by Meryl Sawyer
What had she gotten herself into?
"Look," he said, his gravel-like voice more rough than usual. "I've never loved a woman, so I'm not much good at this. But being a Cobra taught me how to observe people—from across a room, not hearing a word—and interpret their body language. I've watched you a lot. You don't like me much, and you're afraid of me."
"Don't be…" The word "ridiculous" died on her lips. Why lie? She'd been living a lie all these years believing Daniel loved her. Logan was willing to help her. She owed him total cooperation—and the complete truth.
"It's not that I don't like you, exactly." She shrugged to hide her confusion. "I've never met anyone like you. Just as I think I have you figured out, you change. I don't understand you."
"You don't have to understand me. We're on a mission, remember? If you're afraid of me, you won't trust me. That could be very dangerous. It could cost you the boy."
She didn't understand this man, and she probably never would. But she must learn to trust him. He was doing his level best to help her, she decided as she admired the stunning ring on her hand.
"I appreciate all you're doing for me. I want to trust you, really I do."
He ran the tip of his index finger up her neck as he gazed into her eyes. He paused at the faint bump on her neck marking the spot where he'd nicked her with the knife. A perplexing weakness invaded her body, and she suddenly felt her muscles go rigid while her bones seemed to turn to molasses.
"People will be watching us from now on," he said. "We're going to have to become terrorists."
Terrorists? Wasn't this taking a marriage of convenience a bit too far? Maybe not. Considering the problems they'd caused the Stanfields, and their determination to resurrect Woody's presidential bid, she and Logan would have to convincingly act their parts.
Could she do it? When she'd asked him to marry her, the plan had seemed so simple. But the reality was quite different.
"One of my first assignments with the Cobras was to protect an ambassador from a guerrilla group. The agent training me warned me that I would have to guard the ambassador and his wife at a big embassy bash. He didn't mention the ambassador had a mistress, and she would be attending the party."
"How did you spot her?"
"People in love tend to stand a little too close, laugh a little too much, hold each other's gaze a little too long." Something kindled in the depths of his eyes, and he gazed at her until she had to look away. "And they can't keep their hands off each other."
She thought about it a moment, then said, "You're right."
"At the embassy party, I spotted the mistress right away. I also noticed the way she looked at one of the waiters. He turned out to be the guerrilla leader."
"What happened?"
"We took out the guerrillas before they got to the ambassador. It was one of those low-profile missions Cobras do best." He acted as if this were no big deal just another "mission," but she suspected he wasn't giving himself enough credit. "Tonight I want you to observe the Stanfields closely. Something strange is going on there."
Granted, the Stanfields were arrogant and obnoxious, but she wondered if Logan's homecoming hadn't been such an emotional experience that the entire family had been in a state of shock. Logan's acute perceptive skills would have been altered by the event, too, making him slightly paranoid.
"We can't stand six feet apart all night," he continued. "Stay close to me and I'll put my arm around you, or sometimes, you could hold my arm. Go for as much eye contact as possible and keep looking at me until you feel yourself blush."
"All right," she agreed, but she couldn't imagine behaving like a lovesick teenager.
"Hey, sweetcakes, this isn't easy for me either," he said, and she realized her apprehension must show in her face. "I've never been in love. I've never even dated anyone. The first time I had sex was when I went out with a bunch of guys to celebrate making it through boot camp. In town we found some hookers. My experience has been with pros or one-night-stands. I don't do relationships."
"Really?" She sounded like the village idiot, but it was impossible for her to believe such a handsome, virile man hadn't been snagged by some gorgeous woman—at least for a couple of months. Maybe he was never in one place long enough.
But that didn't account for his attitude. "I don't do relationships."
Logan opened the car door saying, "Come on."
"We'll be late," she warned as he came around to her side and opened the door.
