The Newlyweds (16 page)

She didn't say anything at first, only continued to lie silently with her back to him, and Sam wished like hell he knew what she was thinking. On second thought, maybe he didn't, he hastily amended. It would probably only make things that much more difficult.

“Morning,” she finally said.

It didn't escape Sam's notice that she'd left off the “good” part of his greeting. Yep, he definitely didn't want to know what she was thinking. Especially since she still had her back turned to him. They lay there in stilted silence for a few more moments, until Sam
couldn't stand it any longer. They couldn't lie here forever, hoping neither would notice the other was naked or remember how they'd spent the night. Might as well just get it over with.

So he said, “You okay?”

He glanced over at her and saw her nod. Sort of.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I'm fine.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I guess we should,” she conceded.

“You first,” he said, shamelessly bailing out of his responsibility, since he was the one who'd brought it up. Uh, no pun intended.

She hesitated another moment, then finally turned to look at him. But where Sam was lying with the sheet down around his waist, feeling unmindful, really, about the fact that he wasn't wearing any clothes, Bridget tugged both sheet and blanket up over her shoulders before lifting her gaze to his face.

“I didn't dream it then, did I?” she asked.

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “That good, was I?”

She smiled back and chuckled once, but the sound was nervous, anxious. “It was very nice,” she said.

Okay, so she wasn't going to be emotionally scarred for life, he thought wryly. Still…
very nice?
That was all it was to her? “Then I guess I wasn't that good,” he translated.

“No!” she said, sounding distressed now.

“That bad?”

Finally she laughed, and it sounded almost genuine. “No, I didn't mean ‘No, it wasn't very nice.' I meant, ‘No, that's not what I meant.'”

“Then what did you mean?”

She expelled a heavy sigh and smiled again, a little more convincingly. “It was wonderful,” she told him.

That's more like it,
Sam thought.

“And it was magical,” she added.

Damn straight.

“And it was unlike anything I've ever experienced before.”

Ditto.

“But Sam,” she said, sitting up a little straighter and bringing the sheet and blanket with her, “it can't happen again.”

Right.

She hurried on before he had a chance to comment. “It's just that I don't think it's a good idea with things the way they are. I mean, we're working together, and it's an important case, and we need to focus on that. Not anything else.”

He nodded. “I agree.”

He thought she'd be happy and relieved to hear him say that, but her expression fell, as if that hadn't been what she'd expected him to say at all. Or had hoped he wouldn't say.

“This case is too important to screw it up,” he said, still agreeing with her. “And what happened last night…” This time Sam was the one to sigh heavily. “Well, hell, Bridget, I don't know why it happened.”

Which was a lie, of course. He knew damned well why it had happened. Because Bridget had looked beautiful and desirable, and ever since that night of the symphony—no, long before that, even—he'd wondered what it would be like to make love to her. He'd relived that one kiss they'd shared so often—in both his conscious and unconscious mind—and every time, he'd
allowed himself to carry it further than it had actually gone. He'd made love to Bridget dozens of times in his head. And he'd wanted, for once, to let the rest of his body know what it would be like.

He'd wanted her. It was that simple. And last night, for some reason, he just hadn't been able to resist her.

Now, though, what he said was, “I guess both of us have just been a little high-strung lately, worrying about the case. And when tensions rise that high, they have to be released somehow. And if they can't be released by making progress on the case, then they have to find another outlet.” He met her gaze levelly. “Do you agree?”

She didn't respond for a moment, then slowly nodded her head.

“This undercover operation stonewalled before it even got started,” he continued. “We haven't seen much progress. After three weeks of posing as Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Jones, we have very little to show for it. And that's frustrated us both.”

“Yes,” she said. “It has.”

“And speaking for myself, it's been a while since I…with anyone.” He arched his eyebrows at Bridget in silent question.

“Me, too,” she confessed.

