Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (6 page)

His weight put a dent in her cushion, a comfortable dent, and she slid her foot into the crevice until her toes touched his thigh. "It was a two-door sedan. Brown. Chevrolet maybe." She shook her head. "I'm not good with makes and models. The windows were tinted dark. What I saw of the driver I only saw in my rearview mirror."

Logan flexed his hands and dropped them to his sides. His right one landed on her foot. He curled his fingers around her toes and massaged her arch with his thumb. "Did you get the license number?"

Her face flushed with warmth at the strangely intimate caress. Telling herself her reaction was stupid, that she was only suffering from a bad case of jumbled nerves didn't help a bit. Especially since she had to concentrate so hard to answer his question.

Expression rapt, body tense, he stared at her foot, the soothing touch his only movement. She wondered if he was conscious of it, if the flames licking up her leg burned him as well. "No," she finally found the strength to say. "It was a Texas plate. That's all I know."

He continued to rub, his touch growing harder, more intense, then stopping completely. She had to resist nudging him to make him start again. She couldn't remember when she'd last experienced anything so relaxing, so soothing, so decadent. Or if she ever had at all—if this was pure Logan Burke magic.

As if reading her thoughts, he glanced abruptly her way. Eyes narrowed, he asked, "Did it look like a fleet car? The kind companies furnish their employees?"

"Possibly."

"Would you recognize it again?"

"Most likely."

He pressed his thumb just beneath the ball of her foot. Her eyes riveted on his, she sucked in a moan of pure pleasure.

The cocky Logan Burke returned. The corner of his mouth pulled into a sinful half-grin. "Feel good?"

"Mmm," was all she could manage, faced with his eyes and his grin at the same time.

"Feel like more?" he asked, his voice dropping a seductive, sultry notch.

Hedonistically at ease, every nerve ending from toe to thigh pulsing, she let her head fall against the couch back in answer.

"It must be true then."

"What?" She could barely summon her voice from whatever depths of nonexistence it had disappeared to.

"Rubbing parts of your foot will produce reactions in other parts of your body. Reflexology, right?"

Hannah held her breath, suddenly more alert than she wanted to be. Her gaze fastened to her foot, she watched him enclose her ankle in the circle of his fingers, stroking his thumb across the hollow below the bone. For some inexplicable reason, she knew life with this man would be feast or famine.

And suddenly she was starving. She craved his touch on a visceral level, wanting beyond the physical release, wanting to lose herself and forget—the past, the rules, the nervous fear that had been her constant companion the last month. She needed some kind of escape from the pressure or she was going to scream. Slowly, she raised her head.

His eyes gleamed a fierce Aztec gold, burning into hers with the fire of the gods. She released her breath, only to catch another before his flames sucked the air away.

His thumb stopped; his fingers tightened. And tightened more. He leaned toward her, silently demanding. She wet her lips, chewing on the lower, fidgeting with the ruffle on the pillow in her lap. He reached out and tugged it away, pulling away with it the last vestige of her control, leaving her vulnerable. Exposed. Defenseless.

Dangling, with Logan holding the string.

He might call the shots in her case. Not in her life. She swallowed her desire and surged to her feet. Eyes wide, heart pounding, she gulped in a huge breath, prepared to fight for her independence, the only way she knew how to survive.

A loud rap sounded at the door.

Logan's gaze sliced through the air. "Don't say anything about being followed."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because if it's my case, I call the shots," he said and crossed the room.

By the time she'd smoothed down her skirt, Logan had closed the door behind two uniformed officers. By the time she'd slipped into her shoes, she'd backed away from the brink of reason. By the time her sanity returned, she realized how strung-out she must be to be so utterly spineless, to let Logan so easily bulldoze her.

She refused to admit the reaction was a basic woman to man response. Instead she blamed it on stress, a fragile moment, anything to keep it from getting personal. Personal wasn't an option. It left her open, powerless, capable of suffering hurt again. She couldn't afford the weakness.

