Roz Fox - Too Many Brothers

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.