Twice Burned

by Pamela Burford

  “Meet with me, Mac. Just you and me. You name the place. The time.”

  She found herself on her feet, heart punching her rib cage.

  Phone clutched to his ear, Logan turned tight circles like a caged lion, his face etched in frustration. “Don’t do this, man. It’s just you and me. That’s all. Name the time. Name the place, Mac. I’ll be there. Unarmed. I want to—Dammit!” He slammed the phone on the desk so hard, she was surprised it didn’t shatter.

  “What does he want?” Her voice wobbled.

  “He wants to rub my nose in it,” he growled. “He has Emma.”

  Her despairing wail echoed in the huge empty room.

  Logan started pacing. “He has my phone number. How?”

  “Who have you given it to?”

  He stopped dead in his tracks. “My parents.”

  “Then you were right. They are in touch with Mac.”

  “I’m going there. And this time they’re gonna give me some answers!” He shoved the phone into its leather case.

  “Now?” she said. “You’re going now?”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Zara. I have to—”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No. Out of the question.”

  “Didn’t you already try to get them to talk to you? Maybe I can help.”

  “You’re going to stay here where you’re safe.”

  “I’m just as safe with you, Logan. I’m coming with you. I have to. My mother…and now Emma. I can’t just sit here waiting, wondering…”

  She didn’t realize she was shaking until he put his hands on her shoulders. He drew her against him, slowly, with infinite tenderness. “Trust me, Zara. I’ll do everything in my power to end this, to see your mother and your sister safe.”

  She’d spent a good part of the day thinking about what Logan had revealed last night in the car. He’d detained her in this warehouse not for her protection, as he’d initially claimed, but for the express purpose of using her as bait to draw his brother out of hiding. Gullible as always, she’d bought his story about this being some sort of safe house. One would think she’d have learned long ago not to take a man at his word. There was always a self-serving motive for everything.

  The irony was that four days ago she would have been paralyzed with fear at the prospect of becoming actively involved in this dangerous venture. Now she found herself arguing with him, begging him to accept her assistance.

  It would seem her near demise at the hands of his brother had reconfigured Logan’s priorities. Still, she couldn’t ignore the indignities to which he’d subjected her. He’d hustled her from the airport using falsified ID, withheld critical information and deceived her at every turn.

  Worst of all, he’d allowed her to think he cared about her, at least about her personal safety, when all along he’d planned to use her in a dangerous scheme to apprehend his brother.

  The familiar feeling of being used made her stomach clench. Even after the harsh lessons of the last few years, she was as naive as some starry-eyed schoolgirl. A foolish romantic corner of her soul still wanted to believe that somewhere out there was a man who could be trusted. A man who would respect her and, in turn, be worthy of her respect

  And God help her, at that moment, as she stood in the circle of lamplight with Logan, cradled against his broad chest, enveloped in the warm security of his arms, she believed him. She trusted him. Despite everything.

  She knew that if anyone could rescue her family, it was this man.

  But she refused to sit idly by when her involvement

  could make a difference. “I can’t stay here alone. Please take me with you, Logan.” She met his gaze, her own level and determined. “I think I can help. Let me try at least.”

  He scowled, but she saw she was getting through to him.

  “I won’t be in any danger, anyway,” she added. “I’ll be with you.”

  He smiled grimly. “A genuine guarantee of safety.” He brushed her hair off her face, cherishingly. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I.”

  She shook her head, and teased, “You could always do what you threatened and chain me to the radiator.”

  “A tempting thought.” But he was grinning now. He lowered his head until his lips met hers. It was a gossamer kiss, a mere whisper of sensation that drizzled over her body like warm honey.

  He remained motionless, his mouth barely touching hers, his very stillness intensifying the satin texture of his lips, the tantalizing taste she needed more of.

  She couldn’t remain still; she didn’t have Logan’s self-discipline. Her mouth moved, lightly, experimentally. His breath snagged and his lips parted as if of their own volition. Clearly he was fighting it, this thing between them, and having no more success than she.

