Kitabı oku: «The Newlyweds», sayfa 2

“Agent Logan,” the man said as he stood. “Welcome back to Portland. I’m Steve Pennington. Special Agent in Charge.”

“Agent Pennington,” Bridget said as she extended her hand.

He shook it once, confidently, professionally, then silently motioned that she should seat herself in one of the two chairs opposite his desk. She did, and was surprised that Agent Jones took the other one. That didn’t bode well for his leaving, which was the one activity she would very much have liked to see him indulge in.

“I’m sure you’re wondering,” Agent Pennington continued, “why you were pulled out of Vienna to return home.”

“It’s crossed my mind,” Bridget told him. “I’m assuming, because of the other information I was given about clinical infertility, that it’s because of my family’s involvement with Children’s Connection.”

“It is,” Pennington said. “You probably already know about some of the problems that have been plaguing the organization for the past several months.”

She nodded. “When I’ve spoken with my family, they’ve mentioned from time to time some of the, uh, setbacks the organization has experienced over the past year, yes,” she said. “I know there was an attempted kidnapping of an infant adopted by one of their clients—mostly because my brother David was involved and will soon be that child’s father,” she added with a smile, still feeling strangely warm and fuzzy about the prospect of becoming an aunt so many times over so quickly. “And I know about a successful kidnapping of another infant that’s still under investigation.”

“Yes, it is,” Pennington said. “What’s not been made public, though, is that we have reason to believe both the attempted and successful kidnappings may be linked to some other kidnappings that have occurred in the city over the past year.”

“I didn’t know about the possible connection,” she told Pennington. But she said nothing more, because she could tell by his expression that he wasn’t finished yet.

“And what’s also not been made public,” he continued, “is that there was a mix-up not long ago at the Children’s Connection clinic with some, uh, sperm,” he concluded in a matter-of-fact voice, even though that last wasn’t a word Bridget normally heard spoken in her profession. “And we have reason to believe it was done deliberately. Currently we aren’t sure why, or if it’s the same person or persons responsible for the kidnappings. But we suspect the actions are all connected.”

She nodded again, professional enough to pretend she hadn’t noticed Pennington’s stumble over the word sperm. Or even his use of the word sperm, which was even more admirable on her part, if she did say so herself.

Pennington went on. “As a result of all these incidents—and this is something else you may not know, the FBI has become involved in a criminal investigation, the focus of which is Children’s Connection.”

“No, sir, I didn’t know that,” Bridget said, surprised by the revelation. “No one has mentioned it to me. Are my parents and Jillian aware of it? Are they part of it?” Surely neither of them could be suspected of any wrongdoing, she thought.

“They’re aware of it now. We tried to keep a lid on it for as long as we could. And, no, although we’ve questioned both of them, it was only routine. None of them has ever been suspected of being a part of this. But a nurse who works for the hospital affiliated with Children’s Connection—a Nancy Allen—went to the police back in January with her suspicions that a black-market baby ring might be operating somewhere within the organization,” Pennington said.

“A black-market baby ring?” Bridget echoed dubiously. “Sounds like a bad movie of the week.”

“I wish it was,” Pennington told her, smiling a little uncomfortably.

Poor guy, Bridget thought. First, he’d had to say the word sperm in the line of duty, and now the words black-market baby ring. Not the best day, she suspected, for Agent Pennington.

“At first,” he continued on valiantly, “the local authorities were less than convinced of the woman’s story.”

They were probably even less convinced of the woman’s sanity, Bridget thought.

“But the woman was insistent, so they pursued the charge, if for no other reason than to be able to prove to her that nothing was amiss. Unfortunately, their investigation led them to conclude that there could indeed be criminal activity occurring at Children’s Connection. The police notified the FBI when they realized there were potential interstate and even international violations.”

“The attempted kidnapping in Russia,” Bridget guessed.

