Beg for Me

by Natalie Anderson

“Okay I give in. Is it something good?” He hadn’t had truly good in an age. Good was at least twelve months ago. He’d had nothing but mediocre until he’d gone cold turkey and donned the halo.

  “This is a joke, right?” Rocco answered.

  “What is?”

  “This stuff all over the internet.”

  Logan flopped back onto his bed, closed his eyes and sighed. “Are you still going on about that?”

  Everyone had said it would die down in a matter of days. It hadn’t. How the hell had he ended up starring in a sex clip on the internet? Oh yeah that’s right, he’d gotten drunk. He’d been in a foul mood and gone to obliterate it. He’d followed an impulse and not given a damn like he was some kind of invincible man. Out of control. Yeah, that had come back to bite him. Again and again and again.

  Mediocre had become mortifying.

  “Not that.” Rocco said impatiently. “The girl. Who is it you’re marrying?”

  Logan opened his eyes and stared up at his white ceiling. “It’s December, Roc. You’re way late for April Fool’s.”

  “It’s all over the internet that you’re engaged. I quote, ‘she said yes’.”

  “Who said yes?”

  “That’s my question. Didn’t you tweet this?”

  “Tweet what?” He didn’t ‘tweet’ or ‘pin’ or insta-update any statuses over a million social media outlets. He had some woman who—

  Ah hell.

  His phone buzzed in his ear. “Hang on.” He glanced at the screen.

  Connor.

  He spoke with his brother often enough, but twice in one day? He touched ‘ignore’. He hadn’t started to talk to Rocco again when his phone did another shake and buzz—this time Xander.

  Shit. There really was some crazy going down. Logan hit ‘ignore’ again and asked Rocco. “This isn’t a joke, is it?”

  “It’s on your Twitter account.” Rocco answered.

  What was on his Twitter account that had them all trying to get in contact? “I need to go.”

  As he ended the call, another name flashed up on the screen. Logan’s blood iced. Rex? He blinked a couple times to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. But no.

  Logan Rex Hughes Senior was calling him. His father.

  Logan grinned, though it was more grimace. First call in how many years? The last direct communication between them had been a frigid declaration—leave now and you’re not welcome to return.

  Yeah well, Logan hadn’t wanted to return. Not to the house anyway. Not while Rex Hughes was in dictator mode. And Logan sure as hell wasn’t talking to the old bastard now. For the third time Logan hit ‘ignore’ but his phone wasn’t finished. Xander again. Jeez, things must be bad.

  He ignored all the calls and pulled up the Twitter app Tyler had downloaded the day they’d decided to take control of his online image. In a half second his own tweet stream was loaded. The latest post was some horrendous picture of himself in the new active-wear jacket, posted less than half an hour ago. Logan winced—the jacket looked good, he looked fierce. He’d never wanted to front the clothing campaign but Connor had said he ought to he be the figurehead—make the most of his snow credentials. Logan hadn’t realized Connor meant literal figurehead, not just CEO. So he’d been fronting the campaigns since the first season, but today’s was the last for him.

  But Logan felt guilty, always would where Connor was concerned. He glowered at the stupid tweet stream again. Full of inane comments about where he was going and how much coffee he’d had.

  He’d known the social stuff was a dumb idea but he’d been swayed after Connor had been so damn ‘understanding’ after the ‘twins’ nightmare. That old guilt had bitten, Logan had promised he’d do whatever it took to raise his public profile in a more positive manner. He couldn’t let it affect the bottom line.

  Ty—his usually reliable assistant—had suggested a social media manager who’d take care of all his online interaction and presentation. The idea suited Logan, he had better things to be thinking about. Tyler already had the perfect candidate—some shiny new comms grad—and given how embattled Logan had been at the time, given how much he liked to support new enterprises, he’d agreed and it was done. His new social media ‘self’ had launched less than twenty-four hours later.

