Explosive Engagement

by Lisa Childs

  He shrugged. Maybe his mother had gotten to him—not with her matchmaking, but with her suggestion that a marriage between him and Stacy would stop the attempts on his life. The engagement hadn’t. But that might have made her brothers even more determined to kill him before he could marry their sister. The engagement might have put him in even more danger.

  “Maybe I wasn’t lying,” he said. “Maybe we should make it real.”

  The lights flashed behind him again—the beams on bright—as the car roared up behind them. “Your brothers…”

  She turned toward the lights and then jerked forward, her head dangerously close to the dashboard, as the car slammed into the back bumper of his SUV.

  “That’s not my brothers,” she protested, her voice cracking with fear. “That’s someone trying to kill us.”

  The car must have been bigger than it looked, because as it slammed into them again, the SUV swerved, nearly sliding off the road.

  Stacy screamed, and Logan cursed. He’d promised to protect her. And he intended to keep that promise. But that driver wasn’t just trying to kill them; he was determined to kill them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maybe we should make it real…

  Stacy had never gotten the chance to ask Logan what he’d meant before all hell had broken loose. She braced her hands on the dashboard as the car struck them again with such force that the SUV swerved off the road. It spun around, and her head struck the post next to her seat between the passenger side doors.

  She screamed again as fear overwhelmed her.

  Spots danced before her eyes, her vision blurring. She blinked to clear her mind—to focus—but her ears rang from the impact of hitting her head.

  Gravel flew up behind them, pinging off the metal. Logan steered between trees. Metal crunched now as the side mirror twisted off and broke. Then he was back on the road, behind the car—his lights shining into the vehicle and illuminating two shadows.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her, his voice gruff with concern. “Stacy!”

  The urgency in his voice jolted her. “I’m okay,” she said, even as her head throbbed with pain and her heart with fear. “Are you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. Excitement replaced his concern as he sped up. The pursued had become the pursuer. He struck the rear bumper of the car.

  The gunfire hadn’t killed them, neither had those two bombs, but his driving might. He cursed, then sighed. “I can’t…”

  Was the car faster?

  “Why not?” she asked. She wanted this person stopped—wanted this all to be over.

  “They probably have guns.”

  So he braked and spun the SUV around, going the other direction. Stacy braced her hands against the dashboard as he careened around corners, taking an on-ramp well over the posted speed. They were on the freeway only moments before he crossed four lanes to an off-ramp. The car tires squealed as he careened around that sharp turn.

  Feeling sick, she turned toward him and noticed a slight grin on his lips. “You’re enjoying this,” she accused him.

  How was that possible when she had never been so scared? Except maybe when they’d found the bomb or been shot at…

  “The driving, yes,” he admitted.

  He was quite the expert driver. He’d handled the other car slamming into them, and he’d certainly lost that car now. There were no headlights behind them. Not even any taillights ahead of them.

  “I haven’t enjoyed getting shot at or defusing bombs.” The grin left his face, replaced by a tension that had a muscle twitching in his cheek. “I haven’t enjoyed any of that.”

  “I haven’t,” she said. “But I thought you would be used to getting shot at and nearly blown up…what with being a bodyguard now and a cop before that.”

  He sighed. “Just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

  “Then why do you do it?” she asked. “Why would you go into private security?”

  “To keep people safe,” he said.

  “Then why didn’t you stay a police officer?” she wondered. “They keep people safe.”

  He shook his head. “No. They don’t.”

  Was he thinking again of Robert Cooper, of the cop who hadn’t protected his partner, Logan’s father?

  “The police show up after the fact,” he said. “After someone’s violated the restraining order or after a stalker crosses the line to violence.”

  “You saw a lot of horrible things while you were with the River City Police Department,” she realized. And because he had been too late to help those victims and probably because he’d been unable to save his father, too, he’d gone into private protection.

  “What you saw would have been worse,” he said. He reached across the console for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “When you went to the prison infirmary.”

  She shuddered at the memory of her father in so much pain and the awful helplessness she’d felt. “I wish I’d been able to do something for him…”

  “The doctors weren’t able to save him,” he said. “There was nothing you could do. I’m surprised he would even want you to see him like that.”

  Apparently even Logan had known that her father had always tried to protect her. And maybe that was what his last words had been about…

  “Whatever he’d wanted to tell you must have been really important,” he said, his deep voice rising slightly as if in a question.

  It hadn’t seemed that important at the time he’d said it. In fact, she hadn’t understood him at all. Until now…until she’d become Logan Payne’s fake fiancée.

  Maybe we should make it real…

  Did he actually want to marry her?

  “What did he say to you?” Logan persisted.

  She uttered a weary sigh. “Like I told my family, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m exhausted…”

  He squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  Guilt flashed through her. She had lied to put him off as she had everyone else. But then she realized she wasn’t lying. She was completely exhausted, so exhausted that she settled against the seat and closed her eyes. She didn’t notice his driving or the danger anymore. With his hand holding hers, she felt safe—truly protected for perhaps the first time in her life, and sleep claimed her.

