by Mary Hughes
“Yeah, I get the Nobel Nice Prize. What does that work order say, anyway?” I held out my hand. Business, the only solid ground in Swamp du Logan.
Logan’s smile became slightly mocking, as if he knew I was running scared. But his long fingers dipped into the pocket over his superb butt (and why, oh why was I still noticing his ass?) and he pulled out the folded paper.
“It’s for a full system.” He passed it to me. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Now I know you’re lying. When you came in, you didn’t even know who I was.” I scanned the paper, several columns of densely packed numbers and technical terms. It was hard to read, except for the bottom line. That said five hundred thousand dollars.
“I knew I wanted L. Schmetterling.” Logan’s lazy shrug somehow emphasized the power in his shoulders. “I knew you worked nights. Since my appointments keep me busy all day, I was hoping you could pass a message to Schmetterling. How fortunate he turned out to be you.”
“How fortunate,” I echoed caustically, staring at the work order. It was hard to understand a half-million-dollar system at our Center. Not that upgrading our ancient alarm was a bad idea. Meiers Corners was as safe as Mayberry R.F.D., but occasionally I had noticed blood missing. Not a lot, but enough to start me wondering—and worrying. One of my jobs was to keep track of it. Would I get fired (again) over a few lost pints?
I needed this job, and not just for the income. “All this for a few thousand units a month? Are you sure you have the right place?”
“Call your executive director if you don’t believe me.”
“You think I won’t?” My chin kicked up.
Logan’s bright blond hair swayed as he shook his head, not in denial, but in gentle disbelief. “You really have some trust issues, don’t you, princess?”
“I certainly do not.” It came out too fast. I suppressed a grimace. “I just don’t understand most of this order.”
“Then let me explain.” Logan took the paper from me, smoothed it on my desk and perched next to me. His body felt like a radiator, so hot that if I wore glasses, they’d have steamed up. As it was, Liese-Down-Under was starting to heat. He slid a bit closer, his gorgeous butt wiggling like delectable bait. My heart kicked from drive into race. That tight ass of his was begging to be grabbed. He shifted, muscles playing smoothly, and my hands clenched. Heat? Try steam. Poach. Shake and bake.
Logan’s finger skimming the first couple lines of text thankfully distracted me from said butt cheek. Until I imagined me as that text. Pictured his finger skimming down my throat, around my breasts, over my belly…down to my…whoo-ha. Goosebumps woke from my neck down to my Xeon processor.
“This is the hardware we’ll be installing,” Logan said.
I blinked, forced myself to pay attention. He went on, finger still skimming paper. Lightly, like his angel-wing kisses. Kisses that would warm my neck, excite my nipples, my belly… Oh, bend me over and spank me with a netbook.
“Cameras, multi-sensors, the works. The equipment for a complete lock-down.” Then he pointed to a few words that I did understand. “Here are the system requirements.”
“An MMS?” I gasped. Taken from the gamer acronym MMO (Massively Multiplayer Online), MMS was a term coined by Steel Security for a blade-style supercomputer with a minimum of six multi-core CPUs, super-fast virtual switch and nanotube memory. I’d read about it in Hot Processors Monthly (a magazine I swear I did not buy for the centerfold). This system had twenty CPUs. “What the hell do you need all that power for? Can you even harness twenty processors at once?”
“With our proprietary software, yes. That’s itemized on lines thirty-seven through forty-two.”
I reread those lines. Integrated intruder sensor, alarm program and safety lock-down routines. And—an automated warehousing program and distribution database.
My jobs.
I got cold. Was Black Saturday happening again? Was I about to lose my job? Second time in less than two years would not look good on the old resume. “We already have software to run the Blood Center,” I croaked around the ice in my throat.
Logan caught my shift in tone. His eyes narrowed until they were twin scalpels that could cut the reason from my brain. The sensation of him digging in my head was so strong I mentally rattled off “Mary Had a Little Lamb” just in case.
“You’ll need to convert your data to the new programs.” He spoke slowly, stare drilling. “Standard formats, and I’ll be available to answer questions.”
Though I didn’t say a word, something must have communicated itself because his gaze softened. “We’re not here to put you out of a job, Liese.”
