Murphy's Law Read online

  “First. And I'll thank you not to change the subject again.” Agitated for reasons she didn't understand, and didn't want to, she stuck the fingers of both hands in her back pockets and paced restlessly beside the bed.

  “Okay,” she said thoughtfully, “let's pretend I believe you…which I don't, not for a second. That explains the gun, but not the money and jewelry.” She frowned as a thought occurred to her. “Do you have a badge?”

  “Of course.”

  She smiled. “Great! Can I see it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I said no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don't have it with me.” Garrett's jaw tightened. “I was in a hurry yesterday and I left it at home. Since this was a personal errand, I didn't think I'd need it.”

  “Ah. How…convenient.” Her patronizing tone earned her an icy blue glare. She returned it with a level one of her own. “A little too convenient, if you ask me. Especially coming from a man who didn't hesitate to break into this house.”

  He sighed. “Look, sweetheart, there's an easy way to check on my story. If you're interested in finding out the truth.” When she glanced at him suspiciously, he continued, his tone strained but reasonable, “Call the police in East Hartford, Connecticut. Ask them if they have a trooper named Garrett Thayer who pulls the graveyard shift. They'll tell you they do.”

  “What's the phone number?”

  He rattled it off without hesitation.

  Her stomach muscles fisted with doubt. Was he telling the truth? Was he a cop? Like he'd said, there was one sure way to find out. Crossing her arms over her chest, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room.

  Murphy was back in less than a minute, her expression as stormy as her mood. “Good try,” she snapped, toeing Moonshine back into the hall before slamming the bedroom door closed hard enough to threaten splintering the painted white wood.

  “Now what?” he asked wearily.

  “The phone's out. As if you couldn't guess.” With a jerk of her chin, she nodded accusingly toward the window, beyond which a thick sheet of snow continued to fall from the moonlit sky, tossed by gusts of bitter cold, northeast wind.

  Garrett's gaze flashed with irritation. “Don't tell me, let me guess. Next you're going to accuse me of cutting the phone wires.”

  “Don't be an idiot. I know you didn't. I managed to get a call out while you were busy shattering a certain sliding glass door. The police will be here shortly.”

  Her triumphant grin evaporated as quickly as came. Was it her imagination, or did his expression flash with hope? It wasn't the sort of reaction she expected from a thief; weren't they supposed to mix with police like oil and vinegar?

  Unless, a tiny, subconscious voice said, this man was the police, as he'd claimed…and as Murphy still didn't entirely believe. There was no denying the cold edge of skepticism that assailed her. At DCYF, she met and worked with her share of cops. It was part of the job. None of the officers she'd encountered were anything like Garrett Thayer. Her attention dipped, sweeping over his lips…

  Enough of those thoughts!

  Murphy shook her head. Where was she? Oh, yes, she had plenty of experience with police, knew the general make-up. Hate though she did to admit it, Garrett did fit the bill. He was shrewd, with a good eye and swift, analytical mind; traits most of the cops she knew shared. Not that that meant anything decisive, but it did undermine her confidence. Maybe he wasn't the thief she'd pegged him to be…?

  Rolling her lips inward, she stifled a groan. Her thoughts were more tumultuous than the storm kicking up outside. The question remained that if Garrett wasn't a thief, if he was a cop, then where'd he get the money and jewelry? Why was that scruffy old duffel bag all he'd been carrying when he'd broken into the house? And why—?

  Murphy latched onto the question that lodged in her mind. “Why did you break into this house? Why not knock on the front door the way anyone else in your situation would have?”

  “I did.”

  She frowned. “No, you didn't. I would have heard if you.”

  “Murphy, I knocked. Actually, I pounded and yelled. No one answered. I tried the front door, it was locked. So I went around back, but that was locked, too. I saw you come in, but I didn't know if you were in the shower and didn't hear me, if you were deaf, if you'd hurt yourself somehow…hell, sweetheart, I was in a lot of pain and not thinking all that straight. I was also"—he held the index finger and thumb of his left hand a hair's breadth apart—"this close to passing out. Believe me, shattering the glass on that door was a last resort.”

