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

by Alison Kent

  He could never have her again. Knowing that fact increased the emotional risk he was taking. He was feeling, breaking that taboo. He had to prolong the pleasure, draw it out. The way she moved against him made holding back damned near impossible.

  "Hannah, stop," he growled, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist, keeping her immobile. He throbbed to life inside her, the pleasure a fierce pain as she ground against him.

  "Stop. Hannah, baby. Please stop or I'll—"

  "—shoot?" she whispered against his ear, her teeth nipping soundly at his lobe, then his neck, her tongue bathing him in wicked strokes.

  "Something like that," he muttered, his face buried in her hair. "I don't want to give you something you may not want."

  She raised back to look askance at him. "Like a disease?"

  He scowled. "No. A baby was more what I had in mind."

  "Isn't it a little late to be worrying about either one?"

  His face colored. "I'm trying my damnedest to be noble here. I'm not exactly thinking with my head at the moment."

  "So I can tell." She squeezed herself around his engorged length.

  He drew a whistling breath in through his teeth. "Don't. Please."

  "Which is it?" She ran her tongue across his lips. "Don't? Or please?"

  "What about a baby?"

  "I've got that covered. How 'bout you?"

  "What?"

  "Are you going to give me anything else I don't want?"

  "I certainly don't plan on it."

  "Good," she said all too knowingly, circling his navel with the tip of her nail. "I can feel you throbbing." She placed her palms flat against him. "I don't know which is stronger. Your heart pounding in your chest or you pulsing inside of me."

  He gazed into her eyes, that full-of-feminine-power look tripling his pounding and pulsing. And like a streak of white-hot light jagged through his gut, he suddenly understood the power she held over him.

  It was the way she teased, the way she cared, the way she gave without demanding he do the same. Most of all it was the way she let him be himself without passing judgment or wanting him to change. She wanted him. Logan.

  And he wanted to give her what she wanted. He held her fast and hard, her breasts crushed against his chest, and pulled her mouth to his. He tasted her want, her need, the sweetness of her offering. Mingled with his own, the flavor was heady, intoxicating, driving him crazier than he already was.

  Their position was awkward. He couldn't get deep enough. He couldn't climb far enough inside her to lose himself the way he wanted. Totally. Completely. To the point where he didn't have to think of why he would hate himself come morning. Because he would. For taking her trust and violating it so cruelly.

  With a groan he raised his hips, twisted to the side and lowered her to the cushions, sinking as deep as he could inside the giving warmth of her body. He buried his face in her neck; the feminine slope of her jaw cradled his head. The rhythm of their loving increased. The age old position of man to woman demanded it. Harder, he thrust. Faster. He panted. She groaned, and tightened her legs around his back to arch upward.

  "Logan!" she cried and shuddered beneath him.

  Her uninhibited response fueled his own. "Hannah, baby. Now. Oh, baby. Pull. Now. Unravel me now."

  He groaned, then with a final plunge gave her something he knew she wouldn't want.

  Every bit of himself.

  The water beat down in a steamy torrent, soothing her healing bruises and the numerous aches that really weren't aches at all. Hannah smiled in silent satisfaction and lifted one leg to soap her foot, only to moan as more unused muscles protested the movement.

  Unused? Hardly. After last night, after Logan had lifted her from the couch and carried her to his bed, after they'd made a mess of grilled cheese sandwiches and hot fudge sundaes, not a muscle on her skeleton was unused, untested, or unsore.

  "Unsore, Hannah?" She spit out a mouthful of hot water. "You'd better watch the company you're keeping. Your grammar's becoming atrocious." She sputtered again and shook her head, plastering her wet hair back with her hands. "Frankly, my dear, do you really care about your grammar? And secondly, why are you carrying on this ridiculous, one-sided conversation?"

