Twice Burned

by Pamela Burford

  His thick, unyielding length opened her, stretched her almost to the point of pain. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her panting breaths punctuated by sharp little cries of pleasure.

  His eyes closed as he pressed home the final distance, flexing into her. She felt her climax begin to crest, amorphous filaments of pure sensation fusing, gelling, even as he lingered within her, motionless.

  Still staring at him, she smiled at the pure wonder of what was about to happen. “Logan,” she whimpered, “hold me!” Without his strong arms grounding her, she’d surely fly apart.

  But he already knew, just by watching her face. Already he was gathering her to him, holding her tight. Her rock, her anchor. His first tiny movement spurred her orgasm. It burst within her, rocked her off the bed, a white-hot firebomb of pure light and energy.

  He drove into her, fast and fierce, stoking the flame, making it burn hotter, brighter. He tilted her hips, altered the angle and cadence of his thrusts, prolonging her release.

  She clung to him in the aftermath, panting, trembling, laughing breathlessly. His answering grin was part affection, part pure masculine conceit as he brushed strands of damp hair off her forehead. She knew he was exerting immense control, balanced on the high wire of his own climax. She felt him everywhere inside her at once, a rigid, throbbing presence that nudged the very heart of her.

  Pushing up on her arms, she wriggled off the bed and onto his lap, still joined with him. She kissed him, delicate nipping kisses, and began to move once more.

  “Zara!” He gripped her hips hard, holding her still. “Not yet…” In the same breath he growled, “Oh, hell.”

  He plunged and retreated without restraint, guiding her movements. In the end he rammed her against the side of the bed and came with a savage cry.

  Zara knew she’d never seen anything as beautiful as Logan’s face when he toppled from the high wire.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Zara slipped her shoes on, watching Logan get ready to leave for Mac’s place. He donned his shoulder holster and pulled his hair back in his usual ponytail. Shrugging into his black windbreaker, he said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Have to get something from the car.”

  He stepped out, and she allowed herself a little smile of triumph. He hadn’t said a word when, instead of curling up and falling asleep after their exhaustive lovemaking, she’d gotten dressed. She took that as a hopeful sign that he’d changed his mind about letting her come along. She hadn’t mentioned it, though, preferring not to press her luck.

  When one minute turned to five, then ten, she realized he’d been gone too long. Had he skipped out on her? His BMW was parked in front of their room. Surely she would have heard him drive away. She was halfway to the window when the muffled thunk of the car’s trunk sounded, followed moments later by the rasp of his key in the door.

  He entered carrying a small satchel, which he dropped on a little writing table in a corner of the room.

  She asked, “That took long enough. What did you get?”

  “Come here. We need to talk.” He swung the straight chair away from the table.

  Uh-oh. She approached slowly, marshaling her arguments, all the rational reasons she should accompany him. First and foremost, she was terrified for Logan’s safety. What if he needed backup? He had an extra gun for her, she was sure. And what if Candy or Emma was hurt and needed her?

  “Logan—”

  “Sit down.” He patted the chair and moved behind it to open the satchel.

  She sat. “I want you to listen to me before you make a—What are you doing?” He’d pulled her arms behind the chair back. She felt something wind around her wrists.

  Rope!

  He was tying her up!

  “Logan!”

  “Don’t fuss. You’ll hurt yourself.” He deftly knotted the nylon cord. It was just tight enough to hold her securely without impeding circulation.

  She kicked wildly as he squatted in front of her and reached for a leg. “Ow!” he yelped. “Damn!” He yanked off her delicate high-heeled sling-backs and stared at the things as if they were some diabolical new weapon. Tossing them aside, he made short work of securing her ankles to the front chair legs.

  She was speechless, trembling with rage. He arranged her long skirt demurely over her knees. “I know you, Zara. The minute I took off, you’d call a cab and follow me.”

  Well, of course she would.

  He continued, “I told you before, I’m not willing to endanger you.”

  “You—you’re just going to leave me here like this? Tied up? Helpless?”

