Logan (7 page)

“Kutcher, Stormy. Where can I find him?”

“Oh no, Logan. You can’t do anything. This isn’t your problem. I can take care of myself.”

His arched brow said everything that was sailing through her mind.

“Let me rephrase that. I can handle it. I’ve got three days to figure it out.” Her heart raced at the realization that Kutcher’s time in jail was speeding to an end.

His eyes narrowed. “Three days to figure what out? Stormy, if some guy is looking for you, New York isn’t that big. If he’s good, he’ll find you.”

“He’s better than good,” she said in a hushed tone, hating to admit that Kutcher was good at anything. The bastard.

Logan stepped in closer and lifted her chin so she was forced to look at him. His eyes warmed again, the way they had last night. When he spoke, his tone was sweet, caring, and it tugged at all the places that made her want to go soft in his arms.

“Stormy, no one’s better at tracking than me. Let me keep you safe. Give me something to go on. Why three days? Why the timeline? Is he out of the country? In jail?”

Why did he have to make her feel so vulnerable? She needed to be strong, and with him she felt like strong wasn’t strong enough, like she needed
him
. After last night’s attack, she wasn’t so sure she didn’t.

“He’s found me everywhere I’ve ever gone. I barely escaped with my life, Logan. I…I’m afraid to tell you who I am, because I’m afraid he’ll make the connection somehow and then he’ll come after you.”

The muscles in his jaw tightened. “I felt the scar on the back of your left shoulder and the other just beside your spine.”

Stella’s blood ran cold. She turned out of his reach, breathing hard, feeling the pain of the knife as if it were entering her skin for the first time. Kutcher had gotten her bad that time. She should have turned him in, shouldn’t have lied about her attacker, but she’d been too scared that he’d avoid the police and come back and finish the job.

Logan’s arms snaked around her waist, his cheek met hers again, and she closed her eyes, willing her tears away.

“You’re not alone in this. Let me help. Just tell me this, is he a free man?”

She shook her head.

“Good. That’s good. Then I have three days to make sure he stays in the pen.”

She was trembling, and she didn’t know if it was from the memories, the threat of Kutcher’s release, or the strength of Logan’s grip. His heat seeped into her skin through her thin cotton shirt, and she imagined his strength finding its way in, too. She held on to that thought as she reached for the door. Logan got to it first and held it closed.

“I’ve got to get to work.” She hated herself for sounding so ungrateful, but she was scared, and she liked Logan more than she probably should, which she knew could put him in danger. And he was as relentless as Kutcher, only in a good way. She had no clue how to handle the emotions swirling within her. Should she throw herself into Logan’s arms and accept the help he was willing to provide and give in to the feelings that were developing at the speed of light, or run as fast and as far away as she could get before Kutcher came after her?

He slid a cell phone into her pocket. “That has my number in it. Promise me you’ll use it if anyone bothers you today, or if you’re scared, or if you get a bad feeling and need someone who’ll understand that you’re not just freaking out.”

“You bought me a phone?”

“I have several. That one can’t be tracked. Now give me yours. Let’s see how this guy is tracking you down.”

She rolled her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I can read you like a book and I’m tired of asking nicely. You’re on the run from a guy who’s getting out of jail in a few days. You’re scared shitless that he’ll find you in this hellhole of a city. That tells me that he’s found you before, maybe more than once. You’re not a stupid woman, so he found you when you were running. Am I right?”

“What? How can you…?”

He arched a brow again. The look suited him. It was snarky, and coupled with the ticking up of the right side of his mouth, it softened his serious edge. Knowing he wasn’t going to let it go, she dug into her purse and handed him the phone.

He scrolled through her settings. “You don’t use a password?”

She shrugged. “Why? Who’s going to look at my phone?”

“Where did you get your phone?” He took out the SIM card and the battery.

“My phone? Kutcher gave me the phone, but it’s my plan, so it’s not like he can track me with a find my phone app or anything. Besides, he’s in jail, so…”

He shook his head. “This is just one way he’s probably tracking you. People smuggle cell phones into jails all the time.”

She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. How could she have been so stupid? “You mean…all this time I thought he had people tracking me, it was that stupid phone?” She fisted her hands and groaned.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know. Let’s focus on what we need to do. What else do you carry with you that you’ve had since you left Mystic?”