  Because, you idiot, you're afraid to think about what last night meant. Because you're afraid it meant more to you than it did to Logan. Because you're afraid to face him this morning and hear him tell you to go. Because you've gone and done what you didn't think you could do. You've fallen in love. And you don't know where to go from here.

  It had been so long since she'd felt anything besides fleeting, temporary emotions. A quick laugh at a cute joke. A simple smile in response to a friendly greeting. A lone tear shed during a sad movie. Not a single incident since her father's death had caused her to feel anything this scary.

  Because this was something that had the ability to expose her vulnerability. She didn't know if she could handle it. If starting here was a new beginning. Or just a temporary detour. If at the first sign of trouble she'd run, afraid of being rejected and relieving the twisting, writhing pain she'd closeted away after her father's death.

  What was the test? How could she know if this was the genuine article? She needed a guidebook, a text, something to lay out the rules. Trusting her own intuition was too frightening. Intuition told her to run for the gold. Logic told her she didn't have the experience to finish the race.

  She lifted her face to the spray, letting the brisk force of the shower wash away her doubts. It didn't work. The stinging stream brought her nerve endings to life. She shivered and told herself to relax.

  Then sensed she wasn't alone.

  The stall door squeaked open. She froze, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. The fiberglass floor creaked beneath her feet, adjusting to Logan's added weight. She closed her eyes and swallowed a deep breath along with a mouthful of water.

  The already tiny stall took on incredibly intimate proportions. Logan's scent surrounded her. The smell of a man, wet and fresh from loving. Wanting more, she inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of herself on his body, along with the rich fragrance of chocolate.

  She leaned her forehead against the wall, letting the water stream down her back, searching for the fortitude to turn around and face him with her newly realized emotions.

  He reached around her for the soap, his breathing raspy. She sucked in the aroma as he lathered the bar in his hands. She tensed, breaking a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the water and everything to do with the heat of the man behind her.

  She wasn't nervous, not physically. Not after all they'd done together, to one another, last night. But still she hesitated turning around and seeing in the light of day what the darkest hours held secret. Logan's honest reaction.

  He started at her nape, rubbing his bare soapy hands in circles over her shoulders, down her back, across her ribcage to the base of her spine. She shivered, waiting while he built up another handful of suds, listening as the bar turned in his hand.

  This time he started with her breasts. No simple strokes. No gentle forays. A seductive massage meant to arouse. He slicked his palms over her fullness. He tugged hard on the nipples, drawing a tiny cry from the back of her throat, then with one arm across her waist drew her against his body. His soap-slick naked body. She felt him long and hard and ready against her bottom, probing to find what he wanted.

  With no further delay, he pressed the heel of his palm between her legs, exploring with his fingers the heat buried deep inside. She cried out and pushed against him. His heart beat a staccato rhythm at her back. The pulsing shower matched the beat, raining down on her front. She rocked against his hand until she felt ready to explode, then wrenched herself free to turn in his arms.

  His mouth found hers without a miss. The water wet their lips, their skin, and she reveled in the sweet abrasion. She whimpered her need and rubbed over him. He grabbed her shoulders and set her away, staring down into her eyes.

&nbs
p; God, she loved this man. The way he made her feel. The way he allowed her to feel. The way he taught her to feel. His eyes were stormy. Hot. The tic in his jaw signaled his dwindling control; the control that was so important to him.

  She lowered her lashes and leaned forward, licking a smear of chocolate from the center of his chest. He shuddered and reached behind her for the tap.

  The steam billowed around them. They both struggled to breathe in the humid, sultry air. Like a storm waiting to break, the water continued in a persistent stream, heightening Hannah's arousal. She stepped back to look him in the eyes. And smiled.

  His control snapped. Her body opened to receive him. Lean arms flexed as he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and took him in. His mouth was on hers, his tongue sweeping, his teeth nipping, his barely contained violence urging her to respond in kind.

  She learned his mouth with her tongue. His sweet, sinful mouth. She whispered naughty love words against his lips, words she'd never heard until he'd growled them in her ear during the dark hours of the night.

