by Alison Kent
His thumb stopped; his fingers tightened. And tightened more. He leaned toward her, silently demanding. She wet her lips, chewing on the lower, fidgeting with the ruffle on the pillow in her lap. He reached out and tugged it away, pulling away with it the last vestige of her control, leaving her vulnerable. Exposed. Defenseless.
Dangling, with Logan holding the string.
He might call the shots in her case. Not in her life. She swallowed her desire and surged to her feet. Eyes wide, heart pounding, she gulped in a huge breath, prepared to fight for her independence, the only way she knew how to survive.
Chapter Three
A loud rap sounded at the door.
Logan's gaze sliced through the air. "Don't say anything about being followed."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because if it's my case, I call the shots," he said and crossed the room.
By the time she'd smoothed down her skirt, Logan had closed the door behind two uniformed officers. By the time she'd slipped into her shoes, she'd backed away from the brink of reason. By the time her sanity returned, she realized how strung-out she must be to be so utterly spineless, to let Logan so easily bulldoze her.
She refused to admit the reaction was a basic woman to man response. Instead she blamed it on stress, a fragile moment, anything to keep it from getting personal. Personal wasn't an option. It left her open, powerless, capable of suffering hurt again. She couldn't afford the weakness.
"Miss Evans? Officer Franklin," the older of the two men said, extending his hand. "And Officer Mendoza." With a jerk of his chin, he indicated the Hispanic patrolman behind him, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket while Officer Mendoza quietly studied the room.
"Can you tell us what happened here?"
Hannah related the few facts she knew, glancing past Officer Franklin's head toward the door, and Logan. He leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, his pose the epitome of casual. But she could see his eyes and the intense concentration in his expression and then and there she knew him for what he was.
A consummate actor. A professional. A man who used appearance as a ploy, charm as a tool, wit as a device. Hannah wondered about his undeniable magnetism. Was it a conscious gimmick or an elemental part of the man he was? Were his words were all part of an elaborate game? Was she nothing more than an easy pawn?
"Miss Evans," Officer Franklin prompted, and Hannah realized she'd wandered into dangerous territory. She turned her attention back to the policeman.
"Yes?"
"Is anything missing?" he asked.
"I don't know," Hannah answered, scanning the ransacked living room. "I haven't had a chance to look." Because I've been too busy coming unraveled.
Officer Franklin's glance followed Hannah's. "Let's start with the basics. TV? VCR? I don't see either one."
Hannah's shrug bordered on apologetic. "I don't watch TV. I read." She gestured to the scattered books, each one holding a piece of herself, forgotten dreams, abandoned fantasies, all left behind in a demanding world of reality.
"I see," he answered, jotting notes. "Let's you and I take a look while Officer Mendoza checks for evidence."
"Do you think you'll find anything?" Logan asked bluntly.
Officer Franklin turned. "If there's anything to be found, Mendoza will find it." He spoke again to Hannah. "Why don't we start in the back, Miss Evans?"
Thirty minutes later the officers prepared to leave. Hannah accompanied them to the door. "For your sake, Miss Evans, I'm glad nothing was taken," Officer Franklin said. "We'll check with the neighbors to see if they saw anyone or heard anything."
"Thank you Officer Franklin." Hannah offered the patrolman a wan smile. "Officer Mendoza."
"Contact us if anything turns up missing."
"I'll do that." Hannah closed the door behind them and, eyes closed, leaned heavily against it. "What a nightmare."
Hearing no response from Logan, she opened one eye and watched him disappear down the hallway. She waited ...and opened the other eye ... and waited ... and finally, pushed herself away from the door. Once in the kitchen, she tossed back a handful of trail mix and munched on the nuts and raisins. Logan returned seconds later to pace the living area. Squatting in front of the heap of books, he shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, only to return it unlit.
"What do you think?" she asked, rummaging through the refrigerator for a bottle of spring water and wishing for once she could stomach something stronger. This was one of those times that called for a drink. She unscrewed the top and brought the bottle to her mouth just as Logan came into the kitchen. When she offered, he accepted and took a swig, only to spit it out in the sink.
