Their gazes locked as they stood in choked silence. Her expression told him she was startled, but there was more.
Not wanting to misread her, he cleared his throat and said, “The ice pack…” A hand gesture guided her gaze to where it lay.
But then she looked back at him and there was something in her expression that rooted him there. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. And he sure as hell didn’t want to.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“I—I was just thinking…we could, uh…”
Her voice faded off into a whisper, but he swore he heard the word massage.
He blinked stupidly for a few seconds before echoing the single word. “Massage?” As in a massage, or the kind of a massage he’d been offering her the night before?
She nodded.
Well, hell, that didn’t tell him what he needed to know. But even if this was to be just a simple massage, one to smooth away the stiffness of her fall, he’d take it. Any excuse to touch her.
“Lotion?” he asked.
“On the dresser.”
He went to get it, and by the time he turned back, she was on the bed, facedown, resting on a pillow, skimpy towel taunting him. She’d left enough room at the edge of the bed for him to sit or kneel.
“Where do you hurt?”
“All over.”
His throat went dry. He’d start with the places that weren’t covered by the pesky towel.
“I tried to catch myself from going over the bluff,” she was saying, “but I couldn’t.”
He rubbed his hands together lightly to distribute the lotion. Then he started with her shoulders. She groaned immediately, and his groin responded. This was going to be hell on him.
“It was like taking that nosedive into the river when I escaped Grass Creek,” she said. “I saw my life flash by.”
Logan steeled himself, tried to make the massage impersonal, but that was difficult—no, impossible.
Groaning again, she said, “Oh, yes. Touch me there and I know I’m still alive.”
Thank God she was alive, he thought, fingers running over the healed bullet wound. Each touch, each stroke, each applied pressure was his way of making love to her. Heat seared his palms and spread to every inch of his body.
“For a moment I wasn’t sure I would live,” she admitted. “I was certain whoever was after me would make sure that I did die this time. And maybe he would have, if you hadn’t been there.”
“But I was,” he said reassuringly. “I said I would take care of you.”
She turned over so that she was right up against him. Her lush flesh burned him through the layers of cloth separating them.
“You saved me.” She raised her hand to touch his face, and the towel slipped so that a hint of nipple teased him. “How can I ever thank you?”
He could think of dozens of ways, right here, right now, but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take advantage of her complete vulnerability. Couldn’t take the chance that she would be sorry when she came to her senses.
Before he could change his mind, he popped off the bed. “The ice pack’s right there,” he said. “And if I were you, I would take some ibuprofen. A double dose.”
While she was gaping at him in disbelief, he made his escape—before he did something they’d both regret in the morning.
ELISE LAY THERE, naked but for the towel, aghast at the way Logan had rejected her.
Or had he?
On fire from the inside out, the only thing she could think of was mindless sex that would drive away her fears and doubts, and she didn’t want to believe it. He was being noble. That had to be it.
Sometimes nobility was overrated.
Rolling out of bed—not as easy as it sounded, for she really was feeling sorely abused—Elise followed him down the hall. By the time she got to his door, however, she heard his shower running.
Silently, she slipped inside, crossed the room and opened the bathroom door. Logan was in the shower stall. His back to her, his hands flat against the shower wall, he leaned forward and let the water beat down on his neck and back.
As old as the house was, the builder had had foresight—the stall was big enough for two.
She dropped her towel and said, “Logan,” even as she stepped behind him to be pelted by cold water. “Aah!”
He turned and grabbed her as if she might escape, and she tangled her fingers in his wet hair and pushed him back to the wall. With cold water flooding them, she kissed him with a hunger and abandon she’d never known with another man. Never. Before, she’d always been the recipient. Now she was the aggressor.
But it didn’t take long for Logan to respond in kind. Suddenly his hands were all over her, warming her, heating her insides, despite the chill beating against them both. Cold showers were overrated as a sex deterrent, she decided, pumping liquid soap into her hand and smoothing her palm down his stomach so he sucked it in, then wrapping it around his long, hard, hot erection.
Her fingers slid around and along him, up and down, faster as he grew soapier. She’d never felt so daring…so…alive.
As he danced her around the stall and cornered her, that’s exactly how she felt. Alive. And determined to stay that way. And to celebrate the fact.
Logan lifted her slightly and she felt his soapy tip press against her entrance. She opened to him, tilting her hips and lifting her legs to wrap them around his back. He groaned fiercely as she sank down on his slippery length.
His head dipped and he lifted a breast so he could suckle her. Sensation shot through Elise. The voltage arched her back and offered him deeper entry.
Joined like this, they were an unstoppable force, she thought. No one could hurt them.
Throwing back her head and letting the pleasure of what Logan was doing to her breasts roll over her, Elise rocked him until he moved in jerks, pinning her shoulders to the wall, finding her mouth and invading that as deeply as his body was driving inside hers.