"You don't know much about power, do you?" he asked. She swung her legs out and a light breeze riffling down from the hills sent a wave of goose bumps across her bare back. The days were still very warm, but the nip of fall was in the air. Perhaps the halter-top sundress that she'd chosen for this evening exposed too much bare skin.
She rose to her feet and nearly bumped into Logan. She lurched to one side and steadied herself, determined to avoid touching him if possible. His sharp glance told her that she was about as graceful as a hog on ice.
With the heel of his palm, Logan shoved the car door shut. The unexpected sound flushed a dozen quail out of the clumps of sage and mesquite flanking the road.
Logan slipped his arm around her bare shoulders. She told herself this was only part of the act. Kelly, don't you dare tremble. Just act as if this is perfectly natural.
"Like I said, you don't know much about power. If we're on time, half the family will be late. Making us wait is their way of showing us that we aren't important."
Kelly bobbed her head, uncomfortably aware of Logan's strong arm around her. Get a grip! If they were going to fool anyone, she couldn't get the jitters every time he touched her.
His thumb moved in lazy circles across the rise of her shoulder while his arm was nonchalantly draped around her back. There was nothing provocative in the way he was behaving, but Kelly had to concentrate to keep walking a straight line.
"See? This isn't so bad," he said when they'd progressed a few yards down the road, the mellow light of the waning sun disappearing behind the towering red rocks. "It would be even easier if you leaned against me a little."
Eyes on her shoes, she let her hip touch his, and her shoulder found a comfortable spot against the side of his chest. He matched his stride to hers, and they walked in silence along the deserted road, the last rays of the setting sun barely lighting the way.
He stopped abruptly and faced her. They were just inches apart, his arm still around her. He gazed down at her and something in the depths of his blue eyes forewarned her.
Oh, my God! He's going to kiss me, Kelly thought. The impending kiss shattered something deep inside her. She couldn't believe it, but she actually wanted him to kiss her.
"The key is being totally comfortable with each other." His grainy voice was hardly more than a whisper, yet it had a powerfully erotic affect on her.
He lowered his arm to her midriff, and despite the heat of his hand, a chill prickled across the back of her neck then whipped down her spine. His thumb explored the hollows of her back. She trained her eyes over his shoulder, unwilling to let him see how disturbing she found this.
He might be an expert counter-terrorist who could pick up on subtle clues like body language, but she was a one-man woman. Matt had been her first love; Daniel had been her true love. She simply wasn't comfortable letting any other man touch her.
What she was feeling now went beyond discomfort into another realm she didn't wish to examine too closely. They were on a "mission"—nothing more. She couldn't afford to become emotionally involved—or attached—to a man like Logan.
"Now isn't this simple?" he said, his voice a shade shy of a whisper. "It's easy, isn't it?"
It took her a second to get out one word. "Easy? Oh, sure. That's what the IRS said when they simplified the tax form."
He chuckled, a deep, masculine sound that seemed to rumble through his chest into hers. His free arm circled her waist, and he slowly pulled her flush against him. His sense of purpose and
strength was so, so … exhilarating. No man had the right to possess such masculine vitality, she told herself.
He cradled the back of her neck with his large hand, gently coaxing her to relax and place her head on his shoulder.
We're on a mission, she assured herself. A mission, a mission, a mission. The thought echoed through her brain as she lowered her head.
Her nostrils filled with the woodsy scent of his shaving lotion. It was a powerful aphrodisiac, she decided as his solid, steady heart thrummed against her breast. His arms tightened possessively and protectively around her.
A strange, completely new, almost erotic, sensation unfurled in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, totally against her will, a swell of pleasure hummed through her, and she let out her breath in a faint sigh.
"Touching each other has to be second nature to us," he said, stroking her hair in long, slow movements.
His fingers sifted through her hair, lifting as if he were testing its weight, its texture. There wasn't anything overtly sexy about what he was doing, yet she felt his touch everywhere. Bewildering emotions were streaking through her, unbelievable in their intensity.
"This is the first time I've had to train a female operative," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.
