Logan

by Melissa Foster

  “Yeah, well, neither do I. Thanks for watching out for her, man. I gotta run.”

  A few more phone calls and a little computer hacking allowed Logan to track the IP for the recipient of the SIM-card information collected from Stormy’s phone. Thank God Kutcher was a cheapskate and used shabby products. He’d made it child’s play for Logan to get the information he needed. After shutting down the ability of the tracker and making more phone calls, Logan arranged for Kutcher’s cell to be tossed.

  With most of the annoying aspects of his morning taken care of, Logan scrolled to the picture of Stormy he’d taken outside of NightCaps. His stomach clenched at the palpable fear in her green eyes. They were eyes that had seen too much, and last night, when he’d seen her let go, a hint of the fear had remained. He wanted to wash that fear away, every last evil speck of it. Logan had seen people’s looks change once a threat was removed, and Stormy was already beautiful. He could only imagine how she’d look once he nailed that Kutcher bastard to the wall.

  He uploaded the picture to Google Images and found four hits immediately. Her high school graduation photo. She was thicker then, curvier, and hell if her catlike eyes weren’t carefree and clear. Logan held on to that image as he wrote down her real name—Stella Krane—and the name of the high school she’d attended. Before now he’d have put the name Stella together with an older woman, stern and spindly. Funny how a face could change the connotation of a name, but in his mind, Stella Krane and Stormy were one sensual, strong woman.

  “What is it about you, Stormy Krane?” He still couldn’t think of her as Stella. Not after having to dig up the information. When he’d earned her trust enough for her to tell him her real name, then and only then would he call her Stella.

  He checked out a few of the other photos. Several were posted on the Facebook profile pages of girls who had gone to the same high school Stella had attended. She was smiling in all of them. What he wouldn’t give to see her smile like that. He surfed the Facebook images for a while and found one linked to a Mystic Messenger newspaper article about Stella’s mother, Judy Krane. It was an announcement for a fundraiser to help with Judy’s medical bills. Cancer. Fucking cancer. No wonder she sent money home. He pushed back from the computer and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking of the little sister Dylan had lost. Life was full of ass kickers. Logan was going to make damn sure that Stormy got back to her mother, even if he had to take Kutcher out himself.

  An hour later Logan stood in Stormy’s kitchen feeling as though he were peering into her private life where he shouldn’t be. If she were a client and he needed to gather clues, this might be typical. But Logan didn’t sleep with clients, and Stormy wasn’t a client. He forced himself not to think of her as the woman who was stirring up all sorts of emotions in him and did his best to put his feelings aside and turn on his private-investigator instincts.

  Logan was methodical in his search efforts. He walked down to the bedroom, planning to work his way back out to the front door. In the light of day the bedroom appeared very much like Stormy, efficient with an underlying womanly charm. He was sure the apartment came furnished, and he was equally as confident that Mrs. Fairly wouldn’t have asked for a social security number or proof of identification. She’d probably taken Stormy at face value.

  Being in her bedroom brought memories of the night before rushing back. The muscles on the back of his neck tightened as he was reminded of discovering the rough edges of the scar on the back of her shoulder. When he’d felt the other scar beside her spine, his blood had gone cold, stirring all of the protective urges he usually reserved for family. Those urges had only become stronger in the hours since.

  He’d get this asshole if it was the last thing he did.

  In the closet he thoroughly checked each hanger, seeking a stick-on tracker or a chip adhered to the plastic. He searched every seam and pocket of the few pieces of clothing she had in her closet, then moved to the backpack and other things on the shelf above. Once he was satisfied that there were no tracking devices in the closet, he searched her bedroom, inspecting the lower drawers of her dresser first, but avoiding the top drawer women usually reserved for lingerie. He searched her perfectly folded jeans and tops. The Wesleyan T-shirt was telling. People who were on the run generally took the items with them that meant something. He’d already discovered that she was a Wesleyan graduate, and the shirt told him that she was proud of that accomplishment. He’d seen Stormy’s harsh exterior slip several times, and he wondered how much she’d had to change since running from Kutcher.

