by Lisa Childs
“Drop it!” Marta screamed. “Just drop it!”
“I can’t,” Logan said. “I need to know the truth. I need to know who really killed my father.” But from the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of metal.
Marta brandished a gun. “Drop it!” she yelled again.
But instead of giving up his weapon, Logan pulled it and pressed it to her husband’s chest. “I don’t care if she shoots me, I want the truth before I go. I need to know. Was it you that night?”
“I told the officer that Iwan was with me that night,” she said, hysteria making her voice shrill. “He was with me!”
“And you wouldn’t lie for your husband?” he scoffed. “I don’t believe you.” He turned back to Iwan, but even with the gun pressed against his chest, the man betrayed no emotion—not guilt or even fear. “You and your brother were thieves together.”
“He was teaching his sons, too,” Marta said.
“But it wasn’t them.”
“It wasn’t me,” Iwan said, and finally he nervously glanced down at the gun pressed to his chest. “I wasn’t with him that night.”
Marta sucked in a breath as if she was surprised by the news.
“He wasn’t with you, either,” Logan surmised and he eased back with the gun. The safety was on; he wouldn’t have actually pulled the trigger. He wasn’t so sure about Marta Kozminski. “So where were you?”
The older man sighed. “You don’t need to know that—you just need to know that I wasn’t with my brother.”
“Neither were his sons. So who could it have been? Was there someone else he worked with?”
“A cop,” Iwan replied. “He had a cop in his pocket. That was how he’d gotten away with so many heists.”
“Which cop?”
“I thought it was your father,” Iwan said. “I thought that’s what happened that night—that they had a disagreement over the percentage each would keep, and your father wound up dead.”
Logan shook his head. “That’s not possible. My father was not a dirty cop.”
Iwan shrugged. “I don’t know. I could have sworn it was him.”
Was it possible that Logan hadn’t really known his father? That like Stacy had hers, he had idealized his dad, too?
“I want to know,” Marta said, and now she swung the gun toward her husband. “I want to know where you were that night. All these years I thought you were with him. I thought you pulled the trigger, too. I know Patek wouldn’t have had the nerve.”
“It wasn’t me,” Iwan insisted. “I wasn’t there.”
“Then where were you?” she screamed. She was drunk and now she was hysterical.
The situation had quickly gotten out of hand. Logan turned toward her and estimated if he could reach for the gun before she could fire it.
“Where were you?” she screamed again. And then her gaze grew wilder. “You were with her? That whore you’ve been seeing? The one you were probably going to meet today?”
Before Logan could grab the gun, she pulled the trigger. The bodyguard in him reacted, and he put himself in front of the bullet.
Chapter Eighteen
The shot reverberated outside Uncle Iwan and Aunt Marta’s house. And a scream tore from Stacy’s throat. She ran toward the house, but Garek caught her arms, trying to hold her back. She wriggled free of his grasp and ran inside. Her feet pounded across the marble floor of the foyer. “Logan!”
Hysterical cries emanated from the back of the house, from the area of the den. Stacy ran. But her brothers had caught up with her and beat her to the doorway.
“Damn it, Aunt Marta!” Garek exclaimed. “You killed him!”
Pain clutched Stacy’s heart, and tears burned her eyes. “No! No!”
She pushed past Milek so she could see. Two men lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Logan and her uncle.
Aunt Marta stood over them, her hand shaking with the gun that Garek quickly wrestled from her grasp. “Give me the gun, Marta!”
Stacy dropped to her knees beside her fiancé. “Logan! Logan!”
His eyes—those brilliant blue eyes—opened and focused on her face. And relief flooded her.
“She has a gun,” he warned her, clasping her close as if to protect her. Blood from his shirt stuck to hers, staining it.
“Garek got it away from her,” she reassured him.
And in the distance sirens whined. Police were on the way.
“Where are you hurt?” she asked, her fear and panic rushing back over her. “Where did you get shot?”
He touched his side. “I tried to stop her. Tried to step in front of it…”
He hadn’t been her intended target?
“How’s Iwan?” Logan asked, and with only a slight grimace, he rolled toward the older man. “Did he get hit?”
Uncle Iwan’s eyes were closed and blood oozed from a wound in his chest. Logan touched his neck. “He has a pulse. Call an ambulance.”
“Cheating swine,” Marta cursed her husband. “He better not make it.”
“If he doesn’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison,” Logan warned her. He might have been wounded, but not so badly that he was weak from the injury.
And a short while later, officers led her off in handcuffs while paramedics loaded Uncle Iwan into the back of an ambulance. Logan refused to ride in one, so Milek drove him and Stacy in his car while Garek followed in the battered SUV.
Parker and Nikki and Mrs. Payne met them at the hospital. “I’m okay,” he told his family as they rallied around him. “It was a through and through. How’s Iwan?”
“They took him to surgery,” Garek replied. “His condition is serious, but not critical.”
Parker slammed his fist into Garek’s jaw. “You did this. You shot my brother.”
Milek grabbed Parker and shoved him back. “Get off my brother!”
