by KaLyn Cooper
“That’s a two-million-dollar question.” Logan downed the last of his beer and got up, heading toward the kitchen.
“Why two million?” Teagan took the first sip of her wine hoping to soothe the muscles in her throat.
“In the safe, which was open by the way, was Gabe’s will. Each of his children, Bradley, Brann and Anora, automatically inherited one million dollars to be paid out from a five million life insurance policy.” He took the same seat again but twisted so he faced her. “Even though none of us believed it, Detective Russo, in all his brilliant experience, has declared it a suicide.”
“What the fuck?” Teagan realized her voice was a little too loud and glanced down the hallway toward the bedrooms. “So that’s it? Case closed?”
“As far as the Fairfax Police Department is concerned, she was distraught over her husband’s recent death and couldn’t go on.” He looked away and grimaced as though he was seeing something he didn’t want to look at.
“You said Matthew found her in the office. Had she taken pills and gone in there and lay down on the couch? Why his office? Marsha never went in there except to get her gun.” At the appalled look on Logan’s face, she knew Marsha had been shot. “Oh, no.” She shook her head but couldn’t stop the tears that rolled uncontrolled down her cheeks.
The logical part of her brain knew that Marsha would never commit suicide, and certainly not with a gun. As a former naval officer, her friend knew the power of the small weapon. She was good with guns. She’d kept hers locked in the safe with Gabe’s, on the bottom shelf, underneath all of his.
She’d been killed with a bullet, and not one fired on the battlefield. She and Marsha both had a pilot’s attitude, if they were going to die, they would go out in a blaze of glory, their bird shot out from underneath them by enemy fire.
Not murdered by only God knew who.
Hot tears ran steadily over her cheeks. She already missed her friend. Marsha would never get to see her children grow up. She would never hug Anora goodbye on her first day of real school. She’d never see Brann dressed in a suit with a pretty girl on his arm headed to prom. She’d never hold Anora as her daughter cried after getting her heartbroken the first time. She’d never see her children walk down the aisle and commit their lives to someone they loved.
The back of Teagan’s throat hurt but the pain was nowhere near what she felt in her heart.
“Go ahead and cry it all out.” Logan whispered in her ear.
When had he moved? Teagan didn’t remember Logan taking her into his arms, holding her as she cried. It had felt so right she hadn’t questioned it until he spoke.
“You need to get this out of your system, tonight, so you can be strong for the children in the morning.” He patted her back.
Logan was right. She needed to mourn for her friend right then so she could help the children deal with their grief in the morning. She hated to cry. It made her feel so weak. But Marsha had been her best friend, for years. They were closer than sisters. Marsha was the only person who knew her deepest, darkest secret…and she’d take it to her grave.
Once again, Teagan bore the weight of her secret alone. And she always would. Another wave of self-pity crashed over her, nearly drowning her in her own tears.
Teagan didn’t know how long she’d cried. It could have been minutes, or it might’ve been hours, but she finally pulled herself together. She was shocked to find herself wrapped in strong, masculine arms.
“Are you sure you’re done?” Logan’s warm breath caressed the outer shell of her ear. He held her head against his chest, not allowing her to lift it to look at him. “I’ll hold you all night, if that’s what it takes.”
Teagan couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held all through the night by a man. She knew Logan would do it, though. He was one of the best men she’d ever known.
“Thank you.” She leaned up and laid her lips on his scratchy cheek. She took a deep breath as she sat up. “There’s so much to do. I was beside Marsha during most of the funeral arrangements for Gabriel.” She closed her eyes to hold back the next swell of sorrow.
She whipped her head to catch Logan’s gaze. “Her parents. Someone has to call her parents.”
When she tried to stand, Logan caught her around the waist and pulled her down into his lap. “Whoa. That’s not your job, or your place. You were her friend but not her next of kin. Notifying them is detective dickhead’s job.”
It was as though he had popped the balloon within her. Everything that had held her together, deflated. She wasn’t responsible for any decisions concerning Marsha’s funeral. Her parents could, and would, handle everything. Or so she hoped.
Her mind instantly went to Anora and Brann. They wouldn’t handle the children. Hell, they had never even taken one of their grandchildren for a single night. They certainly wouldn’t want to be strapped with both of them until they reached eighteen.
Teagan couldn’t imagine growing up in that household. Marsha’s father ran their home the same way he did his business; with very little personal compassion and almost no understanding of human frailties and failures.
Marsha, being the typical oldest child, had strived to make him proud. In her early teens, she had heard her father say, during the speech to the stockholders, that if he had a son, he would be so honored for his boy to join the military. Her first week in college, she had joined Navy ROTC. Since the pilot program was one of the toughest to be selected for, that became Marsha’s goal. She and Teagan had been assigned as roommates first day of flight school and had bonded instantly.
The day they pinned on their wings, there had been less than five hundred female pilots in the Navy. Teagan’s mother had been ecstatic and so proud of her. Marsha’s father had told her he was disappointed in her for not graduating the highest in the class. Maybe if she'd done better, she would have been selected to fly jets rather than helicopters. No matter what her friend did, it was never good enough for her father.
