Too Many Brothers. Roz Fox Denny
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didn’t book two party clowns. Look, she has these big slipper feet in a couple of different styles. I can see this working,” she said excitedly. “And…the kids are yelling now to bring on the clowns.”
Daphne found herself agreeing less enthusiastically. What had she been thinking? “You’d have to shave. But I have greasepaint in my kit.”
“No. Then I’d be back to putting you all in danger. Besides, they’ll see through any attempt.”
That did it! He’d cast aspersions on her ability. “I promise you, Agent Grant, when I finish with you, not even your own mother will recognize you.”
“Quit calling me Agent Grant. That’s a dead giveaway,” he snarled.
Daphne clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I’ll think of something else to call you. How does Pancake sound? Or Custard?” Her sarcasm was unmistakable.
“I’d rather meet the guys outside with one hand tied behind me,” Logan retorted disdainfully.
April, who’d slipped briefly out of the room, returned with a razor and some clean underwear. She passed the items to her brother none too gently.
“I’ll need a shirt and pants,” he said as he headed for the guest bathroom.
Both April and Daphne shook their heads, but it was April who spoke. “They’d stick out like a sore thumb under this flimsy costume. I’m disposing of those clothes you have on,” she said stoutly. “They’re disgusting, Logan.”
He capitulated, though not gracefully. “Give me the damn clown suit. I doubt it’ll fit, but we’ll try it your way. If my boss or coworkers ever got a load of me in this, I’d never hear the end of it,” he muttered as he tore the clown suit out of Daphne’s hand, dived into the bathroom and slammed the door.
The women grinned at each other. In spite of the fact that they’d only just met, it was as if they’d bonded through this mutual accomplishment.
“April, go on out to the party and buy us some time. Tell the kids we’ll start the show in fifteen minutes. I’m sure you can come up with another short game.”
Nodding, the hostess left, and Daphne spread out her supplies. She set a chair in front of the mirror and began to apply her makeup.
When Logan shuffled out hesitantly in a silly one-piece clown outfit with a wide ruffled collar and baseball-size green puffballs that ran from his neck to his crotch, the outer room was vacant except for his new partner. “When I was a kid,” he said, eyeing her, “my dad gave me a talking Bozo the Clown. You look exactly like him.”
“I know,” she said smugly. “But if I’d known you shared a kinship with Bozo, I might’ve made myself up to look like his sidekick, Blossom.”
He squinted into the bright light she turned on over the mirror. “Wow, I’ve gotta say I’m impressed. If I hadn’t met you without makeup, I wouldn’t have a clue what you looked like in real life. Can you really do the same to me?”
“I’m going to try. Sit.” She pointed to the chair. “Otherwise I’ll trip over my feet.”
Logan cast a glance downward at her big, floppy slippers. An automatic laugh bubbled up.
“See, it works every time. The makeup. It’s why people see clowns and laugh.”
“Not all clowns are funny. Some are downright scary. For instance, our team once arrested a ring of clowns who walked right into houses in broad daylight. They preyed on latchkey kids. Of course, the kids let them in without a peep, and one clown entertained while his pals pulled a disappearing act that entailed backing a moving van up to the house. They burgled freezers, TVs, jewelry. You name it, they heisted it.”
Daphne frowned. “That’s awful. Especially when you think they might’ve done worse than clean out a house. They could’ve murdered the kids.”
Logan reared back, appraising her again. “My boss and I said exactly the same thing. Hmm, there are other kinds of clowns, too. At my buddy’s bachelor party, somebody hired one who did a rip-snorting lap dance. I don’t suppose you—”
“Absolutely not,” she said. But Daphne’s fingers, slick with the greasepaint she was applying to Logan’s newly shaved face, slipped off just imagining it. After he’d washed and scraped off his beard, Logan Grant looked too darn good. He stirred a heat in her that was better doused. If she had terrible luck with jobs, relationships were even worse. She was hopeless at choosing men—beginning with Kevin McBride, who’d come to pick her up for the prom on his muddy Harley. The jerk had taken a bet cooked up by Daphne’s brothers. Those guys always seemed to mess up her love life.
Logan Grant set off all kinds of warning bells in her head. Without whiskers and with his sun-streaked, longish blond hair tied back, there was no doubt he had a rakish kind of sex appeal. Just touching his smooth cheeks, no matter how impersonally, made Daphne’s fingers tremble.
It didn’t help that his killer blue eyes never left her face. She cringed at the thought of how she must look under his scrutiny. White face. Arched and exaggerated black eyebrows. A wig of red yarn, which was bald on top. Sheesh!
In reality, though, Logan sat there recalling how Daphne Malone had looked before suiting up as Bozo. Once he’d felt halfway safe from Billy Holt’s long grasp, Logan had taken time for a cursory once-over of the half-dressed woman he’d grabbed. All her body parts were strung together fine. Very fine, in fact. At first he’d seen her as cute. Later he’d altered that to hot—although she wasn’t his type.
After the demise of his short-lived marriage to another agent, a marriage that was probably the biggest mistake of his life, Logan tended to date women who weren’t only real lookers but had high-powered careers. Careers well out of his field. And they had to be women whose minds weren’t on the M word. One disastrous attempt at domestic bliss had been enough to last Logan a lifetime.
He watched Daphne step back, tilt her head to one side and examine him critically, and he still couldn’t shake the other image—the one in which she was barely dressed.
Well, hell! “Are we done?” he muttered.
“Almost.” She leaned around him to scoop something off the bed. A bright red felt hat that had bushy white hair attached to all sides. As she straightened, Logan got a whiff of a perfume that nearly had him following her with his tongue hanging out. Damn, but he was a sucker for certain scents. This one did something to his libido. Cranked it up full bore.
Daphne set the silly top hat squarely on Logan’s head. She made sure every bit of his own hair was hidden from view. “The flower on your hat has a vial of water attached by this camouflaged button on the brim. You can act like you’re tipping your hat to a lady. Instead, you squirt her with a fine spray of water. I don’t recommend using it on kids—they often have short fuses and no sense of humor when it comes to practical jokes. But the moms generally laugh.”
He stood then, and walked over to the mirror as Daphne pulled on white gloves to cover his big hands. “I can’t believe I’m really going out in public looking like this,” Logan lamented, lifting first one foot and then the other so she could install his oversize slippers. They felt awkward as hell.
“I can paint on tears so you can be a sad clown,” Daphne said tartly, climbing to her feet to peruse him from head to toe. “Otherwise, quit frowning. You’ll mess up the paint. The way I see it, I’ve just saved your scrawny butt.”
Logan scowled harder, or tried to. The thick face paint discouraged facial expressions, he discovered.
“Listen up, Special Agent. Here’s the plan. I have a few simple tricks I show the kids. I do a few riddles and give little prizes for correct answers. You’ll be my assistant. I’ll tell everyone you’re a clown in training. Natalie asked me to paint everyone’s face. If you’ve had any experience, we can split up the kids. If not, you’ll have to hang out and hand me paints and brushes as I need them.”
“I