by Ella James
Did he need to go home? His stomach dropped, and he felt a pressure on his lungs. The thought of going home always made him feel like he was suffocating.
Going home…
Logan heard the door open from the room behind him. He quickly dumped his phone into his pocket and turned into the room.
Margo was staring up at him.
Great. Just what I need.
She looked gorgeous in a slinky pink sundress, with her hair pulled up in some kind of little flower pin. Her color was good, her cheeks just a touch pink. Her eyes were alert and anxious, her mouth pinched. She was upset—with him.
No shit, with him. Had he really kissed her last night? It still seemed surreal, but yes, he had.
God, he was such a fucking idiot. To have indulged his little crush, to have let it grow into something so large, so ensnaring.
Margo opened her mouth, like she was eager to speak. Then her hands fluttered to below her chest. She smoothed her dress.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi to you.” His voice sounded reedy, so Logan swallowed.
“What have you been doing?” Her brown eyes flared with hurt. Why haven’t you checked on me?
Why, indeed.
He shrugged, then rubbed his eyes, because he needed something to do with his hands. “I’ve just been working… Long day today.” If that wasn’t an excuse, he’d never heard one. “What about you?”
“Not much.” She shrugged. “Read some. Sat by the pool. I was surprised I didn’t see you down at the stables.”
Another shrug. “I was in the fields.” Hiding from you. “How do you feel?”
She smiled—forced. “I’m okay.” Her tone was light. “My head still hurts a little, but overall, I think it’s fine.”
She was wearing eye shadow. It twinkled like stardust in the glow of his desk lamp. He wanted badly to grab her, to crush her body against his until he didn’t know anything but her.
When he didn’t reply, she said, “All right then.” She started to turn and he folded.
“Hey…wait.”
She spun around, and the hope on her face was almost more than he could stand. Asshole. That’s what he was. Nothing but a total, first-rate asshole.
“Feel better,” he told her, then tacked on: “My work here…it comes first. I’d like to have more fun, hang out with you, but…”
He stepped back, hands flipping over, so he showed her his palms.
Nothing here…
“Anyway.”
“Yeah. Alright.”
The words fell off her tongue as she quickly left. He watched the big steel door slam shut.
15
The next day, Margo sat up in her bed and tossed the wooden cube across the room. It landed on the carpet near the rumpled bed that Logan had used for the last two days, while she had been in the casa. She decided to leave it there. Maybe Mr. Science could solve the puzzle for her. Wasn’t that what he was good for? Science-y stuff. Scholarly pursuits. Prodigy-izing. She hoped so, because as far as she could tell, he was terrible with people.
Or maybe just with her.
Angry—at him, and at herself for lying around all day in a pity party—Margo hopped up and smoothed her khaki shorts. According to her winking hippo watch, which she’d clasped around the post of her bed—an announcement to Logan that she’d be returning to the room that night—it was almost time for dinner. She didn’t feel like seeing anybody, so Margo swept her hair up in a ponytail and hurried down into the yard, planning to tiptoe into the casa and sneak into the kitchen to grab a few tasties from Oscar.
She didn’t see the need to socialize anyway, since she’d decided to leave ASAP. She’d come hoping to get to know her mother, or to at least find out more about her, but now all of that seemed unimportant. Cindy wasn’t around, and she wasn’t going to be. Ever. Yes, the FBI or CIA or whomever had uncovered that pesky plot, but who’s to say she was any safer on her mom’s island? Wouldn’t she be just as safe across the Atlantic with the Timberdimes?
Margo slipped into the casa and scampered down the now-familiar hall. The staff had been bustling around the house all day, cleaning like there was no tomorrow, and now every painting was razor-straight and every nook dust free. It was dinner time (or breakfast, if you were with the Japanese team) and Margo could smell the thick, spicy scent of Oscar’s cooking.
Her stomach growled, and she followed her nose down the hall. She had to pass the dining room to get to the kitchen, and she glanced in. What she saw beside the bar stopped her like a brick wall.
There, suntanned and utterly resplendent in a pale blue Polo, was Logan. And beside him, in a forest green pantsuit that shimmered like steel armor, was Margo’s mother. Talking. Laughing. With Logan.
Margo stared, frozen, as Cindy clapped Logan’s shoulder. His smile was wider than his face, until he glanced up. His gaze hit Margo and she watched the grin wither. He raised his free hand with cold purpose. His finger extended, each tendon straining toward her.
Oh so slowly, like she was some slasher-movie villain, Cindy turned, and before Margo could bolt, her hand was waving. She strode over confidently, obviously not even a fraction as terrified as Margo. Logan was beside her, all smiles until he reached Margo first. She had a moment to register his unhappy frown, and then her mother was there.
Though several inches shorter than Margo’s five-foot-three, the woman loomed, everything about her shouting power! Her hair was jet black, her lipstick bright red, her straight teeth unnaturally white. Her ivory skin looked like flawless pearl silk. Diamonds the size of nickels gleamed in her small ears.
