Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (21 page)

His mouth found hers without a miss. The water wet their lips, their skin, and she reveled in the sweet abrasion. She whimpered her need and rubbed over him. He grabbed her shoulders and set her away, staring down into her eyes.

God, she loved this man. The way he made her feel. The way he allowed her to feel. The way he taught her to feel. His eyes were stormy. Hot. The tic in his jaw signaled his dwindling control; the control that was so important to him.

She lowered her lashes and leaned forward, licking a smear of chocolate from the center of his chest. He shuddered and reached behind her for the tap.

The steam billowed around them. They both struggled to breathe in the humid, sultry air. Like a storm waiting to break, the water continued in a persistent stream, heightening Hannah's arousal. She stepped back to look him in the eyes. And smiled.

His control snapped. Her body opened to receive him. Lean arms flexed as he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and took him in. His mouth was on hers, his tongue sweeping, his teeth nipping, his barely contained violence urging her to respond in kind.

She learned his mouth with her tongue. His sweet, sinful mouth. She whispered naughty love words against his lips, words she'd never heard until he'd growled them in her ear during the dark hours of the night.

With the pressure of her heels against the base of his spine, she urged him on. He leaned her against the wall and took her hard. The ride was wild, frenzied. She held on, digging her fingernails into his shoulders.

Completion came in an explosion. She cried out and he swallowed the sound, taking her mouth in urgent, hungry kisses. She was frantic in her need and Logan complied, thrusting into her with deep, solid strokes.

Seconds later his own storm crested. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and emptied himself in her body. His arms fell slack around her hips. She loosened her legs and tried to stand. He reached out a hand to steady her.

In a gesture she found unbearably tender, he bathed her with soft gentle strokes before using the soap on himself. When he'd finished, he pulled her to him, never saying a word as he cradled her to his body.

He lowered his head and kissed the water from the tips of her lashes, licked it from the end of her nose, then kissed her like the redemption of his soul depended on it.

He lifted his head; his gaze profound. Frighteningly intense. And she felt the strangest urge to hide her nakedness, sure he could read her innermost thoughts.

Then he was gone. The stall door closed behind him. And Hannah dropped to the floor and let the rush of water hide her unexpected and unexplained tears.

Hannah faced facts realistically. It was time to go home. Time to get her life in order. Time to look for a new job. Time to quit playing make-believe in Logan's utopian paradise.

Basically, she was fine. She hadn't had a dizzy spell in the past twenty-four hours. Her bruises ached, but only if she stretched too high or twisted at an awkward angle. Thank goodness she could reach her forehead without doing either. Her stitches itched like crazy.

She needed a new car. She needed a change of clothes. But she didn't want to go because she needed Logan most of all. Hitching the towel up beneath her arms, she rummaged through the undergarments in her bag, glanced at the red evening gown hanging in the closet, and wished for a single pair of worn Levi's.

She wanted to ask Logan if he'd mind her filching a T-shirt and another pair of his shorts. The only problem was she had no idea where he'd gone. She'd made it out of the bathroom this morning just in time to hear him gun the engine of the Mustang, spraying gravel as he whipped down the drive.

She wasn't quite sure how she felt about him leaving. That depended on where he'd gone and why. If he needed time to think. Or if he was regretting the night they'd spent and all they'd done together.

Borrowing trouble would only cause more of the same. Considering she was up to her eyeballs in enough mess to last a lifetime, she wasn't going to dwell on something she had no control over. Dropping her towel to the floor she donned a pair of coral panties and a matching bra.

The best way to keep her mind occupied was to keep her hands busy, so she stripped the top sheet from her bed. Dried muffin crumbs scattered across the room. A dehydrated blueberry landed beside her foot. She stared at it for several seconds, then mashed it with her big toe, thinking she could crush this overwhelming sense of uncertainty along with it. She was wrong.

