With Good Behavior (13 page)

Angelo was silent, and Logan’s heart sank. “Yeah, he just found out. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Damn straight I want to know. Can’t you do anything? Can’t you contain Carlo?”

It was a familiar argument: Logan urging Angelo to cut loose the one man who seemed to destroy all their plans, and Angelo balking. “He’s my son,” Angelo said, his voice breaking.

Logan sighed. “Yes, Godfather.”

“I’m trying to keep Carlo away from the books, Logan. But someday he’s going to find out I’ve been bankrolling your little getaway to the tropics, and he’s not going to like it. Someday you’re going to have to start contributing more to the business. Wanted man or not.”

“I know. Just leave Grant out of it. I’ve already involved him way too much as it is.”

“I hear you, Godson. But as you know, Carlo disagrees. He talks nonstop about the money you lost, and if you don’t pay it back soon, he’s going to try to get it any way he can.”

“Shit,” Logan muttered. “Do you know where Grant is?”

“No, no one knows. We don’t think he’d be stupid enough to return to Chicago.”

“You’re probably right,” Logan lied, trying to sound convincing. He could just about guarantee his brother was somewhere in Chicago. That was where their mother was buried.

Suddenly rushed, Angelo whispered, “I gotta go. Take care of yourself. 
Ciao
.”

Logan closed his phone, continuing to gaze at the sea. His regret regarding Sophie was a single drop of saltwater compared to the ocean of remorse he felt about Grant.

It was a little over two years ago, a couple of weeks before the court ordered Logan into therapy with Sophie. One week before his actions sent Grant to prison.

This time Grant saw Logan coming. This time Grant was not surprised by his brother approaching the grave. This time it was their mother’s birthday, and Logan had known his brother would be here.

As Logan sidled up to his brother, Grant continued staring at the headstone. They stood wordlessly side by side, roughly the same height, with the same closely cropped midnight-black hair. Finally, Grant said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Logan responded. After waiting a beat, he added, “I heard you were back in town.”

“How the hell did you know?”

The muscles lining Logan’s jaw flexed. “Carlo found out. I don’t know how. He hears everything.”

“I told you to stay away from him.”

The corner of Logan’s mouth twitched, amused by his little brother trying to tell him what to do. The half-smile quickly faded, however, when he remembered the recruitment task ahead of him. Staring sadly at the bare ground in the headstone’s shadow, Logan asked, “What, no flowers this time?”

Grant sniffed. “I didn’t have time. I have a flight to Norfolk in a couple of hours.”

“To visit Joe?”

“Yeah.”

They stood in silence once again, and Grant shivered slightly in the cool March breeze. His eyes did not move from the grave. “I wonder what she would think of me now,” he murmured.

Logan’s lips tightened. He knew their mother would be very proud of the man Grant had become, in contrast to her feelings for Logan. Her older son was now a no-good crook.

Wincing, Logan realized he was about to let down his dead mother yet again. But it had to be done. He had no choice.

“Your trip to see Joe might have to be delayed. I’ve got something for you to do before you leave,” Logan told Grant.

“No,” Grant responded immediately, vehemently.

Logan swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer.”

Slowly turning to face his brother, Grant’s crystal eyes clouded over. “What does that mean?”

Unable to hold his brother’s intense gaze, Logan cleared his throat uncomfortably, hating himself. “It means that unless you help us, we’re going to hurt Joe. You do a job for us, or Uncle Joe will die.”

Grant gasped at the hideous threat. It was preposterous for Logan to threaten the life of their own mother’s brother. Part of him wanted to laugh—a sick, harsh chuckle at the cruelty of his own family. But it was no laughing matter. Closing his eyes and scraping his hands across his buzzed hair, Grant knew the truth: This was a lethal and imminent threat. They had killed before, and they would kill again. They would take away the only remaining person he loved in this world, unless he did their bidding. He had no choice.

Grant heard a numb voice that had to be his own. “What do I have to do?”

“The bar near Great Lakes,” Logan replied evenly. “We’re going to take something back from there that belongs to us. And we need your help, Lieutenant Madsen.”

He had joined the Navy to get away from his family, and now they were using his military status against him. Grant felt sick. “Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Logan smiled encouragingly. Once they accomplished this robbery, Logan promised himself he would never involve Grant again. He would keep him safe from Carlo no matter what it took.