Pennington nodded. “We think there may actually be a Russian pipeline of sorts. Perhaps pipelines from several countries. Someone who’s providing infants to a contact at Children’s Connection. That person then offers the children up for sale to couples who are on the Connection’s waiting list. Or perhaps to people who were turned down as prospective parents. And we fear those foreign infants may be being acquired illegally. At this point, we still don’t know a lot. But there have been more developments since that first report that have convinced us there is indeed criminal activity going on within the organization. There’s even evidence that someone stole some fertilized eggs and has been selling them illegally on the Internet.”

Bridget marveled at the deeds some people would commit, all for money, no doubt, she guessed.

“We suspect that all of these crimes are related,” Pennington continued, “and we’re reasonably certain that there’s more than one person involved. We just don’t know who the people are, or what division of the organization they work in. Realistically, they could be anywhere.”

“And that’s why I’m here,” Bridget guessed. “A combination of my FBI training and my connection to Children’s Connection, however superficial.”

“That connection is about to become less superficial,” Pennington told her. “We need you to go undercover with another agent, posing as a married couple who are looking to adopt a child. But because you’re not exactly a stranger to anyone at Children’s Connection—or, at least, your family isn’t—you’ll essentially be posing as yourself. Bridget Logan. Daughter of Terrence and Leslie Logan. But you won’t be an agent for the FBI. Your parents have assured us that no one at the organization knows you work for the Bureau.”

“That’s true, as far as I know,” Bridget said. “I’ve never been active in my parents’ avocation, and I don’t really know anyone who works there, except my sister. I don’t think I’ve even visited the place for more than a decade, probably. Still, I don’t know for certain that no one in my family has ever mentioned my job to anyone there.”

“They all assure us they’ve never discussed you with anyone. Which means you’ll be completely credible as someone seeking to adopt through the organization. Up to this point, the investigation hasn’t been a secret, and the agent assigned to it has questioned a number of people who work at Children’s Connection in one capacity or another. So far, we don’t have any suspects, in spite of our evidence to suggest criminal activity.”

It really did sound like a bad movie of the week, Bridget couldn’t help thinking. She couldn’t believe anyone involved in her parents’ pet project would be involved in things like black-market babies and sperm-swapping and stolen eggs. But the FBI didn’t go around investigating crimes because it was fun and they had nothing better to do with their time, and they sure as hell didn’t make up stuff like this. If they were looking into the matter, it was because they had solid evidence to suggest wrongdoing.

“At any rate,” Pennington continued, “whoever it is working illegally at Children’s Connection almost certainly knows about the investigation. In spite of that, we’ve already got two of our Portland agents undercover there, posing as prospective adoptive parents in the hope that our baby seller might approach them with an infant for sale.”

Bridget nodded. That made sense. Even with the investigation no secret, there was a good chance two agents might still be credible as an anxious couple looking to adopt, and they might still lure the bad guy. That didn’t explain her own presence back in town, though.

“So why am I here?” she asked Pennington.

“As I said, Logan, you’re going to be posing with an agent, too, in the same capacity—as prospective adoptive parents. But we’re hoping that you and he will simply be able to move about Children’s Connection and uncover more information about what’s going on. Since you’re a Logan, we’re hoping people might speak more freely around you, and that you won’t look suspicious in areas of Children’s Connection that our other agents might not be able to infiltrate. You’ll be working in concert with them, alongside them, but you won’t have contact with them. And you’ll be working for a different reason. Where they’re trying to draw out our suspect, you and your ‘husband’ will be trying to learn more about who that suspect might be.”

Now Bridget understood. Four heads were better than two. Especially if one of those heads—hers—had a familial tie to the organization under investigation. While the first bogus parents-to-be tried to make themselves a temptation to the bad guy, Bridget and her phony husband would infiltrate Children’s Connection more deeply as the daughter and son-in-law of its most illustrious patron.

“We’re betting Bridget Logan won’t look suspicious hanging around Children’s Connection,” Pennington continued, “since her family is such a big part of the organization. You’ll be able to move about freely, ask questions and even linger in places our other couple won’t have credible access to. With luck no one will suspect you of being anything other than Leslie and Terrence Logan’s daughter, who’s recently returned to town with her new husband and wants to adopt a baby.”

It was worth a shot, Bridget thought. Before she could ask more about her duties and cover, though, Pennington began to talk again.

