Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (15 page)

It was very late Monday morning. Almost Monday afternoon.

The first time the phone rang, he'd been one foot inside the door and had almost knocked Maggie flat in his haste to beat her to it. A computerized voice droned in his ear and he'd slammed the receiver down so hard his secretary had threatened to quit.

A second call came. From Gideon. Logan grimaced. He'd been too short with his sibling's brotherly routine. Now he'd have to apologize and explain he'd been waiting for Hannah to call. An explanation that would require more explanation.

Like why he was so anxious to talk to a woman he'd known a grand total of sixty hours. He couldn't put it into words and that reason wouldn't cut the mustard with Gideon. Especially when Logan had so much trouble accepting it himself.

The phone rang again. This time, Logan decided, Maggie could answer it. That decision lasted the length of one ring.

"Burke, here."

"Logan Burke?" a female voice inquired.

"You got it."

"Your card says you're a private investigator."

"Currently up to my eyeballs in investigating," he grumbled more to himself than to the mystery voice. He didn't have the energy or concentration to carry on a civilized conversation.

"My name is Annette John. I work in emergency admitting at Northwest Medical."

Logan's heart pumped harder. "Hospital?"

"We've just treated a young woman name Hannah Evans and found your card in her purse. Are you acquainted with her?"

"Yes." He choked on the word. "What happened?"

"An auto accident. She's not a regular patient of any of our doctors and we're having trouble locating any relatives."

His brain quit functioning, started up again, and headed in the wrong direction. All he could think of was one tiny little girl, one car blown straight to hell, and prayed it wasn't the same. "Is she hurt?"

"Dr. Wilson is with her now. I realize it's against your ethics to divulge information but I was hoping you could put me in touch with someone."

Ethics, hell. "I'm on my way."

"Oh, I didn't mean ..."

"I'll be there in thirty."

It was more like fifty, but considering he had a whole city to cross he made remarkable, if not outright dangerous, time. Fifty minutes gave him too much time to think about a day three years ago. Too much time to think about the accident, and the medical bills he felt compelled to pay for the child who'd suffered and died because of his carelessness.

He burst through the emergency room doors; his nose twitched at the irritating odor of pine and iodine. His Nikes squeaked against the linoleum floor. Blinking, he sneezed twice and made a beeline for the admitting desk.

"Logan Burke."

Nurse John gave him a cursory glance. "Excuse me?"

"Logan Burke. You called me about Hannah Evans." He rubbed a fist in one sure-to-be bloodshot eye.

"Oh, Mr. Burke. I wasn't expecting ... I didn't know ... You must be undercover," she whispered, leaning across the desk.

"Deep undercover." It was a lie but if it got him to Hannah faster it was worth it.

"Miss Evans is in Examining Room Two. Down the hall. Second door on the left." She said something else but he was too far away to hear anything but the squeal of his soles on the tiled floor and the thrumming vessels in his brain. Blood rushed to his head at racetrack speed. Lightheaded, he pulled up short at the door.

Hands on his knees he leaned forward, listening to his conscience beat in his head. He couldn't face her, didn't want to know what he'd done to her. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and caught the scent of his own fear in the dampness.

Get a grip, Burke. Hannah's with a doctor. Not a coroner. She's been through enough without having to see you shaking like a wino.

The door whooshed open. The doctor came through, gave a quick nod, and placed a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. "She's scared, but fine. I imagine she'd like to see a familiar face right about now."

Logan nodded, shoved a hand through his hair and walked in. Hannah's lashes fluttered open. Eyes glazed with pain met his own. She smiled. Slowly, but she smiled. "You were right."

Her voice sounded weak and it scared him. With a gentle touch, he swept her bangs off her forehead, avoiding the gauze bandage at her hairline, and asked, "About which of many things."

"My car's not a banana. It's a sardine can," she answered, turning her cheek into his palm.

The fact that she felt well enough to tease eased his mind somewhat. The fact that she wanted his touch—and he could've swore he felt her lips move against his skin—sent a new beat through his veins.

