Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (5 page)

"That I don't doubt for a minute."

"The beginning, Hannah. Tell me."

He made it sound easy enough. "The sector of ViOPet where I work is involved in developing biodegradable products. We're making fantastic progress in ecological education."

"Sounds interesting." His eyes rolled in contradiction.

She smiled at his irreverence and eased her guard a bit. "It is. And if you're not careful I'll be up on my soapbox." She snatched a fry from his plate and nibbled at it. "One night a couple of months ago I worked a late shift with my supervisor, Graham Elliot," she began, gesturing with the fry.

"He sent me out to check on a shipment coming in from one of our plants. He seemed reluctant to ask, like he would rather have gone himself but couldn't leave the lab right then. Anyway, that row of buildings is in a section of the compound I'd never been in before. I obviously stumbled into the wrong warehouse."

Hannah wet her mouth with a swallow of tea, stood and crossed the deck. She leaned, palm-down, against the railing, letting the sea air blow its calming breath across her face.

Logan moved to stand beside her, resting his weight on the elbow he'd propped on the rail. "And that was where you saw something you shouldn't have."

She nodded, then quickly shook her head. "I don't know. The explanation could be entirely innocent."

"Except that you're being followed and don't know why."

She cast a sideways glance his way. "You're taking my word for it now?"

"I'm giving it fair consideration."

"How open-minded of you," she bit off, tired of fighting to be believed, tired of not knowing what to believe, just plain tired period. She reached up, twisted her hair and flung it over her shoulder then settled her hands at her waist. The wind fought back, whipping the strands around her face.

Logan stepped closer and tucked it behind her ear. His touch was feather light but her nerves were exposed and raw. She felt the flurry to the pit of her stomach. Seagulls cried above. Waves lapped at the hulls of docked boats. She closed her eyes to shut it out, but the lack of sight only made her more aware of Logan's nearness. She smelled salty air, tartar sauce, her own desire for a man, and knew she was in deep trouble here.

She shouldn't be dealing with him on a personal level. Not when she had so much at stake. Not when she needed total concentration to resolve the puzzle at ViOPet. Not when she had no doubt that letting him close would threaten the way she lived her life. Alone. She'd thought her self-sufficiency a strength, but suddenly wondered if by not learning to lean or unburdened herself on a willing shoulder, she'd missed out on the richest of connections. That between a woman and a man.

Returning to the table, she drained her tea, letting a tiny sliver of ice melt against her tongue. Logan sat across from her this time. "I'm sorry, Hannah. I tend to be a bit hard to convince. It comes with the territory and the kind of cases I generally take. I don't see a lot of innocence anymore."

For the first time she noticed the dejected slump of his shoulders that fit him as intimately as his bold and brash audacity. He'd been hurt. From the looks of things his wound ran deep. Deep enough that he'd learned to adapt. But had he learned to accept?

"I don't know how familiar you are with herbicides," she began. "Some of the most toxic were components used in the manufacture of Agent Orange." She pitched her voice in a low whisper and leaned forward. "In that warehouse I found a dozen barrels of a substance ten times more concentrated. A mutant. A chemical that's illegal for use or manufacture in the U.S."

Logan blew out a sharp whistle. "That's scary stuff."

"Yes. It is." If he only knew exactly how scary it was. Or how personal. "When the chemical was banned, manufacturers had to meet stringent guidelines to dispose of it."

"Why would ViOPet have it in their possession now?" Logan asked, tapping the end of his knife against the wooden table.

"Good question. It's possible the barrels were being sent to one of our plants for disposal. But I don't think so."

The knife stilled. "Why not?"

"I went back late one night the next week. Twice as many barrels were stacked against the walls."

"Would they dump it? Or sell it?"

"Highly unlikely with the regulations controlling toxic substances. But that's in the U.S. Other countries don't have the same type of guidelines."

"So somebody knows what you found and wants to know what you're going to do with the information."

She frowned. "It seems so. But I don't have any idea who would know what I saw. Or how."