“What do you mean? Like my purse? My clothes? I feel like such an idiot.”

“Stormy, you’re not an idiot. You’re just not a drug-running bastard who knows all the tricks. Think of things you don’t wash. Suitcase? Wallet? I saw a picture next to your bed. Did you bring that from home or have it made since you left?”

Stella thought of the implications of what he was saying, and the pieces began to fall into place.

“You think he bugged my stuff?” She felt like she’d swallowed a brick. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Oh God.”

She handed him her purse. “I took this and everything in it. My backpacks are in my closet.”

“I saw them. The photo beside your bed?”

“My mom.” The idea of Kutcher tracking her through a picture of the woman she loved most in the world made her feel sick. “I brought it.”

“I need two things, and you’re not going to like either.”

He sounded like her mother’s oncologist the day he told her and her mother that her mother had cancer. She clutched his arm, needing his strength once again.

“I need your permission to go into your apartment and check out those things, and I need your permission to take your picture.”

“Yes, you can go into my apartment. My keys are in my purse—but take my picture?”

He gave a single curt nod with a stone face.

If he was right about Kutcher, then she owed him a hell of a lot more than a picture.

“Fine. Why?”

He took out his cell phone before she could change her mind and snapped a picture. “Because if you won’t tell me who you are, I need to figure it out myself.”

“Is there anything you
can’t
figure out?”

“Let’s hope not.” His brows knitted together. “Stormy, if there’s anything else you can tell me that might help keep him in jail, please tell me.”

“He was a big coke dealer, but I don’t know much about how he did it except that he had other guys working for him and he sold to really wealthy clients.” Revealing the secret that had nearly gotten her killed made her feel lighter, like she’d been carrying around a bowling ball on her chest for the past few months and she could finally take a deep breath.

He cupped her cheek. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She did trust him. Completely. And as good as that felt, it also scared her, because even though she knew he wasn’t anything like Kutcher, once upon a time she’d trusted Kutcher, too.

He pulled the door open. “Shall we?”

“What are you going to do, sit and babysit me all day?”

“No.” He waved to Dylan behind the bar.

Dylan smiled. “Logan.” He shook his head, like he should have known Logan would show up with her. “How’re you doing, Stormy?”

“Fine.” She saw the look of approval Dylan gave Logan.

Was this all a big joke? They’d probably placed bets on whether he’d get laid last night. Dylan hadn’t struck her as that type of guy, and unless her judgment was way off base, Logan was anything
but
that kind of guy. If he were just out to get laid, he would have taken off last night and never shown his face again. Instead, he was going to try to help her with Kutcher. Not that she thought anyone could do a damn thing where Kutcher was concerned, but she liked feeling as if she wasn’t in this alone.

She went into the office to clock in. She turned and Logan was
right there
.

“Hi, darlin’,” he said quietly.

“H-hi. I…um…have to get to work.” Why did he have to be so good-looking? So kind? So in control and confident? So damn
big
? She sighed inside, adding
a great lover
to the most ridiculous list of woes she’d ever made. A big, protective, good-looking, great lover who took the time to walk her to work and beat the snot out of some drunk guy who was harassing her. Even now, when she wasn’t in imminent danger, she felt safe with him. That was why he was there, wasn’t it? The big broody soldier helping the damsel in distress?

God, she hated that idea almost as much as she hated Kutcher for making her feel that way.

“I’ll be back to take you home after your shift.”

“Logan.” She gave him a deadpan stare, sort of hoping it might dissuade him and sort of hoping it wouldn’t.

“Stormy.” He smiled, and she noticed a scar at the edge of his jaw that she hadn’t noticed before.

Without thinking, she reached up and touched the bare spot in his stubble.

“How did you get that?” She remembered the pain she’d seen in his eyes last night when she’d felt like he was opening his soul by sharing his secrets.

He shrugged. “Don’t remember.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I paid a visit to that guy from last night. He shouldn’t bother you anymore.”

“You…How? When?” The guy from last night? But Logan was gone only a few hours. How could he possibly have tracked the guy down so fast? And why would he?