Sam was pleased to hear it, then chastised himself for his relief. It didn't matter how long it had been for her. Or him. They weren't two people in a committed relationship who should be sharing things like this. What had happened had happened. And it wouldn't happen again. It was that simple.

“And I find you very attractive,” he further admitted. “And I don't think I'm being immodest to say that I think you find me attractive, too.”

“I do,” she readily agreed.

“Then what happened last night was unavoidable,” he said, though he knew that wasn't really true, either. He could have stopped anytime. If Bridget had given him even one tiny sign that she thought it was a bad idea, too, Sam would have stopped. Or if he'd allowed himself to think about what a mistake it would be, he would have stopped. He just hadn't wanted to. And obviously neither had she. They'd wanted each other too much.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” he said again.

“I suppose you're right.”

“But, as you said, it won't happen again.”

“No, it won't.”

He expelled another slow, anxious breath and spoke aloud the other thing that had been on his mind since waking: “I think we should call off our part of the undercover operation.”

Her eyes went wide at his declaration, but she said nothing.

“We really haven't seen much progress in the case since we joined it.” He hurried to reiterate his earlier point. “We've maybe learned a few things that offered insight the FBI didn't already have, but nothing to warrant all the time and work we've put in. It's been three weeks, Bridget, but we don't have visible suspects. At this point I think we'll just have to leave it up to the other agents assigned to the case. Because this thing with you and me just isn't working out.”

And oh, he really wished he hadn't added that last line, because it sounded far too personal, as if he were speaking not of their contribution to an undercover operation, but a relationship between a man and a woman. Then again, if the metaphor fit…

“You're right,” she said, making him think she was talking about a lot more than the undercover operation, too. “Our part of the sting hasn't been very effective, has it? We haven't stung anyone. We should talk to Pennington about cutting us loose as soon as we go into work this morning.”

Her voice sounded wooden as she spoke, Sam noticed, as if she were reading the words from a cue card. But everything she said was valid and true. Just as everything he'd said was valid and true. They'd contributed little to the investigation over the past three weeks. Pennington's idea about adding another bogus couple looking to adopt into the mix had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it hadn't worked as well as any of them had hoped. Why waste more time or manpower than they already had?

“We can talk to Pennington this morning,” Sam said.

Bridget nodded. “That'll be fine.”

“I'm sure he'll agree with us that it's time to call it quits.”

“I'm sure he will,” she conceded. But her voice was still dull, spiritless. Much like her expression. And her posture. And her.

“No need to expend any more time or effort on something that's not working,” he added.

“No, you're right.”

“We gave it our best shot.”

“We did.”

“But we just couldn't make it happen.”

“No, we couldn't.”

“Totally beyond our control.”

“Totally.”

“That's how it works out sometimes.”

“Right.”

By the time he finished his lame pitch, Sam felt lousier and more defeated than he'd ever felt in his life. But he was right about all of it. Of course, realizing that didn't make him feel any better. And it wasn't as though Bridget disagreed with him. Not that realizing that made him feel any better, either. But they
had
done their best. Hadn't they? It wasn't their fault if things hadn't gone according to plan.

“I, um, I think I'll just go, um, to my room,” Bridget said softly, disturbing the awkward silence. “I'll just…collect my shoes, why don't I?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight when he remembered the way she had looked, stark naked except for those sexy high heels. And damned if he didn't go hard as rock. He had no idea what to say after that. And neither did Bridget, evidently, because she turned her back to him and let the sheet and blanket fall away. He had one last long—and longing—look at her bare back, then she tugged the bedspread up around herself and rose. She wrapped it around herself sari-style, then bent to retrieve first one shoe, then the other, which, for some reason, was way on the other side of the room. God only knew how that had happened.

She made her way silently to the door, and Sam realized he had never in his life felt more empty than he did at that moment. And if he felt that way, he could only imagine what Bridget must be feeling, having to be the one to go.

She turned around one final time at the bedroom door and offered him a tentative smile. And then, very softly, she said, “We did try, didn't we, Sam?”