  *

  EVEN THOUGH HE’D driven like a madman, Logan had been careful. No one could have followed him this time. But then he hadn’t thought he’d been followed before…until the Kozminskis had. Had her brothers been in the vehicle that had tried to force them off the road? Or was she right? Had it been someone else?

  Just like he’d steered it between trees, he steered the SUV through a narrow garage door built into the basement of the safe house where he’d brought his fiancée. Was it fake anymore? Or should she become his bride?

  She murmured in her sleep, drawing his attention. Not that she’d ever not had it. Even when he’d been watching the rearview mirror for any sign of someone following them again, he had been aware of her sleeping in the seat next to him. She hadn’t been lying about being exhausted.

  Even now she barely stirred as he reached over and unbuckled her belt. Like he had earlier that day—or yesterday, actually—he carried her into the house. But this wasn’t his house.

  He’d brought her to a lakefront condo that a grateful client let Logan use when he, the owner, was in Florida. The town house was one of several in a converted piano factory. He had to shift Stacy in his arms so that he could operate the wooden elevator to carry them to the upper floors from the basement garage.

  Her head slid into the cradle of his neck and shoulder, and her lips brushed across his throat. His heart raced.

  He should have been exhausted, too. It hadn’t just been a long day. Because of the danger his brother and his bride had been in, it had been a long week with little sleep and too many rushes of adrenaline.

  But this—holding Stacy in his arms and, earlier, kissing her—was a bigger rush than defusing bombs or
dodging bullets or evading vehicles. But she wasn’t awake…

  “Sorry,” she murmured sleepily, her breath warm against his ear.

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry?”

  “Sorry you have to keep carrying me.” She wriggled in his arms until he loosened his grasp enough that she slid down his body.

  “I don’t mind,” he said. He actually enjoyed it, enjoyed taking care of a woman who was usually so fiercely independent and strong. “I know you’re exhausted.”

  “You must be, too.”

  He shook his head. “No, not so tired anymore.”

  The elevator ground to a halt on the top floor—the bedroom loft. Now he wasn’t tired at all. He slid open the wooden accordion door. She started across and stumbled on the uneven threshold and fell back against him. He caught her up in his arms again and carried her to the bed.

  “You don’t need to do this,” she protested.

  “Maybe I want to do this,” he said as he lowered her to the mattress, which was on a bamboo platform with pillows piled up against the exposed brick wall.

  He wanted to join her in the bed. But he forced himself to release her and step back.

  “You do?” she asked.

  “I want to keep you safe,” he said. And if he intended to do that, he needed to control his urges. He wanted her—badly—so badly that he wouldn’t be tender and gentle. And she was too tired—physically and emotionally—and too vulnerable to deal with his desires.

  “Where are we?” she asked as she peered around at the brick and exposed ductwork and beams and the scarred hardwood floors.

  “A safe place.”

  “You’re not going to tell me where,” she surmised. “I wouldn’t tell anyone where we are, you know.”

  “I know,” he said. “You’re good at keeping secrets.” He doubted she would tell him what her father’s last words had been, but there might be another way he could find out. “This condo belongs to a friend…”

  She glanced around again at all the dark woods and fabrics. “It’s not a female friend, right? It doesn’t belong to that Amazon who works for you?”

  He shook his head, confused by the sharpness of her tone. “No.”

  “You didn’t tell her where we are?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” he assured her. “We’re safe. But we would’ve been safe if Candace knew where we are, too.”

  She chuckled. “You would be. But not me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How can you be so observant and not realize how she feels about you?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s in love with you,” Stacy said. “She’s obsessed with you. And she must’ve considered me a threat—even before our fake engagement. She went to the last couple of parole hearings with you.”

  Maybe he was more tired than he’d thought because she wasn’t making any sense to him. Candace was in love with him? “What are you saying?”

  “It could have been her shooting at us earlier,” she suggested. “It could have been her who set the bomb. She was one of the few who knew we were going to Parker’s.”

  That was true. But in love with him?

  Then he remembered how she’d acted about the engagement announcement. She hadn’t just been concerned. She’d acted almost jealous. But even if she had feelings for him, she wouldn’t have tried to kill Stacy. Or him.

  Candace had been a cop, too; she had sworn to protect and serve. She would never endanger anyone. “No.”

  Or would she? She had been acting strangely.

  “You would rather think it was my family,” Stacy accused him.

  “I would,” he admitted. Because if it wasn’t, then he had been wrong about everyone, and he had always prided himself on being a good judge of character.

  Her weariness was back and her shoulders slumped as if she was defeated. “At least you’re being honest with me.”

  “You’re tired,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

  She stood up next to the bed and turned to look at it as if considering. “Is there only one bed?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s yours.” Then he chuckled. “Apparently, your brothers aren’t the only old-fashioned ones in your family.”

