Friends and Lovers Trilogy 02 - Charmed

Chapter One

The Princess is in danger. TL4/CT1&3

Bogie

Protection Specialist Colin Murphy memorized the subsequent address. He erased the text message from his cell phone, abandoned his watered-down Scotch, and left Charlie’s Pub mulling over the cryptic directive. After a month of babysitting a delusional convenience store mogul followed by two weeks of downtime, life was about to get interesting again.

Stepping outside, he slid on his rimless Ray-Bans and buttoned his black leather blazer. It was sunny, but cold. Uncommonly cold for October. Historic Smithville, a small but trendy village of unique shops and restaurants, was deserted save for a few diehard boutique browsers and a group of bohemian teenagers storming “Java John’s.” Apparently locals and sightseers had opted for a trip to one of the nearby casinos, or to a mall or movie of their choice. Or maybe they’d decided to spend a lazy afternoon at home. Fireplace raging. TV blaring.

Then there was Murphy. He preferred the raging fireplace and blaring TV of Charlie’s Pub with its familiar, informal atmosphere and the company of a bartender who knew when, and when not, to initiate a conversation. Murphy had never been one for small talk–a quality appreciated by ninety percent of his clients, a source of amusement to his select circle of friends.

The closest of those friends, a man he called brother, had just enlisted his help. The manner in which he’d received the request—the obscure lead—was typical Bogie, when Bogie was undercover. The meaning was clear—
watch her back.
The code, helpful, but vague.

Threat Level Four (TL4) indicated the principal was low profile but in possible danger of attack. Category of Threat: one and three (CT1&3) meant that her safety and emotional well-being were at risk. If he had to guess, he’d say he was dealing with a potential kidnapping.

The princess part he’d yet to figure out. What was a royal doing in Margate, New Jersey? Why was the FBI involved? Especially if she was “low profile” (indicating that she was of little international or diplomatic importance). Why didn’t the agency trust the princess’s own executive protection team? And why had Bogie, and not the SAC, reached out? Typically the Special Agent in Charge, if not an Assistant Director, contacted Murphy for freelance work.

He knew that Bogie would call with details at the first opportunity.

Maybe the principal wasn’t a true royal. Maybe she was only indirectly involved in his current case. Maybe she wasn’t involved in the case at all, but simply a friend of a friend, or a family member in trouble. With Bogie, a man who’d been obsessed with fighting crime ever since he’d devoured his first
Dick Tracy
comic at age six, anything was possible.

Processing the angles, Murphy fired up his black Jaguar—an excessive gift from an insistent, high-profile client—and pulled onto Route 9. Twenty-five minutes later he was in Margate, the ritzy shore community five minutes south of Atlantic City, the gaming mecca of the eastern seaboard.

The Princess is in danger.

Gambling debts? Loan sharks?
Given Bogie’s warped sense of humor, “Princess” could be a euphemism for “Rich Bitch.” Wouldn’t be the first time a pampered wife had taken desperate measures to hide excessive spending from an influential husband. That’s
if
the princess had a prince. Or, indeed, a gambling problem.

The possibilities were extensive. All of them, given Bogie’s line of work, criminal.

Murphy parked the Jag at the corner of Atlantic Avenue. Beach block. Not exactly the low-rent district. Bogie’s address matched a three-story Victorian. Federal blue with pink trim. A colorful oddity wedged in between two rambling, white mansions. Pocketing his keys, Murphy eyed the decorative Halloween wreath on the screened porch door and the smiling jack-o-lantern on the front stoop. The pink Volkswagen Beetle parked in the driveway spoke volumes about the owner. Could the property be any more welcoming?

Expect the unexpected.

Even though he preferred to rely on his martial arts training, standard routine spurred Murphy to retrieve his Glock from a customized compartment beneath his dash. Weapon concealed, he approached the house, noting the obvious lack of security. No barrier walls or fences. No strategically placed closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras, security lighting, guard dogs, or visible evidence of a protective team.

The curtains of every window were open indicating the residents moved about without fear of being watched.

Again, he wondered if this was personal. Not that it mattered. He’d snuff out the sun for Bogie, no questions asked.

Increasingly intrigued, Murphy scaled four cinder block steps to read the brass nameplates mounted above the mailbox. Luciana Ross, Sofia Marino, and Viviana Marino.

