Biting Me Softly: Biting Love, Book 3

by Mary Hughes

  I shook my head in denial and his eyes sparkled knowingly, gold flecks bright in the rich hazel irises. Sweet vector equations, the male was gorgeous. If faces were phaser settings, Logan’s would be incinerate. I cleared my throat. “Glad I amuse you. Look, could you just answer the question?”

  Logan’s smile faded. “Remember my first attempt at householding?”

  “You were attacked by rogues. One of them was older than the rest, and—oh, no. Not Ruthven?”

  “The same.”

  “That was the monster who killed your sister-in-law?”

  “And terrified my household. Yes.” Logan’s jaw worked like he was fighting to control his fangs.

  And suddenly it wasn’t a terrible tragedy from centuries ago but a clear threat now. Ruthven, who’d terrorized Logan in the past, was here. Worse, Logan was scarred from that past encounter—how much would that insecurity have grown over the years?

  How much stronger was Ruthven really? How much deadlier? Would even all Logan’s training be enough?

  And if not, what would happen? There were implications beyond Logan losing another fight to Ruthven. Logan was important to the Iowa Alliance. What would his loss mean to them? To us, the humans? Because if I’d gleaned anything, it was that the Alliance stood between humans and rogues, who’d treat us like blood on the hoof.

  “But Logan—why hasn’t anything been done before this? Didn’t you know he was practically next door?”

  “Oh, I knew. But by then he was part of the Coterie. Any move against him would have caused trouble for the Alliance.” A low growl underlay his words. “Damned politics. I think I liked it better in the old days. Kill or be killed. Nice, simple. No need for messy arbitrations and stupid negotiations.”

  “You mean…you can’t fight Ruthven, Logan.” What if he killed you? But I didn’t say that out loud. “Not if it means trouble for the Alliance, right? I mean, what if you killed him?”

  “Then I would be a very happy vampire.” Any trace of softness in Logan’s eyes was gone, leaving only the hard, relentless hunter. Ruthless. Could I hope that would be the result, if Ruthie and Logan met now? That we’d be Ruthieless?

  Oh, great. I’d gone beyond sarcasm when stressed and was starting to pun—thanks to Logan, of course. The more time I spent with him, the more of his traits I picked up, like an old married couple…aw, phooey. “But if you and Ruthven fight, what would happen to the Blood Center? He’s one of twenty-two leaders, you said. Wouldn’t there be a backlash from the other twenty-one?”

  Logan snorted his disgust. “Yes. That’s why I haven’t destroyed him until now.” He looked at me and his eyes fired ruby-red. “But if he laid one hand on you—”

  “No, Logan. He was high-handed and chauvinistic. But he didn’t touch me.” Only fired me. I’d have to find some way to fight that.

  “I don’t even like that he was here alone with you.” He drummed fingers on my desk. They went tick-tick-tick. Like he had extra-long nails or—I stared. Logan was tapping real live inch-long talons of death on my desk. “If he even threatened you I’ll—”

  “Logan, no.” This was escalating too fast. I didn’t want Logan to fight Ruthven but even I knew I couldn’t say so directly. “Ruthven’s only here to negotiate, so you play nice.” I adopted my best mother-voice. “And put away your claws, young man.”

  He stopped tapping. Stared at his hand and frowned. The talons dissolved, leaving his long, beautiful fingers. But his glorious mouth was turned down, for all the world like he was pouting. It was absolutely adorable.

  I must have had rocks in my head. “But I think it’s sweet that you care.”

  One corner of his mouth, reluctantly, turned up. “Can I at least put a skunk in his coffin?”

  “You may not. Do you guys sleep in coffins?”

  Logan laughed. “No. Except for Ruthven. If there’s a corny cliché, Ruthven’s got it nailed.” He sobered. “Thanks, Liese. You coaxed my brain back online. Excuse me a moment. I have to report this.” He pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed dial. “It’s me, sir. There’s been a slight hitch.” His tone was that warm respect that meant he was talking to Mr. Elias. “No, sir. Negotiations are still on for tonight, here at the Blood Center. But Nosferatu sent Ruthven to handle them.”

  The only thing that stunned me more than finding out negotiations were happening here was Logan was talking to Mr. Elias about a vampire.

