The Newlyweds (2 page)

“Sam Jones,” he told her by way of a greeting. “Special Agent Samuel Jones,” he then corrected himself, as if he needed to make the distinction. As if he needed her to
know
he needed to make the distinction. “I'm with the Portland field office. Welcome home, Logan.”

His welcome was as warm as the rest of him—namely not warm at all—but that was just fine by Bridget. She wasn't all that pleased to be home, truth be told. Yes, she rarely made it back to Portland these days, but she spoke to everyone in her family regularly by phone. And although she missed them, she'd been too busy to feel homesick. It wasn't that she didn't like Portland. On the contrary, she loved being able to call the city her hometown. But she had things to do, places to go, people to see. She had a career to build. And returning here had been a giant step backward in that regard.

“
Special Agent
Logan,” Bridget corrected his identification of her. She needed to make that clear to him, too. “So just what am I doing home, anyway?”

“You're needed for a job,” he told her.

“That much I gathered,” she replied, biting back the
duh
with which she'd almost punctuated the statement. Exhaustion, she told herself. She always got cranky when she didn't get enough sleep. “What I want to know is why me?” she elaborated patiently.

Instead of answering her, Sam Jones—or, rather, Special Agent Samuel Jones—bent to pick up the larger of her two bags, leaving the small one for Bridget. An
equal opportunist, she thought. She liked that in a man. Not that she liked this man, mind you, she hastily backpedaled. But he clearly wasn't a coddler, and she respected that. She wasn't a coddler, either.

He tipped his head toward the exit doors. “Car's just outside. You'll be briefed on the assignment when we get to the field office. You're expected ASAP. I'm expected to be the one to get you there.”

He was obviously no-nonsense, too, something else Bridget admired. Still, a little information up front would have been nice.

Without awaiting a response from her, Samuel Jones began to make his way to the exit, so she hastily retrieved her other suitcase and followed. Involuntarily, her gaze fell to the elegant expanse of his broad shoulders as he cut a swath easily through the crowd, and she noticed how much taller he was than everyone else. He turned his head once, to glance at something that must have caught his eye, and even his profile made her want to sigh wistfully. And seeing as how Bridget Logan didn't have a wistful bone in her body, that wasn't exactly a reaction she welcomed.

Fatigue, she told herself again. She was only acting like a boy-crazy preteen because she was tired and crabby and hungry. She hadn't been boy-crazy even when she
was
a preteen. She'd been way too focused on school, and way more interested in changing the world than in thumbtacking pictures of River Phoenix and Leonardo DiCaprio to her bedroom wall. Once Agent Jones dropped her at headquarters and took off again—and once she got some decent sleep and a decent meal—she wouldn't give him a second thought.

They walked in silence until Jones halted behind a
black, commonplace, four-door sedan—government issue, natch—and thumbed the key bob to open the trunk. He hefted her suitcase inside, reached for the one she held out to him and repeated the action, then thumbed the key bob again to unlock the car doors. He didn't stride to the passenger side to open the door for Bridget. And again, she grudgingly saluted him for it. He was obviously the kind of man who assumed a woman in her job could take care of herself. And she could.

So it made absolutely no sense that Bridget should feel slighted by his gesture. Or lack thereof. For some strange reason, though, she did. Boy, she really did need to catch up on her sleep.

After folding herself into the passenger seat and strapping on her seat belt, she turned to face Agent Jones again. “So how much do you know about this case I'm being assigned to?” she asked.

He looked over at her, his stony facade cracking just enough that she could see he thought she was nuts for asking such a question. “I know everything about it,” he told her in a tone of voice that likewise suggested he thought she was nuts.

Or maybe he thought she was stupid. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time she'd received such a reaction from a male agent. Not that that made it any easier to tolerate now. She arched her brows in surprise and resentment at his tone, but before she could speak, he continued, this time sounding mildly disgusted.

“You think I'm just the errand boy they sent to pick you up, don't you?” he asked curtly.

“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.