The bottom sheet had fared little better during Logan's idea of breakfast in bed. Spilled coffee had dried in a big circle. She peeled the sheet from the mattress. A sweet warmth stroked her hand, touched her face, caressed the soft skin below her collarbone just as he had. His gentle attempt at seduction had created as much chaos on the bed as the memory did inside her.

Balling up the sheets and towel, she decided to tackle his bed later, when she had a better handle on her emotions. When she could look at the mess of hot fudge sundaes they'd eaten from one another's bodies without aching all over again.

She stuffed the linens in the washing machine, then went to find her nightshirt. She trailed her fingers over the back of the couch, feeling the corduroy scrape her knees, feeling Logan take her, his need wild, untamed. A bit unsteady, she leaned over, nuzzled her face in the cushions, and inhaled. He was there, hot and sweaty. All male, aroused.

Memories rushed back and she shivered. Want settled heavily, the ache more than physical. After last night, how could she return to the sterile laboratory world that suited her so well? Or used to suit her so well. The one where she'd never known the likes of Logan Burke.

Grabbing her nightshirt off the floor, she hurried down the hall and shoved it in the machine. Back to the laundry so she wouldn't have time to think. A pair of Logan's socks and his khaki trousers were wadded up in the corner behind the detergent. She gathered his towel from the bathroom, added it to the load, then tossed the socks on top. In the pockets of his khakis she found seventeen cents and a mutilated piece of paper.

No, not paper. A check, she realized, unfolding it.

The signature leaped out at her. Neil Harrington in bold contemptible strokes. Her mind denied what her eyes saw. Her stomach tightened into a knot. She backed up, collided with the wall.

This couldn't be real. Couldn't be happening.

Like a spectator watching from above, she saw herself slide to the floor. It took forever, long agonizing seconds while the truth crept into her bones, into her soul, a chilling sense of loss. Only when her backside hit bare wood did she admit the reality of the nightmare.

She tucked her heels against her bottom, smoothing the crumpled rectangle of paper over her knee until the writing blurred and the paper turned shiny. Why would Logan have a check from Harrington? Why would Harrington pay Logan that much money?

No. Why would Harrington pay a private investigator that much money? Except to follow someone, to take pictures.

To ruin her life.

She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. The dollar amount was impressive. She could understand the allure. What she couldn't understand was betrayal. And what she couldn't abide more than anything was dishonesty. Her bare leg pressed against the cold metal washing machine. The temperature seeped into her blood, a icy cold truth hardening around her heart.

No wonder he'd been so indifferent about her case in the beginning, so determined to plant a doubt in her mind. He'd wanted to save his own hide. Self-preservation. That was some kind of motivation.

She ought to take a lesson. So far she knew nothing of it or she'd never have let herself fall in love.

In love with a man who'd nearly gotten her killed.

Logan slid the Mustang to a stop under his carport and killed the engine. The air was exceptionally dry and comfortably warm, the sky sea-blue and cloudless. He breathed deeply and picked up the bag beside him. Hannah had always seemed the croissant type, so croissants seemed a good place to start.

Sometime during the night he'd decided to tell her everything. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment. It might've been when he fed her a bite of his sandwich and a glob of grilled cheese landed on her nipple. He'd cleaned her off with his tongue. It might've been during the sundaes and the experiment she'd conducted on his body with hot fudge and cold whipped cream. The cherry had been his idea.

His loins grew heavy and hard. He closed his eyes, shifted in his seat and groaned.

For the few hours he'd slept, he'd rested soundly. No nightmares, no terror, no trips to the beach. He wouldn't have wakened when Hannah got up except that certain parts of his body had been stuck to certain parts of hers. When she'd rolled away, she'd taken a couple patches of his skin with her.

And if he sat here another minute thinking of the pleasure they'd shared, he'd lose the nerve to tell her the truth. Truth guaranteed to cause pain. Truth he could no longer avoid and live with himself, a feat he'd found increasingly hard to do over the last week as it was. He had many amends to make, starting with the one up the stairs directly in front of him. The stairs which had never looked steeper. Or so insurmountable.