Cindy and Logan spoke at once, losing Margo in the timbres of their voices. Her body reacted instinctively: heart rate peaking, lungs constricting, cheeks flushing while her hands and feet went ice-cube cold. Though she tried to fight it, panic swallowed her.
Then Logan touched her wrist. The motion was quick—he rubbed his finger over the sensitive skin inside—and the shock of it jolted her out of freak-out mode. She could see concern in his gaze, understanding, and then it was over. Margo looked into Cindy’s wide cat face, nodding as her mother said something about having concussions.
Her voice was Americanized, the hard, punchy words elongated some, but still she sounded angry. Sharp. Was that because she was speaking to Margo, or was that the way she always sounded? She tried to remember from the show.
“…And Jana told me that Logan rode to your rescue?”
Cindy sounded amused. She was looking at Logan, so it didn’t really matter that Margo nodded, but she did. “He was great,” she heard herself say.
“That isn’t true.” Logan ran a hand through his hair, and Cindy watched him move, her hawk-black eyes omniscient, like the piercing Zhuscope.
Margo wanted to step away, to escape the heat of her mother’s body, to rid her nose of the now-familiar scent of gardenia lotion. She wanted to run, but she stood transfixed, studying the slightly square shape of Cindy’s red nails, looking for pores on her smooth skin, absorbing the texture of her bowl-cut black hair—so much thicker than Margo’s own.
“You are too modest, Logan,” Cindy said. She turned to Margo. “I thought your father paid for riding lessons. Shouldn’t you know never to saddle an unfamiliar horse?”
She smiled as she asked it, but her voice rose slightly at the end. That was stupid, daughter.
Disapproval.
Margo nodded mutely while her mind spun in circles, testing out thoughts, trying on emotions. How did she feel? What should she say? Things were firing inside her so fast, she couldn’t sense her way ahead. She just opened her mouth.
“I should have known. He was just so pretty… I thought I could handle him.”
Some part of her—a part that was trying desperately to impress—thought her mother would be complimented. For all that she didn’t know about Chinese culture, she always saw horses in their art, so she assumed a pretty horse would be a good thing.
Instead, Cindy’s
tundra face scrunched. “Apollo?” She tossed her head and laughed. “He is a rescue horse.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A rescue horse.”
“Apollo rescues people?”
Cindy’s black eyes widened and her brows arched, the expression saying, moron. “I rescued him,” she said firmly, and so loudly it seemed she wanted the entire kitchen to hear. “Someone could not take care of him. I bought him, brought him here. A rescue horse.”
“Oh. I’ve got it now.” Margo tried a smile, but Cindy’s brows remained skeptically arched.
She glanced at Logan—actually looked to him for help—but his face was blank. He’d taken a half step back, probably wanting to distance himself from her failure.
“So…um, when did you get here?” she asked, when it became clear that no one else was going to talk. Her voice sounded high, and it shook slightly.
“I arrived this afternoon.”
Margo ran her fingers over the hemline of her shorts. “Did you have good flight?”
“It was a busy flight. Lots of work to do.”
“How’s that going? Your work,” she finished, the word hanging.
“Work is work.” Cindy shrugged. “And what have you done here?”
It was spoken like a challenge. Margo panicked. Directing her gaze away from Logan, who knew the true answer to that question, she fumbled for a lie. “All I’ve really done is lay out and read A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking.”
By Stephen Hawking? Of course it was written by Stephen Hawking!
Cindy nodded, her short black hair bouncing slightly.
Logan picked that moment to step in. “How was your time in Zurich?” he asked Cindy. “Were you able to work things out with Imatech?”
Margo watched more than listened to the two of them discuss Zurich—she had no idea what they were talking about—and then the planets Logan had found, and what properties they may or may not have. She’d tried to bait her mother by mentioning Stephen Hawking—the truth was, Margo had only touched the book; it was still in its place in the casa library—but Cindy remained focused on Logan.
He seemed to thrive in her presence. He said the right things, smiled at the right times… His presentation was seamless, and he did it all while avoiding Margo’s eyes. It was almost impossible to believe that this turbo-charged phony was the same person who’d kissed her.
That Logan and this were polar opposites, and only one of them was real.
She distracted herself from the ache in her chest by wondering what her mother was doing here. Logan had mentioned something about July Fourth, but could it be a birthday celebration for her? It was ridiculous to even think it, but her birthday was July fifth. It was always possible—except it wasn’t.
Margo shook her head. Time to stop being stupid.
Logan wound up between her and her egg donor in the food line. When Margo burned her hands on the asparagus tongs, he snatched them away and tossed a few stalks on her plate. As they stepped out onto the deck, and he pulled out Cindy’s chair, then hers, Margo reminded herself again that she didn’t know him. What she knew was a figment of her imagination, a ghost she’d invented after falling off Apollo; invented because—let’s face it—she’d needed it.
