Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (2 page)

Before Julian finished giving the paper a lengthy visual third degree, the waiter reappeared, salads in hand, and Hannah forked a morsel of turkey into her mouth, tasting nothing but the bitterness of what she was doing.

Betrayal had a nasty flavor, but it was nothing, she reminded herself, compared to cold-hearted ruthlessness. Her employer's reputation didn't matter half as much as the human lives at risk because of their criminal neglect.

Lives like her father's.

Her appetite squelched, Hannah laid her fork aside and stared out the window, glancing Julian's way time and again. Finally he laid the papers on the table and set his glasses on top, punctuating the thick silence with a low whistle.

"What do you think?" Hannah prompted.

He plowed one hand through his long black hair. "I'd say the EPA has a hell of a nightmare on its hands." He tapped the papers with his index finger. "How'd you come up with this?"

"It was an accident, I assure you."

"That I don't doubt for a minute. Even hint at the possible mishandling of toxic chemicals and you've got a media blitz, not to mention panic on your hands."

"It gets worse."

"How much?"

Hannah took a deep breath and swallowed the lump of nerves stuck in the back of her throat. "I think I'm being followed."

His gaze sliced through her, his concern razor sharp. "Someone else know about this?"

She quickly shook her head. "You're the only one I trust enough to tell."

"Good. Let's keep it that way. I'll call in some markers, see what I can turn up." Concern deepened the grooves framing his mouth. "But if someone is onto your secret, you've got another problem on your hands."

"I was afraid of that." Hannah shoved his comment into a whole new category of worry. She wanted to walk away. Leave the mess for someone else to clean up. But she couldn't. And Julian knew her well enough to know why. "So, do you have any advice?"

He jerked at the knot of his tie. "Yes and no. I can't tell you what to do. But I know someone who might be able to help." He reached into his hip pocket for his billfold, pulled out a dog-eared business card, and handed it to her.

She took it and rubbed one finger across the bold, raised lettering. "Logan Burke?"

"He did a lot for work for me when my wife ran off with my daughter. He's got the best contacts in town."

"Is he still working for you?"

"No. Once Liz left the state he referred me to another investigator. Burke keeps his expertise to the city. Give him a call and tell him I put you onto him. He keeps a low profile. Doesn't advertise, but he doesn't have to. His reputation does all the talking he needs."

She tucked the card in her blazer pocket. "Thanks. Maybe I'll call him."

"No maybes, Hannah. Do," Julian said, and she nodded because he’d always known best.

Six weeks later …

Parked in ViOPet's visitor's lot, Logan fastened down the convertible top of his Mustang, wondering if his luck was about to change. Why else would his air conditioner have picked the almost bearable warmth of late May rather than the dog days of August to go belly-up? If his luck held, maybe by the time August rolled around he'd be able to spare a couple of bucks for a compressor, he mused, and slid behind the wheel.

Neil Harrington's check crinkled in the pocket of his khakis, and Logan made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Even if he wasn't too keen on how he'd made them, he had to admit those zeroes had a nice sound. Not to mention the sizable dent they'd make in the medical bills he'd accrued three years ago. Medical bills he'd poured every cent from every case into since. Medical bills he'd die before he quit trying to pay off.

Maneuvering into the traffic headed south on Interstate 45, he snapped a farewell salute to the piney woods surrounding ViOPet. The past six weeks had dragged by like a dead snail. He was definitely glad to be done with Harrington's case. Except for the fact he no longer had an excuse to watch Hannah Evans.

For the first time in what he considered his recent history, he'd actually considered dumping the case and pursuing the mark. A definite slip of control. She'd gotten to him. Reached a level he'd not let anyone near the last three years. And he couldn't say exactly why.

She'd been there when he closed his eyes at night, when he opened them in the morning. And during the dark hours between, her image had kept the demons at bay.

Until he'd come to realize she might not be the guardian angel he'd been using her for.

When handed the portfolio detailing Hannah's meeting with the president of Vandale Chemical, Neil Harrington's reaction bordered on schizoid. The way Logan saw things, no one deserved to be on the receiving end of that type of unbalanced rage. But obviously Harrington felt Hannah Evans had it coming.

