The Newlyweds (6 page)

“I'm your mother,” Leslie said unnecessarily. “It's my job to worry about you. I worry about all of you. It's what mothers do.”

And it was especially what mothers did when they'd lost a child, Bridget thought. She shouldn't be so hard on her mom, she told herself. Leslie, more than most mothers, knew how endangered a child could become, even in the most benign circumstances. Robbie had been snatched from the front yard of his best friend Danny Crosby's house, while Danny's mother Sheila was inside. And Leslie had never forgiven Sheila for allowing her son to be stolen.

Of course, even before Robbie's kidnapping, there had been little love lost between Leslie and Sheila. Leslie had never made it a secret that she'd considered the other woman to be a shallow, greedy, materialistic social climber, everything Leslie was not. Her midwestern upbringing had given her solid values, and she'd never aspired to an affluent lifestyle or marriage to a dynamic corporate leader. Ultimately, she'd welcomed the opportunity, though, because being the wife of a wealthy businessman had enabled Leslie to stay home with her son, to whom she became utterly devoted the second he was born. Sheila, however, had been neglectful when it came to her own children, had often left them in the care of others when she could have been spending time with them herself. She'd preferred spending her husband's money and lunching with her girlfriends instead. Her mother, Bridget knew, had never been able to understand that.

And, truth be told, her mother had felt sorry for Sheila, at least back then—that had never been a secret, either. Leslie had always said she thought Sheila's behavior must have stemmed from her unhappiness, trapped in a life that held no purpose for her, no direction. Jack Crosby, rumor had held, hadn't been an easy man to live
with, and Bridget knew for a fact that the man had enjoyed numerous affairs quite openly before he and Sheila divorced. That had to have taken a toll on her.

But Sheila had been unfaithful to Jack, too, something else Bridget knew for a fact, and that behavior had dropped her in Leslie's estimation even more. Bridget even recalled her mother saying that, on the day Robbie was taken from the Crosbys' front yard, Sheila had been talking to one of her lovers on the phone, too distracted to keep an eye on the boys playing in the yard. Robbie had been easy pickings for the kidnapper, thanks to Sheila's neglect. And Leslie had never forgiven her for that.

So all in all, Bridget knew she shouldn't come down hard on her mother for being overly protective and overly concerned about her. Being worried for Bridget's welfare and safety was, after all, just another way her mother showed how much she loved her.

So instead of feeling irritated, Bridget smiled and covered one of her mother's hands with her own. “You don't need to worry about me,” she said. “I promise I'll be fine.”
Translation,
she thought,
I promise I won't be snatched away from you the way Robbie was.

Leslie smiled back sadly, something that told Bridget her mother had picked up on her unspoken assurances. Nevertheless, she turned her own hand to weave her fingers with Bridget's. “You might be fine,” she said, “but I'll still be worried about you.”

The waiter returned with their appetizer then, relieving the tension that had threatened to descend on the trio. Bridget used the opportunity to change the subject, turning it to one of her mother's favorite topics. “So what else can you tell me about everything that's been going on at Children's Connection?” she asked.

Leslie sighed heavily as she reached for a cracker to scoop up some of the hot artichoke dip. “You're probably privy to more information than I have been,” she said. “The FBI won't tell us much of anything that they've learned from the investigation so far. I should probably be asking you the same question.”

“I wish I could tell you more, Mom,” Bridget said, “but there are certain things the Bureau wants to keep quiet for now, for reasons of security. And although I've been informed of the particulars about the illegal activities and such, I don't know what kind of toll it's taking on the people involved, since I haven't actually interviewed anyone and won't, thanks to being undercover. So how's the mood at Children's Connection right now?”

Leslie's expression grew melancholy. “Not good, I'm afraid,” she said. “It's been hard on everyone, from the housekeeping staff to the board of directors. Whoever's doing this could be working in any department, in any capacity. No one wants to believe that. It's terrible to think that someone we've all come to trust and like could be doing something so heinous as stealing and selling babies, and deliberately sabotaging people's desires to create a family. But the FBI tells us they're convinced the ringleader must be someone who works inside, and that all the things that have happened are related.”

“You don't think so, though?” Bridget asked.

She herself was trying to keep an open mind, though from what she'd gleaned so far from the investigation, it appeared the FBI was right. There had been enough breaches of security to warrant a close look at the employees, and maybe even some of the clients.

