by Amy Gamet
Home.
The last time he was in his apartment, Gemma was with him, naked in his bed.
Hell, lots of women had been in his bed, but the memory of that one grabbed him by the balls. She was a jumble of contradictions. Tame and wild. Sexually greedy with a shade of innocence that made him want to corrupt her. Anonymous and much too familiar all at the same time.
He thought of the way she’d emerged from the bathroom at the club, her hair down, oozing sex appeal where she’d been the untouchable professional just moments before. Of course he’d touched her anyway.
He’d do anything to keep touching her.
It figured he’d been drawn to a woman who only wanted sex. Yet another juxtaposition. He was used to being the one who only wanted to get off, constantly keeping a relationship at bay. Now she’d captivated his interest and she wanted nothing to do with him in the light of day.
She’d been long gone when he woke up this morning.
He stepped outside. It was raining hard, thunder rumbling in the distance, and he jogged to his car. The laptop was shielded from the rain by a leather bag, but he wasn’t so lucky. In the fifty feet from the building to his car, he’d gotten completely soaked.
The Ferrari’s powerful engine roared to life. The car was his baby. Cowboy had once called it Logan’s girlfriend, joking that it was the only curvy thing that would let him touch it.
If he only knew how wrong he was.
In his mind, he could see his hand grazing Gemma’s naked hip. He clenched the wheel tighter, his hands aching to stroke her again, and he cursed under his breath. A flash of lightning illuminated the empty street.
It was late, he was tired and he would have liked the company of a woman. One woman in particular.
Gemma Faraday.
He parked in the lot across from his apartment and took off through the rain once more. He almost didn’t notice the woman standing in the shadows, just to the side of the entrance to his building.
“Logan?”
Recognition was instantaneous and his dick leaped in his pants. She’d come back for an encore performance, as if he’d conjured her with his thoughts. He moved close to her, already anticipating their kiss, when he realized she was crying.
He cupped her face in his hands. She had an abrasion from below her cheekbone to high on her temple. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry to just show up here like this. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“It’s okay.” He steered her into the building, opening the door with a wave of his keychain.
“You said you help people.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah. What’s going on?”
Her lip trembled for a moment before her face crumpled. “I really need help.”
10
Gemma looked small to Logan, curled up on the couch beneath the blanket his grandmother had knitted for him. He’d cleaned her abrasion and treated it with some ointment, her hair was wet, and her hands were wrapped around a cup of hot tea.
The muscles of his arms twitched. “Did he hurt you?”
“Besides my face? No.”
Logan exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “Did you see what he looked like?”
“No. He was wearing a mask.”
He could tell she’d been traumatized, but so far she was holding her own.
“He knew my name,” she said. Her hands started to shake and she put down the tea. “He was talking in my ear, his voice all weird and echo-y from the mask, and he said if I wanted to see Royce alive again, I had to do what he told me to do.”
Logan was careful to keep his face expressionless. “Royce?”
“He’s a judge. A state justice, actually.” She covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. “He was kidnapped yesterday, and his wife was killed. Did you see it on the news?”
“The car bomb.”
“Yes. That’s why my friend dragged me out for drinks.”
“You were upset.”
She nodded.
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“A long time ago. Not anymore.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Then why would the kidnapper come to you? Did he ask for ransom?”
“Not exactly.” She covered her face. “He wanted me to do something. I can’t tell you what.”
“You came to me because you wanted help. I can’t help if you don’t tell me the whole story.”
“They’re going to kill Royce if they find out I told anyone.”
Not if we find him first.
He couldn’t tell her HERO Force was looking for Royce, couldn’t tell her he knew any more about the case than he already had.
Not yet, anyway.
Their worlds were overlapping, two circles that shared more common ground than he realized when he took her to his bed, and he was aware of just how foolish that had been.
Even more foolish, he wanted to do it again.
She looked away from his heated stare.
“You’re safe here, Gemma, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, no strings attached.”
Tell me you want strings.
Tell me you want to be in my bed.
She didn’t look up. “Thank you.”
He gestured to the other side of the loft. “There’s a guest room next to the bathroom. It has walls and everything.”
“Do you mind if I shower?”
“Go ahead. There are towels in the closet.”
“Do you have something I could wear?”
“Sure.”
He dug through his dresser while she showered, listening to the running water as he picked out sweats and an MIT T-shirt, imagining how she’d fill it out and telling his hard-on in no uncertain terms she wasn’t interested in fooling around tonight.
Instead, he needed to get back to working on Royce’s laptop, and he poured himself two fingers of scotch before settling into a sleek leather recliner and getting down to business.
The first thing he did was run a search for Gemma Faraday in Royce’s email. The only hits were for some political fundraiser they were both invited to attend.
That was a relief.