“Your ‘husband’ is familiar with all the particulars of the case,” he said, “but hasn’t been active in the investigation so far, so he won’t be known to anyone at Children’s Connection. We’ve created a cover for him as wealthy businessman who’s just moved to town with his new wife—local girl Bridget Logan, with whom he recently eloped. Since you’ve been living in D.C. for so long, we’ve made him a wealthy corporate type from Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. The two of you met while you were working as the manager of an art gallery in Capitol Hill, but you’ve been homesick for Portland for some time, so his wedding gift to his new wife is to relocate closer to her family, where he’ll be opening new corporate offices. We’ve secured a house for you in your parents’ neighborhood, and you and your new husband can move in immediately.”

“Sounds like you’ve covered the big things,” Bridget said. “Just one question.”

“Only one?” Pennington asked, smiling.

“Okay, one big question,” Bridget amended. The smaller ones could come later. She smiled, too. “Who’s the lucky groom?”

Pennington’s expression did change then, turning confused. He looked at Agent Jones, then back at Bridget, and she hated to think why. “I thought you already knew,” Pennington said.

Bridget shook her head, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of Agent Jones from the corner of her eye. He was squirming. And she really hated to think why.

“Special Agent Bridget Logan,” Pennington said, “meet your new husband. Special Agent Samuel Jones.” He tugged open the top drawer of his desk and reached into it, then pulled out a box, which he also opened and reached into, extracting two gold wedding bands. “By the authority vested in me by the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” He reached across his desk to drop one ring into Bridget’s hand, the other into Sam’s. “I hope you two will be very happy together,” he added as he leaned back in his chair. “Go forth now, and multiply.”

Two

A s Sam Jones surveyed what was to be his new home—at least, for a little while—one word, and one word alone, spiraled through his mind: unbefreakinlievable. When it came to living in the Logans’ neighborhood, he thought, a man’s home really was his castle. Because that was what the exuberant, three-story Tudor reminded him of—a palace. With its perfectly manicured grounds outside and what to even his untrained eye looked to be pretty primo antiques inside, it was fit for only the most discriminating potentate. Four thousand square feet of polished hardwood floors, jewel-toned walls, mahogany trim, intricate wainscoting, plush Oriental rugs and English country manor furnishings. Having grown up in a two-bedroom brick bungalow on the other side of town—the side of town where people got their hands dirty to earn an honest living—Sam felt about as comfortable in the place as he would feel wearing a pink lacy garter belt and push-up bra.

But it was the kind of place where Bridget Logan would feel right at home, because her family lived in this very neighborhood. In fact, the Logan home was even larger than this one, Sam knew, because she’d pointed it out to him as they’d driven past. So she must feel as comfortable here as she would—

Well. He tried not to think about the pink lacy garter belt and push-up bra comparison again. Unfortunately, he had a whole lotta trouble never-minding that, because the minute the image of her wearing such a getup exploded in his brain, he just couldn’t quite get it to dislodge itself again.

Great. This was just what he needed. On top of being assigned to a case he had absolutely no desire to be assigned to—black-market babies and mixed-up sperm, what the hell was up with that?—he was going to have to battle a physical attraction to a woman he couldn’t stand. Because the minute he’d seen Bridget Logan standing at the baggage carousel at the airport, before he’d realized who she was, his gaze had been drawn to her and stayed there. Well, what else was he supposed to do? She was a damned beautiful woman, and he always noticed damned beautiful women. And even though she’d been tired-looking and travel-worn, she’d carried herself like someone who simply would not be messed with. There’d been a combination about her of fierceness and vulnerability that Sam had found very intriguing. And then, when she’d looked up and started to approach him, when her gaze had connected with his…

He wanted to kick himself in the ass when he remembered. For one brief, delirious moment, he’d actually thought the beautiful woman he’d been ogling was approaching him because she’d been ogling him, too, and wanted to get to know him better. And in that brief, delirious moment, Sam had planned out their entire day—and night—together. And boy, had it been good. Then, when she’d identified herself as Special Agent Bridget Logan…

He bit back a growl of frustration. Man, sometimes life just really smacked the hell out of you when you weren’t looking. Then it kicked you over and over again in the ribs while you were down.

