by Meryl Sawyer
It was all she could do not to jump up and hug him. Instead she sat rigid on the other chaise. "You'll do it? You'll marry me?"
He set aside the picture, then dropped down to his knees. "Kelly, will you make me the happiest man on this earth by marrying me?"
The way his eyes crinkled at the corners made her suspect he was holding back a laugh. He reminded her of a naughty little boy, the kind who would pull your hair and run. A tease.
In this case, a dangerous tease.
"Logan, be serious. Are you willing to take the job?" He rose then sat on the chaise beside her, and she had to battle the urge to scoot away. His nearness was overwhelming, but she pretended not to be affected. After all, she was going to be close to Logan a lot in the next few months.
Her pulse beat in double time and her heart clamored in her chest with loud pounding thuds. He was so unpredictable and mysterious that he frightened her, which was unusual. During her years in New York, she'd tracked down several dangerous men for articles about crime.
Get a grip, Kelly. Get a grip. You are going to have to live with this man.
He turned to her, his eyes now cold and sharp. The hint of humor had disappeared. "What I'm doing isn't a job. It's a mission. I'm not taking your money."
"Why are you doing it?" Oh, Lordy, did she have to blurt out such a stupid question? He might change his mind … again.
"I'm accepting the mission to help Pop. He'll be one hell of a grandfather."
The inflection in his voice told her that nothing had changed his mind about her. He didn't trust her to love Rafi, but he put his faith in Pop. It was just an excuse, she decided. The element of risk in going to South America was responsible for Logan changing his mind.
She should have been ashamed of herself for allowing a psychological quirk like the Haas Factor to lure him into danger. But she was too desperate to turn away the only man who could help her. Logan McCord could take care of himself better than most men on this earth.
"Thank you," she said. Something made her add, "You won't be sorry."
He was looking down at her, his eyes resting on her lips for an uncomfortably long time. The minutes stretched into a taut stillness. Even the shrill howl from a coyote in the plum thicket nearby seemed muffled and faraway.
A charge of sexual current arched between them. She tried to stop it with a sarcastic remark, but the words lodged in her throat. His eyes narrowed, and in the dusky light, she marveled at how his vivid blue eyes were now, almost totally black with just a thin rim of blue.
He lowered his head and touched her neck with the tip of one finger, using the back of his hand to lift away her hair. She realized he was just checking the scab from the knife cut. It was almost gone now and wouldn't leave a mark.
He cocked his head to one side, his face just an inch from hers, to inspect the damage. Even in the faint light, she could see the whiskers bristling across his square jaw. They were several shades darker than his hair, the kind of beard that grew quickly.
She imagined him waking in the morning, sleepy-eyed, badly in need of a razor. Wearing nothing but a smile. Stop it! But it was hard not to think of those things when she knew she was marrying Logan.
"It's healing nicely." His warm breath fanned across her cheek and into her hair, then seemed to ripple through her entire body. "That's good."
His fingers traced the arc of her throat, moving so slowly that at first she thought she imagined it. But the heat generated by his calloused fingertips was impossible to miss. She remembered the way he'd touched her the other night. Then he'd been trying to manipulate her. What was he doing tonight?
His compelling eyes riveted her to the chaise and he gazed at her, a slightly questioning expression as if she had the answer to some question. His nostrils flared a little above a mouth that appeared more sensual than she had first thought. But it was the touch of his fingers that escalated the nervous flutter in her chest.
"Don't," she whispered.
Above their heads a cat's paw of wind ruffled the cottonwood's leaves, bringing with it the fragrant scent of sage. From the banks of Oak Creek rumbled full-throated bullfrogs. Down the road a dog barked, the noise bouncing off the red rocks. Her harsh intake of breath seemed louder than any of these sounds.
Don't touch me screamed one inner voice. I hate men. Another, stronger voice told her not to move.
"Don't … what?" he asked.
"I-I hardly know you. I think we should take our time and let things … ah … happen naturally."