He tucked his hands in the ragged pockets of his threadbare jeans and cleared his throat. "I imagine your car closely resembles banana pudding. You're one lucky cookie."

She chuckled. Then moaned.

"You okay? Where does it hurt?"

"The question is, where does it NOT hurt?"

"When they gonna spring you?" He shifted from one foot to the other. Damn, he hated hospitals. Too many bad memories lived in the sterile walls.

"They're not," Hannah replied, bringing him back to the present. "At least for a couple of days."

"Why not?"

"I need someone to monitor my concussion. As we both know, none of my neighbors are particularly reliable."

"I am."

"What?"

"As reliable as they come."

"Who comes?"

"Mankind."

"Don't make me laugh, Logan. It hurts too bad."

"Would you mind?"

"Having you take care of me? Can you spare the time?"

"Consider it part of the service." His tone teased. His plea did not. He wanted to assuage his guilt, guilt he carried for no good reason other than instead of him, because of him, a tiny child had died. Guilt that he'd put Hannah in the same kind of danger.

He wanted to make it up to her. To give himself a small peace of mind, a small measure of self-worth he probably didn't deserve. And most of all to prove to himself that what he felt for her was strictly business, strictly generic.

Like hell. Logan groaned.

"Hey," she softly prompted. "I'm the one who's supposed to be making those noises here."

His eyes opened, finding a safe spot to stare at a foot above her head.

C'mon Burke. This is not time to give into the ghosts.
The hesitant touch of her hand on his thigh calmed him like a dose of Valium.

"Logan?"

He gave her a crooked smile and squeezed her hand, her fingers tiny and feminine and vulnerable in his. At the ragged end of a long sigh, he said, "I don't do well in hospitals."

"Bad memories?"

Throat clogged, he nodded.

"The same ones from the beach?"

He'd almost forgotten about that. Almost, but not quite. "More or less."

"Anything I can help with?"

The depth of his self-pity rose like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut, a well-aimed kick delivered excruciating inches lower. "Hey, that's my line. You're the one needing my help."

"I don't think that's exactly true."

Damn, but she was perceptive. If he didn't keep the past where it belonged, his shaky future was headed straight for the tubes. He slipped into his carefully reserved investigator's mode. "Didn't we agree that I call the shots?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar."

He glared down, a smile tugging at his mouth. She squirmed beneath both the blanket and his scrutiny. Her face paled and his enjoyment of the upper hand faded. "No more sass, no more wiggling and no more argument until you've had at least a week to recover. I'm taking you home."

"Yes, boss."

"With me."

"Yes, boss."

"I love the way that sounds."

Hannah managed a weak smile between pinched lips. "Just don't get too used to it. Right now acquiescence is the lesser of two evils."

"The second being taking me down a peg or two?"

"My day will come."

"Of that I have no doubt. Now, what about work. How much sick time do you have?"

"As much as I need."

"Generous of ViOPet."

Her eyes drifted closed, and with a defeated sigh, she sank deeper into the pillow. "ViOPet has nothing to do with it."

Logan liked neither her look or her comment. A suspicious mental switch clicked on. "How do you mean?"

"Seems it was decided I was a threat to company security. I was fired this morning."

The wheels whirred faster and Logan began to pace, fury building deep within. It didn't matter how many times he told himself this was just another case, the lie wouldn't stick. Ordinary cases didn't light his fuse with a gut-burning fire.

"This didn't happen on the way to work?"

She slowly shook her head. "I was on my way to you."

He filed that admission away until later. For now only one thing mattered—kicking Neil Harrington's ass. "Tell me what happened."

Fifteen minutes later, she finished her recitation. Logan perched on the edge of the padded vinyl chair at the side of her bed, his hands twisted together between his knees. "And you told all this to the police."

She nodded, then shook her head. "I can't believe they'd be so stupid as to move those barrels in broad daylight."

"They're getting desperate and the mistake just cost them."

