The Newlyweds (21 page)

Accepting the fact that she had probably only made matters worse by coming here—and convinced now that she must have just imagined or wished that someone was inside the house—Bridget turned and made her way down the front steps. Sam was gone, she told herself, trying very hard to come to terms with that. She would never see him again. As much as she loved him, it wasn't enough to bring him back.

No sooner had the thought formed in her head, however, than she heard the sound of the front door unlocking behind her. By now Bridget had cleared the porch steps and reached the front walkway, and the sound made her stop in her tracks. She couldn't bring herself to turn around, though, certain she was once again imagining things. But then she heard a bolt sliding back and a chain dropping from its casing and swinging against the wooden jamb. And then…

Then she heard the door opening.

Her heart began to pound madly in her chest. But still, she couldn't make herself turn around, couldn't let herself believe what she wanted so desperately to believe. That it was Sam opening the door, that he wasn't dead, that he was right behind her. That he was waiting for her to turn around so he could tell her that there had been a terrible mistake and that he loved her and wanted her to stay here with him. Forever.

“Bridget.”

She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice speaking her name. Her mouth went dry, her knees went weak, her heart very nearly stopped beating. Slowly, oh so slowly, she began to turn around. But her head moved faster than her body, and as she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that it
was
Sam standing in the
doorway. He was dressed in the way she had preferred to see him, in faded jeans and a gray flannel shirt, his feet bare, his hair mussed, as if he'd been dragging his hands through it in agitation.

Sam. Her Sam. But…not. Because how could he be here?

She told herself to say something, anything, but there were too many thoughts ricocheting through her head just then, and she couldn't grasp even one of them long enough to let it fully form. She could only stand there stupidly, staring at Sam—or his ghost, or her imagination, or whatever it was—and wonder if, in all her grief, she had well and truly lost her mind.

When Sam saw Bridget standing at the foot of his front steps, it was all he could do not to run down there and sweep her into his arms and carry her back into his house. But Pennington would kill him if he did something like that.

Then again, Pennington had already killed him, hadn't he? Sam thought wryly. So what difference did it make?

Days. It had been days since he had seen Bridget. Nearly a week. Nearly a week since he had touched her. Enjoyed the sweet, feminine scent of her. Tasted her. And now here she was, looking like a bright splash of sunlight in an otherwise gray day, her pale-yellow dress fluttering in the breeze like a butterfly's wings, her hair dancing about her shoulders, just begging for a man's hands to bury themselves in the silky tresses.

How would he have felt if things had been reversed, if she had been the one to go after Baker and the Bureau had told him she was dead? What if he'd had to face the prospect of never being able to hold her again? Of never being able to talk to her again? Or dance with her? Or
make love to her? Or even just sit in a room reading a book and having a beer with her?

How could he have let them tell her he was dead? How could he have done that to her?

“Sam?” she said, her voice soft, fragile, incredulous. But she said nothing more, only shook her head slowly, as if she simply could not believe her eyes. “Is it you? Really? You're not…?”

She couldn't even say the word, he realized. Which meant that on some level, she had known he wasn't really dead. Probably the level that loved him. At least, that was what he hoped. That Bridget loved him. Because he'd had a lot of time to think about things over the past week. And it hadn't taken him long to figure out how deeply he'd fallen in love with Bridget Logan.

“I can't come out there,” he told her. “If Pennington even saw me standing in the door, he'd have my head on a plate. You have to come up here. Please, Bridget. So I can explain.”

He didn't have to ask her twice. But she didn't move very quickly, and he hated to think why that might be. Slowly, her eyes never leaving his face, she made her way up the stairs and across the porch, until she stood mere inches away from him. Then, tentatively, she lifted a hand and reached out toward his face. She halted, though, before touching him, as if she were afraid he might melt away on contact. Sam caught her hand in his and pulled her gently forward, over the threshold and into his house. And then he pushed the door closed behind her, hauled her up against himself and covered her mouth with his.

Oh, God, it felt so good to have her in his arms again. How had he lasted a week without her?

For a long time he only kissed her, first her mouth, then her cheeks, then her jaw and her temple and her hair. Then he wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head under his chin and just held her. He felt her heart thumping against his own and the warmth of her soft body beneath his fingertips. He inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet, flowery scent of her, and he heard a soft sigh escape her in response. And he knew without a doubt that he could never let her go again.

“I love you, Bridget Logan,” he said.

He hadn't planned to speak the words so baldly out loud that way—at least, not yet. He hoped he hadn't startled her or scared her or put her on the spot with his frankness. But he had to say it now, before something happened to separate them again. She had to know how he felt about her, what he wanted for both of them. He had so much he wanted to say to her, and he needed to get it out
now,
before anything else job-related interfered.

“I love you,” he said again, pulling her even closer. “I don't know when exactly it happened, or even when I realized it, but I know it without a doubt now. This week without you has been hell. I don't want anything to come between us again. I know you don't want to stay in Portland, but I don't want to stay here, either, without you. I came home to get a few things—Pennington about had a cow, but the safe house was making me crazy—and I realized this place doesn't even feel like home anymore. And the reason for that can only be because you aren't here. That house we shared, when we first went into it, I'd never felt more uncomfortable somewhere in my life. But by the time Baker called, I felt completely at home there. Because you were there, Bridget. That was why. I realize now that wherever you are, that's where I
want to be. Because wherever you are, that will be my home. So when you leave Portland, I want to go with you. And I want us to be together forever.”

When she said nothing in response to his impassioned plea, Sam started to feel a little uneasy. He'd said too much. Spoken too quickly. Been too fierce in his convictions. He
had
startled her and scared her and put her on the spot. She didn't love him back, didn't want to be with him forever, and now he'd made it impossible for her to tell him that gracefully.

