Logan's Way

by Lisa Ann Verge

  “No.”

  “Then that settles that.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It won’t work.”

  He cocked a brow at her.

  “I keep odd hours,” she explained, using her fork to trace patterns in the rice. “I’ll be out most of the day, and working most of the night…”

  “You still have to eat.”

  “I’ll throw something together.”

  “What? Candy and cola? For two weeks?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have to be concerned about my health, Macallister.”

  “I’m trying to work out a compromise,” he snapped, “something that’ll work for both of us.”

  “Trading off cooking duties is out,” she said. “I don’t cook.”

  “You don’t cook.”

  “I can’t boil an egg,” she reiterated. “I didn’t know what a broiler was until I reached my senior year in college. I do manage to throw together a sandwich now and then, but I order in a lot. My schedule doesn’t allow anything else.”

  “You’re single.”

  He spoke the words as a fact, and she glared at him for changing the subject once again. “I’m a working woman. I don’t have time to cook.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to be single,” he said. “Else you’re rich enough to have a cook at home.”

  She kept her mouth shut. She didn’t have a cook at home, but she’d grown up with a series of cooks in her mother’s kitchen. She’d made a lot of points in boarding school for learning some of the ripest French phrases from them.

  “I’m beginning to figure you out, Red,” he said softly. “I should have guessed there was no one waiting for you back home.”

  “You don’t know me at all, Mr. Macallister.”

  “Yeah, but I’m starting to know your type.”

  “Oh, really?”

  He was melting her cool. Why did she let him get to her? How did he get under her skin so easily?

  “You’re the kind of woman,” he continued, apparently enjoying her growing ire, “who wears pearls to clean up a basement laboratory.”

  She grasped the string still at her throat. She rarely took off Granny’s pearls. She wore them to bed sometimes, when she was too tired to unclasp them and drop them on the night table.

  He added, in a sultry voice, “You don’t wear them in the shower, though.”

  She let the pearls drop to her collarbone. She tried to ignore the exquisite shiver that quivered through her abdomen as she gave him her iciest gaze.

  “As cool as iced tea,” he continued relentlessly, a smile curling the edges of his mouth. “Even when I surprised you in the bedroom this afternoon, you pulled yourself together and faced me off just like this—like some kind of Teutonic warrior-princess with the Arctic wind in your eyes.”

  Her chest went tight again. She’d been called cool She’d been called cold. She’d even been called frigid. But no one had ever called her a Teutonic warriors princess with the Arctic wind in her eyes.

  “Yet you’ve got anger in you. I’ve seen that, too,” he continued, almost to himself. “You’re the kind of woman who is used to getting her way. I bet you lead the lab where you work.”

  “I’m a full professor,” she said testily. One who is not used to being tested anymore. “I have a lab of my own.”

  “Yet you’re still single.”

  She let her fork drop to her plate. She felt crushed on a glass plate under a microscope, poked and prodded and minutely examined. “Listen, Logan, I think I’ve had enough of this after-dinner small talk. We don’t have to get to know each other. I’m only here two weeks. And my romantic life is none of your business.”

  “We’re going to be living in the same quarters, Red. I want to know who’s going to be visiting.”

  “I’m here to work,” she insisted. “There’ll be no visitors. Not in my bedroom or anywhere else.”

  A half smile slipped across his face, and his eyes twinkled with something like humor, and she wished, just once, she could keep up with the flux and surge of his moods.

  “That’s good news, Red. Very good news.”

  She didn’t like the way he said that, either. She didn’t like much about Logan Macallister. Didn’t like the way he looked at her, didn’t like the way he talked to her, didn’t like his insights, and especially didn’t like the unsettled way he made her feel.

  “I take it,” she said, hating how knotty her tongue felt, “that you’ll extend me the same courtesy?”

  “What?”

  “No visitors in your bed, either. Not while I’m here. I don’t want to find Bunny or Fifi wandering around the kitchen in lingerie every morning.”