He told himself his dislike of Bridget Logan was totally irrational, reminded himself that, until two hours ago, he’d never even met the woman before. Normally he was as fair-minded as they came, and always reserved judgment on an individual until that individual had shown, through actions and words, what kind of human being he or she was. For some reason, though, he’d had a real knee-jerk reaction to Princess Bridget. She stood for everything he held profane: too much money, too much privilege, too much power, too much beauty, too much…

Well, she was just too much, that was all. She was a member of the wealthy elite, that five percent of the nation’s population that controlled ninety-five percent of its resources. She’d grown up sheltered from everything that was ugly and harsh and unjust, she’d had everything handed to her before she even had to ask for it, and she couldn’t possibly appreciate what the real world—hell, what real life—was like. Yeah, she claimed to have fought for what she’d earned, but Sam knew better. People like her never had to fight much for anything, because others were always willing, even eager, to bend over backward for them. What she considered a fight, most folks would consider a favor. He just couldn’t believe she’d ever had to work hard for anything. Not the way he had.

Sam glanced around at his surroundings again, his gaze halting when it fell on Bridget Logan. Too much beauty, he thought again. He would have thought such a thing wasn’t possible. But with that thick mane of dark-red hair that even her braid couldn’t contain, and with those huge green eyes and that lush mouth and a body so full of curves… Well, suffice it to say she was just so damned dazzling, it almost hurt to look at her. Looking at her made him remember all the dreams and hopes and desires he’d embraced as a younger man, things he knew now that he’d never have.

And the hell of it was, she wasn’t even at her best. Even travel-rumpled and exhausted, she’d managed to take his breath away when she’d walked up to him in the airport. So much so, that he’d forgotten himself for a moment, had introduced himself simply as Sam Jones, instead of Special Agent Samuel Jones.

And there was a big difference between the two men. Sam Jones was the guy who spent his weekends in blue jeans and sweatshirts, hiking in the Cascades and kayaking on the Willamette, and coaching Little League for the Boys and Girls Club downtown. Sam Jones liked reading Raymond Chandler and watching sports on TV and tipping a few with his friends at Foley’s Bar and Grill in the blue-collar neighborhood where he’d grown up and still lived.

Special Agent Samuel Jones, on the other hand, was the man who put on nondescript suits Monday through Friday and investigated interstate crimes and helped put scumbags in cages, where they belonged. Agent Jones was focused, driven, no-nonsense and effective. He always concentrated on the job, and he got the job done right.

It was important that he keep Sam Jones and Special Agent Samuel Jones separate. And it was essential that he be the former when he was relaxing and the latter when he was working. That was the only way he could keep himself sane in the face of the viciousness and violence of some of the crimes he investigated.

And even if this case wasn’t especially violent, he still had to keep those two men separate. Because Samuel was suddenly feeling a lot like Sam, looking at the woman with him not as a special agent who also had a job to do, but as a beautiful, desirable woman he might want to get to know better. And he couldn’t allow himself to think about Agent Logan in any terms other than the professional. Not just because he didn’t care for her personally—and he was having a hell of a problem warming up to her professionally, too, truth be told—but because that just wasn’t the way he operated. Not as an agent. And not as a man. He and Logan had a job to do. Period. And they would do it. Period. And they would be cool and focused when they did it. Period. And then they’d go their separate ways and never see each other again.

Period.

“Wow, this place is unbelievable,” she said now as she turned to look at him, surprising him both because she’d just echoed his own initial thoughts about the place and because she was impressed by what he would have thought was an unremarkable environment to her.

She stood in the middle of the big living room, bathed in the warm golden glow of a lamp that had already been on when they’d entered. Pennington had told them that someone from the Bureau had been in earlier to prepare the house for their residence, supplying some basic groceries and turning on the heat and such. They’d obviously remembered lights, too, knowing it would be dark—or nearly so—by the time they arrived. The soft light brought out flecks of amber amid the red in Logan’s hair, and made her complexion seem almost radiant. He wondered if her eyes would be as luminous and was tempted to draw closer to her to find out.