"Did you tell Elliot?"

"No."

"How about the warehouse? Are there surveillance cameras?"

"A couple, I think. Most of the buildings have them."

"Then that gives me somewhere to start."

"How so?"

"Cameras don't install themselves. They may operate by electronic eye but they've got to send the image somewhere. I'll just have to find out who's looking at the picture."

"And that will tell you who saw me."

"Then we can figure out where we go from there." He stood and offered his hand.

This time she took it without hesitation. "If I call Monday morning to set up a time to discuss your fee, will you be there?"

"Count on it," he answered, ushering her down the wooden steps to the parking area.

The ride back seemed to pass in half the time it had taken before yet was equally as quiet. This time she didn't mind. The silence gave her time to think about the confidences she'd just divulged, the implicit trust she'd just placed in this man, and how unlike her it was to do either.

Praying she'd done the right thing, she finally broke the stillness to ask, "Do you want me to drop you somewhere besides your office?"

"I'll call a cab from your place, if that's okay," Logan replied. "I need to run over to my brother's and pick up a part for my T-bird."

Wait. "You have a brother in Houston?"

"One. Two live in south Texas on my parents' ranch."

His admission surprised her. He'd said he had no family yet had just admitted to having more than she had. She started to ask more but stopped to concentrate on the road, taking the exit into the suburban area where she lived.

The familiarity of the neighborhood should've soothed. Instead she tensed, her hands growing damp on the wheel. She scanned each street, searching for the car she'd seen following her. Not until she pulled through the heavy iron gate of her apartment complex did she realize her chest ached from holding her breath.

"This way," she said, leading Logan through a small, exquisitely landscaped courtyard to her own privacy fence. With a quick turn of the key, she opened the wooden door to the patio.

"Typical," she remarked.

"What?"

"Maintenance has been scheduled to fix a tear in my carpet for a month. As usual, Mike forgot to lock the door behind him."

Beside her, Logan froze. His hands closed over her shoulders and he backed her into the brick wall beside the door. The change in him was astonishing, almost as if a switch had been thrown from tomcat to tiger.

"Stay here."

Breathing deeply, he glanced around the small patio, his gaze lighting on the rock garden directly across from where she stood. With soundless steps, he crossed the enclosure and palming a rock the size of a grapefruit, slid back to her side.

"What're you doing?" she asked in a high-pitched whisper.

"Checking on your carpet."

"With a rock?"

"Can't tell who I'll meet inside."

Her heart dropped to her feet. "Don't you have a gun?"

"Nope. Never been too thrilled about getting shot with my own piece." Turning his body protectively into hers, he reached across to the door and shoved. The door swung free.

Hannah froze, her thigh wedged between his, her hip bone snug against him, her shoulder tucked in the pocket of his armpit. The length of his body against her front was as hard as the brick wall behind her. His heart pounded in rhythm with hers, an amplified drum in her ears.

He laid two fingers against her lips. "Stay," he whispered against her hair then took a deep breath and eased around the corner. The shadows in her apartment silently swallowed him up.

Hannah gathered a calming breath and eyes wide, clutched her purse to her chest. She refused to acknowledge the tingling in her bones to be anything but fear, the taste on her mouth to be anything but food.

A cool breeze sent her hair fluttering around her face but did nothing to prevent a bead of sweat from trickling down her back. She didn't have to remember Logan's warning. She couldn't have moved had her life depended on it.

An eternity later he stepped onto the patio, tossed the rock across the enclosure, and dusted his hands together.

"It's safe?" The question squeaked out.

"Yeah, it's safe. But you ain't gonna like it."

For some reason, after everything she'd been through, walking into an apartment that resembled more battlefield than living area didn't surprise her. Or maybe she was too shocked to react. Blocking out the total picture, she walked around the capsized bookcase, stepped over the scattered books, and dodged an upended brass seaman's chest to reach for the phone.

"Don't touch anything."

Like one of the wire-taut nerves holding her together had snapped, she started at Logan's gruff command. She dashed the back of her hand over her watery eyes. A breath shuddered through her. "Why?"

