Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (7 page)

He looked up sharply. "Say it."

She only hesitated a second. "Yes."

He stepped closer and took her hand. Closing her fingers around the elf, he folded his hand over hers. "I haven't had much opportunity in my life to trust. I don't think I know how." His gaze roamed over her face. He reached up to trail one finger down the side of her neck. "Do you think you can teach me?"

Mesmerized by his smoky voice, spellbound by his whiskey-gold eyes, she ached to run her palm across his jaw, finger his lower lip. She wanted to find the source of the security that enfolded her like a blanket when she was with him, the basis of the fascination that made her think not of the damage to her home but of him and how he would taste, how he would feel.

Instead, she took a safe step back, returned the elf to the table leg, and cradled her forehead in her hand, rubbing away the pressure. Contacting him to begin with had been a move of desperation. She wasn't about to open herself up, to risk being hurt, to risk losing what control she still held over her life.

Bravely, she met his gaze. "At this point I'm too tired to do anything but go to bed and sleep for the next twelve hours."

He refused to look away. The air in the room pulsed tight with sexual energy. Electricity hummed through her veins, over her skin, rousing her, inciting her to experience this man in every possible way. She clenched her fists at her sides.

Finally, he expelled a gust of breath and cast a skeptical glance around the room. "You're going to sleep here?"

Relieved that he hadn't pushed because she wasn't sure she wouldn't have given in, she groaned. "My bed's a wreck."

"Your whole house is a wreck. Is there someone you can stay with tonight?"

A wry grin stole across her mouth. "As bizarre as this sounds, I don't have many close friends and Lynn, the only one I'd consider asking, is out of town for the weekend."

"No family?"

"Only my mother."

"Does she have an extra bedroom?"

"Not any more. She's been in a nursing home the past six months. And as my bad luck would have it, we finally closed on her house three weeks ago." She shook her head at the irony. Just when she finally could've used that rambling old monstrosity. "I swear it had been on the market for two years."

"Neighbors?"

"Well," she began with a chuckle, "There's always Miss Tiny next door."

"Miss Tiny?" Logan repeated with a disbelieving snort. "What? She a female mud-wrestler or something?"

"She's ninety if she's a day and keeps her TV going around the clock. I doubt I'd get much sleep."

"Who else?"

"Andre and Dirk upstairs."

His cocked brow said it all. Hannah laughed. "Guess that leaves a hotel."

"No," he said as if coming to a sudden decision. "I'll take you someplace safe." His expression, deadly serious, left no room for argument; his assessment, frankly honest, chilled her inside. "I don't know if this break-in is connected to the car following you or the trouble at ViOPet but if they get desperate you may be next."

"Okay," she solemnly agreed, realizing he was right. And realizing, for the first time she could remember, she didn't want to be alone. "You still have my keys?"

Fifteen minutes later, clad in loosely woven plum-colored slacks and a low-cut berry-blue jacket, Hannah fastened her seatbelt and glanced up to find Logan studying her face.

"You okay?"

Feeling suddenly drained, she offered him a weak smile. "Ask me that tomorrow."

"I'm taking you home."

"Your home?"

"Does that bother you?"

"For some reason, no," she answered candidly, not having the strength or the energy to dissect the reason why or the implications behind it.

His understanding smile softened the harsh planes of his face. "If you'd rather stay here, I'll camp out on your couch."

"No!" She stiffened in her seat then forced herself to lean back. "Tomorrow will be soon enough to face this mess. Aren't things supposed to look better in the morning light?"

"Brighter, anyway," Logan replied, as he backed out of her space and put the car in motion. "Try to relax."

"Easy for you to say," Hannah mumbled, sure she'd never relax again in this lifetime.

But the next time she opened her eyes, the Gulf of Mexico loomed wide before her. Dropping her bag to the carport floor, she slammed her door and stretched her road-weary muscles.

They skirted Logan's tarp covered T-bird and climbed the beach house stairs in silence. Once across the deck, she followed him through the darkened interior to a bedroom—her only clue being the bed where he dropped her bag before walking out and pulling the door shut behind him.

