The Newlyweds

“Well, aren’t you?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “How old are you, Logan?”

“Twenty-five,” she told him crisply. Actually, she was mere months from her twenty-sixth birthday. Then, just as abruptly as he had, she asked, “How old are you, Jones?”

He clearly hadn’t expected the rapid-fire retort. Nevertheless, he told her readily enough, “Thirty-two. I have ten years in at the Bureau. Seniority, one might say.” And before she had a chance to remind him that seniority was earned by more than just years, he continued coolly, “Look, Logan, I know all about you, all right? Hell, it’s been hammered home to every agent here in Portland how fast and furious the homegrown Girl Wonder rose through the ranks at Quantico. But I, for one, suspect a lot of that was due to Daddy Logan’s influence, both in Portland and elsewhere. Must be nice having an old man worth millions pulling strings for you. Me, I wouldn’t know. I earned my position the old-fashioned way—by working hard and fighting tooth and nail for it.”

Now Bridget’s eyebrows really shot up. The animosity she had sensed simmering just beneath his surface had boiled right up from under the lid, burning her with hisses and steam. This time she didn’t battle anything except Jones when she replied. “My father had nothing to do with my progress,” she snapped. “I earned my position, too, Agent Jones. By working my ass off, fighting a hell of a lot harder than you, and by making sacrifices you couldn’t begin to understand. Don’t you dare suggest otherwise. If anybody gets handed anything in this business, it’s those of you who have a Y chromosome. We women get handed jack. We have to work twice as hard as any of you guys to get half as much.”

He set his jaw tightly at her outburst, but he said nothing more in response. Which was just as well. Bridget’s animosity wasn’t exactly cooling at the moment, and she hated losing control almost as much as she hated not being taken seriously. Jones cranked the key in the ignition then, turning his gaze forward. He said not another word for the rest of the ride, and that was just fine with Bridget. She wanted to be rid of the SOB as soon as possible. And until then, she wanted to forget he existed at all.

The Portland field office of the FBI was located in the Crown Plaza Building, a boxy white building downtown that housed a number of other organizations and businesses. The city itself was just as Bridget had seen it the last time she had spent more than a couple of days at home about seventeen months ago. When she’d come home for Peter and Katie’s reception, she’d barely seen anything outside the Logan home. The only difference now was that when she’d been home two Christmases ago, for all of five days, a delicate whisper of snow had been falling—a fairly rare occurrence for the city. Now, a fine gauze of rain misted over the entire downtown, the product of fat slate clouds overhead. In spite of that, a strange warmth spread through her. Even though, under other circumstances, she might have been in Vienna at the moment, it really did feel kind of nice to be home.

Until she remembered her dour driver. Once she got rid of Agent Jones, she amended, then it would feel kind of nice to be home.

He parked the car on a lower level of the parking garage and, again without a word, unfolded his big frame from behind the wheel and began walking toward the elevators before Bridget’s feet even touched the ground. Somehow she refrained from rolling her eyes heavenward.

Jerk, she thought.

But she hastened her stride to catch up with him. After all, she’d never been inside the Portland office. And since 9/11, a lot of new security checks had been put into place. She’d have to follow Jones’s lead if she wanted to make this as simple and as fast as she could. So she doubled her pace, taking two steps for every one of his, so large was his stride with those long, long legs. And she did her best to keep breathing at her regular rate as she hustled along, because the last thing she needed to be doing was panting after this man, even if it was only because she was winded.

They rode in silence up to the fourth floor, then he led her down a hall to the field office and entered ahead of her. But he held the door open for her once he passed through it, something that frankly surprised her. Okay, so he had some latent sense of courtesy, she conceded grudgingly. That didn’t make up for the way he had verbally assailed her in the car.

A secretary dressed in efficient gray snapped to attention at their appearance, and she greeted Agent Jones informally before saying, “He’s expecting you. Go on in.”

Bridget was surprised when Jones did exactly as the receptionist instructed. Okay, so he could take orders from women and not be put off by his inferiors, she further conceded, though still grudgingly. Clearly, it was just something about Bridget herself who put the guy off.

Her father’s money and influence, she recalled, neither of which had she ever taken advantage as an adult. She’d earned academic scholarships to put herself through college, and had worked both on- and off-campus to pay for her living expenses. And although her new role would have her posing as a trophy wife, a lifestyle with which she should have been familiar enough, Bridget had never really been into the physical trappings of the Logan wealth. Yes, she’d grown up in a big, beautiful home in one of Portland’s most desirable neighborhoods. Yes, she’d benefited from private schools and extracurricular activities a lot of families couldn’t afford. But not once had she taken any of them for granted. And as soon as she’d been old enough to start making her own way in the world, she had.

Not that she’d bother to tell any of that to Jones. Within minutes, the guy would be out of her life for good. And good riddance to him, too.

For now, though, she followed him into the next room and found one that looked a lot like the offices of other Bureau heads she’d seen, painted an institutional off-white and furnished with institutional gray Berber carpeting, fake wood shelves, a fake wood desk and fake leather chairs. The man who stood behind that desk was very real, however, looking as much like a federal agent as Jones didn’t. Average height, average weight, middle age, medium-brown hair and eyes. Average, middle and medium everything else, too.

“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.