He kicked the door closed, the sudden move the only hint of reaction in his outward show of calm. "On the slim chance there are fingerprints to be lifted."

She shook her head, the agitated motion bringing nausea backfiring in a fiery path from her stomach to the base of her tongue. Fingers threaded through her wispy bangs, she pressed the heel of her hand to her pounding forehead. "That's not what I mean. I want to know why someone would do this?"

"People get their kicks in perverse ways."

"This is more than kicks. This is a violation," she shot back. A precipitate burst of anger rushed through her, an anger so out of character she didn't know how to deal with it. She'd never been a victim, never felt so tied in knots except when knowing her father was going to die. And she suddenly wondered if this impotence in any way compared to how he'd felt being a similar, helpless statistic.

She glanced up in time to see Logan rub thumb and forefinger over his jaw in thoughtful regard, his gaze roaming side to side. "You may be right."

"Of course I'm right," she insisted, her hands curled into fists at her sides. "I don't have anything worth stealing so why would someone come in here and trash my apartment?"

He crossed the ten feet of blue carpet separating them and stared down, the force of his steady gaze willing her to rational thought. "No one would know what you had until they got in."

Hannah scowled. "And since they didn't find anything worth taking they trash my home? That's sick."

Logan gripped her shoulders, spun her around and guided her to the couch. "Sit here while I call the cops."

Hannah nodded, twisting her hands at her waist. The urge to scream overpowered her. The urge to turn tail and run rose just as strong. Worst of all, the urge to cry had tears pricking hotly at her eyelids. She blinked, hating the feeling that she was losing control of her life. One simple step at a time. That's all she'd tackle for now.

Casting a quick glance Logan's way, she asked, "Can I put the cushions back on the couch?"

"Yeah. Sure," he answered, grabbing one of her linen napkins from the floor and covering the phone receiver as he lifted it from the wall cradle in her kitchen.

Without bothering to zip up the backs, she shoved the cushions in place and plopped down on the edge of the navy and teal floral chintz. Gripping the seams with her fingers, she rocked back and forth. Logan's voice filtered through the fog in her mind.

Her eyes scanned the room, lighting on her collection of pewter figurines. Wizards and dragons, fairies and elves, lay scattered across the blue carpet like souls lost at sea. The analogy was incongruous, laughable, and Hannah buried her face in her hands and muttered, "I'm losing my mind."

"Do what?" Logan asked, settling on the cushion beside her.

"Nothing," she answered, staring down at her spike heels and black silk hose next to his worn deck shoes, bare ankles, and wrinkled khakis. For one strange minute she wanted to wrap her leg around his, needing to absorb a bit of his calm.

Then she remembered his other side, his cunning, his stealth, his love of the risk. His element of danger.

That side made things much too real when she was still holding onto the hope this was all a bad dream. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her. Curled into the corner of the couch, she grabbed a ruffled pillow of peacock blue off the floor and clutched it to her chest.

"Did you call the police?" she asked, knowing he had, needing to bring reality to the unreality of the situation.

"They're on their way."

"Thanks," she murmured, and settled in to wait.

Logan rescued a tiny elf from the carpet and braced both elbows on his wide-spread knees. He twirled the figurine between his hands and ran one thumb across the crystal star embedded between the elf's palms. "Tell me about the car, Hannah."

"What car?" Her gaze moved from his hands to his profile. Anxiety, sharp and defined, lay etched in deep grooves across his forehead and tiny creases at the corners of his eyes.

"The car that's been following you." He turned to face her, the look in his eyes gone beyond uneasy to righteous concern.

The intensity of his expression sobered her, raising gooseflesh on her arms and questions in her mind. "You think the person following me is responsible for this?"

Head bowed, Logan looked back at his hands and muttered, "I wouldn't have thought so until tonight."

"Why?"

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then clamped it shut. Balancing the elf on one leg of the overturned coffee table, he leaned back on the couch. "Never mind. Tell me about the car."