  On one hand, Murphy McKenna could count the number of times in her life that she'd blushed. Right now she felt a hot stain of color in her cheeks, and realized that in the future, she would need to use two.

  It was entirely possible Garrett had pounded and yelled. She wouldn't have heard him. She'd had the stereo and—out of habit—her headphones on. The loud screech of music would have drowned out any noise he made.

  If he noticed her discomfort, he gave no sign. For that, she was grateful.

  “At least you got a call through to the police. That's good.” Garrett's brow pinched with a frowned. “I think. I've sort of lost track of time. How long has it been since you called them?”

  “Two hours.”

  He whistled though his teeth. In the corridor, she heard Moonshine pad down the hall and scratch at the door. She ignored the cat's indignant yowl. She was too busy trying to figure out why, again, Garrett Thayer looked so relieved to hear that the police were on their way.

  He sniffled and wiped his eyes, which were still red and watery, with his fists. His gaze shifted to Murphy, the window at the foot of the bed, then back to Murphy. “There's no one here but you and me, right?”

  She frowned, thinking that an odd question. Still, she nodded. “Except for Moonshine, we're alone.”

  “That's a cat. It doesn't count.”

  “‘It' is a ‘he',” she reminded him curtly, “and you'd better not let him hear you talk that way or he'll go out of his way to sneak in here and jump on your chest again. Don't you know cats are always attracted to the people who like them the least?”

  “No, I didn't. I've never had a cat. Or a dog. Or any pet, for that matter. I wouldn't know anything about them.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, her mind flashing an image of a pre-teen brother and sister she'd recently worked with at DCYF. Both had been abused and withdrawn. Most times, music served as a common ground between her and the children who paraded in a constant stream through her office. It hadn't been what she'd needed to reach those two. A trip Roger William's Zoo had been. The incident confirmed what Murphy had always suspected; every child deserved a pet. A living creature to love, and to love them back unconditionally.

  But, of course, not an allergic child…as she was abruptly reminded by Garrett's twin sneezes.

  There was a box of child-sized tissues on the nightstand. Murphy handed the box to Garrett. He accepted it with a disdainful glance, then a reluctant snicker.

  “Are the aspirin helping?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. What kind of conversation did one usually have with a man who could be either a criminal or a cop, depending?

  “Yup. Working like a charm.”

  The way he paled when he tried to shift positions, the way he sucked in an uneven gasp through his teeth when he managed it, said he was lying. So what else is new? Murphy thought. “Can I get you anything until the police get here?”

  He sighed, started to shake his head, then nodded instead. “Yeah. I'll take another glass of water, if it isn't too much trouble.”

  “No trouble,” she said, glad for something to do. Murphy retrieved his cup from the nightstand. She was poised with her hand on the knob when his voice shot out from behind her, stopping her short.

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  What was it about the man's voice that made her tingle? And did she really want to know?
No! Murphy didn't turn around as she spoke. “That depends. What's the favor?”

  “Don't bring it to me in a Tommee Tipee cup, okay?”

  She grinned despite herself, and sent Garrett a glance from over her shoulder. His eyes looked bluer, more piercing in the shadows cast by the top tier of the bunkbed.

  He must have read her expression, because he added, “No, I don't know anything about turtles in masks, except that they're ugly as all hell. But I'm not totally ignorant when it comes to kids, you know.”

  Her grin broadened. There was a certain irony in standing in the middle of a child's room talking about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Tommee Tippee cups with a man—a very handsome man—who just happened to have a duffel bag full of money, jewelry, a gun, and allergy medicine.

  “No, I didn't know,” she said as she opened the door. With the tip of her stockinged toe, she shooed Moonshine back into the hall when he tried to scoot past her. “But I'll keep it in mind. I'll be back with your water in a few minutes. Meanwhile, try to get some sleep.” With that, she stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed.