It was relatively safe to assume that all three of the residents were of Italian descent, two of them related. Aside from that he was clueless, and growing more curious by the minute.

No doorbell, so he knocked.

No response.

He twisted the knob expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. The lock was busted. Frowning at the women’s lax security, he slipped inside a cramped screened porch. Three bicycles. Two steamer trunks. A mannequin. Easels. Canvases. Boxes brimming with assorted arts and crafts.

He navigated the absurd obstacle course still pondering the princess and Bogie connection.

A plaque reading “There’s No Place Like Home” marked the main entrance.

He knocked.

The door swung wide open.

“Hi!”

Even through his sunglasses, her smile was as bright as her neon pink lipstick. Her dimpled cheeks shimmered. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her pixie face, decorated with artfully applied glitter and rhinestones, radiated pure joy and whimsy. A crystal tiara winked at him through an upswept mass of wild, golden curls. She wore a pale pink, floor-length gown—corseted bodice, the skirt a voluminous mass of stiff crinoline. A gown befitting a princess. A fairytale version anyway.

“Hello,” Murphy said, hoping to hell she didn’t expect him to add
Your Highness.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” She waved him inside the foyer and then turned and limped to the far side of what he assumed to be the living room. The only hints—a couch and a nineteen-inch television.

He moved into the obscenely cluttered room, sliding his sunglasses to the top of his head for a clearer look. Scattered stuffed animals. Piles of books, videos, and dog-eared magazines. A Hula Hoop. Pink-wheeled roller skates and a Twister game. Walls of theater posters and cartoon art. Broadway meets Nickelodeon.

To top things off, the place reeked of lemons and bubble gum. Could a man OD on sunshine and lollipops?

He focused on the princess, who was searching for something. Considering the disorganized state of the room, she could be looking forever.

“Where is it?” she mumbled to the underside of a chair, its style and color indistinguishable as it was heaped with bolts of multi-colored, multi-textured fabrics—all of them accented with glitter or sequins or some sort of metallic trim.

He sidestepped an overflowing sewing basket. “Can I help?”

She straightened, red-faced and winded, her tiara askew. “That would be great.” She pursed her lips and her gaze darted from one pile to another.

She’d yet to focus on Murphy. Yet to ask him who he was or what he was doing here. He could be a murderer or a rapist, and yet she’d invited him in without hesitation.
No peep hole. No chain lock. No “Who’s there?”
Just opened the door and invited him in.

If Bogie was right, if she was in danger, she was oblivious. For the moment, he allowed her the fantasy. “What are we looking for?”

“A glass slipper.”

“You’re joking.”

“Well, it’s not really glass. More like acrylic or plastic. Whatever, it’s see-through.” She hiked the hem of her gown. “Pretty, huh?”

Pretty
sexy.
Murphy admired her naked foot through the transparent pump. She stood lopsided, one shoe on, one shoe lost, her left heel elevated a good three inches above her right. Her toenails painted a frosty shade of pink. Cotton candy came to mind. “Where’s your bedroom?”

She pointed to the staircase. “Second floor, third door on the right. But I already looked in there,” she shouted after him in her little girl voice.

He did a visual sweep of the adjoining rooms, ascertained she was safe, and then jogged upstairs. He was back a minute later, glass slipper in hand. Navigating her bedroom had been amusing. He’d been particularly intrigued by her queen-sized bed. Or rather the rainbow assortment of underwear piled next to a colorful collection of teddy bears.

Tearing his mind away from her lingerie, he focused on the enigmatic princess. Stretched flat out on the floor, she groped under the sofa for her missing shoe. The hoop beneath her crinoline bowed up, allowing him a full view of her backside. Unfortunately, for him, she was wearing knee-length, ruffled bloomers.

The scene struck him as comical. This woman struck him as comical. Bogie’s message did not. “Princess.”

She whipped her head around. Though flushed, she looked exactly as she had when she’d greeted him at the door. Adorable. “You found it!” She bounced to her feet and hobbled toward him. “Where was it?”

“Under your bed.”

She nabbed the shoe and slipped it on. “I could have sworn I looked there. Oh, well.” She threw up her hands and breezed by.

