Heart of Steel (20 page)

     Chandler buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe this. Men always stick up for each other. I just don’t get it.”

     “I can’t believe you’re pushing him this far.”

     “I only want to prove a point.”

     “As long as I’m nowhere in the vicinity when nine thirty comes and you’re not there to pick up the phone. Logan strikes me as a dangerous man to cross.”

     A shiver ran down her spine. “Stop trying to scare me, Harry,” she said. “His nickname doesn’t give him the powers to fly or bend steel. Besides, I intend on calling him when I get home. It may not be nine thirty, which will prove my point, but it’ll still give him the reassurance he needs in this relationship.”

     Harry looked doubtful. “Okay. If you’re sure you know what you’re doing then I won’t rain on your parade.” They ate for a few moments in silence. “You’re really in love with him?”

     “I could be making the biggest mistake of my life, but yes, I think I’m in love with him.” She gave a humorless laugh. “My father would be in his glory if he knew.”

     “You still haven’t spoken to him?”

     “No. He calls on a regular basis and talks to my machine. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to patch up our relationship after what happened with Michael.”

     “Are you going to tell Logan about your past?”

     She dipped her bread in the sauce and bit into the hard crust. “He knows a little, but I’m not ready to reveal all yet. Besides, I don’t know what will happen between us. I’m going to grab today and not worry so much about the future.” She pointed her fork at him. “You should do the same and ask Rachael out.”

     Harry groaned. “I’ve been practicing my speech for months but every time I get close my mind goes blank.”

     “Slip her a note with your phone number on it.”

     “I’ll have an anxiety attack.”

     “Harry, she’s going to say yes. I bet she has the hots for you and just wants you to make the first move.”

     “Yeah, maybe.”

     She smiled at his glum tone. “Come on buddy. Dessert is on me. How about the chocolate mousse?”

     He raised an eyebrow and glanced at her tiny waist. “How can you lecture on nutrition and still keep a straight face?”

     “I will ignore that remark and chalk it up to negative feelings regarding your inability to take a chance on life.”

     Harry snorted.

     After a rich, creamy dessert and ten vows to starve herself for the next few days, they paid the bill and walked out of the restaurant. It was a cool, summer evening which brought hints of the fall to come. The breeze lifted her hair and caressed her skin. The night sounds swarmed around them as they made their way to their cars, the click of her high heels echoing in the smog infested air.

     Chandler thrived on the nighttime activity in Manhattan, enjoying the atmosphere without getting drawn into the tension and stress of everyday life. Taxis hurtled down the streets; brakes screeched when the traffic lights had the nerve to turn red. Swarms of people walked in unison and ignored DON’T WALK signs, jumping around buses and screaming drivers without a glance back. Vendors urged pedestrians to stop and buy their wares, from Coach purses to 14 karat gold necklaces, all at fifty percent off and so hot the merchandise burned the fingers immediately. Vagrants begged to wash the windshields on passing motorists, and called out for spare change. Chandler threw quarters and dollar bills into the cups of the homeless who held signs from I AM BLIND to I HAVE NO LEGS, and never wondered about the truth of the statements.

     She knew Harry shook his head at her gullibility. Native bred New Yorkers were supposed to be more hardened to people who lived in the streets, but she slept better at night believing the money helped. Every winter she bought a number of coats and gave them out to the homeless. She volunteered for soup kitchen duties around the holidays, especially since her rift with her father. Her community may be filled with a variety of con artists, but it was her home, and she needed to give back something to one of the most diverse melting pots in the US.

     Harry stopped beside her ancient red Chevy and waited for her to unlock the door. “Well, I wish you luck. You are now exactly one hour late for Grant’s call.”

     Chandler glowered at him as she fished around in her purse for her car keys. “Thanks for the support. Tonight was a real blast.”

     He laughed. “I hope it was worth it. What’s the matter?”

     She dug frantically through the leather compartments. “Dammit, I can’t find my keys.”

     “Did you leave them in the restaurant?”

     “No, I clearly remember getting out of the car, reaching for my purse, and—uh, oh.” He followed her pointed stare. The car keys dangled neatly from the ignition. The car was locked up, safe and sound.

     “You have an extra key, don’t you?”

     She closed her eyes in despair. “You know, I always told myself I should get an extra key made. I never seemed to get around to it.”

     "This car is older than dirt. The new ones make it impossible to lock your keys inside."

     "I don't have money for a new car, Harry."

     "Why'd you buy American? You can't lock yourself out of the imported cars."

     Chandler glowered. They stood together and looked through the closed window. “Well, we have a couple of options," Harry said.

     “Do tell.”

     “We can call the police and wait for the next couple of hours, and hope they come amidst the calls for robbery, rape and murder.”

     “Next option.”

     “We can break your window to get to the keys.”

     “Keep going.”

     “Are you a member of any auto club?” he asked hopefully. Chandler shook her head. “Then I’ll take you home and we’ll call a locksmith in the morning.”

     “I won’t be able to get into my apartment.”

     “Wait, let me guess. You never did get around to making an extra set of keys for your apartment.”

     “Give the man a gold star.”

     “Then you’ll have to come home with me and crash at my place.”

     Chandler bit her lip. “Sounds like a logical solution. There’s just one teeny, tiny glitch.”

     “Logan Grant.”

     She groaned and leaned her forehead against the roof of the car. “He’s going to kill me, Harry. Besides not being there when he calls, I’m going to be at your place all night. I left my cell in my locked up apartment. He’ll never trust me again.”