Hannah stared at the closed door and shrugged. "Good night to you, too," she said, as she kicked first her sandals then her slacks across the room. Exhaling a deep, bone-tired breath, she fished in her bag for her gauzy cotton nightshirt and pulled it on.

Her jacket and top joined the pile of clothes in the corner. Amazed that she didn't have the strength to straighten out her things, even more amazed that she didn't feel a bit guilty, she smiled irreverently. Must be the company she was keeping.

The sheets smelled of sun and sea air and she thought not of the mess waiting at home, nor of the mess in her life, but only of the mess of a man somewhere under the same roof. A man who made her feel safe, secure, and protected—things she didn't want to feel too deeply lest they be taken away too soon.

The dream woke Logan again. The vivid splashes of color, blood red and orange blaze. The intense decibel of sound, roaring flames and exploding metal. The acrid smell of burning rubber. The taste of thick black smoke and gasoline.

And the screams.

He lay in his bed for long quiet minutes, his eyes searching the darkness for the comforts of home, the whup-whup-whup of the ceiling fan a hypnotizing lull above him. Deep breaths settled his pounding heart while he made the usual attempt to relax. As usual, he failed. The demon was there every time he closed his eyes, waiting in the dark, scheming to steal his mind.

Throwing the sheet to the foot of the bed, he crouched on the edge. The fan cooled the sweat running down his naked back and he clenched and unclenched the fists resting on his knees. Finally, he stood, stretched, and threaded his fingers through his hair, lifting the drenched locks from the back of his neck.

If he had a nickel for every hour of lost sleep, maybe he could buy his way free of the nightmare. Hell, maybe he could make yet another pact with the devil and buy eight hours of undisturbed rest. Right now, that sounded as good as anything.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen, jerked open the refrigerator door, and gulped down orange juice straight from the carton. Anything to wash away the taste of the smoke, a taste that lingered, planted by the demon in his mind as a reminder of his failures. A taste his logical side knew he only imagined, the same way he conjured the smells, the sounds, and the colors of disaster.

He tossed the empty carton into the sink and slammed the refrigerator door. A glance at the clock on the stove revealed he'd slept two hours. Two hours of peace in a nighttime of horrors. He crossed the living room and walked onto the deck, leaning his elbows on the railing that framed his small square of escape. The wind whipped through his hair, cooled his heated body, calmed his fevered mind.

As always the water summoned, calling to him with a promise of peace. For Logan, peace was a fallacy and would be as long as the demon lived. Until then, until he faced the monster in his mind, he'd settle for a level of fatigue that would allow him to sleep. And he needed to face it soon. That was obvious. It was beginning to interfere in his work.

How else could he explain his carelessness? How else could he have followed Hannah for a month and never realized someone else was doing the same? How could he forgive himself for another failure? How could he explain the truth to Hannah? Or to himself?

And how could he be so stupid as to bring her into his home?

He bounded down the stairs, jogged across the sand and into the tepid salt water. He needed a swim. The steady rhythm taxed his muscles; the repetitive strokes tired his mind. Maybe he'd swim south to Cozumel. Or maybe head east to Florida. Maybe he'd go down and see what Davey Jones kept hidden in his locker.

Logan laughed to himself and slid through the water, his arms slicing through the wall of salt and foam to drag his body along. His hair slapped side to side and, with each breath his despair subsided, replaced with the exhilaration of being alive. He'd never take the coward's way out. He loved being alive.

He loved the muscle rubbing across his ribcage with each reaching stroke. He loved the burning in his calves, thighs, and buttocks each time he kicked. He loved the water sluicing over his naked skin, the way he overpowered nature with his human strength, fighting the tug of the waves and the siren call of the open sea.

Someday he'd turn that strength on himself and battle the inward man. Someday soon. But for now, he only wanted to sleep.

Dripping and sated, he trudged up the beach he knew well enough to cross blind. The moon lit the night sky, shining down on sand the color of bleached bone. He stared at the reflected light sparkling in ripples across the black of the sea. Waves pulsed, following one another to shore, every seventh one washing over his feet.