And even though Sam didn't know if she was talking about the case or about themselves, he nodded. “Yeah,
Bridget. We tried. But when something doesn't work, it doesn't work, and no amount of wishing otherwise will change it.”

And hell, Sam should know. He'd been doing a lot of wishing lately.

B
efore heading to the Portland field office to talk to Pennington about ending the sting, Sam and Bridget stopped by Children's Connection, because Bridget had something she needed to drop off for Jillian, and the agency was on the way. And since—at least until Special Agent in Charge Steve Pennington said otherwise—they were still posing as newlyweds, Sam accompanied his faux wife into the building instead of sitting outside with the engine running like some impatient husband eager to get on with more important matters. And because—officially, anyway—they were happily married, they held hands, the way Bridget had insisted they do after Sam had told her that newlyweds touched each other constantly.

Sam tried not to think about how he didn't recall even reaching for her hand, and realized he must have
done it instinctively, because it had just felt so natural to his subconscious to do it.

He also tried not to think about that business of constantly touching each other. They had certainly touched each other constantly the night before. And they'd touched each other in just about every place they could reach, too. Last night Sam had done things with—and to—Bridget that he'd never done with—or to—a woman before. And, damn, had it been good. He wasn't sure he'd ever experience something like that with another woman again.

Yeah, they definitely needed to color their part of the undercover operation over, he thought as they made their way down a wide, deserted hallway toward the Children's Connection offices. All in all, it had gotten them nowhere. Or, at least, it hadn't gotten them to where they needed to be. Instead, it had gotten them way too deep into places they should never have explored.

She sure did look beautiful today, though, he thought, stealing a glance to his left. He felt like the drab, boring businessman he was supposed to be, walking next to her in his plain gray suit and boring blue patterned tie. Bridget, on the other hand, looked like a bright splash of sunshine. Because the weather had taken an unexpected—and unusual—turn to the sunny side, with the temperatures hovering around seventy, she'd opted for a linen dress the color of a seashell, cut straight, but strangely showing off her curves in a way that Sam found much too appealing. She was wearing her hair back—probably because he'd told her how much he liked it loose, he thought wryly—but instead of the fat braid she usually wound it into, she'd wrapped it loosely in a piece of fabric the same soft color as her dress. But
with one deft flick of his wrist, he could free it if he wanted to. She'd draped a pale-blue cardigan sweater over her shoulders to ward off the coolness of the breeze, and completed the outfit with flat little shoes and a flat little purse the same color as the sweater.

It was, without question, the most feminine outfit he'd ever seen her wear, and he wished like hell he knew what that meant. He couldn't help think she was sending him a message of some kind. But damned if he knew what it was.

“Jillian's office is just down there,” she said, pointing with her left hand.

And when she did, the overhead lights glistened off the gold of her wedding band, making it wink at Sam as if laughing at him. He became aware of his own wedding ring then, and marveled at how he'd gotten so used to it, he didn't even feel it anymore. It was as if it had become a part of him or something. How odd.

As they approached Jillian Logan's office, another door opened into the hallway, and a man stepped out into their path. Instead of walking in one or the other direction, though, he stood right where he was, gazing at them, as if waiting for their approach. Instinctively Sam assessed him from head to toe. He was shorter than Sam, a couple of inches shy of six feet, with dark hair and eyes. Not bad-looking, but not Hollywood handsome, either. He looked tired, had circles under his eyes, as if he weren't sleeping well, and there was a strange, unmistakable sort of sadness about him.

A quick search of his memory told Sam he had seen the guy around Children's Connection at some point, but couldn't quite place what the circumstances had been. As he and Bridget drew nearer, Sam glanced at the door
from which the man had just exited. Accounting, it said. But the clue helped Sam not at all in his identification.

But the man knew them, something that became clear when he smiled at them and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Jones?”

Sam's radar went up immediately, and he and Bridget, as one, drew to a halt. “Yes?” he said, striving for a curious but calm tone. “I'm Samuel Jones. This is my wife, Bridget. What can we do for you?”