     “Hmm, mine's dead, we're a pair. Savvy New Yorkers with no cells. Just call him from my place and explain the situation. If he freaks out, he can pick you up at my apartment."

     She picked up her head. “That could work.”

     “Right now it’s our only choice.” He tugged at her hand and led her over to his car.

     It was a half hour ride to his place. Harry lived in one of the fancy condo duplexes Logan passed on, complete with health club, cafe, swimming pool, and other amenities. Harry made a pot of coffee while she rang Logan's home phone. This time she’d apologize to him. Four rings. Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight.

     Where was he?

     She heard the click of the answering machine. Logan’s deep voice instructing the person to leave a message at the beep. She stared at the phone in her hand as if it held all the answers. Then she replaced the receiver.

     “What’s the matter?”

     “He’s not home.” She stared at him in amazement. “Logan isn’t even home.”

     “Maybe he’s in the shower. Or screening his calls. Leave a message on the machine and maybe he’ll pick up. Or call his blackberry, he's attached to it twenty four seven.”

     “Maybe. But he specifically wanted me home for his call. I assume he's not working a deal this late." She frowned. “You don’t think he purposefully left the house because he knew I’d be home waiting for his call?”

     “Hell, I don’t know. Are you two playing these games with each other for a reason?”

     She didn’t answer. She kicked off her shoes and relaxed on the sofa for the next ten minutes, then picked up the phone again.

     No answer.

     She spoke into the machine and told him to pick up if he was there.

     No answer.

     Her temper surged. She forced herself to take long deep breaths. It was after ten o’clock and Logan Grant wasn’t home. Which probably meant he hadn’t been home when he was supposed to have called. He could be out at this very moment, satisfied he’d taught her a lesson, laughing at the idea that she had hurried home to wait for a call which would never come.

     She was going to kill him.

     He was going to strangle her.

     Logan sat in his car and gripped the steering wheel as he fought to control the rage coursing through his body. It was after ten and she wasn’t home. Hadn’t been home for his call. He'd called and texted her twice and still no response. So after patiently waiting another half hour and only getting her cheery voice telling him to leave a message, he’d decided to drive to her apartment and wait.

     And she still wasn’t home.

     He took a deep breath and tried to think the situation over. He’d been nice enough to allow her to go to dinner with a man who may be trying to coax her into bed at this very moment. He tried to give her the benefit of the doubt when she asked for his trust, knowing how important that was to her in a relationship. He decided to try to be the man she wanted him to be: patient and understanding, kind and generous, trusting and open-minded. A man like Richard Thorne pretended to be. He played by her rules, thinking with enough time she’d come to him on her own. Admit she loved him. Then he could finally drag her into his bed where she belonged.

     Now she could be doing that with another man she insisted was only a friend.

     His stomach coiled at the thought. He stared out the windshield at the deserted parking lot and listened to the eerie silence. His fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel as he went over his options. He’d made a mistake. He allowed his feelings to get in the way, and now she was taking advantage of the situation. He almost laughed out loud when he suddenly realized the sad picture he made. The mighty “man of steel” was really a poor chump sitting in the parking lot of a woman’s apartment building, waiting for her to show up from a date with another man.

     Shards of ice ripped at his heart as he reigned in his emotions and took control. This was the last time his lady would make a fool out of him. He’d been going easy on her. Allowed her to play the game by a different set of rules so she felt safe.

     Now they'd play by his rules.

     He pushed the uneasy thought out of his mind that she was really in cahoots with her father. Could she be using him? Could she be so clever that even he had been fooled? As he gunned the engine and pulled out of the lot in a roar of screeching tires, he realized how much he wanted to believe in her innocence.

     His first action was to find out where Harrison Edward Weston III lived.

     And God help the man if Chandler was there.

     Chandler’s eyes flew open when she heard the pounding on the door.

     She groaned and buried her head deeper into the cushions on the sofa. The tired springs creaked under her shifting weight and warned her that accommodating strangers for the night was something it was usually not required to do. She’d already fallen off the couch twice, finally discovering a comfortable position around dawn, and felt like she only grabbed fifteen minutes of precious sleep before the pounding had begun. Or maybe it was her head.

     For a moment there was silence. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to drift back, but the door suddenly vibrated under the insistent pounding of a fist. She struggled to open her eyes and glanced at the clock on the mantle. 6:00 AM. Saturday morning.

     Someone was insane.

     She muttered under her breath about Harry’s rude friends and fell off the couch for the third time. Tugging down the hem of the Giants T-shirt she borrowed, she padded barefoot to the door. The banging grew more intense, and she saw the wildly shaking door trying to withstand the power of the person behind it. She unlocked the chain and threw the door open, glaring behind tousled waves of hair.

     And collided with a pair of icy gray eyes.

     His gaze roamed over her figure, taking in her shirt and bare feet, her sleep rumbled hair and the surprise on her face. He stepped inside and shut the door gently behind him. The click of the latch echoed in the silence. Fighting the urge to run like hell and not look back, she blurted out, “How did you find me?”

     She hadn’t thought it was possible but he managed to look even more terrifying after her question. His voice was soft when he spoke, contradicting the hardness in his eyes. “I called in a few favors to get Weston’s address. I’m sure you thought you were safe since his number is unlisted. Then again, you don’t know me as well as you thought, do you, Chandler?”