Trusting him to take care of her as he’d promised, she let go of him and threw her hands out, palms flat against the wall tile. He stepped back slightly, and as she leaned more heavily into the wall, balanced there by her shoulders and his buried erection, he found her center and stroked her in counterpoint, until her back bowed and hips lifted high. He rode her hard against the wall, and as her voice rose in a wail of pleasure, she felt him come right with her.
Alive…no doubt about it.
They shuddered together, and he scooped her to him so that they were tangled as one, their body heat a contrast to the cold water still pouring down on them.
Somehow, she managed to reach over and hit the lever. Within seconds, the water warmed, and he relaxed against her and kissed her. Not the frantic kiss of a man overcome by lust, she thought hazily, but the soft, deep kiss of a man who wanted to reassure her…soothe her….
Maybe even love her….
THE SENSATION OF WELL-BEING lasted into the next day, when Elise rose at noon for the second time.
Her initial awakening had been at daybreak. Logan had been standing at the window, staring at the heavy rain and cursing under his breath. He’d feared that any clue as to who might have been chasing her the night before would be washed away. He’d gone out, anyway, but half an hour later had returned properly discouraged.
Though a little stiff and sore, Elise was grateful her injuries hadn’t been worse. Needing time to regroup—and at Logan’s urging—she stayed away from Mitchell House for the day, not that she was done with her duties gathering auction items. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep a low profile for the short time left before the big event.
And her escape with Eric.
She couldn’t help frequent glances out the window in hopes that she would get a glimpse of her son. Once in the afternoon, when the rain stopped, she saw him for a moment in the backyard, before Petra herded him back into the house.
Soon, she thought. We’ll be together again for good.
She didn’t
want to think about the downside. About never seeing Logan again. But it couldn’t be helped. Unless she could prove that she didn’t murder Brian, she might very well be on the run for life.
A notion that was less appealing than ever. And she certainly couldn’t expect Logan to run with them.
What could she do, short of setting a trap for the murderer and using herself as bait? The thought teased her—Logan had put those transmitters in place, after all.
But she was plagued by the possibility of failure. The possibility of her going back to prison and leaving her son under the influence of a murderer. Whether that was Diane or Kyle—or even Rafe Otera as a wild card—didn’t really matter. As long as Eric remained in the house where his father was murdered, he was in danger.
Heading for work was a relief. A new awareness spiraled between her and Logan as they sped along the expressway. And a new awkwardness. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just different. Kind of nice. She caught him giving her intense looks via the mirror—oh so different from the hostile way he’d viewed her a week before.
She didn’t want to analyze too closely. She didn’t want to be heartbroken when she made her next escape.
So she stared straight ahead at the road, until they left the expressway and Logan suddenly told her, “I listened to audio recordings from Mitchell House a little while ago.”
Her pulse thrummed. “Anything?”
“Afraid not. The most interesting conversation came from the living room, actually. Carol telling Diane what she could do with her opinion about her boyfriend.”
“You mean Rafe Otera?”
“That’s the one.”
Elise frowned. “So Carol knows.”
“Apparently.”
“Which means Kyle and Minna know.”
“Which means…?” Logan echoed.
“I’m not sure. Odd, though. Carol seemed to think she was pulling one over on them all.”
“Apparently she was mistaken.”
But how could Carol not have known that they knew? Elise wondered.
A problem she put out of mind once they got to the club. Cass seemed a bit strained—gave her furtive glances as she helped a woman with blue-streaked black hair check in the customers—but the place was already jumping and they had no opportunity to talk alone.
Wondering what was bothering her friend, Elise joined Blade at the bar.
“Reporting for duty.”
“And about time,” he said, handing her a martini shaker. “We’re gonna rock tonight. We have a band called Fuzzy Navels coming in about nine. The crowd is already here, ready to sit through a poetry slam just so they get seats. The club should be wired until we close.”
“So what did you do on your days off?”
“Haven’t taken them yet.”
“Why not? You can’t work seven days a week.”
“Why not?” he asked, echoing her. “Work is good. Keeps you from thinking about your troubles.”
Wondering what kind of troubles a man like Blade might have, Elise got to work mixing drinks. Blade proceeded to teach her the art of a perfect Long Island Tea.
A while later when the music stopped and the din lowered, Elise looked to the stage where Cass stood, resplendent in a deep red body suit and matching cape. Introducing herself as the Scintillating Cassandra, she picked a young man from the audience to act as her assistant in an illusion that involved a bird, an egg and some embarrassment on his part.
And then the poetry slam began, with Cass introducing a pasty-faced young woman whose hair was dyed as black as her ankle-length dress.
“Images from the Grave,” the young woman announced to whistles and stomps from the audience.
“This should be an upbeat evening,” Elise muttered, though she couldn’t help but be amused by the young woman’s fervor.
“Who knows why kids dwell on death so much?” Blade’s expression was harsh. “They don’t know the half of it or they wouldn’t glorify it.”
