The bones of my feet protested as I staggered into the living room. After being forced into contortions all night, they weren’t reacting well to level ground.
Rustic hominess greeted me. Bare wooden beams comprising most of the ceiling. Gray stone accents made up most of one wall and contrasted with the canary yellow couch that sat in the middle of the room. Heather had insisted on decorating the apartment with bright splashes of color to offset my dour decorative tendencies.
To my surprise, she was waiting up for me, sipping on a glass of Merlot. She stared out the window into the bleak, cloudy night until she heard me enter the room.
Heather was nothing short of gorgeous. The perfect chestnut ringlets that fell to her mid back were completely natural, and not the result of careful styling. She was short and curvy, and curled up perfectly on one cushion on the couch. Ever upbeat and optimistic, she was the teacup poodle to my basset hound.
She turned halfway in her seat, dark wine threatening to splash the cushions as she did so.
“Where have you been?” she exclaimed, her eyes roaming my body. “Ohh! Did you have a date? I checked the schedule and you didn’t have any clients due after Doctor Stephenson. What gives? Did some strapping man finally pick you up and drag you to his bed?”
I rolled my eyes and, despite my sour mood, fought not to grin at her hopeful tone. Heather owned more romance books than was healthy or sane. An entire wall of her room was devoted to the silly things.
“More like I was conked over the head by a caveman,” I muttered. “You would not believe the night I’ve had.”
Heather seized the bottle of Merlot and waggled it at me, a sly grin stretching her full lips. “Want to tell me about it over a glass?”
I didn’t want to get into the disastrous first attempt at seduction at the Ritz-Carlton. I’d have to explain why I’d been there at an unscheduled time, without an invitation, to meet with a man I didn’t want to be with. I’d have to tell Heather about the blackmail. I’d have to tell her how much danger I’d landed every one of my girls in.
Panic was like a germ. It gets into you, it makes you sick, and it spreads to others if you let it. But if I didn’t tell someone, I was going to go to pieces.
“Fuck a glass,” I muttered. “Give me the bottle.”
Heather raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t comment on my lack of decorum as I seized the bottle and took a long swig.
I wasn’t usually a fan of red wine. Too dry and not enough alcohol content to make it worth the flavor. I’d take a screwdriver over Merlot any day. Still, it was there and it helped take the edge off of the worst of the night’s humiliations.
“Whoa, girl,” Heather said, pulling the bottle from my lips. “That’s enough.”
“There isn’t enough wine in the world,” I groaned. “Give that back.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
I opened my mouth and the ugly truth came spewing out like so much word vomit. Before I could stop myself, I’d told her most of the story.
Heather sucked in a breath and lost her grip on the stem of her glass. It tumbled to the carpet and landed, dribbling the remainder of wine onto the creme carpet.
She let out a soft swear word and bent to retrieve it. “Are you serious, Mina? Was that where you were? What happened? Did you manage to get it?”
“Which of those questions do you want me to answer first?” I asked dryly.
Heather bit her lip. “The last two.”
“Yes, that’s where I was, and no, I didn’t manage to get it. The mark was...unexpected and difficult.”
That prompted the obvious follow-up question, the one I’d been dreading the most.
“Who was he?”
I took the bottle back from her and upended it, finishing the contents before I answered. I was beginning to feel pleasantly foggy. Wine always made me sleepy. Soon, I’d crawl into my gauzy canopy bed, my only concession to light and fun decor, and sleep off the memory of what I’d done.
“Logan Farraday.”
“Fuuuck,” Heather intoned, drawing the word out into a long epithet. “Why him?”
Heather was one of the few people I’d shared the whole sordid mess with. She knew who Logan was and what he’d done to ruin me. She’d pushed me to date for years now, hoping that the right man would be able to pull me away from my work. She was the closest thing I had to a sister. If I’d turned up with Logan’s body and an ax, she’d have helped me bury him.
Somehow, the burden of my situation felt lighter now that I’d shared it. And she was handling it well, all things considered.