It took a second for the word "operative" to register. He was right. This was a mission. Why was she acting like some love-starved old maid?
She tried to pull back, but his strong arms kept her anchored to his chest. She ventured a look into his eyes, but couldn't see much. The sun had taken its last bow. The rocks around them were no longer crimson. They were hulking black shadows that blended with the night sky.
Even though she couldn't see clearly, she had the distinct impression he was going to kiss her. She braced herself, silently reminding herself that they were on a mission. She had to become totally comfortable with this man.
She parted her lips and struggled not to sigh as his head came toward her. She couldn't keep her mouth from opening a little more in anticipation, but at the last second, Logan stopped.
With a cocky grin, he said, "You know, this mission might be more fun than I'd thought."
* * *
"I can't believe the great Haywood Stanfield invited Logan and Kelly to dinner. Woody must have lost his mind."
The man sprawled across her bed as she paraded around the room in the black panties and lacy bra he'd given her. Over the years, he'd watched her dress countless times. It was a game they played, pretending they didn't know how it would end.
Before dinner she'd take care of him. Then during the meal, he would conceal his boredom and anticipate ripping off the bra and panties that were no bigger than an eyepatch. She'd fight him, of course. She always did. She loved rough sex.
He loved her. He always had. He always would.
"I expected good ole Woody to contact Logan," he replied, his eyes on the dusky shadow at the crotch of the lace panties. Tonight, he'd pin her down and rip off that swatch of black lace with his teeth.
"Logan McCord ruined the presidential campaign." She pranced by with an exaggerated pout on her sexy lips, tits jiggling. "No one can believe the family values candidate kept an illegitimate son hidden from his family all these years. Why would he ask Logan here for dinner and expect a command performance from the family? I don't get it."
"It's simple," he said, watching her rifle through the countless dresses in her closet. The ones she rejected, she flung to the floor to let the maid pick up. "You read the Exposé article. A kidnapped child leads a life of hardship, yet rises above tremendous odds to become a success. Combine that story with a stud that women in America are drooling over and what do you have?"
She turned, yet another dress in her hands, and gazed at him. Poor baby. He loved her, but she wasn't bright enough to grasp the nuances of the human mind. She lived for three things: clothes, jewelry, and kinky sex.
"So? I still don't get it." She dropped the dress, then kicked it aside. Something about the way her slim leg stretched the lace panties made him harder than he already was.
"What you have, love, is the wanna-be president, Haywood Stanfield all over again, right? Right. Logan McCord is a mirror image of his father, a son to be proud of."
She dropped a dress that she'd just pulled off the rack, then she stomped across the delicate black silk. "Of course, why didn't I see it? What are we going to do?"
As usual, she was beautiful but clueless, yet she had the cunning instincts of a predatory animal. He checked his watch, resisting the urge to gloat. "As we speak, the man I hired is bugging their place. We need to find out what's really going on before we can blow the bastard out of the water."
"You said that before. All you do is threaten. I take action," she said as she sidled up to him.
"True," he admitted. "Your action got my attention, love."
She turned, deliberately giving him a provocative view of her sweet ass. "Last time you took care of the problem. To this day no one knows Suzanne was murdered."
He didn't need to remind her of the time when she'd royally botched things. She'd been young then, and he'd been much younger as well. He'd covered the mess and fallen in love with her.
"Suzanne's mother suspected. She blabbed it around—"
"Nobody believed her, did they?"
"True," she conceded. "I want to punish Logan even more than I wanted Suzanne to die. Much, much more."
Sitting on the bed beside him, she cradled his penis in the palm of her hand. Even through the fabric, he could feel the heat of her hand. Quicker than a snake, she unzipped his trousers.
"Angel," he whispered as she freed his turgid cock. "McCord deserves to die a slow, painful death."
Her head went down. "I'd love to see him suffer … really suffer this time."
