by Carly Carson
"Yes, sir." Rosie wasn't as chipper this time.
Logan looked at Noah. "We'll need PR to be prepared. Just in case."
The expansive smile Noah was known for flitted across his face. "If anyone can contain it, she will."
"Right." But Logan didn't hold out much hope himself. His company had always had a pristine image. He pushed away the memory of how hard he'd worked to achieve that image. It didn't matter now. Both the press and the public would enjoy the crashing fall so much more than a scandal from an already tarnished company. Vultures, one and all.
And he'd be the carcass.
Phoebe chose that inopportune moment to open the door and lean against the jamb in a stance suggesting she thought she was posing for a Penthouse pictorial. Her deep cleavage was highlighted by a closely fitted shirt that tied at her waist. Her pants were tight enough to make walking problematic. Even through the haze of his anger, Logan noticed that she was pinup material. Funny, he'd never realized she was a working girl.
"How divine." She swished into the room. "Two of the best-looking men in Manhattan."
She leaned down to buss Noah on the cheek, and to show her tits to Logan.
Noah averted his cheek.
Logan clenched his hands under the desk and looked directly at her. "You're fired."
"Oh, my." Lowering herself into the chair next to Noah, Phoebe giggled. "How very dramatic."
"As you know," Logan said, as if she hadn't spoken, "both your phone and your computer are Winter Enterprises property. You will be allowed to remove your personal property from your office."
"Winter is a good name for you," she said pleasantly. "Not just cool, but cold."
Logan surveyed her more carefully. Were her pupils dilated?
He glanced at Noah. "Is she high?"
"It's possible. She definitely has a coke habit."
Phoebe's eyes flashed. "Don't even think of talking about me as if I'm not here."
"Actually," Logan snapped. "You're not. Since your employment here is terminated, your presence is no longer required."
"Actually," Phoebe mimicked in a sing-song voice, "my job here is quite secure. But tell me, what is the reason you're trying to fire me?"
"Your escort service," Noah said succinctly. "We have all the documentation we need to make our case."
"You've forgotten one very important thing." Phoebe smiled. "If you destroy my business, I'm afraid the press will hear all about it."
"I'm not worried you'll tell them," Logan said. "Your business is illegal."
"Was it illegal when you did it?" she retorted.
"Jesus." Logan closed his eyes. He did not need this problem now. It would be bad enough if she were going to tarnish his company. But it looked like she was determined to attack him personally, as well.
He opened his eyes to see Blankenship on his feet, anticipating Logan's orders.
"Please excuse us, Noah," Logan said. "Thank you for all your help."
"Yeah." Phoebe smiled at Noah. Slowly. "You're a good boy, Noah," she purred. "A very good boy."
Noah fled.
Logan folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. "Okay. What is your game here in telling me I can't fire you?"
"Game?" She arched her brows. "I like working here. A girl needs a job, you know."
"Your job here is gone. So what are you thinking? Blackmail?"
"So crude, Logan." She pouted.
"I think blackmail is crude. Or extortion, or whatever scheme you think you've cooked up."
"I need money, Logan. I do have expensive habits." She stood up and sauntered around his desk. "I know you like to pay for sex." Before he knew what she intended, she pulled the tie at the bottom of her blouse and flipped open the two sides of the shirt. "Perhaps I could tempt you."
"Sorry." He averted his eyes from her amazing tits. Why in hell had he gotten rid of Blankenship? Who knew what this woman would do next? More importantly, how could he get rid of her? He really wasn't interested in insulting her, but he sure as hell didn't want to see her try to wriggle out of those pants. "You're not my type," he muttered.
"We have far more in common than you think, Logan." She leaned over his desk, her breasts swaying. "I, too, had a sister."
Logan jerked in his seat, though his mind was frozen in shock. How dare she?
"Oh, yes," she added. "I know all about you, Logan Winter. I know exactly why you keep everyone at an arm's length distance. Everyone knows your strengths. But only I know your pain." She leaned her hip against his desk. "And your weakness."