  “But I think this will surprise you. He’s joined the Blood Center board of directors, the opening gambit for a takeover.”

  I wondered how Elias would react. Zinnia had said he was old. Given Elias’s exalted position in the business community and the respect Logan paid him, I believed it. But how old? I hoped Logan’s surprise wouldn’t shock the poor, frail old man into a grave.

  Although, remembering his voice, there was nothing poor or frail about Elias.

  Logan’s face took on a look of sheer incredulity. “How did you know that?”

  Apparently there was nothing slow about Elias, either. Huh. Competition for Dolly Barton. I wondered if Elias looked like Dolly. I pictured him small, blond, and stacked…okay, maybe not.

  “One more thing. Ruthven cornered Liese Schmetterling alone in her office today. Do you have any recommendations?”

  I imagined old Elias counseling tact. And patience. And—

  “That extreme? …oh, I see. Yes, sir. Of course, Mr. Elias. Thank you.” Logan shut his phone and slipped it away.

  I had to be wrong. Elias was a guiding light of rationality. “What did he say?”

  Logan shrugged. “I’m to destroy Ruthven.”

  Well. That was pretty clear. And what it meant…oh, no. I was going nuts. Totally bonkers, Lost, season N-plus-one. Elias was counseling destruction of a vampire… Truth burst on me. Elias was a vampire too. And not any vampire but the Ancient One, a super-duper übervamp.

  Although it did explain that voice. “Now? Not after the negotiations?”

  “Elias leaves those decisions to me.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’ll wait?”

  “It depends.” Logan leaned forward. The desk was between us but he pumped up so big and strong that mere wood was no defense. “I’ll do whatever I have to in order to protect you, the Blood Center and Meiers Corners.” He tapped a single claw on the desk to underline each point. “In that order.”

  I smiled weakly. Logan wasn’t wearing his CEO face, or even his hunter face. The Logan I saw at that moment was an executioner.

  Saner heads needed to be present. Headsmen, heads. Ha. I’d have let Logan in on the joke but something told me he wasn’t in humor receiving mode right now.

  All the more reason for me to be at the negotiations tonight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Logan left after that to prepare for his encounter with Ruthven. I didn’t like the gleam in his eye, which looked way too martial.

  But that wasn’t my only worry. Logan’s call to Elias reminded me that this was Friday. Elias was back in his office and expecting my call.

  Oh yeah. I was doomed. I didn’t even bother setting my mood-timer. When doomed, despair is a perfectly proper and rational response.

  Time passes slowly when you’re mired in your own misery. I had years to ponder what was left of my future. Elias knew I had sent that picture, betraying Logan, his trusted right-hand man. Vampire. Yeah. Elias would chop me into little bits.

  Oh, snap. Elias was the one who’d told Logan to destroy Ruthven. Doomed? I was dead. I almost longed for the days when the worst life threw at me was bankruptcy and blacklisting by Botcher. Compared to execution by a golden prince and a chasm-voiced king, a yipping rat-bastard was almost funny.

  At lunchtime the door shooshed open. Now what? Logan, Zinnia or Ruthven, it was bound to be more bad news. I pretended I hadn’t heard the door. Maybe whoever it was would go away.

  A picture slapped onto my desk. “Have you seen this?”

  I jumped. Looming over me was th
e red face of John Dirkson, Executive Director and my boss.

  Note to self: when bad news comes through the door, do not stick head in sand. Running is more effective.

  Dirkson was big and burly like an 1800s circus strongman, his handlebar mustache and woolly sideburns straight out of the same century. Like his appearance, the chief was ultra-traditional, not likely to take the dungeon scene well.

  He thumped the paper. “It came in Tuesday’s email but I didn’t open it until today. Well? Have you seen it?” He chomped his thick cigar like he wanted to chew it to death.

  “Uh…no.” I glanced down, hoping against hope. But it was the dreaded photoshopped pic, printed out on an old color inkjet. Hmm, the registration needed adjustment. But talk about a career-limiting move. My eyes unhappily scanned the male bodies, so much punier than Logan’s, then returned to the Chief. “Um, why?”

  “You might recognize one of those men.”

  I swallowed. I couldn’t believe I had angled for just this moment. Had planned to crow, “I recognize him! The supposed security man. Security, ha.”

