The Newlyweds (13 page)

With every new word Charlie spoke, Everett's stomach burned hotter. Bridget Logan Jones. Robbie Logan's sister.
His
sister. By blood if nothing else. Everett had glimpsed her a few times at the Connection since her return to Portland, but he hadn't had the nerve to approach her. She resembled Leslie Logan in many ways, was graceful and elegant like her mother. She
seemed as nice as Leslie, too, and had the same smile. Like everyone else at the Connection, he'd heard about her recent elopement and the newlyweds' desire to start a family. From what Everett knew about her, he liked Bridget. And he hated it that Charlie had taken such a sick, twisted interest in her.

“You wouldn't dare hurt her,” Everett said, even though he was confident of no such thing. There was no telling what Charlie would do.

“Oh, wouldn't I?” Charlie replied. “Forget about making a baby with her. It might even be kind of fun to take Bridget Logan out of the picture altogether. Hurt the Logans the way they hurt me by letting their precious Children's Connection place me with the god-awful parents I had.”

Take Bridget Logan out of the picture,
Everett repeated to himself, nausea rolling in his belly now. Surely Charlie didn't mean he would kill her? But then, hadn't he tried to kill Nancy? He was totally capable of murder.

“Yeah, it's exactly what you're thinking.” Charlie said as the revolting thoughts unrolled in Everett's head. “If you try to weasel your way out of this operation, Everett, you'll read about your sister's death in papers.” He leaned forward, his mouth close to Everett's ear now, his breath hot and sour as he added in a malicious whisper, “But I promise I won't kill her until after I've had a little fun with her.”

Everett squeezed his eyes shut tight at the other man's repugnant promise. Oh, God, Charlie would do it, too. He'd hurt Bridget Logan in the worst possible way, and then he'd dump her body someplace for the authorities to find, the way they'd discovered what they thought was Robbie Logan's body nearly thirty years
ago. The Logans would have to relive the horror of losing a child all over again. And just like before, it would be all Everett's fault.

No, he decided then, his eyes snapping open. No more. Not again. This ended now. It had to. Whatever Charlie asked him to do, Everett would do it. But he'd make sure it was the last job Charlie ever assigned to him. And he'd make sure it was the job that took Charlie Prescott
down.

“All right,” Everett said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“You'll do what you always do,” Charlie told him. “The way we always do it. But this time we're offering a group discount. We're going to approach more than one couple with our usual spiel. There's been so much heat at the Connection since this investigation started that we've got sniveling little brats backed up in the pipeline. And since we haven't been able to move 'em, we're running out of money. So tomorrow you'll go into that social worker Reiss's office, and you'll pull some files that look promising, and you'll copy 'em. And then, when we get all our ducks in a row, you'll contact some of those poor schmucks who want to start a family and tell them you have just the kid they're looking for. Though God knows why they'd want to ruin their lives that way. Ask me, families don't bring nothin' but trouble and misery.”

As much as Everett wanted to argue with that, he kept his mouth shut. Not every family was damaged, he knew. In spite of his own experiences—and Charlie's—there were plenty of families out there that were happy and well-adjusted. Like the Logans, he couldn't help thinking. And he, for one, wanted to make sure they
stayed that way. So he'd do what Charlie instructed him to do, the way he always did. This time, though, Charlie wouldn't dictate the outcome.

Because this time Everett had something else entirely in mind….

T
he week following Bridget and Sam's first attempt at being newlyweds about town, they widened their net, inviting guests to their home and visiting local restaurants and events that were magnets for Children's Connection employees. Everywhere they went they did their best to pick up any new information that might aid in the investigation. And although they did learn things here and there that broadened the investigation, they still had nothing solid to point directly to any one individual.

What was almost worse, though, for Bridget, was that the more time she spent with Sam, pretending to be his wife, the more she found herself enjoying his company. Despite the antagonism of their initial meeting and the ensuing days, and despite the brief awkwardness that had followed their embrace the night of the symphony, she discovered that she really did like Sam very much.
Not just as an agent, but as a person. And, regrettably, as a man. He was smart and focused and hard-working, never mind extremely easy on the eye, and with each new day she spent in his presence, she found herself looking forward to the next with happy anticipation.

And she called herself every kind of fool for doing it.

Although they tried to keep their distance from each other when they were home together, they found themselves gravitating toward each other anyway. Bridget had discovered while trying to find ways to kill time that she enjoyed cooking, and she was often in the kitchen when Sam came home from work. That always led, naturally, to her extending an invitation to him to join her for dinner—hey, it was the polite thing to do, right?—because she seemed incapable of cooking enough for only one. After all, who wanted to cook for only one person when you'd just discovered you enjoyed cooking? And Sam, too hungry to decline the invitations, invariably accepted. And then the next night, he'd insist on cooking for her to return the favor. Then she'd want to return his favor, and the cycle continued.

