Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (23 page)

He used the trip to grieve, to purge the guilt, to weed out the self-pity, to heal the pain. Now he needed to get on with his life, to forgive himself, to find the Logan Burke he'd lost, the one Hannah had seen and wanted. The one Hannah loved.

Because like children needed laughter, like the desert needed the sun, he needed Hannah.

At the end of the long week he pulled into his driveway exhausted and at the same time more alive than he'd felt in years. He wanted a shower, a cold beer and a bed. He wanted Hannah underneath him, making those hot little noises that drove him crazy. He wanted her hands everywhere, tickling, teasing, until the madness swirled through him.

He wanted her lying beside him in the still hours of the morning, talking, reassuring, her soft words getting through his hard head and bringing light to the darkness he'd lived with so long. He wanted to bask in her love and give her his in return.

Not sure he was up to the shower in the house after the steam he and Hannah had raised there, he used the stall under the carport. The location didn't make any difference, he realized, twisting the control to ice. He leaned his forehead against the chilled fiberglass and groaned.

She was so sweet, so open. So honest and trusting. And he had so much to make up for. That thought cooled his body like the water had failed to do. He snagged his towel and headed up the stairs, looking forward to the beer.

All he found in the fridge was a half empty jar of maraschino cherries, a dented can of whipped cream and three bottles of spring water with raspberry juice. None too happy that his own home held more of Hannah than himself he grabbed a bottle of water and made for the deck. He'd have to catch his Zs in the lounger. His shower and fridge had already betrayed him. He wasn't about to take a chance on the bed.

The deck didn't treat him any better. Everywhere he looked he saw her. Leaning against the railing, resting in a chair. Pacing. Moving against him in the water. Touching. Loving. Sobbing in his arms. Twisting the cap from the bottle, he sucked down the water and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see.

Instead, he felt. Things he thought he'd forgotten. Things he never would. Hannah's hands sleek and cool and intimate moving over his skin. Her scalding tears soaking his shirt, burning scars into his chest.

Letting loose a roar of disgust, he hurled the bottle through the air knowing he'd eventually have to pick it up from the beach. For now he didn't care. Even the water tasted like Hannah. Seeing her was hard. Feeling her was tough. But tasting made it unbearable. Tasting and knowing what he'd done to her. She was gone even while she was here.

His refuge had become a prison, his haven a bloody hell. She'd crawled inside his soul and he'd never be the same. He paced the deck, glancing up sharply at the sound of an air horn. He stopped stone cold. A tug huffed and puffed its way to the ship channel, pushing a barge of chemical drums along.

The first word he bit off belonged in a locker room. The second, as well. He flung the towel to the deck and stomped inside the house. Reaching his closet, he jerked on the first pair of jeans he found. He yanked too hard on the handle of shirt drawer; the contents tumbled to the floor.

His third curse was highly original and about as blue as they came. He tossed the drawer to the center of the bed and scrambled into a jersey gray sweatshirt with a ragged neckline and armholes ripped to the waist. It matched his mood: ugly, tired, and fed up with civility.

He had a case to finish up, and apologies to make. And maybe, if he was damn lucky, a future.

"You need a credit card?"

Logan stilled in the act of jimmying the lock on Hannah's front door. A quick glance over his shoulder identified his unwelcome visitor. No bigger than a minute Miss Tiny reminded him of Maud, sass and vinegar clear through.

"Credit card?" For the lock, he presumed, expecting the next puff of wind to blow her away. "No thanks. I've got it."

"For such a smart fella, I don't know why you're bothering. She hides the key under that plant," she advised, pointing to the large ficus tree next to the door.

He stretched the kinks from his shoulders and slowly turned around. Hands on hips he gave her a stern frown. "Then why did you offer the credit card?"

She shrugged, the movement more effort than effect. "So you could show me how to do it. Anyway, she's not home."

"I figured that out." He tapped his temple with his finger. "Smart fella, remember."

"Smart ass," she muttered under her breath.