  “Only until I return.” He stood up. “And if I don’t make it back—”

  “No!” she cried. “Don’t say that.” She couldn’t bear the thought of Logan being hurt—or worse. Especially after what they’d just shared. Her eyes burned, but she refused to shed one tear. She had to keep her wits.

  He sighed. “We both know the risks, Zara. That’s why I stopped in the motel office just now. Arranged for a baby-sitter for you.”

  “A what!”

  “Lucky for us, the assistant manager’s just getting off work,”

  A knock on the door startled her. Logan crossed the room in three long strides and ushered in Bette Davis. This was Bette in her scary later pictures, squirrelly and pop-eyed.

  The woman took two steps into the room and stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Zara bound to the chair. Logan closed the door and whipped out his bogus FBI badge. He wagged it in her face to snag her attention.

  “Special Agent Logan Pierce.” He gravely intoned, “Mrs. Feeney, the FBI needs your help.”

  Zara muttered, “Oh, brother.”

  He snapped the badge wallet shut and was about to return it to his pocket when Mrs. Feeney’s sandpaper voice stopped him.

  “Not so fast. Lemme see that again.” She plucked a pair of reading glasses from a canvas tote bag filled to overflowing with skeins of yarn in pastel shades. Sliding them onto her nose, she scrutinized the ID.

  Zara said, “Logan, this is pathetic.”

  He ignored her. “Mrs. Feeney, the Bureau occasionally must enlist the aid of concerned citizens such as yourself. This is one such time. I need you to guard this prisoner for a few hours while I’m gone.”

  She handed back the badge. “What’d she do?”

  “You don’t recognize her?”

  She studied Zara. “Should I?”

  “Don’t you watch ‘Unsolved Crimes’?”

  “Good grief!” Zara jerked at her restraints. “Stop wasting this poor woman’s time, Logan. Let me go!”

  Mrs. Feeney answered, “I try to catch it, but my craft group meets on Sundays.”

  Folding his arms, Logan jerked his head toward Zara. “This one was featured a few weeks ago. She and her gang have robbed twenty-three banks across the Northeast. I just caught up with her—she was about to knock over Hobart Savings Bank.”

  Mrs. Feeney’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “My nephew works in that bank!”

  Zara moaned, “I don’t believe this.”

  He said, “I was transporting her to prison when I got news of a kidnapping nearby.”

  “That’s true!” Zara said. “That last part’s true! It’s my mother and my twin sister who’ve been kidnapped, by his twin brother, and he’s just doing this so I can’t follow him and help to free them! And.” She hopped forward a little in her chair. “He isn’t really an FBI agent, Mrs. Feeney! That badge is fake!”

  Mrs. Feeney stared at her as if she’d sprouted a third eye.

  Logan shook his head sadly. “Pitiful, isn’t it? I’ve seen this before. When the law catches up to them, they go kind of nuts, spouting the first crazy thing that pops into their heads. You’d never think, looking at her now, that she’s killed three bank guards in cold blood, would you?”

  “No,” Mrs. Feeney said. “I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m going to leave you with this, in case she manages to get free.” He pulled a hefty black revo
lver out of the satchel. Zara and the assistant manager both gasped. “Have you ever used a gun, Mrs. Feeney?”

  “God, no!”

  “It’s very simple.” He drew a bead on Zara, twohanded. “You just aim, like this, and pull the trigger. See? Nothing to it.”

  “Don’t you have to cock it first?”

  “That’s a very good question. Nowadays all revolvers are double-action. Like this one, which hap pens to be a.357 Magnum.”

  “Oh my.”

  “You can cock it if you want to—like this—and that makes the trigger more sensitive, easier to pull. Or you can just shoot without cocking it, in which case it’ll take a little more effort to pull the trigger. But watch out—this weapon has quite a kick.”

  He handed the gun to Mrs. Feeney, who practiced pointing it at her bound prisoner, squinting over the top of her reading glasses. The gun wobbled as her finger groped for the trigger pull.

  Logan chuckled. “Easy now, you don’t want to shoot her just yet.”