  Zara needed this so much it frightened her. Logan had become her rock, her anchor, if she let go of him, she’d surely be swept away in the tidal wave of insanity her world had become.

  Unthinkingly she increased the pressure of her mouth, nibbled his lower lip. His long, strong fingers slid over her scalp to hold her to him. His palm on her back pressed harder as he wrested control of the kiss from her, angling his head to take her mouth with pulse-pounding thoroughness.

  He dragged his hand down her spine and under her black silk tunic to fondle her bottom through her stretchy white leggings. His touch was intimate, unrepentantly brazen. She gasped into his mouth and arched against him.

  “What have you done to me?” he groaned, tilting her head back to nuzzle her throat. She was breathless. Raw heat pooled in her most intimate places. Her nipples peaked and pushed against the confines of her bra. She couldn’t ignore the maddening tingle or the deep hum of desire between her legs. Her arms encircled his neck.

  He pressed delicate, unhurried kisses to her eyes, her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, as his hands slid up her sides under her loose tunic. When he met the obstacle of her bra, he deftly unclasped it. His fingertips continued their journey, gliding up the outside edges of her breasts, tracing the tender curve of ultrasensitive flesh there.

  She stopped breathing. She gripped his shoulders, half-afraid her legs would give out. He had magic hands, a conjurer’s hands. They moved on to the gentle slopes of her breasts, still with the lightest of touches, butterfly strokes. Her pent-up breath escaped in a hoarse plea. “Logan!”

  “You’re sensitive,” he murmured. She concurred with a groan of raw pleasure. He caressed her but ignored the prickly tips of her breasts, which rasped against the lace of her loosened bra as he lifted and stroked her.

  She gasped softly, momentarily startled by the warm trickle of moisture that was her body’s silent invitation. As if he knew, one large hand skated down her back and over her bottom. Those magic fingers slid between her legs with just enough pressure to launch her sanity into the stratosphere. Her shuddering cry bounced off the bare walls and resounded in the big room.

  He captured her mouth in a lingering kiss as his hands left her body. She swayed toward him, dizzy with longing. She knew what he saw when he looked at her: a mirror image of his own sharp hunger. The flared nostrils. The parted lips. And his eyes, deceptively languorous, but with an underlying potency that rocked her.

  He fingered the neckline of her tunic. “Take this off.” He stepped back, into the shadows, leaving her standing alone in the ring of lamplight.

  Without hesitation she raised her fingers to the row of tiny tortoiseshell buttons. He watched intently as she eased each one through its buttonhole. Finally she let the silk slide off her shoulders to puddle on the floor. With a nod he told her to shed the bra, and she did.

  She stood there exposed to the waist, spotlighted by the floor lamp. In all her nearly thirty years she’d never done this, never bared herself and waited passively, submissively, while a man simply looked at her. Sex with Tony had always been a straightforward affair, the preliminaries bypassed or glossed over.

  She couldn’t see Logan clearly, but sh
e felt his gaze like a hot tongue. Her breasts shuddered with each agitated breath, her nipples stiff and tender. Each second of charged silence magnified her arousal until she thought she might explode in orgasm, without him even touching her.

  If there was anything more important than having this man inside her, right now, she didn’t know what it was.

  “Come here.” His voice was thick.

  She walked into the gloom, drawn by his golden eyes, which glowed like live coals. She stopped inches from him, her senses clamoring for his touch, for the feel of him, the taste of him, the weight of him on her, the unyielding pressure of him in her.

  He touched the aching peak of her breast, shooting a spark from his fingertip straight downward. She couldn’t keep quiet. Or still. He cupped her in his palms and thumbed the tips, pinching them lightly. She grasped his wrists. It was too much. Not enough. She was practically sobbing with need.

  He brought her hand to her breast and brushed the palm across the sharp tip. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his tone one of wonder. “Perfect.”