  “Bunny? Fifi?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He stretched his arms out behind him, then linked them to cup his head. His eyes glittered between lowered lids. “I hadn’t planned for visitors at all, Red. Case you haven’t noticed, I like my privacy. I’ve been guarding it jealously. Until now.”

  “Liking privacy doesn’t necessarily exclude female visitors.”

  “You’re a female visitor.”

  “Not of the type we’re discussing.”

  “No,” he said, letting his chair sink down to its four legs. “No, I suppose you won’t be wandering around in this kitchen in the morning wearing lingerie.”

  She lowered her lashes and concentrated on her food. She thought of the heavy cream-colored silk nightgown tucked in her rucksack. The one smelling vaguely of Chanel No 5, its bodice edged in lace.

  “I’ll make a point,” she said, “of covering myself up.”

  “Don’t do it for my sake, Red. I’ve already gotten a glimpse of the goods. I wouldn’t turn away a second time.”

  “All right.” Eugenia swept her napkin off her lap and planted it beside her plate. “We’ve agreed on that. Now I have a request.”

  He watched her in surprise. “Go ahead.”

  “Stop mentioning this afternoon’s incident.”

  “This afternoon’s incident? What incident is that?”

  “You know damn well, Macallister.”

  “Ahh,” he said, a grin twitching his lips, “you mean the incident when I saw you buck naked in my bedroom.”

  Damn her redhead’s skin. “Yes. That one.”

  “That’s a tough request, Red,” he said, rubbing the beard scruff of his chin with his fingers. “I’m going to have to think about it.”

  “Haven’t you had enough fun with it?”

  “No, not nearly enough,” he said, the grin blossoming wide and full. “You’re such a cool customer that it seems to be the only way to make you squirm.”

  “And you enjoy watching me squirm.”

  The grin dimmed. “I just like to get a reaction out of you. Proves to me you’re no ice queen.”

  She leaped up. The chair scraped back, heaved up and clattered back down on all four legs. Ice queen. He couldn’t know how deeply those words cut, how potent their poison.

  “Easy, Red,” he said softly as the humor left his face. “Just a little good-natured teasing. A little banter over dinner, nothing more.”

  “Dinner’s over.” She made a beeline to the counter. She tossed a wooden spoon into the sink. “I’ll clean up tonight, but I think it’s best we fend for ourselves from now on.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll do the cooking.”

  “No—”

  “I insist. I’m going to be doing it anyway, and I always cook enough for two.”

  Eugenia shoved the faucet on, then plunged her arms elbow-deep into the greasy mess, letting the hot water burn her skin. See? She wasn’t made of ice. She could feel heat, she could feel cold. She could feel pain.

  “Hey, hey…”

  His voice came from just behind her. The heat of his body enveloped her as he leaned over and twisted the faucet. The water temperature cooled to lukewarm. The steam that had risen from it settled. But he did not withdraw his hand.
The solid warmth of him pressed against her shoulder.

  “I’ll take care of this tonight,” he said. “My way of making up for being an overbearing jerk”

  With those simple, honest words, he poked a pin into her pride. The anger drained out of her, leaving her limp, unnerved and uneasy. Who was this guy? One moment he picked her apart, and the next moment he spoke to her in a voice that would calm a wild rhino. She turned toward him, unwilling to meet his eyes. Yet she saw something in the curve of his mouth. A rueful honesty. True regret.

  She thrust the sponge at him. He curled it in his hand. She let her fingers drop before they could touch his. She knew she should leave now. Retreat, regroup. But she lingered. Out of curiosity, she told herself. She’d never known a man to shift gears so swiftly. She wondered what he would say next, what he would do next. So she waited, her breath catching in her throat, as she kept her gaze below his chin. A streak of soil stained his T-shirt, running from his collarbone clear across the muscles of his chest. His chest rose, then fell. Rose, then fell. Rose…

  And stilled. A tense stillness. A hardening of muscle and sinew and jaw.

  In a flash of panic she stepped back. Out of his warmth. She brushed by him and headed, blindly, toward the sanctuary of the dim basement.