He shoved back his chair. "You know nothing," he said, his voice deep with agony. "Whatever you think you know is wrong. Whatever you're planning is not going to happen. Your office is being cleaned out right now. I suggest you go salvage your personal belongings."
Phoebe straightened up. Her face contorted in a snarl. "You're being hasty, Logan, and I promise you, you'll regret it." She grabbed the ends of her shirt and twisted them together. "This—" She shoved her hand into her purse—"is the only personal belonging I care about."
She slapped a dog-eared photo down on his desk. "I've been carrying this around for just this moment." Her long, manicured fingernail tapped the picture. "Here's my sister. Set your uber-hot guard dog on that, Logan."
She turned toward the door but then looked back over her shoulder. "Oh, yeah, I've fucked him, too. You're the only holdout, Logan." She smiled. "So far."
Before she'd made it past Rosie's desk, Logan had Blankenship on the phone. "Find out about her sister," he told Noah. He didn't need to go into details with Noah, which is one reason why the man was so useful. Logan didn't know what he'd do with the information Noah discovered. That didn't matter right now. What mattered was understanding how and why Phoebe had become so twisted, so that he'd have facts to use against her if necessary.
When Blankenship reported back around dinnertime, Logan was surprised. Phoebe and her sister had been hit by a drunk driver when Phoebe was twenty-one and her sister was only twelve. Phoebe had survived, basically without a scratch. Her sister had died. Yeah, there was a lot of potential for guilt there, deserved or otherwise. Phoebe had been driving.
Logan clicked off the report Noah had sent him. He couldn't turn off the words so easily.
Two accidents.
Two deaths.
Phoebe was right about one thing. They did have something in common.
But he had a more pressing personal problem to deal with. He picked up his phone and contacted Amanda.
***
Logan threw a photo clipped from the newspaper onto his desk.
Amanda's eyes widened as she saw the image of her and Josh standing next to the O'Briens at the American Lung Association benefit.
She glanced at Logan. Why was he showing her this?
"Had an exhausting weekend?" Logan opened the inquisition with a snarl.
Amanda gaped at him. Her weekend had been somewhat depressing, truth be told. She and Josh had attended the gala, which had been fun enough. But she'd let Josh kiss her when he took her home, and there had been no spark. She hadn't invited him in, and he hadn't mentioned another date.
Deep in her heart, she feared she was comparing Josh to Logan, and Josh couldn't measure up. No man could. She didn't doubt Josh could sense her coolness, although it was certainly possible that he didn't feel any spark either, because there simply wasn't any chemistry between them.
But she still had a need for a boyfriend. Soon.
"My weekend was fine," she said to Logan.
"I didn't realize you were dating one of your colleagues," Logan snapped.
"I—I"— She stopped her stammering and tried to swallow. Her mouth was so dry. "Is that against company policy?"
"It could hardly be, since I am pursuing you."
Pursuing her? The words echoed, even as a burst of delight exploded within her like a mini-firecracker. She shouldn't be pleased at his words. She knew perfectly well, if he was pursuing her, his on
ly intention was to score and move on. Why should that gratify her?
"How did you get that picture?" she asked. The best defense was always a good offense.
"Someone slipped it into my interoffice mail," he said dryly. "Anonymously, of course."
"Why are you showing it to me?"
"Perhaps I'm surprised, given that you've told me often how you don't have time for a social life."
"This event," she said, gesturing to the photo, "was for the American Lung Association benefit. I'm sure you understand why it's an important cause to me."
He met her gaze. "I would have escorted you."
She couldn't stop a tiny gasp of surprise. "You? But you've been at great pains to tell me you don't date."
"So this was a date?" He pounced on her words. "Did you ask him?"
Her back stiffened. "My private life is my own."
"If you need to attend a social event, I will escort you."
She stared at him. He couldn't be serious. "Is this an order?"
He leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. "Does it need to be?"
"I don't intend to let you or anyone else dictate what I do on my personal time."
"I don't like the word 'dictate'. I merely suggested what you might do to—ah, please me. Most of my employees wish to do so."
Amanda sucked in a breath, and leaned over his desk. "If you are implying that I might lose my job over my social life, let me inform you that would be sexual harassment."
"Have I said anything about sex?" He raised his brows. She saw the heat in his gray eyes.
Amanda knew she'd made a mistake. Because the word "sex" had jumped onto the desk between them, dressed up like a red-hot devil, and throbbing with passion. She couldn't think of any response as her brain was fully occupied with a heated fantasy of Logan standing up and strolling around the desk, reaching out a hand and raising her from her seat. Then he'd lay her across his desk—
"And you can't sue me for my thoughts," Logan said softly.
She pulled back. "You can't control my private life."
"Nor do I wish to," he responded. "But if you think about what I'm saying instead of getting upset, you'll see it would have made more sense for me to go with you. Obviously, you support this charity because of your sister's illness. I would have been happy to make a—suitable donation to the cause."
"You still could," she muttered.
He laughed. "Make it worth my while."
"That's cold, you know."
"Yes, it is. And I'm cold." He met her gaze straight on. "Accept that fact and save yourself a lot of heartache."
She stood abruptly. "Don't worry. I don't intend to have any heartache over you."
"Good." He leaned back in his chair, all cool control and hot testosterone. Handsome as sin and twice as dangerous.
The little red devil jumped off the desk and skittered through her brain. What would Logan do if she lifted her skirt? Could she snap his control? Or would he simply smile, stroll around the desk, bend her over it, and pound her into ecstasy?
She feared the latter. The man was too appealing to her, and she knew him well enough to know he'd be an expert at anything he chose to do.
"This conversation is over." If she didn't leave soon, she would make a terrible mistake.
"Agreed." Logan palmed his phone. "Plan to have dinner with me tonight."
She opened her mouth to issue a sharp refusal.
"Felipe will pick you up downstairs at 6," he said. "We're having problems with the Dallas Robotics deal."
Chapter 16
Amanda tried not to be nervous as they rode in silence to Logan's home. She'd been surprised when he informed her that they'd have dinner at his place, but his tone had been curt, and she didn't have a good reason to argue. Certainly, he wasn't acting like seduction might be on his mind.
In fact, he seemed unusually tense, almost angry. Perhaps he was still mad about the photo.
She'd be glad to get the meeting over with. She'd spent the afternoon reviewing all her notes about Dallas Robotics and speaking with the other company employees assigned to the case. As far as she could tell, everything was in order.
Of course, Logan had contacts higher up in the target company, so he may well have heard something she had not.
She sighed as Logan unlocked his door, one of only a few on the hallway facing them as they exited the elevator. Yeah, Rosie was probably right. Looked like he was loaded. The beautiful, well-maintained building on Park Avenue was a far cry from her sublet down on the lower East side.
Logan led the way into his dark apartment, flipping on light switches as they passed through a pin-neat foyer. But she was surprised to see that the apartment, though spacious and well-appointed, was not enormous. On the left she saw a good-sized living room, with large windows black with night. A formal dining room seated ten or twelve people. The kitchen ahead turned out to be utilitarian, with stainless steel appliances, plain European cabinets and black granite counters.
But someone had softened all the coldness of the kitchen with hints of color. A bouquet of flowers brightened the center island. Oven mitts decorated with shiny red cherries lay on the counter next to a neat array of serving platters.
Logan saw her eye light on them. "The housekeeper," he said. "She says even when you keep getting the pits, cherries are still worth eating."
Amanda laughed. "I'm sure she's not referring to you."
Logan raised his eyebrows. "No?"
She rolled her eyes. As if he ever got the pits. "What about the roosters?" She waved at the lineup on the window sill. Half a dozen brightly decorated roosters marched along the ledge, and a few more stood next to the sink, as if they'd fallen off the higher perch.