"What the hell is that stuff?" he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Hannah stifled a grin. "Spring water with raspberry juice."
"Tastes like something the dog dragged in."
"The cat," she corrected him, adding, "and I wouldn't know."
"You like that stuff?"
"Nothing artificial. No calories."
"Yeah, but do you like it?"
Hannah stared at the bottle and frowned. "Not really."
"Then why do you drink it?"
"Habit, I guess."
"A disgusting habit if you ask me." He squeezed past her with a brush of lean muscle and a lingering scent of sea air and tartar sauce and opened the refrigerator door, bending at the waist to peer inside. "How 'bout a beer?" He glanced back over his shoulder. "Hannah?"
She pried her eyes from his khaki-covered behind, shaking off the strangest picture of sand and surf and smooth, sweat-streaked skin. "What?"
"Never mind." He straightened, slammed the door and stalked by, settling into a chair at her dining table. Legs extended and crossed at the ankle, he propped his laced fingers at his waist. "What do you think?"
"I asked you first," she answered, deciding khakis were definitely on her list of priorities along with a newly acquired longing for fun in the sun.
"I think they were looking for something specific."
That brought her mind back to business. Intrigued, she dropped into the chair next to his. "What makes you say that?"
"Nothing's missing, right?"
"As far as I can tell, no."
"Your CD player is safe even though the CDs are tossed everywhere." He pointed across the room. "And look at your books. If they'd been in the bookcase when it was turned over, they wouldn't be scattered like they are."
"You mean someone pulled them out on purpose?"
"Maybe. Then there's the desk and bureau in your room."
"What about them?"
"Drawers dumped. Mattress half off the frame. Towels and sheets yanked out of the linen closet. But your jewelry box and computer weren't touched."
Thoughts whirring, Hannah urged him on. "What else?"
"Couch cushions unzipped, not slit."
"Like they didn't want to risk destroying something hidden inside." Too agitated to sit, she kicked off her shoes again, jumped to her feet and paced the length of the trashed-out room.
"Exactly." He parked his elbows on his knees and tented his fingers beneath his chin. "What were they looking for, Hannah?"
She stopped, frowned. "I don't understand."
"Papers, documents, photographs. Have you collected any printed data about what you saw at ViOPet?" His eyes bore into hers, daring her to lie.
She pictured her briefcase locked in the trunk of her car, the two pages of scrawled notes tucked inside. "They wouldn't have found anything in the house."
"So you have it stashed someplace else."
When she didn't answer right away, he prompted her with a cool, "Hannah?"
"Yes," she snapped, then calmly added, "It's stashed someplace else."
He stood and settled his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were tiger-bright and just as ferocious when he tipped her chin back with one finger. "Before we go any further, we need to get a second thing straight. Don't ever hide anythin
g from me. Or pull something over on me. I'll find out. And I'll be angry."
Hannah's blood pressure began to rise, from annoyance or his proximity she wasn't sure. "How angry?"
"Angry enough to drop your case."
Definitely annoyance. She backed away from his touch. "Then drop it. You obviously don't trust me to be honest with you," she said, realizing with a stab of guilt that she hadn't been. At least not totally.
He jammed his hands in his pants pockets and tightened his right into a fist. With a look of a man fighting a personal battle, he glanced from Hannah to his fist and back. "Trust doesn't come easy for me."
Weight balanced to one side, Hannah crossed her arms over her chest. "Then we're in a no-win situation because I can accept nothing less."
"Are you firing me?" he asked, accusation and something else—hope?—in his eyes.
"No," she answered, knowing she walked a tight-rope strung between intuition and logic.
"Why not?"
Exasperated, she planted her hands on her hips to keep from grabbing him and shaking some sense into him. "Because I do trust you."
"Even knowing I may not do the same?"
"Yes."
"That's your prerogative."