“I don't
want
to think it could be someone inside,” Leslie hedged. “It just doesn't seem possible. We strive
so hard to hire good people. And the organization does so much good. I just can't believe so much…” She paused, obviously struggling to find the right word. What she finally settled on, though, was, “so much…badness has come about lately. It just doesn't seem fair.”

Bridget nodded. “Well, whoever's behind it, Mom, we'll find them. And then Children's Connection can go back to doing good work again.”

“I just hope we'll be able to. The terrible press we've received over the last several months has really hurt the organization. And after all we've done over the years, creating so many families, finding homes for so many children. I'd hate to think something like this would put an end to all that good work.”

Jillian added, “Mom's right—it's affected everyone, and not in a good way at all. You'd like to think something like this would bind people together, but a lot of the employees are looking over their shoulders, wondering if the person working next to them is involved in illegal activities. Some people have already quit to look for work elsewhere, because they're sure this is the end of Children's Connection, and they want to get out while the getting's good.

“And some of the families who've been coming to us for counseling have stopped making appointments,” she added. “A handful of couples who started adoption procedures have pulled out and gone elsewhere, sometimes to places that aren't entirely legitimate.”

“And there have been financial repercussions,” Leslie said. “I hope the organization doesn't go bankrupt as a result of all this.”

Bridget wasn't sure what to say in response to their concerns. So she gave her mother's hand another gentle
squeeze and smiled at her sister. “Sam and I and the other agents involved will do our best to find out who's behind it all. And then you can both help Children's Connection rebuild.”

Jillian smiled back, but the smile didn't quite ring true. “I just hope whoever's doing this to Children's Connection leaves something for us to start rebuilding with.”

W
hen Sam came home from work that evening, he didn't come home from work. Not to his usual home, the brick bungalow in the Portland suburbs he'd bought from his parents when they'd decided to move to the sunnier, drier climate of San Diego. That home would have welcomed him, with its broad cement front porch and its worn-out wooden swing swaying at one end, and its creaky hardwood floors that still bore the scars from the beating they had taken from the two growing, rambunctious Jones boys. He would have done what he always did when going home at night—shed his suit and tie and loafers in favor of battered blue jeans and a flannel shirt and heavy socks. Then he would have made himself a simple dinner and taken it and a longneck into the living room to watch the news while he ate.

After that, he would have spend the rest of the night
either watching a game or reading some vintage mystery, probably one of the greats like Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett. Or maybe, if he were feeling socially inclined, he would have headed down to Foley's to shoot some pool and tip another longneck with guys he'd known since childhood. Or, if he were feeling
really
socially inclined, he might have picked up the phone to call Denise. Or Donna. Or Francine. Or Lynette. Or one of the other neighborhood girls who viewed life the same way he did.

Because that was what he did when he went home at night. He left Special Agent Samuel Jones at the office, and then let Sam Jones kick back and relax. Usually alone, but sometimes with friends. Sometimes with friends who were more intimate than others. But none of his friends were
that
intimate. None were more than just friends. His was a quiet life. A solitary life. An uneventful life. It was exactly the kind of life he'd always figured he would lead—except that there had once been a time when he'd figured he'd lead it with someone else, too. Sam liked where he came from, and that was where he always wanted to stay. He'd never been able to understand these people who felt driven to move hundreds, even thousands of miles from home, just to feel like they belonged somewhere. Portland was where Sam belonged—right in the neighborhood where he had always lived. Everything he wanted, everything he needed, was all right here at home.

And if maybe, sometimes, he felt like there was still something missing, well… That was only because no one was ever allowed to be entirely content. Which was just as well, because in Sam's opinion, contentment led to complacency. And complacency led to carelessness.
And when people stopped caring, well, what was the point of going on? So it was good that Sam didn't feel entirely satisfied with his life, right? It was good that there were some nights when he lay awake wondering if maybe he should be doing something differently, right? And it was good that there was still a part of himself that wasn't entirely happy, right?

Damn right.

Because nobody ever got everything they wanted. Sam, at least, had everything he needed. And he had it all right at home.

But tonight, he wasn't at home. Not his, anyway, he thought as he closed the front door of the big, extravagant Tudor manor behind himself and bolted it. Tonight, he'd come home to another man's house. Another man's “wife.” There was absolutely nothing of his own to welcome him here. Nothing he wanted. Nothing he needed. Nothing personal. Nothing familiar. Nothing comfortable. Nothing to make him feel warm or easy or safe.