  Work. She had work to do, lots of work. She pounded down the stairs and grabbed the lab coat she’d left on the table. She shoved one arm into the coat, then the other, then gripped the edges and pulled them tight across her chest.

  Damn Logan Macallister and his loose, easy words. She did have a heart under this lab coat.

  She just knew better than to let anyone touch it.

  3

  THE NEXT MORNING, Logan seriously considered drinking his coffee in the nude. After all, he’d gotten an eyeful of Ginny, and he figured the only way he could even the scales would be to give her equal time.

  In the shower he came to a more likely conclusion—she’d see his nudity as a threat. For unlike Ginny, he would heartily enjoy the experience. Just imagining the feel of her gaze roaming over him was enough to get a rise out of him. Naked, he’d have a difficult time hiding his enjoyment.

  He opted for boxer shorts.

  About eight o’clock, she padded barefoot into the kitchen. He curled his fingers tightly around a cup of piping hot coffee. A screaming-red silk bathrobe draped her figure, falling only to midthigh. A tangled plait of fiery hair lay upon her shoulder. She looked rumpled, slender…eminently touchable. She blindly opened the refrigerator door, then bent over to search the contents, giving him a disturbing view of a few more inches of leg.

  “Good morning, Red.”

  She whirled around and nearly dropped the carton of orange juice clutched in her hand.

  She looked very different from the frosty aristocrat who’d parried with him yesterday, wearing nothing but a towel. Very different from the tight-faced woman in pearls who’d crossed swords with him in the living room, negotiating a settlement as if she were a big-city lawyer. She looked more like the woman he’d taunted into distraction after dinner last night. Appealingly unkempt Confused. Vulnerable.

  She blurted, “You’re in your underwear.”

  He lifted the coffee to his mouth and spoke into the cup. “‘Pears so.”

  “You’re not dressed.”

  He swallowed a fireball of the brew. “Not entirely.”

  “But…” She struggled with words, waving the orange juice carton, her gaze fixing on and fluttering away from his blue silk boxer shorts, landing on his naked chest, then flitting away again. “But you made a promise.”

  He liked her like this. She was still half-asleep and one step short of sputtering. She’d spent most of the night in that basement lab, clanging glassware, running water, clicking buttons. He hadn’t heard her climb the stairs until nearly 2:00 a.m. He’d noted the time, because when he heard her step, he’d been lying wide awake atop tangled cotton sheets, trying not to remember things he’d promised to forget.

  Now, groggy and half-asleep, she stared at him and spoke her mind. For the moment, at least, there seemed to be no cold wall of ice between her thoughts and those wonderfully soft-looking lips. He would remember this. “What kind of promise was that, Ginny?”

  “You said—you said there’d be no walking around in lingerie.”

  “For you and Bunny and Fifi.” He arched a brow and glanced down his chest to his shorts. “Didn’t think this qualified.”

  “It’s the same thing.” A slow red flush seeped from under the neckline of her kimono and crept up her jaw. She turned away from him, yanked open a cabinet and stuck her head inside, searching for something. “You’re in your underwear.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I were in my underwear,” she said, pulling her head out, “you’d consider it lingerie, wouldn’t you?”

  He spoke around the tightening of his throat. “Depends upon the underwear, Red. I’d make that judgment as I saw it.”

  “Well,” she said, too swiftly, as if she’d just realized her blunder. She slammed the cabinet closed and yanked open another. “What you’re wearing—those blue silk things—that’s the male version of lingerie.”

  “Is it?” He crossed one arm across his chest and shrugged. “I’ll consider myself informed, then. From now on, nothing but white cotton briefs.”

  She made a nervous huffing sound and slapped open and closed another set of cabinets. The orange juice carton wobbled where she’d inadvertently placed it half atop the cutting board, half on the counter. He reached over his head, pulled open a cabinet, curled his fingers around a glass and held it out for her.

  “This what you’re looking for?”

  She eyed him warily, keeping her gaze on his neck and above. She snatched the glass, showed him her back and poured herself a generous helping of juice. He suspected, when she finished it and faced him again, that the frosty countenance would be firmly in place again.

