heels.
Hold it together, man.
“No answer.”

“Dammit.” Jake blew out a breath, relayed Jean-Pierre’s cell number. “Do me a favor, after you speak with JP, call back and let me know what’s up. How’s Rudy?”

“Fine. He did great, and he’s safe.”

Murphy signed off with a curse. It was more than he could say for Lulu.

Lulu awoke feeling groggy and disoriented. Why was she in bed? Why was she wearing her princess gown? She pushed herself up on her elbows. What was with all the candles? Oh, right. Tripped breakers. She palmed her forehead and groaned. She remembered a flashlight, not candles. She remembered …

“Don’t scream.”

Not likely. The strangled feeling in her throat summoned those nightmares where you try to scream for help, but can’t. She now knew the true meaning of
paralyzed with fear.
She stared at the man who’d issued the order, trying to bring him into focus. Had she fainted? Had he knocked her out? “Paulie?” she croaked.

“Paulie’s brother.” He moved closer. “Sal.”

He looked so much like Paulie. His voice though … softer, huskier.
Oh, no.
“You’re the one who had me drugged. The one who called.”

“I’m the one, period. Paulie, your ex-husband, the others who leer at you at the Carnevale … none of them are good enough for you. You don’t ask for it like the others.”

Her stomach turned. “What others?”

“Paulie’s others. The ones he bought with presents. Promiscuous girls who needed to be purified. You’re not promiscuous. You’ve been waiting a long time for the right person.”

What did he mean,
purified?
“I have a boyfriend,” she blurted. Hadn’t she told him that before? But this time she meant it. Maybe if he knew she was committed …

“No, you don’t!” The flash of fury was brief, frightening. But not as frightening as the controlled, calm smile that followed. “He was a mistake.” His cold gaze wandered slowly down her body, making her skin crawl. “I am willing to forgive one lapse.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tape recorder. He hit a button, set the little black box on her dresser.

She recognized the tune immediately. “Someday My Prince Will Come” from the Disney classic Snow White.

“The waiting is over, Princess. I’m here.” He held out his arms. “Dance with me.”

Was he nuts? He’d broken into her home for God’s sake! Seen her in her underwear.
Dressed her.
Her anger surged as she remembered why she’d come here in the first place. Jessie Hudson’s sweet little face flashed in her clearing mind and propelled her to her feet.

He nodded his approval. “Make my dreams come true and this story can have a happy ending.”

She absorbed the romantic setting, the candles, the music, her costume. The man was certifiable. He reached for her, and she slapped away his hands. “Stop it and get out of my way. There’s a sick little girl—”

“Jessie?” The side of his mouth hitched up as he toyed with his pinkie ring.

Her mouth went dry. “How do you know about Jessie?”

“You keep excellent files, Princess. I chose a child I knew you’d feel a connection with, someone you’d met several times. I knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse a dying kid. I looked through your closet, chose a costume you’d have to come home for.” He fingered the lace on her puffy sleeve. “Personally, this is my favorite. It personifies the real you.” His eyes flickered with repulsive longing. “The innocent you.”

Again, she shoved aside his hand, her mind reeling. “But Martha—”

“You mean Dara. A cohort of mine. The same woman who gave you the Ecstasy. I asked her to make a call, and she did.” He angled his head, raised a brow. “I am not without my own loyal following.”

The reminder that this man dealt drugs, to kids no less, sparked red haze fury. “You mean she only pretended to be Jessie’s aunt? It was all a setup? Jessie’s safe?” Relief and outrage poured through her like a tidal wave, powerful and overwhelming.

He smiled. “You are so naïve. Truly, it is your most endearing quality.”

She disagreed. Her naïveté was her biggest fault. She inched back, bumping into her nightstand, freezing as he crept slowly forward. The music swelled. The candles flickered. She looked at this man through Murphy’s eyes and knew there would be no reasoning, no diplomatic solution. Sal Falcone was a crazy mobster with a fairytale fixation. He’d drugged her. Stalked her. Now that she wasn’t looking through rose-colored glasses, his intentions were nauseatingly clear. Rape or murder.