Logan ignored the slur. "Do you know when she'll be back?"

"Nope. Saw her come home with you the other morning and leave with another fella a few minutes later."

Air rushed from his lungs as if he'd been clotheslined. He sucked it back in and asked, "What did he look like?"

"Plain. Little taller than you. Wearing one of them white coats like Hannah wears. I figured he came to fetch her for work." Miss Tiny turned and wandered back down the sidewalk. "It ain't none of my business," she mumbled. "I just water my geraniums in the morning before Donahue comes on."

Logan didn't wait another second. He lifted the pot. The imprint on the dirt underneath proved the key had been there for quite some time. Now it was gone. Swearing under his breath, hampered by his shaking hands, he finished the job with his pick.

He swung the door open and took a quick step back before walking inside, hand over his nose. The apartment reeked of bad broccoli. He found it in the sink, yellowed, withered, and at least a week old. That was all he needed to know.

He shoved it down the disposal. The motor whirred. His mind moved as fast. Hannah was a neat freak. Had she left willingly, she'd have put the broccoli in the fridge, not left it to rot in the sink.

His cursory tour of her apartment revealed nothing unusual. No clue of where she might be. No hint of a struggle. She'd either left without putting up a fight or unconscious. His stomach clenched tight at the thought of anyone laying a finger on her. She'd trusted him to protect her and he'd let her down.

It wouldn't happen again.

In her bedroom closet, he found her lab coat and jerked it from the hangar. He turned to leave then stopped, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror above her dresser. Haggard and worn, his face was barely familiar. The ravages of his days on the road and the fear etched in the lines around his mouth spurred him into action.

He had to get out of here. He couldn't hang around and see her nightshirt draped across the foot of the bed—the one she'd pulled from her body to give him access. Or see the slinky red dress she'd worn when she'd given him her heart wadded up in the corner without thinking about what might be happening to her.

What he could think about was the layout of ViOPet she'd shown him that first morning. A hundred years ago last week. Warehouse B shouldn't be that hard to find.

He just prayed finding Hannah would be as easy.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Crouched low to the floor, Logan pressed his back against the side of the metal locker and willed himself invisible. Refusing to breathe, he fought to slow his heart before it jackhammered through his chest.

Lungs burning, he slanted his head forward two inches, searching for the source of the disembodied voice. The only light in the darkened control room came through the window overlooking the dimly lit warehouse. Kinda made it difficult to see past the end of his nose.

With a lot of imagination, he could make out the vague shapes of vehicles and indistinct movement, three or four separate shadowy figures. In the farthest corner of the building, the outline of a smaller room was barely discernible. An office, perhaps. Hating this air of impotence, he settled back to wait.

Gaining entrance to the ViOPet facility had been a breeze. Friday nights were the same here as in the rest of the good ol' U. S. of A. Getting out took precedence over getting in. He'd slipped by the security gate while the guard had been putting a move on one of the female employees. Finding Warehouse B had been a snap. No one had questioned his appearance.

Up until sixty seconds ago at least.

A door slammed in the warehouse, the hollow echo of heavy gauge steel making it impossible to determine exactly where. Footsteps resounded in the cavernous space. A loud rending screech of metal on concrete cut through the silence. Sixty seconds of waiting was all he could take.

Slowly he stood, easing the stiffness from the tense muscles in his thighs. He glanced up, for the first time noticing the loudspeaker mounted over the window. That explained the source of the sounds. Now he had to figure who'd been talking and who'd been listening.

Then he had to figure how to get out of the control room and into the warehouse without being seen. What little bit he could make out in here made no sense to his layman's mind. Papers with chemical compounds and mathematical equations littered the drafting table that ran the length of the room.

The lockers behind him held only hard hats, flashlights, gloves, masks and slickers. The file cabinets had rusted shut years ago. He needed to get into the warehouse itself. If that was an office in the corner, maybe he could find a clue to tie into Hannah's story.