I shrugged one shoulder delicately. “I wish I knew. I’m up the creek, Heather. I don’t stand a chance of seducing him. He called me a hooker and yanked me away from the party as quickly as possible. He still hates me.”
Heather shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. You broke up with him, remember? A man like Logan Farraday doesn’t just give up, and he doesn’t take rejection. I think you can still make this work.”
“How? How the hell do I do that? I practically threw myself at him in the hallway. He shut me down. He’s not interested.”
Heather’s grin returned in full force, a little wicked this time. “You need to play hard to get. Men love that.”
I snorted. “You’ve read too many romance novels.”
“Come on, Mina. You can’t give up after just one try. Think. What are some of his weaknesses? You knew him for years. You have to have picked up on something that would entice him.”
Wine-addled and angry, it took me a while to muddle through all my observations on Logan. I tried not to peer too closely at the memory of him. The past was a sharp, painful place to live, and one that would drive me to drink if I hadn’t already finished off the wine. A thought finally bubbled to the surface, slow and lazy.
“He hates it when women get hurt,” I mumbled. “It has to do with what happened to his mom. He witnessed her death. I think she was mugged. He was always very overprotective, like I was made of china or something. It pissed me off.”
Heather clapped her hands together. “That could work! We can give Drake a call. He’d be happy to help.”
Drake Berg was an ex-stripper who now made his money by staging elaborate fantasy scenarios for bachelorette parties and wealthy women with fetishes. Heather had hired him for my birthday one year. The cop scenario had only succeeded in giving me a panic attack, rather than a good boinking, as Heather had planned.
“He could stage a mugging,” Heather continued. “We set Logan up to save you. Voila, you have your in.”
“What? No!” My head shot up off the couch. “That would be wrong. Plus, I don’t think Drake wants to lose the ability to walk. Logan is huge. He could really hurt him.”
“Drake’s a big boy and he’s learned to take a punch.” Heather waved the warning away. “We’ll pay him double if it makes you feel better. I think playing on Logan’s white-knight complex is your best shot. And it’s sure to hit a nerve. Sounds like you don’t have time to take a shot in the dark.”
I leaned back into the couch, sagging boneless into the yellow cushions. “And then? What do I do after I have his attention?”
Heather smirked. “Tell him the truth. Someone’s trying to kill you. Then he’s all yours.”
I nodded. That could work. And despite the guilt it caused me, I told myself Logan deserved it.
“Call Drake in the morning and get him on the schedule. Heather, we have a man to con and no time to lose.”
Chapter Six
Logan
Ian Mercer always ordered the same thing, every time we met. Black Cod with artichoke and mint.
The restaurant, Providence, was a favorite of mine for business meetings, and Monday called for comfort. Situated on a rather bland stretch of Melrose Avenue, the cuisine was always impressive enough to please any colleague of mine while maintaining a light and unpretentious atmosphere.
“The Wagyu not to yo
ur liking there, chief?” Ian asked, smirking a little at my barely touched steak.
In truth, my appetite was nonexistent. My recent phone call with Doctor Watts had done nothing but throw my father’s failing health into sharper relief. It was unlikely he’d live another month at his current rate of deterioration. But rather than focus on his own mortality, my father had called to insist that I make Katherine and Phoebe return from South Padre and accompany me on tomorrow’s business trip to Morocco.
I plastered a genial smile onto my face. It wasn’t Mercer’s fault that my life was shaping up to be a shit show. “Never tried it, actually. I’m not sure it agrees with me. I usually order the clams.”
Ian made a noncommittal response and popped another bite of cod into his mouth. When he’d finished chewing, he wiped at his chin with a napkin and finally glanced at the folder that I’d placed on the table at the beginning of the meal. My father had once told me it was bad form to begin business before the meal, but anything that got me out of here faster was a plus in my book.
I was finding it increasingly hard to focus on work. There were three things desperately pressing for my attention.
