Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (9 page)

"You sound like medicine's too late."

She looked down at his upturned face and resisting the urge to reach out and discover the texture of his hair, returned to her chair. "Not too late. Just impractical. Med school is a full-time commitment. Time and money I don't have."

"Instead you've gotten caught up in one hell of a mess," Logan said shuffling through the papers.

"First the barrels in the warehouse, then the brown car I see every time I turn around, and now my house." Hannah buried her face in her hands and groaned. "Oh, my house."

Logan reached over and ruffled her hair. "It's not so bad."

"You're not the one who has to clean it up," she answered, enjoying his teasing. And his touch.

"I'll make you a deal."

Raising her chin an interested notch she narrowed one eye. "What kind of deal?"

"If you'll stick around and play chauffeur for awhile, I'll help you clean your place this afternoon."

She rescued a piece of paper that blew out of his lap and landed in hers. "And what ulterior motive prompts such a generous offer?"

"Ulterior motive? Me?"

"You must have one because I can't think of any legitimate reason for me to hang around," she answered, secretly wishing she could. For some obscure reason, most probably the attraction she was avoiding, she wanted to stay.

Logan watched a renegade gull circle overhead. "Guilt," he finally answered.

"What do I have to feel guilty about?" she asked, puzzled.

"Since you didn't have anyone to spend the night with, I had to bring you back here and never picked up the water pump for my T-bird. Now I'm without wheels for another day."

"Circumstantial at best. Besides, I could've gotten a hotel room for the night. No one twisted your arm to bring me here." She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and settled back. "Try again."

"If I hadn't coerced you into dinner, you would've been home and might've prevented the break-in."

"Or been home and been assaulted."

"I doubt it. Not if the break-in is connected to the trouble at ViOPet. This guy won't risk being identified. And I don't blame him. When Simon was in 'Nam I heard about the chemicals used in defoliation." He tapped her briefcase. "I've got a good idea what this means."

"I know. It scares me to think about it."

"Then don't. Think about my offer instead." He reached out and took her hand in his, stroking his thumb across her knuckles.

The slow motion was narcotic. Captivated by his reckless wealth of energy, she made her decision, a decision more predetermined than conscious. "It's a deal."

"Great," he said, rubbing his hands together like some mad scientist run amuck. He hopped out of the lounger. "First I've got to get some breakfast."

"We had breakfast."

"That was hours ago."

"Yeah, at least three."

"Hey, scrambled eggs only carry me so far." He rubbed one hand across his bare belly. Hannah heard the slight scratch of body hair and suppressed a shiver. "I'm ready for some pancakes and sausage. How 'bout you?"

"I'll just watch and salivate, thank you. And," she pointed a finger his direction, "I'll supply the car as long as you keep your end of the bargain."

"Have you ever known me to renege?"

Realization hit her with a thud. "I've only known you fifteen hours."

"Is that all?" he asked, a ridiculous grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Seems like at least twenty."

"At least," she murmured, thinking twenty years would never be long enough to anticipate or understand his mercurial moods.

"Okay, so I'll eat, you salivate and then I want you to kick back and relax." He stepped aside for her to enter the house. "You might not have another chance for awhile."

"Because of this situation," she remarked as much to herself as to him.

"You got it. Things may get uncomfortable at work. You've got to expect it."

"I'm I in any real danger?"

"Who knows? Depends how high this runs in ViOPet. No telling who'll do what to keep it under wraps." He tossed her briefcase onto his sand-colored corduroy couch with more force than necessary. It bounced from one cushion to the next. "Company politics are a pain in the butt. Tracking down missing children is a lot simpler."

"How so?"

"I know to expect the worst," he bit off, stomping down the short hall to the bathroom.

From her perch on the couch arm, she watched him jerk a brush through his hair. Something in his stance made her remember the words from the beach. "Is that where the nightmares come from?" she asked.

