Too Many Brothers. Roz Fox Denny

off, Daphne learned that Nat wanted her to paint the faces of all the kids attending the party.

      So, she’d been right to bring all that stuff. Daphne intended to make this the coolest party ever. Humming happily, she dumped her costumes and face paints out across a cheery yellow bedspread. Matching curtains blew gently in the breeze.

      She circled the bed and closed the miniblinds. Still feeling exposed, Daphne pulled the lined drape across the glass slider for privacy, leaving the door open for easy access to the patio.

      Muted sounds of children’s laughter and boisterous shouts drifted through the closed hall door. Daphne kicked off her sandals and skimmed out of her jeans. She had her T-shirt nearly off, when a scraping sound at the slider made her swing around.

      It’d be impossible to say who was most shocked, Daphne or a scruffy-looking man who stood poised on the balls of his feet as he stealthily shut and locked the glass door. The drape slipped through his fingers, silently closing them in together.

      The T-shirt plopped at Daphne’s feet. Her throat tightened and her hammering heart battered her ribs. Feeling the stranger’s Delft-blue eyes making a thorough examination of her, she grabbed the first clown suit she could reach and covered herself as best she could with the slithery material. She opened her mouth to scream, but suddenly found her breath driven from her lungs by the agile intruder, who vaulted the bed in a single bound. He covered her mouth with a strong hand. A no-nonsense pistol caressed her ear before she could force air, let alone a scream, past her numb lips.

      Her brother Kieran would’ve said only a fool would fight against those odds, but Daphne wasn’t about to die without putting up a fight. She tried jabbing an elbow into her captor’s midriff, but hit rock-hard abs. Next she attempted to disable him by stomping on his foot. Except that she was barefoot and he wore boots, as she quickly discovered. And the more she struggled, the more tenuous became her hold on the clown suit.

      “Chill out,” he growled, jerking her tighter against his own heaving chest. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded in a gruff stage whisper.

      “Mmmmf…mmfff,” Daphne mumbled against his sweating fingers. He smelled sweaty, anyway, and rough whiskers scraped her neck, although his longish, sun-streaked blond hair was soft where it brushed her cheek. What a funny thing to notice at a time like this.

      As her initial shock receded, Daphne tried to store her impressions—for the police—supposing she got out of this alive. He was tall. A rangy build like her brother Perry. She was five foot eight; the man was taller. And stronger by far, she was learning. She couldn’t budge him, and twisting only tightened his grip on her.

      Her legs felt every quiver of his taut muscles hidden under threadbare blue jeans. A once-black sweat-stained T-shirt hugged a muscled torso. Iron-hard biceps indicated her captor probably kept fit working out or doing manual labor.

      For all she knew, he could be April Ross’s pool guy.

      Although probably not. He seemed inordinately interested in what might be happening on the street in front of the house. Bingo! How close was the Ross home to the area cordoned off by the police? It’d be due east of April’s backyard. Quite close. Too close. Daphne began to shake uncontrollably as her mind revolved faster. He could be a hardened criminal. Maybe even a murderer.

      That thought came when he forcefully dragged her to the far side of the front window, where he used the barrel of his gun to tip aside the blind. Apparently he didn’t like what he saw. He swore ripely under his breath and flattened them both against the wall, fast.

      It wasn’t that Daphne hadn’t heard such language before. Her older brothers, Dane, Kieran and Perry, were a firefighter, a cop and a long-haul trucker, respectively. Even though she frequently complained about having too many bossy brothers, oh boy, did she wish any one of them would burst through that door right now. If she ever got out of this predicament, she vowed she’d pay strict attention to every one of her mom’s lectures, too.

      “Where’s April?” her captor asked right beside her ear. “Are you keeping her company because Mike deployed again?” Ever so slowly, he slid his fingers off Daphne’s mouth. But as she geared up to bellow for help, he waved the mean-looking pistol in her face. The cry froze on her lips.

      “Get dressed,” he hissed, sounding almost angry. Her fingers felt all thumbs, and there was no way Daphne could comply.

      Muttering, he gave her a shake and repeated his demand.

      Logan Grant found that he was beginning to be affected by the armful of half-naked woman he’d surprised when he slipped in through April’s back door. At first he was too shocked over seeing anyone—let alone a partially clad anyone—in a room he’d counted on being empty. That, coupled with the fact that he was positive his cover had been blown in a big narcotics buy gone sour, meant Logan wasn’t having the best day of his life.

      Special Agent Grant had spent ten months working his way into a position of power in an organization his agency had been trying to bring down for two years. He’d been minutes from meeting the next big fish in the scummy pond, which would’ve been another step up the slippery, slimy ladder of crime. Then all hell had broken loose. Cop cars had roared down side streets from all directions. And when push came to shove, Logan had been forced to take sides.

      Billy Holt, his superior in the local heroin import ring, had seen him knock out another ring member and steal a pistol from him. Now Holt had more interest in tracking down Logan than in staying to fight local law enforcement, one or more of whom had to be on the take. Only an insider could’ve made Logan and brought in the cops.

      Logan knew too much about the next big shipment due to land on California shores. It made him dangerous to the organization. Dangerous and expendable. Even now, two cars filled with Holt’s trusted henchmen were combing the streets, hunting for him.

      Under other circumstances, Logan thought he might work up a red-hot interest in this big-eyed, leggy woman—in close proximity to a large, soft bed. Unfortunately, at the moment, saving his skin and hers took precedence over baser instincts.

      He’d come here because his sister’s home presented his only chance of escape. Though taller than Mike Ross, Logan thought he could borrow Mike’s razor and fit into one of his shirts. A change of clothes, use April’s cell phone to contact his office, and poof, he’d be scooped up by his associates, leaving Holt to wonder how he’d managed to pull a disappearing act.

      Things rarely went according to plan in a special agent’s life. This day had gone to hell more rapidly than most, however. Billy’s goons cruised the streets, alleys and backyards, leaving Logan—what? With a hysterical, nearly nude female threatening to scream her head off, that’s what.

      To make matters worse, he’d stayed too long. He’d already put everyone in this house in jeopardy. He let loose another stream of colorful invective. Under current circumstances, it was all he could do.

      Daphne’s addled brain took in his second barked order—get dressed—and that was what she was trying desperately to do, even though it meant peeling the clown suit away from where she had it plastered to her front. Even though it meant revealing her scanty Victoria’s Secret finery to a crazed gunman.

      She attempted to shake out the material, bend and slide the colorful, baggy jumpsuit over first one leg, then the other. She nearly tripped and fell flat on her face. It wasn’t humiliating enough that the gunman caught her, oh, no. Worse, he zipped the suit up from the vee in her legs all the way to her neck because her fingers were shaking so hard.

      “What kind of getup is that?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively.

      Fully covered now, Daphne felt a bit steadier. She smoothed back a stubborn curl that had slipped out of her clip and snapped back, “It’s a clown suit, you idiot. I’m here to perform at a birthday party. Natalie’s. Her name is Natalie. You, uh, called her mother by name. Are you…ah…a fr…riend of April’s?”

      Hearing herself squeak, Daphne crossed her arms and grabbed her elbows just to have something solid to hang on to. No one,