by Julie Miller
Just what did Logan own in his life? A barely lived-in condo? A rugged leather jacket? His bike?
Who belonged to Logan? She knew from his records that he had no surviving family. Except for those few tragic months with Roy Silverton, and this week with her, he’d never had a partner. There’d been no signs of a feminine influence at his condo. There hadn’t even been any pets.
Was she what he claimed as his own? What he worried about? What he wanted to protect?
Was he still so haunted by his first partner’s death that he could never absolve himself of responsibility for her? That he would never trust her to be safe without him watching her back?
She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. For the sake of the ride. And for something more.
“I’m okay, Logan,” she whispered against his back.
At first she thought her words were lost beneath the monstrous growl of the Harley as he revved the engine. But then his hand closed over hers where it rested on his belt buckle. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. He made no comment. He simply returned his hand to the clutch and rode the bike into traffic.
HE WAS SUCH a jerk.
He was such an overbearing, territorial jerk.
Too many years of looking over his shoulder kept Logan’s eyes watchful as he downshifted the Harley and rode it into the parking garage beneath the Willingham Hotel. But his thoughts were on the woman behind him.
Grace had handled herself perfectly during her drinks with Harris Mitchell. Yeah, there’d been a couple of close calls when the prim and righteous parts of Grace’s personality had threatened to overshadow her savvy, sensual veneer. But she’d talked her way out of trouble each time. She’d even charmed Mitchell in the process with her tough talk.
But he wasn’t ready to let her fly solo yet when it came to undercover work. Without a visual, the silences in her conversation with Mitchell had terrified him. What was he doing to her? Was she safe?
The rational side of Logan’s mind knew that Grace could take care of herself. She’d found a way to survive the ugly taunts of her adolescence, and deal with a mother who needed mothering herself.
But the emotional side—the side of the man who’d watched his first partner die in his arms, the side of the man who couldn’t get this crazy need for her out of his system despite an exhausting night of seduction—wanted to take care of her. Wanted to shelter her from men like Mitchell who chewed up and spat out people’s savings and feelings and lives for entertainment and profit.
He wanted her back in that hotel room where the most dangerous enemy to contend with was the shortage of time together.
It had been a stupid, male thing to do—asking Travis McCallister to pick up her car and then bringing her here himself. But he needed to see her. Needed to touch her. Needed to keep her safe.
Screw the assignment. Screw Harris Mitchell. Screw the FBI.
Grace Lockhart needed to stay safe.
He parked the bike in a shadowy corner of the garage near the elevator. They removed their helmets and he offered her his arm for balance so she could climb off. When he stood to follow, she stayed him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t come up.” Her gentle rejection of his company was absorbed by the concrete walls and deep in his heart. “We have work to do tonight. I have work to do. And if you come up—”
“I know.” He sat back down on the bike, hearing the wisdom of her words. “We won’t get anything else done but have wild, wonderful sex. And you need your sleep.”
Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of rose at his honest words. He pulled off his left glove and reached out to brush his fingertips across the telltale heat beneath her skin.
“I just wanted to be sure you were okay.” He pulled his hand away. “I didn’t keep a close enough eye on Roy.”
Her sweet green eyes lit with a smile. She meant it as a reassurance, he knew, and he tried to believe in it. “Tonight wasn’t easy for me, either. But I learned from the best. Thanks.” She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him. A light, friendly, go-home kiss. “Good night.”
There was no good-night for him.
When she turned to go, Logan grabbed her and pulled her up onto the seat in front of him. He covered her mouth with a kiss that poured out his jealous anger, his fears, his frustration. She sat an awkward sidesaddle in his lap, but he wound her arms around his shoulders, giving her an anchor to cling to. Then he tunneled his fingers into her hair, holding her still beneath his passionate assault.
He unzipped her jacket and squeezed her silk-sheathed breast. He slipped his hands beneath her butt and lifted her high onto his chest. He spread her legs when he set her back down, pushing them apart so that she straddled his lap atop the bike.