The man smiled again, but there was something about the gesture that didn't feel quite right. “Actually, Mr. Jones, it's I who am in a position to do something for you.”

Oh, yeah. Sam's radar was on red alert now, fairly humming with agitation. He looked over at Bridget, and although she had a pleasant, vaguely curious expression on her face for the newcomer's benefit, he could see in her eyes that she was feeling as vigilant about this turn of events as he was.

“I'm sorry,” Sam told the man, “but you have us at a disadvantage. Your name is…?”

The man made a soft tsking sound. “I'm sorry. Of course. My name is Everett Baker.”

Baker,
Sam thought.
Baker, Baker, Baker. Everett Baker….
He'd been questioned by one of the other agents working the case, Sam recalled. He'd memorized the list of people who'd been questioned, and Baker was definitely on it. Nothing had come of the interview, however, Sam recollected. Certainly Baker's name hadn't come up anywhere else. He'd been one of dozens of Connection employees who'd been asked perfunctory questions that had yielded no new information.

“Mr. Baker,” Sam said now. “I'm sorry, I'm still a bit confused. You know my wife and me.”

“Well, I know
of
you,” Baker corrected him. He
smiled that not-quite-genuine smile again. “Of course, everyone here at Children's Connection knows
of
you.” He turned to Bridget. “Your mother—well, both of your parents—have done wonderful work here.”

Bridget smiled a bland sort of smile.
Good girl,
Sam thought. “Thank you, Mr. Baker. That's so sweet of you to say that.”

“And your sister, too, is a wonderful addition here.” He glanced over his shoulder toward Jillian's office. “You must be going to see her now,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, we were,” Bridget said. “If you'll excuse us…?” To make it look good, Bridget began to take a step forward, tugging Sam along with her.

“Actually,” Baker said, taking a step to his right to intervene, “if I could have a word with you myself?”

Bridget glanced over at Sam, giving him a What-do-you-think-dear? kind of look. She should be up for an Oscar by the end of this thing. “Sam?” she said in a voice that matched her expression.

Sam turned to Baker, arrowing his eyebrows down in what he hoped was a proper CEO frown. “I suppose we could spare a few minutes. Jillian's not expecting us. My wife just had something she needed to drop off for her sister. What's this about, Mr. Baker?”

Everett Baker looked immensely relieved after that. When Sam looked more closely, he saw a faint sheen of moisture on the man's forehead. He was perspiring. That was strange, since, to Sam, the corridor was a bit on the cool side.

“If you could just step into my office,” Baker said, “I won't keep you long. And I promise you'll be very,
very
interested in what I have to say.”

Oh, man, Sam thought, as a sudden realization
struck him. This was it. This was the contact they'd hoped would come. Everett Baker was their baby seller. Sam was sure of it. He'd always had excellent instincts about people, especially people who operated outside the law. And Everett Baker, he knew—he just
knew
—was operating outside the law. He was going to offer the Joneses a little bundle of joy in exchange for thousands of dollars in cash. They were about to get a monumental break in the case. Right when they'd been ready to end it.

But it wasn't supposed to be Bridget and Sam who got that break. It was supposed to be the
other
agents posing as husband and wife. Why would Everett Baker approach them instead? Why would he offer a baby for sale to Bridget Logan, who was in a perfect position to expose him? She was a member of the family who had made Children's Connection a pet project. She would recognize better than anyone a bogus operation within the organization. Everett Baker would have to be nuts to bring the Joneses into this. So just what the hell was going on?

Sam had no idea. But he intended to find out.

He managed a smile of his own for Everett Baker. “Of course, Mr. Baker. I always make time for something that could be very, very interesting to me.”

And, extending his arm toward the office to indicate that Everett Baker should go first, Sam and his “wife” followed the man inside to hear his proposition.