Fershizzle. Sexy, smart and slightly scary. “Ms. Schmetterling,” I corrected automatically. I didn’t believe him. Who paid a half million dollars for an installation, only to turn it over to a small-town gal geek? “Ms. is more professional.”
“I like Liese.” His voice caressed my name.
No man should be better than chocolate. “Too bad. Ms.”
Logan’s bright head tilted and he gave my hair a quick tousle. “How ’bout Ms. Liese?”
“Stop that. I’m not a puppy.”
“No, you’re a woman. A beautiful but very prickly woman.” He nudged me playfully. “Are you always so uptight?”
“Uptight?” Issues, maybe. But— “I’m not—”
“Ever party? Play naked on the beach?” Logan leaned his elbows on the desk, putting his face just inches from mine. He flashed me his wicked smile, all sharp white teeth. “Ever just fool around?”
My nipples tightened traitorously—and belly, thighs and pudendum. “No,” I said, more to my libido than him. And to my sex, which was licking its lips and slurping a bit.
Logan’s nostrils flared. He leaned closer, lips less than a breath from mine. His eyes shaded toward rose-gold. “I love how you smell. All musky and tempting.”
I jumped to my feet. “I’m a geek. It’s WD-40.”
“It’s you.” He slid both glorious butt cheeks onto my desk and threw his legs gracefully over the other side. I backed up as he came to his feet, stalking lazily toward me. I backed until I hit wall. In the small office, it was all of three steps.
He kept coming until he pressed into me.
Logan’s huge chest muscles, thrust seductively against his cotton tee, were level with my drooling mouth. I tore my gaze from those gorgeous pecs only to have it land on his face. His eyes were heated and intense—and, embarrassingly, on my slobbering trap.
“I want to kiss you,” he rasped, his voice totally unlike the smooth insouciant tones I’d come to expect. “Are you going to slap me again?”
“Probably.” I forced the word through suddenly tight vocal cords.
“Okay, then. It’ll be worth it.” His fingers threaded through my hair, and his head bent. But this time wasn’t a soft brushing or gentle rubbing.
No. This time his mouth fastened hungrily on mine.
I gasped. He was quick to take advantage of my parted lips, stabbing into me with heat and deft skill. He tasted sweet and hot, like rich red cinnamon.
Logan kissed with amazing thoroughness. Not an inch went unplundered, his teeth, tongue and lips stroking, licking, biting, his fierce mouth demanding response.
My legs went limp, a rush of desire liquefying my very bones. I would have fallen if Logan hadn’t yanked me tight against his hard body. Something grew between us. Something impressively long and thick.
My heart beat harder. Moisture dewed my skin. My breasts swelled, clamoring and throbbing for his touch, nipples distressingly stiff.
As if Logan heard my traitorous breasts, he palmed one, pinching the nipple slightly. Shockwaves ricocheted through me. The other breast tightened, shouting for equal attention. Logan heard again, took both my breasts in his big hands, his pinches becoming possessive.
His kiss became possessive too. His mouth slanted and he thrust his tongue down my throat.
Feminine systems long
dormant came online with a bang. If I had an On button, Logan had punched it. My legs scissored around his muscular thigh. He pushed forward, grinding into my crotch. My eyes popped wide at the heavy flood of desire that hit me.
“Stop,” I panted. “This is insane.”
“I love insane.” Logan’s tongue ran down my jaw to my neck. “My favorite setting is insane.” He nipped my throat, his teeth razor-sharp.
A hot, edgy need skated over my skin. “I don’t even know you. How can I be reacting like this?” So fast, almost unnaturally so.
The word caught in my head. Unnatural—
“Do you want to slap me?” Logan’s tongue soothed where his teeth had scored. His muscular leg started to beat a rhythm against my mons. My jeans were heavy denim and I shouldn’t have been able to feel it. But somehow he rode the thick inseam so it yanked directly on my clit.
My thoughts disintegrated. I arched into him. “I’d slap you…if I could make my arms work.”
Logan chuckled, pure male arrogance. “You smell so good. Mmm. So hot and ready.”
“Like pizza.”