"No, it's not." She rubbed at her temples and took a deep breath. "Don't you understand? I have no choice. What's the point of asking you to help if I don't trust you to do so?"
"You can have faith that I'll do my job without trusting the person I am."
"No, Logan. The two are the same, inseparable from one another. I trust you to do your job because of who you are."
"Why?"
"In the space of a few hours I've seen how you work. You've asked the right questions and drawn rational conclusions." She glanced to the ceiling and back again, collecting her thoughts. "I can't explain it any better, except to say it's in your eyes, in your expression, in your bearing. No matter how you try to hide behind your indifferent attitude, you exude confidence, confidence in yourself. And that says more than any words."
The corner of his mouth twitched as he fought back a grin. She tossed her hands to the side in surrender, and asked, "Now will you answer a question for me?"
He shrugged. "If I can."
"What will it take for me to earn your trust?"
She saw the devil-may-care attitude the minute he put it on. His grin leaned toward cocky, his eyes flickered bright. Her heart skipped a beat, her body heat skyrocketed, and this time she knew exactly why.
"As a client or as a woman?" he tossed back.
She pursed her lips to hide their trembling. "A client."
"I told you. Just be straight with me."
Unable to bridle an impulsive streak of recklessness, she asked, "And as a woman?"
Frowning, he plucked the pewter elf off the table leg and bounced it in the palm of his hand. "Do you want me to see you as a woman, Hannah?"
With her heart beating a choking pulse in her throat, she replied, "If I say yes?"
He looked up sharply. "Say it."
She only hesitated a second. "Yes."
He stepped closer and took her hand. Closing her fingers around the elf, he folded his hand over hers. "I haven't had much opportunity in my life to trust. I don't think I know how." His gaze roamed over her face. He reached up to trail one finger down the side of her neck. "Do you think you can teach me?"
Mesmerized by his smoky voice, spellbound by his whiskey-gold eyes, she ached to run her palm across his jaw, finger his lower lip. She wanted to find the source of the security that enfolded her like a blanket when she was with him, the basis of the fascination that made her think not of the damage to her home but of him and how he would taste, how he would feel.
Instead, she took a safe step back, returned the elf to the table leg, and cradled her forehead in her hand, rubbing away the pressure. Contacting him to begin with had been a move of desperation. She wasn't about to open herself up, to risk being hurt, to risk losing what control she still held over her life.
Bravely, she met his gaze. "At this point I'm too tired to do anything but go to bed and sleep for the next twelve hours."
He refused to look away. The air in the room pulsed tight with sexual energy. Electricity hummed through her veins, over her skin, rousing her, inciting her to experience this man in every possible way. She clenched her fists at her sides.
Finally, he expelled a gust of breath and cast a skeptical glance around the room. "You're going to sleep here?"
Relieved that he hadn't pushed because she wasn't sure she wouldn't have given in, she groaned. "My bed's a wreck."
"Your whole house is a wreck. Is there someone you can stay with tonight?"
A wry grin stole across her mouth. "As bizarre as this sounds, I don't have many close friends and Lynn, the only one I'd consider asking, is out of town for the weekend."
"No family?"
"Only my mother."
"Does she have an extra bedroom?"
"Not any more. She's been in a nursing home the past six months. And as my bad luck would have it, we finally closed on her house three weeks ago." She shook her head at the irony. Just when she finally could've used that rambling old monstrosity. "I swear it had been on the market for two years."
"Neighbors?"
"Well," she began with a chuckle, "There's always Miss Tiny next door."
"Miss Tiny?" Logan repeated with a disbelieving snort. "What? She a female mud-wrestler or something?"
"She's ninety if she's a day and keeps her TV going around the clock. I doubt I'd get much sleep."
"Who else?"
"Andre and Dirk upstairs."
His cocked brow said it all. Hannah laughed. "Guess that leaves a hotel."