The mental picture Teagan had taken as she left the children’s bedroom flashed into her mind. There was no way in hell she was going to let Anora and Brann grow up in that household. Marsha’s father hadn’t softened one iota since Marsha had left for college.
She was it. Anora and Brann had no one else.
Standing, Teagan announced, “I’m keeping the children. When the bitch from social services shows up tomorrow, I’ll just set her straight.”
“Melissa Cook isn’t a bitch. She knows her job, which is to find the best place for the children.” He stood. “You just need to prove to her that living with you is the best thing for Anora and Brann.”
He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the couch. “This doesn’t pull out into a bed by any chance does it?”
Teagan’s gaze started with his boots and ran slowly up his long muscular legs. He had narrow straight hips and no indication of love handles. Through his tight T-shirt, she could see rows of defined abs before her gaze swept to his broad chest. She mentally measured his wide shoulders then slid a glance over her well-used couch.
It was small, like her apartment. Even when she fell asleep on it, her feet and head touched the arm rests. There was no way in hell Logan would ever fit. “You take the bed. I’ll fit much better on this couch than you will.”
“I’m not going to kick you out of your bed,” he retorted. “I’ve slept on much worse.”
“Don’t argue with me. I’ve had a rough day. You are my guest and I’m not going to allow you to sleep on the couch. Go to your car and grab your bags while I change the sheets on the bed.” She glared up at him. “We just have to make this work for a few hours.”
“I’ll get a hotel room close by, tomorrow,” he promised.
Chapter Six
The unusual sound brought the man wide-awake. The exclusive ring tone announced the caller before he even checked the ID.
Glancing at his bedside clock, he groaned. It was only three o’clock, the middle of the night in
Washington DC. In Iran, though, it was eleven-thirty in the morning. As usual, his demanding uncle ignored the time difference.
He grabbed the encrypted satellite phone from the nightstand and turned on the light. “Uncle, how can I be of service to you?” He said in the unique Arabic dialect of his early childhood.
“Abd al Rashid.” His uncle always called him by his Arabic name. He refused to use the name given to him by the Catholics who had brought him from the Middle Eastern refugee camp to the United States to be raised as a Christian. Both he and his uncle had come to accept this as Allah’s will, especially during the man’s surprising rise to one of the highest positions within the Central Intelligence Agency. “Reassure me you have secured the information Gabriel Davis stole from us.”
He was not about to correct his uncle, the true caliphate and the founder of the New Islamic State, but Gabe hadn’t stolen the information. He had been given it as a faithful follower of his uncle, Nassar al Jamil. The American had done much to further their cause, primarily by keeping the Muslim leader off the United States’ most wanted terrorist list.
His uncle’s following had grown significantly since Iran had granted them the promised land on Lake Urmia in the northwest corner that borders Iraq and Turkey, less than one hundred miles from Syria.
Their recruitment within the United States had tripled in just two weeks. His secret camps in Pennsylvania, Washington, and Kansas were thriving, bursting at the seams with young men anxious to follow the fundamentalist ways of Mohammed.
Money had poured in like Niagara Falls when he had gone against his uncle’s advice and leaked the good news to the American press. Tens of thousands of displaced Middle Eastern Muslims, disillusioned and disgusted with the liberal United States and their lack of acceptance of Sharia law, had been willing to donate millions of dollars to the cause. He’d been able to hire the best mercenaries to train his secret armies, equip them with leading-edge weapons and ammunition, teach them modern-day tactics, and feed them well.
“Nephew, did you hear me?” His uncle’s words brought him back to the conversation.
“Uncle, we searched his apartment immediately after his death and found nothing.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and once again asked Allah to forgive him. “I went to the home he shared with his wife on occasion. While searching his office, his wife walked in.” He quickly added, “She wasn’t supposed to be there. She saw me. Recognized me. I had to kill her.”
“American women,” the holy man said with disdain. “They are too interfering. Their husbands need to teach them better, keep them in line. It would not been a problem with any wife of mine. She would know enough to keep her mouth shut and walk away. His wife, she was nothing. A casualty of war.”
His uncle was right. He was looking forward to joining his real family in the New Islamic State. He intended to take several wives, of various ages. He could afford them and all his children they would bear. He would arrive a hero and have his choice of the most beautiful women. Then he would fuck day and night, impregnating as many as possible. No more need for condoms, necessary to protect himself from dirty American women. He would have untouched virgins. His unsheathed cock would be the only one to ever enter those women.
He grew hard at the mere thought, proud that he had no problem getting it up at his age. Instead of watching his grandchildren grow, he’d be taking wives of that age to assure the continuation of his bloodline…and their virginity.
But he had much work left to do in the United States of America. Most importantly, bring the country to its knees, bowing to Allah.
“Are you going to get in trouble with American laws?” The man sixty-five hundred miles away asked with concern.
He sat up in his bed and leaned against the headboard, grinning. “No. I made it look like a suicide and the detective in charge of the scene, filed it as such. Nothing can be traced back to me.”
“Excellent, my favorite nephew. I look forward to you joining us here in the promised land. Allah be with you and give you strength.”