“Hi. Welcome home.”

At the softly uttered words, he glanced in the direction from which they'd come, and saw Bridget Logan stretched out on the couch in the living room, a longneck bottle of beer, half-empty, sitting on the coffee table beside her. She was dressed in softly faded blue jeans, a baggy flannel shirt and heavy socks. Her back was supported at one end of the sofa by the fat, fringed throw pillows that had been so carefully arranged at opposite ends that morning, her legs stretched out toward the other end. Small black-framed glasses were perched on her nose, and she lowered a book into her lap as she returned his gaze. She looked relaxed and intimate and warm, and in that moment, she made him feel warm and easy and safe.

Until he reminded himself that this wasn't his house, and she wasn't his wife. All of this was a put-on, a masquerade manufactured to catch a criminal. None of it was real, and it damned sure wasn't cozy. So whatever those strange feelings were that began to wind through him when he saw her sitting there, those couldn't be real or cozy, either.

“Hi, yourself,” he said, forcing himself to sound genial even as he felt himself go tense.

“You always work this late?” she asked.

He lifted his arm to check his watch. It was nearly eight o'clock. “Actually, I usually work later,” he said.

She nodded, then smiled. But the gesture didn't seem any more genuine than their situation was. “Me, too,” she told him. And before he could comment, she added, “Have you had dinner?”

He took a few steps forward, propelling himself out of the foyer and into the living room proper. “Yeah, a couple of the guys who are working a pretty high-profile case are going to be working all night, so somebody sent out for sandwiches and got me one, too. You?”

“I had dinner at my parents' house.”

This time Sam nodded. And had no idea what else to say.

Bridget seemed to be suffering from the same problem, because she only gazed back at him in silence. Then again, he supposed it was his turn to say something, though she hadn't exactly provided him with any kind of decent volley, had she?

“Beer?” she asked, reaching for the one on the coffee table. “There's a six-pack in the fridge. Well, a five-pack now,” she amended as she lifted the bottle to her lips.

Now
that
was a much better volley, he thought. In
spite of that, he told himself to decline the offer, that if he was having this much trouble coming up with something to say after a simple exchange of greetings, it would only get worse if they tried to prolong it. Strangely, though, he found himself wanting to take her up on the offer. He told himself it was only because it had been a bitch of a day, and a cold beer sounded like a very good punctuation mark to put on it. It wasn't because he wanted to visit any longer with Bridget Logan.

“Sounds good,” he said. He really wanted to go change his clothes first, to make himself more comfortable, but something made him hesitate before excusing himself and turning toward the stairs behind him. Changing into something more comfortable just seemed like an oddly intimate thing to do at the moment. And intimate wasn't how he wanted to be with Bridget. He didn't care if they were supposed to be man and wife. Behind closed doors, he wanted to keep things formal.

So he only loosened his necktie and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his white dress shirt. Then he made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

She'd gone to the grocery, he saw. Although there had been some meager supplies in there the day before, courtesy of someone at the Bureau who had seen fit to supply the basics before they arrived, now there were other things alongside the requisite milk and orange juice and sodas and sandwich fixings. Now there was the aforementioned beer—Sam's favorite brand, incidentally—plus a bottle of white wine, assorted fruits and vegetables, yogurt, cheese and—oh, gross—soy milk. Girly-girl food, he couldn't help thinking. Then he opened the freezer and saw a couple of fat steaks and some decent-sized pork chops, along with some frozen
dinners—a few low-fat and low-cal, but others advertised as being made expressly for manly men—plus a pint of Häagen-Dazs raspberry sorbet and a gallon of chocolate ice cream.

He closed the freezer and reopened the fridge, then grabbed one of the beers and headed for the pantry, opening it to see what had changed there. Alongside the cans of soup and boxes of pasta the Bureau had provided, and mingled with the health-conscious snacks she clearly preferred for herself, were potato and tortilla chips, a jar of extra-hot salsa, some cheese puffs, a big can of roasted peanuts and an industrial-sized bag of Oreos.

Okay, so either Bridget Logan was very familiar with the diet of the typical single male, or else her eating habits were identical to his own. And considering the presence of the yogurt and soy milk and raspberry sorbet in the fridge and freezer, it sure the hell wasn't the latter. So it must have been the former. She knew how to feed the typical single male. Which meant she was probably more than a little familiar with a typical single male. And since she wasn't living around her brothers, that meant she was involved with some other man. Well enough to know what he liked to eat.