  With the pressure of her heels against the base of his spine, she urged him on. He leaned her against the wall and took her hard. The ride was wild, frenzied. She held on, digging her fingernails into his shoulders.

  Completion came in an explosion. She cried out and he swallowed the sound, taking her mouth in urgent, hungry kisses. She was frantic in her need and Logan complied, thrusting into her with deep, solid strokes.

  Seconds later his own storm crested. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and emptied himself in her body. His arms fell slack around her hips. She loosened her legs and tried to stand. He reached out a hand to steady her.

  In a gesture she found unbearably tender, he bathed her with soft gentle strokes before using the soap on himself. When he'd finished, he pulled her to him, never saying a word as he cradled her to his body.

  He lowered his head and kissed the water from the tips of her lashes, licked it from the end of her nose, then kissed her like the redemption of his soul depended on it.

  He lifted his head; his gaze profound. Frighteningly intense. And she felt the strangest urge to hide her nakedness, sure he could read her innermost thoughts.

  Then he was gone. The stall door closed behind him. And Hannah dropped to the floor and let the rush of water hide her unexpected and unexplained tears.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hannah faced facts realistically. It was time to go home. Time to get her life in order. Time to look for a new job. Time to quit playing make-believe in Logan's utopian paradise.

  Basically, she was fine. She hadn't had a dizzy spell in the past twenty-four hours. Her bruises ached, but only if she stretched too high or twisted at an awkward angle. Thank goodness she could reach her forehead without doing either. Her stitches itched like crazy.

  She needed a new car. She needed a change of clothes. But she didn't want to go because she needed Logan most of all. Hitching the towel up beneath her arms, she rummaged through the undergarments in her bag, glanced at the red evening gown hanging in the closet, and wished for a single pair of worn Levi's.

  She wanted to ask Logan if he'd mind her filching a T-shirt and another pair of his shorts. The only problem was she had no idea where he'd gone. She'd made it out of the bathroom this morning just in time to hear him gun the engine of the Mustang, spraying gravel as he whipped down the drive.

  She wasn't quite sure how she felt about him leaving. That depended on where he'd gone and why. If he needed time to think. Or if he was regretting the night they'd spent and all they'd done together.

  Borrowing trouble would only cause more of the same. Considering she was up to her eyeballs in enough mess to last a lifetime, she wasn't going to dwell on something she had no control over. Dropping her towel to the floor she donned a pair of coral panties and a matching bra.

  The best way to keep her mind occupied was to keep her hands busy, so she stripped the top sheet from her bed. Dried muffin crumbs scattered across the room. A dehydrated blueberry landed beside her foot. She stared at it for several seconds, then mashed it with her big toe, thinking she could crush this overwhelming sense of uncertainty along with it. She was wrong.

  The bottom sheet had fared little better during Logan's idea of breakfast in bed. Spilled coffee had dried in a big circle. She peeled the sheet from the mattress. A sweet warmth stroked her hand, touched her face, caressed the soft skin below her collarbone just as he had. His gentle attempt at seduction had created as much chaos on the bed as the memory did inside her.

  Balling up the sheets and towel, she decided to tackle his bed later, when she had a better handle on her emotions. When she could look at the mess of hot fudge sundaes they'd eaten from one another's bodies without aching all over again.

  She stuffed the linens in the washing machine, then went to find her nightshirt. She trailed her fingers over the back of the couch, feeling the corduroy scrape her knees, feeling Logan take her, his need wild, untamed. A bit unsteady, she leaned over, nuzzled her face in the cushions, and inhaled. He was there, hot and sweaty. All male, aroused.

  Memories rushed back and she shivered. Want settled heavily, the ache more than physical. After last night, how could she return to the sterile laboratory world that suited her so well? Or used to suit her so well. The one where she'd never known the likes of Logan Burke.

