by Lisa Childs
“You could,” he said. “But it would make our marriage a little intense.”
Marriage?
Panic squeezed her lungs, stealing away her breath. She couldn’t really marry Logan Payne. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but she couldn’t get the words out.
Because his mouth covered hers, his lips sliding back and forth across her lips. The friction was sensual and delicious. She gasped at the rush of desire pulsing through her veins.
And he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue through her parted lips. She pressed her palms to his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, she caressed his skin while she kissed him back.
Their pants for breath mingling, she could taste him. And feel him. His heart beat frantically beneath her palm, matching the crazy rhythm of her own madly pounding heart.
Her knees trembled, like they had earlier, and probably still because of her fear. She was afraid of all these feelings. Afraid that she felt this overwhelming desire—this intense need—for Logan Payne.
Maybe he was just playing games with her, manipulating her with compliments and his mouth and his touch. His hands slid over her back to the curve of her hips, which he clutched, as he dragged her up close to the evidence of his desire for her. He couldn’t lie about that.
He wanted her, too. And as if he intended to take her, he swung her up in his arms and headed toward the bedroom. But a low growl stopped him, and his hard body tensed.
“Cujo,” she murmured. “It’s okay…”
But it really wasn’t. Just hours ago Logan had accused her of trying to kill him and now he was kissing her? And worse yet, she was kissing him back. That wasn’t okay. It was insanity. But she lied to Cujo because she didn’t want the dog attacking Logan.
She didn’t want him hurt.
Someone else had another opinion, though, because shots rang out in earsplitting, violent succession. Bullets shattered glass and splintered wood. Shelves and pictures fell from the walls.
Logan fell, too, taking her down with him. The near-dead weight of his long body pressed her into the carpeting of the living-room floor.
Had he been hit again? And this time more critically than his grazed shoulder?
Chapter Seven
Logan cursed himself as much as the shooter. How on earth was he supposed to protect Stacy when he allowed her to distract him so much that someone had been able to drive up to his house without his hearing the vehicle?
Cujo had heard it. But Logan hadn’t reacted fast enough to the canine’s low growl. And the shots had rung out…
His shoulder stung, but it was from the old wound. No bullets had grazed him this time. Flying glass hadn’t even hit him.
But he stared down at Stacy. Like in the cemetery, her soft body cushioned his—having taken the brunt of the fall. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Her gray eyes wide with fear, she nodded but flinched as more shots rang out.
“Stay down,” he told her even as he rose slightly to ease his weight off her. But he kept his head down as the firing continued.
She clutched at his arms, her fingers digging into his muscles as she held tightly to him. “You stay down, too.” Her eyes widened with more fear. “And Cujo!”
The former K-9 barked at the door, digging at it in his urgency to escape and track down the shooter. But Logan heard the vehicle now, its tires squealing as it spun out of his driveway and back onto the street.
He jumped up and reached for the weapon he’d left on the island counter. But then he had to grab for his slipping towel. It didn’t matter now. Even though he ran and threw open the door, he was too late to catch even a glimpse of the vehicle, let alone the shooter.
They’d gotten away. Again. Like every attempt before…
Cujo pushed past him and patrolled the drive, sniffing out probably every dropped shell. How many were they? How many shots had been fired?
It was a wonder neither of them had been hit. Stacy had said she was okay. But was she?
Logan hurried back inside the house. She hadn’t moved yet. She was lying on the floor. Still. “Are you really all right?” he asked.
“Are they gone?” she asked.
“Yes,” he assured her.
As if she’d been holding it the entire time, her breath shuddered out in a ragged sigh that drew his attention to her breasts. They nearly spilled over the top of her black bra. His shirt had fallen open across that decadent black bra and the matching panties. He groaned in frustration—of his attraction and that the shooter had interrupted them.
Then he tore his gaze from her and looked around his house, assessing the damage. The windows were broken, shattered glass scattered about the hardwood floor. Bullets had knocked pictures and shelves from the walls and penetrated the drywall.
“I should have known better…” he berated himself. Just days ago, Tanya’s apartment had been shot up, but those bullets had missed Cooper and the woman who was now his wife. The shots had gone into the ceiling instead of them. Logan and Stacy almost hadn’t been as lucky. If Cujo’s bark hadn’t made him take cover, they would have been hit for sure. “I shouldn’t have brought you back here.”
Stacy dragged his shirt back together, covering herself as best she could with the thin silk. “No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed.
“And I damn well shouldn’t have announced it in front of your brothers…” But he’d thought that doing that might actually keep them safe because her brothers wouldn’t risk hurting her.
But maybe her family wasn’t as close as he’d thought, especially given that someone had planted a bomb inside her apartment.
She vaulted to her feet and pressed her palms against his chest again. But she wasn’t caressing his skin this time. She was shoving him back with such force for her delicate size that she nearly caused him to stumble.
But he held his ground and then he held her, sliding his arms around her trembling body. She struggled against him. “You’re wrong! You’re so wrong!”
