Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense)

by Alison Kent

  Hands on his knees he leaned forward, listening to his conscience beat in his head. He couldn't face her, didn't want to know what he'd done to her. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and caught the scent of his own fear in the dampness.

  Get a grip, Burke. Hannah's with a doctor. Not a coroner. She's been through enough without having to see you shaking like a wino.

  The door whooshed open. The doctor came through, gave a quick nod, and placed a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. "She's scared, but fine. I imagine she'd like to see a familiar face right about now."

  Logan nodded, shoved a hand through his hair and walked in. Hannah's lashes fluttered open. Eyes glazed with pain met his own. She smiled. Slowly, but she smiled. "You were right."

  Her voice sounded weak and it scared him. With a gentle touch, he swept her bangs off her forehead, avoiding the gauze bandage at her hairline, and asked, "About which of many things."

  "My car's not a banana. It's a sardine can," she answered, turning her cheek into his palm.

  The fact that she felt well enough to tease eased his mind somewhat. The fact that she wanted his touch—and he could've swore he felt her lips move against his skin—sent a new beat through his veins.

  He tucked his hands in the ragged pockets of his threadbare jeans and cleared his throat. "I imagine your car closely resembles banana pudding. You're one lucky cookie."

  She chuckled. Then moaned.

  "You okay? Where does it hurt?"

  "The question is, where does it NOT hurt?"

  "When they gonna spring you?" He shifted from one foot to the other. Damn, he hated hospitals. Too many bad memories lived in the sterile walls.

  "They're not," Hannah replied, bringing him back to the present. "At least for a couple of days."

  "Why not?"

  "I need someone to monitor my concussion. As we both know, none of my neighbors are particularly reliable."

  "I am."

  "What?"

  "As reliable as they come."

  "Who comes?"

  "Mankind."

  "Don't make me laugh, Logan. It hurts too bad."

  "Would you mind?"

  "Having you take care of me? Can you spare the time?"

  "Consider it part of the service." His tone teased. His plea did not. He wanted to assuage his guilt, guilt he carried for no good reason other than instead of him, because of him, a tiny child had died. Guilt that he'd put Hannah in the same kind of danger.

  He wanted to make it up to her. To give himself a small peace of mind, a small measure of self-worth he probably didn't deserve. And most of all to prove to himself that what he felt for her was strictly business, strictly generic.

  Like hell. Logan groaned.

  "Hey," she softly prompted. "I'm the one who's supposed to be making those noises here."

  His eyes opened, finding a safe spot to stare at a foot above her head.

  C'mon Burke. This is not time to give into the ghosts. The hesitant touch of her hand on his thigh calmed him like a dose of Valium.

  "Logan?"

  He gave her a crooked smile and squeezed her hand, her fingers tiny and feminine and vulnerable in his. At the ragged end of a long sigh, he said, "I don't do well in hospitals."

  "Bad memories?"

  Throat clogged, he nodded.

  "The same ones from the beach?"

  He'd almost forgotten about that. Almost, but not quite. "More or less."

  "Anything I can help with?"

  The depth of his self-pity rose like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut, a well-aimed kick delivered excruciating inches lower. "Hey, that's my line. You're the one needing my help."

  "I don't think that's exactly true."

  Damn, but she was perceptive. If he didn't keep the past where it belonged, his shaky future was headed straight for the tubes. He slipped into his carefully reserved investigator's mode. "Didn't we agree that I call the shots?"

  "Sounds vaguely familiar."

  He glared down, a smile tugging at his mouth. She squirmed beneath both the blanket and his scrutiny. Her face paled and his enjoyment of the upper hand faded. "No more sass, no more wiggling and no more argument until you've had at least a week to recover. I'm taking you home."

  "Yes, boss."

  "With me."

  "Yes, boss."

  "I love the way that sounds."

  Hannah managed a weak smile between pinched lips. "Just don't get too used to it. Right now acquiescence is the lesser of two evils."

  "The second being taking me down a peg or two?"

  "My day will come."