Suddenly, Logan realized it was almost pitch black at the beach around him. The sun had long ago descended below the horizon, and he could barely see his hand before his face.

Sighing heavily, he trudged through the sand toward the plantation hotel. Once he reached the sidewalk, he shook out his boots and brushed the sand off his jeans, wishing he could shake his memories of Sophie and Grant just as easily.

He had utterly failed at keeping Grant safe, and now that Grant had sacrificed his freedom by going to prison, Logan was determined not to fail again. Though he was still pursued by the police, he would have to return to Chicago and pay his debt. Logan would remain hidden no more.

C
ontinuing to serenade her softly with Frank Sinatra tunes, Grant leaned on Sophie’s shoulder as they slowly made their way up two flights of stairs in the brownstone apartment building.

Then, just outside Kirsten’s apartment door, Grant passed out. How could a man who appeared so lean be so heavy? Knowing muscle weighed more than fat, Sophie surmised that Grant must be pure muscle. He had been in the Navy after all.

Somehow managing to keep hold of him while simultaneously knocking and yelling for her roommate, Sophie was relieved when Kirsten finally threw open the door.

“Forgot your key, So—?”

She stopped her question midstream and gaped at Sophie struggling to hold up a dark-haired man who appeared to be melting into her.

“I need your help, Kir,” Sophie groaned.

Kirsten immediately tucked her neck under the man’s opposite shoulder, effectively sandwiching the hunk of meat between them.

“Thanks. Can you help me bring him inside?”

Bursting with curiosity about her unexpected guest, Kirsten replied, “Sure, let’s get him to the sofa.”

Sophie loved her roommate for jumping to help without one question asked. What a different reception she would have encountered on her father’s doorstep.

Carefully they plodded into the apartment, half pushing, half dragging the unconscious Grant.

Kirsten scrunched her nose. “He reeks!”

“Yeah, he had one too many tequila shots.”

Finally, they hauled him to the sofa and allowed him to plummet into the cushions with a thud. Sophie bent over to arrange him neatly on his side, huffing from the exertion of adjusting his dead weight. Once she stepped back, Kirsten admired his perfectly shaped head, tanned and flawless skin, long eyelashes, and plump lips.

“Who 
is
 he?” she demanded. Before Sophie could answer, Kirsten added, “Wait a minute. Did you finally take my advice and get yourself a boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Sophie countered, glancing down at Grant. “At least not yet. I barely know him.”

“That’s got potential!” Kirsten grinned. Peering more closely at Grant, Kirsten wondered, “Do we need to take him to the ER?”

“His color is pretty good,” Sophie said, leaning down to grasp Grant’s hand in hers. “His breathing is okay, and his skin is not cold or clammy. I think he’ll be all right.”

“As long as we keep him on his side,” Kirsten finished. He appeared to be sleeping it off peacefully with a slight smile ghosting his striking features. “We should also keep an eye on him, which shouldn’t be too difficult.” Kirsten grinned. “He sure is easy on the eyes. How many drinks did he have?”

“I’m not sure,” Sophie shrugged. “This is my fault. He’d never had alcohol before, and I encouraged him to drink some tequila to calm his nerves.”

Kirsten gaped at her roommate. It was certainly out of character for Sophie to get a strange male teetotaler drunk. Had she changed in prison?

After they both stared wordlessly at the sleeping beauty for a few moments, Kirsten asked, “Okay, Taylor, are you going to tell me who this guy is, or do I have to beat it out of you?”

Sophie met her roommate’s inquisitive eyes. “You know that guy who got me the job yesterday? On the ship?”

“That’s 
him?
 Oh my God, you didn’t tell me how gorgeous he was! Why can’t I run into a yummy McSailor like him?”

Sophie chuckled. “McSailor is actually a great name for him. I just found out he used to be in the Navy. But don’t get too excited, Kir. Do you remember what else I told you about him?”

After a beat, Kirsten frowned. “He was in prison.”

Sophie nodded.

“What for?”

“I don’t know. We made a pact not to discuss our pasts.”

Kirsten absorbed this information, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So, it’s possible that you brought a murderer into my apartment?”

