Tempting Fate

by Meryl Sawyer

  "Why is your hot-shot Israeli agent having so much trouble finding Logan and Kelly?" she asked from the bed.

  They'd been over this once already last evening before she did a provocative striptease for him, so she could flaunt her smooth, bare skin. It had been some of the hottest sex he could remember in all the years they'd been sneaking around together. He shouldn't be irritated with her for questioning him again, but his inability to eliminate the problem was becoming a sore subject.

  "Avram hired some Venezuelan ex-military men with extensive experience in the jungle to hunt down Logan and Kelly. They're out there now, searching for them."

  She sat up in bed, pulling the sheet demurely up under her arms to hide her breasts. "You don't suppose they escaped?"

  "No. It's been raining. It may take a while to find them. That's all."

  "If Kelly gets away and comes back here, I'll kill her myself."

  "No, you won't," he said, concerned that she was getting out of control. "If by some miracle Kelly should return, we'll plan our next move—together."

  "You're too passive. I need someone strong—someone like Logan McCord."

  He stared at her, knowing she was deliberately goading him, but he couldn't help seeing red. Woody acted as if Logan was some damn superhero. Just wait until Woody heard that Logan been killed while trying to elude a drug trafficking arrest.

  "You want someone strong, someone take charge." He advanced toward the bed.

  She jumped up and rushed for the sitting room adjacent to her suite. "Don't be angry. I was just joking."

  He stalked her into the ultra-feminine room with a television and a small French writing desk where she pored over Neiman Marcus catalogues. This was a game they often played.

  She would taunt him, forcing him to subdue her, but this time something had changed. Logan had proven to be more challenging to eliminate than he had anticipated. Having her compare him—unfavorably—to Logan stoked the fire already smoldering in his gut.

  "Don't touch me." Lust flared in her blue eyes along with a trace of fear. She must have sensed the anger gnawing at him.

  He strode forward, his cock already a hot poker, a physical manifestation of the fury mounting inside him. Her eyes widened and she sprinted buck naked for the marble bathroom. She slammed the door shut, then locked it.

  Banging on the door, he cursed her. He stood there, huffing like one of Woody's damn stallions. He imagined the gloating smile on her beautiful face.

  The bitch! She had his number. If they'd been in a hotel, he would have busted down the door, bet he couldn't do that without calling attention to their relationship.

  He backed away, his penis, hot and throbbing, pressing incessantly against his fly. Retreating to the door that opened onto the terrace, he cracked one blade of the plantation shutters to see if anyone was around. No one was in sight, so he opened the door then slammed it hard.

  He tiptoed across the plush carpet and hid in her mammoth closet. He knew exactly where she kept her expensive pantyhose. Pocketing two pairs of sheer black silk stockings, he waited, ready to give her exactly what she deserved.

  A minute passed and she ventured out of the bathroom. From his hiding place, he saw her peer around the corner to check out the bedroom. She didn't spot him, so she sauntered forward, obviously delighted with herself.

  He vaulted out of the closet and pounced on her from behind. "You bastard," she cried as he threw her facedown on the unmade bed. "Don't you dare—"

  He whacked her naked fanny—hard. That shut her up. In a few seconds he had her hands and feet tied to the bed, spread eagle.

  "Don't ever, ever lock me out, you hear?" He unzipped his trousers, then pulled them off along with his briefs. Facedown, her head buried in a pillow, she didn't respond, so he slapped her ass again with one hand while his other hand stroked his penis.

  Her whole body trembled, and she strained at the nylons binding her to the bed, twitching her butt. He'd never been so rough with her.

  They had crossed some invisible line that he liked to think of as a higher plane. She wasn't bossing him around, and for damn sure, she wasn't throwing Logan McCord in his face.

  "I'm sorry," she whimpered.

  "Really? Show me just how sorry you are."

  He jammed his hand between her thighs and fondled the mound she had lasered—just for him. She was slightly moist, nothing like her usual self. He probed a bit, but his cock refused to wait.