Wondering how much he knew about death—and whether it was the kind of knowledge a person could only get through experience—Elise gave him a speculative look. Normally Blade projected an easy manner, but something about the topic got to him. He stood ramrod straight, and his normally relaxed expression was tight as he poured gin into a shaker.
Elise didn’t have long to wonder about Blade’s past, however, before she got a large and complicated order. Several orders and as many poets later, she had her chance to take a break.
As she sneaked through the audience, some slender blond guy was spouting a lovesick tome that amused her. She was grinning as she headed for the entrance.
Hordes seemed to be lined up on the stairs and outside, waiting for an opportunity to get in, but the hostess Mags was holding them off herself. Cass was already in the employee lounge. She practically jumped out of her skin when Elise entered.
Wide-eyed, Elise said, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Cass licked her lips. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you since you came in.”
“Uh-oh. Is there a problem?”
“Depends. After our personal discussion the other day… How close have you gotten to Logan?”
Thinking about their lovemaking the night before and again in the morning, Elise grinned. “Close enough.”
“Then, you’re really not going to like this.”
“Not like what?”
“Logan Smith does not exist.”
Her smile faded. “I don’t get it.”
“He’s not who he says he is.”
Her pulse quickened. “Then, who is he?”
“I don’t know, but I’m certain Logan Smith is a cover. I overheard Gideon talking to him on the phone yesterday, saying something like ‘Kyle Mitchell had better not find out who you really are.’”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds,” Elise said, but she was already growing cold inside. Cold and a little dizzy and really nauseated. “I just knew he had his own agenda.”
“Maybe you ought to get out of that house, and now,” Cass suggested.
“Soon.”
Maybe even sooner than she’d planned.
Chapter Fourteen
What the hell had happened? Logan wondered as he jogged along Sheridan Road the next morning in an attempt to rid himself of his building frustration.
The warmth that had flowed between him and Elise had cooled down in a flash. He’d spent his work night looking forward to another round of closeness and unbelievable sex with her, and she’d insisted on some kind of a high school sleepover. Instead of his being bunked in with her, she was having some damn pajama party with Cass.
What the hell was Elise thinking?
He swung by Bob Hale’s house, hoping to catch the retired lawyer on this, his third try. Sure enough, the old man was wielding a hose, watering his flower bed.
“Morning!”
Old Bob turned. “Ah, hello. Haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”
Logan came to a stop a few yards from the man. “You’ve been around, then?”
“Off and on. My brother-in-law is in the hospital, so I’ve been keeping my sister company.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, he’s gonna be okay.” The retired lawyer waved his hand. “Tough old bird, my brother-in-law.”
“I was hoping to see you before this so I could thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“For the articles, bringing me up to speed on the Mitchell murder.”
“I’d sure like to take the credit, but I’m afraid I didn’t even think of it.” Old Bob frowned. “What made you think I sent you some articles?”
Logan felt as if he’d been punched. “The first one came the night we were talking about the car in the ravine.”
“No return address, then.”
“Not a clue.”
Bob’s silvered eyebrows lifted. “Hmm, sounds like you got yourself a real live mystery.”
“Sounds like.” Not wanting the old
man poking around and maybe getting himself hurt, Logan shrugged it off. “No big deal. I need to get going, to get my heart rate back up.”
In truth, his pulse was pounding.
Elise was right…someone did know.
“THERE’S NOTHING HERE,” Cass said, plopping herself down on Logan’s unmade bed. “Does he use any of the other rooms?”
Frustrated, Elise said, “Not that I know of. I don’t know how we expected to find something when we didn’t know what to look for.”
“His hoarding an extra set of his real identification is still a distinct possibility.”
“But where?”
They’d checked every drawer, every shelf, every inch of his closet. Nothing.
Elise’s gaze settled on the old-fashioned armoire. Nothing in there, either, but what about on top? He’d used the top of the curio cabinet in the living room to hide a transmitter. Why not hide an ID on top of an armoire? She dragged a chair over to it.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the last place I would have thought to look.”
As she hiked herself up on the chair, Cass got off the bed and closer. Standing tiptoe, Elise could just peek over the crown molding, where she spotted something pale. She reached until her hand connected with what proved to be a folder.
“What is it?”
“Give me a chance to check it out.”
Jumping down from the chair, she spilled the contents across the bed, memorizing their order so she could put things back the way she’d found them.
“Dossiers on your in-laws,” Cass said softly. “And he never showed you these?”
Elise shook her head. Her hands shook, too, as she sorted through articles, transcriptions and handwritten notes on each of the Mitchells.
Each of them, including herself.
“I DON’T THINK your going over there tonight is a good idea,” Logan protested when she told him she was going to baby-sit Eric again.
Sheer luck was with her, and Elise knew she had to grab it for all she was worth. Her time had run out.
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