She hated him; she reminded herself of that as she jerked away from the unsettling warmth of his long, hard body. “What the hell are you doing here?”
And why had he put his arm around her? He was the last person from whom she would ever expect support—especially today.
“I think you know,” he replied, his deep voice vibrating with anger.
She shook her head. “I have no idea...unless you want to make sure that he’s really dead...”
With a trembling hand, she gestured toward the casket and toppled over one of the flower arrangements. The vase rolled across the tiled floor, leaving a trail of multicolored petals and water behind it. She gasped at what she’d done.
But Logan Payne didn’t react. He was staring at the casket. Maybe she had been right about his reason for coming.
She followed his gaze to her father’s corpse. She’d already seen it when he’d died. She had made it to the prison in time to say goodbye. Wasn’t that supposed to have given her closure?
Stacy felt no calm acceptance. No gratefulness. She felt nothing but anger—all toward Logan Payne. So she turned back to him, and then she turned on him. Literally lashing out at him in her anger, she swung her hand toward his unfairly handsome face.
The man had some crazy reflexes, because he caught her wrist, stopping her palm just short of one of his chiseled cheekbones. Despite not slapping him, her skin tingled—maybe with the need to slap him yet. Maybe because he was touching her, his long fingers wrapped easily and tightly around her narrow wrist.
“I can’t believe even you are such a heartless bastard that you’d show up at my father’s funeral,” she said, lashing out now with her words. “And in a tux, no less.”
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