  Thrusting into her from behind caused her to cry out—in surprise or pain—he couldn't decide and didn't give a damn. They'd experimented with kinky sex for years, but this went beyond anything they had ever done because he meant business.

  "Never, ever compare me to the likes of Logan McCord, understand?"

  He suddenly felt like one of Woody's powerful stallions, mounting a mare, and he leaned forward and lifted her blond hair. Then he nipped the back of her neck just the way stallions bit the mares to subdue them.

  What a turn on! All those years of being forced to watch Woody and his prize stallions had paid off. He had never been this aroused.

  Beneath him, she bucked, struggling to free herself. He held her in place with his hand while he slowly withdrew until only the tip of his cock was inside her. Then he surged forward ramming into her with all his might. Over and over his hips jack-knifed until he climaxed, pouring hot seed into her.

  She didn't utter a sound as he collapsed on top of her and waited for his pulse to return to normal. Finally he rolled to one side, but he had no intention of freeing her yet. He was having too much fun.

  She turned to face him, her pupils fully dilated, making her eyes appear almost black. "Do it again, harder this time."

  * * *

  Thunderheads were stacked like ebony pyramids, darkening the buttes and mesas visible from Pop's terrace. Kelly sat in a chair, watching Rafi play with Jasper, hardly noticing the rising breeze that brought the scent of rain. It had been almost a week since she'd last seen Logan.

  The Silver Bullet had whisked her to Cravo Norte, Colombia where the Anti-Heroin Task Force had its closest base to Venezuela. Without an explanation, they hustled her onto a jet that took her to the Marine facility in Puerto Rico.

  There she was debriefed, and she stuck to Logan's story. No matter how much she pleaded for them to get Logan help, they seemed more interested in the heroin cartel leader, Miguel Orinda than they did Logan.

  "The Cobra Force didn't lift a finger to help him." Bitterness underscored every word. It wasn't the first time she'd complained to Pop. She had been home two entire days now. He'd heard this over and over.

  Cursing the Cobras and the idiotic bureaucracy didn't change things. She had absolutely no idea what had happened to Logan. Despite numerous phone calls to the Pentagon, she still didn't have an answer.

  "I know you're upset," Pop said quietly. "So am I, but we can't give up hope. Logan is a man accustomed to tough situations. I'm confident that he'll survive."

  The heartfelt emotion in Pop's voice echoed her own feelings. Her grandfather genuinely cared about Logan.

  "Kelly," called Uma from the doorway leading into the house. "Matthew Jensen is on the telephone."

  Kelly had been trying to reach Matthew, but he'd been impossible to contact. "Pop, keep your eye—"

  "Don't worry. I'll watch Rafi carefully just the way I watched you."

  "Thanks, Pop." Tears welled up as they so often did now. As bad as things were, she had Pop and Rafi. It was impossible to imagine a life without anyone to love you and share the good as well as the bad times, yet that was the only life Logan had ever known.

  Inside, the house seemed unusually silent, like a tomb. Uma had been devastated that Logan hadn't returned with her. Like Pop, Uma had fallen under Logan's spell.

  The older woman had welcomed Rafi and had been invaluable in helping Kelly, but she'd withdrawn into her spiritual, traditional Native American world. She had stopped watching the soaps she loved so much, making the
house strangely quiet without the constant chatter coming from the television.

  "Kelly," Matt said, his voice upbeat. "What's up?"

  Obviously, he didn't know what had happened. It didn't surprise her. The government had kept the story under wraps. Not one word had leaked to the media.

  "I went to Venezuela with Logan and adopted Daniel's son."

  "Great," he said, but she knew him well enough to detect a false note. He'd told her he loved her and offered to marry her, but she'd refused. He was still hurt.

  "A social worker called me and said you'd given them my name as a reference," Matt continued.

  "Oh, my God." Kelly sank into the chair beside the telephone. "What else did she say?"

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I never gave them your name."