“Like Liese.” He pushed emphatically between my legs. “Like sweet, musky Liese. I’ve got to taste you.” His tongue flicked the perspiration dotting my skin.
I wondered how that hot tongue would feel flicking something else wet. Oooh. My vulva clenched hard. My hips began moving in counterpoint to Logan’s thigh.
“I want you, princess.” Logan’s eyes turned molten gold, almost red. “I want to make love to you.” His cock expanded even bigger against my belly. Impressive became OMG. A thrill tore through me, ardor or terror. Movie-star gorgeous Logan Steel wanted to make love to me, to geeky Liese Schmetterling.
Probably terror. I was in way over my head. My total sexual experience was my ex-fiancé and my mini egg vibrator. Sex with Logan would be like playing baseball with the Cubs straight out of kindergarten. He’d easily slide into home, scary enough. As fast as I was reacting, he’d score off a single base hit.
But the baseball bat in his jeans? Terror. Definitely terror.
It reminded me forcefully that I didn’t know Logan Steel at all. Seducing me, threatening my job—that was all too familiar. Old tapes whirred to angry, panicked life.
I slapped him.
“Kinky. Do you like handcuffs too?” Logan stepped back just enough to give me room to breathe. “Or do you prefer scarves?”
I pushed past him to my desk, tossed off my headset and grabbed purse and coat. I was leaving now, fleeing past or present, I didn’t know and didn’t care. I practically ran to the door.
A firm hand stopped me.
I hadn’t heard a thing. I spun, eyes wide. “What the hell…?”
“You should turn off your laptop,” Logan said. “Security, you know.”
I jerked out of his grip, jabbed my computer off. I should have shut it down properly, but the way my body betrayed me scared me.
No. I wasn’t scared, I was angry. A man I didn’t know had touched me as intimately as my fiancé—who’d screwed me, screwed me over, and dumped me. Catching the glint of my two-carat “engagement” ring, which I still wore to remind myself never to trust any man, I wondered if being thrown away by a stranger was any less painful.
Not painful, aggravating. More angry than ever, and definitely not scared or hurt, I slammed out of the Blood Center.
Well, slammed isn’t quite right. I had to arm the old model alarm, using the super-secret pass code one-one-one. That disarmed it too. Not very sophisticated, but Executive Director Dirkson wanted everything kept simple.
I punched in the numbers, threw open the door and dashed out, knowing it would shut and lock automatically. I should have waited for Logan, or at least told him about the alarm, which could shriek like a candy-deprived toddler. As I ran away…er, moved briskly down the street, I considered that maybe I had subconsciously tried to cage him, like a deadly lion. He certainly unnerved me enough.
“Where do you live?” a deep voice drawled pleasantly.
“Shizzle!” I spun.
The street lamp etched Logan’s features into raw perfection, made his hair shimmer like silver silk. He glided closer, seductive, exquisitely male, sliding through the shadows like a big cat. My own pussycat started purring.
Just dropkick me. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what? This?” He bent and stole a quick openmouthed kiss.
I stared at him, flabbergasted. “Don’t sneak up on me.”
“Ah. Then I can do this.” He gave me a longer, deeper kiss.
“No! Don’t do that either.” I scrubbed my mouth, trying to wipe away the hot, powerful taste of him. “For a businessman, you’re not very businesslike.” I walked away. Fast. Almost running.
Logan, damn him, kept pace easily. “So where do you live? No, wait. Eighth and Eisenhower, right?”
I spun again. “How did you know that?”
“Security research. L. Schmetterling, Eighth and Eisenhower.” Logan tapped my nose gently. “That’s half a mile from here. Where’s your car?”
“Car?” I walked on, slower now. What was the point of running? With his long, strong legs, he’d just catch up. “For seven blocks? Even if it were seven miles, I’d walk. You get shot here for driving anything less.”
“Ah, the joy of small towns. Wait. L. Schmetterling. I’ve heard that name before… Yes, at Andersly-Dogget Distribution. We did work there. Programmer, systems design and finally project lead. A brilliant computer specialist with an unheard-of ninety-eight percent solution completion rate. Always on time and under budget. Liese, that’s you?” His eyes glowed gold.