He selected all of the fundraiser emails and marked them as read. Just over five thousand more to go. At this rate, it might take him a week just to find the threatening emails.
A small balloon popped up in the top corner of the desktop. REMINDER: MONTHLY PASSWORDS EXPIRE IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AND REQUIRE TWO-FACTOR AUTHENTICATION.
“Oh, fuck.”
He pinched the skin between his eyes. Without Royce’s cell phone to receive a password reset code, Logan would be unable to log-in after the next two days.
The clock was ticking.
11
Logan’s towels were bigger than Gemma was, and she thought she might get lost in the one she was drying off with. It smelled like him and she brought the soft fabric to her nose, inhaling his scent and sighing.
So he was a decent guy, offering her shelter from the storm without expecting anything in return. After the night they’d spent together, the air between them was sizzling with unspoken questions, and she suspected he’d be interested in having sex again if it was a possibility.
Last night you were drunk.
Today you wouldn’t have any excuses for sleeping with a guy half your age.
Not half, exactly, but certainly younger.
And he worked for HERO Force. Ethically she was skating on ice so thin she could see fish through it.
But she was so aware of him and his proximity, his body so sculpted and physically so fit she could squeeze his muscles and shout for joy. She eyed her naked self in the mirror, the tattoos that swirled around her reconstructed breasts reminding her she was far from a blank slate.
She was a woman with a history, and it was stamped on her as clear as day for anyone to see if she let them get close to her. Reaching up, she ran her finger along the petals of a flower.
The room h
ad been dark when they’d made love.
Had sex.
You had sex, Gemma. You didn’t make love.
But it had felt like that to her, which was ridiculous.
Her eyes dropped and she finished drying her body. He hadn’t seen her scars, hadn’t had that chance to judge whether she was still a real woman. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Of course you’re still a woman.
Even more so, for all she’d been through.
She wrapped the towel around her body and opened the door, cool air sweeping across her skin as she made her way to the guest room. There were clothes on the bed that smelled like Logan too, and she dressed in them, the fabric like an intimate caress.
She came back out, spying him under a modern lamp, typing on a computer. With his glasses he looked older, more distinguished. He looked…
Sexy.
And damn it all, she liked him. He was the kind of man she could have a relationship with, assuming she could stomach the age difference.
The first stirring of need rumbled through her belly. He was offering her sanctuary, which made her feel protected. Cared for. She walked toward him, her mind opening to him as she moved closer. Maybe it didn’t matter how old he was. He was a man, not a child. A man who seemed to want her just as much as she wanted him.
When she stood just outside the circle of light, he lifted his head and met her eyes.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded. She was suddenly unsure of herself, and she swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “Are you working?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll just grab my blanket.” She spun on her heel and took the afghan, anxious to beat a hasty retreat.
“Wait.”
She kept walking. “I’m going to get a glass of water and head to bed,” she called over her shoulder. She reached the kitchen and hung her head, pulling the blanket tightly around her middle.
He spoke from right behind her and she jumped. “What is it?”
“Uh, where do you keep your glasses?”
He reached into a cupboard and handed one to her, but didn’t let go when she would have taken it. “Since I first saw you standing in the rain, I’ve wanted to kiss you. Do you know that?” he asked.
Her thighs squeezed together. “You have?”
He nodded. “But I needed you to understand you could stay here, even if you didn’t want to be kissed.” He touched her uninjured cheek. “So you need to tell me if you want me to kiss you or if I’m crossing a line you’d rather keep intact.”
“Screw the line.”
He reached for her just as she went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Her hands went around his neck and held him to her, his tongue teasing and exploring her mouth. He put the glass down behind her, knocking it over on the stone countertop, the glass clamoring.
Gemma dropped the blanket.
He spun her around and pushed her back against the kitchen counter, his hips pressing against hers as he continued his skillful assault on her mouth.
And skillful he was. She never would have guessed the young stud with the MIT T-shirt would be such a passionate lover, so sure of himself and in tune with her desire.
He trailed kisses down her neck as his hand slipped beneath her shirt, gently cupping her naked breast, and he groaned. He squeezed her, his hand taking in the full shape.
Oh God, he’s looking for my nipple.
A nipple she didn’t have anymore.
She squirmed away from his seeking hand, suddenly uncertain. Unlike their first night together, the room was light enough for him to see her body clearly, and she was suddenly terrified of what he would do when he saw her chest.
“You okay?” he said huskily.
No, she wasn’t okay. This was a moment that should be easy and natural, but she was stuck with a body that looked anything but ordinary.
Fuck you, cancer.
She wasn’t going to let that damned disease take another thing away from her. “Wait.” She grabbed the hem of the shirt with both hands and pulled it over her head in one swoop, baring herself to him from the waist up and holding her breath.