Swallowing hard, he eased his hold on her, skimming his hands down over her arms to set her a few inches away from him. She was looking down at the ground, not at him, and his heart sank straight to the darkest pit in his stomach when he realized it. She didn't love him. Not the way he loved her.

“Bridget?” he said softly. But try as he might, he couldn't push any more words out of his mouth—out of his heart—than that.

Slowly, she lifted her head to look at him, and when she did, he saw that she was crying. Oh, God, had what he'd said been that bad? He hadn't meant to make her cry.

Then she laughed, a nervous little chuckle, and smiled.

Afraid to hope, Sam smiled back anxiously. He said her name one more time, still too scared to say anything more. “Bridget…”

“Oh, Sam,” she replied, laughing in earnest now. “I love you, too.”

His relief was palpable. “You do?”

She nodded. “I'm laughing because everything you just said to me is exactly what I was rehearsing in my mind to tell you after you went after Baker. Before Pennington told me you were…”

Oh, yeah. Definite relief happening now. “It is?” Sam asked.

She nodded again. “Except for the part about you going with me when I leave Portland.”

His smile fell. Okay, relief-o-meter crashing down again. “You don't want me to come with you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Because I'm not leaving Portland, Sam.”

Zing. Back up into the Major Relief Zone again. “You're not?”

She shook her head. “I'm staying here. With you. And my family. My other family, I mean. In addition to the one I'll have with you. I hope. Someday. When we're both ready.”

“Just say the word, sweetheart,” he told her, pulling her close again. “And between now and then, we can just keep practicing. No offense, but I'd just as soon do it our way, and not bother Children's Connection again.”

“For now I just want us to be together,” she told him. “I'm selfish that way and I want you all to myself. But no matter what happens, I want us to stay together. Forever.” She pulled away from him, but only far enough to lift her hand to his face again. This time she didn't stop before making contact, though. This time she cupped his jaw in her palm. “I love you so much. When Pennington told me you were dead, a part of me died, too. I didn't think I'd be able to go on without you. Why?” she asked. “Why would he tell me such a thing? Why would you let him?”

This part would be easier to explain, Sam thought, if no more palatable. “If I'd known in advance what he was planning to do, I never would have let him tell you what he did. He told me after the fact what he had done,
and why he'd done it…” He blew out an exasperated sound. “He did it for my safety, Bridget. I know that doesn't excuse it, but there it is just the same. He told my parents and brother the same thing.”

“But why?” she asked again.

He ran a hand restlessly through his hair. “Because while I was working undercover with you on the Children's Connection case, we had some major developments on another case I worked on a few months ago. Organized crime,” he told her. “Long story short, we hauled in a couple of very big fish, and I'm going to have to appear as a material witness for their trial, which is scheduled for next month. And because I'd received a couple of half-assed death threats—”

“Death threats?” Bridget gasped.

“Half-assed,” Sam said again. “They were lame, Bridget. No one's going to come after me. But Pennington, being the alarmist he is, thought it would be a good idea for me to lie low between now and the trial, in case someone got the bright idea to carry out those threats. And in his infinite wisdom,” Sam continued sardonically, “he thought it was a good idea to make the goons involved think I was already dead. When Everett Baker took a couple of shots at me and Davis, Pennington decided he had a nice, neat way to kill me off temporarily.

“I, in turn, wanted to kill him when he told me what he'd done,” Sam continued. “I wanted to call you and tell you what had happened, but by then… I don't know. I guess I figured the damage was done. With you and my family. But I want to tell them now, too. Pennington be damned. I won't have the people I love thinking I'm dead. I'll still play the part to the outside world, but…you and my family are too important to me, and you don't deserve this.”

“Why didn't you call me as soon as you knew Everett Baker had escaped?” Bridget asked. “Before Pennington had a chance to reach me?”

“It was the middle of the night,” Sam said. “I thought you'd be sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you. Not like that. I figured I'd go ahead and write up my report, then come home to you, sneak in and slide into bed beside you.” He ducked his head, suddenly feeling uncertain for some reason. “I planned to wake you up in a much nicer way than a phone call in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, Sam…”

“Instead, I almost ended up losing you.”

“You never would have lost me,” she said.

“If I'd let you go on thinking I was dead, you would have left Portland and forgotten all about me.”

She laughed again, totally uninhibited this time. “Oh, no, I wouldn't. I would have stayed right here. To be close to your memory, if nothing else. Why do you think I came to your house today?”

“I don't know,” he said.

“Because I wanted to be with you in whatever way I could,” she told him. “I came to the door because I thought I saw someone inside, and I thought maybe it would be your brother or a friend or someone I could talk to about you. I just wanted to be close to you. However I could be. And now that I know you're alive…”

Tears filled her eyes, but she continued to smile, as if she'd just been given a gift she didn't have enough ways to say thank you for.

Sam's heart turned over when he saw the way her face changed. “I am so sorry you ever had to think I was—”

She covered his mouth with her hand before he could finish. “It doesn't matter,” she told him. “All that matters
is that you're here now. And I'm here with you. And both of us will be together forever.”

He pulled her close again, looping his arms loosely around her waist, pressing his forehead to hers. “You sure you want to stay here in Portland? Not go gallivanting around the globe looking for terrorists?”

“Actually,” Bridget said, “I overheard Pennington talking about a new counterterrorist task force the FBI is putting together for the Portland field office.”

“Really?”

She nodded. Or maybe she was just rubbing her forehead affectionately against his. Whatever. Sam didn't care. As long as she was here. With him. Forever.

“And you know, I'm trained in that sort of thing,” she said.