And just what the hell was he doing, thinking words like warm and amber and radiant and luminous in relation to her? he berated himself. He and Logan were working, for God’s sake. That was the only word he needed to be thinking about right now.

“You think so?” he asked, feigning blandness. But he did allow himself to stride farther into the room, halting when only a couple of feet of space lay between them. Wow. In this light, her eyes really were kind of lumi—“I would have thought it was a lot like the place where you grew up,” he hurried to add. “I mean, the house you showed me as being your parents’ looked even bigger than this one.”

She seemed to give his comment some thought before replying, but then she nodded. “Yeah, our house was a little bigger, maybe, but my parents were more minimalist when it came to furnishings. I mean, our house didn’t have nearly this much color or this much…” She threw her arms open wide, and he tried not to notice how the gesture caused her breasts to strain against her white shirt enough that he could see the outline of her bra beneath, and how it looked sort of pink and lacy. “…stuff,” she concluded. “Everything in this house is just so…so extravagant. How did the Bureau find this place, anyway?”

Sam wondered that himself. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It might be a house the federal government owns that they keep for visiting dignitaries. Or they might have made arrangements with a homeowner who isn’t using it right now because they’re working overseas or taking an extended vacation. It might have even been confiscated for tax evasion. Ours is not to question why,” he told her.

“Yeah, and we never do, do we?” she asked.

And Sam wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected just a hint of sarcasm in the question. Well, my, my, my. Maybe Golden Girl Logan wasn’t such a perfect little agent, after all.

“Can we go over this thing one more time?” she asked. “I’m sorry. Usually once is enough for me, but I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and my brain is just having some trouble processing everything Pennington told me. We’re a just-married couple, right?” she began without even waiting for his okay.

“Right,” Sam told her. “We’re newlyweds. We met in the fall, then eloped to Vegas a month ago because we were so wildly in love. We just recently surprised your family with the news, and that’s why there was no talk of our marriage around town before now. At the time we married, we were living in the Washington, D.C., area, but I put my house up for sale and you listed your condo right after the wedding because we knew we’d be moving to Portland after we married. I’m bringing my business headquarters out here so we can be closer to your family—that’s my wedding present to you.”

“Well, aren’t you the generous spouse, relocating your entire business on your trophy wife’s behalf?” Logan asked with a smile. Strangely, she seemed to be teasing him when she did. Sam told himself he was just imagining it. It was not wishful thinking.

“Well, I am a wealthy steel baron, after all,” he told her. “I can afford to be generous. Besides, from what I hear, I just dote on my trophy wife and would do anything to indulge her.” And where the prospect of playing that role had made him feel like a complete sucker a few days ago, suddenly, for some reason, it didn’t seem nearly as distasteful now.

“So that’s how you made your reeking piles of filthy lucre,” she said, still smiling. Still seeming to be teasing him. And Sam still told himself he was only imagining it and not thinking wishfully. “You’re a steel baron.” She tilted her head to the side and studied him. “That’s going to make this role even more interesting to play, not to mention more challenging, since I’ve never really been a woman who went for the big-business-mogul type.”

No, what was interesting, never mind challenging, Sam thought, was how badly he wanted to ask her just what type she did go for. Especially since she came from a family full of big-business-mogul types and seemed to be the kind of woman who had been groomed to marry just such a man. Then again, maybe that was precisely why she didn’t go for them. Tamping down his curiosity, he kept his question to himself. That was none of his business. And it wouldn’t be in any way helpful for working the case.

In spite of his self-admonition, however—and much to his own horror—he heard himself ask her, “Are you saying you don’t think anyone will buy the idea of your being attracted to me, Logan?”

Her eyes widened at that, and her smile fell. She didn’t seem to be teasing at all now, when she said, “Of course not. My God, any woman would be—” But she cut herself off before finishing whatever she had intended to say, her cheeks burning bright pink at whatever had inspired her to say it.