  Logan was all for riding out a storm. He wasn’t up for doing the penitent man thing. He’d screwed up. So what. Everyone did. Didn’t mean he had to pay for it the rest of his life. And it was hardly the worst crime of the century.

  Anyway, hadn’t the crime been committed against him? He’d not noticed the dreaded ‘twins’ filming on their phones, not known they were going to set a soundtrack to it and upload it all over the freaking internet.

  Hadn’t he been doing the penitent man thing anyway? Hadn’t he hidden away? He’d been in no trouble since. Had no fun.

  He winced, rolling his shoulders. There was a reason for that and it wasn’t some sense of wrongdoing. The way some women looked at him now? Like he was some Sex Master. Hideous. Didn’t they realize those women had been acting up those orgasms for the sake of the cameras he hadn’t known they were using?

  Now he reread the latest mess.

  She said yes! #happiestguyonearth

  He might have been labelled reckless, but he wasn’t a total idiot. Who the hell was ‘she’? Where was this miraculous fiancée? Flying piglet fairies were more believable than the idea of his impending nuptials and the whole online world knew it.

  He briefly looked at the stats—this post had been retweeted a billion times already. And the replies?

  Logan read the first five, shut down the app and called Tyler. He answered immediately and just as immediately Logan knew his assistant had seen it. His voice rasped just the slightest as he said his name. It was the first time Logan had heard fear in Tyler’s voice in the four years since he’d employed him. It didn’t lessen his anger at all.

  “What the fuck is this tweet all about?” Logan bit his teeth together and paced the length of his bedroom, trying to rein in his temper. He’d never sworn at his staff. Not even during the sex clip storm. But in this instance? Hell, he needed just the one short sharp word to vent.

  “Logan—”

  “Get me that girl. Here. Now.” He didn’t want to hear excuses. He should never have let Tyler convince him. His reputation should be his own responsibility—if he was going to screw up again, he might as well do it properly and on his own terms.

  “Now Logan,” Tyler repeated in that annoyingly calm manner.

  “Logan nothing.” He shook his head. He wasn’t having Tyler Marano take that paternal tone with him. He was three years older than him tops and just because his wife was pregnant didn’t mean he could start acting the father-figure. “I knew that was a bad idea. I never should have let you talk me into it. I should have met her.”

  “Logan, she—”

  “Fucked up. Fucked up my fucked up life even more.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Multiple cursing necessary. Just when he’d thought he was through the worst?

  “We can delete it. She probably has already,” Tyler said quickly.

  “No.” Logan tried not to snap again. “It’s already been retweeted a million times.” It was far too late for that. Hell, he was a trending freaking topic. He didn’t give a damn about what other people thought of him but how it impacted on his family did matter. Connor that is, not Rex. Never Rex.

  The freaking sex tape hadn’t elicited a call from his estranged father. But the prospect of his engagement? It was the worst possible thing that could have happened at the worst possible time. Just when he’d felt like he could do something useful for Connor.

  “Email me her personnel file. If she’s as good as what you said she was, she’ll have a fix-it answer,” Logan snapped. “But I’ll be standing at her shoulder as she types her final tweet for me. The second after it’s done she’s getting the sack.”

  “Log—”

  “Her file. My inbox. Now.”

  M
in sighed as she dealt with the mess she’d discovered. How had she not noticed she’d left the freezer door ajar? Sure, she’d been in a hurry to get back to her scheduling with half a quart of ice-cream for breakfast and once at the computer, she’d been locked in position the rest of the day, snacking from the box of crackers she always had at her desk. Meantime her remaining two cartons of ice-cream had melted along with the one—unfortunately open—bag of frozen berries, leaving that corner of the kitchen looking like there’d been some horrific decapitation. Purple bloody-looking liquid slithered down the fridge door. Still, that was the kind of thing that happened when you rented a tiny furnished apartment—you got crap mismatched chairs and whiteware that barely worked.

  But it was only for the medium-term. She had her business plan and she was on task to do better than she’d forecast. She was going to succeed, no matter the negative talk from her doubting mom. All her mom wanted, was for her to return home and get hitched. So not happening.

