Tempting Fate Read online

  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

  * * *

  Prologue

  ^ »

  Logan McCord drew the line at kissing. Hell, he really enjoyed sex, and he was willing to try almost anything to please his partner. Except kiss her lips.

  "Sugar," whispered the woman, moving closer, her bare breasts grazing his chest.

  Logan noticed her seductive pout, then her lips parted. Why did women automatically assume because you had sex with them that you wanted to kiss them?

  He wasn't going to let her kiss his lips. No way.

  He scooted upright, back against the cracked wall, and turned his head. Her moist lips brushed the three days' growth of stubble bristling across his jaw. He put his arm around her, and she rested against his shoulder, her long, dark curls tickling his skin.

  "You are very beautiful," Logan said slowly, knowing her English was limited.

  Her breath was warm against the crook of his neck. She'd doused herself with perfume. The scent was rising from her hair, almost gagging him. Again, she said, "Sugar."

  Some other customer must have taught her that word. She used it constantly along with: "You like?"

  Logan had liked her body, but he knew he wouldn't remember her long. Paying for sex made it forgettable, less personal. He preferred it that way.

  He checked his watch and saw the Breitling's glowing hands. He would gladly have kissed his watch. The Chronomat Blackbird with the lightweight Titanium band had kept him alive more than once.

  3:00 A.M. the infallible Breitling told him.

  Shafts of moonlight filtered through the tattered burlap bags that had been nailed up as curtains. Out of habit, Logan checked the dark shadows in the room. Nothing. Even the bar on the floor below was silent now.

  He was between assignments, waiting for a high-level security clearance for a new anti-terrorist project. No one was after him

  Still he was edgy, restless. The only time he'd had trouble getting a security clearance had been when he had first applied years ago. Questions about his past had been raised, then overcome by his impressive record while training for the Cobra Force. Why was Washington screwing around now?

  It's because you want this assignment so much.

  "True," he muttered under his breath. They had already given him the computer he would need, a state-of-the-art laptop no bigger than a paperback book. And an arsenal of high-tech gadgets to fight terrorists. Now all he needed was the security clearance and he could begin.

  "Sugar." She interrupted his thoughts as she trailed her fingertips across his chest. "You like?"

  Her whispered words almost masked the slight creak. The third stair from the bottom had squeaked when he'd stepped on it while following the woman up to the flea-bag room where he was now trapped.

  The stairs were the only way out.

  Since he had been a kid, he'd made it out of a lot worse jams. And lived to remember and learn from those miserable lessons at the camp.

  "Ss-h-h!" he told the woman. He reached for his Glock, pulling it from the windbreaker he'd dropped beside the bed along with his clothes. He pointed it at the brunette's temple, again whispering, "S-s-h-h!"

  It was an idle threat. He wouldn't fire the damn gun and wake half the town. He could kill her with one hand if necessary and not make a sound. He had his pants on and was crouched by the door when another telltale squeak came from the stairs.

  No one's after you, he told himself. Okay, so why was someone sneaking up the stairs in the dead of night?

  The past has a way of catching up with you, he thought. He had made some very dangerous enemies. One of them could have discovered where he was holed up ready for his next assignment.

  Logan turned the knob, attempting to muffle any sound with the hand that held the gun. The warped door scraped open with a sound like a bone splintering. The windowless hall was pitch black, shapes discernible only by degrees of darkness. No one was there, but he sensed someone stealthily moving up the stairs just around the corner out of his sight.

  He waited, back pressed to the wall, his finger on the Glock's trigger. The air in the short hallway reeked of stale beer. From the alley behind the bar came the screeching of two tomcats, itching for a fight. The shadow reached the top stair, then hunkered down. Logan cursed himself for not being more careful.

  Always be certain there are two ways out.

  The shadow darted to one side, then hit the floor, rolling to the opposite wall before Logan could aim his gun.

  "Gotcha!" yelled the man.

  Logan shoved the Glock into his waistband, instantly recognizing the voice. "Brodie Adams. You son-of-a bitch! What are you doing? Trying to get killed?"

  The man surged to his feet, chuckling. "You're in kickass form. I can't even blindside you while you're getting laid."

  "Give me a second," Logan said. "Let me get my clothes."

  Back in the room, the woman was still huddled in the darkness. Logan found his T-shirt and windbreaker on the floor, then handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

  Even in the moonlight filtering through the burlap, the woman recognized the new Franklin one-hundred-dollar bill, a fortune in Argentina.

  "Sugar … Sugar," she cried as he left.

  Out in the hall. Logan asked his partner, "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you were so bored that you decided to see if you could catch me off guard."

  Brodie crooked his head toward the stairs, indicating they should talk outside. Logan silently followed him down the wood plank staircase. Brodie probably wanted to tell him the security clearance had finally come through.

  Outside the building, the night air was cool and refreshing after the stale room. Brodie Adams turned to him, his expression dead serious.

  "Logan, your security clearance is on hold."

  From the time he was a child, living at the camp, Logan had tutored himself to show no emotion. Years as a member of the Cobra Force had reinforced those early lessons. He stoically listened while Brodie explained the situation. With those few words, Logan McCord's life completely changed forever.