Tension settled over the room, wedging itself between them. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"I warned you it might get dangerous," Logan said, knowing his comment sounded harsh under the circumstances. That's how he felt. Harsh, ruthless, and back in control. For a short time he'd slipped; let himself forget the rules of the game. No involvement. This incident cut too close to the bone.

Restitution for Hannah's suffering would cost someone dearly. He fully intended to see payment made in spades.

"Dangerous," she whispered softly, seeming to taste the word.

The term sounded twice as bad coming from her sweet mouth. Her weakened state enhanced its meaning. The knot in Logan's stomach clenched hard.

Her eyes took on a faraway look. "I've never fully appreciated that word before. It packs quite a punch."

"You still game?"

She looked back at him then. "Ask me that in a week."

"Good girl. With the police involved you should be safe."

"How do you figure?"

"Now that they've exposed themselves, ViOPet'll lay low. That gives us time to make some plans."

"Us?"

"The bitter end. Remember?"

"I hired you to find out who was following me. We've more than determined that to my satisfaction."

He stared into her trusting eyes and lost a tiny part of his resolve. One day he'd have to come clean. He'd have to bare that particular secret. But first he'd see her through this mess, clean it up so she wouldn't hate him so bad in the end—which sounded an awful lot like involvement. "It's over when I say it's over."

"And your other name is Superman?"

He only laughed.

Solemnly, she said, "I can't pay for that much of your time."

"I'm in this for the glory now." Not to mention Neil Harrington's ass. He gave her a quick wink. "Let's blow this joint, kid."

Blueberry scented steam drifted across the kitchen. Logan kneed the oven door shut and juggled the hot muffin tin from hand to hand. Grinding out a curse, he dropped it on the stovetop and stuck his right index finger in his mouth.

What the hell was he doing? He never cooked, unless nuking a TV dinner qualified, and he certainly wasn't thrilled to find himself fixing breakfast for Hannah. It meant he was taking this case, and her, too seriously.

Yet seriously didn't begin to describe her effect on him. She was a fire in his blood, an insistent greedy flame licking away at the list of reasons demanding he keep her away. She was becoming the reason for everything he did. And he wasn't doing a damned thing to stop it.

From the time they'd reached the beach house late Monday evening until Tuesday dawn, he'd wakened her every two to three hours. He'd sat on the floor in the corner or paced the length of the small bedroom, but he'd never left her side.

Watching her sleep, he found it strange how well he knew her, yet knew her not at all. For close to six weeks he'd followed her, learned her habits, likes, and dislikes. Found out she never wore jeans or sneakers and could spend hours browsing through bookstores. Discovered she didn't eat fast food and shopped for veggies at a market two blocks west of her place. Determined her to be a loner and more than once saw a look of uncertainty cross her face.

Learned how he'd never fit into her decent, proper, straitlaced world. Wondered why he'd even considered it.

She'd napped most of Tuesday and he'd dozed fitfully on the couch. That night he'd walked the beach while she finally and truly slept—the uninterrupted sleep of the dead. That realization, even more than the nightmares, kept him awake Tuesday night. The thought of what could've happened ripped his guts to tatters. She'd been on her way to him.

Didn't she know he wasn't worth the time it took to care?

Now, rubbing the sleepy grit from his eyes, he slung a dish towel over his bare shoulder and picked up the breakfast tray. He'd feed her and send her on her way. That would be the safest course. For the both of them.

People around him got hurt, sort of like they'd spun life's roulette wheel and lost. He was a jinx and Fate was no respecter of persons. It had happened to family, friends, and people he didn't even know. His father. His brother, Simon. And worst of all, to that tiny innocent child, the one he refused to think about. He couldn't have it happen again.

He nudged the door open with his hip in time to witness a wake-up stretch so innocently erotic it made the steam from the muffins seem like arctic air. Hannah caught her hair up away from her neck and raised her elbows. The gauzy nightshirt hugged her breasts and the tray wobbled in his hands. "Morning."

"Morning yourself," she answered rubbing her tongue over her teeth while tucking the sheet around her hips. "My mouth feels like a wad of cotton." Trying to scoot into a more comfortable position, she groaned. "And I hurt everywhere."