"Miss Evans? Officer Franklin," the older of the two men said, extending his hand. "And Officer Mendoza." With a jerk of his chin, he indicated the Hispanic patrolman behind him, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket while Officer Mendoza quietly studied the room.

"Can you tell us what happened here?"

Hannah related the few facts she knew, glancing past Officer Franklin's head toward the door, and Logan. He leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, his pose the epitome of casual. But she could see his eyes and the intense concentration in his expression and then and there she knew him for what he was.

A consummate actor. A professional. A man who used appearance as a ploy, charm as a tool, wit as a device. Hannah wondered about his undeniable magnetism. Was it a conscious gimmick or an elemental part of the man he was? Were his words were all part of an elaborate game? Was she nothing more than an easy pawn?

"Miss Evans," Officer Franklin prompted, and Hannah realized she'd wandered into dangerous territory. She turned her attention back to the policeman.

"Yes?"

"Is anything missing?" he asked.

"I don't know," Hannah answered, scanning the ransacked living room. "I haven't had a chance to look."
Because I've been too busy coming unraveled.

Officer Franklin's glance followed Hannah's. "Let's start with the basics. TV? VCR? I don't see either one."

Hannah's shrug bordered on apologetic. "I don't watch TV. I read." She gestured to the scattered books, each one holding a piece of herself, forgotten dreams, abandoned fantasies, all left behind in a demanding world of reality.

"I see," he answered, jotting notes. "Let's you and I take a look while Officer Mendoza checks for evidence."

"Do you think you'll find anything?" Logan asked bluntly.

Officer Franklin turned. "If there's anything to be found, Mendoza will find it." He spoke again to Hannah. "Why don't we start in the back, Miss Evans?"

Thirty minutes later the officers prepared to leave. Hannah accompanied them to the door. "For your sake, Miss Evans, I'm glad nothing was taken," Officer Franklin said. "We'll check with the neighbors to see if they saw anyone or heard anything."

"Thank you Officer Franklin." Hannah offered the patrolman a wan smile. "Officer Mendoza."

"Contact us if anything turns up missing."

"I'll do that." Hannah closed the door behind them and, eyes closed, leaned heavily against it. "What a nightmare."

Hearing no response from Logan, she opened one eye and watched him disappear down the hallway. She waited ...and opened the other eye ... and waited ... and finally, pushed herself away from the door. Once in the kitchen, she tossed back a handful of trail mix and munched on the nuts and raisins. Logan returned seconds later to pace the living area. Squatting in front of the heap of books, he shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, only to return it unlit.

"What do you think?" she asked, rummaging through the refrigerator for a bottle of spring water and wishing for once she could stomach something stronger. This was one of those times that called for a drink. She unscrewed the top and brought the bottle to her mouth just as Logan came into the kitchen. When she offered, he accepted and took a swig, only to spit it out in the sink.

"What the hell is that stuff?" he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Hannah stifled a grin. "Spring water with raspberry juice."

"Tastes like something the dog dragged in."

"The cat," she corrected him, adding, "and I wouldn't know."

"You like that stuff?"

"Nothing artificial. No calories."

"Yeah, but do you like it?"

Hannah stared at the bottle and frowned. "Not really."

"Then why do you drink it?"

"Habit, I guess."

"A disgusting habit if you ask me." He squeezed past her with a brush of lean muscle and a lingering scent of sea air and tartar sauce and opened the refrigerator door, bending at the waist to peer inside. "How 'bout a beer?" He glanced back over his shoulder. "Hannah?"

She pried her eyes from his khaki-covered behind, shaking off the strangest picture of sand and surf and smooth, sweat-streaked skin. "What?"

"Never mind." He straightened, slammed the door and stalked by, settling into a chair at her dining table. Legs extended and crossed at the ankle, he propped his laced fingers at his waist. "What do you think?"

"I asked you first," she answered, deciding khakis were definitely on her list of priorities along with a newly acquired longing for fun in the sun.

"I think they were looking for something specific."

That brought her mind back to business. Intrigued, she dropped into the chair next to his. "What makes you say that?"

"Nothing's missing, right?"

