Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (4 page)

He waited for half a minute, maybe longer, then shaking his head walked to the door. "After you, Ms. Fifth Avenue," he said, opening the door with a sweeping flourish.

"Mr. Burke," she began, her voice conveying penitent chagrin and more than a touch of strain. "If I hit a nerve, I apologize. I don't generally insult men I've just met. Especially when I need their help." She bent to retrieve her purse, as if using the moment to collect her thoughts. When she straightened, she brought her gaze back to his with obvious reluctance.

The fist around his throat tightened. "The nerve you hit is one that frazzled away years ago. Don't apologize. I brought it on myself. And I don't make a habit of insulting potential clients." Logan stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled back a step. "It tends to be bad for business."

She gave no indication she'd heard his roundabout apology or his bad joke and instead, crossed her arms over her chest, one hand fidgeting with the shoulder strap of her purse in nervous agitation.

Logan quietly closed the door and took a step towards her. "Hannah, relax. It can't be that bad. If it is—" he cocked one shoulder "—we'll take care of it."

She glanced at the ceiling, blinking hard against the sheen of moisture glazing her eyes. Finally, she looked down, and in a weary voice asked, "Then you'll take the case?"

Unable to stop himself, Logan reached up, and with the pad of his thumb, caught a single tear dangling at the corner of her eye. He lowered his hand, rubbing the moist drop between thumb and forefinger until it seeped into his skin.

Her fear was definitely real. And no matter whether guilty or innocent, she deserved better than he'd offered. He made a tight fist, closing her tear in his hand. "We'll talk about it over dinner."

She nodded. He turned to open the door, felt her hand on his arm and stopped. "Thank you again, Mr. Burke."

"Logan," he corrected.

"Logan. I'm usually not such a geyser of emotion. The strain of the past month has taken quite a toll."

Logan looked at her hand and in that one timeless moment wished he'd cuffed his sleeves up higher. The friction of her hand on his arm, with only the barrier of rumpled white cotton between, crackled over his skin with a staggering voltage.

He brought his gaze back to hers and she withdrew her hand to dig for a tissue in her purse. Against his better judgment, he stepped closer and with his palm in the small of her back, ushered her toward the door.

He passed a gape-mouthed Margaret without stopping and called over his shoulder, "Lock it up and go home, Maggie," then pulled open the front door just as a crack of lightning split the sky overhead and raindrops the size of golf balls pummeled down.

"I hate these summer thunderstorms," he grumbled, inwardly thanking the timing of the weather gods. He propelled Hannah out the door hoping the rain would be enough of a distraction for her not to notice his car parked on the other side of the lot. "Let's run for it."

"Wait, let me get my keys." She stopped inside the doorway and fished the ring from the bottom of her purse. "Okay."

"You're not the kind to melt, I hope," Logan said, steering her toward the driver's door of her car. Fumbling with the wet keys, she shook her head. Logan ran around to the passenger side, Hannah hit the locks, and he dropped into the seat.

Jerking the door shut behind him, he took a deep breath of the coconut-scented air, cocooning himself inside the tiny, intimate car with the one woman who posed more danger to him than he wanted to think about.

The one woman who had the power to destroy what little of himself he had left.

Wind buffeted the small car. Wipers slashed in a fury against sheets of water. The highway disappeared in a blur, the road and the horizon both a dismal, wet grey. Hannah's outlook wasn't much brighter. The gloomy atmosphere only put her further out of sorts. Her nerves went way beyond shot. She'd acted like a witch in Logan's office, attacking and insulting the man.

Under normal circumstances, she prided herself on being the coolest of cucumbers—which said a lot about her present state of mind. Not to mention these were not normal circumstances. Finding herself compelled to turn to a stranger for help more than validated the fact. She just hoped she wasn't making a mistake by counting on another person to solve her problems.

The noise of the storm made conversation impossible, and after giving basic directions, Logan had remained silent for the past thirty minutes. That was fine with her. She couldn't think of a single, coherent thing to say to him—quite a hindrance since she needed to talk to convince him to take her case.