He touched her elbow. “The
best
kind of stalker, remember? Only I’m not a stalker at all.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” She didn’t want him to go. Even the few steps away that he’d just taken made her feel vulnerable. She was being stupid. She had handled life before him. Certainly one night of amazing sex and a few sweet gestures couldn’t make her into a needy girl.

“To do important PI stuff.” He blew her a kiss and disappeared, leaving her feeling like she’d just met the Lone Ranger.

IT WASN’T HARD to track down Kutcher. There was only one inmate in Connecticut with that surname, Carl Kutcher. The trickier part was tracking down the people who had been associated with him on the outside. If Logan could prove that Kutcher was still dealing drugs while in jail, it would make keeping him behind bars much easier. It had been Logan’s experience that major dealers don’t stop dealing because they’re in the pen. They just get more creative.

Using his sources, he was able to track down four possible drug connections, two outside Connecticut, two within an hour of Mystic. He jotted down the information on the connections and eyed his vibrating cell phone on the edge of his desk.

Heath
.

He’d expected a call, especially after what his mother had said. Heath possessed all the qualities that were common of being the eldest child. He was overprotective of his very capable younger brothers, each of whom had bodies built for a brawl and sharp minds that didn’t need babysitting. He’d always gotten superior grades, and of all his siblings, Heath was the one who had gotten in the least amount of trouble over the years. He was prone to being just careful enough never to get caught, whereas Logan, Jackson, and Cooper had always been a little reckless.

He answered the call while scrolling through the information on his computer.

“Hey, bro. Thanks for helping out last night.”

“Sure thing. Ma said you came by.”

Logan heard voices and shuffling in the background and knew his brother was doing rounds at the hospital.

“Yeah. I was out that way and just checking in.” He didn’t want to admit that the attack on Stormy had rustled up bad memories and driven him to check on his mother.

“Good. She was glad to see you. I had coffee with her this morning before work.” Heath covered the mouthpiece and said something Logan couldn’t make out, then came back on the line. “Sorry, man. Listen, I’m just calling to see how
Stormy
is doing. Please tell me you got her real name before you took her home.”

Logan was only half paying attention, as he had another hit for a connection to Kutcher, this one on the outskirts of Mystic.

Bingo
.

He jotted down the information. “That would be a negative, but I’ll get it.”

Heath didn’t respond.

“What, Heath? Spit it out.”

“Just…you know, Logan. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you look at someone like you were looking at her. Possessively.”

“She was hurt. I had just nailed her attacker.” He’d deny whatever he was feeling to his brothers until he understood it himself. Hell, he didn’t even know why he was telling Stormy that he felt so much for her after one night. It wasn’t like him to latch on to anyone. He’d never had a serious girlfriend, and he sure as hell wasn’t looking for one.

“Listen, she’s obviously got some shit going on. I’m just trying to find out what it is. It
is
my job, you know.”

“Yeah, okay.” He could tell by Heath’s voice that he wasn’t buying it. “Well, dinner at Mom’s Sunday night. You’re on for the wine.”

“I’ll be there.” Logan would never miss another dinner with their mother.

After they ended the call, Logan called his buddy Marco.

“Yo.” Marco Ortega was a mean son of a bitch with long black hair, tattoos on every inch of flesh save for his face and neck, and the kind of voice that made a man’s blood run cold. Marco had been in and out of jail for most of his twenties, which afforded him firsthand knowledge about the underworld of what goes on behind bars. He was one of those guys who were on the right side of the wrong side of the law, doing things that skirted the legal line, but always for good purpose.

“It’s me. I need a favor.” Logan filled Marco in on Mike Winters and hired him to tail Winters for the next four weeks. “I want to know everywhere he goes. Leave out no details. I wanna know when this guy takes a shit, got it?”

“Got it, boss.” Marco was loyal to Logan for many reasons, the least of which was that Logan had cleared his brother of a felony by tracking down the real perp when no one else had given a damn. “And if he goes near the bar or the girl?”

“Detain him until I can get there.”

His next call was to Dylan at the bar. Logan didn’t expect Dylan to spill his guts. Like the rest of the Wilds and Bads, he was one loyal son of a bitch, and by his reaction to Stormy last night, Logan assumed that stretched to her now as well.

