Bedeviled Angel (13 page)

"Part of his chores," Logan said, and they shared a smile. "I admire your charity work," he added, changing the subject so fast, and to something so… personal, that Melody didn't know what to say. Screwing up, she could deal with, but compliments threw her.

"I'm guessing that pissing Daddy off in the process was a bonus." He winked.

"Extra bang for your buck, so to speak?"

"Pissing Daddy off…" She shook her head. "
That
, I'm good at."

"You're good at a lot of things; you just haven't found them all yet."

Melody did a double take to see if he was being serious. "How tactful of you."

She thought about the amorous incident in her kitchen and wondered how good he would have found her, if they hadn't been interrupted—thank the stars they were.

Logan must have caught her blush, because he raised a questioning brow, but she wasn't going anywhere near that subject, not with him, not yet. Not ever. "Pissing Daddy off is easy," she said.

"But you work so hard at it."

"Nah, I'm a natural. And he's an easy mark, stuffed suit with a briefcase, no sense of humor, obsessive, solemn, sedate, bor—" She stopped, but the words hung thick in the air between them. After a minute, she shrugged. "Oops."

"I am
not
like your father."

Glory, Logan had gorgeous eyes, Mel thought, especially when they flashed fire, like now. "Did I say you were? It's not my fault if you see a similarity… or three."

"Gee, thanks." Despite his sarcasm, he smiled. "So you're saying that any man who carries a briefcase and wears a suit is not the 'one' for you."

"I'm saying there isn't 'one' for me. I don't want 'one,' thank you very much. I've got all I can do to take care of me. What about you?"

Logan shook his head. "I've made more than my quota of mistakes for one lifetime, thanks."

A roar of laughter from upstairs caught their attention. "Giddy up," Shane ordered. "Giddy up, horsey."

"Your father must be giving Shane a pony ride," Logan said.

"Hah! Not my father."

"Jessie," they said in unison, leaning into each other.

"My father's probably talking business and boring your mother to tears."

"She didn't seem bored to me, not with anything he said. She seemed disgustingly interested."

"They
were
flirting with each other, weren't they? I thought so, but I figured I'd had too many margaritas."

Logan shook his head. "I have never seen my mother flirt in my life… until today."

"Creepy, isn't it," Melody said, "thinking of our parents as sexual beings?"

"Oh yuck, as Shane would say. Did you have to go that far?"

Melody laughed, tickled at this lighthearted aspect of Logan the tight ass, but his regard changed to one more in keeping with her briefcase-toting image of him.

Serious. "Speaking of sexual beings," he said.

Melody stilled, realized how close they sat, and though Logan gave her plenty of time to move away, she couldn't for the life of her do so. Then the arm she craved, his hard-muscled arm, slipped tight around her, pulled her close, and those lips she remembered as cool and soft met hers. A gentle kiss, barely there. A lingering need, stoked but unmet, breaths mingling.

One kiss more. Another.

"Sleep well," Logan said, pulling away, seeming as reluctant, and relieved, as she.

He stood with her, touched the corner of her mouth, coaxed it upward into a smile, then watched her take the last few steps to the landing. He nodded as she turned the knob.

"Night," she said and went inside.

So much for getting kidnapped by Long John Kilgarven
, she thought as she regarded her kitchen with new eyes, remembered her earlier wish, and knew that her not getting abducted would serve them both better in the long run.

Melody opened the refrigerator, looked inside, and shut it again. A screwup and a perfectionist had no possible future together. None. They might have pretty damned good sex, though.

Their hot kitchen affair had certainly held a great deal of promise. Hell, it had been the best part of her day. Though there had been a few other highs before the evening ended. Logan approved of her giving her father's money to charity, for example.

Who knew? He'd gone too far in trying to make her feel better when he called her brilliant, of course. She was never that, but she had conceived the idea for the show and everything that went with it.

Perhaps she wasn't so much of a featherhead, after all. Maybe she did have a bit of a mind for business. Logan had implied as much when he defended her. Logan had defended her. She wondered if his knight-in-shining-armor act would turn into as heavy a burden for him as the false veneer of confidence he'd laid on her.

Melody pulled a bag of chips from the cupboard and carried it into her room, eating as she went. Too bad she'd needed defending. She sighed and stepped out of her shoes. At her desk, she pulled out a drawer to look at her father's checks, but her mind couldn't wrap itself around the hurt and frustration they represented.

Slamming the drawer gave her some satisfaction. But signing them over to The Keep Me Foundation tomorrow would give her a great deal more. Every kid should be wanted by at least one parent, she thought, popping another chip into her mouth.

And what poetic justice that one of her parents should fund the cause.

She would tell the development officer that her father might like to meet some of the babies, too. Melody chuckled as she sealed the potato chip bag, washed her hands, and began to undress.

After she finished in the bathroom and turned off the lights, she settled into bed to ponder a certain blue-eyed producer and relive the way she'd felt in his arms, twice in the same day, once frantic and hot, once tender and sweet. "Long John Kilgarven," she whispered into the darkness. She had raised the devil in him for sure, and now she didn't know what to do about it. She knew only that the attraction between them sizzled, a dangerous hiss and sputter that she should deny, or at the least, ignore. Except that she couldn't seem to do either. She wanted him to touch her again, to see how far he would go. She wanted… to quote one of her boarding school teachers… to play with fire.

WHEN Logan returned to his apartment, he found his mother wearing her sweater and carrying her purse. "Where are you going?" he asked. "I thought you were staying over." He'd looked forward to the chance to talk to her about retiring.

"I changed my mind," she said. "I want to talk to Chester, so he's taking me dancing."