Logan found it hard to argue after the evidence he'd dug up. Even if it turned out to be circumstantial, it was damned convincing.

Seemed Hannah's finances had been strapped for more than a few years, since, in fact, her father had died, leaving her and her mother close to destitute. The medical bills approached astronomical. And some people would do just about anything for money.

He ought to know. He'd sold his soul so many times the devil owned it ten times over.

Still, the funny thing was that taking the pictures hadn't been enough. He'd wanted to follow her into the restaurant where she'd met Vandale. To be a fly on the wall and hear their conversation. To see what was on the papers she'd handed him. To find out if she was as guilty as the evidence painted her.

He'd wanted to breathe her scent. He'd wanted to hear her voice. He'd wanted to place his palm in the small of her back and draw her close. And more than anything, he'd wanted to find a bit of the innocence he'd given up on finding.

None of the reasons had anything to do with the case and everything to do with the woman.

Logan flipped his blinker up, wedged the Mustang into an opening half its size in the far lane, and headed for his exit. Black and white photos had distinct disadvantages. Like not divulging the color of a person's eyes. He wanted to know about Hannah's eyes. To figure out why they hypnotized him, beckoned him, made him think of salvation.

The traffic thinned the further he drove from the center of town. After a quick stop at the hole in the wall that served as his office, he would hit the road for the Gulf. He wanted to suck in gallons of sea air, feel the wind whip his hair, and let the salt spray sting Hannah Evans right out of his mind.

He took the corner on two wheels and, leaving long strips of black rubber behind, fishtailed into his usual parking spot. Wrists draped over his steering wheel, he grudgingly eyed the sporty yellow Miata parked across the lot.

So much for luck or making it to the beach any time soon. He vaulted out of the car and sent his office door open on a crash. The frosted window bearing eight out of the ten letters of his name rattled in the frame.

"Who's th ... What's go ... Mr. Burke!" his secretary gasped. She pressed a shocked hand against her bosom then patted her helmet of blue-gray hair into place.

"Now, Maggie, I'm just keeping you on your toes. I wouldn't want you to fall asleep on the job." He narrowed his eyes and arched one brow, trying to get a rise out of the unflappable grandmother. "I might just have to fire you."

"I would never do such a thing," she answered, indignant.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you for taking a snooze. There's hardly enough work around here for me, much less you, too." He parked his hip on the corner of her battered metal desk and studied the early garage sale decor of the room as if seeing it for the first time.

Margaret tugged an envelope out from beneath him and swatted him on the arm. "Maybe if you'd learn to conduct yourself professionally instead of acting like the hooligan you are you'd have more people interested in hiring you.

"In fact," she said, her voice a whisper. "Now would be a good time to start minding your manners. You've got a potential client waiting inside."

"I saw the car. Looks like a banana." Logan stood and stretched, his muscles protesting. "I've gotta get to the gym."

Margaret shooed him away, setting a stack of out-of-date magazines on the vacant spot then scooting a potted ivy up against them. "If I were you, Logan Burke, I'd worry more about getting to the tailor and the barber than to the gym. When that young lady gets a good look at you, she'll most likely hit the door at a run."

Logan frowned down at the faded khakis slung low on his hips, the scuffed brown deck shoes sans socks, and the white cotton button-down that looked as if he'd pulled it out of the laundry hamper. He sniffed the armpits, dragged his fingers through the shaggy hair at his neck, found nothing so obscenely wrong with his appearance to warrant Maggie's prediction.

"The way I see it she's buying my services not my body, though we might arrange a deal on the side," he added with a wicked curl of his lip.

Margaret rolled her eyes and pinched a yellowed leaf off the ivy only to toss it at his head.

Logan leaned across and bussed her on the cheek. "What would I do without you, Mags?" he teased, then ambled across the reception area and pushed open the door to his office.

She stood in silhouette, gazing out the window set into the far wall. His first impression was legs. Black-stockinged. Long. Made even longer by the black heels gouging tiny dents in his indoor/outdoor carpet.