“What took you so long?” Dylan knew him well.

“Had a few things to take care of. You working all day?”

“Yup. Don’t worry. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“You know anything about her past?” Logan trusted Dylan to give him enough to go on, even if he didn’t want to breach Stormy’s confidence.

“Probably less than you know after the time you spent with her.”

He heard the smile in Dylan’s voice.

“One thing, Logan. I pay her in cash, and she mails half her earnings to someone back in Mystic.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw her doing it once and asked about it. She said she had a sick relative. That’s all I know.”

“Dyl, why’d you hire her?” The minute the words were out, he knew the answer and regretted asking.

“You know why.” Dylan’s family had had their own crisis long before Logan’s family had had theirs. Dylan had a younger sister who’d died when they were kids, and he had a soft spot for keeping women safe. “Logan, are you just messing with her? Because she’s been hurt enough.”

“Have you ever seen me walk a woman to work?” Logan shifted in his seat, still uncomfortable with the way his stomach got funky when he thought of Stormy.

Dylan laughed. “Didn’t want to call you on that.”

“Yeah, well, neither do I. Thanks for watching out for her, man. I gotta run.”

A few more phone calls and a little computer hacking allowed Logan to track the IP for the recipient of the SIM-card information collected from Stormy’s phone. Thank God Kutcher was a cheapskate and used shabby products. He’d made it child’s play for Logan to get the information he needed. After shutting down the ability of the tracker and making more phone calls, Logan arranged for Kutcher’s cell to be tossed.

With most of the annoying aspects of his morning taken care of, Logan scrolled to the picture of Stormy he’d taken outside of NightCaps. His stomach clenched at the palpable fear in her green eyes. They were eyes that had seen too much, and last night, when he’d seen her let go, a hint of the fear had remained. He wanted to wash that fear away, every last evil speck of it. Logan had seen people’s looks change once a threat was removed, and Stormy was already beautiful. He could only imagine how she’d look once he nailed that Kutcher bastard to the wall.

He uploaded the picture to Google Images and found four hits immediately. Her high school graduation photo. She was thicker then, curvier, and hell if her catlike eyes weren’t carefree and clear. Logan held on to that image as he wrote down her real name—
Stella Krane
—and the name of the high school she’d attended. Before now he’d have put the name Stella together with an older woman, stern and spindly. Funny how a face could change the connotation of a name, but in his mind, Stella Krane and Stormy were one sensual, strong woman.

“What is it about you, Stormy Krane?” He still couldn’t think of her as Stella. Not after having to dig up the information. When he’d earned her trust enough for
her
to tell him her real name, then and only then would he call her Stella.

He checked out a few of the other photos. Several were posted on the Facebook profile pages of girls who had gone to the same high school Stella had attended. She was smiling in all of them. What he wouldn’t give to see her smile like that. He surfed the Facebook images for a while and found one linked to a
Mystic Messenger
newspaper article about Stella’s mother, Judy Krane. It was an announcement for a fundraiser to help with Judy’s medical bills. Cancer.
Fucking cancer
. No wonder she sent money home. He pushed back from the computer and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking of the little sister Dylan had lost. Life was full of ass kickers. Logan was going to make damn sure that Stormy got back to her mother, even if he had to take Kutcher out himself.

An hour later Logan stood in Stormy’s kitchen feeling as though he were peering into her private life where he shouldn’t be. If she were a client and he needed to gather clues, this might be typical. But Logan didn’t sleep with clients, and Stormy wasn’t a client. He forced himself not to think of her as the woman who was stirring up all sorts of emotions in him and did his best to put his feelings aside and turn on his private-investigator instincts.

Logan was methodical in his search efforts. He walked down to the bedroom, planning to work his way back out to the front door. In the light of day the bedroom appeared very much like Stormy, efficient with an underlying womanly charm. He was sure the apartment came furnished, and he was equally as confident that Mrs. Fairly wouldn’t have asked for a social security number or proof of identification. She’d probably taken Stormy at face value.

Being in her bedroom brought memories of the night before rushing back. The muscles on the back of his neck tightened as he was reminded of discovering the rough edges of the scar on the back of her shoulder. When he’d felt the other scar beside her spine, his blood had gone cold, stirring all of the protective urges he usually reserved for family. Those urges had only become stronger in the hours since.

