Logan closed his eyes, laid his head down on the desk, and fumbled in his top drawer for the bottle of aspirin he kept there. The pain grew until it felt as if his head was sandwiched between the pavement and the tire of a fully loaded big rig. Nausea swirled in his stomach, like a sickly volcano about to erupt. His hands shook as they popped open the bottle by feel. He listened for the clink clink clink of three pills hitting the surface of his desk before snatching them up along with his coffee cup. If he won against the pain, it was a dark victory.
“So what did King Monroe want?” Jamie wanted to know the second Claire’s office door closed behind them.
Not much that was worth repeating, Claire thought angrily as she stalked to her desk. “He was being his usual bastard self.” Actually, he’d been his usual bastard self, magnified by about ten billion.
“Typical.” Jamie blew on her now-fuchsia-colored nails. She painted her nails whenever she got nervous. “So do I still have a job?”
“Of course.” Claire began rummaging through the ever-growing mountain of files and miscellaneous paperwork strewn haphazardly across her desk. So much for their go green initiative. She had no clue what she was looking for. Anything to distract her, she supposed. “He called me up there to talk me out of leaving LM. The arrogant jackass thinks he can buy me.” She continued her search, tossing file after file carelessly aside until one slid to the floor and sent papers floating.
“Damn it.” She marched around the desk and bent to help Jamie, who’d already begun collecting the papers with calm efficiency.
“Did you tell him about the baby?”
“No, and I won’t. It’s none of his business.” Claire reached for a proposal for a soap commercial that had become wedged beneath Jamie’s left heel. “Lift your foot please. Actually, I don’t want him to know.”
“Why?” Jamie retrieved the last of the scattered papers and stood.
Claire sighed as she rose to her feet. This whole pregnancy thing was making her extremely lazy. When she wasn’t fantasizing about sleeping with Logan Monroe, she fantasized about lying in bed all day in her fleece pajamas, watching daytime soaps. Maybe it was just another pregnancy thing, but why had she never noticed how compelling soaps could be?
“Claire? Hello?” Jamie waved a hand in front of Claire’s face, sending a faint-worthy wave of nail polish fumes blasting over her. “You look like you’re on cloud nine.”
“Uh-uh.” Claire shook her head. Cloud nine implied happiness and there certainly wasn’t much of that to be currently found in her life. More like cloud negative nine. “I was thinking about the Scrubby Soap account. Sorry. What did you ask again?”
Jamie frowned, looking like a concerned little mother hen, which was a strange role for her to play since she was a good eight years Claire’s junior. “Why don’t you want Monroe to know about the baby?”
“I’m concerned he’ll use it against me,” she said truthfully. More than she could say. She’d been forced to fill her assistant in on the pregnancy after the hellish morning sickness she had been suffering. Jamie had been convinced Claire had bulimia up until that point. Naturally, Claire had left out the little matter of Logan being the father. No one knew about the crazy, stupid night she’d hooked up with Logan but her almost-officially-ex-husband Garrett and her sister, and that was how Claire intended to keep it.
Jamie nodded sympathetically. “He’d probably find a way. Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”
Claire looked at Jamie’s bright-red, glossy lips and prayed that when it came to the topic of the baby, they would be bonded with superglue.
The minute Claire stepped inside her sister Sophie’s old house that night, she kicked off her heels. A groan sounded in her throat as her soles met the polished hardwood of the entry hall. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she’d go shopping during lunch and pick up a few pairs of sandals. They may not scream businesswoman, but her feet didn’t give a damn.
Sophie’s house didn’t exactly feel like home, but since Claire’s ex’s affair had sparked divorce proceedings, her sister had been kind enough to let her stay. Sophie was planning on moving into a new house with her new husband Trevor when they returned from their honeymoon in Paris.
She tossed her keys onto a nearby table and dropped her purse next to her discarded shoes. A loud grumble erupted from her stomach. She’d been barfing her brains out the entire first trimester and now she couldn’t ever supply her stomach with enough food. Honestly, she just couldn’t win.
Claire absentmindedly rubbed her right hand over her abdomen as she padded into the kitchen. “You’re just as demanding as your father,” she murmured to the baby, rummaging through the fridge.
What was she saying? No, she didn’t want to think of Logan as her baby’s father. Sperm donor, yes. Father? God no. Claire snagged a low-fat raspberry yogurt and closed the refrigerator door with a nudge of her hip.
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes in ecstasy as her mouth closed around a spoonful of yogurt. For some reason, she craved raspberry yogurt. Craved it like she’d once craved chocolate. Pregnancy, she’d discovered, did bizarre things to a woman’s body. Already, she’d been forced to buy the next bra size up, her once straight hair had begun to curl, and she took naps. Naps, for God’s sake.
Suddenly the doorbell chimed. Claire frowned as she made her way to the front door, taking her yogurt with her. She wasn’t expecting any visitors. Sophie and Trevor were still on their honeymoon. Claire’s friends had all but abandoned her since her split with Garrett, so she doubted any of the women she’d once counted among her most trusted confidantes would be paying a visit. Not that she could blame them, really. Their husbands were friends of Garrett’s and they knew Garrett had cheated on her. She didn’t want awkward conversations or pitying looks. She just wanted to move on.