My father’s failing health meant that control of Farraday Industries would inevitably fall to me. Even the thought of that made me feel like Atlas, with the weight of the world pressing down on me. The legacy was never one I’d sought and not one I enjoyed.
Another, very concerning issue was the blackmail being leveled at my father and, by proxy, myself. Would Owen Mason’s sway disappear when there was no one left to threaten, or would he produce something incriminating about me next? Perhaps the circumstances that had been fabricated as justification for my other-than-honorable discharge. I couldn’t imagine that would play well in the press.
The last thing weighing on my mind should have been the lowest on my priority list. My old flame turning up at a party without an invitation had been novel and somewhat infuriating, but it shouldn’t have consumed my thoughts or invaded my dreams the way it had.
I gritted my teeth as a wave of desire swept through me. She wasn’t even in sight, for fuck’s sake. I was here to conduct business, not fantasize about an ex-girlfriend like some sort of randy teenager.
Shifting my weight carefully to conceal my growing arousal, I slid the folder another inch toward him. “If you’ll look over my proposal, I’m sure we can come to an agreement on those materials.”
Ian flicked the folder open with a hum, examining the document within. “You know I can’t give you any concrete answers until my lawyers look this over?”
“I’m aware.”
Ian spent a further few minutes examining the contract before setting it aside and sipping his wine. He’d already decided on a number of proposed changes. Mercer should never play poker, or he’d lose his considerable fortune. The man had more tells than a rookie boxer.
His eyes slid to the second-story window of the private dining room, examining whatever lay outside. I expected he’d make a casual comment about the weather, however, his dark, beady eyes zeroed in on something at the ground level.
He made a sound of appreciation in the back of his throat. “Now there’s a view, don’t you think, Farraday?
There were two apartment complexes situated across from Providence, painted an inoffensive shade of yellow. Clearly not what Ian had meant by the comment.
I found what he’d been admiring only a moment later. In the early afternoon sunlight, her hair shone like a flame-bright beacon, drawing the eye to the breathtaking body that accompanied the touchable fall of hair.
Walking was too casual a movement for what she was doing. She sauntered down the street, bag hiked high up on her shoulder, a coffee cup clutched in one hand. The pencil skirt drew attention to the fine curves of her hips and ass with every long-legged stride. The forest green blouse was arranged in a neat French tuck, and her hair had been piled into an intentionally messy bun. Gone was the temptress who’d thrown herself into my arms only two nights ago.
A small, secret smile played at the edges of her lips as she talked animatedly to the brunette at her side. The woman was dressed in business casual attire, the same as Mina.
I squinted at the newcomer. Hers wasn’t a face I recognized from the parties I frequented. Was this one of the famed Hustler girls that Mina employed to dupe unwary men? She was pretty enough for it.
Pretty, but overshadowed by the statuesque woman at her side. I couldn’t seem to draw my eyes away from her for long, so I watched what happened next play out in stunned shock for a second.
A man approached the pair, pushing against the flow of traffic down the sidewalk. Gray sweatpants bagged off his hips, a grease-stained wife beater clung unpleasantly to what could only graciously be called a spare tire, and a wool cap pulled down low only barely disguised the knotted mass of unwashed hair beneath. I didn’t know what a man like this was doing on Melrose. The upscale residents of the neighborhood would call the cops before a vagrant graced the sidewalk of their tidy neighborhood.
Mina gave the man a wary, sidelong glance as he passed, edging away from him on reflex.
I couldn’t blame her. If he smelled as ripe as he looked, it had to be like passing a landfill.
The man stopped in his tracks, and his voice filtered through the open window. “What are you looking at?” he shouted.
Mina cringed back, bumping into her friend. The sudden jerking motion sent coffee sloshing from her cup, landing in a dark stain on her blouse. A yelp startled from her lips that sent a tingle of rage humming along my skin. Someone needed to punch some manners into the man.
Her reply was too soft to hear from our vantage point.
Blood pounded in my ears and the table creaked beneath my hands, which I’d unconsciously gotten in a white-knuckled grip.
