Too Many Brothers

Or should he call it a bloodbath? By about the third meeting with both of their lawyers, Logan figured he’d be lucky to end up with a shirt. He’d been so naive about what could happen during a divorce. He’d gone into it assuming they’d be fair and split things down the middle because their marriage had been a mutual mistake. But that piranha Liz hired as her attorney had made him out to be the most unfeeling bastard on the planet. Between her and the judge, they’d stripped him of everything except his pride. Even that was rocky for a while.

Logan didn’t like remembering how Liz had taken every opportunity to undermine him in the department where they’d both worked in D.C. If it hadn’t been for Simon Parrish being transferred to L.A. to head up a team, and the fact that he’d asked Logan to come along, there’d be no telling how his career might have fared.

Daphne popped back into the room. When he glanced in her direction, Logan noticed her face was free of greasepaint. She smiled and passed him an open white jar filled with an opaque cream. “I thought I had a second one of these, but I couldn’t lay my hands on it. So I quickly washed my face. You can take this to the bath I pointed out earlier. You’ll find washcloths and towels under the sink.”

“Thanks. I’ve gotta say, you’ve been decent about all this.”

“No problem.”

“I doubt many women would’ve faced the situation as calmly as you did.”

She uttered a self-conscious laugh. “I didn’t feel calm. You had me at a disadvantage from the start. It helped to find out you were on the right side of the law.”

Logan remembered how her heart had fluttered when he’d flung his arm around her in order to pull her over to the window. He also had a sudden, distinct memory of exactly how she’d looked standing before him in lacy blue underwear. And how soft and velvety her skin felt under his own rough fingers.

Clearing his throat, which had gone bone dry, Logan nervously juggled the jar of cream. He gave a couple of jerky nods and sped off down the hall to the guest bath.

Daphne noticed the sudden tension in the air as she watched Logan vanish into the back bedroom.

Men could be so touchy at times. Obviously, she’d said something he deemed unacceptable, but she had no idea what. And of course her brothers always claimed she let her mouth run away without ever connecting with her brain. She guessed that was true enough.

Deciding it was just too bad, she ducked back inside her own room, intent on showering. Her hand hovered above the lock for all of ten seconds. Then she curled her fingers into her right palm and went into her bathroom. He was, after all, an FBI special agent. And if he’d had designs on her body, he’d already passed up a chance to ravish her at April’s. Of course, his mind had been on other things. Turning back, she engaged the lock. Not that Logan had given the slightest sign he found her even vaguely attractive, or that he’d make a pass if the opportunity presented itself. But better safe than—Daphne frowned. That was exactly what her mother would say.

LOGAN HAD LONG SINCE returned to Daphne’s kitchen by the time her door opened and she emerged a different person. She’d put on blue jeans and a shocking-orange T-shirt that read All Men Are Animals, Some Just Make Better Pets.

She missed his fleeting grin because she was busy toweling dry her riotously curly black hair. Logan fought an urge to bury his fingers in the frothy dark ringlets.

“I take it those scumballs haven’t gone,” she mumbled from under folds of terry cloth.

“No.” He eased a bare shoulder away from the wall where he stood to one side of the glass. Long shadows were falling as the day waned, and he hadn’t turned on any lights because he didn’t want the goons to see him watching them.

As Daphne appeared from beneath the towel, she did a double take at seeing the clown suit hanging loose around Logan’s narrow hips. He’d slung a hand towel around his neck, which did nothing to hide whorls of glinting blond hair that fanned across his chest.

He saved her from stepping on her lolling tongue by attempting to explain his unruly state. “That hot-water faucet in your sink needs fixing. I wrenched it too hard and the water shot out, giving me a shower. I hope you aren’t squeamish about seeing a half-naked man.”

She shrugged to show it was of no consequence. And it shouldn’t have been. After all, she’d lived a good part of her life in a one-bathroom house with three growing brothers. Why didn’t this feel the same?

Considering the issue settled, Logan turned the conversation back to her earlier question. “Unfortunately, it looks like those dirtbags are determined to stick around. Does this historic building have a back door? And if so, where does it lead?” Logan didn’t know when he’d ever been this restless. His adrenaline still ran high, and suddenly he had to battle masculine urges he didn’t need interfering with his good sense at the moment. He began pacing the small kitchen.

“My building has two fire escapes with window exits at the end of every hall.” Folding her towel, Daphne fluffed her still-damp hair with her fingers. “The fire escapes actually dump you out on the sidewalk. My brother Dane’s always harassing me about this building not meeting new city codes. But I checked, and historic buildings are grandfathered in the city’s fire plan. They’re considered safe if they provide fire escapes, a monthly check of extinguishers on every floor, and if the building undergoes a yearly wiring inspection. This one does.”

“Which one is Dane?”

“My oldest brother. He’s a fire captain. And a know-it-all,” she said, making a face.

“Look. I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to either go find my boss or get a message to him ASAP.”

“There’s a phone booth a block down the street on the southeast corner.”

“Right! I saunter out partially dressed—like a clown. Guaranteed our surveillance team will see me and gun me down. And say I did, by some miracle, give them the slip. I’d have every beat cop in the area pouncing on me for indecent exposure. Without any ID on me—well, you fill in the blanks.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I can go make the call for you. Those guys have no way of knowing what I look like dressed normally.”