  She tossed the messy containers and wiped up the worst with an under-sized cloth. She needed to get back to her screen. But leaving Blake’s tweet unanswered for half an hour wouldn’t be all bad. His silence would only get people more excited. Throw out a little teaser, get the masses talking—asking for more. That was the way.

  She washed her hands but couldn’t get rid of the berry stains from the tips of her fingers. No matter. She wasn’t seeing anyone tonight anyway. She never went out at night, too busy tweaking her clients’ sites.

  Back at her workstation her phone was lit up. Two messages. Three missed calls. She didn’t recognize one number. The other two were Tyler—Logan Hughes’ ultra efficient assistant. Min paused, drawing in a calming breath. She should call Ty back right away. But as she held the phone in her hand, it rang again. The number she didn’t recognize. The calming breath bubbled and blocked Min’s throat. Her lungs tightened. So did her grip on the phone. She swallowed.

  Inhale. Exhale. Relax.

  It was just a phone call. She could do this. She’d answered many calls before and she had her standard issue, much practiced replies. Except those few missed calls sent anxiety trickling down her spine like melted drops from an Arctic iceberg.

  Anxiety wasn’t good. But she took another deep breath and touched the screen.

  “Min Jones.” She sounded like she’d been running a marathon, but at least she didn’t stutter over her own name.

  “This is Logan Hughes.”

  Logan Hughes? All Min’s internal organs froze. Then heat swept over her skin—cooking her from the outside in. She waited—couldn’t speak if she tried. Most people filled a conversational space, needless to say Min wasn’t one of them.

  But Logan Hughes was.

  “You have a problem,” he said sharply.

  She’d kinda gotten that from the way he’d said his name, all ice-cold and spiky.

  “Oh?” She closed her eyes and winced at how rude she sounded. But she was thrown. Her throat tightened. She knew a total block wasn’t far away. Silence reigned.

  “The last tweet from my account,” he said even more curtly.

  She paused before replying, swallowing, trying to relax the knots twisting up her windpipe. “The picture,” she managed a whisper. Whispers tended to work.

  “It’s not the picture.”

  It wasn’t? She had posted the picture, hadn’t she? She’d been in his Twitter account. She’d attached the file and then...

  Quickly she tapped the space bar so the screensaver vanished. She checked her posting. And froze.

  Oh no.

  Iced-up blood sluiced through her system, chilling her back to sub-zero temps in less than a second. Yet sweat swept over her body. This time the temperature fluctuations were extreme—like she had some virulent flu and it was only a matter of minutes before it took her out.

  Death by mortification.

  She’d sent Blake’s tweet from the wrong account. She’d sent ‘she said yes’ as the text along with Logan’s photo. With him looking so fiercely sexy and commanding and master of his damn destiny. The guy who would never settle for just one woman.

  How could she have been so stupid? She who was so careful about everything she wrote?

  “Ms Jones?”

  She jumped. She’d forgotten he was on the freaking phone. He didn’t sound like he was going to see the funny side anytime soon.

  “I’ve sent a car. It should be there in ten minutes.”

  What? He’d sent a car to collect her? He expected her to go and see him?

  “N-now?” She pressed her lips together. It was after six. It was getting dark and cold and she so didn’t want to have to see him. She avoided face to face as much as possible. But there was no avoiding this. This was her business—and a bad report card from Logan Hughes?

  That could kill her career.

  “My driver will bring you here and you can sort this mess out.”

  So cold. So unimpressed.

  Fair enough. It was laughable—Logan Hughes getting married? No wonder it was all over the internet. Anything as unlikely as that was bound to be an instant hit.

  She tried to answer. Couldn’t.

  “Are you there?” Impatience, irritation deepened his voice.

  She knew he thought she was being rude. It made her block worse. And her block made her angry.

  “Mmm hmm.” She didn’t even try to form words.

  “The car will be there in ten.”

  He was going to hang up. She was making the worst first impression ever.