“Stop,” Logan yelled, then grimaced and grabbed his side. “They didn’t do this. Marta was trying to shoot her husband and I stepped in front.”
“You’ve been shot again,” Mrs. Payne exclaimed, her eyes glistening with tears. Her slight body began to tremble. Stacy reached out to her, putting her arm around the older woman.
“It’s a through and through,” he repeated. “I’m fine.” And a short while later, a doctor agreed with him when he pronounced it okay for a bandaged Logan to leave the hospital.
“Uncle Iwan’s still in surgery,” Garek told her. “And Aunt Marta’s getting booked.”
Stacy was more concerned with her new family than her old family. She had stayed with Mrs. Payne and Nikki while Logan had been getting examined and x-rayed. Parker had paced and talked on his cell phone. He pocketed the phone now and told his twin, “They’re going to run ballistics on that gun and find out if Marta was the one shooting at you and Stacy.”
Logan nodded. “That’s good. I’m not sure she would have known how to make those bombs, though…” His voice trailed off on a slur. He was completely exhausted.
Because of her family…because of her…
“Let me take you home,” she said.
He shook his head.
And her pride stung and pain squeezed her heart. He was rejecting her.
“Not home. To our place,” he said. “Where we went last night…”
Where they had made love. She wasn’t sure how to get there since she’d slept during the ride. But she didn’t admit that until they had said goodbye to everyone and were alone in the car.
As exhausted as he was, he insisted on driving to make sure that they weren’t followed. But he winced and grimaced every time he turned the steering wheel.
“You shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. And he proved it by making it safely to the town house. But as soon as they were in the elevator, he leaned heavily against one of the walls. So Stacy slid beneath his arm and wrapped her arm around his uninjured side to keep him on his feet.
“You’re not fine,” she said.
/> “If we get married, you’re going to have to promise to stick by me in sickness and health,” he threatened.
“If we get married…” It wasn’t likely to ever happen. Their engagement hadn’t stopped the attempts on their lives. How would a wedding?
“I’ll also have it put in the vows that you always have to be honest with me,” he added.
Obviously it was still bothering him that she was keeping a secret—a big, almost four-year-old secret—from her brother. “I have been honest with you,” she said.
“Always?”
“I haven’t lied to you,” she said.
“But there’s more to being honest than just telling the truth,” he stubbornly persisted. “There’s being open and forthcoming. Being honest means no secrets.”
The elevator stopped on the top floor and saved her from replying. Because if she agreed, she would have to tell him how she felt about him—that she loved him.
But maybe she didn’t have to tell him to be honest about her feelings. Maybe she could just show him. So she unbuttoned his bloody shirt and pushed it from his shoulders. Then she unsnapped his jeans and lowered his zipper and helped him take off his pants. Then she gently pushed him back onto the bed and joined him.
He groaned.
“Are you in pain?” she asked, concern stilling the fingers she’d run over his chest. He had a bloodstained bandage on his shoulder and another on his side. And his skin was bruised and swollen in places. But other parts of him were swelling, too, in reaction to her touch.
“You can ease my pain,” he said.
She kissed his chest, gently touching her lips to each bruise. Then she moved to each nipple and then to each ripple of muscle as she moved over his washboard abs to his hips.
He groaned as her lips closed over him, and she drew him into her mouth. But he pulled her up before she could give him pleasure.
His hands shook as he removed her clothes. He cupped her breasts and teased her nipples with his thumbs and then with his lips. And his hand moved lower, between her thighs.
She squirmed as pleasure shuddered through her. He’d barely had to touch her to make her feel gratification. He lifted her thigh so that she straddled him, and he thrust inside her.
The pressure built again, winding tightly inside her. With his fingers skimming along her jaw, he tilted her head down and kissed her. His tongue moved between her lips, teasing and tasting her.
Her heart pounded heavily with excitement and desire. She had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted her fiancé. And as she climaxed again, she cried out with pleasure and nearly declared her love.
But then he was clutching her hips and thrusting deep as he joined her in release. With slightly shaking arms, he held her close—as if he never intended to let her go.
“I’m too heavy,” she sleepily protested. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Blood was already seeping through the bandage on his side.
“Then stay where you are,” he groggily replied. “Stay with me…”
Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he fell asleep. As he breathed evenly and deeply, his chest moved against her breasts. And she wanted him again. Still. Always…
She must have fallen asleep, though, because she didn’t awaken until an alarm…or a phone…jingled. Her phone had died. So it must have been Logan’s. She dragged herself from his arms and fumbled around in the dark, looking for his jeans that she’d discarded on the floor.
The phone rang again, the screen illuminating the pocket, so she finally found it. Because she recognized the number on the screen, she answered it.
“Stacy?” Amber asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?” her friend asked. “I heard about your aunt and uncle.”
“Is he okay?” She should have called her brothers and followed up. But she’d been more concerned about her fiancé.
“He made it through surgery,” Amber said, “and his prognosis is good. But I’m not actually calling about that. I got the warrant.”