  HE COULDN'T SLEEP.

  Not that he wasn't tired—he was, to the core. He was also in a lot of pain. The aspirin hadn't done squat to dull the throbbing in his thigh. If anything, it felt worse.

  Hate though he did to admit it, Garrett knew pain wasn't the only thing chasing sleep away. He'd been staring at the plaster ceiling for the last hour and a half, ever since the woman named, oddly enough, “Murphy” had brought in a fresh glass of water and set it on the nightstand.

  Garrett had pretended to be asleep; the act had come easily. Pity that's all it was, an act. If it had been real, he wouldn't have heard the rustle of her jeans—he much too easily traced the sound to the tough denim coating her inner thighs, rubbing together—as she crossed the room and crouched beside the bed. He wouldn't have felt her cool, smooth fingertips stroke the hair back from his brow, or hear her whisper softly, “I brought you a big-boy cup, just like I promised.”

  Though he knew it wasn't possible, even now Garrett swore he could still feel and smell her warm, peppermint-scented breath searing his cheek and mouth and jaw.

  He'd come very close to ruining everything with a noise that was half sigh, half groan.

  Murphy had checked his bandages before leaving. Her touch had been feather-soft, gut-wrenchingly gentle. Obligatory. Chaste. Nothing erotic about it. Yet…

  She'd left the faint scent of Ivory Soap trailing in her wake. Even now, Garrett could still smell it, smell her.

  The instant she'd clicked off the light and closed the door, he'd flipped back the covers and inspected the dressing on his thigh. The heat of her touch lingered on his skin. He tried to ignore that as he assessed the white gauze she'd coiled around his leg.

  She'd done a good job of doctoring him. The gauze holding the pressure dressing in place was tight, but not so tight it cut off circulation. The dressing itself was bloodstained beneath the gauze, but the stain wasn't fresh.

  Good. With luck, the bandage would hold until the police got here, until he could get to a hospital and get that chunk of metal dug out of his leg. Garrett had no illusions. He knew the metal had to come out, and come out soon.

  He also held no illusions about who would—make that who would not—be the one to take it out.

  Even in the pale glow of the overhead light, he'd seen the way Murphy's cheeks went grayish-white when she'd checked his dressing. Through the shield of his lashes, he'd watched her grimace, swallow too quickly and too tightly before apparently deciding the bandage didn't need to be changed. Yet. Although Garrett was pretty sure it did.

  Murphy was not going to take the metal out of his leg. He'd make sure of that. It wasn't that he didn't trust her. She had his duffel bag, so he must trust her to some extent. No, trust wasn't the issue. He wouldn't let her do what needed to be done to his leg it because, while she'd probably never admit it, he somehow knew she didn't have the stomach for such a task. Not unless she had to.

  Garrett was going to see to it she didn't have to. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He wouldn't put her through that.

  He averted his gaze to the window. The snow sparkled like iridescent, silver-white crystals in the moonlight. The flakes danced on the bracing, northeast wind that howled through the black-velvet sky and rattled the window in its casing.

  The snow wasn't coming down any harder, nor was it coming down any lighter. If he had to guess, Garrett would say another six inches had fallen in the last hour.

  The storm was undoubtedly what had kept the police from getting here by now. If they were coming at all. He was beginning to wonder.

  He didn't doubt Murphy had called them. For some reason, he had more confidence in her than he'd ever had in a woman before, including his ex-wife. If Murphy said she'd called the police, Garrett intrinsically knew she had. What he did doubt was that, no matter what all-terrain vehicle the authorities around here drove, nothing was built to go through the storm that was kicking up outside if too much more time passed.

  How far away did Murphy say the nearest town was? An hour in good weather. Providing the police were coming from that town and not another, in which case they should have arrived about an hour ago.

  “So what does that leave?” Garrett's voice sounded gravelly as he asked aloud the same question he'd asked Murphy earlier.