  His other hand slid downward and settled between her legs. When he drew it away, one finger trailed upward, wringing a sharp gasp from her.

  He placed her hand on his erection, which strained the fabric of his jeans. He felt impossibly full and heavy and vital, his flesh leaping against her fingers. Holding her gaze, he slid her palm the length of his penis. It was a primal gesture, a warning, alerting her to the seriousness of his intent.

  He cupped her face and kissed her. “Do you have protection?”

  Her mind struggled to assimilate the practical question. The haze of passion began to burn away like fog in bright sunlight. “No.”

  He started steering her toward the bed. “It’s okay, I do.”

  “I know.” She winced, wishing she could retract the hasty words.

  After a silent, heart-stopping moment, a deep chuckle rumbled through his chest. “That’s right, I forgot about your inquisitive nature.”

  Embarrassment chased the last of the fog. “I—I didn’t mean to snoop.”

  “Of course you did.” He pulled her against him and kissed the top of her head. “Hope you weren’t too shocked by what you turned up.”

  “Not shocked…curious maybe.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Oh. don’t start that again.”

  “Why not? It’s flattering being the object of a beautiful woman’s irrepressible curiosity.”

  Holding her close, he backed up to the mattress and fell with her to lie sprawled on Mother Noonan’s quilt. In a flash he rolled her beneath him and maneuvered himself between her legs. He ground against her, letting her feel the throbbing power of his need for her.

  His earthy abruptness triggered thoughts of another time. Another bed. Another man. The last of her desire shattered, too fragile to withstand the crushing weight of her memories.

  “—”

  He silenced her with a hard, demanding kiss as his hands roamed freely. She lay limp and unresponsive. Gradually he raised his head and let his eyes do the asking.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t do it.”

  “Zara…” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his forehead to hers. After a moment he rolled off her and lay staring at the ceiling, his breathing ragged.

  “I’m sorry.” Stiffly she reached for her tunic.

  He massaged his forehead. “Don’t say that!”

  Her back to him, she shoved her arms in the sleeves and swiftly did up the tiny buttons. When she was almost done she realized they were out of alignment. Exasperated, chagrined and frustrated beyond measure, she cursed and started unbuttoning, double time.

  He sighed. “Zara.” She felt his knuckle skip down the bumps of her spine. “You have no reason to be sorry. You know that. Right?”

  She didn’t trust her voice.

  “Right?” he repeated.

  She nodded.

  “Things just got…out of hand. I guess it’s a good thing one of us was able to exercise mind over hormones.”

  She sagged. It was just as well he considered her reticence the result of superior willpower.

  “Say something,” he implored. “I hate it when you clam up like this.”

  “Why do we have to talk about it?”

  He swore softly. “We don’t have to talk about it, dammit. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to know…I don’t know what I want to know. Okay?”

  “You’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry!” In a milder tone he added, “I’m frustrated.”

  “So am I.”

  Behind his mirthless half laugh was an unspoken question: Why? If you wanted it, why did you make me stop?

  She said, “I thought I could. I wanted to. It’s me, not you. I have too much…baggage. That’s all.”

  He was silent a long time. Finally she looked over her shoulder to see him lying on his back, watching her, his expression unreadable.

  He asked, “You want to tell me about it?”

  She swallowed hard and turned away. “No.” She closed her eyes for a moment. The tears were too close to the surface, the pain too fresh, even after so long. Taking refuge in the mundane, she lifted her bra from the floor and started to rise. She’d change, wash up and get ready to leave.

  His hand on her hip stopped her. “Is it my brother? You told me he didn’t—”

  “He didn’t. This isn’t about him.”

  At length she heard the rustle of movement, felt the mattress shift as he sat up. “Who?”

  She barely heard her own watery whisper. “I’ve never told anyone.” Don’t make me say it now.

  She felt his hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her against his chest. She resisted, stiff and unyielding. He relented and simply sat behind her, his warm breath stirring her hair.

  “Tell me,” he murmured.