This wasn’t my business. Mina was a big girl, and she could handle herself. She wouldn’t welcome my interference. Not now, not ever. She’d been ready to gouge out my eyes the last time we met. I didn’t imagine an act of unasked for chivalry was going to impress her.
The man advanced on her, wide, blood-shot eyes fixed unblinkingly on Mina. “I asked what you were looking at, you prissy, stuck-up bitch! Do you think you’re better than me?”
The man swept an arm out, knocking the coffee cup from Mina’s hands. It landed at her feet and sloshed still more brown liquid on her ankles.
My vision went white, and by the time I became aware of my actions, I’d stalked halfway down the stairs.
The door to the lobby narrowly avoided hitting a server when I banged through it. He hopped back, barking a sharp reprimand at me. I was far from caring.
The hostess scurried from behind her podium, blocking my exit.
“Excuse me, sir,” she began in a weak, wavering tone. She was probably five feet tall, and if she weighed a hundred pounds, I’d eat my left fist. “There’s the matter of the bill.”
Her words finally penetrated the thick haze of rage. Right. To anyone who hadn’t observed what Ian and I had, my bolt toward the front door would look like a dine and dash. My anger edged out by only a fraction.
I jabbed a finger at the open front door as a patron exited. “A woman is being assaulted. Why hasn’t anyone called the police?”
The blonde hostess blinked at me in surprise before following the line of my finger.
Mina had backed into the wrought iron fence that surrounded the apartment complex across the street, flattening the brunette into a post. She brandished her bag like a weapon and took a swipe at the vagrant, shouting back at him.
Irrational pride had my mouth curling into a smile. The little girl had grown up into a woman who took shit from absolutely no one. If she’d had some proper training, she probably could fend the creep off on her own.
A vision of Mina in dark spandex, pressed into my chest as we grappled, sent heat shooting through my veins and blood rushing to my cock.
I turned on my heel and continued toward the door, lest the evide
nce of the completely inappropriate arousal catch the hostess’ attention.
“Call the authorities,” I advised her. Because this bastard is going to need an ambulance when I’m through with him.
Sunlight stabbed at my retinas and when my eyes adjusted, I was met with a picture that sent my adrenaline into overdrive. He’d fucking laid hands on her. I shot across the street after only a cursory glance down Melrose revealed no cars on the road.
The contents of her bag spilled onto the sidewalk and rolled into the grass. The greasy man had her arm in a vice-like grip.
He glanced back at the sound of my approach. “Come to play the big hero, huh? Well, I’ll tell you something—”
He was cut off mid-sentence, half-swallowing the knuckles of my right fist. The force of the blow snapped his head back. He staggered back three steps before hitting the iron fence with a satisfying thwack. Blood splattered onto the pale stone from his open mouth.
The would-be attacker slumped to the ground, eyes sliding out of focus. He was done, but my anger was far from dissipated.
Mina stepped in front of me before I could haul him up and hit him again.
“Christ, Logan, he’s down! Stop it. Do you want to go to jail?”
“He attacked you,” I growled, barely acknowledging the petrified stare of Mina’s companion. The sting in my knuckles was gratifying and not something I’d felt in a long time.
“And now he’s unconscious. Jesus, Logan. What are you doing here? Are you following me? I had this perfectly under control. Heather called the cops and—”
“Me, following you? You’re the one butting into my life, Blakely. I’ve had this meeting scheduled for two weeks.”
Mina’s chin snapped up and set in that stubborn way that made my cock harden every time. The arguments we’d often found ourselves in inevitably led to some of the hottest sex I’d had in my life. Ever since, I’d been conditioned to find any woman’s anger, especially this woman’s anger, to be an enormous turn-on. The urge to tug her into my Escalade was overwhelming. I’d have been willing to bet she wasn’t wearing underwear. The pencil skirt she wore showed no lines where the fabric stretched over a perfect ass, so she was probably bare. It would be so easy…
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