Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (22 page)

"Then why did you?"

He shrugged, the effort more natural than meaningful. "Don't know. No, that's not true. I do know."

"Enlighten me, please."

Patience, Burke.
He grit his teeth. "I'm trying." And damned if he wasn't. "I knew the case would be a snap. Surveillance always is. I gotta admit you gave me a scare showing up to hire me. I couldn't figure out where I'd screwed up. It wasn't until we found your apartment trashed that I realized it wasn't me you'd seen."

"Then all that juggling of cars was really a waste of time."

"Depends on how you look at it. I accomplished what I wanted to."

"Yeah. Distracting me."

"No. Getting to know you."

Her eyes flashed angry fire. "You've certainly done that."

"Well enough to know you didn't go into last night without weighing the consequences."

She dropped her gaze to her lap. "Last night was a mistake."

"No, Hannah. You don't make mistakes." He waited for her to answer. When she didn't he went on. "I've made a lot lately. The first one in not being honest from the beginning."

She came to her feet and paced the deck with short angry strides, her outrage and hurt vibrating in every hard step. Hugging herself tightly, she rubbed her palms over her arms as if to ward off a nip in the air.

Though it was at least eighty-five degrees, Logan felt her cold clear to his soul. He wanted to give her some measure of reassurance and warmth, but knew she didn't want anything from him right now.

She finally stopped. The hatred in her eyes sliced through him when she asked, "Didn't it go against whatever code of ethics you follow to work for me while you were working for Harrington?"

"Let's get that cleared up right now. I was through with Neil Harrington that night I walked into my office and found you waiting."
Found myself wondering about you. Found myself wanting you.
He shoved his hands through his hair in frustration. "I never should've taken that case."

"So I've heard."

"And I mean it."

He detected a slight softening of her expression when she asked, "Why did you?"

He blew out a snort of self-disgust. "The most mercenary reason of all. Money."

"C'mon, Logan. Money doesn't mean anything to you," she threw back, punctuating her statement with a toss of her head.

"No, but it means a hell of a lot to the family of that little girl who died because of me," he shouted, his jaw tight.

She fixed her eyes on his. "That's what you were going to do with the money?"

"That's what I've been doing with every cent I've had in the past three years." And it never seemed to be enough. He'd hoped to hell this time it would. Maybe he was finally learning that he couldn't buy a guilt-free conscience.

That he'd have to learn to forgive himself. "She couldn't have been more than five or six. A tiny little thing. Skinny legs and arms. Long black braids. Huge eyes.

"I'd been watching them play for awhile. She was the smallest. The others bullied her. Made her run after the ball when it went out of bounds. She didn't care. She loved it. The smile on her face could've lit that entire roach-infested block. And I wiped it out as easily as if I'd smashed a light bulb."

"Logan ..."

He held up his hand to stay her interruption. He didn't want pity or understanding. He wanted to talk. Needed to talk. He didn't even care if she listened. "I knew they'd never be able to afford to bury her much less pay the hospital bills. She was in the burn unit six days before she died."

"You went to the hospital?"

"Every day."

"Did you talk to the family?"

"And say what? 'Hi, I'm the guy who killed your daughter.' No, I made the donations anonymously."

"To clear your conscience or cover your tracks?"

His gaze shot to hers, seeing himself through her eyes. The eyes of a victim. He was tired. Tired of thinking about rights and wrongs. They used to be so clear, so black and white. Now the grey seemed to blanket him in ambiguity. It had become the color of his life. Meaningless.

How had he let himself get so lost? When had the excuses become so easy to make? He rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles. The knot in his stomach he'd learned to live with. The new one in his heart he wasn't sure about.

"How about this time, Logan? Are your conscience and your reputation more important than being honest with me?"

He'd never seen anything look as fragile, as brittle as Hannah did right then. She was ready to break, which was why he couldn't answer her question. She wouldn't like the answer.

"You know, Logan, I think you've become exactly what you despise. Someone who takes the easy way out. Someone who doesn't want to deal with the consequences of his actions. Or else turns a blind eye to them.