 

Bridget tucked herself into the corner of the sofa in her phony living room as best she could and tried very hard to share Sam's glee. He'd bought a bottle of Moët champagne on their way home from work tonight and was, at the moment, trying to wrestle free its cork. To help
facilitate his efforts, he was doing a little dance around the living room, and she found it impossible not to smile.

Why did he have to be so damned endearing?

And why had last night happened?

And why couldn't the two of them make it work?

Especially since it now looked as if the sting operation, at least, had worked after all. Because Everett Baker had told them he knew of a beautiful baby girl whose teenage mother was poverty-stricken and unable to care for herself or her child. The teen wanted to find her daughter a good home, with people who would love her and care for her in a way that she simply could not.

Sam had done a great job playing the wary but excited businessman/potential parent. He'd asked just the right questions, and had adopted just the right amount of skepticism and concern about the matter. Had Bridget not known better, she would have sworn he was the genuine article. She'd let him take the lead in the interview, since Baker had seemed to want to do it on a man-to-man level and had scarcely acknowledged her presence. Obviously she'd played her part convincingly, too, since Baker had expected her to defer to her husband for this situation.

So they'd been a success in what they had set out to do—at least where the investigation was concerned. Unfortunately, Bridget couldn't see any way for them to be a success where their relationship was concerned. Because they did have a relationship now, she thought. After last night, there was no mistaking that. Two people didn't come together they way she and Sam had unless they felt something substantial for each other. But “substantial” didn't necessarily equate to “love.” And it certainly didn't equate to “forever.”

And although Bridget could safely say in speaking for herself that her feelings for Sam were indeed love, she didn't think his for her even came close. Yes, he cared for her. But it was different for men. Especially men like him. This morning, instead of talking about how the two of them might make things work, he had immediately suggested they call it quits. Instead of telling Bridget he cared for her in a way that might grow into something more, he'd told her they'd given it their best shot, and oh, well. He cared for her as much as he could, she translated now. But it wasn't enough to last forever.

Would she stay in Portland if he asked her to?

Would he leave Portland if she asked him to?

Unfortunately, Bridget didn't really know the answer to either of those questions. Not that either answer mattered, since Sam obviously wasn't going to ask her to stay any more than she was going to ask him to leave. And now she couldn't even let herself think about any of that, because they'd just had an enormous break in the investigation and she needed to focus her full attention on that.

A crisp, wet-sounding
pop!
stirred her from her musings, and she glanced up to see Sam holding a towel beneath the lip of the champagne bottle to catch a dribble of effervescent gold that spilled over the top. He laughed as he completed the action, and something inside Bridget turned over at the sight. He really was wonderful, she thought, on so many levels. He wasn't like any man she had ever met, and she was certain she'd never encounter anyone else like him again. She loved him. She had no trouble admitting that now, at least to herself. And although Sam cared for her, she knew it wasn't love with him.

“We've got him now,” Sam said with undisguised glee as he generously filled a wineglass with champagne and handed it to Bridget.

She was about to tell him he should have used a different kind of glass, like a flute or a Marie Antoinette, but feared he would start in with one of his Where-I-come-from speeches again—“Where I come from, we drink champagne out of paper cups…and we
like
it”—and she didn't want to spoil the celebration. She knew better than he, after all, how different the two of them were, and it had nothing to do with where either of them came from. It had to do with how both of them felt.

“Looks that way,” she said mildly as she accepted the glass from him.

Sam beamed as he sat down beside her on the sofa, then lifted his glass to her in a toasting gesture. “To success,” he said.

“With the case,” she couldn't help adding as she clinked her glass against his.

His smile fell some at that, but he echoed, “With the case.”

And then, in unison, they enjoyed a sip of the sparkling wine. For a long moment afterward, though, neither said anything. Each only gazed at the other in silence, as if having no idea what to say. Finally, when she couldn't stand it any longer, Bridget broke the silence.

“So what do we do now?” she asked, deliberately keeping the question vague so that Sam wouldn't know whether she was talking about the case, their relationship or both.