  "Of that I have no doubt. Now, what about work. How much sick time do you have?"

  "As much as I need."

  "Generous of ViOPet."

  Her eyes drifted closed, and with a defeated sigh, she sank deeper into the pillow. "ViOPet has nothing to do with it."

  Logan liked neither her look or her comment. A suspicious mental switch clicked on. "How do you mean?"

  "Seems it was decided I was a threat to company security. I was fired this morning."

  The wheels whirred faster and Logan began to pace, fury building deep within. It didn't matter how many times he told himself this was just another case, the lie wouldn't stick. Ordinary cases didn't light his fuse with a gut-burning fire.

  "This didn't happen on the way to work?"

  She slowly shook her head. "I was on my way to you."

  He filed that admission away until later. For now only one thing mattered—kicking Neil Harrington's ass. "Tell me what happened."

  Fifteen minutes later, she finished her recitation. Logan perched on the edge of the padded vinyl chair at the side of her bed, his hands twisted together between his knees. "And you told all this to the police."

  She nodded, then shook her head. "I can't believe they'd be so stupid as to move those barrels in broad daylight."

  "They're getting desperate and the mistake just cost them."

  Tension settled over the room, wedging itself between them. "What have I gotten myself into?"

  "I warned you it might get dangerous," Logan said, knowing his comment sounded harsh under the circumstances. That's how he felt. Harsh, ruthless, and back in control. For a short time he'd slipped; let himself forget the rules of the game. No involvement. This incident cut too close to the bone.

  Restitution for Hannah's suffering would cost someone dearly. He fully intended to see payment made in spades.

  "Dangerous," she whispered softly, seeming to taste the word.

  The term sounded twice as bad coming from her sweet mouth. Her weakened state enhanced its meaning. The knot in Logan's stomach clenched hard.

  Her eyes took on a faraway look. "I've never fully appreciated that word before. It packs quite a punch."

  "You still game?"

  She looked back at him then. "Ask me that in a week."

  "Good girl. With the police involved you should be safe."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Now that they've exposed themselves, ViOPet'll lay low. That gives us time to make some plans."

  "Us?"

  "The bitter end. Remember?"

  "I hired you to find out who was following me. We've more than determined that to my satisfaction."

  He stared into her trusting eyes and lost a tiny part of his resolve. One day he'd have to come clean. He'd have to bare that particular secret. But first he'd see her through this mess, clean it up so she wouldn't hate him so bad in the end—which sounded an awful lot like involvement. "It's over when I say it's over."

  "And your other name is Superman?"

  He only laughed.

  Solemnly, she said, "I can't pay for that much of your time."

  "I'm in this for the glory now." Not to mention Neil Harrington's ass. He gave her a quick wink. "Let's blow this joint, kid."

  Chapter Eight

  Blueberry scented steam drifted across the kitchen. Logan kneed the oven door shut and juggled the hot muffin tin
from hand to hand. Grinding out a curse, he dropped it on the stovetop and stuck his right index finger in his mouth.

  What the hell was he doing? He never cooked, unless nuking a TV dinner qualified, and he certainly wasn't thrilled to find himself fixing breakfast for Hannah. It meant he was taking this case, and her, too seriously.

  Yet seriously didn't begin to describe her effect on him. She was a fire in his blood, an insistent greedy flame licking away at the list of reasons demanding he keep her away. She was becoming the reason for everything he did. And he wasn't doing a damned thing to stop it.

  From the time they'd reached the beach house late Monday evening until Tuesday dawn, he'd wakened her every two to three hours. He'd sat on the floor in the corner or paced the length of the small bedroom, but he'd never left her side.

  Watching her sleep, he found it strange how well he knew her, yet knew her not at all. For close to six weeks he'd followed her, learned her habits, likes, and dislikes. Found out she never wore jeans or sneakers and could spend hours browsing through bookstores. Discovered she didn't eat fast food and shopped for veggies at a market two blocks west of her place. Determined her to be a loner and more than once saw a look of uncertainty cross her face.