Logan hesitated then laid his brush on the back of the sink and leaned heavily against the porcelain, tension evident in the muscles straining in relief under his skin. "I'm sorry you saw that. I thought I'd learned not to let people that close."

"There's nothing wrong with feeling vulnerable."

He returned to the living room, dragging one hand down his jaw. "In my line of work I can't afford vulnerability. Or involvement. All I can afford is objectivity. And sometimes the gas for my car," he finished with an idiotic grin.

Was he warning her off? Was this his not-so-subtle way of letting her know their relationship, as bizarre as it was, was only business? Why should that surprise her? Their relationship
was
only business. She'd told herself so the required bazillion times. "Speaking of which, we haven't discussed your fee."

"We'll talk about it over breakfast."

"Seems like I've heard that line somewhere before."

His chest brushing against her shoulder, he reached behind her for the briefcase. "Breakfast, then the auto parts store for some bulbs, then your place," he said, his voice a low growl in her ear as he gestured for her to precede him out the door. "Eventually I'll get to my brother's shop for the water pump."

After he wolfed down a stack of pancakes smothered in blackberry syrup, they left the diner for the island. Logan drove down Broadway, pointing out several of Galveston's historic sites before stopping at the store. Hannah remained in the car, the sight of Logan's loose, confident stride plunging her once again into the comforting, liquid warmth that soaked clear through to her soul.

She shook off the feeling, needing to regain the upper hand. Logan could take charge of her case and investigate to his heart's content. He would not take charge of her. The physical attraction was surface at best and easily dealt with. The emotional pull she'd just have to ignore. She disregarded the niggling little voice calling her a fool and set her jaw.

Logan disappeared inside just as a vehicle skidded to a stop behind her. The revved-up engine rumbled through her car, the high-idling roar an obnoxious intrusion. She turned to glance back, thinking if he was going to shop, a muffler would be a good place to start, but was stopped by something cold and metallic shoved against the side of her neck.

"Don't move, Miss Evans," a masculine voice mumbled low in her ear. "All I want is your briefcase." He shoved the gun harder against her neck, sliding the barrel around to the soft spot beneath her ear. "It'd be a shame to waste a pretty face over things that are none of your business, now wouldn't it?"

It took all her strength to manage a simple nod. The rusty taste of fresh blood seeped onto her tongue. He reached through her open window and grabbed the briefcase from the back. She stiffened in her seat, recoiling from his touch. The smell of her own fear brought the bile stirring in her stomach backfiring up her throat. It burned the self-inflicted bites on the inside of her cheeks and stung her eyes. She clamped them shut.

"Now that's a good little girl," he crooned, dragging the case through the window. With slow deliberation, he gouged the gun barrel into her cheek. Then he was gone.

Adrenaline surged through her, slamming her heart against her ribs, anchoring her fast in her seat. Open your eyes, her mind screamed. Put a face to the horror. But stark fear held her in a choking grip.

The sound of squealing tires galvanized her into action. She shoved open her door and bolted from the car in time to see the brown sedan disappear down one of the narrow side streets.

And along with it her chance to identify her tormentor.

The echo of screeching tires faded away. Hannah shot a panicked look toward the store in time to see Logan push the door open with his hip.

"Someone's in a hell of a hurry," he remarked, setting two gallons of coolant in the floorboard and tossing the bag of bulbs in the back. The car jarred with his added weight, again when he slammed the door. Knees shaking, she collapsed in her seat and, with her arms crossed tightly over her middle, curled in on herself to rock away the fright.

"Hannah, what is it?"

She couldn't form a coherent sentence, so panted out a couple of deep breaths. A sudden hiccough erupted into giggles. That was the last straw. Sobbing, she buried her face in her hands.

"Hannah, what's wrong?"

"It was him," she croaked out.

"Him who?"

"The guy who's been following me."

"You saw him?" he demanded, his voice grinding sharp like a bad change in gears.

She took several more gulps of exhaust-laden air before she found her voice. Shaking her head, she answered, "Only from the back. He took my briefcase."