  A taut silence followed, and she braced herself for his answer. "Kelly, I'm so sorry. It seemed logical that Social Services would call me. I told the woman all about Rafi."

  Knowing it had been an innocent mistake and blaming herself, didn't make this less painful. She explained the situation and asked Matthew to keep it confidential. He assured her that he would, then she realized he sounded, different, troubled.

  He had been her friend for years. She understood what had happened. It had been her fault, not his. "Something's wrong, Matt. What is it?"

  The long silence at the other end told her Matt was weighing his problems against hers. "Tell me, please."

  "I met a woman." His voice was flat, telling her this wasn't good news. "She's crazy about me."

  "What happened?"

  "She couldn't take no for an answer. She's been following me everywhere, threatening any woman I even look at. I had to get a restraining order."

  "Oh, Matt. Be careful. Stalker types are dangerous."

  "She says she's going to love me until I die."

  "That's sick." It reminded Kelly of Zoe. Women could be just as dangerous as men. "Please take care, Matt. I don't want anything to happen to you."

  He assured her that he was being very careful, and they hung up. Walking back out onto the terrace overlooking Oak Creek, it was all Kelly could do to stop the floodgate of tears.

  If only, if only, she had thought to call and warn Matt. Logan might have been sitting beside her. Safe.

  She sank into the bent willow chair and watched Rafi. He was snuggled up to Jasper, almost dozing off. The pediatrician who checked him when they returned to Sedona had detected a mild viral infection that was making Rafi slightly listless and sleepy. He was taking medication for the problem, and it seemed to be working. He became more active with each passing day. "Papi," said the little boy half asleep "Mi nuevo papi." It was all she could do to control her emotions. Rafi had known Logan just a short time, but in some inexplicable way the child had bonded with him. He continued to ask where his "new" father was.

  A father Rafi might never see again.

  * * *

  The next morning Kelly was having breakfast inside with Pop at the equiipale in the breakfast area of the kitchen. Rafi sat at her side at the hacienda-style table in the booster chair that had once been hers.

  "The wind is blowing out of the north," Uma observed as she set a platter of fresh fruit on the table.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worst, the wind blowing—howling—out of the north. Kelly told herself not to be superstitious, but nothing good came from the north, according to Navajo tradition. This harked back to olden times when the icy fingers of winter ravaged the Navajos, blowing in from the north.

  The direction of evil.

  A knock on the front door took them by surprise. Pop raised one grizzled brow and Uma crossed herself. Only Rafi continued to eat his banana slices, sharing them with Jasper.

  "The north wind brings trouble, big time," Uma said, crossing herself again.

  Kelly answered the front door and found a man with a receding hairline and intelligent brown eyes. He was dressed in a conservative gray suit, but his erect posture and the set of his jaw told her that the stranger had a military background.

  "I'm Philip Wilson," he said, extending his hand.

  She shook his hand, wondering why the name didn't seem the least bit familiar. From the way he was looking at her, she thought he knew her.

  "I'm Logan McCord's contact at the command center."

  Raptor, she knew immediately, but didn't say anything because she wasn't supposed to know he existed.

  "May I come in?"

  "Have you heard anything? Is Logan all right?" she asked as she led him inside to the living room.

  "The Venezuelan government has contacted us."

  "What did they say?" She gestured for him to sit on the sofa, and she sat beside him. When he didn't immediately answer … she knew.

  "I'm afraid the news wasn't good," he said, his voice pitched low, then he paused for a moment. "Logan was killed just after you left him."

  "Are you sure?" she cried.

  Even though it had seemed impossible for Logan to have escaped the hail of machinegun fire, some part of her refused to give up hope. He had survived so many ordeals—from the time he was a child until he selected a high-risk career. She kept praying that he had somehow managed to get away.

  Philip slipped his hand into his pocket, saying, "The Venezuelan government is returning his Cobra Force backpack to us. They sent this in their diplomatic pouch yesterday."

  He handed her a gold wedding band. Her vision blurred as she remembered Logan putting it in his pocket. Her throat worked hard, sliding up, then down as she attempted to speak.