The cancer had taken her breasts. Rather than try to replicate her old chest, she’d chosen an elaborate series of tattoos that flowed from the corner of her underarm across the swell of each breast.
They were the most personal part of her body. They represented her fight. Everything she had gone through.
Her will to live.
Those tattoos were her spirit itself, and now she was exposing them to this man, not knowing if he would be repulsed or accepting, and her chest squeezed tightly as she waited for his reaction.
He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t saying anything.
He stared at her, his face unreadable as his eyes trailed over every inch of her decorated skin. She exhaled shakily. When she couldn’t stand his silence any longer, she moved to put the shirt back on.
“Wait, I’m not done.”
He traced a line as it swirled around the crest of one breast. “There are flowers and designs I don’t understand, but there are also symbols. I found the silhouette of Justice.”
Her mouth pulled down hard at the corners. He wasn’t disgusted. He was in awe. “She’s blindfolded.”
He stroked her gently. “And an ocean wave with the sun setting in the background.”
There was a heart there too, for the child who would never play on that beach, but she didn’t need to tell him that. Most of the designs were too personal for anyone else to understand. She hadn’t created them for anyone but herself.
“So beautiful.” He bent his head and kissed each breast tenderly, reverently.
She lifted his face to hers and kissed him, knowing she was very much a woman in Logan’s eyes, feeling sexier than she could remember feeling in her lifetime. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt and she lifted it over his head.
“Go get a condom,” she commanded. “I have a blanket, and this time, we’re doing it on the floor.”
12
Gemma sat up in bed with a start, her heart pounding. It took her a moment to remember where she was, the familiar shapes and shadows of Logan’s apartment coming into focus.
She’d had a crazy dream about the man who attacked her. She smelled the stench of his filthy skin before he knocked the wind out of her, following her to the ground as the full weight of his body landed on her back.
She’d tried to scream, but it came out as a whimper. “Leave me alone!”
A man’s shiny black dress shoes stepped in front of her face. “I love you, Gemma.” It was Royce’s voice, but when she looked up to see him, she was staring into the eyes of her father.
“Does anybody need a lawyer?” he asked.
She shivered. No way she was ever going to get back to sleep tonight.
Logan shifted in his sleep and she looked back at his sleeping form. The two nights they’d spent together had been the best two nights she’d had in a long time.
It’s not like this can turn into something serious. You’re way too old for him.
She frowned.
Some women had relationship with younger men. Why couldn’t she?
She wrapped Logan’s bathrobe around herself and padded to the living area. The sun would be up soon, the eastern half of the sky already illuminated, throwing the loft into some kind of twilight.
She wandered around the space, considering the sparse furniture and decor. In a way it gave the few pieces he had that much greater significance, and she imagined she could get to know the man by the things he used to fill his space.
One wall held a bookcase, desk and several framed degrees. The PhD in computer science came as no surprise, but the medical degree had her mouth hanging open. She touched the abrasion on her cheek. He hadn’t thrown in a sly, “I’m a doctor” when he’d treated her injury.
Perhaps the degree was a joke, like a fake magazine cover or a prank lottery ticket. Something you could print of
f the Internet to amuse your friends.
Or maybe it isn’t.
She hummed softly. She might have to change her computer-nerd-with-the-body-of-a-Greek-god idea of him if it was real. She focused on the year he graduated and did some quick mental math.
She was thirteen years older than him, not quite as bad as she’d thought.
Her hip bumped the desk in front of her, a computer monitor coming to life from the movement. Her eyes went back to the big screen, which was mirroring the open inbox on the smaller laptop.
The names of several judges caught her eye, along with a political figure she knew professionally. Was this her email she was looking at?
She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the names, one standing out from the others.
Barbara Royce.
It took a minute for confusion to give way to understanding. This was Royce’s computer, not her own, and those were emails to his wife. She looked back at Logan, his eyes closed, his naked body tangled in the bedsheets.
He was just a guy she’d met in a club.
Or was he?
She’d simply assumed theirs was a chance meeting, but what if it was not? The kidnappers knew who she was—one of them had attacked her on the street.
Oh God. What if another one had approached her in a nightclub?
Pure fear blew through her like the coldest breeze. Logan was connected to the people who’d taken Royce. He must be.
He was dangerous.
She was in danger.
As if on cue, Logan’s eyes opened. “Hey. Good morning.” He sat up, looking from her to the computer screen and back again. “What are you doing?”
She looked to the door on the other side of the apartment, but she’d have to run right past the bed. “Nothing.”
He threw back the covers and stood, the nakedness she’d found so alluring now frightening her. “Why are you on my computer?”
“It’s not yours.” She grabbed a pair of scissors from a cup on the desk, holding them like a sword. “It belongs to Anthony Royce. Now how about you tell me why you have it?”