Logan couldn’t help himself. He wanted her closer. He needed her to be a part of him. He reached up beneath her skirt, right between her legs, and grabbed her crotch. He damned the man who had invented panty hose, and damned himself for his own insatiable need. He rubbed his thumb along her hot, swelling nub, and squeezed her from below, feeling her first beads of moisture sticking to the nylon.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed the apology beside her ear a moment before he reached beneath her skirt with both hands, found the seam of her nylons and ripped it apart. Her body shook at his savage compulsion. “I need you.”
In record time, he unzipped his jeans and freed himself, quickly rolling on a condom from his pocket. There was no finesse to this mating. No sweet words. No delicate sighs.
He leaned back on the bike and lifted her higher. He guided himself through the tear in her panty hose and brought her down on top of him, encasing himself in her damp womanly heat. He pumped into her once, an instinctive jerk. Then he hammered into her again and again. With nothing to cling to but his shoulders and neck, she bobbed helplessly above him.
Her breasts jiggled near his face. He buried his nose between them, lapping at skin and silk and the spicy, overpowering perfume that filled his nose and fevered his brain. That minutia skirt she wore bunched up around her thighs. She was so open to him like this. Open and vulnerable in a way that fired up his need to protect and possess her all over again. He thrust up into her one last time, long and hard, pulling down on her thighs as he strained and pushed and finally erupted deep inside her.
With their bodies still linked, he gathered her into his arms. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her until all he knew was the sweet, distilled taste of Grace returning his kiss. Until her pure essence was in his mouth, her brave, giving spirit providing the only healing antidote for his lonely, ravaged soul.
When he knew himself again, he gentled the kiss. He slipped free of her body as he lowered her back to the Harley’s leather seat.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He stole another gentle kiss. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it good for you.”
“Shh.” She pressed her fingers against his lips, refusing his apology. “Are you kidding? What a rush it was to know you needed me like that. So quick. So out of control.”
“Next time it’ll be all for you, I promise.”
Suddenly aware of their daring position in the semi-public location, Logan eased her into a more comfortable position, fastening his pants and sitting her sidesaddle on the Harley again. Though she could now close her legs, he regretted to see that he’d ruined her hose and had wrinkled her skirt so that she could no longer pull it down to its intended length.
Logan took off his jacket and laid it in her lap like a peace offering. “I’ll, uh, pay for those.”
She looked up at him and smiled. He’d even done damage there, seeing the raw marks of his beard on her rosy fair skin.
“No you won’t. The Bureau footed the bill for my clothes, remember?”
Her wry attempt at humor should have made him laugh. It almost did.
Instead, he saw another mark on her body. Five marks, to be precise, encircling her left wrist. Five small bruises too dark with color for him to have just put
there.
He lifted her arm, gently cradling it by her fingers and elbow, to inspect the bruises. Though the size and spread of the marks weren’t as large as his own dimensions, they definitely fit the scope of a man’s rough grip.
A different kind of fire lit in his veins.
“Did he put his hands on you?”
Grace’s big eyes blanched to the color of fading grass. “Yes.” She pulled her arm away and tucked it beneath his jacket on her lap. “We knew that he would.”
“Not like that. Where else?” He lifted her chin, ran his fingers along her neck, pushed aside her hair at her forehead and temples, searching for signs of further abuse. “Where did he touch you?”
“Logan, don’t do this.” She stopped his hands, folding them within hers like a supplicant prayer. “It’s part of the job. That was the goal, remember? To make me sexy. To get Harris Mitchell interested in me. We knew this was going to happen if we did our job right.”
“Knowing it and seeing it are two different things.” He brushed his fingers across her cheek, wishing more than anything that he’d been there to stop her from being hurt. “I heard your voice over the microphone. I picked up the panic. I heard your temper start to go. I don’t want to hear what happens when he picks up on it, too.”