Rubbing his left thumb across his right palm, he let his gaze roam over her ankles, itching to stroke the delicate curve with his finger. Or his tongue. On the visual trip from her calves to her tiny waist, he asked himself if this brief corporeal pleasure was worth the physical discomfort. Or the twinge of guilt poking at the negligible remains of his conscience.

Staring was impolite. Leering was despicable.

He'd stop in a minute.

The line of black exploded in a profusion of reds and greens, blues and yellows splashed across an exotic, tropical print blouse. She was a blast of living color infiltrating his drab existence. Her hair, a thick straight sheaf of uncompromising brunette, hung to a point between her shoulder blades and rang a familiar bell way back in his mind.

All he could think of was Paradise. Hot Hawaiian nights. Sweet hibiscus and spiked fruit. Drunk on rum and coke. Seduced by the primitive beat of pagan drums.

Relaxed to the point of forgetting his past. Numbed to the point of thinking he had a future.

Cursing that depressing thought for bringing him back to the even more depressing present, he closed the door, leaned back against it, and cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Logan Burke?" Her voice was sweet, soft, an intoxicating caress.

This fantasy had gone far enough and was setting off an uneasy tic in his jaw. "The one and only."

"Then perhaps you can. I'm being followed. I'd like you to find out who and why."

He heard a touch of nerves in her words, a response that had that ol' guilt pickin' double-time. "Why don't you give me some details and we'll see what I can do?"

Ignoring the voice telling him he was being stupid and was overlooking something patently obvious, he shoved himself off the door, crossed the room to his desk, and stopped dead in his tracks as Hannah Evans turned to face him.

Something was wrong here. Definitely wrong. Logan knew his attitude hadn't been up to par lately, but he'd never let anything affect his work.

Granted, he dressed on the down side of casual. And had a few shameful moments when he displayed the manners of a barn-raised heathen. He even admitted, somewhat sheepishly perhaps, that his driving would best be done on a track. Alone.

None of that mattered where it counted most. The only place that counted at all anymore. Work. When it came to his craft, he was a consummate professional. It was the one area of his life he still controlled. And he'd just lost it.

A pro didn't screw up something as easy surveillance. A pro didn't make stupid mistakes. Unless his mind wasn't where it should've been.

So, where had he slipped up? He'd have bet one of his vintage cars she hadn't noticed him following her. It was easy to tell when a mark was spooked. They went out of their way to act normal. Or they ran.

Hannah had done neither. She'd been easy to follow. She'd gone about her business like she didn't have a thing to hide. But then Hannah wasn't his usual quarry. He was used to the scum who stuck to the bottom of the pail, not the cream that floated to the top.

Reining in his wobbly equilibrium, he crossed the room, fingering the cigarettes in his pocket.

"Now, Miss–" Logan caught himself just in time.

"Evans. Hannah Evans," she supplied and Logan noted with a jolt of awareness that her eyes were green.

"Miss Evans. Please have a seat." Logan gestured to the cushioned armchair in front of his desk, that one chair being his only concession to professional office decor. He wanted his clients to feel comfortable. He wanted to
know
they were comfortable. A small thing, sure, but it gave him an edge.

Hannah settled into the chair, set her purse on the floor, and crossed her legs. Logan's eyes were drawn to the enticing display, but reminding himself of who she was, he rolled the squeaky chair out from under his desk and dropped into it.

"How did you find me, Miss Evans? I don't do a lot of advertising." Logan propped his feet, ankles crossed, on the corner of his desk.

Hannah smiled and sparks of amber flashed through the green of her eyes. "Julian said as much."

"Vandale?" Logan asked.

She nodded. "He gave me your card and said you might be able to help me." In a nervous gesture, she smoothed down her skirt—her skirt that didn't need smoothing, that hugged her gorgeous legs like cellophane wrap.

Jaw clenched, Logan tightened his grip on the ratty vinyl chair arms. He didn't need this kind of distraction. With a supremely lazy effort that cost him more than he wanted to admit, he let his gaze climb back to hers. "Word of mouth is how I get most my clients."