The Newlyweds (8 page)

“Yeah,
those
things,” he echoed. But that was all he echoed. His gaze met hers again, and if she hadn't known better, Bridget would have sworn he was blushing. But men like Sam Jones didn't blush. Certainly not over something like what traditionally kept newlyweds preoccupied. He seemed less embarrassed,
though, than he did irritated. And if he was irritated, it could only be because he thought Bridget was such a blockhead about
those
things.

But how was she supposed to know what he was talking about? It wasn't as if he'd been specific about it. And she'd never been a newlywed, so how was she supposed to know how newlyweds acted? She'd certainly never given any thought to wedding-night or honeymoon behavior, having decided early on that there wouldn't
be
a wedding night or honeymoon in her future. Not that she was any stranger to the activity that newlyweds generally engaged in—well, not
too
big a stranger to it—but she wasn't preoccupied by thoughts of sex, either. Not just because she hadn't been intimately involved with anyone for a long time, but because she just didn't have time to think about sex. Even when she was sexually involved with someone, she didn't spend that much time thinking about it. She had work to do. Sex had just never been all that preoccupying for her, that was all.

The few men with whom she had been romantically involved had no more been the forever-after type than she was. Oh, she'd liked them well enough. And they'd liked her well enough, too. One or two she'd liked more than the others, enough to become more intimately involved, but she'd never intended anything to go too far, even with the intimate ones. She hadn't wanted anything to interfere with the job she had to do.

“Okay, yeah,” she conceded now, “I guess newlyweds do keep a low profile for
that.
But that's not
all
they do.”

She met Sam's gaze levelly, and when she saw the way his pupils had expanded, nearly eclipsing the blue of his irises, she began to feel…something. Something
weird. Something she'd never felt before. She told herself it must be doubt, a reaction with which she was in no way familiar. Funny, though, she'd never figured doubt would generate a fire in her midsection that way…

“Is it?” she added in a very small voice.

For a minute he said nothing, and she got the impression it was because he was thinking about something very, very hard. Finally, though, he said, “Where I come from, newlyweds tend to disappear for a few weeks after the wedding. And not because they're on their honeymoon in Hawaii, either. Where I come from, people can't afford honeymoons in Hawaii. So they honeymoon at home. But they still disappear for a while because they want to…enjoy each other in private. Get to know each other intimately. Discover all the things about each other that they never knew before.”

His expression hardened as he added, “But in your world, I guess I can see where newlyweds might forgo what you call ‘the sex thing' to get out and about, since they obviously have other more important things to do than become intimately acquainted.”

Bridget narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, in
my
world?”

He lifted one shoulder and let it drop in what she supposed was meant to be a shrug. But there was nothing casual in the gesture. There was nothing casual in him at the moment. On the contrary, he suddenly seemed very, very menacing. His lip fairly curled with contempt as he said, “Just that in the upper-crusty, blue-blooded, rarefied atmosphere where you grew up, I guess people tend to marry for reasons other than love and devotion and passion. So maybe once the honeymoon is over, it's really, really over.”

Bridget gaped at him. “Oh, is that a fact?” she said coolly, her back going up at the antagonism he didn't even bother to hide. Where was all this animosity coming from? she wondered. A few minutes ago they'd been speaking to each other like the professionals they were. Now, suddenly, everything had shifted, and they were snapping at each other like toddlers on a playground. “Like what kind of reasons?” she asked. “Can you give me a for instance?”

He employed another one of those fake shrugs, then he said, “Sure, I can give you lots of for instances. There are real estate holdings to consider, for example. Got to get some of those to add to the family coffers whenever you marry off a daughter. Or business mergers. Cheaper to marry into a new business than to buy it outright. And then there's the need to further the family line with the proper mix of DNA. Make sure the blood stays blue.”

“Hel-looo?” Bridget interjected. “What century did you just arrive from, Charlemagne? That real-estate stuff sort of went out with the feudal system. Not that you'd realize it, since you seem to still embrace that whole droit du seigneur thing.”