She leaned her cheek into his palm, accepting his touch for the good it would do her. “If you heard all that, then you also heard how I kept it all together. I didn’t let my emotions rule my reactions. I kept my head in the game. That’s rule number seven in your book, I believe.”
“You’re not a set of numbers, Grace.”
“And you’re not my keeper. You’re my partner. Every now and again, you’re my lover.” She climbed off the bike and walked beyond his reach before turning to face him. “Work with me, Logan. Help me the way you have all week long by teaching me to help myself. Make me a better agent. Don’t make me a prisoner of your guilt.”
13
IF THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES hadn’t been so dangerous, Grace would have laughed at Logan’s new look when he showed up, without his Harley, to ride with her to Harris Mitchell’s estate that morning.
It was a transformation in reverse. The tall, broad, buff man at home in jeans and leather that she’d gotten to know so well had become, well, a male version of the old Grace.
His tough-guy fashion style had been replaced by a brown, droopy-cut suit pieced together in such a way that the bulk of his shoulders and the trim narrowness of his waist and hips disappeared behind one straight, shapeless line of gabardine. A bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses completed the disguise.
But it was the slicked-back hair and slouched shoulders that reminded her so much of who she used to be. Someone who followed the rules. Someone who hid her talents and her heart’s desires behind a guarded wall of anonymity.
Logan had taught her to shine. To stand tall and find confidence in her strengths, to trust her instincts. To think with her heart as much as her head. To take chances.
But as they climbed up to the pillared front porch of Harris Mitchell’s estate in the old-money, horse-racing district outside New York City, she wondered if she had taken too big a chance.
Did she still have enough of that old Grace in her to see her through this? To drive her to become something more?
Having a tall, dark and nerdy assistant at her side seemed like little deterrent to the unpredictable danger awaiting her on the other side of that door.
But the big hand Logan squeezed around her shoulder still bespoke a man of strength and ruthless calm. “You ready for this?”
“As ready as I’m gonna get.” She fixed her gaze on the doorknob and tried to steady her breathing as they waited.
“Remember, I’ll be listening in on everything that happens. If I’m not actually in the room with you watching your back, don’t worry, I’m just a signal away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She tried to sound just as professional and detached. “Your job is to search every room to find his hidden mainframe computer access terminal, while I keep Harris occupied. It’s only if I download my program into the server that we’ll be able to expose his network of contacts. Worry about that, not me.”
He pulled his hand away and adjusted his glasses. A listening device installed in the earpiece picked up the transmission from the chip-size microphone hidden in her bra. “Right. Just remember to keep talking so I can track your whereabouts if there’s an emergency.”
He’d completely ignored her words. Grace’s breath whooshed out on an impatient sigh. “Damn it, Logan, you can’t compromise the mission because you’re worried about Mitchell’s groping hands.”
“I don’t intend to compromise anything.” He reached out and pushed the doorbell, then settled his grip around the handle of his briefcase. “You do your job, Gracie, and I’ll do mine.”
Ever since their heated exchange on his Harley last night, his words and actions had been like this—strictly business. The bruises Mitchell had given her had awakened every protective, predatory instinct he possessed—which, in a man with Logan’s talents, was considerable. And frightening.
But she’d stood up for herself and pushed him away with the guilt trip, turning him into a cold, distant man who worked the only way he knew how.
The man standing at her side with the briefcase and pocket protector might look the part of an introverted accounting assistant, but she knew better. This was Logan Pierce in pure agent mode. Not even the sardonic, dismissive Logan she’d first tried to woo into helping her less than a week ago. Certainly not the Logan who’d made her believe she was sexy, the one who made her believe a hot hunk of a man could find her sexy, too. There was no warmth here, no passion, no fire.
This Logan was completely attuned to his surroundings, the one whose unblinking gray eyes missed nothing. There was no humor, no challenge, not even an inkling of the sexually charged energy that had linked them so irrevocably throughout her training.