  Just as it had so many years ago.

  Brodie waited, obviously anticipating a response to the bombshell he'd just delivered. Logan shrugged off the news. After all, danger had always been his best friend.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  « ^ »

  Instead of returning home after the dance, Kelly Taylor drove to her office. A lovers' moon hung over Cathedral Rock, illuminating the magnificent spire and the surrounding red rock formations. The blue-white glow cast deep shadows across the unique pueblo-style buildings, making the adobe appear a shade darker than it did in daylight. At times like this when most of Sedona was asleep and the only sound was the lonely, soul-stirring cry of a coyote seeking its mate, Kelly missed the big city.

  Arizona had been her home for most of her thirty-one years. She'd lived in the East for the last decade, attending college, then working in New York City. Returning to Sedona, even though its quaint beauty appealed to her, took some adjusting.

  She parked her temperamental Toyota in the newspaper's lot. The only noise came from the rear of the adobe complex where the antiquated press was cranking out the bi-weekly edition of the Sedona Sun.

  Inside, Kelly dropped her evening bag onto her desk, then rifled through her messages, thinking she should go home. But deeply ingrained habits were hard to break. For as long as she could remember, she had slept until almost noon, then worked all night. Her usual schedule did not allow for time with Pop. And time had become all too precious.

  "Go home now," she muttered to herself. "Set your alarm for
sunrise so you can have breakfast with Pop."

  A sharp, insistent knock interrupted her thoughts, echoing through the deserted building. A warning bell sounded in the back of her brain. Who would come to the newspaper office at this hour? The second knock caused the skin on the back of her neck to tighten.

  She walked out of her small office into the semi-dark day room where two reporters shared a desk near the receptionist's bay. Sedona was a safe town, a haven for artists and writers who believed the majestic red rock formations inspired them. Along with the artists came the wealthy, drawn, too, by the awesome landscape and the ambiance of the cultured community.

  She paused, her hand on the door knob. What was wrong with her? She wasn't the type who had premonitions. Well, the day after Christmas she would go to the sales, absolutely, positively certain she'd find something she simply could not live without.

  But that was it, the extent of her premonitions. Even when she should have sensed something was wrong like the time she'd kissed Daniel good-bye or when she'd used an unreliable source, her intuition had failed to kick in.

  So why now?

  "For heaven's sake, this isn't New York or L.A.," she whispered to herself. "Everything's fine."

  The rustle of sound beyond the door unnerved her, and she hesitated a second before she turned the knob. In the shadows stood a tall, handsome man with dark hair and lively brown eyes.

  "Matt," she cried, stunned. "What are you doing here?"

  He pulled her into his arms and gave her a hug that filled her with bittersweet sadness for the time when they'd been inseparable.

  B. D., she thought. Before Daniel.

  "Hey, Ace," Matthew Jensen said. "Why didn't you dress like this when we were working together?"

  She looked down at the silk slip dress she'd chosen because the splashy violet print emphasized her blond hair and brought out the amber lights in her brown eyes. The dress nipped in at the waist, then draped softly over her hips and thighs. It had been perfect for the dance, but it looked ridiculously out of place in an office reeking of newsprint and ink.

  "It's a long way from New York City to Arizona," she reminded him. "I just came from the Sedona Arts Center Ball. It's a must for anyone in business here."

  She laughed and he chuckled along with her, his flint brown eyes reflecting the sense of humor Matt always used to his advantage. Still, it felt great to share a laugh. How long had it been since she'd genuinely laughed?

  Since Daniel Taylor had died.

  "Come in, Matt." She tugged on his arm and he walked into the semi-dark reception area. "What are you doing here?"

  "I was in the neighborhood," he answered as they walked back to her office.

  "Yeah, right," she said, puzzled about what could possibly have brought him out West. As certainly as her career had eclipsed, Matt's star had risen. He was now publisher of the New York-based news magazine Exposé, a major achievement for a man not yet thirty-five.

  "Actually, I came to see you, Kelly."

  "Really?" She didn't venture a sideways glance at him. The last thing she wanted Matthew Jensen to see was her cubbyhole of an office. Her official title was editor-in-chief, but in reality she did whatever it took to get the bi-weekly on the stands, from selling ad space to writing copy to billing. It was a long, long way from the city desk she'd once shared with Matt.

  "Not only did I come all this way just to see you, I've been driving around until you showed up," Matt told her, and she almost smiled, knowing how much he hated to be kept waiting.

  "Well, you found me, and this is where I work."

  She waved her hand at the small room that had been her grandfather's office for over fifty years. A Timex clock beside an Arizona state flag dominated one wall while the other walls were covered with plaques and photographs, a tribute to Pop's status as a community leader. When she'd taken over his job, she hadn't had the heart to change anything.

  Matt smiled or tried to and glanced down at the computer mockup of the next issue that was on her desk. "Liberating chickens? Is that for real?"

