Lisa Childs - Explosive Engagement

“I didn’t accuse your father,” he reminded her. “He was caught at the scene. He was tried and convicted.”

“Of murder,” she said. Shaking her head yet at the injustice, she added, “My father was not a murderer.”

Patek Kozminski had been a lot of things—by his own admission—but he could have never taken a life. The judge and jury had come to the wrong conclusion.

“He killed my father,” Logan said with all the rage and anguish as if it had just happened yesterday instead of fifteen years ago.

She shook her head again.

“My father caught him in the commission of a felony...”

Logan Payne was no longer a police officer, but he still talked like one. His father had been a police officer, too, who’d caught her father robbing a jewelry store.

“He resisted arrest,” he continued, “they struggled over the gun. And my father wound up dead.”

“My father did not kill him.” The man she’d known and loved wouldn’t have resisted arrest; he wouldn’t have fought with a police officer. He wouldn’t have wrestled the gun away from him and shot him with it. There had to have been someone else there that horrible day, someone else who’d really committed the crime...

“My father is dead,” Logan said.

“And now so is mine,” she said, gesturing again to the casket, but this time she was careful not to knock over any flower arrangements. “Are you happy?”

Logan sighed. “No.”

“No, of course not,” she hotly agreed. “You would have rather he lived many, many more years and spent every one of them behind bars. That’s why you showed up at every parole hearing to make sure he didn’t get out.”

“He killed a man!” Logan said.

Tears stung her eyes, and she shook her head. “No, no, he didn’t...” There had to have been someone else...

“The judge and jury convicted him,” he said it almost gently now, as if Logan Payne had any concern for her feelings.

He hadn’t, or he would have stopped showing up at the parole hearings; he would have let her father get out of prison. If not for Logan fighting it, her father would have been granted parole. He had been a model prisoner.

He had been a model father, too—even from behind bars. Now she had no father at all. She could almost relate to Logan’s rage, but hers was directed at him.

“He wasn’t convicted of murder, though,” he said, correcting her earlier comment. “It was manslaughter.”

“Which is why he had been up for parole already four times.” And why he would have been released...if not for Logan Payne.

“It should have been murder,” he said. “The charge was too light. So was the sentence...”

“The sentence wound up being death,” she said. “You gave him that sentence.”

“I didn’t—”

“If you hadn’t showed up at those hearings, he would have been released. He wouldn’t have been there for that crazy prisoner to stab. He wouldn’t have been behind bars with animals like that!” She swung her other hand now. But his damn reflexes were so fast that he caught her wrist again. She struggled against his grasp and cursed him.

But Logan didn’t even blink at her insults. His gaze remained steady and intense on her face. He was always so damn intense. Despite her rising temper, her flesh tingled and chilled, lifting goose bumps on her skin—even skin that was covered by her new black sweater dress.

“What the hell’s going on?” a familiar voice demanded to know.

“Get your damn hands off her, Payne!” another voice chimed in.

Her brothers had finally arrived. She’d wanted them earlier—to be there for support over her father’s funeral. But now she felt a rush of fear as they ran down the aisle toward her and Logan. She was actually afraid for Logan because her brothers were very protective of her—to the point that they had even killed for her.

Were they about to do that again?

Chapter Two

Logan released her—so abruptly that Stacy stumbled back. He would have reached for her again, just to steady her, but one of her brothers caught her. The other one reached for him. Garek or Milek—he didn’t know who was whom. They weren’t twins, but they looked nearly as much alike as he and Parker did. These guys were tall, too, but with blond hair and gray eyes.

Stacy had the same smoky-gray eyes—with thick lashes she kept blinking. Not to flirt with him—he was the last man she’d ever flirt with—but to fight back tears over her father’s death. Her hair wasn’t as blond as her brothers. It had streaks of brown and bronze and gold.

He jerked away from whichever brother was grabbing at him. Then he dodged the fist the man swung, even more easily than he had dodged Stacy’s attempts to slap him. Maybe he should have just let her hit him. Maybe then she would have gotten the revenge she sought.

No. He doubted her quest for revenge would be satisfied until he was as dead as their fathers.

She might have been telling the truth about not owning a gun. But she didn’t need to; she had brothers who would do anything she told them and that was the same as pulling the trigger.

He reached beneath the tuxedo jacket for his gun.

“Really?” Stacy asked, her voice shaking with anger. “You’re going to pull a gun at my father’s funeral?”

He paused with his hand on his holster. “Would you rather I just let them kill me?” He mentally smacked himself for the dumb comment. Of course she would rather he just let them. That was the whole point of trying to murder him.

“They’re not going to kill you.”

“Don’t lie to him, Stace,” one of them said.

“You’re not going to kill him,” she said with a meaningful glare at both of her brothers. “We are not going to ruin our father’s funeral.”

And that was the only reason that she wouldn’t let them kill him here—in the dark church with its dingy stained-glass windows and scratched up tile floor. It wasn’t as pretty and bright as the church he’d just left—the one his mother had bought and turned into a wedding chapel and reception hall.

“You don’t think he’s ruining it,” one of the brothers asked, “by showing up here in a freaking tuxedo?”

Regret flashed through Logan, but he’d been so damn angry—and with damn good reason—that he hadn’t considered how he was dressed before he’d rushed over from one church to another. “Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to change between my brother’s wedding and getting shot at.”

“If you were shot at during your brother’s wedding, maybe it had something to do with him or his bride,” she said. “Why do you automatically assume it had anything to do with me or my family?”

“Because it did,” he said with total certainty.

She shook her head. “We can’t be the only enemies you’ve ever made.”

Probably not, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. “Usually people appreciate what I do for them.”

“You expect us to appreciate you keeping our father in prison?” she asked, her gray eyes widening with shock and outrage.

“Let me kill him,” one of the brothers pleaded with her.

She was younger than them, but she was definitely the one calling the shots, literally, in the Kozminski family. She stared at her father’s body lying in the bronze casket and shook her head. “Not here, Garek.”

Not “no,” just “not here.”

“And you wonder why I think it’s you behind the attempts on my life...”

“Attempts?” she repeated.

The one she’d called Garek laughed. “And there’s your proof that it’s not us,” he said. “We wouldn’t have had to try more than once to kill you.”

“I own a security firm,” he reminded them. “I will not be easy to kill.”