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That explained the tux.
“But then somebody tried to kill me,” he said. “Again.”
That explained his white shirt being smudged and rumpled and his thick black hair disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. What would it feel like? Coarse or soft? Not that she cared to ever find out. She didn’t want to touch Logan Payne, and she sure as hell didn’t want him touching her.
So she tried again to wriggle free of his hold. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “Do you think I care?”
“I think you’re behind it,” he said.
“Me?” She hadn’t even been able to slap him. “How am I supposed to have tried to kill you?”
“You shot at me,” he said.
“I don’t own a gun.” Her brothers had tried to give her one for protection, but she’d refused. Her protection had a threatening growl and a mouthful of sharp teeth to back up his threats. Too bad she hadn’t been able to bring Cujo to the funeral.
He snorted derisively, as if he doubted her. Of course he doubted her; Logan Payne doubted everyone.
“You’re doing it again,” she said. “Accusing someone of a crime they didn’t commit.” She turned back to the casket. Her father was only in his early fifties but he looked much older. Prison had turned his brown hair white and etched deep lines in his tense face. Wasn’t he supposed to look peaceful, like he was sleeping? But even in death, her father had found no peace—probably because of Logan Payne.
“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.”
“I don’t know...” the other brother, Milek, mused as he walked around Logan. “You showed up here alone.”
“He’s not alone,” a deep voice very much like his own announced from the back of the church.
Of course Parker would have figured out where he’d gone. But he hadn’t come alone, either. Their little sister had tagged along like she always had when they were kids. She hadn’t outgrown that annoying habit yet. Fortunately, one of Payne Protection Agency’s most loyal employees had come along, too. Candace Baker stood next to Parker, her hand beneath her jacket, probably on her holster.
Instead of being grateful for the backup, Logan was incredibly annoyed with the interference. And the doubt. He could take care of himself and them, and he had proven that again and again.
“What the hell are all of you doing here?” he demanded to know.
“Mom sent us,” his twin replied.
“Of course she did.” Their mother had a problem remembering that he ran Payne Protection—not her. Logan had overlooked her interference when it had involved her matchmaking his brother with his new bride. But he didn’t want her interfering in his life. “She had no right...”
“That didn’t stop you,” Stacy bitterly remarked.
“I had no right to what, dear?” Penny Payne asked as she joined them in the church. Unlike him and Parker who wore the wedding tuxedos, she’d changed from her bronze-colored mother-of-the-bride gown into a black dress. She hadn’t been on the steps to see off Cooper and Tanya. She must have been changing then—as if she’d always intended to attend the funeral of the man who’d murdered her husband.
“Why are you here, Mom?” he asked. He doubted he would ever understand her, but neither had his father. It hadn’t stopped Nicholas Payne from loving her, though. And it wouldn’t stop Logan, either, unless he wound up like his father: dead at the hands of a Kozminski.
Out of respect for Mrs. Payne, Stacy motioned her brothers back, but they were already stepping away from Logan. They wouldn’t touch him now—not in front of his mother. She couldn’t promise they wouldn’t exact some revenge later.
Even now she wondered...
Could one of them have fired those shots at the wedding? Her heart pounded heavily with dread and fear. She couldn’t lose one of them like she’d lost her father—to prison. They had both already spent too much time behind bars.
And she couldn’t lose Logan Payne, either. Not for herself. She didn’t care about him. But his mother loved him. And it would kill her to lose a child like she’d lost her husband.
Mrs. Payne swung her hand toward that child’s face. His reflexes weren’t fast enough to stop her palm from connecting with his cheek. It wasn’t quite a slap but a very forceful pat. “Why are you here?” she asked him.
“You must have heard the gunshots outside the church,” he replied. “Somebody tried to kill me again.”
Her hand trembled against his cheek, and she sucked in a shaky breath before asking, “Again?”
He groaned as if in regret at his slip or embarrassment of her concern. “Mom...”
Stacy’s lips twitched at how close Logan Payne came to sounding like a petulant child. Even when he’d been a child of just seventeen at her father’s trial, he had already seemed like a man. Strong. Intimidating. Independent.
“You don’t need to be concerned,” he assured his mother. “I’m putting a stop to it now. That’s why I’m here.”
“How is coming here putting a stop to anything?” Mrs. Payne asked, her usually smooth brow furrowed with confusion.
“You know how,” he said.
“No, I don’t.” She shook her head.
“It’s one of them,” he insisted, but his gaze focused on Stacy.
“I don’t understand,” his mother continued. “Did you see one of them with the gun?”
Logan shook his head now.
“Then you have no business coming here today of all days,” she said, “unless you’ve come to express your condolences and pay your respects.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked, his deep voice vibrating with betrayal. “Are you here to pay your respects to the man who killed your husband...who killed my father?”
Stacy’s heart lurched with the pain in his voice. He was wrong about who’d taken his dad, but he’d still lost him, even sooner than she’d lost hers. At least she had been able to see her father the past fifteen years even though it had been behind bars.
“I am here for Stacy,” Mrs. Payne replied, and her arm came around Stacy’s shoulders.
She’d tried so hard to be strong—to be tough like her brothers and like Logan. But Mrs. Payne’s warmth and affection crumbled the wall she’d built around herself so many years ago. Her shoulders began to shake like her knees had earlier.
“Is it okay with you that I’m here?” Mrs. Payne asked. “If it’s too difficult, we’ll all leave...”
“That would be best,” a woman chimed in.
Stacy glanced up to see her aunt and uncle walking down the aisle toward them. Aunt Marta was tall and thin with frosted blond hair and a frosty personality. Uncle Iwan’s hair had thinned while his body had widened. He was a big, imposing man, but he smiled at her. Aunt Marta glared. That look wasn’t meant for Mrs. Payne but for Stacy. She’d been on the receiving end of it many times, but she was not yet immune to the coldness and shivered.