He was her partner. Her ally. Her backup.
Nothing more.
Five days ago she’d wanted only to prove herself at a man’s job in a man’s world. Right now she knew a desperately female need to see one of Logan’s lopsided smiles.
But then, when had Grace Lockhart gotten what she really wanted out of life without a fight? If she wanted Logan to give up his agent persona and show her a genuine smile again, she had to complete this mission. And she had to do it right.
“It’s time, Gracie.” At the sound of footsteps in the foyer, Logan leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Let’s go get him.”
A tall, blond woman in a figure-hugging catsuit opened the door. “Good morning. I’m Ilsa.” The faint lilt of a Scandinavian accent welcomed them, though the sidearm strapped to her hip indicated she was something more than the housekeeper. “Renee will take your bags up to your room, Miss Lockhart. Mr. Pierce’s will be delivered to the bungalow. I’ll show you those rooms later, but right now, Mr. Mitchell is waiting for you in his office. This way, please.”
Atop her two-inch, spike-heeled boots, Ilsa stood nearly eye-to-eye with Logan. Grace couldn’t help but notice the way Logan’s gaze followed the lean, balanced curves revealed by their escort’s formfitting outfit. The woman’s blatant sensuality could be used as a weapon, Grace realized, noting the apparent distraction in Logan’s focus. Though she exuded strength and power, she also was unmistakably female. Maybe a man would have trouble reacting to the threat she presented. Even if he wasn’t drooling over her, he might still hesitate to strike out against a woman.
Grace was finally beginning to see the intelligence behind Mitchell’s penchant for hiring beautiful, sexy women. While they beautified the scenery, as he’d said last night, they also provided a psychological as well as physical defense grid against his enemies.
They also made her feel woefully inadequate. Unwittingly, her arm crept up around her waist. Grace had always been shorter and bigger and out of proportion than the beautiful women of Hollywood and
most of her classmates. Surely, there was some joke behind Harris Mitchell choosing to add her to his menagerie of women.
Oh, God, why hadn’t she stayed in her cubicle?
Suddenly she felt the light brush of Logan’s hand at the small of her back. He leaned over and whispered two words into her ear. “Rule four.”
Sex appeal is all about attitude.
Just like that, a secret code of sorts was established between them. Grace dropped her hand to her side and stood a little taller. She could do this, she reminded herself. She was smart, she was stacked, and she had a plan. She’d left her cubicle because she knew she could do something more. Be someone more.
She’d come so far this past week, she wasn’t about to blow it now. Besides, Miss Sweden with the sidearm up ahead probably hadn’t aced her college calculus class. Grace smiled wickedly, psyching herself up. Miss Sweden probably couldn’t even spell calculus.
“If you’ll wait here, please.” Ilsa stopped and nodded to the African-American woman standing outside a pair of white, brass-accented doors.
“I’m Tanya. It’s good to see you again, Miss Lockhart.” She stepped away from the door, and held out a black-and-silver wand that Grace recognized as a metal-detection device. “This is just a formality.”
Tanya ran the metal detector up and down and around Logan’s and Grace’s bodies. Grace held her breath, praying FBI technology was more advanced than Mitchell’s security system. Thank God for the plastic components on their surveillance equipment, plus the lead lining in the secret compartment of their briefcases where she and Logan had hidden their guns.
By the time Tanya had finished patting them down, Ilsa had reappeared in the open doorway. “He’s ready.”
Tanya nodded. “They’re clean.”
Ilsa smiled and ushered them inside the plush appointments of Harris Mitchell’s office. Grace couldn’t help but gawk a moment at the lavish use of blood-red velvet and gilded paint. Shelves filled with books and priceless-looking knickknacks of brass and silver and marble lined three walls, while the fourth sported floor-to-ceiling walnut paneling. A large portrait of Mitchell hung on the paneled wall. The room bespoke wealth, flamboyance and self-indulgence.