At last his heartbeat slowed. His blood no longer pounded in exertion. Or in terror. He turned to plod back up the beach.

Hannah stood in the corner of the deck, the pale light giving the brunette of her hair a burnished sheen. His steps faltered. He stopped, concealing himself in the shadows below and, like a dog shedding his bath, shook his head, drops of water showering down on his feet.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, his voice quiet, respecting the still of the night.

"I thought I heard a door slam."

"Must've been the refrigerator."

"Oh," she replied, as if he'd answered some earth-shattering question. He covertly watched her slide to sit on the deck, pulling her nightshirt over her knees. Just as he had with that slinky jacket, he found himself wondering what she had on beneath.

"Couldn't you sleep?" she asked, breaking the thick silence.

Logan kicked at the sand. It filtered between his toes and the exotic feel of Hannah's skin through the sheer weave of her hose returned to haunt him. "I don't sleep much."

"Insomnia?"

He shook his head though he knew she couldn't see, wondering if he could trust her with his secret, or if it would be best to keep his mouth shut. "Nightmares," he finally answered and held his breath.

She scooted to the edge of the deck, dangled her legs over the side and peered down. "Bad ones?" she asked, and he resisted the urge to reach up and touch her.

Her question echoed with such concern he felt compelled to take a small step on the long road to trust. Hoping the darkness hid the affect she had on his naked body, he answered, "Bad enough."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"What's to say? I wake up, head pounding, drenched in sweat and come down here to swim it off." Don't ask any more, he silently begged, honestly afraid of the truth. And of himself.

"Did it help? The swim, I mean."

"I think I'm tired enough to sleep."
But not tired enough to get you out of my mind.
He glanced up and Hannah's legs vanished over the edge. Her bare feet trod across the planks.

"Not tired enough to forget?" she asked from the far side of the deck.

"I never forget." He paced a trench in the sand, scooping the granules to the side with his toes. Back and forth he walked, wanting to talk, forming the words, afraid to speak but more afraid not to. "The dreams. They're so real. Every color and smell exact. The reality was bad enough. The dreams ..." he let the thought go unfinished, unable to voice the horror.

Her touch on his shoulder sent an erotic burn licking over his skin. The fire seared him, an inferno melting away the hard core of his soul. Clenching his fists, he turned on a wave of nervous unease, drawing a blank mask across his face while wanting more than anything to draw her into his arms.

"I thought you might be cold," she said, offering him a towel and a candid smile.

He swiped the towel across his chest and arms then secured it around his naked hips, his eyes never once leaving hers. No censure or ridicule marred her expression. The care and concern etched on her face warmed him deep inside.

Placing one hand on her shoulder, he cupped her chin, tilted her head to the left, then to the right, and gazed down. "It doesn't work."

"What?" she asked in a breathless whisper.

"Your eyes. They change, you know. I wanted to see what color they were now. The moon's not bright enough."

"It is for some things," she replied.

"Like what?" he answered in a voice suddenly husky, seeing all too well the outline of rounded breasts and the shadow of pebbled nipples in the soft ethereal light.

In a moment out of time, she reached up and stroked a thumb across the corner of his eye. "Like seeing that your worry and exhaustion go far beyond what a good night's sleep will cure."

Logan grasped her hand in his, squeezing his fingers around hers. Turning his face into her palm, he placed a kiss in the center. She caught her lower lip with her teeth and returned his steady gaze. He thought he'd die if he didn't pull her to him. But it was still too soon.

His hand holding hers, he splayed her fingers against his chest, his pulse thundering into her hand and into his loins. "I doubt if a year's worth of good night sleep would cure me," he said as much to himself as to her, suddenly confused why he'd offered her that glimpse into his soul.

She pulled at her hand. Before he released her he added a suggestive wink and a not-so-subtle grin, trying to relieve the intensity of the moment. "But a couple of scrambled eggs would be a good place to start."

"You mean cook?" she asked, aghast.

"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

Hannah gave him a lop-sided grin. "Where do you come up with these cornball lines?"