"As far as I can tell, no."

"Your CD player is safe even though the CDs are tossed everywhere." He pointed across the room. "And look at your books. If they'd been in the bookcase when it was turned over, they wouldn't be scattered like they are."

"You mean someone pulled them out on purpose?"

"Maybe. Then there's the desk and bureau in your room."

"What about them?"

"Drawers dumped. Mattress half off the frame. Towels and sheets yanked out of the linen closet. But your jewelry box and computer weren't touched."

Thoughts whirring, Hannah urged him on. "What else?"

"Couch cushions unzipped, not slit."

"Like they didn't want to risk destroying something hidden inside." Too agitated to sit, she kicked off her shoes again, jumped to her feet and paced the length of the trashed-out room.

"Exactly." He parked his elbows on his knees and tented his fingers beneath his chin. "What were they looking for, Hannah?"

She stopped, frowned. "I don't understand."

"Papers, documents, photographs. Have you collected any printed data about what you saw at ViOPet?" His eyes bore into hers, daring her to lie.

She pictured her briefcase locked in the trunk of her car, the two pages of scrawled notes tucked inside. "They wouldn't have found anything in the house."

"So you have it stashed someplace else."

When she didn't answer right away, he prompted her with a cool, "Hannah?"

"Yes," she snapped, then calmly added, "It's stashed someplace else."

He stood and settled his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were tiger-bright and just as ferocious when he tipped her chin back with one finger. "Before we go any further, we need to get a second thing straight. Don't ever hide anything from me. Or pull something over on me. I'll find out. And I'll be angry."

Hannah's blood pressure began to rise, from annoyance or his proximity she wasn't sure. "How angry?"

"Angry enough to drop your case."

Definitely annoyance. She backed away from his touch. "Then drop it. You obviously don't trust me to be honest with you," she said, realizing with a stab of guilt that she hadn't been. At least not totally.

He jammed his hands in his pants pockets and tightened his right into a fist. With a look of a man fighting a personal battle, he glanced from Hannah to his fist and back. "Trust doesn't come easy for me."

Weight balanced to one side, Hannah crossed her arms over her chest. "Then we're in a no-win situation because I can accept nothing less."

"Are you firing me?" he asked, accusation and something else—hope?—in his eyes.

"No," she answered, knowing she walked a tight-rope strung between intuition and logic.

"Why not?"

Exasperated, she planted her hands on her hips to keep from grabbing him and shaking some sense into him. "Because I
do
trust you."

"Even knowing I may not do the same?"

"Yes."

"That's your prerogative."

"No, it's not." She rubbed at her temples and took a deep breath. "Don't you understand? I have no choice. What's the point of asking you to help if I don't trust you to do so?"

"You can have faith that I'll do my job without trusting the person I am."

"No, Logan. The two are the same, inseparable from one another. I trust you to do your job because of who you are."

"Why?"

"In the space of a few hours I've seen how you work. You've asked the right questions and drawn rational conclusions." She glanced to the ceiling and back again, collecting her thoughts. "I can't explain it any better, except to say it's in your eyes, in your expression, in your bearing. No matter how you try to hide behind your indifferent attitude, you exude confidence, confidence in yourself. And that says more than any words."

The corner of his mouth twitched as he fought back a grin. She tossed her hands to the side in surrender, and asked, "Now will you answer a question for me?"

He shrugged. "If I can."

"What will it take for me to earn
your
trust?"

She saw the devil-may-care attitude the minute he put it on. His grin leaned toward cocky, his eyes flickered bright. Her heart skipped a beat, her body heat skyrocketed, and this time she knew exactly why.

"As a client or as a woman?" he tossed back.

She pursed her lips to hide their trembling. "A client."

"I told you. Just be straight with me."

Unable to bridle an impulsive streak of recklessness, she asked, "And as a woman?"

Frowning, he plucked the pewter elf off the table leg and bounced it in the palm of his hand. "Do you want me to see you as a woman, Hannah?"

With her heart beating a choking pulse in her throat, she replied, "If I say yes?"