  “Mr Hughes.” Min tried to stay calm. “I… I c-c-can’t, I—” She winced as she tried to speak. Damn stress always made her stutter rear up like some long lost scary sea monster. But he just interrupted anyway.

  “I’ll see you soon. You can grovel then.”

  Min stared at her phone.

  Logan Hughes was going to eat her alive.

  Chapter Three

  #CraziestShitEver

  Stop. Check. Send. Never send anything online before checking. Always stop and check first. It was so easy to make a mistake and once something was online it was online forever.

  That was the lecture she included in the info pack she gave her clients. For her to have made such a basic, rookie mistake? What had she been thinking?

  She glanced down at her stained Scooby tee, torn jeans and slippers. This was worse than being sent to the principal’s office or the lions’ den or the flaming pit of hell. She’d rather have her teeth drilled with no anesthetic.

  For a minute she stood uselessly in the center of the room. Meet with the Logan Hughes? Face to face? Now?

  Already she could feel her throat closing again, felt like her tongue was swelling to triple size. If she had to see her clients, she employed all her tactics. If she did stutter¸ most people she met were polite. She had the feeling Logan mightn’t be that polite. He’d probably be the kind to think a stutter equaled incompetence.

  Who was she kidding. She had been incompetent. But she had to pull herself together. She’d quickly shower and change into something professional. She could do professional as well as anyone else when she had to.

  She’d just made it to the bathroom and was mentally debating what to wear when her intercom buzzed. Aghast she stared at her messed up reflection. The driver couldn’t be here already.

  The buzzer went again—long and loud.

  Min didn’t bother with the intercom. She was only on the first floor so she raced down the stairs and opened the door.

  The big and broad man standing in front of her was tall, taciturn and tough-looking. The kind who looked like he could drive fast and fight hard. One of those combo deals—chauffeur slash bodyguard slash enforcer.

  “If you’re ready to go, Mr Hughes is waiting.”

  He wasn’t in that car was he? Min peered at the darkened windows of the big, black vehicle illegally parked in front of her building.

  “I don’t think you want to keep him waiting,” the driver added. He
had one of those earpiece things in to make him look important and officious.

  Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. “I n-n-need some ID.”

  The driver didn’t soften his chiseled cheekbones with a smile. Brusquely he pulled out a leather wallet like he’d been anticipating her request and flashed it at her. “Here’s my driver’s license and my certification. Anything else you need?”

  A double shot of pure alcohol. Because yeah, that certification proved he was a bodyguard. Clearly an efficient and valued one because his suit was made-to-measure not off the rack. Was he wearing a gun too? How would she ever know when he was all male-model? Was that a requirement of Logan Hughes’ employment? To be good-looking?

  She’d definitely be getting the sack the second he saw her.

  “If you’re worried I’m abducting you,” the bodyguard said slowly, as if she were special needs. “Hold onto your cell. You can phone a friend anytime you like.”

  Min blinked. “One moment.” She shut the door on him and dashed back up the stairs.

  She grabbed the denim jacket hanging over the back of her sofa and kicked off the slippers. She stuffed her feet into the nearest pair of shoes. She was just going to have to do as she was. Back outside, the driver was still on the step. Still not smiling.

  He didn’t speak. She didn’t either as she climbed into the roomy back seat of the sleek car and found—thankfully—that she was the only occupant. She clutched her phone, smothered a half-hysterical laugh. It was like something out of a B-grade thriller. Was she about to be driven to some abandoned factory and whacked?

  Of course not. They were headed to Manhattan—there weren’t abandoned factories in Manhattan anymore. There were art galleries, cute boutiques and conversions. And this was Logan Hughes. Extreme playboy he might be, ruthless murderer he wasn’t.

  Inhale. Exhale. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Trouble was there were some serious possible repercussions. Her business. It was only just getting off the ground and she was still living hand to mouth—loss of clients, a bad rep would kill it as easy as a bug under a boot. She was going to have to grovel.