  But now, I couldn’t do it. Not only was Logan an astonishing lover, not only was he kind and funny, but he was protecting people. And I loved him. I didn’t want to guess what all that might mean, but one thing was certain—I had to come clean. Admit I’d doctored the photo. That I’d sent it, and why.

  I’d lose my job. And without a recommendation, blacklisted by Botcher, I’d never find another. But I’d have my pride. And I’d have protected Logan. Food and shelter were overrated anyway. Maybe my mother could live at Cousin Rolf’s and his insurance would cover deranged dependent aunts.

  “It’s not what you think, Chief.”

  “Yes, it is,” Dirkson thundered. “Look at that!” He stabbed the photo with the gnawed end of his cigar.

  “It only looks like him. It’s not—” I broke off, seeing who the cigar pointed to for the first time.

  Not Logan’s face. But the other man in the picture.

  “That slime.” Dirkson stabbed again. “Do you believe this?”

  “Shizzle.” Take away the corset and the wig—

  It was Botcher. Bernie Botcher, the man who’d ruined my life.

  “That’s your ex-fiancé. I knew he was scum, but this proves it.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Bernie Botcher, a porn star?

  “Dolly Barton told me everything that bit of walking pestilence did to you at my weekly moustache waxing…grrr.” Dirkson stuck the cigar back in his mouth.

  The phone started ringing. I was still trying to wrap my mind around Botcher as a porn star. What would his stage name be? Ballher U. Betcher? The Viagra Kid?

  “Somebody ought to call this fuck’s boss.” Dirkson waited a moment. “Aren’t you going to answer the phone?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Dazed, I hit connect.

  “Liese, good news.” Logan, but so excited I almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Logan?” I croaked.

  For once he didn’t catch the strain in my voice. “I had a little time on my hands before tonight. You remember that call you got from your ex? Well, it was highly suggestive, to say the least. So I did a little digging. The ADD security feeds reveal Botcher’s had his hand in the till. He embezzled thousands of dollars, and it’s all recorded. I’m alerting the company as soon as I get off the phone with you. Told you I’d eviscerate him, princess. That man will never hurt you again.”

  “You’re so good to me,” I whispered. As I hung up I choked on a huge sob.

  “There, there.” Dirkson patted my shoulder with one big paw. “I know you must be very happy.”

  “Yes, very…happy.” I sniffled. And when he handed me his big red hankie, I covered my face and wished the world would go away.

  After Dirkson left I phoned Mr. Elias. I wanted to admit my guilt, then commit suicide by ice cream or something. I’d never see Logan again. Five days of heavenly orgasms were going to have to hold me for the rest of my life.

  Heavenly? That’s how Dolly said I’d know the right man… Logan Steel was the Right One. Aw, shizzle. Maybe I’d kill myself on double-chocolate fudge.

  Mr. Elias’s secretary was polite, efficient and firm. “Unless this is an emergency, Mr. Elias is not to be disturbed before six.”

  “It is an emergency,” I tried to tell her.

  “That means immediate physical danger,” she said.

  In most companies a missing paperclip constituted an emergency. Her reply was refreshing, but unhelpful. “Please,” I said again. “My name is Liese Schmetterling. I’m with the Blood Center in Meiers Corners.”

  That got a reaction. “Meiers Corners? Mr. Steel’s run into trouble?”

  “You might say that,” I muttered. “It’s avoidable trouble. If I can speak with Mr. Elias before six. I know he’s in. Logan talked with him this morning.”

  “Mr. Steel has Mr. Elias’s private number. But…” The iron secretary was weakening. I scrunched my eyes and wished really hard on the Sex Fairy. She said, “I’ll see what I can do, Ms. Schmetterling. If Mr. Elias becomes available, I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up and waited.

  And waited. My work was done, thanks to the efficient Steel Security programs. I chewed off my fingernails. I cleaned my desk. I reorganized my pencil cup. I sorted my cable ties by color. I chewed off my cuticles. The phone was silent.

  So I trundled over to the AllRighty-AllNighty to pick up some plastic cups and paper napkins. After all, if Logan went through with the negotiations, we’d need to serve refreshments.

  That took half an hour.