  Learned how he'd never fit into her decent, proper, straitlaced world. Wondered why he'd even considered it.

  She'd napped most of Tuesday and he'd dozed fitfully on the couch. That night he'd walked the beach while she finally and truly slept—the uninterrupted sleep of the dead. That realization, even more than the nightmares, kept him awake Tuesday night. The thought of what could've happened ripped his guts to tatters. She'd been on her way to him.

  Didn't she know he wasn't worth the time it took to care?

  Now, rubbing the sleepy grit from his eyes, he slung a dish towel over his bare shoulder and picked up the breakfast tray. He'd feed her and send her on her way. That would be the safest course. For the both of them.

  People around him got hurt, sort of like they'd spun life's roulette wheel and lost. He was a jinx and Fate was no respecter of persons. It had happened to family, friends, and people he didn't even know. His father. His brother, Simon. And worst of all, to that tiny innocent child, the one he refused to think about. He couldn't have it happen again.

  He nudged the door open with his hip in time to witness a wake-up stretch so innocently erotic it made the steam from the muffins seem like arctic air. Hannah caught her hair up away from her neck and raised her elbows. The gauzy nightshirt hugged her breasts and the tray wobbled in his hands. "Morning."

  "Morning yourself," she answered rubbing her tongue over her teeth while tucking the sheet around her hips. "My mouth feels like a wad of cotton." Trying to scoot into a more comfortable position, she groaned. "And I hurt everywhere."

  "Orange juice or coffee?" Logan asked, waiting for her to wriggle up against the headboard. He placed the tray on her lap, thinking how tousled and sexy and totally unlike Hannah she looked, thinking his thoughts totally inappropriate under the circumstances, thinking, anyway, how she'd look after a night of hot and heavy loving. He took two steps back.

  "Oh Logan, you have a bit of chef in you, after all! With a smile tugging up one corner of her mouth, her gaze flicked from item to item on the tray. Her first selection was the orange juice which she downed in one long thirsty gulp.

  "More?" he asked, his voice snagged in the back of his throat.

  She shook her head. "Looks wonderful." She dipped a spoon into the carton of strawberry yogurt and, eyes closed, let it slide down her throat with a husky, "Mmm."

  "Good?" He could barely choke out the word.

  "I'm famished. Right now even the Cap'n Crunch looks yummy." She dug her spoon into the bowl and devoured a huge, unladylike bite, a ribbon of milk zigzagging down her chin.

  He wanted to lap it up like a tomcat so bit his tongue and jerked the blinds open, allowing beams of morning sun to stream in and illuminate the incoherent corners of his mind. Gingerly, he perched one hip on the end of the bed. "I wasn't sure what you'd like so picked up a couple different things."

  "I don't usually eat much breakfast," she answered around a mouthful of crunchy nuggets, reaching for the steaming muffin. "I can't believe I've been denying myself such a culinary treat all these years."

  Trying his best to relax, Logan forced a grin. "All part of the service, ma'am."

  It was definitely the wrong thing to say. She crumbled the blueberry muffin. Purple inklike blotches stained her fingers. She raised her chin, her haunted, hunted gaze further destroying his resolve to send her on her way. "They tried to kill me."

  Guilt ate away at the dwindling core of his conscience. He needed to come clean, to tell her the truth, admit the depth of his involvement. He started to, going so far as to open his mouth. Instead, he shrugged and ended up saying, "Maybe not."

  A multitude of reactions—shock, hope, and finally disbelief—flicked through her eyes. "Oh, give me a break." She shook her hand, flinging muffin crumbs across the bed. "Why else would I be fired, then run off the road by the same car that's been following me?"

  Her glare pulsed with righteous indignation, the sarcasm in her voice patently clear. Her vehement reaction didn't surprise him. His urge to soothe her did. He stood, leaning one fist against the wall.

  Through the window he watched the sand, whipped up by the sudden gusts of breeze, shift then settle. His emotions teetered with the same ambivalence.

  "Maybe they were just trying to give you a good scare," he finally said for lack of anything better, anything safer to say.