  Forcing his personal interest in Stormy away again, he searched through her top drawer. Sifting through her bras and panties sent his mind right back to being inside her, ravishing her delicious mouth, seeing her lips wrapped around his cock.

  Fuck. Now he was hard.

  Logan closed his eyes and counted backward from fifty. At five he was still at half-mast. There was no ridding his mind of her.

  He gritted his teeth and forced himself to at least think like the PI that he was. He reached into the drawer and assessed her lingerie. Matching lace bras and panties, although not high-end, were not department-store brands either. Another bit of intel for his Stormy file. At some point, she probably had a pretty good life.

  The more he tried to disengage his personal feelings, the more difficult it became. Standing just a foot away from where he’d been when she’d taken his cock in her mouth and swallowed everything he’d had to give made it nearly impossible. His cock stirred just thinking of their slick bodies moving together as he held her knees at his sides and she met each powerful thrust with a lift and tilt of her hips.

  Great. He was hard again.

  He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and slid his eyes from the bed to the framed picture of her mother. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his erection softened. He took out the photo and found a tracking device attached to the inside of the frame. He tore the fucker out. He knew exactly what it was, because he’d used them a dozen times. This one was a cheap piece of shit, like the traceable SIM card Kutcher had put in Stormy’s phone. A knockoff brand that sent data through the Internet. The guy knew what he was doing. He’d probably used them in his drug business.

  He pocketed the device, then carefully put the picture back into the frame and set it beside the bed. He picked up the pillow and brought it to his nose. Freshly washed. He had a feeling that the harshness Stormy portrayed wasn’t the only change she’d made either for Kutcher or while running from him. He’d had the distinct feeling when they were together that she was acting how she thought she should rather than how she might if she weren’t trying to escape her fear for a few hours. He was all for rough and dirty sex, but Stormy wasn’t the type of woman you fucked hard and walked away from. She was the type of woman you made love to, while reserving the hard fucking for the intimate, wild, sexy nights couples shared. But day-to-day? She seemed more the flowers and wine type of girl, and the more he looked around her apartment, the more pieces of her life he put together, and the more he wanted to know about her.

  Logan methodically checked every item in the bathroom and the laundry closet, then worked his way through the pantry and the kitchen cabinets. He eyed the calendar on the wall and flipped back through the pages. She’d marked off the date Kutcher had been put in jail, and had been counting down the days until his release, marking each one with a red X. He couldn’t imagine the fear she carried with her every moment of the day. He flipped back through the months, finding angry black marks every few weeks. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that those were the dates Kutcher had taken his hands to her.

  Son of a bitch.

  There was no way in hell he was going to feed Stormy to that wolf. He went back into the bedroom and packed her bags, careful to take everything, from her mother’s picture to her toothbrush. Then he went through the motions of checking all the places he thought Stormy might hide cash or other valuables she wouldn’t want someone t
o steal. He checked under the mattress, in the ceiling tiles, above the cabinets, under the sink. He looked beneath the table to see if she’d taped anything there. Nothing. He looked around the room, trying to climb into Stormy’s head. The trouble was, he didn’t think Stormy was in her own head lately. She was in the head of the woman she’d become, and he had no idea how to discern the difference from this standpoint. He eyed a ceramic cookie jar on the counter and on a whim lifted the head of the ceramic cat and reached inside.

  Bingo.

  A thick envelope full of cash.

  Christ, Stormy. He made a mental note to teach her about safer hiding places for her valuables.

  His heart did that funky thing it had been doing since he’d met her. He ignored it, aware of the time ticking by, and stuffed the envelope in his back pocket. He brought the bags out to his car and went to pay a visit to Mrs. Fairly.