Naturally? The mere touch of his hand had caused a shiver of warmth to course through her body. Why did Logan McCord have to be the only man around who could help her?
Instead of responding to her comment, his free arm encircled her, and half a second later, she found herself snug against him. His virile torso pressed into the soft contours of her breasts. She swallowed tightly, suddenly glad she was sitting down, and her fingers curled into the palms of her hands.
She held herself rigid like one of the stone pillars in Red Rock country, afraid of what might happen if she allowed herself the pleasure of putting her arms around Logan. He pulled his head back a fraction of an inch, looking down at her with a teasing smile.
"Darlin', there's nothing more natural than this."
His heavy-ridded eyes and parted lips told her that he was going to kiss her. The anticipation welling up inside her caused a sharp intake of breath, but the air didn't seem to reach her lungs. She still felt breathless and a little dizzy.
For the love of God, no … don't let him kiss me.
She braced herself, imagining how his firm lips would feel molding against hers. He'd aggressively part her lips and slide his tongue forward to mate with hers. The expectation sent a fluid heat from the tips of her fingers down to the soles of her feet.
The tip of his tongue moistened his lips, and his head slowly descended. She wanted to turn away, she truly did, yet something stopped her. It was the throbbing of her own blood that suddenly became a savage drumbeat in her ears.
She fought hard, but her eyelids fluttered, then dropped shut, and she felt her lips part as a small sigh escaped into the night air. She waited for his kiss, pleasure mounting even though her brain told her to push him away.
A second passed … and another.
She was about to open her eyes when his lips caressed her neck, the tip of his tongue flicking against the skin. His searing kiss sent a ripple of goose bumps across the back of her neck. The heady sensation intensified as his tongue traced the soft curve of her neck.
Her head dropped forward, fitting perfectly into the hollow between his neck and sturdy shoulder. He pulled her closer, his lips now at her ear, his hands exploring the hollow of her back.
The strength of his body, with its barely leashed power, unexpectedly excited her. How easy it would be to lose herself in the moment, to forget the heartbreak of the past.
His lips explored the curve of her neck, the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, the tender edge of her earlobe. The tip of his tongue caressed every imaginable place, forcing her to press her lips together to stifle a moan of pleasure. The rough drag of his whiskers chafing her skin caused a rush of heated longing.
Her arms stole around his neck in spite of herself. Her reaction to the consuming heat of his kisses astonished—and confused—her. She wanted only one thing from this man, help bringing Rafi home.
She found herself wiggling, hoping to encourage him to kiss her on the lips. He pulled her so close that she felt the heavy thud of his heart against her breast. She furrowed her fingers through his hair, impressed by its rich, silky texture, its unexpected softness.
"Kelly, Kelly?" Pop's voice cut through the sensual haze. "Are you awake?"
She found the strength to push Logan away and stumble to her feet. "Logan is out here with me. We have exciting news."
* * *
It had been a command performance with the entire family and every ranch hand summoned to the corral
to see Haywood Stanfield's newest acquisition, an Arabian colt with an impeccable lineage and an equally impressive price. Behind his sunglasses, the man rolled his eyes. It looked like just another long-legged colt.
The crowd murmured their approval, as Haywood Stanfield led the colt around the paddock by its halter. The man seized the opportunity to move closer to the woman at his side, taking a moment to inhale the fragrance of her custom-blended perfume.
"I've located Logan Stanfield," the man whispered.
She kept looking at the new colt as if fascinated, but he knew better. "Really?"
"This morning he took out a marriage license."
The sweet curve of her lower lip dropped. "Someone around here is going to marry him? Who?"
He pretended to watch the colt as it pranced by, playing the moment. "Kelly Taylor."
Color flamed her high cheekbones, then smoldered in her blue eyes. "That bitch! She's going to use the paper to destroy us."
"I'm not so sure. The presidential race is off—at least for now. McCord took care of that."