"No," he said as if coming to a sudden decision. "I'll take you someplace safe." His expression, deadly serious, left no room for argument; his assessment, frankly honest, chilled her inside. "I don't know if this break-in is connected to the car following you or the trouble at ViOPet but if they get desperate you may be next."
"Okay," she solemnly agreed, realizing he was right. And realizing, for the first time she could remember, she didn't want to be alone. "You still have my keys?"
Fifteen minutes later, clad in loosely woven plum-colored slacks and a low-cut berry-blue jacket, Hannah fastened her seatbelt and glanced up to find Logan studying her face.
"You okay?"
Feeling suddenly drained, she offered him a weak smile. "Ask me that tomorrow."
"I'm taking you home."
"Your home?"
"Does that bother you?"
"For some reason, no," she answered candidly, not having the strength or the energy to dissect the reason why or the implications behind it.
His understanding smile softened the harsh planes of his face. "If you'd rather stay here, I'll camp out on your couch."
"No!" She stiffened in her seat then forced herself to lean back. "Tomorrow will be soon enough to face this mess. Aren't things supposed to look better in the morning light?"
"Brighter, anyway," Logan replied, as he backed out of her space and put the car in motion. "Try to relax."
"Easy for you to say," Hannah mumbled, sure she'd never relax again in this lifetime.
But the next time she opened her eyes, the Gulf of Mexico loomed wide before her. Dropping her bag to the carport floor, she slammed her door and stretched her road-weary muscles.
They skirted Logan's tarp covered T-bird and climbed the beach house stairs in silence. Once across the deck, she followed him through the darkened interior to a bedroom—her only clue being the bed where he dropped her bag before walking out and pulling the door shut behind him.
Hannah stared at the closed door and shrugged. "Good night to you, too," she said, as she kicked first her sandals then her slacks across the room. Exhaling a deep, bone-tired breath, she fished in her bag for her gauzy cotton nightshirt and pulled it on.
Her jacket and top joined the pile of clothes in the corner. Amazed tha
t she didn't have the strength to straighten out her things, even more amazed that she didn't feel a bit guilty, she smiled irreverently. Must be the company she was keeping.
The sheets smelled of sun and sea air and she thought not of the mess waiting at home, nor of the mess in her life, but only of the mess of a man somewhere under the same roof. A man who made her feel safe, secure, and protected—things she didn't want to feel too deeply lest they be taken away too soon.
The dream woke Logan again. The vivid splashes of color, blood red and orange blaze. The intense decibel of sound, roaring flames and exploding metal. The acrid smell of burning rubber. The taste of thick black smoke and gasoline.
And the screams.
He lay in his bed for long quiet minutes, his eyes searching the darkness for the comforts of home, the whup-whup-whup of the ceiling fan a hypnotizing lull above him. Deep breaths settled his pounding heart while he made the usual attempt to relax. As usual, he failed. The demon was there every time he closed his eyes, waiting in the dark, scheming to steal his mind.
Throwing the sheet to the foot of the bed, he crouched on the edge. The fan cooled the sweat running down his naked back and he clenched and unclenched the fists resting on his knees. Finally, he stood, stretched, and threaded his fingers through his hair, lifting the drenched locks from the back of his neck.
If he had a nickel for every hour of lost sleep, maybe he could buy his way free of the nightmare. Hell, maybe he could make yet another pact with the devil and buy eight hours of undisturbed rest. Right now, that sounded as good as anything.
He padded barefoot to the kitchen, jerked open the refrigerator door, and gulped down orange juice straight from the carton. Anything to wash away the taste of the smoke, a taste that lingered, planted by the demon in his mind as a reminder of his failures. A taste his logical side knew he only imagined, the same way he conjured the smells, the sounds, and the colors of disaster.
He tossed the empty carton into the sink and slammed the refrigerator door. A glance at the clock on the stove revealed he'd slept two hours. Two hours of peace in a nighttime of horrors. He crossed the living room and walked onto the deck, leaning his elbows on the railing that framed his small square of escape. The wind whipped through his hair, cooled his heated body, calmed his fevered mind.