And there were evenings, too, when Bridget strode into the living room with a book in one hand and a beer in the other, only to find Sam already parked on the couch with a book and a beer of his own. And although she always excused herself to find another place to read, he told her not to be silly, that they could certainly both sit in the same room. It wasn't as if one of them was composed of matter and the other of antimatter, so they wouldn't spontaneously combust. What harm could come of it?

Lots, Bridget would discover when she went to bed that night and dreamed about other things the two of them could do, sharing that couch together.

And every morning, upon waking from such dreams, she had to remind herself that, in spite of the way they had turned to each other on the night of the symphony, Sam didn't feel about her the way she found herself feeling about him. He was too cool, too casual, too collected—too professional—for him to still be entertaining memories or fantasies about that night. To him, it had been a physical exchange and nothing more, brought on by the anxiety and concern he felt for the case. And although Bridget tried to tell herself it hadn't been anything more than that for her, either, deep down she had to admit that the reason she had allowed things to go so far that night was because she had, even then, begun to care for Sam in a way she really shouldn't.

And that feeling only grew with each new day.

She noted thankfully that Sam evidently didn't reciprocate her feelings. She told herself this was actually a good thing, because even if the two of them started something here, they'd have to finish it here, too. Bridget wasn't going to stay in Portland any longer than it took to wrap up this case. And Sam had made it abundantly clear that he loved calling Portland home and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Plus, she had to admit, they were too different from each other in too many ways. Yes, there was a definite physical attraction, and yes, they liked each other. But that wasn't enough to build a lifelong commitment on. And Bridget didn't want a lifelong commitment anyway. And neither, she was certain, did Sam.

Still, telling herself all those things didn't make it any easier to be with him. Because whenever she was with him, she wanted to, you know,
be with him.
And she knew that would never happen.

So it was with no small amount of trepidation that Bridget looked forward to their arrival at Tanglewood Country Club for the reception her mother had organized for the happy newlyweds and to which she had invited virtually everyone she knew from Children's Connection. Tonight, as they had done on so many occasions already, she and Sam were going to have to put on a show to convince other people that they were a loving couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other. And Bridget, for one, was beginning to feel like an even bigger fraud than she was.

Because for the people who didn't know she was part of an investigation, she was pretending to be something she wasn't—married and looking to start a family. And for the few people who
did
know she was part of the investigation, she still felt like an impostor, because lately she was interested in a lot more than just the investigation. She was interested in Sam. She was beginning to feel as if, since returning to Portland, her life had become a blend of two fantasies, neither of which felt quite right. When she put them together, though, something about them just felt…right.

It was the weirdest thing.

She told herself not to think about it as Sam rolled the big black Mercedes to a halt at valet parking at the country club, made herself remember what she used to do whenever she felt nervous those first few times when she went into the field. She reminded herself that in many ways what she was doing was just playing a game.
The Newlywed Game,
she couldn't help thinking, trying to cheer herself up. So what if the stakes were higher than they'd been on that old show from her childhood? So what if she and Sam were playing not for a bedroom
suite and new carpeting, but the capture of a criminal who was bartering in human life? She was up to this task. More than up to it. She'd been trained for it. Hey, this case was lightweight compared to some of the others she'd been a part of in the past.

So why did this one make her so much more nervous? she wondered. So much more shaky? Why did it feel as if so much more than a black-market baby ring were on the line? Why were there times when it almost felt as if her very life was at stake?

Because, she immediately answered herself, it wasn't the case causing her to feel anxious and fearful.

“Ready to play?” Sam asked from the driver's seat as they waited for the valet.

Play,
Bridget repeated to herself. Now there was a word that had way too many implications. “I'm ready,” she told him. She just didn't tell him what she was ready for. Frankly, she didn't know.

“Then let's do it,” he said.

Oh, she really wished he'd used some other phrase than “do it.” Nevertheless, she inhaled a deep breath and, when the valet opened her door for her, exited the car, checking her attire as she emerged. But her black chiffon cocktail dress with its beaded straps looked fine, so she waited for Sam to hand off his car keys to the teenage attendant, then tucked her black satin evening bag into one hand and looped her other arm through the one he crooked for her when he came up alongside her. He, too, was dressed very nicely for the evening, wearing a dark suit cut expertly to showcase his broad shoulders and trim waist, along with a white dress shirt and wine-colored silk necktie.

Very yummy, was all Bridget could think when she
looped her arm through his. Oh, all right, she could think of some other things, too, but they didn't bear repeating in polite and mixed company.

The country club was elegantly decorated for the event, with twinkling white lights in all the potted trees, colorful paper lanterns strung from the ceiling of the enclosed patio, and white linen tablecloths on all the tables. A quartet was playing lively jazz when they entered, and a handful of couples had ventured out to the dance floor. Bridget recognized her parents immediately, and then her brother Eric and his fiancée, Jenny, dancing close in spite of the fast number, and also David and Elizabeth. Peter and Katie were already there, too, standing off to one side, speaking to Katie's brother Trent. It was good to see Peter and Trent speaking so comfortably—even amiably. And Katie and Peter were obviously very much in love. At last, there had been an easing in the family rivalry.