She curled her fists in the folds of her gown.
Fear is not an option.
She’d fight to the death. It was a startling realization. “When Murphy gets hold of you—”

“
Murphy’s
out of the picture, along with his friend, and Paulie.”

Her lungs seized. “What?”

The music stopped. Amazingly, Sal backed away from her to rewind the tape. It was her chance to make a mad dash, but his cryptic statement about Colin had her rooted.

“I’ve been watching you, Princess. The moment I saw Columbo going into Murphy’s house, I knew we had a snitch in the family. Probably an undercover fed. I never trusted that long-haired prick.”

Her already frantic pulse raced. He had to be talking about Bogie.

“I knew of the scheduled shipment. Assumed we were being set up. If my brother wasn’t so damned arrogant, he would’ve smelled it too. Why do you think I’m not at Oz? It’s perfect. With Paulie in prison, I’ll finally get the responsibilities and respect I deserve. My uncle will see that Columbo gets his due. As for Murphy, let’s just say that mistake has been erased.”

Erased? As in eliminated? As in
killed?
Lulu’s stomach cramped with nausea, her vision blurred.

A distant door creaked. Downstairs, footsteps.
Jean-Pierre!
He must’ve tired of waiting in the car.

Sal pulled a gun.

White noise roared in her ears. She couldn’t protect Murphy, but she could save Jean-Pierre. She grappled behind her for a weapon. Her fingers curled around metal. Swallowing bile, she winged the makeshift weapon with the ferocity of a well directed club.

Sal dropped the gun and stumbled back with a guttural yowl. The sewing shears Sofie had threatened Murphy with days before were grossly implanted in his shoulder. He yanked the scissors free and stumbled again, knocking over a collection of candles.

Lulu watched in horror as her floor length curtains and bedspread ignited in flames.

Cursing, Sal grappled for his gun.

She whirled and ran from the room colliding in the dark with Jean-Pierre. “Run!” She shoved him toward the stairs. In the mayhem, the toe of her shoe caught in the hem of her gown. She tripped, falling forward and plowing into Jean-Pierre as a shot rang out.

Jean-Pierre tumbled down the stairs, a series of thumps that ended with a heavy thud.

“Noooo!”
She didn’t know if he’d fallen because of her or the bullet. She didn’t know if he was dead or alive. Frantic, she scrambled to her feet, but Sal snatched her wrist, reeled her in.

Smoke plumed into the hall, searing her throat. But it was the thought of Murphy and Jean-Pierre, dead—gone from her life forever—that had her sobbing.

Sal sang “Someday My Prince Will Come” in her ear as the spreading flames burned orange and red in the background. He kissed her wet cheeks. “And they rode off into the sunset.”

Somewhere through the haze of panic, she heard Sofie’s voice in her head. Lulu stomped down hard on her attacker’s foot with the spiked heel of her glass slipper, jerking free when he flinched in pain. “Over my dead body.”

Murphy dinged the bumper of a vacant car as he squealed the Jag into Lulu’s driveway, his attention on the flames shooting from a second-story window. Bogie was on the phone with the fire department as they cleared the car in tandem and raced for the burning house.

Murphy flashed on the past. He instantly connected with his mother, and at last he understood. She’d braved the inferno to save the man she loved. No thought. No choice. True love struck a person blind, deaf, and fearless. How could he have blocked such a simple concept for all these years?
She’d had no choice.

He stormed up the front steps, focusing on the present, the future. Lulu. Praying that she’d made her way downstairs. Praying that she wasn’t at someone’s mercy.

They blew through the porch, the front door. Murphy spotted the body first. “Jean-Pierre. Dammit, I told him to wait in the car.”

Bogie squatted, checked his pulse. “Banged up, but breathing.”

Jean-Pierre stirred. “Upstairs.”

“Get him out,” Murphy said, foot on the landing.

The Frenchman shoved off help. “I’ll get myself out. Get Lulu.”

Gun drawn, Murphy topped the stairs, stunned to find his fairytale princess in a face off with an armed man, flames licking at the netting of her full skirt. The man limped toward her even as she removed her tiara. What the hell was she doing? Murphy aimed at the bastard, but thick smoke and her position compromised a clear shot. Bogie tapped his shoulder, signaling intent.