  She answered the door wearing a light blue housecoat. She looked older than Logan’s mother, with gray hair and a friendly, round face. Recognition spiked in her eyes, and she smiled warmly.

  “Hello there.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Fairly. I’m Logan Wild.” He held out a hand and was met with a limp handshake.

  “Yes. You’re Stormy’s friend.”

  “That’s right. She asked me to come by to get her things. We’re going on a trip, and I wanted to settle up her remaining lease.”

  “Oh, my. Is she leaving for good?” A crease formed between her brows.

  “Yes, I believe so. How much rent are you due?” He thought of his mother, and the idea of her needing to take in a stranger for money bothered him. Mrs. Fairly had opened her house to Stormy, and even though he’d just met them both, he was thankful that Stormy had found a safe place to live.

  “She’s on a month-to-month, dear. She’s paid up for this month.”

  His soft heart got the better of him. “And how much was she paying per month?”

  “Nine hundred dollars, but she’s all paid up, as I said.”

  After giving her a check for six months’ rent, Logan gave her a talk about not opening the door for strangers and then he headed back to his office. It was too late to drive to Mystic if he wanted to pick up Stormy after her shift, and at least for now he knew she was safe. She may not like it, but until he could ensure that Kutcher would never bother her again, she was stuck with him.

  Chapter Eight

  THE DAY DRAGGED by despite the continuous flow of customers. Stella could hardly believe that the man who looked cold and possibly dangerous the first night she’d seen him at the bar made her feel safe and like she wasn’t alone for the first time since this nightmare began. She tried to ignore the other desires he was sparking.

  She looked up at the door for the hundredth time today. Each time she did, a chill ran across her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if it was from wanting to see Logan or out of fear that Kutcher would walk through the door and drag her God knew where. Although that wasn’t Kutcher’s style. He was stealthy, like a ninja. He’d be more likely to hide in her apartment or in an alley so he could drag her into the darkness and leave her body in a Dumpster.

  “He’ll be here,” Dylan said. “You still have fifteen minutes until you’re off work, and Logan, he never drops the ball.”

  She tried to smile, but her head was still wrapped around thoughts of Kutcher. He’d been abusive, but she knew that wasn’t the reason he’d wanted her dead. She’d made a mistake the last time he’d come after her. As he was pressing the sharp point of the knife to her skin, she’d said, I won’t tell them about the ring.

  The ring. That’s what he’d called his drug-dealing business. She’d overheard him talking about it and put the pieces of his shady life together. His eyes had glazed over, cold and dark, and as the knife violently tore through her skin, she’d thought her next breath would be her last. The second stab sent her to her knees—and then her neighbor had responded to her screams.

  The flow of customers slowed, and Dylan leaned his hip against the bar, kicked one ankle over the other, and crossed his arms. “Do you want to talk?”

  Stella leaned against the bar beside him. She’d been hoping he’d ask. She’d shared some of the details about her past with Dylan, like the fact that she was hiding from an abusive ex-boyfriend, although she hadn’t told him everything.

  “Did you tell Logan about me?”

  He shook his head, his dark eyes trained on hers. “I didn’t have to. He’d never ask me to breach a confidence. That’s not how he rolls. Anything Logan wants or needs to know, he’ll find out.”

  “I got that impression.” Her pulse kicked up when the front door opened.

  They both looked over at a couple as they walked in and took a seat at a booth. She pushed from the bar to go take their order, and Dylan gently touched her arm.

  “Three days left?” Dylan’s voice was low and deep, as serious as the day was long.

  “Two and a half.” The pit of her stomach twisted into a knot.

  “Listen to Logan, okay? I don’t want to hear about you on the morning news.”

  She’d listen to Logan. She had no choice. He didn’t seem as though he’d give her one. And she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.

  During the day, the bartenders took on the double duty of handling the floor and the bar. Stella didn’t mind. She was glad for the distraction from her thoughts. She took the customers’ orders and saw to two other tables before returning to the bar.