And damned if Sam didn’t find himself wanting to move closer to her and demand to know exactly what she was thinking at that moment. Though it wasn’t necessarily his desire to know what she was thinking that made him want to move closer to her. No, unfortunately he was pretty sure it was his desire to do something else entirely that inspired that. Realizing it only made him feel even more rancorous. The last thing he wanted or needed was to get any closer to Logan than he already had. And why he understood that on one level but not another made him feel like a fool.

“What?” he heard himself asking her in response to her stumble, not even sure when he’d made the decision to speak and knowing it was a mistake to do so. “Any woman would what?”

Her eyes went wide again, in clear panic, and she opened her mouth, as if she were about to finish whatever she had been about to say automatically. But then she quickly closed her mouth again, clearly reconsidering and thinking better of it. Eventually, though, she did continue. “And we met in D.C., right? Which is totally credible since that’s where I went to college.”

Although there was a part of him—a-none-too-small part, dammit—that didn’t want to change the subject, Sam reluctantly let it be. “Right,” he said. “You were living in the city, in Dupont Circle, and I was in the Virginia suburbs.”

“But I was managing an art gallery at the time,” she recalled correctly, “which is going to be a little tough to fake, because, quite frankly, I couldn’t tell you the difference between Jackson Pollack and Jackson, Mississippi.”

“Hey, at least you know Jackson Pollack’s name and that he was an artist,” Sam said helpfully.

“Only because I saw the movie,” she said by way of an explanation. “And that’s about the full extent of my art history education.”

“Ah.”

She shook her head ruefully and crossed her arms over her chest, and Sam tried not to be too heartbroken about that. He also tried to tell himself it wasn’t a defensive gesture. But it did seem defensive. What she said next, though, told him the gesture wasn’t meant for him.

“Boy, my parents would be so thrilled if this were all really true,” she said, her voice tinged not with teasing now but with a hint of melancholy.

“They didn’t want you to go into law enforcement?” he asked.

“Well, they always told me they wanted me to be whatever I wanted to be, and to pursue a career that would make me happy, because that was all that was important,” she hedged.

“But?” Sam asked, because he heard the word coming.

She expelled a soft sound of resignation. “But I think they always hoped that what would make me happy would be to marry a wealthy local businessman, preferably the son of one of my father’s colleagues, then buy a house up the street from them like this one and be a full-time mom to a houseful of kids, preferably with names like Ashley and Emily and Brandon and Biff.”

Sam couldn’t quite help but smile himself at that. “And instead, you go for names like Destiny and Zenith and Aurora, is that it?”

Now Logan smiled, too, and where she had been merely dazzling before, suddenly she was downright beatific. And those, too, were words Sam knew he shouldn’t be using in relation to her. So what if they were totally appropriate?

“Actually, it’s not so much the names I object to as the actual children. Don’t get me wrong,” she hurried on to say before he could comment one way or another, “I think raising kids is probably the most important job out there, for a woman or a man. But it’s not for me. I wouldn’t be good at it. Which is another reason why this assignment is going to be so difficult.”

It was going to be difficult for Sam, too, but for different reasons. Because there had been a time when he did want a houseful of kids, and they could have been named John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt and Pippi Longstocking for all he cared. But just when he’d thought that family would become a reality, it had been stripped away from him, brutally and treacherously, and it had left him wary of ever wanting one again.

“It’s funny, actually,” Logan went on, bringing Sam’s thoughts back to the present, “because I always told my family I wanted to be a cop or investigator of some kind. My Christmas list was always filled with things like chemistry sets and Trixie Belden books and weapons of destruction and handcuffs. But what I always found under the tree was Barbies and stuffed cats and Little House books and an Easy-Bake Oven. All the stuff I wanted ended up on David’s side of the living room instead.” She smiled. “So I just ignored my stuff and played with his.”

Sam found himself wishing she would talk more about herself, about her past, about her dreams and hopes, about her… Well, just about her, but he stopped himself. None of that was any of his business, he told himself again. None of it was germane to the case at all. Besides, once you got a woman like Logan talking about herself, she probably wouldn’t shut up. He had other things to think about right now. And any minute, he’d remember what they were, too, by God.