He was. But he was referring to his feelings rather than his suspicions. Even now—even with his house in shambles around them—he wanted her.
He wanted to pick her up again and carry her to his bed, to ignore the damage and the continued threat to his life and hers. But he didn’t want to just keep her safe.
He wanted her.
*
SHE WAS WRONG. She still hated him—because he was so quick to think the worst of the people she loved. And she hated that even though she hated him, she still wanted him. Her skin heated as she pressed her palms against his muscular chest. She intended to push him away, but she was tempted to clutch him close again—to finish what they’d started before the shooting had begun.
Had they actually been about to make love?
No, it would have been just sex; it wouldn’t have been making love. There had never been any love lost between them—except for the people they’d loved and lost. Their fathers…
And they would always blame each other for that.
So she forced herself to push back until she broke free of his arms. She stumbled a couple steps before regaining her balance. And, when she averted her gaze from his naked chest and lean hips, she regained her perspective.
“It can’t be my brothers,” she insisted.
“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have gone along with my mother’s crazy plan to marry me,” he said. “You know they’ve been trying to kill me.”
“I don’t know that,” she said. And she’d been wrong, too—more wrong than he’d been—to so easily think the worst of the people she loved. It didn’t matter how many times they’d wished him dead instead of their father; that had been just talk. Like the Amazon woman had said, Stacy had uttered her share of threats, too. Empty threats.
He snorted derisively. Maybe he still believed that she’d ordered her brothers to kill him. Or maybe he was just calling her out on the doubts she’d had over her brothers’ involvement in those previous shoot
ings.
“They are not the ones who’ve just shot up your house.” She flinched as she took in the damage. She sure as hell hoped it wasn’t them. “They know I’m here and they would never risk hurting me,” she said. “Not even to hurt you.”
“Maybe I’m not the only one they want to hurt,” he said. “That bomb was planted in your apartment.”
“My brothers had nothing to do with that bomb!” She had absolutely no doubts about that. They might kill for her—even if she hadn’t asked—but they would never kill her.
“You can’t be sure of that,” Logan insisted.
“Your brother is the one who knows explosives.” And he’d taught Logan enough to be able to stop one from going off. Had he taught him how to make it, too? Had her brothers been right to mistrust him? “And so do you…”
“Cooper shared only a little of his IED knowledge with me,” he said. “I disarmed it more with luck than anything else.”
She shook her head. “Nobody gets that lucky.” At least no one she’d ever known.
“We did,” he said. “Both of us. I was there with you.”
“Only because I chided you into walking me to my door.” She flinched with embarrassment over having done that.
“Chided me?” he asked, his mouth curving into a slight grin.
She clarified, “Threatened to tell your mother that you’re not a gentleman.”
“She’s been told worse things about me,” he assured her. “I walked you to your door because I wanted to. And I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to if I’d known there was a bomb sitting on your kitchen table.”
She believed him. Maybe she was a fool, like her brothers probably thought, to trust him. But she did. “Garek and Milek know nothing about explosives.”
“You don’t know that,” he chided her now. Before she could protest, he added, “Anyone with internet access can learn about explosives.”
“So anyone could have set that bomb,” she agreed. “Except for my brothers.” They weren’t killers. Anymore… “They didn’t shoot up your house, either, so they’re not behind the other attempts.” Probably…
His brow furrowed as if he struggled to follow her logic. He most likely couldn’t accept that her brothers were innocent of anything. “Maybe whoever shot at us just now is who set the bomb in your apartment.”
He had followed her logic. She breathed a sigh of relief. “And since we agree that’s not Milek and Garek, we can break our fake engagement.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” he pointed out.
“Logan!” she yelled with frustration at his stubbornness. “I know my brothers would never hurt me. Even you have to admit that.” But she didn’t really expect him to admit to anything—at least not to her.
“That doesn’t mean that they haven’t shot at me before,” he said, stubbornly clinging to his suspicions. “I still think they could be behind the attempts on my life.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “So you think that someone’s trying to kill you—”
“Not someone. Your brothers.”
She ignored his accusation and his interruption. “And someone else is trying to kill me? That’s ridiculous.”
He shrugged off her assessment of his theory. “Why would the same person want both of us dead? What enemy could we possibly share?”
She couldn’t believe that she had ever made such an enemy. But she struggled even harder to believe that she shared anything with Logan Payne. She was trying to forget his kisses—but her lips tingled yet with the sensation of his lips sliding over hers.
“I don’t know who it could be,” she said. “But I know who it’s not…”
He sighed in resignation. “Your brothers?”
“And since it’s not my brothers,” she continued, “there’s no reason to continue our engagement, because it obviously didn’t dissuade whoever just shot at us.”
She waited for the surge of relief. She should be thrilled that her fake engagement was over—that she wouldn’t have to pretend to be in love with the man she’d spent the past fifteen years hating. But that surge never came.