“Maybe.” I’d never been called brilliant. Somehow, I believed it more easily than beautiful.
“You were about to get a well-deserved promotion to head of IT. Hell, Liese, you could have run the whole company, according to the records. Maybe you should have. I heard they’re not doing so well. Why did you leave?”
My happy hit a wall of reality and went splat. “Personal reasons.”
Logan’s smile faded. Perceptive as he was, he probably figured out he’d stumbled onto a Touchy Subject. Hopefully he would drop my issue and turn to something less dangerous—like religion or politics. Hopefully—
“Is this connected with not believing you’re beautiful?”
Logan Steel was incredibly perceptive, and, if he kept this up, incredibly dead. “You’re still here, why?”
Unruffled, Logan said, “I’m walking you home. It’s late, and I’d hate for anything to happen.” As he glided along he passed through alternate bands of street light and moonlight. Both loved him, gently caressing his sculpted features. My fingers itched to do the same.
I jammed them deep in my coat pockets. “At the risk of sounding like an infinite loop, this is Meiers Corners. The worst crimes we have are part-time hookers and kids trying to steal bikes. Bicycles, not motorcycles.”
“That was before Chicago gangs took an interest. You need to be more careful now.” Logan’s long fingers curled over my shoulder, stopping me with restrained strength.
I turned to him in surprise. He stared into the night, his nostrils flared, his eyes that heated gold. His expression was so far from his usual nonchalance that I almost didn’t recognize him. He no longer looked like an urban playboy.
He looked like—a hunter.
Chapter Two
I blinked, but the image of Logan as hunter would not fade. “What do you mean, Chicago gangs? What’s wrong?”
“Just a couple loose ends. Stay here, all right?”
“Yes, but—”
Logan was gone.
Not gone like receding quickly from sight, or swallowed by dark shadows. Gone like poof. Like “Beam me up, Scottie”. Frankly, it was a little creepy. I stood there a moment, trying to decide if I was scared or not.
Ferocious snarling split the night air. And howling, echoey like ravenous wolves inside a cathedral. My stomach went cold, then hot and runny. O
kay, that answered that. Scared. Definitely scared.
Didn’t stop me from whipping out my pepper spray and galloping into the fray.
I was kind of weird that way. Maybe it was part of being a computer geek. See, even before Black Saturday, I was emotionally weak. My ex told me so, and why would he lie? Um, yeah. But I bawled at soap operas and weddings and Bambi’s mom. So sue me.
Mentally, though, I was strong. My mind had all the stamina and courage my emotions lacked so I raced to the rescue. Trembling like a naked chicken, but hey—pepper spray’s wide-angle. Trembling doesn’t affect aim all that much.
The clamor came from the middle of the street where a manhole was suspiciously open and unguarded. Clutching my pepper spray I slid my legs gingerly into the darkened entry. My foot hit a ladder. More howling came, definitely from below, but fading as if it were moving deeper. With a deep breath, I started down.
Moonlight filtered in, rounds of silvery white that lit my way. The ruckus had almost died. I barely heard it over the spray can clanging against the rungs. Good, I could climb back up and go home… The hole opened onto a vast expanse of bare concrete floor. Information filtered into my brain from my seventh grade field trip to the sewage treatment plant. Meiers Corners had a combined system, which meant our sewers were connected to our storm drains. To avoid sewage spillover from heavy rains, we had several overflow areas. This overflow was thankfully dry, because being wet in March in Illinois is no joke.
Well, I was here. Might as well investigate. I took two steps and was struck blind.
No, the tunnel was just pitch black outside the shaft of moonlight. I needed a flashlight. Luckily I carried one in my purse.
Women keep a lot of stuff in their purses. Whole lives practically. I did a sociology experiment in college where I predicted a woman’s occupation based solely on the contents of her purse. PDA, office heels, a book for the Loop “L”? Career woman. Pacifiers and ultra-versatile diaper wipes? Mom. Breath mints, extra undies? Date girl. Of course these roles overlapped.
I had the basics for makeup—tinted sunscreen and mascara (my eyelashes are so blonde, without mascara my lids look bald). My phone tripled as PDA, mood-timer and book-reader so I didn’t need all the things normal women stuff in.