  “Oh!” She giggled sheepishly, one hand fluttering at her chest. “No. Not yet.”

  “Hel-lo-o,” Zara said. “Have you lost your mind, Logan? You’re not really going to run off and leave me at the mercy of Baby Jane here?”

  Mrs. Feeney said, “Young lady, we’ll get along just fine if you can manage to behave yourself.”

  “Logan!”

  He turned to Mrs. Feeney. “If she gets loud, or you get tired of listening to her rantings, feel free to gag her. Now, this part is important.” He scribbled something on the scratch pad next to the phone. “If I’m not back by 2:00 a.m., call this number and ask for Lou.”

  “What do I tell him?”

  Zara shouted, “Her. It’s Louise! You tell her her good buddy Logan’s gone off the deep end! You tell her Zara’s going to rip his damn heart out when she gets free!”

  Mrs. Feeney scowled down at her. “I have had just about enough of that mouth of yours, missy. You’ve brought this all on yourself, you know.”

  He told Mrs. Feeney, “If you have to call Lou, you just tell her everything I told you, and follow her instructions.”

  Baby Jane settled on a stuffed chair with her knitting and her firearm. Logan paused in the doorway, answering Zara’s murderous glare with a disarming wink. “I can tell you two are going to get along just fine.”

  THE WINDOWS at the front of the house glowed. From his hiding place fifty feet away behind a huge oak tree, Logan watched a shadow move behind sheer curtains.

  Mac.

  He’d done reconnaissance when he’d first arrived, cautiously circling the huge Tudor-style house with his small flashlight, checking out the doors and windows. He’d identified the louvered basement window as being the best place to break in. It wasn’t wired to the security system as were the other windows, but was boarded from the inside. Also, it was located at the rear of the house. If Mac remained in the front room, chances were he wouldn’t hear Logan enter.

  He was about to head around back when the sound of car tires on gravel arrested him.

  “Damn.”

  Moonlight glinted off a sleek gray Mercedes, rolling to a stop on the circular driveway. When the driver’s door opened, the interior light illuminated an older man, trim and well dressed, early to mid-sixties. Using an elegant brass-tipped cane for leverage, he eased out of the car. As his shadowed form made its way up the walk and the front steps, Logan detected a pronounced limp.

  Frustration surged within him, but he tamped it down with the discipline he’d spent fifteen years honing. Emotions compromised one’s perspective. He’d wait, watch, adapt.

  But as he’d told Zara, he intended to end this thing tonight.

  The front door swung open and Logan got his first clear look at his brother. Mac stood in the entryway, drink in hand. He appeared surprised to see his visitor, then angry.

  The older man held his own, practically shoving his way into the house, despite his handicap. Mac slammed the door after him.

  Logan crept closer, risking a move into the open, knowing his brother was distracted at the moment by his unwelcome guest. Silently he gained the house and stepped over shrubs to take up position near the half-open living room window. Heated voices drifted to him. “.deadline’s tomorrow, William.”

  “Did you think I’d fork over eight million without even seeing her for myself?”

  “How’d you find me?”

  The breeze fluttered the curtains, and Logan got glimpses of the two men. The visitor, William, stood straight and dignified, one powerful-looking fist clenching the head of his cane. His wavy hair was steel gray, his thick eyebrows black. Intense graygreen eyes followed Mac’s agitated pacing.

  William’s voice was deep and assertive. “You’ve underestimated my resources.”

  Mac sneered. “These the same ‘resources’ that’ll make me sorry if something happens to your beloved scream queen?”

  “The very ones. And the same goes for the daughters, too, as we discussed on Monday.”

  It was a clash of wills, Logan realized, between two bullheaded men, neither of whom was accustomed to being thwarted. This William had to be the bucks behind the theft of the ray gun. What was his interest in Candy Carmelle? Why was he willing to pay that kind of money for her? If he were simply some wealthy crackpot collector, he wouldn’t be so concerned with the safety of Candy and her daughters. There had to be some history here.

  Mac asked, “Do you have the money?”