  There were times when he disliked the cold, analytical way his mind worked. This was one of those times. Because, when he thought about it, what it all boiled down to was that he really had only two viable options.

  Either he could set out for a hospital himself, or he could wait and hope the police got here before the roads became too bad to travel. They were almost that bad now.

  The latter option was warm and dry and risky, the former cold and wet…and equally risky. Of the two, setting out now in that rat-trap Murphy called a car seemed the lesser risk.

  How long before his body reacted to the metal imbedded in his thigh via an infection? He didn't know. All he knew was that an infection would set in if the chunk of metal didn't come out, and come out soon.

  That clinched the decision.

  Unfortunately, making the decision was the easy part.

  Putting the plan into motion was something else entirely…as Garrett found out the instant he pushed himself up to a sit. The mattress beneath him creaked under his weight. He missed whacking the top of his head on the overhead bunk by mere inches.

  The room spun around him. A surge of pain rocked up his thigh like a jagged bolt of lightning.

  Murphy had left his pants draped over the foot of the bed. Make that what was left of his pants; she'd cut the right leg off his jeans at the hip. He thought briefly about trying to get his pants on, but dismissed the idea. So far all he'd done was sit up, and the process nearly depleted what little energy he had left. Sweat beaded his brow, more dotted his upper lip.

  He tried to stand. The room spun more viciously, this time in great, swooping circles. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he felt the world tip. No, wait a minute. That wasn't the world tipping, it was him. Reaching out blindly to steady his balance, his hand grazed the edge of the nightstand. It took effort curl his fingers around the sharp corner of wood.

  That, he realized belatedly, was his mistake.

  Just when Garrett thought he'd steadied himself, the nightstand tipped over and clattered noisily to the floor. The glass of water went flying, splattering it's contents against the floor and wall like a splash of clear paint.

  Momentum working against him, Garrett was quick to follow.

  The bright, crayon-green carpet cushioned his fall. Sort of. Garrett landed on his left hip with a thud and a grunt.

  He'd barely had time to catch his breath when the door was thrown open and Murphy ran into the room. Without breaking stride, she snapped on the overhead light. The glow temporarily blinded Garrett, since his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark.

  She assessed
the situation in a blink. In two, she was kneeling over him. Her hair fell forward, and the end of a fat brown curl tickled Garrett's cheek.

  Concern swam in her eyes, and more hardened her tone. “Are you all right? What on earth were you doing? Are you nuts?! You shouldn't be standing on that leg. You've probably opened up your wound again, which means you're going to start bleeding all over the rug, and—”

  “Murphy,” Garrett said, hoping to snag her attention before she worked herself into a panic, which she seemed to be doing very quickly.

  “—I'm going to have to r-rebandage you. It was hard enough the first time. I don't think I can do that again.”

  “Murphy?”

  “I get queasy at the sight of blood, you see, and—Damn it, Garrett, what on earth were you thinking—”

  "Murphy!"

  “—about?! If you wanted something, all you had to do was yell and I would have gotten it for you. You didn't have to—”

  He'd tried silencing her with words. It hadn't worked. Garrett took the only other course available to him.

  He reached up and slipped his hand past her throat. Splaying his fingers over the base of her scalp, burying them in her soft hair, he dragged her mouth down to his.

  Murphy stilled instantly.

  So did Garrett.

  Her lips felt warm and soft against his. Ah, but they felt good! She didn't kiss him back, nor did she try to pull away.

  Time stood still as they stayed that way, statue still, her kneeling over him, her mouth slanted over his.

  Her eyes were open. So were his. But not for long.

  Garrett's lashes slid down, and his fingers tightened on the back of her head as he drew her closer, kissed her deeply. After her initial shock melted, he felt her respond. Shyly at first, then more boldly.

  Murphy had cushioned her palms on his shoulders for balance, but her elbows buckled, and soon her chest was resting against his. Her hands drifted up, her fingers combing through his hair, curling inward, fisting the sandy strands as she pulled him closer.