The Newlyweds. Elizabeth Bevarly

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.

      It was important that he keep Sam Jones and Special Agent Samuel Jones separate. And it was essential that he be the former when he was relaxing and the latter when he was working. That was the only way he could keep himself sane in the face of the viciousness and violence of some of the crimes he investigated.

      And even if this case wasn’t especially violent, he still had to keep those two men separate. Because Samuel was suddenly feeling a lot like Sam, looking at the woman with him not as a special agent who also had a job to do, but as a beautiful, desirable woman he might want to get to know better. And he couldn’t allow himself to think about Agent Logan in any terms other than the professional. Not just because he didn’t care for her personally—and he was having a hell of a problem warming up to her professionally, too, truth be told—but because that just wasn’t the way he operated. Not as an agent. And not as a man. He and Logan had a job to do. Period. And they would do it. Period. And they would be cool and focused when they did it. Period. And then they’d go their separate ways and never see each other again.

      Period.

      “Wow, this place is unbelievable,” she said now as she turned to look at him, surprising him both because she’d just echoed his own initial thoughts about the place and because she was impressed by what he would have thought was an unremarkable environment to her.

      She stood in the middle of the big living room, bathed in the warm golden glow of a lamp that had already been on when they’d entered. Pennington had told them that someone from the Bureau had been in earlier to prepare the house for their residence, supplying some basic groceries and turning on the heat and such. They’d obviously remembered lights, too, knowing it would be dark—or nearly so—by the time they arrived. The soft light brought out flecks of amber amid the red in Logan’s hair, and made her complexion seem almost radiant. He wondered if her eyes would be as luminous and was tempted to draw closer to her to find out.

      And just what the hell was he doing, thinking words like warm and amber and radiant and luminous in relation to her? he berated himself. He and Logan were working, for God’s sake. That was the only word he needed to be thinking