He glanced down at himself, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing.
“But then I guess this is a celebration for you,” she continued. “Do you intend to dance on his grave at the cemetery, too?”
She would make damn sure of it that he never got the chance—even if she had to throw him out herself since no other mourners had arrived yet. Where the hell were her brothers?
They had always been there for her when she needed them most. Until today...
“I’ve already been dancing,” Logan replied.
She struggled against his grasp; she didn’t want a man capable of such a hateful comment touching her.
“At my brother’s wedding,” he continued.
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