Sophie was startled. She hadn’t considered this possibility. “He’s—he’s not a murderer,” she insisted.

“How do you know?”

“I just know, that’s all. He’s very sweet. You can’t see them now, but he’s got the kindest blue eyes—the most soulful, expressive eyes you’ve ever seen. And our boss said something about him saving a kid’s life. He can’t be a murderer.”

Kirsten remained skeptical, her arms folded across her chest.

“Don’t you trust my judgment?” Sophie implored. “You know me! I have a good intuition about people.”

“Uh-huh, and what exactly did your intuition tell you about Logan Barberi?”

The words escaped Kirsten’s mouth before she had a chance to think, and once she saw Sophie’s face crumple, she immediately regretted them. “Oh, Sophie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Sophie turned away and slowly sat on the futon. “You’re absolutely right,” she said, looking at her feet. “I shouldn’t be trusted. My judgment is horrible. Now you’ve got two felons in your apartment. I’m probably going to drag you down with me.”

Kirsten knelt beside Sophie. “Would you please ignore what I just said? I’m an idiot. Of course I trust you, and I have faith in your judgment. You’re the smartest person I know. I would never have gotten through grad school without you. Who in the world finishes her dissertation in six months? You’re amazing.”

Sophie still looked heartbroken. Searching for the right words, Kirsten added, “You’re also the most compassionate person I know. Who else would have tried to help that nut job Elena get through school?”

This time Sophie grinned faintly, remembering their fellow counseling student Elena Roja, who had appeared mentally unstable and completely overwhelmed from the start. She’d been dismissed from the program after only one semester.

“But, Sophie,” Kirsten gently continued, “sometimes you’re a little too kind. I think that’s why that Barberi guy manipulated you so well, and I’m just scared you’re going to get involved with the wrong person again by reaching out and trying to save them.”

Sophie raised her head. “Thank you, Kir. But so far Grant is the one who’s saving 
me
. He helped me get a job when I desperately needed one, and he’s been nothing but a gentleman.” She paused for a moment, fondly recalling the warm kisses he’d planted on her face and neck in the cab. Perhaps that behavior wasn’t so gentlemanly after only their first day of working together, but Sophie didn’t mind. “If I don’t trust him simply because he was in prison, then how can I expect anyone to give 
me
 a chance? I’m a felon too.”

“Please don’t use that word,” Kirsten said.

“It’s what I am, Kirsten. A felon. I’d better get accustomed to it.” Sophie rested the back of her head on the futon and yawned.

“Looks like you had a long first day of work.”

“You could say that.” Sophie smiled weakly.

“Did you have any dinner?”

Sophie thought a moment. “Actually, no.”

Popping up, Kirsten ordered, “You stay here and rest then, and I’m going to heat up some stir-fry leftovers.”

“No,” Sophie protested, trying to get up from the low futon, but Kirsten pressed firmly on her shoulder.

“Let me get you some food. Somebody needs to watch over drunken McSailor anyway,” she smirked.

“Oh, I guess I’ll make the sacrifice then.” Sophie returned the smirk and added a wink.

Kirsten busied herself in the kitchen, and as she nuked the stir fry, she caught Sophie staring intently at the man on the couch. 
Grant
 was his name? Sophie gently rearranged his arm, trying to shift him to a more comfortable position. Then she sat back on the futon and sighed happily.

Kirsten froze. She knew that look. Sophie had exhibited that same blissful, contented stare every day in their Theories of Personality class. There she’d aimed that look at their dashing professor. Kirsten had attempted to discourage Sophie’s pursuit of a man twenty years their senior to no avail. Sophie had been forced to learn the hard way—a mortifying, ego-shattering rejection of her earnest confession of love. Despite his flirtations, their professor had been happily married.

Kirsten did not want her friend to endure that kind of pain again. She brought in the steaming plate, but did not capture Sophie’s attention until she was standing right over her. Sophie jumped a bit and smiled gratefully, reaching up to take the food.

Kirsten slowly shook her head, her mouth tightening with disapproval. Sophie warily inquired, “What’s wrong?”

She pointed at Sophie. “That look on your face. I know that look. You like him. You like McSailor!”