The doorbell rang again, a quick, impatient ding dong. Claire pushed aside her musings and opened the front door. And nearly dropped her yogurt all over her bare feet.
“Logan,” she managed, amazed to see him standing before her and not at all happy about it. Her lack of enthusiasm was obvious in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
He flashed her a mocking smile. “Do you always greet your guests so warmly, or do you just reserve it for me?”
“I think it’s just you.”
The mocking smile faded from his lips. “Invite me in.”
So arrogant, she thought, so typical Logan Monroe. He would never dream of asking her to invite him inside. He ordered it.
“What if I don’t want to invite you in?” she challenged him, recalling all too well that fateful evening when he’d demanded she invite him into her hotel room in New York. Look at what that had resulted in. Images flashed through her mind, of Logan looking down at her with those stormy brown eyes, of naked skin and cool white sheets and hot, steamy sex.
Logan braced a big hand on the doorframe and leaned forward, his face alarmingly close to hers. “You’re being childish. Just let me in.”
She couldn’t resist leaning into him so that her lips nearly brushed his. Claire knew she played with fire, baiting him like this. They were no longer in the safe confines of the office, and the sexual tension simmering between them was palpable. There was also nothing to inhibit it.
“And if I don’t let you in, what will you do? Break the door down like you’re the big bad wolf?” He certainly looked the part with the way he was eyeing her just now. As if he was starving for supper and she was it.
“I can if you want.”
Though his words sent heat snaking low into her belly, she took a step back, gripping the forgotten yogurt container so tightly it cracked. “Go away.” She glared at him. “You have my notice. What more do you need?”
Logan crowded her with his big body until she took several more steps in retreat and he strode into the house, arrogant as ever. She noticed that he hadn’t changed from his work clothes and she wondered if he’d even stopped at home before coming here to see her.
Not that it would matter, of course. She still couldn’t stand him, even if she did have an unfortunate, explosive sexual attraction for the man.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, his tone curt.
Her traitorous stomach growled on cue.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“We’re not going to dinner.” She hoped her voice sounded firm. Firmer than she felt, anyway. When Logan Monroe turned on the charm, she found it very difficult to resist him.
Logan raised a black brow at her. “Presumptuous of you to assume I’d ask.”
“Not when you were going to.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I knew you’d say no.”
“I wouldn’t have,” Claire denied, so caught up in the flow of their verbal exchange that she didn’t realize she’d been duped until she saw the smug grin on his face.
He sauntered toward her, pausing only when he was uncomfortably close. “In that case, I guess I’ll ask you. Will you go to dinner with me?”
“Logan.” She tried to convey annoyance in her tone, truly she did.
“I promise to be on my best behavior,” he coaxed. “It’ll be all business.”
“You won’t change my mind about leaving LM,” she felt compelled to warn. Allowing him to schmooze her into dinner was one thing. Staying on at LM and admitting he was the father of her child was in another spectrum entirely. Claire had absolutely no choice in the matter if she wanted to maintain control over her child’s life and her own. No choice at all.
“I can be a very persuasive man,” he told her, obviously confident that he would get his way just as he did in every other aspect of his life. “Why don’t you go find some more comfortable shoes? Those heels you wore today are sexy as hell, but they have to be murder on your feet.”
Claire didn’t know what to say, so she nodded and told him she’d be right back as she headed upstairs to the guest bedroom she now occupied. Logan had noticed her shoes? And he was concerned about her comfort? He really must be laying it on thick to win her over, she decided as she rummaged through the closet for some sensible shoes. She found a pair of strappy black sandals. When she’d moved into Sophie’s house, she’d brought only a small portion of her wardrobe. Her life had imploded in the divorce, or so it had seemed at the time, and her sister had been the one person in the world who held her together.
Logan was waiting for her at the front door, looking every inch the polite gentleman. He smiled when he saw her, his gaze lowering to her feet. “Red toenails and a toe ring. You surprise me.”
Claire stopped and glanced down at the diamond toe ring she wore on her left foot. She thought it cute and flirty.
“What’s wrong with it?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” He rocked back on his heels. “You just seem like a French manicure kind of woman, that’s all. And I’ve always thought toe rings are a little kinky.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Kinky? It’s just jewelry.”
Logan cocked his head to the side, his gaze unnervingly intense and actually cracked a smile. “Is there something you want to tell me, Claire?”
She realized he was teasing her, as impossible as that seemed. Claire grabbed her purse and keys from the side table. “You wish, Monroe. Now are we going to dinner or not? I’m starved.”
He pulled open the door and gestured for her to precede him. His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Not as hungry as I am.”
As she hurried out the door and down the stone walkway to his car, Claire had a feeling Logan wasn’t talking about being hungry for food. And to her peril, the feeling was mutual.
Logan suppressed a groan as he watched Claire from across the table. Seeing her purse her lips and eat her fettuccine was torture. He forced himself to look down at his own plate.