  Well, he had some making up to do, and best he do it before the castle walls were fully armed. “So,” he said, scalding his tongue on the coffee. “What are your plans for the day?”

  She leaned against the counter and cast him an odd look. “I’ll be out of your way,” she said, sipping the juice. “I’m doing some fieldwork.”

  “At the national park.”

  “Yes.” She hid her mouth behind the glass. “I need to collect some samples. Might take some time. Like I said, I’ll be out of your way.”

  He tried not to grimace. He’d made quite an impression on her yesterday. He could be a real jerk when he wanted to be. “You’re going to need help finding these samples.”

  She raised a brow. “I’ll do just fine, thank you very much. Dr. Springfield gave me specific directions.”

  “Last time I checked, there were no street signs in that old forest.”

  “I’ve got a Ph.D. in botany, Mr. Macallister. I’ll manage.”

  Wasn’t she ornery in the morning. He let his gaze slip over the skewed kimono and wondered if a good bout of lovemaking would bring back her humor. “It’s not going to be easy searching for three green plants you’ve never seen before amid those woods.”

  “I’ll stick to my job, Mr. Macallister. You stick to—” she waved a hand around the room “—to whatever is yours.”

  He flinched. He told himself not to shoot back. He deserved that He hadn’t worked an honest day in months and was putting very little effort into his résumé. Until this very moment, he hadn’t given a damn.

  “You’re in this cabin with me, invading my privacy, so I’m making you my job,” he said, trying to banish the ways he’d like to make her even more of his “job.” “Yesterday. John told me what you’re working on.”

  “It would take more than a few minutes on the phone to tell you about the whole project.”

  He placed his coffee cup on the counter with more force than necessary. “Back in March, when John brought me here, he dragged me along to the park to help him search for the new species
of honeysuckle he’d identified over a year ago, see if it was blooming yet. I took some shots in the park while he searched. John tends to blather on when he’s excited about something.” Logan frowned. He’d been in a deep funk when he’d seen John. He’d just come back from Mexico, his thoughts had been elsewhere, his senses deadened, he’d been completely self-absorbed. Only now could he remember some details of those murky few weeks. “He may have mentioned you then,” he lied. “Something about another researcher who was going to do some tests on the plants, see if there were any medicinal properties.”

  “Yes,” Ginny murmured, her suspicion obvious. “Yes, that’s me, that’s what I’m doing. But there were three species. That wild honeysuckle and two others.”

  “If I saw your directions, I’d be able to find them. I know the woods. I’ve taken a lot of shots there.” He lifted his cup off the counter. “And I remember the honeysuckle.”

  He buried his nose in his coffee cup and breathed deeply of the bitterness of the grounds, trying to mask the memory of the heavy funereal fragrance of the woods.

  She had a strange look on her face. She’d crossed her arms, hugged her biceps and stood watching him warily. “I can show you Dr. Springfield’s directions,” she said, “but I can’t imagine how that would help. He was quite specific in his notes.”

  “Believe it or not, Red, I’m offering you more than just verbal guidance,” he said, trying to mask the bitterness of the dregs of coffee he’d just drunk, and the anger in his own voice. “I’m offering my body and my brain.”

  He saw the hardening in her jaw, the refusal to look him over and the squint that let him know just how much she thought his brain was worth.

  “I’m not the Neanderthal you think I am, Ginny, despite my recent behavior.”

  “Macallister, I never—”

  “Yeah, I’ve been a jerk. And now I’m trying to make it up to you.” He didn’t need to hear platitudes and he knew by the shape of her mouth that that was all she was offering. “But you’re not making it very damn easy.”

  He turned his back on her, grabbed the sponge and began scrubbing out his empty coffee cup. What the hell was wrong with him? She must think him some kind of nutcase, one minute offering her help, the next minute ogling her, the next angry as a hornet. Had he been away from human company for so long that he no longer knew how to behave? He no longer knew how to handle a cool, confident woman with the body of a centerfold?