"Son of a bitch," Logan snarled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. He cranked the motor with a roar.

"No, wait." She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into the tightly drawn tendons in his arms. "He had a gun," she whispered and Logan killed the engine.

The ensuing silence howled loud and thick. Slowly, she lifted her gaze. His burned with fury, the level of rage frighteningly potent. His voice shook when he asked, "Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?"

She let a rising shiver steal through her body. "He shoved the barrel against me."

Logan bit off a foul curse then growled, "C'mere."

She went willingly, ignoring the gearshift digging into her abdomen. He stroked her back, pulling away thread after thread of tense fear. Once her breathing and heart rate marginally settled, she eased back and asked, "What do we do?"

The fight between his heart and head was plain. "The man put a gun to your head, Hannah. That makes it a police matter."

"What are you going to tell them?"

The look he gave her was pure Logan Burke, acute, coldly calculating, mercenary. "How much do you want me to tell them?"

She watched his eyes, saw him weigh the thrill of the chase against the risk. "What're the chances they'll find him?"

"With nothing but a description of his backside to go on? Zero to nil."

"What're the chances you'll find him?" she asked softly.

Eyes narrowed, he stared straight ahead. "Hard to say. The win goes to the bad guys way too often."

"But the odds are worth the risk?"

He glanced sharply her way. "Of handling this alone?"

She nodded.

Letting out a deep breath he said, "Assault with a deadly weapon just mightily upped the ante."

She leaned against the seat back, knowing she had but one choice. No matter how slim the possibility of this particular wrong being righted, she had to report the assault. She couldn't be the chink in the system that prevented a crime from being solved, a criminal from being held accountable.

"Call the cops," she said, her voice steady though her hands shook like jelly. She clasped them between her knees. "Tell them what they need to know. You handle the rest."

A lengthy silence hovered in the air while she waited for his reaction. He reached for the cigarettes in his pocket, shook one out and hung it on his lower lip. Still she waited, until the tension shifted, grew strained, uncomfortable, the question of trust swirling unspoken around them.

"You're sure?" he finally asked.

"It's the right thing to do."

"Yeah," he snorted, tapping the filter end of the cigarette on the dash. "The right thing."

"You don't agree?"

"Sure. No. I don't know." The cigarette snapped in half.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He tossed the broken pieces out the window. Slumped back in the seat, he rubbed a hand over his face in abject disgust. "I shouldn't have taken your case," he said, mumbling the words into his hand.

She wasn't sure he knew he'd spoken. Or if he'd meant what he said. And she didn't know whether to be hurt or angry because she didn't know if his words had come off the top of his head or from the bottom of his soul.

"You can always drop it," she finally settled on saying.

"No," he sliced off, his voice gritty and uncertain. "I can't." With that he slung himself from the car, dug a handful of change from his pocket, and crossed the parking lot to the pay phone at the corner of the store.

She watched him go, his silent words as painful as his spoken ones, his fight with his conscience a visible struggle. His torment pulled her closer to involvement. She called herself a fool the nearer she got.

Logan pried his gaze from a sleeping Hannah, cast a quick glance at the speedometer, and swore. He was driving twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. And he was stupid.

He should never have left her, the briefcase, or the car unattended. Staying alert every second on a case was cardinal rule number one. He was losing his judgment and jeopardizing the outcome, not to mention both of their safety, because he was thinking about Hannah as a woman instead of a client.

Hadn't he learned it yet? A case was a case, whether man, woman or child. A case was a fee—a faceless, no-strings-attached, paycheck. Getting involved wasn't part of the deal. He was doing it anyway. For the first time in months, a spark of challenge had seized him, that gut feeling telling him he could make a difference. He needed to make a difference.

The why was simple. He harbored a driving need to prove that one mistake, that one lax easing of the rules, the one that had been his downfall had been a fluke. He had to prove, at least to himself, it had been nothing more than an accident and not an ingrained character flaw waiting to rear its ugly head.