“That whole what?” Sam said crisply. “You'll have to excuse me. I went to public school, and we didn't learn all those fancy French phrases you private schoolies got. We focused mostly on
Où est Pierre?
And
Mon crayon est jaune.
”

Bridget rolled her eyes at him. “Forget it. It's not important.”

“I think it is.”

She expelled an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Droit du seigneur was the feudal lord's right to deflower all the
virgins who worked his land on their wedding nights, before their husbands had the chance to do it.”

Sam glared at her. “And you think that would appeal to me, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” she said, “if you're over there assuming that just because my family is wealthy I'd prefer to marry for financial gain instead of love. You're obviously living in the Middle Ages, pal.”

“And you'd rather marry for love than financial gain, is that what you expect me to believe?” he asked.

“I'd rather not marry at all,” she retorted. “Not that it's any of
your
business. And why the hell are we arguing?” she further demanded, her voice raising another decibel.

“Because we're newlyweds!” he cried.

“I thought we were supposed to be too preoccupied with
other things
to be arguing!” she shouted back.

He opened his mouth to reply, doubtless with something caustic and loud, then seemed to realize how stupidly they were behaving. Bridget had to admit she had no idea how they'd degenerated to this point herself. She, too, quieted, forcing herself to calm down.

It was the stress of the case, she told herself. She and Sam both were just frustrated by the appalling lack of success they'd had so far with this thing. That was why they were going at it this way. That was why they were fighting over something as stupid as why people married and what they did on their wedding night. This was nuts. And it just emphasized more completely the reason why they should become proactive and
do
something to get things rolling.

“As I was saying,” she began again, keeping her words soft and even and sane. She decided to pretend
that the last few minutes had never happened and hoped Sam would, too. “We need to get out more,” she said. “We need to interact with the employees of Children's Connection on a level other than professional.”

Sam studied her in silence for another minute, and she wondered what he was thinking about. Was it the case? Or was he wondering, too, what the hell had come over them for those few minutes they'd been locked in combat?

He nodded again. “I guess it wouldn't hurt to try. We'll need to clear it with Pennington, like you said, but I certainly don't have a problem with it, if it will help us learn something new that might shed light on the case and move things along.”

“Move things along?” she echoed to herself. Sure, with the case, maybe. With her and Sam, things seemed to be hurtling down the tracks like an out-of-control train with squealing brakes. She just wished she knew what it was speeding toward. Other than death and dismemberment, she meant.

But the sooner they got things moving with the case, Bridget thought, the sooner they could wrap the case up. And the sooner they wrapped the case up, the sooner she could be on her way. Off this case, and out of Portland, and back to doing the sort of work she really enjoyed in a place that was fascinating and fast-paced. She didn't kid herself that the position in Vienna would be waiting for her once she'd completed this assignment. They'd needed someone there right away, and when she'd been pulled from duty, they'd sent someone else in to take her place. But she still wanted to be part of a counterterrorism task force somewhere—preferably somewhere interesting and exotic. And there was a very good chance that something else would open up that might
be almost as good as the position she'd lost. She hoped so, anyway.

However, she couldn't even think about that yet. Right now, she needed to focus on this case and work it to the best of her abilities. She'd never thought her upbringing as a Logan of Portland would benefit her in law enforcement. But she would ask her mother to tap every last person she knew at Children's Connection for whatever social occasions they could conjure up. And she would do her best to milk every last person for whatever information she could. Whatever it took to bring this assignment to a successful conclusion.

Whatever it took to conclude things with Sam Jones.

 

Sam listened with grudging admiration as Bridget outlined her plan to Pennington an hour later, noting that she was quick, articulate, savvy and efficient as she did so. He had no choice but to admit that she was doing a better job with this case than he was. She'd recognized what wasn't working and she'd realized some possible ways to improve their chances. And she was eager to do it. She was enthusiastic about what was ahead. She was ambitious. Smart. In other words, she was exactly the kind of agent he'd normally like to be partnered with. So why was he still so irritated at their having been thrown together on this case the way they had been?