So maybe Sam shouldn't be too concerned about his attraction to Bridget, however superficial and based on physical chemistry it was. Because chances were looking very good that she wasn't interested in him, or any other man, save the one whose pantry she knew so intimately. Oh, she might be attracted to Sam—and judging by the way he'd caught her looking at him at times, he was reasonably confident she was—but her attraction was obviously as superficial and as based on physical chemistry as his own was, right? So it
shouldn't be that difficult for either of them to keep their hands to themselves, right?

Damn right.

“Thanks for picking up groceries,” he said when he returned to the living room with his open—and already a quarter empty—beer.

She looked up in surprise, but whether she was surprised because he was thanking her, or because he'd even noticed, he couldn't tell. Nor could he bring himself to call her on it. Let her think he was one of those Neanderthals who took women for granted and naturally expected them to handle all the domestic chores. It would serve as a reminder to him just how poorly she knew him, how little they had in common—longnecks and flannel shirts and superficial physical chemistry aside—and how important it was to make sure they kept their distance from each other.

“You're welcome,” she said. “I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a little of everything.”

“You hit it right on the mark,” he told her.

“So then, it was okay to get the soy milk,” she said. “I wasn't sure. A lot of guys turn their noses up at it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and was about to object, but halted when she smiled. Not just because he realized she was joking, but because of the way her face changed with the gesture. He'd thought she was beautiful when he first saw her, but had altered that to breathtakingly gorgeous over the course of the last two days. When she smiled the way she was now, however… Well, even the word
gorgeous
didn't seem to suit.
Exquisite
and
ravishing
came to mind, but what Sam finally settled on was
mouth-wateringly magnificent.
Because sitting on the sofa that way, with her hair spilling loose around her
shoulders and those little black glasses perched on her nose, and that radiant smile lighting up the room…

Suddenly Sam wanted to get very physical and chemical with her indeed. And there was nothing at all superficial about what he wanted to do with her next.

With no small effort, he pushed the uncharacteristically graphic thought aside and made himself focus on the matter at hand. Which was… Damn. What was the matter at hand again? Oh, yeah. The case.

“So what happened at Children's Connection after I left today?” he asked.

Her smile fell, and she sighed, settling her book on her lap, spine up. Sam moved closer and tilted his head to see if he could make out the title, but couldn't quite manage. When he looked up, Bridget was watching him, obviously having discerned his interest.

“It's Agatha Christie,” she said. “I love old mysteries.”

Sam nodded but said nothing.

So she backpedaled to what he had asked before. “Well, gee, I wish I could tell you some guy came up to me and gave me his name and address and offered to sell me an infant he'd stolen from its mother in Moscow, but…”

“But what
really
happened?” he asked.

“What really happened was that after you left, I took my mother and my sister to lunch,” she told him.

“And what did you find out?”

“Nothing much more than we already know,” she said. “Except that everything that's been going on there over the past several months is really starting to affect the place as a whole. Mom's worried the organization is going to go bankrupt, and Jillian's worried that some of their clients are going to wind up dealing with other agencies who are in no way legitimate. And evidently
everyone's working under a lot of stress, wondering if the person behind it all is someone they all know and like.”

“That's not surprising,” Sam said. “By now, everyone's got to be forming theories and becoming suspicious of people they'd otherwise trust implicitly. It could actually end up negatively affecting the investigation if everyone starts getting paranoid.”

“We need to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible,” Bridget told him, her voice edged with something akin to sorrow. “I hate seeing people I care about going through something like this.”

“We'll find the guy, Bridget,” Sam said, a thrill of something warm and electric washing through his midsection when her name rolled off his tongue the way it did. He liked calling her that. He knew he shouldn't, but there it was all the same.

Her gaze connected with his and held it. “How long do you think it will take for our guy to make contact with the other agents?” she asked. “I mean, between the waiting list and all the stuff that goes into this adoption process… How do we know this isn't going to take months?”

“I don't know how long it will take,” he told her honestly. “I guess it just depends.”

“On what?”

Sam strode farther into the living room and folded his big frame into one of the plump velvet chairs that flanked the sofa. “On how spooked our guy has become by the investigation and how badly he needs money.”