  She sat on the edge of her desk, one leg slightly hitched up, blocking his view of what had to be the most asinine article she'd ever written. "What can I say? The Society to Liberate Chickens is holding a demonstration this Saturday. That's big news in Sedona."

  Matt sank into the chair opposite her desk, sprawling in a loose-limbed way that was endearingly familiar. "You don't belong here. I want you back in New York working with me."

  His words brought an ache of gratitude, and she managed to smile as she gazed into his dark eyes and saw he was serious. Of all the people to continue to have faith in her—despite her terrible mistake—it would be Matt.

  "Thanks for your support," she said, justifiably proud of her calm tone. "My grandfather is very ill. I can't just walk out on him. Pop needs me to run the paper. Besides…" She let the word hang there. They both knew she'd disgraced herself. Matt might want her, but the owner of the prestigious news magazine would be outraged.

  "I have your ticket back to the show, Ace," he told her with a smile.

  The show. New York. The big time. Last year she'd been there, poised at the pinnacle of success. An ace reporter. It had been a long, hard fall, a descent into oblivion symbolized by this small office and a headline about liberating chickens.

  Matt leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression serious. "All you have to do is write one story. It'll take a little research. That's all." He smiled as if everything had already been decided. "Then you return to New York whenever you're ready."

  "Sounds tempting," she admitted, "but what's the catch?"

  He kept smiling, but his head tilted just slightly. Kelly had known Matt since their college days working on the Yale Herald. This wasn't going to be easy, yet Matt would never concede any difficulty. That's how he convinced people to work so hard for him.

  "Remember the disappearance of the boy Senator Stanfield adopted?"

  "Sure, it happened right here over twenty-five years ago. Parents still warn their children about it," she told him, wondering what this old news had to do with a breaking story. "On the anniversary of Logan Stanfield's disappearance, the paper recaps the story."

  "I'll bet that issue sells more papers than any other."

  "It's one of the best sellers," she conceded. "People are still fascinated. A little boy—just five—goes out for a pony ride and falls into a ravine. His older brother and sister go for help, but when they return, the child has vanished."

  "I read the UPI clips on it. Senator Stanfield financed quite a search. Bloodhounds, the Mounted Patrol, helicopters, an Indian shaman, then private investigators scoured the country."

  "I guess," she replied, even more confused about Matt's interest in the case. "It happened a few years before my parents were killed and I came to live here with my grandfather."

  "Two weeks ago Logan Stanfield turned up."

  "You must be kidding. They found the body? How did they ID him after all this time? Why doesn't anyone around here know about it? The Stanfields' estate is just outside of town. They're big news around here."

  Matt leaned back in the chair and swung his legs up to her desk, resting his Ferragamo loafers on the wood. "They IDed him by matching his fingerprints with the ones on the adoption records."

  "Back then, it was unusual to fingerprint a child. If he hadn't been adopted, I doubt if his prints would have been on record."

  "The FBI is using a sophisticated computer with digitized fingerprint analysis. They've just added a lot of older files to their data base. They were running a top secret check for a special project when they discovered Logan is working out of the U.S. embassy in Argentina, using the name Logan McCord."

  She slid off the edge of the desk and paced across the small office. "How did he get there? Where's he been?"

  "That's the mystery, the interesting angle on the story. It's why I need your skills as an investigative reporter. Logan McCord didn't offic
ially exist until his eighteenth birthday when he walked into a Marine recruiting office in Northern California and enlisted. The records don't tell us anything about his life before then."

  "Wait a minute! He had to produce a hospital birth certificate to enlist."

  "Not if you were delivered by a midwife. Then all you need is a form signed by a registered midwife."

  The quiver of excitement built in her chest, the way it always did when she was onto a great story. "He must have had a social security number. Parents have to—"

  "What if your parents were hippie types who wandered from town to town and never bothered to pay taxes? Logan McCord filed for his own social security card when he was accepted into the Marine Corps."

  She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "It still sounds fishy to me."

  "Logan McCord claims he had no idea he was the missing child until the FBI computer matched his fingerprints with a set in the missing persons file. He thought the McCords were his real parents."

  She turned and gazed at the picture of Pop with the governor. "You know, my grandfather was right. He thought a tourist was visiting one of the vortexes in the area. They discovered Logan and took off with him."

  "Two weeks ago Senator Stanfield was notified his son had been found. Logan McCord took a leave and flew here to meet his family. I wouldn't know a thing about this except a top-secret source in the CIA tells me Logan McCord's security clearance is on hold until the legal questions about his name are resolved." Matt smiled, unable to conceal his excitement. "I'm wondering why the Stanfields have kept this so quiet."

  Kelly dropped into her chair; the elation she'd experienced just moments ago had evaporated. "This isn't out of character for them. They're a rich, powerful dynasty headed by Haywood Stanfield. When something happens, they call the spin doctors."

  Kelly tried to temper the sarcasm in her voice with a smile. She had absolutely no use for the snobby Stanfields. They had done their best to ruin her grandfather's paper just because he didn't share their political views. Granted, Pop often antagonized them with his scathingly critical editorials, but they were rich and arrogant.