  Her eyes flashed at him with annoyance. “I’m not old-fashioned.” And as if to prove it, she reached for the zipper at the back of her dress.

  She was going to undress in front of him?

  His heart slammed into his ribs. But the dress didn’t come off. The zipper didn’t even come down.

  She bit her lip as she continued to tug. “It’s stuck.”

  “Let me help you,” he said. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her back to him. Then he pushed aside the heavy tangle of her tawny-colored hair and fumbled with the zipper of her black dress.

  “It’s stuck,” she said.

  Fabric was caught in it. She would have dressed quickly back at his house—after the shooting and before the police arrived—so quickly that she’d caught the fabric. He pulled it loose. Then he swallowed hard before pulling down the tab. Metal zipped as the teeth separated, baring a strip of skin that looked silky. That strip revealed the curve of her spine and the dimples at the base of it—on the rise of her butt.

  His heart beat erratically—as if it were stopping and starting. He drew in an unsteady breath as the dress fell, sliding down her body.

  He’d seen her in the black bra and panties earlier when she’d worn his shirt over them to flaunt their fake engagement. They were engaged. But they weren’t really together despite what they’d nearly done earlier, before someone had shot up his house.

  But the two of them probably would have stopped—even without the gunfire. Too much history and pain separated them. He wanted to close the distance between them. But he forced himself to step back again.

  “I’m…uh…I’m going to shower,” he said. And hopefully the water would be icy enough to cool the heat of his desire for her.

  She turned toward him and stood there in just that black bra and panties. Maybe she was so tired she was befuddled, because she looked confused. And vulnerable.

  The vulnerability steeled his control. He could not take advantage of that vulnerability.

  He backed away until he stepped through the doorway to the master bath. Then he closed that door between them. Like the rest of the town house, it was all brick, dark wood and shiny steel. He set his steel—his holstered gun—onto the counter along with his cell phone. Then he shucked off his jeans and the cotton shirt, which fortunately bore no bullet holes. He dropped it onto the floor along with his boxers.

  Then he turned on the shower and stepped beneath the blast of cold water. The water pressure was forceful and loud—but not so loud that he didn’t hear the telltale creak of the door opening.

  He had been so certain that he’d lost that car that had tried driving them off the road. He’d been so certain that they would be safe here…

  But Stacy wouldn’t have followed him into the bathroom. She had looked so exhausted that she’d probably dropped onto the bed and fallen immediately back to sleep. So someone else must have gotten inside the town house.

  His heart beat heavy with dread and fear. They would have gotten to Stacy already.

  Could he get to his gun before they got to him?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Strong, wet arms wrapped tightly around Stacy, lifting her off her feet and whirling her around to face a naked, mad Logan Payne.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  That was a damn good question—one she should have asked herself before she’d followed him into the bathroom. But that look on his face—that look she’d mistaken for longing and desire—had drawn her after him.

  That look was replaced with anger now. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me. I could have hurt you.”

  He would hurt her. Eventually. She was certain of it because she was beginning to have feelings for her fake fiancé. And he obviously di
dn’t return those feelings.

  “Why’d you come in here?” he asked. “Did you need to use the bathroom?”

  “I—I…I needed…” Him. She’d needed her fiancé. Her face heated with embarrassment over that need, but she couldn’t admit it now, not in the face of his anger.

  “What do you need?” he asked her. He stood before her gloriously naked, and she couldn’t help but stare, her gaze skimming hungrily over every slick, muscular inch of him. As she watched, his body grew hard and tense. His voice gruff with desire, he asked again, “What do you want?”

  She’d been keeping secrets from him. But she couldn’t lie about her feelings anymore. “You,” she replied. “I want you. I need you.”

  He carried her again, but this time she didn’t protest. Her skin heated everywhere his skin touched. And then instead of just laying her down on the bed, he followed her down—his body covering hers while his mouth covered hers.

  He kissed her passionately, as if he was as hungry for her as she was for him. His lips pressed against hers and his tongue delved inside her mouth, making love to it, like she wanted him to make love to her body.

  She’d never felt such passion. Such need. Her arms clasped his back, her fingers skimming down his spine to his tight butt. She pulled him against her arching hips. His erection hardened and pulsed against her.

  He groaned. “Stacy, slow down…”

  She nearly giggled. That was something she’d never been told before. Usually she was told that she went too slow, that she was too cautious. Even he had accused her of being old-fashioned and the comment had stung because it was true. That was why there had been so few men in her life and even fewer in her bed.

  He leaned his forehead against hers and drew in deep breaths. But she could feel his heart racing against hers. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why do I have to slow down?”

  He kissed her lips again but it was a light, gentle kiss. “So we can make it last. So I can last…”

  “It’s okay if you don’t,” she assured him.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not. I want you to enjoy this,” he said, “every bit as much as I intend to.”