Logan pondered that. “It’s too risky,” he finally said. “They’re not stupid. As well, you’re outnumbered. One of them could easily follow the first man or woman leaving the building who fit our general descriptions. No, I’ll just have to hang out here until after dark.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll make a run for it. I know this part of town pretty well. Down a few alleys, over a few back fences, and I’ve shaken them.”

“Hardly,” she said with a sniff. “That costume you’re wearing is made of glow-in-the-dark material. The spots that run down your right side are phosphorescent, as are the white stripes running down the left.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. When would you play a clown in the dark?”

Daphne treated him to a scowl. “Not all kids’ birthday parties are at two o’clock in the afternoon. Parents who work nine to five sometimes have after-dinner dos.”

“Oh. I never thought of that. I should have, I suppose. My mom let me have a few campouts in the backyard with pals on my birthdays. But then, I was probably in fifth or sixth grade and would’ve died before I let her book a clown.”

“I’m sure,” she drawled, raising an eyebrow. “What interests fifth- and sixth-grade boys are fifth- and sixth-grade girls.”

“Wrong,” he threw back. “My buddies and I went for older women. My mom would kill me if she knew Danny Welch and I smuggled two eighth-grade girls in for one of our campouts.” He shook his head and chuckled at the memory.

Daphne noticed how laughing altered the harsh, hollow planes of Logan Grant’s lived-in face. She’d thought he was good-looking before, but mainly because of his body and his incredible blue eyes. Her dad’s family had those Delft-blue eyes. Some of the Malones were even blessed with beautiful Irish-green eyes. Two of her brothers, in fact—Perry and Kieran. Dane and Becky’s were a pretty hazel that changed shades with their moods.

As a kid Daphne used to check in the mirror every morning after saying a novena the night before, praying for her odd gold eyes to magically change color. It so happened that her mom, who was as Greek as someone named Calandra Dimitrious could be, had olive skin, black hair and dark eyes—genes she might have passed straight to her firstborn daughter. But no. If Daphne hadn’t resembled her mother’s baby pictures, she’d be sure the hospital had switched her at birth. Her eyes were the color of old brass.

Logan continued to prowl the kitchen. By now his over-long hair was practically standing on end.

“I could go down the hall and use Mrs. O’Bannon’s phone to call your boss. Her son Shawn insists his mother have a phone, even though she’s deaf as a post. I know she wouldn’t mind my using it. Shawn’s forever calling me to see if she’s okay. He phones her, and she doesn’t hear the ring.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Logan started to pull up the damp clown suit as he headed for the door. “Introduce me as a friend or coworker. I’ll phone Simon.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Daphne bit her lip. “Shawn O’Bannon and Dane work together. And his mom, for all that she’s half-deaf, is an incurable gossip. That means I’d have to explain to my whole family how I met you, and…well, I’d rather not.”

Logan let the costume fall to his hips again, clearly torn between pushing the issue based on his authority as a special agent and complying with Daphne’s wishes. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “But I’ll write down exactly what I need you to tell Simon. It’s important you relay the codes exactly as I give them. And keep the call short, Daphne, in case our pals have already tapped the main phone line. Otherwise, Bil—let’s just say it could prove dangerous for both of us if you stay on long enough to attract a trace.”

Daphne was sure he’d almost revealed the name of an important person in the organization the FBI hoped to infiltrate. Bill something. Obviously Logan didn’t trust her, despite everything they’d been through together. And after he said she’d handled herself well, too.

She found that slightly depressing. Her brothers always did that—closed her out, talking over her head as if she didn’t have brains enough to know some things were classified information.

Logan apparently had no idea that he’d insulted her. He snatched the paper and pencil she’d rummaged for and found in her desk. He bent over the small secretary with its one wobbly leg, writing in a clear, legible hand. All in capital letters. Facts of that nature interested Daphne. She thought the way someone wrote revealed a lot about his or her personality and she’d read several books about it. For instance, if she remembered correctly, people—usually men—who wrote everything in caps did so to throw up a wall. They’d either been badly hurt or felt betrayed by someone close to them.

She averted her eyes, not wanting to spy. But when she’d completed his call, Daphne intended to look up the specifics in her handwriting dictionary, to make sure she was correct in her analysis.

“All these numbers mean what?” she asked, glancing at the paper he’d thrust into her hand. The bold strokes were mostly gibberish to her. “Does it tell your colleagues you need them to come and pick you up here?”

“The less you reveal at your neighbor’s, Daphne, the better. For one, her phone line isn’t secure. I haven’t seen anyone leave the car, so I don’t think they’ve put a tap on the main phone box. But with those guys, you never know the extent of their resources. They have more devious tricks up their sleeves than the most accomplished of your master clowns. For now, just relay this information to Simon. Let him tell you what I need to do next.”

“Oh. Well, fine. Don’t worry, though, if I don’t rush back. Make yourself at home—help yourself to a beer.” Too late, Daphne remembered the state of her fridge. She sucked in her cheeks and crossed her eyes. “Mrs. O’Bannon can talk a visitor’s leg off. She doesn’t get a captive audience often, so she makes the most of it when she does. Believe me, I know of what I speak. I grocery shop for her. Bless her soul, she lost Mr. O’Bannon early last year. If it wasn’t for her dog, Muffy, keeping her from being so lonely, I don’t know what the poor woman would do. Her sons have intense jobs and large families of their own. And Mrs. O. flatly refuses to go live with any of them, even though all the boys have tried to talk her into moving in with them.” She took a deep breath.