  “I have the money.” Through the gap in the curtains Logan saw William’s cold smile. “Not on me, of course. I may be obsessed, as you put it, but I’m no fool. Where is she?”

  Mac stared at him, and Logan could almost hear the gears turning in his twin brother’s head. How far should he cooperate, how much leverage did he have, how much of William’s threats was bluster?

  Eight million was at stake, if he’d heard correctly. Logan grimaced. The going price for a well-preserved former starlet.

  Finally Mac said, “I’ll get her. You wait here.” He headed toward the back of the house.

  Left alone, William seemed to lose some of his starch. He leaned heavily on his cane, looking almost haggard, as if the worry and remorse Logan saw etched on his features were as crippling as his disability. When footsteps sounded, he snapped upright, his expression once more stony and forbidding.

  Mac hauled Candy into the room with a brutal grip on her upper arm. She looked rumpled but intact, with an undeniable spirit behind the dark eyes that reminded Logan of her daughters.

  Candy’s defiant expression changed the instant she laid eyes on William. Logan was right. There was history here, in spades. Her gaze held enough love, longing and regret for a lifetime.

  William barked, “Release her!”

  Mac hesitated an instant, then obeyed, giving her a little shove. William and Candy stared at each other. Logan sensed a deep connection between these two. Still they stood apart, not touching.

  William’s voice was hoarse. “Are you…all right?”

  She nodded, and choked out, “Billy, he—he’s got my daughter. My Emma.”

  William’s hard gaze shot to Mac, who was taking in this little reunion with interest. “I warned you—”

  “I knew it. You two do know each other—from the old Hollywood days, am I right?” Mac’s grin was malignant. “Chill out, Billy. Emma’s not hurt. I caught her snooping around. What was I supposed to do, let her get the cops on my tail?”

  “She leaves with her mother. Bring her here.”

  “No one goes anywhere until I get paid. I’ve waited too damn long already.”

  The angry voices faded as Logan skulked around to the rear of the house, picking his way in the dark until he reached the basement window, set behind a brick-lined window well. Squatting on the bricks, bracing one hand against the wall, he snapped the top louvered pane with a sharp tap of his heel. He plucked the two halves of glass from their frame before they could clatter into the rock-lined well, then d
ispatched the remaining panes the same way, swiftly and noiselessly.

  No sound came from behind the plywood covering the opening. His senses were on the alert; anything could be behind that barrier. Drawing his ninemillimeter, he let fly with a solid kick. The plywood groaned and cracked, leaking spears of light from the room below. One more well-placed blow splintered the board—and a good portion of the paneling it was nailed to.

  Weapon at the ready, he peered down into the room and saw Emma Sutcliffe tied hand and foot to a straight chair—exactly the way he’d left her sister, except he hadn’t shoved a grubby cloth in Zara’s mouth. Emma was staring up at him, her eyes huge.

  It seemed his brother had come to the same conclusion he had: trussing her up was the only way to get a Sutcliffe woman to stay put.

  “It’s Logan,” he whispered, and she nodded vigorously, obviously realizing Mac would have no reason to break into his own basement. His limited interactions with Emma before Gage had taken her to Arkansas had shown her to be resourceful and levelheaded. He hoped those qualities remained in good supply after her recent ordeal—she might need them tonight.

  He eased himself through the window opening, feetflrst. It was a tight fit. Shards of wood snagged his jeans and windbreaker and gouged a furrow in his cheek. He dropped lightly to the worn tile floor, crossed to Emma and pulled the rag out of her mouth.

  “He took Mom upstairs,” she whispered urgently as he sliced her bindings with his penknife. “He’s never done that—”

  “Shh, I know. It’s all right.” He crept up the wooden steps toward the closed door, alert for sounds of Mac returning for Emma.

  “Is Zara all right? I’ve been so—”

  “She’s fine. She’s, uh-” tied up at the moment “—here in town, somewhere safe.”

  She started to follow him, but he waved her back. “Stay here!”

  “I heard voices. Someone else is up there.”