When had he become a coward? Had it been anyone else acting the way he did, living the way he did, he wouldn't have hesitated half a second to label the jerk a yellow-belly. Living out of his car guaranteed room for only himself. Living on the road meant no one to answer to. Living with no personal involvement meant no risk of hurt. It also meant no risk of love.

What he found himself feeling for Hannah was about the closest he'd ever come.

They'd talked about danger more than once this past week and taken physical risks of the worst kind. Now he was ready to take the emotional ones as well. Because now he knew the difference in being a man and acting like one.

On that sobering thought he climbed from his car, gripping the white bakery sack like salvation. He plodded up the steps, steeling himself for the confrontation to come.

What he didn't expect was what he found—Hannah, sitting on the end of a lounger, wearing that red thing he'd thought was a nightgown.

Tucked up against her overnight bag, the toes of one bare foot protectively covered the toes of the other. Shoulders rounded, she sat hunched over in pain. Her fingers twisted the material draped over her knees into a mass of blood red knots.

Something had happened while he was gone. Something bad. And from the way it looked it wasn't going to get better any time soon. He took that final step onto the deck.

"I went out for some breakfast," he said in redundant explanation, suddenly not the least bit hungry.

Her face was white, her eyes huge ghostly pools, liquid and sad. She stared at the sack then moved her gaze to his. "I don't have much of an appetite."

Logan pushed a breath out between his teeth and gingerly balanced the sack on the deck rail. The wind rocked it once. He felt just as unsteady. "You need to build your strength up."

The look she threw him snapped with fury and put bright dots of color on her cheeks. "To keep up with your bedroom antics?"

Her accusation hit too close to a very tender part of his heart. He snapped back. "You were the one doing the acrobatics, baby. Not me."

He whipped his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut. Why had he said that? Didn't she know he was standing here naked, putting himself on the line? How much more of himself could he offer without losing the little bit he still had?

He looked her way again, opened his mouth and closed it. She balled the red fabric tighter, wadding it around her fingers. Her face was shuttered, blank, alone. Like he felt.

He drew both hands down his face and leaned his backside against the railing. "I'm sorry Hannah. I don't know exactly what to say in this type of situation."

"What type of situation?"

"You. Me. The morning after. I don't have much practice with the niceties."

"I imagine you usually hit the door at a run before involvement becomes part of the deal," she said, her voice cold, emotionless, a dead weight compressing his heart.

He bit his tongue. "The only thing I'm sure about at this point is that blame shouldn't be part of the picture."

"But I do blame you, Logan."

His heart lurched to a painful stop then started up with renewed fury. "For what?"

"You want a list?" she asked, the question rife with sarcasm.

"If you have one, yeah," he bit off, jamming his hands in his pockets. He didn't like this at all, didn't like feeling vulnerable, didn't like not knowing what she was thinking.

"You cost me my job, my home, and very nearly my life. But what I blame you for the most is destroying my dreams."

His gut tightened until his legs ached from the strain. "What makes you say that?"

She padded across the deck and took his hand in her icy fingers. From the bodice of her dress she withdrew a scrap of paper and slapped it down against his palm. "This."

He knew what it was without having to unfold it. He wadded Neil Harrington's check in his fist. "I can explain."

"Somehow I knew you would say that," she said, ending the statement with a huff. "It's too late for explanations." She picked up her bag. "I don't want anything more from you but a ride home."

He knew it was his only leverage. He wasn't too proud to use it. Not when it looked like he was about to lose what he'd been looking for forever. "You want a ride home you'll listen first."

"I'll call a cab."

"I'll rip the phone out of the wall." And God help him he would. She was going to listen to every word he had to say.

She stood, poised for flight one minute, undecided the next. Finally, she dropped her bag on the picnic table and sat stiffly on the foot of the lounger, her hands folded over her knees. "I'm listening."

"You couldn't prove it by me."

She glanced up sharply. "I'm listening."

Okay, Burke. Don't screw this up.
"I didn't want to take this case."