"You wanted the money for your own purpose, which I'll admit is a noble one. You thought of this case as the means to an end. But you never considered the human factor."

"That's not true—" he argued, before she cut him off.

"You never considered me as the innocent victim in Harrington's scheme. Then when I showed up to hire you, you did the same thing to me."

He watched the fire building, chipping away at the cold ice of her soul. He wanted to be there when she shattered, to catch the razor sharp pieces. But she wasn't going to break or give him the selfish satisfaction of putting her back together.

Her strength was too much a part of her. Just like her belief in trust. In honesty. All of which he'd violated.

"You took my case to keep me in the dark—"

"It may have started out that way."

She ignored him. "But when you realized you weren't the one I'd seen, you never said a word. You kept the lie going. You told me stories about rights and wrongs and wanting to make a difference. And all the while you were ignoring the wrong you were committing. You knew how I felt about taking responsibility. About honesty."

She stopped as though another realization zinged her. "You knew about my father, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"And that ViOPet was up to something or they never would have hired you. Right?"

Again, a nod.

"Yet you never said a word. You kept on as though nothing stood between us."

"Hannah, I—"

She stopped in front of him and beat her fist on his chest, her eyes glazed, tears eking out the corners. "You made me trust you. Even while you were violating mine, I was giving you all I had." Strangling on a thick sob, she hit him again. "I opened up and gave you everything I'd kept hidden for years. I'd never wanted to take a chance on love because it hurt too much to lose my father. I never wanted to feel that pain again, but I risked it, and gave you myself anyway.

"You made me love you, Logan." Her eyes widened. Her body shook, like her admission had been a mistake. One she regretted. She drew back and he tensed, waiting for her next move.

It wasn't long in coming. With a harsh cry, she slapped his face. Hard. Stingingly hard, then collapsed against him. Her tears burned a hole of regret in his chest, the imprint of her palm a searing fire on his cheek. "Oh God, I love you."

Logan prayed for the earth to open up and swallow him in bits and pieces. This woman whose life he'd destroyed loved him. This woman who felt like his other half, who clung even while she pushed, loved him.

She jerked away, glaring as if he'd been holding her against her will. She dashed the back of her hand over her red-rimmed eyes. What little make-up she'd put on smudged across her face. She snatched her bag from the table and with defiance riding high on her proudly set shoulders, she marched down the steps.

He watched her go, his breathing ragged. He clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to hit something. Hard. His eyes scanned the deck wildly. Finally, he smashed his palm into the bakery sack and watched it fly to the sand.

While the seagulls swooped down to feast on the croissants, he dug a book of matches out of his jeans and jerked the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He shoved a mangled one between his lips and lit the sucker, dragging in the polluted smoke as if his life depended on it.

He finished the entire thing, torturing himself with every drag.

And then he took her home.

"Wait. You can't go in there."

"Try and stop me, lady." Logan shook the secretary's hand from his arm and shoved open the door to Neil Harrington's office. He slammed it shut behind him. Harrington didn't so much as flinch, but calmly punched a button on the right of his desk. The bank of screens behind him went blank.

"Can't say I'm surprised to see you, Burke, though I figured you for the type to pocket the money and run. I didn't think you had a conscience."

"I'm surprised you know the word, Neil," Logan ground out. He crossed the office in five angry strides and tossed the check on the desk.

Harrington lifted one eyebrow. "Feeling a bit like Judas?"

"What the hell have you gotten Hannah mixed up in?"

"Hannah, is it now? Now that does come as quite a shock. I thought she had a bit more class than to consort with the likes of you."

Logan slammed his palm on the desk. This time Harrington flinched. Barely. But enough so Logan knew he had his attention. And knew he wasn't as unaffected as he was trying to pass himself off as being. "Last time I saw you, the likes of me suited you just fine."

Harrington rolled his chair back from the desk. "Last time I saw you, Burke, I needed a job done and was willing to do what I had to do." He twirled a gold pen between his fingers. "I'll even admit that you did an admirable job. You're quite the photographer."