"She likes roosters." Logan lifted a platter of steak from the refrigerator. "She says there's always a new day."
"Kitchen philosopher, huh? Has she had a lot of trouble in her life?"
"Enough."
Logan ducked his head back into the fridge, almost as if he didn't want to look at her.
"What can I do to help?" She wasn't much of a cook, but a salad should be within her capabilities.
"Everything's all prepared," he said. He checked something in the oven. "I'll grill the steak and maybe you could carry the rest of the food into the dining room." He waved at the lineup on the island.
In twenty minutes, they were seated. Logan had lit candles on the sideboard, and a modern chandelier over the table cast a low light. Amanda suddenly wondered exactly what type of dinner this was. What had happened to the discussion of Dallas Robotics?
Logan stood behind her chair as she sat, and then pushed it in gently. He picked up a bottle of red wine that had been resting on the table and poured them each a glass. After sitting down, he lifted his wine goblet and tilted it in her direction.
"Cheers," he said. A slight smile curved his lips, but his eyes were guarded.
"Cheers." She took a bigger gulp than she'd intended. Should she bring up the business discussion? Did he want to eat first? She wasn't used to work discussions held in private homes.
She needn't have worried. Logan launched into a conversation about her interest in nutrition. In passing, he mentioned the fact that some of his employees who'd held her current position had moved on to manage companies they'd worked on acquiring. Without actually stating it, he implied that the Daily Eats deal might be an opportunity for her to do the same.
Although she glowed inwardly with pleasure at his apparent faith in her abilities, she didn't allow herself to go off-topic to talk too much about work. He clearly wanted to relax. He'd taken off his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his blue business shirt before grilling the steak.
Now, he leaned back in his chair, idly cupping the delicate bowl of his crystal wine glass. He kept his gaze focused on her. She was reminded, once again, of how intently he paid attention. It was impossible not to feel flattered by this powerful, dynamic man, when he acted like she was the only thing in his worl
d.
He poured himself another glass of wine, but didn't refill hers. The oversight was out of character, but otherwise he was a perfect host. The food was delicious, the conversation interesting, and the view unbeatable.
She almost giggled. Of course, she meant the view of him, but no one else would know that. It would be her secret. She picked up her wine glass and drained it. It was delicious. She wouldn't mind a bit more.
"Ready for dessert?" Logan asked as he stood up.
"Sure." She pushed back her chair. "Let me help you."
Logan held up a hand. "Allow me. It will be my pleasure to wait on you."
He returned with a small tray holding two round, golden pastries, a small pitcher, which she soon discovered was full of hot fudge, and a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
"Profiteroles." Logan waved at the tray. "I don't do many private dinners," he said. "My housekeeper outdid herself making my favorite dishes tonight."
"They look delicious," Amanda answered. She watched as he sliced the pastry, tucked a large scoop of vanilla-flecked ice cream inside, and swirled hot fudge over it all.
Next, he opened a bottle of white wine, filled his glass and poured her half a glass. She frowned. Was he limiting her alcohol consumption?
"You don't seem like much of a drinker," he said calmly as he placed the bottle on the sideboard.
Amanda picked up her glass with a hint of defiance. "I'm not, but your wine is delicious." She sipped, and the liquid burst in flavorful fragrance against her tongue. Yum.
She placed the wine goblet on the table, careful not to spill it. But she wasn't as lucky with the profiterole. When she pressed her fork down on top of it, the pastry skidded off her plate. She giggled.
"Allow me." Logan took her knife and fork. Never had he received a better opening.
Cutting a small portion, he lifted the fork. Amanda lowered her gaze and opened her mouth. He slipped in the morsel and watched as she savored the contrasting sensations.
Flaky pastry, cold ice cream, and warm chocolate sauce.
"Yum," she said, licking a speck of chocolate off her lips. "More."