Murphy followed her through a compromised dining room (sewing machine, dress dummy, spools of ribbon and lace) to an immaculate kitchen. Spotless stovetop. Untapped spice rack. A glass pantry stocked with cans of soup and jars of store-bought sauces. The lady’s creativity, it would seem, did not extend to cooking.

“I can’t thank you enough. Now I won’t have to drive like a maniac to get to my gig on time. If Farrah’s party hadn’t gone overtime, I wouldn’t be in this fix. Not that I’m complaining. My fault. I shouldn’t have booked a double.” She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a Lara Croft–Tomb Raider thermos, and handed it to Murphy. “This is the second time this week Sofie’s forgotten her protein shake. Without Viv here to look after us … well, you don’t want to hear about that.”

Which meant “the Princess” was Luciana Ross.
Ah, the wonders of deductive reasoning.

She prodded him back into the living room. “It was awfully nice of you to drive over here for Sofie. If she’d just eat the employee cafeteria food like the rest of us, but oh no, she thinks she’s fat. She’s not fat. She’s brainwashed.” She fluttered a hand toward a stack of fashion and celebrity magazines. “Poison, I tell you.”

Murphy agreed, but didn’t say so. He was still trying to figure out how in the hell he’d ended up with an action heroine thermos.

She continued to ramble while shrugging into a shaggy, ankle-length fake fur coat.
Grape Kool-Aid purple.
“I, on the other hand, care squat about high fashion.”

Obviously, Murphy thought, as she snatched up a pink poodle purse. He watched in fascination as she hooked a Hula Hoop over one shoulder, a patchwork tote bag over the other. “Could you grab my May Pole? Thanks.” Then she scrambled out the door.

It didn’t surprise him that she hadn’t asked him to shut it behind him, or God forbid, lock it. Regardless, he turned the inside lock and closed the front door tight before tackling the porch and its compromised outer door, a five-foot, ribbon-wrapped pole and a video game star thermos in tow. Hotfooting it down the steps, he slid his sunglasses back down. Anonymity was a true blessing on days like this.

Luciana Ross moved pretty fast for a woman in a ball gown and heels. When he reached the driveway she was stuffing herself into the driver’s seat of the pink Beetle. Layers of crinoline puffed up and over the steering wheel. She didn’t seem to notice. She used her right hand to key the ignition, her left to gesture to the pole in Murphy’s hand. “Just slide it in the back.”

He did. Along with the thermos. She’d be none the wiser. The back seat of her car was as cluttered as her house. He reached through the open front window, past layers of lacy pink poof, and shut off her car.

“Hey!”

“We need to talk, Ms. Ross.”

She winced. “Please don’t call me that.”

Okay.
But he wasn’t going to call her “Princess” either. He needed to get her head out of the clouds long enough to explain his presence. “Luciana—”

“Lulu,” she said with a smile. “Viv’s the only one who calls me Luciana and that’s only when I’m in deep doo.”

As in shit?
What planet did
Lulu
live on anyway? Murphy raised an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact—”

“I’d love to talk, but I’m late. Maybe another time.” She reached for her keys.

He closed his hand over hers, conscious of her delicate bones, satin-smooth skin, and the mouthwatering scent of tangy lemons. He had the damnedest desire to flick his tongue over her pulse points. Highly inappropriate given she was the principal.
Translation: Hands off.
“It’s important.”

She blinked at his possessive grasp. “Listen Mr….”

“Murphy.” Sensing he’d alarmed her,
finally,
he released her hand, bent forward, and braced his palms on his thighs, putting himself at eye level with the woman. He hadn’t decided yet whether to thank or curse Bogie for sticking him with this clueless ball of energy. Instinct told him she was going to be a handful. The convenience store mogul might have been a pain in his ass, but at least he hadn’t triggered any sexual awareness.

“Mr. Murphy—”

“Just Murphy.”

The left corner of her mouth quirked up. Flecks of iridescent glitter sparkled on her pronounced cheekbones. “Okay,
Murphy.
Whatever problem you’re having with my sister, I can’t help. Sofie has a mind of her own when it comes to men and relationships. Nothing I can say or do will give you an edge on any of her other boyfriends.”

She shooed him away from her car and revved the engine. “I can tell you one thing. She tires quickly of pushovers. Next time she asks you to run an errand, tell her you’re busy.”