They were joined at the table by a ruddy-cheeked African scientist, the balding Nobel laureate whose room Margo had occupied, and the Austrian man Margo had bumped into on the stairs. She was staring at the Austrian scientist—actually, noticing how intently he watched her—they were joined by a familiar red-haired man, a tall, fit suit who was introduced as Mr. Johnathon Graystone. Logan’s eyes snapped to Graystone, and Margo remembered who he was.
Another multi-billionaire, and her mother’s partner in the space business. No wonder Logan looked nervous. If he played his cards right over shrimp and rice, he might win a space helmet.
Margo started on her rice while conversation whirled like a hurricane.
So I told her we were clearly getting something there… Fabulous to hear that… Was impressed to learn about a little lodge… No, I don’t think so yet. She’s still a little timid… It came in last month, but we’re still waiting on the other half…I thought it was a good idea at the time, but you know how shifty the South American markets can be…
She looked up, between Cindy, who sat at the end of the table, to Margo’s right, and Logan, who was seated across from her, on Cindy’s other side. The screen door was just between their chairs. She wondered if she could make it out without attracting notice.
Figuring Logan would notice, if for no other reason but that he kept sending awkward glanced her way, she focused on her rice until she thought she heard her name.
She looked up and bumped into Logan’s eyes. He stared, like he was trying to give her a message, and went on: “Marge was the mother of Zeus and the goddess of unknown fortunes.”
“Very fitting,” said the Austrian man, who flashed Margo a grin with his creepy teeth.
“Yes. Quite nice,” said Jonathon Graystone.
“You know, it sounds a bit like Ma, another ancient deity. I like it.” Cindy smiled at Logan.
He didn’t smile back. The conversation spun around them, but Margo didn’t hear a word of it.
He had named the planet after her… or else—oh, God—he had lied. Logan had told her he was naming it for her, but in reality, he had already named it for some goddess. And she had fallen for it.
Margo’s fork clattered on her dainty plate, and the conversation stopped. Lifting her eyes, she found the one face she knew, and murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m just…clumsy.”
In the long breath of silence, Logan’s gaze held hers. Margo looked down to pick up her fork, glad to hide her face. He’d known what was going on; she’d seen it in his eyes. She had told him, without meaning to, just how she felt about their night together in the O. Now she wanted to die.
“You should not worry,” said the Austrian. Luther was his name, she thought she’d heard. His pale blue eyes watched hers with sharp concern. “How are you feeling? After that fall? Are you disoriented?”
“I’m doing well,” she lied.
His question prompted others. She answered mechanically. Sooner or later, someone asked how it happened. Once again, her gaze jerked to Logan. He blinked.
Swallowing hard, Margo said, “I jumped.”
“You did what?” the Nobel laureate asked. It was unclear whether he was surprised or just hard of hearing. She leaned forward.
“I tried to jump the creek. I was near the bend by the landing strip, and I didn’t slow down. I didn’t realized my horse wasn’t fully trained, so I thought we could make it.” She shrugged. “He threw me.”
That drew a host of oohs and aaahs, and Johnathon Graystone asked if she’d seen a doctor. “Yes,” she replied, and she wondered if the man had traveled here with her mother. If so, Cindy obviously hadn’t mentioned Margo’s concussion.
Johnathon Graystone raised his wine glass. “May Margo’s hard head serve her well.”
Margo held up her water, too, but nearly choked trying to swallow. When she drew a good breath, Cindy caught her eye. “I believe it, about you being clumsy.”
The comment seemed innocent enough, but Margo knew Cindy. Knew the television personality, anyway. On her finance show, Zhu’s, which Margo had watched obsessively for a whole year, she’d learned that Cindy was bossy and cutting, shrewd and competent. If there was one thing she was not, it was clumsy.
To avoid her mother’s lingering gaze, she glanced at Logan. He was chewing a shrimp, but when she looked over, his eyes dropped quickly to his plate. Cindy’s gaze intercepted them. She looked from Margo to Logan, and said, “So… The two of you. You’re about the same age. Do you share any interests?”
Logan’s eyes widened just enough for Margo to notice. They were wary. When, after a millisecond, she didn’t respond, he quickly said, “Not Bach.”
“Oh?”
“Margo likes music where there’s m
ore going on. A little less quiet.”
Johnathon Graystone looked like he might have a seizure. The vein above his left eye pulsed, and he pushed against the table with both hands, making Margo think he might jump up. “If you do not have quiet, you do not have time to think!” he huffed. “You like to think, don’t you?”
Margo nodded.
“Well try someone else. If Bach does not ring your bell, consider Debussy or Beethoven. There are many fine composers.” He turned to Logan. “Are there not?”
“There are, sir.”