"They could be targeting the Tyler Stanfield for Senate campaign. It would be just like Trent Farley to use the Sun to defame another Stanfield."
The venom in her voice didn't surprise him. She was every inch a lady, beautiful, elegant. In another era should would have made the perfect queen. She believed in the power of the Stanfield dynasty, the way kings had believed in their divine right to rule. She saw the press, especially the Sedona Sun, not as a necessary evil—but as a plague, which should be eliminated.
"The first mistake was not doing away with Logan years ago."
"True," he conceded, "but we didn't, so now we have to deal with a man who's a lot more dangerous than a young child. Here's my plan. Disgrace him. We've got plenty of time to do it before the presidential primaries begin."
The glimmer in her eyes told him how badly she wanted Haywood Stanfield to be in the White House. As if he couldn't have guessed. She loved power, and the White House was the center of power in this country.
"I've used all my contacts in Washington to try to get the dope on McCord. No one knows anything."
"They know, but they're not talking."
"What does that tell you? McCord has something to hide. So, I contacted a P.I. firm in LA. They're all Israelis with impressive experience in surveillance as Moussad agents. That's the Israeli equivalent of the Secret Service. They're going to bug McCord's place and find out what's going on."
The group moved toward the paddock when the gate swung open. He looked down on his newest pair of Bruno Magli shoes. Christ! He hated getting dust on them, but everyone was expected to make a fuss over the new colt.
"I say discredit Logan, then kill him," she said as the group funneled through the gate.
"Not to worry. He's as good as dead."
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
Logan glared at the reflection in the minor. Aw, hell, was that him in a suit and tie? Son of a bitch! What was he doing?
Why had he agreed to marry Kelly so she could adopt the boy? The stranger in the mirror didn't have an answer.
"Shit for brains," Logan told the reflection glaring back at him. Why hadn't he just walked away and left Kelly to fend for herself?
The wry smile reflected by the mirror mocked him. Okay, okay, Logan knew better than to get involved, but Kelly had managed to hit his hot button when she had accused him of letting his own past color his judgment. That was exactly what he had done.
"There's a kid down there who's a lot like me," he told Jasper.
The retriever had fallen into the habit of tagging around at Logan's heels when the dog wasn't with Pop. Jasper wagged his tail and gazed up at Logan as if he understood every word.
"Rafi. Cute name," Logan muttered. "I have to help that little boy."
For years he'd avoided thinking about the past, telling himself the present was his life. But Kelly—damn her sweet hide—had forced him to open a door that he'd slammed shut when he'd enlisted. He'd taken a long, painful look at the past and analyzed his feelings like some armchair shrink armed with the latest self-help book.
Jasper nuzzled Logan's hand, a signal that the dog wanted to be petted. Logan was tempted, but resisted, reminding himself he was already too involved with this family. The last thing he needed was to become attached to a dog.
After Kelly and Logan told Pop that they were getting married, Pop insisted on driving Logan into Phoenix to purchase a suit for the wedding. So, here he was trying on the Brioni suit and tie that he'd bought—feeling like a horse's ass.
"You're one sorry son of a bitch," he said out loud.
Now he couldn't get everything he owned in his backpack. Without moving his head, he glanced sideways to make certain the pack was still in the corner. It was right where he'd put it, the strap set at an angle to tell him no one had touched it.
Not that he was really worried. If the barracudas from the tabloids hadn't tracked him down, no one else was likely to find him. Trouble was that he could feel himself slipping into civilian life and not being as alert as he should be.
"In six months I'll be worthless," he informed Jasper as he shrugged out of the jacket.
The retriever nuzzled him again, imploring Logan with soulful brown eyes to pet him. Logan gave in and ran his hand over the dog's soft fur and fondled his ears. He should have left instead of allowing himself to become involved in Kelly's personal problems, he reflected as he stroked Jasper.