“Kir—”

“This is not good at all. You are positively smitten with him.”

“Kir—”

“I can’t believe it. You are falling for another criminal!”

“Can I talk now, please?” Sophie interjected more aggressively than she intended. She took a deep breath, intending to protest, but found she couldn’t refute Kirsten’s suspicions. Sophie sheepishly admitted, “Yeah, I do like him.”

“As if you could deny it!” Kirsten gave a satisfied nod and pulled a chair from the kitchen table into the small living room, plopping down across from Sophie and waiting expectantly for her to continue.

Her face glowing, Sophie bashfully confided, “He kissed me in the cab.”

“Really? How was it?”

“Nice,” she responded dreamily. She stole a glance at Grant and hoped he really 
was
 passed out. “We haven’t kissed on the lips – yet—but it was still lovely.” Frowning slightly, she added, “I hope it wasn’t just beer goggles, or should I say, tequila goggles.”

Snorting, Kirsten retorted, “I highly doubt that. You’re a great catch, Sophie. You’re gorgeous, but more importantly, you have a fantastic personality. Grant should be so lucky.”

Sophie could not stop tears from springing to her eyes. After a lifetime of her father’s criticism and a year of the judicial system throttling her self-confidence, she could scarcely believe such kind words. “Oh, I’m a real catch,” she said, blushing. “A woman who went to prison, a woman on parole for being incredibly naïve and stupid. I can see my profile getting all kinds of hits.”

Kirsten’s eyes narrowed wickedly. “Ooh, I know what your screen name could be: Prisoner of Love!” She giggled.

Sophie simply shook her head and brought a forkful of rice and vegetables to her mouth.

“Ex-Con in Search of McSailor?” Kirsten asked hopefully.

Finishing her bite, Sophie countered, “I thought you were 
against 
me falling for a criminal.”

“I am,” Kirsten replied definitively, reminding herself of her prior position. “Although this is one of the first times I’ve seen you smile since you got out.” Gazing at the long form of the sleeping man on her couch, she added, “And he is hopelessly cute.”

“Hunter wasn’t so thrilled about me fraternizing with a con either,” Sophie admitted. “But if he met Grant, maybe he would change his mind. I can’t wait for you to see what Grant is like. You’re going to love him, Kir.”

I could say the same for you,
 Kirsten thought. Sophie seemed like she was well on her way to loving Grant already.

* * *

She awoke to a strange sound. Sophie blinked several times in the darkness, and pressing silence greeted her ears as she lay completely still on the futon. Then the sound occurred again—from the direction of the sofa. Listening intently, Sophie determined it was a whimpering noise, a soft, helpless cry. And the cry was coming from Grant.

Sophie sat up on the hard mattress, barely making out the contours of his lean body in the blackness. Once her pupils dilated further, she could see his eyes were closed. He must be dreaming.

His breaths came in quickened rasps, and he began talking in his sleep. At first his words were unintelligible, but then she heard “I promise.” She waited, frozen, consumed by an uncomfortable feeling that she was invading his privacy.

“No, no,” he pleaded urgently. “No. I promise I’ll be good.”

His voice cracked, and Sophie’s heart almost broke. Who was he pleading with? Was he having a nightmare? Should she wake him?

His body trembled, and his breathing intensified. “Please. No. I promise.” He gave a shuddering cry. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”

Sophie’s throat tightened as she listened to a grown man speak a child’s words. But then he lapsed into stillness and his breathing gradually slowed. Tiredness overtook her as his steady breaths lulled her toward sleep, and she returned her head to her pillow. A short time later, she was startled awake again. This time his words were clear, sharp, angry. “Leave!” he snarled. “Get away from him!”

She held her breath.

“Leave Ben alone,” he demanded. 
Who was Ben?
 “Leave him alone.”

Several moments passed and then he murmured, “I’m his uncle. Don’t you know what that means? I protect …” His words were hard to make out until he reiterated, “I’m his uncle!” Then he inhaled sharp breaths, gulping for air. “No!” he cried.

His breathing crescendoed before halting entirely for a few seconds, then his panting slowly decelerated as he shifted around on the sofa. Sophie knew he was now awake. He sat up with a start, then brought his hand to rest on the top of his head, emitting a slow groan of pain.