  The ugliness had festered inside her so long, it had become a part of her, changing her forever, setting limits—defining the woman she now was. She could never go back, never again experience the simple joy in her sexuality she’d once taken for granted.

  She tried for a light tone. “I’ll pass.”

  “Who hurt you, Zara?”

  She started to rise. He stopped her with a gentle hand and turned her to face him.

  She sighed. “Why can’t you just drop it?”

  “Because you can’t. On the surface maybe, but not inside. Whatever happened to you, it’s cut real deep.”

  She pushed her fingers through her disheveled hair. “Logan. You’re a problem solver. You think if you throw enough manpower or firepower or, I don’t know, ingenuity at any problem, it’ll just go away.” Feeling her throat tighten, she said, “Not all problems can be made to go away. Some you just have to learn to live with.”

  He stared at her. She could tell he wasn’t used to being thwarted. Finally he said, “When you’re ready to talk about it, I want to listen.”

  The last thing she intended to do was parade her shame before this of all men, this conjurer who’d managed to reignite her long-dormant libido.

  “Thanks for the offer.” She pulled away from him and headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  Chapter Ten

  The man who stood in the doorway was rangy and rawboned, his salt-and-pepper hair sleep-rumpled. Zara saw an unmistakable resemblance to Logan and Mac in the eyes and the strong lines of the face. A thin flannel bathrobe covered striped pajamas. He spared Zara a brief, apathetic glance, before fixing his gaze on Logan. There was nothing apathetic—or paternal—in the look he gave his son.

  “It’s 1:00 a.m.”

  “This can’t wait.” Logan shoved his way past his father, pulling Zara along in his wake. Clearly he didn’t expect an invitation. They entered a shabby living room with slipcovered furniture and pressboard paneling.

  The old man said, “I don’t want your mother upset.”

  “If you don’t want her u
pset, don’t harbor fugitives from the law.”

  Loathing added ten years to his father’s weathered face. “I’m ashamed to call you my son.”

  Shocked, Zara looked at Logan. His implacable expression never changed. The chasm between these two was deep and wide. Whatever familial intimacy they’d once shared was long gone.

  “Douglas.?”

  She looked up to see an older woman standing at the top of the stairs, zipping her green velour robe. Her tired eyes widened as she took in the scene below.

  Douglas waved her away. “Go back to bed, Maddie.”

  She hesitated a moment, and started to retreat.

  Zara sensed her best hope was about to slip away. She approached the bottom of the steps. “Mrs. Byrne?”

  Douglas started toward her. “What the hell—”

  Logan grabbed his arm. The old man jerked as if he’d been burned. Zara wondered when the father and son had last touched. She climbed two steps.

  “Mrs. Byrne. I…I know this isn’t easy for you. But I’m asking you, please, give us a few minutes. Let us…let me talk to you.”

  Mrs. Byrne clutched the collar of her robe as if armoring herself. She asked Logan, “Who is this person?”

  “My name is Zara Sutcliffe. I’m in trouble and I need your help.”

  Mrs. Byrne said, “Your troubles are no concern of mine.” She turned to go back to her room.

  Zara advanced one more step. “Is your son Mac a concern of yours? He tried to kill me, Mrs. Byrne. If it weren’t for Logan, he’d have succeeded.”

  Douglas raged, “Get out! You lying—”

  Logan restrained him. “We’re not going anywhere till we get some answers, Dad, so just settle down.”

  Zara never took her eyes off Logan’s mother. “I know what it’s like to love someone who’s…difficult to love. It never gets easier. But at a certain point you have to say, I’ve given all I can.”

  The old woman raised her chin. “I’ll never give up on my son. That’s not the kind of family we are.” With a distasteful look at Logan, she amended, “That’s not the kind of parents we are.”

  “No one can blame you for loving Mac, or wanting to protect him,” Zara said. “I love my family, too. I have a mother, a twin sister. They—” She choked on the emotion erupting within her. “He has them. Both of them. Mac kidnapped—”