Man, oh, man, he could still taste Kelly's soft skin beneath his lips and feel the erotic way her body molded against his. This was one part of the bargain he intended to enjoy. It had been weeks since he'd gone upstairs with that woman in Argentina. He was horny as hell.
Kelly wasn't the type of woman he usually selected. He preferred one night stands because you could walk away. This was a similar situation, he decided as he stepped out of his trousers and hung his wedding suit in the closet.
This time he was the one being used, and Kelly would have paid him for it, if he would have allowed it. He wouldn't have to walk away when the mission was complete. Just the opposite. Kelly would kick his butt out the door.
All she wanted was the child. That was fine with Logan. He'd examined the past and decided this situation was nothing like his childhood. Kelly had been deeply wounded by her 'husband's betrayal, but she was a good person who would love the boy. A grandson would be good for Pop, and Logan couldn't help wanting the older man to be happy.
"What is it, Jasper?" he whispered as he turned and realized the retriever was facing the door, ears cocked.
A dog's hearing was far superior to a human's. Someone was coming toward the casita. He pulled on his jeans, but didn't bother with a shirt. Barefoot, he silently crossed the floor and angled his head so he could see out the window without being spotted.
It was just Pop coming up the flagstone path. He was walking much faster now than when Logan had first arrived. His gait was steadier, more purposeful, giving Logan a glimpse of how Trent Farley had been in his youth.
Logan swung open the door. "Looking for Jasper? He's right here."
"No." Pop gave Jasper an affectionate pat. "Woody's here. Your father wants to talk to you."
"How'd he know where to find me?"
"He's a politician. Lots of people around here owe him favors. He found out about the marriage license and guessed you would be here."
Logan reached for the T-shirt he'd slung over a chair and pulled it over his head. "Tell him to drop dead."
"There's nothing I'd like better, but let's be realistic. Woody Stanfield is a powerful man. You and Kelly will have to go through a battery of paperwork and an inspection of your home before you'll be certified for adoption under Arizona law. Woody could speed up the process with one call."
"I don't want anything from him. Not one damn thing."
Pop gazed down at Jasper for a moment, then looked straight at Logan with the earnest ex
pression that Logan had come to associate with the older man. "You don't know what brought him here. Why don't you find out? It could be important."
Curiosity always had been a weakness. One of his earliest lessons had been at the camp just after his tenth birthday. He had picked the lock on the shed and had gone inside. It had been alarmed, of course, and Jake had caught him snooping around the storeroom where the camp's guns and ammunition were kept.
Even though he'd been just a child, his uncle gave him the same punishment that he did the adults. The box. Logan suffered through a week in the root cellar, shivering, rats hovering nearby ready to eat him.
For years after, he'd been afraid of rats. Then he'd joined the Cobras and turned the tables. Survival school had taught him that rats were everywhere, a good food source—if you were desperate. He craved Twinkies, but if it became necessary to survive, he'd eat a rat.
"I'll see him." Logan shoved his bare feet into shoes, then slung his pack over one shoulder.
Logan found Woody waiting at the edge of the terrace overlooking Oak Creek. The sun's rays slanted through the trees and glinted off the water as it rumbled over the stony creek bed. A raccoon darted through the cluster of palo verde trees downstream and vanished.
"You wanted to talk to me?"
Woody spun around, startled. Once again Logan was struck by how much he looked like his father. Sure, his old man's hair was gray and his face was lined, but it was the same face that gazed back at Logan each morning when he shaved. Looking closely, he could see the same dimples that appeared at the top of his cheekbones when he smiled. Woody's were masked by lines, now, but they were there.
Woody wasn't slightly stooped over the way many men his age were. He was an inch shorter than Logan's six feet four, but his erect stance and squared shoulders duplicated Logan's.
Woody walked toward him, confident but not smiling. "I've been thinking about what you said. We should talk especially now that you're marrying Kelly Taylor."
Logan choked back a cutting reply. No telling what Stanfield would do if he knew the truth. He might blab to the press and prevent Kelly from adopting the boy.