He’d get this asshole if it was the last thing he did.

In the closet he thoroughly checked each hanger, seeking a stick-on tracker or a chip adhered to the plastic. He searched every seam and pocket of the few pieces of clothing she had in her closet, then moved to the backpack and other things on the shelf above. Once he was satisfied that there were no tracking devices in the closet, he searched her bedroom, inspecting the lower drawers of her dresser first, but avoiding the top drawer women usually reserved for lingerie. He searched her perfectly folded jeans and tops. The Wesleyan T-shirt was telling. People who were on the run generally took the items with them that meant something. He’d already discovered that she was a Wesleyan graduate, and the shirt told him that she was proud of that accomplishment. He’d seen Stormy’s harsh exterior slip several times, and he wondered how much she’d had to change since running from Kutcher.

Forcing his personal interest in Stormy away again, he searched through her top drawer. Sifting through her bras and panties sent his mind right back to being inside her, ravishing her delicious mouth, seeing her lips wrapped around his cock.

Fuck. Now he was hard.

Logan closed his eyes and counted backward from fifty. At five he was still at half-mast. There was no ridding his mind of her.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to at least
think
like the PI that he was. He reached into the drawer and assessed her lingerie. Matching lace bras and panties, although not high-end, were not department-store brands either. Another bit of intel for his Stormy file. At some point, she probably had a pretty good life.

The more he tried to disengage his personal feelings, the more difficult it became. Standing just a foot away from where he’d been when she’d taken his cock in her mouth and swallowed everything he’d had to give made it nearly impossible. His cock stirred just thinking of their slick bodies moving together as he held her knees at his sides and she met each powerful thrust with a lift and tilt of her hips.

Great. He was hard again.

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and slid his eyes from the bed to the framed picture of her mother. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his erection softened. He took out the photo and found a tracking device attached to the inside of the frame. He tore the fucker out. He knew exactly what it was, because he’d used them a dozen times. This one was a cheap piece of shit, like the traceable SIM card Kutcher had put in Stormy’s phone. A knockoff brand that sent data through the Internet. The guy knew what he was doing. He’d probably used them in his drug business.

He pocketed the device, then carefully put the picture back into the frame and set it beside the bed. He picked up the pillow and brought it to his nose.
Freshly washed
. He had a feeling that the harshness Stormy portrayed wasn’t the only change she’d made either for Kutcher or while running from him. He’d had the distinct feeling when they were together that she was acting how she thought she should rather than how she might if she weren’t trying to escape her fear for a few hours. He was all for rough and dirty sex, but Stormy wasn’t the type of woman you fucked hard and walked away from. She was the type of woman you made love to, while reserving the hard fucking for the intimate, wild, sexy nights couples shared. But day-to-day? She seemed more the flowers and wine type of girl, and the more he looked around her apartment, the more pieces of her life he put together, and the more he wanted to know about her.

Logan methodically checked every item in the bathroom and the laundry closet, then worked his way through the pantry and the kitchen cabinets. He eyed the calendar on the wall and flipped back through the pages. She’d marked off the date Kutcher had been put in jail, and had been counting down the days until his release, marking each one with a red
X
. He couldn’t imagine the fear she carried with her every moment of the day. He flipped back through the months, finding angry black marks every few weeks. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that those were the dates Kutcher had taken his hands to her.

Son of a bitch
.

There was no way in hell he was going to feed Stormy to that wolf. He went back into the bedroom and packed her bags, careful to take everything, from her mother’s picture to her toothbrush. Then he went through the motions of checking all the places he thought Stormy might hide cash or other valuables she wouldn’t want someone to steal. He checked under the mattress, in the ceiling tiles, above the cabinets, under the sink. He looked beneath the table to see if she’d taped anything there. Nothing. He looked around the room, trying to climb into Stormy’s head. The trouble was, he didn’t think Stormy was in her own head lately. She was in the head of the woman she’d become, and he had no idea how to discern the difference from this standpoint. He eyed a ceramic cookie jar on the counter and on a whim lifted the head of the ceramic cat and reached inside.