Stacy’s breath caught with momentary fear. She’d wanted the warrant, but she didn’t want to have to go back to the prison. “Okay, I’ll see when Logan can drive back out to the penitentiary.”
“He’s not with the River City P.D.,” Amber said. “He can’t serve it, so I did it myself. I got the visitor log. I also looked at your father’s. And there was one name in common.”
Stacy’s stomach knotted. But she had to know. “Who was it?”
“I need to report this to a detective with the P.D., too,” Amber said. “But honestly, I’m not sure who to trust. This is bad, Stacy.”
“Who?”
When she heard the name, she gasped. But it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock; it should have been obvious to her. Her father had spent fifteen years in prison for this man’s crime, but that sentence hadn’t been bad enough, he’d ordered her father’s death, too.
She clicked off the phone and sat on the side of the bed. The numbness of her father’s loss began to wear off, leaving only crippling pain. It hurt. It hurt so much to have lost him. Maybe he wasn’t the perfect daddy the little girl in her remembered. But he hadn’t deserved to die like he had. He hadn’t deserved fifteen years locked up like an animal.
The bed shifted as Logan rolled over and stretched. Then he groaned, probably in pain from his injuries.
“Are you all right?” she asked, and her voice cracked with her grief.
“I’m fine,” he said. “But you’re not. Who was on the phone?”
She didn’t want to tell him because she knew he’d want to go off alone again. But he’d asked her to always be honest with him, to keep no secrets from him. “Amber.”
“She got the warrant,” he said.
She nodded.
“She gave you a name. You know who it is,” he said. “You know who killed my father.”
“And mine,” she said. “There was only one person who visited both my father—frequently—and his killer.”
“Cooper,” he uttered the name like a curse. He was already climbing out of bed, already reaching for his clothes. She grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. Or at least slow him down.
“I don’t want you to go alone, though.”
“You’re not going with me,” he said. “I promised to keep you safe. I want you to stay here.”
She wanted to believe he was so concerned about her safety because he loved her, too. But it was just who he was—a bodyguard.
“Call the police,” she urged him. “I don’t want you to put your life at risk again.” He had already had many lucky escapes; his luck was bound to have run out by now.
*
HIS LUCK HAD run out. Robert Cooper realized it the moment that Logan Payne drove back into his driveway. The shotgun was loaded and sitting next to his chair. But he didn’t reach for it. Yet.
He’d do what he had to do, though. He waited for the knock at the door, but Logan just walked right in, his gun drawn. Maybe he should let the boy have this—justice. It was long overdue.
Logan stared down the slightly unsteady barrel at the man he’d resented for the past fifteen years. He’d resented that his father’s partner hadn’t protected him that night. Now he knew that he should have hated the man because he hadn’t just not protected him—he had killed him.
“Why?” he asked.
“You know why,” the retired cop replied. He looked older than his sixty-some years now. His sparse gray hair stood up, disheveled, and gray stubble clung to his sagging jowls.
Disgust overwhelmed Logan and he bitterly surmised, “Money.”
“I had a deal with Kozminski,” Robert said. “He cut me in for looking the other way.”
“And my father?” Had he been a dirty cop like Iwan had implied?
Robert Cooper sighed. “He wouldn’t look the other way. When he caught us that night, he was going to arrest us both, so I pulled my drop gun and killed him.”
“And Kozminski went along with
it?” Logan asked. “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t have told the truth.”
“Because he loved his kids.”
He tightened his grip on his gun. “You threatened them?” They’d just been kids then—younger even than he’d been.
“Yes,” Robert replied. “And I would have followed through on the threat. I would have killed them. And he knew it. That’s why he kept quiet all these years.”
“Then why did you hire the other inmate to kill him?”
Robert shifted forward in his chair, but only to point a finger at Logan—not a gun. “That was your fault.”
“Mine?”
He nodded. “You kept getting his parole denied. And he wanted out. He was going to talk.”
A pang of regret struck Logan’s heart. If only he had let Kozminski’s parole get granted, Stacy’s father might still be alive. Might’ve been able to walk her down the aisle…
To him?
She would never marry him. She would never forgive him for getting her father killed. She had been right about that.
Logan was the one who’d been wrong. About everything…
“Is that when you started shooting at me?” Logan asked.
The older man shook his head. “I never shot at you.”
“You did the day I drove up here,” Logan reminded him.
“I thought you were coming to arrest me,” he said. “That you’d figured it out already.”
“There were other shots fired that day,” he said. “You must be working with someone else.”
Cooper shook his head. “I haven’t worked with anyone since Kozminski.”
“There was the prisoner you had kill him…”
The older man shrugged. “Some people have owed me favors.”
Logan’s stomach churned with self-disgust that it had taken him so long to figure out what should have been so obvious. “So if it hasn’t been you shooting at me, it must have been someone who owed you a favor—because I’ve been shot at a lot over the past few days,” he said. “Once at a safe house and then again at the church the day my brother Cooper got married.”
“That wasn’t me or anyone working for me,” Robert insisted. “I made a promise to your father.”