Dancing ?

"Sure am," Melody's father said. "Let's go, Phyl."

Phyl
? Logan swallowed his annoyance and kissed his mother's cheek. "Maybe you can stay over next weekend."

After everyone left, Shane postponed the inevitable by eating one spoonful of ice cream between each chunky doodle ice sculpture he created. Eventually the caramel and chocolate melded and turned the mixture a nutty dull gray, and when he tipped his bowl to drink the rest, ice-cream soup ran down his shirt, his chair, and puddled on the kitchen floor.

"That's it. Bedtime, sport."

"Ah, Dad."

But tonight, Dad meant business. He read one story, ruffled his son's hair, kissed him twice, and tucked him in. He couldn't get his mind away from the fact that Melody's father seemed to drain the life out of her. He couldn't forget seeing his mother flirting for the first time in his life, either, or the fact that she was no more aware than Melody was of the effect she had on men when she flirted.

Logan ran a hand through his hair. Melody. You had to respect a woman who threw her father's guilt money in his face by signing it over to charity—charities, plural—to which he would never contribute on his own.

After Logan finished straightening up and doing the dishes, he got into bed, still thinking about Melody, the feel and scent of her, until he finally grabbed the remote and the TV listing to get her out of his head.

When the phone rang, he saw that somehow the eleven o'clock news had come and gone. "Huh? Hello?"

Jagger Harrison Gardner, as station manager, should have been the one to go into work when a burglar alarm went off in the middle of the night, but Jag wanted Logan to get out of bed and go meet the police at the west entrance.

Logan hung up and swore. "That man would pass the buck, if God were next in line."

Logan cursed again as he tossed the covers aside and rose. He shouldn't be called a producer, he should be called a jack-of-all-trades, or of whatever trade Jagger Harrison Gardner didn't feel like doing, or taking responsibility for. Logan didn't even want to be a producer. He wanted to make documentaries, not ride shotgun over other people's creativity, or lack thereof. He certainly did not want to do station walk-throughs at half-past freaking midnight.

As he pulled on his jeans, he remembered that he needed a sitter. Man, he hated to wake Mel. She'd seemed so tired when she said good night, but she had promised she'd sit if he needed her, and he honestly did. Besides, he wanted to make sure that she felt better.

It took quite a while to get her to answer her door, and when she finally did, she looked groggy enough to be walking in her sleep.

Logan couldn't stop his grin.

She looked like a little girl with her wild, fly-away hair tumbling to her shoulders, though that's where any likeness to childhood ended. Her long, shapely legs were as bare as her feet. Her breasts sat proud and free, her nipples making hard points against a soft tan T-shirt, long enough to cover essentials and short enough to inspire dreams. A Salem favorite, the shirt depicted a witch, artfully inviting him "in for a spell."

Logan's body said a quick and emphatic yes; his saner self knew better. "You have no idea how much I would like to take you up on that invitation," he said, making Mel's sleepy brow furrow in confusion. "But I've been called in to work. Can you—"

"Problem?"

"More like some cat tripped a burglar alarm. Routine."

That was all the explanation it took before Mel nodded and started on her comatose way up the stairs. Logan shut her door and followed, thoroughly enjoying the splendid view from down below.

Enjoying it too much. Not good, the way his body reacted to the sight and scent of her. Downright dangerous, as a matter of fact. As soon as he made sure Mel found his sofa without breaking her neck, he would grab his keys off the dresser and

—

Melody about stopped his heart when she made straight for his room and crawled into his bed. Ignoring his jumbled covers, she lay on her belly, raised a knee, hugged his pillow like a lover, and went back to sleep.

For an eternity of throbbing beats, Logan's heart sped and his palms sweat, while he stood mesmerized in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at Melody Seabright's little silk-clad ass out there jump-starting his libido.

Logan wiped the sweat off his brow. This had to be the wildest turn-on of his life, he thought, especially now that he knew the way her skin felt against his. She looked like a gift from the gods, and man, did he ever want to unwrap the package.

Too bad he couldn't, especially while she slept. If he did, he would be taking advantage. A lowlife. Extremely low.

Logan's sigh of regret filled the room.

Then he brightened. He should cover her up, so she didn't catch cold. Good idea.

As he approached her, Melody shifted in the bed, about stopping his heart, and ended up facing the wall, aiming her cute little bottom his way.

Logan savored the sight—Melody Seabright half naked in his bed—a dream come true. No, a nightmare, since he couldn't touch, anyway. Besides, he had to leave.

Too bad he couldn't seem to move. Did bewitchment have a residual effect? he wondered. Because he would swear that something—something strong—kept him from moving his legs.

Calling himself a fool, Logan tested his theory and, of course, he could move.

Funny thing, though, he didn't end up stepping away from Melody at all, but toward her, and the closer he got, the stronger the pull.

The burnished glow of her sleek skin made a sharp contrast to the white of his sheets and the black of her scant bikinis, as she lay there all sleep-warm and strokable, his palm itching to make contact.

"Best just cover her up, Kilgarven," he whispered, hoping the sound of reason in the quiet room might make an impression. Right, he thought, cover her and be done with it. But when he grasped the blanket to pull it over her, he caught her foot, and she shifted and sighed. "Logan," she said in a breathy, seductive whisper, so low, he might have missed the plea if he hadn't been leaning over her. At least, he
thought
she'd said it. Wished she had.

"Mel?" No answer. "Melody?"

"Logan?" she said—no doubt this time—then with a whimper and a purr, she wiggled her bottom, as if to bring it to his attention.

And hadn't she succeeded in a fine upstanding manner, or so his body thought.