  The front door opened again. The late-afternoon sun silhouetted Logan’s tall, broad frame, every muscle of his chest outlined by a tight black T-shirt. How had she missed the barbed-wire tattoo circling his right bicep? Jeans clung deliciously to his massive thighs, and the bulge to the right of his zipper made her mouth go dry. She knew what magic that impressive bulge could perform.

  The door closed behind him, and his face came into focus. The stern set of his jaw and piercing stare told her that he had bad news, but it was the way he closed the distance between them, took her by the arm, and walked with his body practically swallowing her whole that had her pulse working double-time.

  ***

  LOGAN HAD SPENT the last hour watching the bar from the café across the street. He knew Stormy would be nervous if he sat inside the bar and waited, but he needed to have his eyes on her. As long as she was behind the bar or by the booths against the far wall, he’d been able to see her through the windows. Now her shift was over, and all he could think about was getting her out of there. When they’d tossed Kutcher’s cell, they’d found two phones. The fucker had been tracking her all along. Logan had to get her to a safe place. Kutcher had too many friends on the outside to wait out the three days playing cat and mouse, knowing one of Kutcher’s cronies could abduct her at any moment. Stormy was a sitting duck.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said in a harsh whisper.

  He loosened his grip. He had to find a way to separate the anger that had been mounting since he’d first learned that Kutcher had bought her the phone from his need to protect her. There was no fighting the protective urges he felt toward Stormy, but one thing was for sure: They were done with the physical side of their relationship. He couldn’t afford to fuck this up. He needed all of his senses on high alert when he was with her, and if he didn’t push aside his feelings for her, he’d never be able to keep his focus where it belonged.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We need to talk.”

  Dylan was talking with another employee by the bar. He lifted his chin in Logan’s direction as they passed. Logan had texted him and filled him in on what was going down. He agreed to give Stormy whatever time off she needed, of course, and would have a job waiting for her when the situation was under control.

  In the back office, Stormy rubbed her arm, eyeing him from beneath her long dark hair, which had fallen over one eye.

  “Just tell me.” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “I can handle whatever it is.”

  The underlying hint of desperation
in her voice drew him closer. “We have to get out of here. Out of the area. He’s been tracking you this whole time. It’s not safe.”

  Her lower lip began to tremble, and her brows knitted together. Logan fought the urge to fold her into his arms and hold her until her fear subsided. He tried to ignore the memory of her mouth on his and the desire to kiss her until neither of them could think about what lay ahead. She couldn’t bury this fear in sex, and he couldn’t allow himself to be weakened by the thought of it. He drew his shoulders back, steeling himself against his emotions, feeling his body go as cold as it had during every mission he’d ever served. After killing the man who had murdered his father and blinded his mother, he’d worked hard to try to find his way back to some semblance of normal emotions, and he realized now, as he tried to slide into the icy state, that it wasn’t until Stormy that the urge to care about anyone other than family had broken through that ice around his heart.

  Stormy looked at him with her big, trusting eyes and reached for him. Instinct took over, and he gathered her in his arms, feeling nothing like the soldier he’d been. A soldier wouldn’t cave under pressure—a soldier had to protect his heart. Logan was more interested in protecting hers.

  He kissed the top of her head as he pressed one hand to her upper back, the other to her lower, and whispered, “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  His blood refused to turn to ice; his heart refused to slip into the frozen state in which it had once spent every waking moment. How the hell was he going to navigate this new terrain? He couldn’t let her out of his sight, but if there was any hope in hell of keeping Kutcher behind bars, he had to get to Mystic, and there was no way he was taking her anywhere near there until he was sure the threat of Kutcher was gone.

  She fisted her hands in his shirt. “Where will I go? I need to pack.”

  “I’ve got all your stuff. We’re leaving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Let me take care of it.” He reached into his back pocket and handed her the envelope he’d found in the cookie jar.