  "Well they've sure as hell succeeded." She collapsed against the stack of pillows, one arm thrown over her eyes in surrender. The pose was deceptive; he knew her that well at least. Hannah was no quitter and that added a dash of admiration to the increasing ache building low in his gut.

  He turned back to the window. The siren song of the sea, the one he'd heard and wanted to answer so many times, presented less temptation. Nothing had been the same since that phantom kiss, the one he refused to believe had been real for what the mere allusion was doing to him.

  He wanted to crawl alongside her in bed, ease down on the mattress, slip up against her, inside her and console the both of them. But more than that he wanted to assuage himself of this damn suffocating guilt, the realization that everything she'd been through the past month had been at his hands, his fault.

  "I'm sorry, Logan. I didn't mean to snap."

  With a heavy sigh he turned and leaned against the window sill, stuffing his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans. "Don't apologize. Most people wouldn't be as calm about this whole ordeal as you've been."

  "Yeah, well, I've had years of practice at being calm." She popped a mashed blueberry in her mouth and sucked the end of her finger clean.

  "And that just might help your chances."

  She glanced up sharply, pulling her finger from her mouth to ask, "Of making it through this mess in one piece?"

  "Exactly."

  "What now?"

  He shrugged, an indifferent raising of one shoulder that belied the tension pulling a taut rope down his back and straight through his gut to his groin. He wondered if her finger still tasted like blueberry. Or if it tasted like her mouth. "The cops will be looking for the car that rammed you and the truck that lost the barrels. I imagine it's gonna get a might hairy in the upper echelons of ViOPet."

  "And Neil Harrington is gonna be one sorry dog," Hannah pledged, a vindictive gleam in her eye.

  Levering off the window sill, Logan eased down onto the mattress, his thigh bumping into hers. She scooted over, making more room and he took advantage, one hip cocked snugly against her leg. Doing his casual best he asked, "Harrington?"

  "My slime of an ex-boss. The one I'd bet a year's salary is behind this." She thought for a minute, fiddling with the muffin crumbs on the tray. "He and his goons will either speed up whatever it is they're doing or hold off until things cool down."

  "H
ey," he said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, staying to smooth down the tangled mess. "Who's the investigator here?" The smile she gave him tightened the tension cable holding him together.

  "Maybe I should go into the business," she said, "I certainly haven't had any luck in my chosen profession. First I give up med school, then one job after another to look after my mother, and before ViOPet there was the thing with Julian ..."

  She stopped and studied the satin binding of the blanket, nervously plucking at the twisted sheet secured beneath his knee. He knew she regretted making that admission but since she'd opened the door he asked, "Why'd you leave Vandale?"

  She looked up, her face shuttered, blank. "That's personal."

  "Personal like you don't want to tell me? Or personal," he circled a lazy finger over the back of her hand, "like personal."

  "Both," she whispered and glanced down.

  "He wanted more than you wanted to give?"

  She only nodded, her gaze fast on his hand, her breathing a combination of excitable gasp and husky invitation.

  "Did he kiss you?" He ran an inexplicably shaky finger over her lower lip, gently soothing the puffy corner she'd no doubt bit open during her tumble down the ravine.

  Her tongue darted out to bathe the cut, teasing the tip of his finger before he pulled away. Damp from her mouth, he slid his finger down her neck, catching hold of the voluminous neckline of her nightshirt.

  "Did he touch you?" His eyes riveted to the flash fire burning in hers, he slipped his hand inside her shirt. His knuckles grazed side to side over her flesh, the fantasy come true about to break him.

  He skimmed one pebbled nipple with his finger and the fire in his belly set his jeans ablaze. Sweat beaded his forehead. He tugged the gauzy fabric lower still until she gasped, a sound more pain than pleasure.

  He looked down and found himself stunned by the slash of indigo and muted green running from her collarbone between her breasts to her hip. "Does it hurt much?"

  Hannah lowered her head, trying to see what he saw. "Quite a rainbow, isn't it?"