  I came back and waited some more. They say a watched pot never boils. Physics ensures that it eventually does, but I swear Stephen Hawking was laughing his ass off over the laws of Liese. I felt like Schrödinger substituted me for his cat.

  At four thirty the door swooshed open, making me jump. The guy who came in with clipboard and uniform looked a twin for that loud redheaded comedian—flaming curly hair, a delicate, almost pretty face, and muscles like Jiffy Pop. Carrothead, Jr. He tossed me the clipboard. “Delivery.”

  “Where’s Johansson?” I signed.

  “Out sick. It’s a small load anyway. My van’s out back. Open the rear door?”

  “Sure. Flu?” At least this would occupy me for a time.

  Carrothead followed me back. “What?”

  “Johansson. Did he get the flu again?” I coded off the alarm and opened the back door to see an appalling cherry-red van in the alley.

  “Oh. Yeah, if flu comes in a Jim Beam bottle.”

  “Really?” Didn’t sound like Johansson, but how many of us really know our fellow workers? Logan, for example. How many employees knew why Steel Security had the extra-deluxe dental plan?

  It took six minutes to unload the van. Normally checking the stock in would take another fifteen but thanks to you-know-who’s software, I was at my desk two minutes later, brooding again.

  At five to six, the phone finally rang. The jangling sounded deeper somehow, like a cloister bell. The Ring of Death. I hit connect. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Schmetterling.” The canyon-deep voice was unmistakable, permeated with effortless power. Like Michael Dorn (think Worf on Star Trek: TNG), drenched in testosterone.

  “Hello, Mr. Elias,” I said miserably. “About the picture—”

  “Yes, good quality work. Usually there’s a change in coloration where the image has been photoshopped. I couldn’t see it on your picture, and my eyes are quite good.”

  “You…you know it’s fake?”

  “Certainly. I’ve known Logan Steel for a long time now, Ms. Schmetterling. He would not indulge in a ménage à trois.” The phrase rolled off Elias’s tongue like silk. “It’s not his style.”

  Were we talking about the same man? Logan Steel, a male so sexy hot he made galaxies ignite? An almost omniscient lover who’d cracked my Botcher shell easier than hacking email? “Logan probably has women all over t
he country, Mr. Elias. The world! I’m sure he does ménage à three all the time—ménage à four or five too.”

  “No, that’s his twin. Logan’s the conservative one. Luke’s a bit of a lady-killer.”

  “He’s more of a playboy?”

  “He has a few issues to work through. As does Logan, but you’ve already discovered that, I believe. Now, as to that picture.”

  I had to make this right. “I faked the picture, Mr. Elias. You can’t punish Logan for it.”

  “I won’t, Ms. Schmetterling.”

  I slumped in relief. “And me?”

  “Ah. Well, that’s up to Logan, isn’t it? Good night, Ms. Schmetterling.”

  Up to Logan. I grabbed for Dirkson’s red hankie.

  I didn’t get to make things right with Logan before Bo and Elena showed up at six ten for the negotiations. The meeting wasn’t until six thirty, but maybe they were on Meiers Corners time (twenty minutes early for everything).

  Or maybe they were preparing for battle too. I buzzed them in and they cased the office like it was a warzone.

  “Logan’s not here yet?” Elena carried a yard-long green wedge with topside sight and cockpit controls underneath. She saw me eyeing it and grinned. “New grenade launcher. XM25. Does air bursts. I’m trying it out.”

  “Um, isn’t that a bit overkill? Can’t you grab a stake, stab and—poof?”

  Bo rolled his eyes. Elena said, “Nah. You have to punch out the heart to stop a vamp. Bones are in the way, so unless you’re superstrong, a bazooka’s the only way to go.”

  “What about pepper spray?”

  “You’d have to get it directly in the eyes, and most vamps move too fast. Besides, pepper spray doesn’t work at all on mist.”

  “Oh. Great.” Apparently I was helpless.

  Bo prowled the perimeter of the small office, as grim as I’d ever seen him, reinforcing my anxiety. So when he said, “You’d better go now, Liese,” I nearly did.

  But Elias had told Logan to destroy Ruthven. While I wasn’t against that per se, there was the small matter of the last time they fought—when Logan lost, not just physically but emotionally. He’d trained since then, but it was obvious he still felt hurt and betrayed. That was a huge potential weakness.