Her luck was running out fast. He needed to know where to start looking for her. He needed to know now. He was damned tired of dead-ends and cover-ups. And more than ready to march into Neil Harrington's office and shove a knee in his throat until he told him where she was.

"I asked what the hell you're doing here?"

This time the voice rolled out in a growl. The speaker above Logan's head rattled against the wall. The cargo door of the warehouse rolled open with a grunt of springs and groan of pulleys. Squinting against the glare, Logan raised his hand to shade his eyes. He backed into the corner of the room, wedging his body into the space behind a file cabinet.

"And what the hell is she still doing here?"

"Calm down, Elliot, and let me explain."

Harrington! Logan recognized the voice immediately. It slid into his subconscious and coiled deep in the bitterest part of his soul. No longer caring about discovery, he left his hiding place and used the observation window to observe. His eyes took their own sweet time adjusting to the brightness but finally the players emerged into focus.

A tall man, his lanky frame shaking with fury, stood against the bumper of one of the trucks parked inside the warehouse. He pitched two boxes into the back then stomped across the floor. His livid gaze bore into Harrington.

And behind Harrington stood Hannah, pale, bedraggled, but alive.

Her slinky pants, more grey than white, sported a rip down one leg. The matching oversized T-shirt hung limply to her knees. Her riotous tangle of hair hadn't seen a brush in two or three days and the circles under her eyes looked as deep as the ruts in his driveway.

But she was alive. That was the only plus these goons had going for them.

Reassured on that intimately vital count, Logan closed his eyes for one long second and filled his lungs to capacity. He lifted the hem of his sweatshirt and wiped the sweat from his face. Until this very moment he hadn't realized the extent of his fear for her. And the too real fact that he might've lost her for good.

He'd worked this type of case too often to be surprised at the devious roads they followed. Criminal twists and turns left little to chance and never any witnesses. These guys had made a major mistake in letting Hannah live as long as they had. He knew it. They knew it. And he had to make sure the status quo didn't change before they made a move to correct their error.

Hannah was safe for the moment. His feelings for her would only trip him up if he focused on her instead of the risk at hand. He stepped back from the window into the concealing shadows and turned his full attention to the two men.

The other man bore down on Harrington and he visibly cowered. "Elliot, I told you I could explain."

Elliot stopped less than a foot from Hannah. "I told you to handle things, Neil," he shouted, his voice blasting through the speaker. His gaze shifted from Harrington to Hannah and back. "You've been screwing up for the past twelve years. If I hadn't needed you for security clearance I would've finished up months ago and been settled in South America."

Harrington puffed himself up, his beady eyes threatening black dots in a face that had turned mad. He reached back, grabbed Hannah's upper arm and jerked her forward.

Rage, concentrated, potent, and frighteningly personal erupted in Logan. His gut burned with savage pain. The pulse in his neck thundered explosively. He lurched against the drawing board in front of the window, sending a stool clattering to the ground. He bit off a curse and dropped to the floor beneath the table.

Stupid, Burke. Really stupid. A lot of good you're going to do Hannah if you get caught before you figure out what to do.
Slowly, he eased out from his hiding place and peered over the window ledge. The noise apparently hadn't been heard on the floor below.

Unfazed, Harrington's voice vibrated through the speaker. "You're the one who screwed up, Elliot. You let one too many people out of your sight." He shoved Hannah straight into Elliot's chest. She lost her balance and grasped his shirt for support. "You let this little bitch walk right into this warehouse one of the nights she worked late with you. I caught it all on film."

Hannah straightened, wiped her hands on her grubby slacks and glared from one man to the other. "I can't believe you two. I knew this had to be an inside job but I never expected such a slimy move from you Graham. Don't you have any professional scruples?"

"Scruples don't pay as well as Juan Torres, Hannah," Elliot stated.

"Who the hell is Juan Torres?" she demanded.

Elliot pulled his wire-rimmed frames from his face and cleaned the lenses on his shirttail. "An enterprising man I met at the recycling conference. He's big on reusing things other countries don't want."

Logan watched realization dawn on Hannah's face.