And what the hell had that argument in the kitchen earlier been about?

He still couldn't understand what had come over the two of them to go after each other the way they had that morning. He'd replayed the incident over and over in his mind during the drive to the field office—hell, what else was he supposed to do, since the two of them hadn't
spoken a word to each other?—but he still couldn't pinpoint where things had gone sour. Ultimately, he'd concluded that it wasn't that things had
gone
sour—it was that things had
been
sour all along, from the moment Bridget Logan had approached him at the airport.

They just rubbed each other the wrong way, that was all. Sometimes that happened—two people simply didn't like each other, for whatever reason. Usually, the problem was remedied by avoiding the person you didn't like. This time, though, the two people were partnered together, and there was no way to ask for a reassignment. Worse, the partnering required a level of intimacy that Sam, for one, normally didn't share with another person. Certainly not publicly. He suspected that Bridget Logan was much like him in that regard—she didn't seem the touchy-feely, let's-talk-about-our-feelings-and-then-hug type, either. He was just going to have to make the best of it. And so was she.

He only hoped her idea about trying to glean information for the investigation via more social networking worked, because Sam wanted something to happen with this case
now.
He wanted to wrap it up, move on to something else. And he wanted to be rid of Bridget Logan.

Then he could get his life back and start living it again. With all its peace and quiet and solitude. And all its work and solitude. And all its relaxation and solitude. And all its solitude and solitude. Which was exactly how Sam liked it.

“Well, it certainly couldn't hurt to try,” Pennington said after Bridget finished describing all the things she wanted to do, not the least of which was throwing a party at the house the two of them were occupying as faux man and wife. “How soon can you put it all into action?”

“I'll organize the party at the house as soon as I get home,” Bridget said. “It'll be small, since it's short notice, but it'll get the ball rolling. And I'll make sure I include as many people from Children's Connection on the guest list as I can. And I'll have my mother organize a larger party at their country club to introduce us to all their friends, again being sure to include a good number of people from Children's Connection.

“Really, that's something she would have done for us as soon as we arrived in Portland,” Bridget continued, “had Sam and I actually been married. I should have thought about it as soon as I learned of the assignment. There's also a fund-raiser for the agency later this month that we can attend. And tomorrow night there's a group from the Connection attending the symphony. Jillian and I had planned to go with my parents, but Jillian won't mind letting Sam take her ticket.” She grinned. “Jillian really isn't all that crazy about Dvorak anyway.”

“Neither am I,” Sam muttered, even though he wasn't even familiar with Dvorak, to the point where he didn't know if that was the name of a composer, a musician, the conductor, an instrument or a piece of music. If it wasn't blues or R&B played on electric guitar, Sam wanted no part of it. He did have standards, after all.

He glanced up to find Pennington glaring at him. “You'll like Antonin Dvorak tomorrow night,” his boss told him. “Or you'll find another job elsewhere.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “Oh,
that
Dvorak,” he said. “Gosh, I just love him. I thought you guys were talking about Bernie Dvorak, who sat behind me in third grade. That guy was a schmuck.”

He wasn't sure, but he thought Bridget expelled an exasperated breath at that. Probably, he thought, she
was concluding that he was an ill-bred clodhopper who didn't have any appreciation for the finer things in life and had no idea how to behave in polite, refined society. But that wasn't true at all. For one thing, he'd been bred for speed and agility—not to mention good looks and smarts. For another thing, he had a very deep appreciation for the finer things in life—especially things like girls named Bambi and Mitzi wearing string bikinis, and the rumble of a V-8 engine in a cherry-red '64 Mustang convertible, and an ice-cold bottle of Rolling Rock on a hot summer afternoon. For yet another thing, he knew exactly how to behave in polite, refined society: like a stiff. So take that, Princess Bridget.