At Claire’s suggestion, they’d come to a cozy Italian restaurant about fifteen minutes from her sister’s home. He’d ordered lasagna, normally one of his favorite meals, and it was delicious. But he’d only taken about four bites of it in between salivating over Claire. She ate her meal with the same uninhibited gusto she brought to lovemaking, making throaty noises of enjoyment and licking her lips. He was amazed he hadn’t just shot off right there at the table. Who the hell had known that watching a woman eat could be so erotic?
Not Logan, or he would have damn well suggested they do something else. Something that didn’t involve the use of Claire’s mouth or tongue. Here he was, with every intention of working his way back into her good graces, and all he could think about was working his way into her bed instead. At every turn, he seemed determined to thwart his own best plans.
Annoyed with himself, he stabbed his fork into his lasagna and forced a bite down his throat. Then another.
“Is something wrong?” Claire asked innocently, dabbing at the corner of her pink lips with a cloth napkin.
He glared at that mouth, willing it to stop taunting him, to grow a hairy black mustache above the upper lip, anything. “I’m fine,” he growled, stabbing his lasagna even harder.
“You look like you’re trying to kill your food,” she persisted.
Logan looked up at Claire. She licked her lips.
He threw down his fork and it rattled against his white plate. “Goddamn it, will you stop doing things with your mouth?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Never mind,” he grumbled, feeling like an ass for exploding for no reason.
Claire didn’t know what she was doing to him. Or did she? His eyes narrowed. She returned her attention to her pasta, a little moan of pleasure sounding in her throat as she chewed another bite. She had to be doing it on purpose.
“You don’t have to act like you’re screwing the fettuccine alfredo.”
“If this is your idea of best behavior, then I’d hate to see your worst,” Claire said, her eyes snapping with anger.
He gave her a slow grin. “You’d love my worst behavior.”
“What happened to business only?”
“You’re the one who was moaning and sucking on your pasta like it was—”
“Logan.” She cast a worried glance toward the other restaurant patrons within hearing distance.
“I was going to say ‘really good’,” he lied, doing his best to sound innocent.
She gave him a look that clearly said she didn’t buy it and then raised her water glass to her lips. When he’d offered to order wine, she’d refused, something that he found odd, since he’d seen her toss back the martinis in New York.
“Why didn’t you want any wine?” he asked suddenly, curiosity getting the better of him.
He swore she seemed nervous. She set the water glass down so hard that a bit of it sloshed over the side and onto the white tablecloth.
“I don’t like alcohol,” she said, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.
“You forget I saw you going to town on martinis in New York,” he reminded her, now more curious than ever. She was lying to him. But why?
“I’ve decided to swear off alcohol, okay?” She frowned at him. “Look at where it got me the last time, in New York.”
Now that was a low blow and Logan felt it despite himself. He sent her a cool smile. “Point well taken, but as I recall, there wasn’t any alcohol involved the second time.”
But as Logan turned his attention to his mutilated lasagna once more, his mind began to drift. Claire had sworn off alcohol, and he swore her breasts were larger, and when she’d given him her profile as she waited to get into his car, he thought he’d seen the slightest hint of a rounded tummy. He had dismissed it as an optical illusion, or the fading sunlight, but now he began to wonder. She’d been ill too, several weeks ago, and she’d worked from home, claiming to have a virus. Was it possible that Claire was…pregnant?
She didn’t look pregnant. Her hands were still dainty, her arms still slim, her face still softly defined. Then again, the pregnancy could be early on, which would mean that sh
e wouldn’t really be showing much. And it would also mean that there was a chance that Logan was the father. The condom had broken.
Holy shit.
For the second time during their dinner, his fork clattered to his plate. Claire looked up at him, her eyes questioning.
“Claire,” he said, “when you and I were together in New York, you were on some form of birth control, weren’t you?”
He held his breath as he awaited her answer.
“Of course I was.” She frowned at him again. “I’d rather not discuss that weekend anymore, if you don’t mind.”
Logan couldn’t drop the subject yet. He wasn’t quite convinced. He reached across the table and covered her left hand with his. “If you were pregnant, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
She pulled her hand from beneath his, her frown growing until a small vee furrowed her smooth forehead. “You know I would. Don’t you think you’re overreacting? I mean, all this just because I didn’t want wine?”
She was right, of course. Logan pulled his hand away and relaxed in his seat. He cracked an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I guess you’re right. It’s just if there’s any chance…”
“No chance at all,” Claire assured him, looking at him, but not quite meeting his eyes.
A sense of unease unfurled in his gut. God, he didn’t want to relive the hell he’d been through all those years ago. He hated to even think of it now, because it was all still there, festering inside him, a wound that had never healed. He remembered the way the clinic had smelled, like antiseptic and something indefinably horrible, and how Abigail had looked at him, tears on her cheeks, telling him those three words that had nearly killed him.
You’re too late.
Christ no, he couldn’t go through that again. But he told himself that it was just the old memories swimming to the surface that made him so suspicious. He was being overly cautious about the situation, and all because of things that had nothing to do with Claire. He knew Claire. She wouldn’t lie to him. Not about something so significant.
Perfect Persuasion (Love's Second Chance Book 2) Page 2