For no matter how uncouth, impudent and crude he might appear on the surface, he possessed the one trait she knew made him a success. Confidence. He oozed it. A cocky self-assured tenacity, but it was there, nonetheless.

On the pretext of checking traffic, she glanced his way. He sat slouched in his seat, elbow braced against the base of the window, chin propped in his hand, eyes closed. His right hand lay on his thigh, his fingers bunching his pants into a wad of khaki fabric.

Risking quick, furtive glances as she drove, she studied his hand. The blunt, clean nails. Prominent tendons and veins. Long, thick fingers with tufts of spun-gold hair between the first and second knuckle. Even his hands spoke of confidence, cared for yet incredibly tough.

She glanced back at his wrist, at the no-nonsense black-banded watch and black leather thong. More golden hair covered his richly tanned forearms before the rolled cuffs of his white shirt interrupted her visual tour. His clothes were another matter, and not in bad taste at all. Quality, from the looks of the style and cut, but he wore them with such indifferent neglect that she wondered if he even knew how he looked.

He looked tousled. Early-morning sexy. And so different from the boring, sterile, white-smocked laboratory world where she worked every day. With all the scientific data at their fingertips, her co-workers couldn't reproduce Logan's aura. It fit him like a custom weave. Or a long-time lover.

Her curiosity piqued by this paradox of a man, Hannah chanced a look at his face, only to find him watching her, his tawny eyes twinkling with secrets. She offered a weak smile, forced the alien butterflies back down her throat, and refocused on the road. "Rain's let up."

No reply.

"Seems to have washed away most of the heat."

No reply.

"Mr. Burke ..."

"Logan."

His voice rolled over her, dangerously soft, a provocative, sultry menace. She imagined it pitched low in an erotic whisper and knew her daydreaming had gone a couple of miles beyond smart. "I need to know where to turn. We just came over the Galveston Causeway."

He directed her to Pier 19. Once there, she killed the engine. Reaching between the bucket seats, she grabbed her purse from the back where she'd thrown it in her haste to escape the rain, then straightened, her face inches from his. Slowly, he tucked one strand of flyaway hair behind her ear.

"I take it back," he whispered, so close each puff of his breath caressed her cheek. "Your car's not a banana. It's a sardine can."

With that he was gone, hopping out the door before she could gather her scattered wits enough to reply. She sank back into her seat and exhaled slowly.
Stop it, Hannah. You're thirty-three, not thirteen
. The admonishment didn't help. Her heart refused to decelerate, making her feel rather foolish for reacting like a teenager with a crush.

Better late than never, she thought with a self-directed shot of candor, opening her door and forcing her face into a mask of composure. She'd never had a chance to act like a teen when she'd been one. She stepped from the car and a long, low whistle skimmed over the air.

"Damn, but I'm hungry," Logan snarled low in his throat. He rubbed his lower belly in a gesture entirely too suggestive for her present state of mind and held out his hand.

She hesitated a fraction of a second, studying his wicked grin, deciding in that instant to make the most of this teenager business while she had the chance. Ever-so-slowly she placed her palm against his. His calloused skin rasped over hers, man rough against woman soft. His hunger burned her; the palpable energy raced up her arm, begging for consent.

She wanted to tug free, startled by the reckless sensation surging through her blood. But Logan refused to let go, entwining their fingers, rubbing his thumb in circles over her knuckles.

"C'mon." He tugged her along at a brisk pace. "This place has shrimp kabobs like you can't get anywhere else."

"This place looks like a shack," she answered from two steps behind, doing her best to recover what remained of her cool.

"Lighten up. Don't you know not to judge a book by its deceiving appearance."

"A book by its cover," she corrected with a private smile.

"Hey, I warned you," he said, pulling her into the buffet line behind him.

Minutes later, seated at a picnic table on an open air deck, she had to agree. "Mmmm," she mumbled around a mouthful of grilled shrimp, the smoky flavor of mesquite a perfect complement to the sweet shellfish.

"Not bad, huh?"

"Not bad? It's wonderful. The food. The air." She stopped, then on a bizarre whim, added, "Even the company."

"Sounds like you're feeling better."

"Yeah," she answered, an honest smile easing across her face. "I think I am."