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
"You were right," Kelly whispered to Logan as a maid opened the Stanfields' door and invited them inside. Woody Stanfield was waiting for them, but the rest of the family wasn't around. "I don't know enough about power."
Logan greeted his father, not making any excuse for their late arrival while Kelly told herself that she knew less about men than she did about power plays. Why did she keep expecting Logan to kiss her? To him this was a job—a mission—and he was merely training an operative.
Woody turned to her. "Kelly, you look especially beautiful tonight. That shade of green suits you."
Logan's arm was around her waist, casual, yet possessive. He smiled down at her, and she reminded herself not to look away. Just gaze at him like a lovesick puppy.
"Kelly's more than pretty," he told his father. "She's got special appeal. Only a few women have that special something, right?"
For a second, Woody looked confused. "Ah-ah, you're correct. A few women are more than beautiful."
Kelly sensed this conversation wasn't about her looks. Something else was going on, some hidden agenda she didn't understand. Her training as a reporter told her to ask a probing question, but some inner voice warned her to keep quiet.
"Why don't we go out to the stud stable and see my new colt?" Woody suggested. "Ginger and Alyx are late, as usual. They're probably still trying on dresses. Like mother, like daughter. Tyler's on the telephone." He led them through the arched doorway onto the terrace. "Benson's around somewhere, too. He will be serving drinks by the time we get back."
They followed Woody down a flagstone walkway lit by tulip-shaped lights. The mare's stable was off to the left, he told them, gesturing toward a white building with a red tile roof. Dramatic spotlights illuminated the sign above the entrance: STANFIELD'S CHAMPION ARABIAN HORSES.
Ahead of them Woody took the left fork in the path, rambling on about how many prizes his Arabians had won and how carefully he bred his stock. Logan looked down at Kelly and rolled his eyes. Obviously, he wasn't impressed.
Inside the stud stable, a gust of arctic air blasted across Kelly's bare shoulders. As if sensing the goo
se bumps swelling upward, Logan put his arm around her shoulders. Her heart lurched, then pounded furiously, leaving her light-headed.
"The studs like it cool," explained Woody. "We have ceiling fans above each stall as well as air conditioning. The fans keep the flies away."
Greeting each stallion by name, Woody headed toward the rear of the stable. The pleasant smell of hay swirled through the air combining with the distinctive scent of horses and leather tack. The ceiling fans whirred overhead, creating a slight hum. The swish of horses tossing their manes and the thud of hooves told Kelly the stallions were very high strung.
"Does anyone ride these stallions?" Kelly asked.
"Yes. Most of them are show champions," Woody said, pointed to a gleaming white horse with wild eyes. "That's Outlaw. He's just used for breeding. He's too undisciplined to show."
The horse glared at Kelly, its nostrils flaring as it pawed the stable floor. He was awesomely beautiful, but he frightened her. She had been riding all her life, yet she couldn't imagine having the courage to put a halter on this Arabian.
Logan stepped forward, and Outlaw snorted furiously, his nostrils quivering, his eyes ablaze. With a quick, violent jerk of his powerful neck, the Arabian tossed his head, sending his mane into the air.
"Whoa, easy boy." Logan's voice was husky, yet pitched low in a manner meant to reassure the horse.
Outlaw regarded Logan with suspicion, but he stopped moving. Logan reached out his hand and stroked the Arabian's nose. Outlaw went stock still, his fiery eyes becoming less turbulent.
"Come here, darling. Let Outlaw know you're his friend."
Darling? She caught Woody staring at her intently. She quickly stepped up beside Logan, thankful for the steel gate separating them from the rebellious stallion. He put one arm around her, and with his other hand, he took hers.
Guided by his strong fingers, she petted Outlaw. His coat was as soft as a magnolia petal, and unexpectedly warm, considering the air circulating in the barn and the Casablanca fan whirring overhead.
"Outlaw's something, isn't he?" There was more than just a trace of awe in Logan's voice.