The line went dead.
The man smiled and ran his fingers through his curly dark hair, fisting his cock. Part of him hated to allow his seed to go unplantable, but his private doctor had told him an active sex life would keep him verile longer. He would be in Iran soon.
Everything was progressing as planned.
Chapter Seven
As Logan flipped the next pancake, he glanced into the living room where Teagan slept peacefully on the couch. One shapely leg lay on top of the sheet exposing her curves from her ankles all the way up to her rounded hip. She rolled onto her side, revealing one of the nicest asses he’d seen in years. As his cock started to stiffen, he chastised himself.
Teagan is a friend. A very distraught friend at the moment. Besides, she had relegated him to the friend zone last night. Let her sleep. She needs it.
A toilet flushed down the hall moments before Brann shuffled into the small dining area just off the living room. “Uncle Logan, are you cooking us breakfast?”
“Keep your voice down, please. Aunt Teagan is still asleep. Yes, I’m making pancakes.” He said in a voice so low as not to wake her up. “I think I made too many.”
Yawning, Brann slid onto a stool at the breakfast counter. “I’ll start with five.” He then looked up and added, “Please.”
“That’s better.” Logan loaded a plate and set it on the counter then pointed to the maple syrup. He turned and grabbed the milk from the refrigerator. “Do you have any idea where the glasses are?”
The boy immediately hopped off the tall seat and opened the cabinet next to the sink. “Would you like a glass, too?”
Well, the boy has manners, when he wants to use them. He looked at the contents remaining in the gallon jug. “Will Anora have milk with her breakfast?”
“Yeah. I’ll get her cup.” Brann opened the bottom drawer, which was filled with plastic plates, bowls, and covered cups. “This is Anora’s stuff. Aunt Teagan makes her get her own.” He lifted out a pink plate and a matching sippy cup. “I’ll get hers. She’s awake and will be out here in a few minutes.”
Brann sat back down and drown his pancakes in the sweet brown syrup.
The little pink whirlwind came running down the hallway. “Aunt Teagan, I smell food, like real food. Are you cooking?” She screamed at the top of her voice.
So much for letting Teagan sleep in.
“No, Uncle Logan is.” Brann held out her plate. “Just one for her. You’ll be lucky if she eats even that much.” He cut through all five pancakes on his plate and stuffed the gooey mess into his mouth.
“Here you go, Anora.” Logan set the plate on the breakfast bar.
She crawled onto a stool and looked at the single pancake on her plate. Big blue eyes then looked up at him, expectantly. She glanced down at the perfectly cooked pancake before returning her gaze to Logan’s.
“Would you like me to pour the maple syrup on it?” He picked up the small jug and held it over her breakfast.
“Yes, please.” Her voice was so quiet, especially compared to a moment ago.
He poured a circle in the middle. “Is that enough?”
The girl stared at her food. “What’s maple syrup?”
Oh, fuck. Before Logan could answer, Brann took his sister’s finger and stuck it into the pool of thick brown liquid.
“Taste it. You’re going to love this.” The boy moved his sister’s hand to her mouth. “Stick out your tongue,” he ordered.
She did as she was told, and he swiped her finger over her tongue. Her bright blue eyes went huge. “It tastes like honey,” she said with amazement.
“Yeah, kinda, but better.” Brann took another large bite.
Anora sat there with her hands in her lap, just staring at her plate.
I’m such an idiot when it comes to kids. She needed silverware. Brann had gotten some for himself but hadn’t bothered getting any for his sister. Logan placed a knife and fork next to
her plate.
The precious little girl with mussed up bed hair looked at the silverware as though they were going to bite her.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. Fuck. He’d fucked up something else and had no idea.
“I’m too little to use a knife,” she announced.
Logan tried to remember what age he’d been when he started using a knife. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t carried at least a foldable pocketknife.
Brann leaned over and with the side of his fork, he started to cut her pancake into pieces.
Logan grabbed a knife. “I’ll do that. You finish your pancakes let me know if you want more.” He looked at Anora and cut each piece in half again. Damn. She was tiny. Logan was used to looking at full-grown men across the table.
“Why is Aunt Teagan sleeping on the couch?” Anora asked between bites.
“I’m too tall to fit on the couch so Teagan insisted that I sleep in her bed.” Logan had always believed that honesty was the best policy. He took a sip of his coffee that was now lukewarm.
“Why didn’t she sleep in the bed with you? Is she mad at you?” Her little blonde eyebrows pinched together. “You should say you’re sorry. Then she’d come back and sleep in the bed with you.”
Logan swallowed hard before coffee went shooting through his nose. He wondered how many times the child had witnessed that scenario.
Teagan swung her legs over the side of the couch and stretched her arms over her head.
Holy, fuck. Teagan had a belly button piercing. Light reflected off the stone attached to her navel, throwing rainbows of color just above her flat stomach. He wondered if she had more piercings and if so, where. Or a tattoo.
He had never gotten a tattoo. When he’d first qualified for Force Recon, the predecessor to the Raiders, any identifying marks, like tattoos, were highly discouraged.