Bridget smiled when she thought again about the marriage outbreak that seemed to have hit her family recently. Then she frowned when she realized the unions only seemed to apply to the male siblings. She and Jillian were still very much singletons. Which was precisely how Bridget, at least, wanted it to be. Right? Right.

But when she looked over at Sam, saw him lift a hand in greeting to someone and smile, her heart performed a funny little flip-flop in her chest, and she didn't feel anywhere near the certainty she once had about that decision. Why him? she asked herself, not for the first time. Why, of all the men with whom she'd come into contact over the years, did it have to be Sam Jones who'd made her question her convictions? And why, after making the decision to stay single, had she had to cross paths with him?

He must have felt her eyes on him then, because as he dropped his hand back to his side, he glanced down at her. And when he saw her expression, his smile fell, his expression turning serious, sober and very interested. “Nice music,” he said, the light observation belying his somber appearance.

She nodded. “Yes, it is. I love jazz.”

He tilted his head toward the dance floor. “Wanna?” he asked.

She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Dance?” she asked, certain she must have misunderstood his intentions.

“Sure. Why not?”

Why not indeed? she asked herself. She was about to echo his own words and say, “Sure, why not?” but before she could get the words out, she heard someone calling her name. When she turned around, she saw her sister Jillian striding toward her, a glass of wine the only accessory to her simple black cocktail dress. Leslie Logan was with her, looking stunning in a cap-sleeved, cream-colored dress whose very plain design only made her appear that much more beautiful.

“I'm so glad you two are here!” Jillian said as she approached them, her voice a little louder than it needed to be. Bridget was beginning to wonder if maybe her sister's hearing was okay, but then Jillian added, “Usually
newlyweds
like yourself don't want to be out in a crowd, because
newlyweds
like yourself would rather be alone! Especially if those
newlyweds
are trying to start a family!”

Somehow, Bridget managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. When her sister drew close enough, though,
she bent to whisper in Jillian's ear, “It's okay, Jillian. I think we've got the cover down solid.”

“Well, I was just trying to help,” Jillian whispered back.

But not, evidently, quietly enough for Sam not to overhear. Because he smiled and said, “And we appreciate it, Ms…. ah, Jillian,” he quickly corrected himself.

Jillian smiled knowingly. “See? You two need all the help you can get. Stop acting so stiff.”

Bridget's mother nodded her agreement, then gestured toward the dance floor. “Go out there and enjoy yourselves.”

Sam's expression was philosophical. “Shall we?”

And just as Bridget was about to say yes, she was joined by her brothers and sister-in-law and sister-in-law-to-be, who also wanted to know how the
newlyweds
were faring, and gosh, they were just glowing like
newlyweds,
and how was
newlywed
life treating them, anyway, and obviously the honeymoon wasn't over yet for the
newlyweds.
And although Sam managed to laugh off their ribbing good-naturedly, Bridget found herself blushing like, well…a
newlywed.

It was like that for them much of the night. Every time Sam tried to get her out on the dance floor, they were interrupted by yet another well-wisher wanting to know how they were doing. Even when dinner was served, it posed no deterrent to the current of people who wanted to extend their congratulations. By the end of the evening, in spite of the bits of valid information cleared, Bridget was actually beginning to look at the dance floor rather longingly. It would have proved a nice escape from the probing eyes and questions that she had to duck or lie in response to. Only after the majority of party-goers had left did Sam finally approach her and
ask her again, “Think we could get out onto the dance floor now?”

Bridget looked first one way, then the other, but no one seemed inclined to approach them. So she smiled, nodded and extended her arms toward Sam.

Just then the saxophonist of the quartet said, “Thanks very much, everybody! You've been a great crowd! Good night!”

And then Bridget's arms fell limply to her sides, but she couldn't help the chuckles that bubbled up from inside her. Sam laughed, too, then reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go home.”

And there was just something in the way he said it that made Bridget's heart hum happily inside her. So she smiled, nodded and said, “Yeah, let's.”

 

And, strangely, home felt very much like home when they arrived there. Funny, Bridget thought, how that first night they'd been here, the place had seemed so overblown and excessive. She hadn't felt comfortable at all amid the luxury and opulence of the place. Normally, she didn't go in for that conspicuous consumption look. But it must have grown on her over the past few weeks, because passing through the back door and into the kitchen felt like the most normal, most natural thing in the world for her to do.

Automatically, she reached to her right and flicked on the lights without even having to look for the switch. Then she pushed the appropriate buttons on the security system without having to even think about what she was doing. Sam joined her, his arm brushing hers as he
strode past, but where a few weeks ago he might have jumped away upon contact and apologized for touching her, he barely seemed to notice. He was too busy loosening his necktie and going to the refrigerator for a beer.