  Grabbing her nightshirt off the floor, she hurried down the hall and shoved it in the machine. Back to the laundry so she wouldn't have time to think. A pair of Logan's socks and his khaki trousers were wadded up in the corner behind the detergent. She gathered his towel from the bathroom, added it to the load, then tossed the socks on top. In the pockets of his khakis she found seventeen cents and a mutilated piece of paper.

  No, not paper. A check, she realized, unfolding it.

  The signature leaped out at her. Neil Harrington in bold contemptible strokes. Her mind denied what her eyes saw. Her stomach tightened into a knot. She backed up, collided with the wall.

  This couldn't be real. Couldn't be happening.

  Like a spectator watching from above, she saw herself slide to the floor. It took forever, long agonizing seconds while the truth crept into her bones, into her soul, a chilling sense of loss. Only when her backside hit bare wood did she admit the reality of the nightmare.

  She tucked her heels against her bottom, smoothing the crumpled rectangle of paper over her knee until the writing blurred and the paper turned shiny. Why would Logan have a check from Harrington? Why would Harrington pay Logan that much money?

  No. Why would Harrington pay a private investigator that much money? Except to follow someone, to take pictures.

  To ruin her life.

  She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. The dollar amount was impressive. She could understand the allure. What she couldn't understand was betrayal. And what she couldn't abide more than anything was dishonesty. Her bare leg pressed against the cold metal washing machine. The temperature seeped into her blood, a icy cold truth hardening around her heart.

  No wonder he'd been so indifferent about her case in the beginning, so determined to plant a doubt in her mind. He'd wanted to save his own hide. Self-preservation. That was some kind of motivation.

  She ought to take a lesson. So far she knew nothing of it or she'd never have let herself fall in love.

  In love with a man who'd nearly gotten her killed.

  Logan slid the Mustang to a stop under his carport and killed the engine. The air was exceptionally dry and comfortably warm, the sky sea-blue and cloudless. He breathed deeply and picked up the bag beside him. Hannah had always seemed the croissant type, so croissants seemed a good place to start.

  Sometime during the night he'd decided to tell her everything. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment. It might've been when he fed her a bite of his sandwich and a glob of grilled cheese landed on her nipple. He'd cleaned her off with his tongue. It might've been during the sundaes and the experiment s
he'd conducted on his body with hot fudge and cold whipped cream. The cherry had been his idea.

  His loins grew heavy and hard. He closed his eyes, shifted in his seat and groaned.

  For the few hours he'd slept, he'd rested soundly. No nightmares, no terror, no trips to the beach. He wouldn't have wakened when Hannah got up except that certain parts of his body had been stuck to certain parts of hers. When she'd rolled away, she'd taken a couple patches of his skin with her.

  And if he sat here another minute thinking of the pleasure they'd shared, he'd lose the nerve to tell her the truth. Truth guaranteed to cause pain. Truth he could no longer avoid and live with himself, a feat he'd found increasingly hard to do over the last week as it was. He had many amends to make, starting with the one up the stairs directly in front of him. The stairs which had never looked steeper. Or so insurmountable.

  When had he become a coward? Had it been anyone else acting the way he did, living the way he did, he wouldn't have hesitated half a second to label the jerk a yellow-belly. Living out of his car guaranteed room for only himself. Living on the road meant no one to answer to. Living with no personal involvement meant no risk of hurt. It also meant no risk of love.

  What he found himself feeling for Hannah was about the closest he'd ever come.

  They'd talked about danger more than once this past week and taken physical risks of the worst kind. Now he was ready to take the emotional ones as well. Because now he knew the difference in being a man and acting like one.

  On that sobering thought he climbed from his car, gripping the white bakery sack like salvation. He plodded up the steps, steeling himself for the confrontation to come.

  What he didn't expect was what he found—Hannah, sitting on the end of a lounger, wearing that red thing he'd thought was a nightgown.