“I think it’s more likely that there are two different people trying to kill us than that we would actually share an enemy,” he said.
She sighed. “You still think my brothers are behind the attempts on your life.”
“And you’re not entirely sure that I’m not right,” he said observantly.
She wasn’t.
“So we’re still engaged,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “The attempts are still getting made on our lives.”
“The engagement gives us an excuse to be together,” he said. “And keep each other alive.”
“Or wind up killing each other and saving whoever’s after us the trouble.”
But that whoever apparently wasn’t patient enough to wait until they killed each other. Cujo, who had never left his position near the front door, began to paw at it again and growl. The shooter or shooters might have returned—probably to find out if any of those bullets they’d fired had struck their target.
“Get in the bedroom,” Logan told her.
Her heart pounded furiously but she couldn’t stop a smart-aleck comment from coming to her lips—no doubt because of fear and nerves. “How can you think about sex at a time like this?”
He’d drawn his gun from his holster, his nearly naked body all tense and deadly but for the spark of humor her remark had brought to his bright blue eyes. He murmured, “You are going to kill me…”
“If you join me…” But he had a better chance of staying alive than facing the shooter or shooters alone.
He pointed her toward the bedroom. “Take Cujo with you. Go inside and lock the door.”
“Cujo won’t come with me.” She didn’t bother calling him, though, because she already knew he would ignore her commands. He was well trained but not strictly for obedience. Like Logan, the canine would always be a cop. The dog kept digging at the outside door, desperate to investigate whatever noise had drawn his attention.
Stacy suspected it was a car’s engine but one that had been driven slowly enough that the noise was quiet. Whoever had driven up didn’t want to be heard.
“I’m not going to take him outside with me.” Logan shook his head. “The old boy’s already gotten shot once. He’s served his duty.”
“You’ve already gotten shot, too,” she reminded him. And she didn’t want him getting shot again any more than she wanted Cujo getting shot again.
Logan shrugged his wounded shoulder. “The bullet barely grazed me.” But blood had saturated the bandage, staining it bright red.
“Stay here with me and Cujo,” she implored him. “Don’t go out there.” Because she was afraid that if he did, he might never come back.
But just as she’d known Cujo wouldn’t listen to her, she knew that Logan wouldn’t, either. Despite having gone into private protection, he was still a cop.
He touched her cheek. “Go into the bedroom and lock the door. And if I don’t come back, there’s a gun under the bed on the right side. Use it if you need to.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know how.”
“Slide off the safety and shoot,” he advised. Then he whistled low, commanding Cujo’s attention. The dog turned his head toward them. “Guard her.”
Cujo rushed to her side. He’d clearly chosen a new master—someone he would blindly obey.
Stacy didn’t blindly obey anyone. “I’ll get the gun,” she agreed, “but I’m going outside with you. I’ll be your backup.”
He laughed. “You just admitted you don’t know how to shoot a gun.”
“And you told me how,” she reminded him.
He shook his head. “You’re not hired, Ms. Kozminski. You and Cujo need to go to the bedroom.” He pointed, and the dog followed his command, nudging her with his big, furry head to push her toward the room. “And only touch that gun as a last resort to protect yourself.”
Because he wouldn’t be able to…
He was already heading—alone—toward the front door and whatever danger awaited him. He faced and survived danger all the time, so Stacy shouldn’t be worried about him. Given their past, she shouldn’t worry about him at all.
But she was worried. So worried that she crossed the room, rose up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his cheek. “Be careful…”
Even as she said it, she knew he wouldn’t heed her warning any more than she’d heeded his order. He didn’t blindly obey, either.
But he hesitated for just a moment before he turned and opened the door. Then he slipped outside—to whatever danger awaited him….
Chapter Eight
Be careful…
She’d said it as if she cared, as if she was actually worried about him. But she couldn’t have been. They weren’t really engaged. They weren’t really anything…but old enemies.
And almost lovers…
He forced thoughts of her kisses and her nearly naked body from his mind and focused on the vehicle idling in his driveway. Fortunately, he recognized the black Ford Explorer that was a twin to his.
“You plan on ever wearing pants again?” Parker asked from where he leaned against the side of his SUV.
Logan glanced down at the towel he’d forgotten he wore. The terry cloth was dry now.
“I understand why you might be distracted, though,” his twin continued.
Logan glanced at his shot-up house. “Yeah…”
“I was talking about your fiancée,” Parker said. “But I’m curious about this, too. That’s why I came back when I heard the report of shots fired at your address on my police scanner.”
Stacy had accused Logan of still being a cop, but he suspected his twin leaned more toward lawman than bodyguard. At least he’d come back alone…except for the whine of sirens in the distance.
“You should probably find some pants now,” Parker remarked. Logan cursed and not just because his brother was always getting on his case, but because Parker wasn’t the only one who’d returned. Candace Baker’s pickup pulled into the driveway ahead of the police cars. Nikki and his mother would probably show up next. He stalked back into the house.