  "Where's his body?" she asked, raw emotion choking her, making her sound hoarse.

  "The Venezuelan authorities haven't released it yet. When they do, we'll have the service in Washington. He'll be buried at Arlington, if that's all right with you."

  She wanted to scream that he belonged here—near her. But it wasn't true. He'd been in Sedona for a brief time. His heart wasn't irrevocably linked to Red Rock country the way hers was.

  Still, she wanted him to be buried here for selfish reasons. Even if he was dead, she wanted him near her where she could put flowers on his grave every week. Where she could visit him whenever she wanted.

  Looking ahead at the lonely years to come, she longed to be close enough to him to go to his grave and discuss problems she might be having. There would be light moments, too, times when Rafi did something special. She wanted to share these things with Logan. With his spirit.

  But he'd lived his life, bravely facing danger. He'd represented his country as a member of the elite Cobra Force. Logan McCord deserved a hero's funeral and the special honor of being buried among other men who had fearlessly served their country.

  "Logan would want to be buried at Arlington."

  Pop appeared at the door and gazed at her. Tears sheened his eyes, and he suddenly looked very old, the way he had just after his surgery.

  She barely heard Philip Wilson explaining the situation to Pop. All she could think about was Logan on the last day they'd been together. He must have known he was going to die, yet he'd devoted his final hours to her.

  On the verge of tears, she managed to hold them back, catching the sound of Rafi's laughter coming from the kitchen. She knew Uma was distracting him somehow to protect him from the scene in here. No one had been there for Logan as a child. No one.

  Her grief suddenly became too deep for tears. Crying wouldn't bring Logan back. Neither would revenge, but at least the Stanfields wouldn't have gotten away with it.

  "Kelly, honey, Mr. Wilson is talking to you."

  She turned to the older man. "Sorry, my mind drifted."

  "I was saying that Logan was my best man. He didn't realize we had met because our communications were always by computer. But I was curious enough about him to go down to Chile to debrief him after a mission. I never told him I was his contact in the bunker." He shook his head, his dark eyes mirrored his sadness. "Logan was one of a kind."

  "If he was so
good, why didn't you try to help him? All they did—"

  "Kelly," Pops cautioned, interrupting her, before she lashed out even more.

  "Next to losing my own son in Desert Storm, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to me." His grim expression and world-weary tone assured her of his sincerity. "It's taken years to get Colombia to allow our Anti-Heroin Task Force to set up on their soil. Most Americans think Colombians deal only in cocaine. Heroin has taken over, and it's much, much more deadly."

  "Because of the demand in this country," Pop added.

  "True. There are those who argue that we should treat the problem here. Who am I to say? My job is to guide Cobra Force members in the field. Often they are on loan to the DEA, helping control drug smuggling."

  "Is that how Logan got in trouble with Miguel Orinda and his Colombian cartel?" Kelly asked.

  "Yes, but don't think I was fooled when I got the message that one of Orinda's men just happened to be in some remote village in Venezuela and spotted Logan. It gave me the excuse I needed to contact the nearest base to help him.

  "But I had to think of the thousands of lives that will be ruined by heroin if we don't stop it. I was taking a huge risk by authorizing the men to cross into Venezuela. If they'd crashed or killed any Venezuelan soldiers, it would have jeopardized the entire anti-heroin program in Colombia."

  "I know," Kelly said. "Logan explained, but dealing with his death is difficult."

  "I warned Logan to watch his back. One of the Stanfields was gunning for him. I'm surprised he let them—"

  "It was my fault that one of them discovered where we were going," Kelly said. She briefly explained what had happened.

  "Is there any way to find out exactly which one of the Stanfields wanted Logan dead?" Pop asked Philip.

  "I doubt it. They've covered their tracks well."

  "I have an idea. Logan and I discovered Suzanne Stanfield—she was Tyler's wife—died mysteriously. Logan thought brucine might have killed her. He said that an expert might be able to tell by looking at the autopsy report."