"Circumstantial evidence and you know it."

"All I know is that it's possible one of my former employees gave confidential information to a competitor."

"Let's cut to the chase. This isn't about anything Hannah gave Vandale."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"This is about some barrels you have in a warehouse."

Sweat beaded on Harrington's upper lip. He gave a casual laugh. "This is a chemical company, Mr. Burke."

"Is that a fact?"

"I'm rapidly losing interest as well as patience with this conversation."

Logan ignored him and strode around the corner of the desk. "This is some set-up you got here, Neil. Nice cushy office." He propped his elbow on the nearest monitor. "You watch a lot of TV here? Football, maybe? Baseball? Julia Child?"

Harrington placed his chair between Logan and the monitor switch. "This equipment is highly technical and enables me to maintain security over unwanted visitors."

"Guess I must've slipped by."

"It seems so."

"Or maybe these monitors don't have a damn thing to do with keeping people out. I think you're keeping something in. Something you don't want to, shall we say, leak out."

"Say what you came to say, Burke, and get out of my office."

Logan slammed his fist against the desk, his arm tense with restraint. His breathing measured, he leaned over a cowering Harrington. "Touch a hair on Hannah's head and I'll be on you like a fly on shit."

Harrington tugged at the knot on his tie. "Are you threatening me?"

"Just painting it plain and simple."

"I think you've forgotten who you're talking to," Harrington said, puffing himself up. "I could have you thrown out of here."

"But you won't."

"You don't frighten me, Burke."

"I'm not trying to frighten you. I'm just letting you know how it is. I want Hannah left alone." He picked up Harrington's pen and tapped it against the desk. "You reminded me of my reputation when you hired me. You'd do good to keep it in mind."

"You two-bit punk," Harrington spat. "Get out of my office."

Logan headed for the door at his own pace, tossing the pen on the coffee table. "Remember this visit, Neil. Remember and think about it. I'll be there when you get up in the morning and when you go to bed at night. I'll be your worst nightmare."

He turned the knob. "If anything happens to Hannah, you'll have my reputation to answer to."

The road wasn't the same. The sleepy border towns refused to swallow him up. The monotonous stretches of south Texas highway no longer put him to sleep. Logan's well-used, well-travelled path to oblivion had hit a major roadblock. A roadblock with brunette hair the color of his mother's molasses cookies and lips that tasted just as sweet.

He'd driven this route repeatedly over the past three years, kicked back in some hole-in-the-wall cantina and nursed a cold Mexican brew. Through lazy eyes, he'd watched life crawl by along with the flies and the heat and imagined taking up permanent residence in some forgotten shack around the corner. Some place he could blend in with the shadows and disappear completely.

He'd driven mile upon dusty mile, never noticing anything but the blacktop winding its way through the desert. The long road encouraged his escape. He'd aimlessly followed its length, hypnotized by the sameness of his surroundings.

This time he'd seen too much. And seen it all too clearly.

The kids playing in the dry roadbed outside the last cantina he'd stopped at brightened the doorway with their laughter. Five beers down and sober as a priest, he took measure of their love of life, their ability to find happiness in the dirt poor conditions. They didn't care that the rags draped on their underfed frames weren't fit to be called clothes. That their toy cars were rocks, their dolls burlap scraps wrapped over sticks.

His problems were minor, self-inflicted, and he didn't have half the guts those kids did to face up to them. All he had to do was forgive himself. The realization humbled and shamed him.

The drive home had been endless, giving him too much time to think. Jackrabbits shot across the road in front of his speeding car, running from the danger. Running like he'd done so many times in his life. The barren landscape offered a simple, austere beauty, not the bleakness he'd wallowed in before.

Reds, yellows and browns blended in the basic hues of desert survival. For so long he'd seen only the desolation, the isolation, the drab colors of his soul. Now he understood the give and take. Nothing existed alone. No man existed alone. The shell he'd crawled into would eventually destroy him.