"I knew this would do the trick. Nothing like a breeze off the Gulf to put things in perspective. Loosens up all those stuffy inhibitions." He shoved a fry covered with a glob of tartar sauce into his mouth. "It's why I love living down here."

"You live in Galveston?" she asked, sipping at her iced tea.

Logan shook his head. "Not in the city. On the beach."

"In one of those resort communities?"

"No. I lucked out. I've got a thousand yards of beach on either side, free and clear. Plus a stand of shade trees in one corner." He laughed, a rumble of deep voice and appreciative humor. "I think I've got the only trees on the whole beach."

"How'd you manage that?"

"It was the only way one of my clients could pay me."

She let that sink in, mentally balancing her checkbook. "So you live here and work in Houston?"

"I work all over south Texas. I sleep in some of the cheesiest, flea-bag motels you can imagine. Sometimes I sleep in my car. But when I'm done with a case I take a break. Spend some time here. Until the money runs out. Then I check with Maggie and see what needs taking care of." He swiped his napkin over his mouth then licked each finger free of salt and tartar sauce. "You're lucky I happened into the office when I did."

"Let me guess. You don't carry a pager."

"Nope."

"Too conventional?" she asked, trying to pigeonhole her response to him in a familiar category. Never having met anyone like him before made it impossible. She found him forgivably fresh, incredibly contagious. And found herself bewitched.

"Convention is bor … ing," he drawled, drying his hands on a paper napkin then tossing it on the table. "I like the freedom to do what I want when I want as long as I have the money to do it with." He shrugged. "I usually don't."

Hiding a shiver of reaction behind a long sigh, she propped her chin in her palm, still working to sort out what she felt about Logan Burke. "A true nomad, huh? No family or bills?"

A deep frown creased his brow. His eyes darkened, their lackluster gold at odds with the glint she'd grown used to seeing. For a long minute he stared across the bay where fishing boats drifted in the wake of the sea. Finally, he returned. He shook off whatever he'd been thinking, picked up a fry and smashed it into the tartar sauce on his plate. "No family," he gnashed out, his jaw taut. "Plenty of bills."

Slowly, Hannah sat up straight. The atmosphere took on a strangely depressing quality with his brusque answer. She studied the angular cast of his profile. So hard, so obstinate, so unyielding, yet ... what? Repentant? Unsettled? She'd thought his lifestyle adventurous. Maybe he wasn't so carefree after all. Maybe he had fears existing inside just as she did.

Risks intimidated the hell out of her. She was taking a big one now by attempting to expose ViOPet. And it wasn't so much the risk itself as the backlash. Her father had taken risks. The backlash had killed him. Slowly. Painfully. Not until first rendering him totally dependent.

Coming to Logan for help was a risk of another sort. One personally threatening. She'd handled things on her own for more than half her life. It was the only way she knew how to live. She wasn't sure, in that regard anyway, that change was for the best. Her solitary lifestyle was cozy, uncomplicated. And safe.

"Done?"

Hannah blinked. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Thanks. I didn't realize how much I needed to get away, even though we never did get around to business."

Logan stood, braced one foot on the bench, and mopped at a spot of tartar sauce on his pants. "I'll take the case."

Her gaze shot to his. "But we've hardly talked about it at all. You don't know what you could be getting into."

"Then why don't you fill me in," he said, sitting back down.

She frowned and glanced at her lap, surprised to find she'd ripped her napkin to shreds. "I don't know where to begin."

"The beginning is usually a good place."

"If it was only that easy," she mumbled in a disgusted tone, more to herself than to Logan.

His bench scraped across the floor and she watched him approach. He straddled the seat beside her and picked the remnants of her napkin from her skirt, his fingers skimming over her lap. She shivered in the warm evening air. Goosebumps prickled up her arms, down her spine, and found their way into the most isolated part of her heart.

"It is that easy, Hannah," he answered, tossing the wad of paper onto the table. "One, two, three. As simple as that."

She breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, deciding trust had to begin somewhere. "Okay. But it's rather complicated."

"Complications are my specialty," he said through another audacious grin.