Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (25 page)

"Hannah," Logan began, his voice grainy as the sand on his beach, "Did they hurt you? Or touch you?"

No, Logan, only you did that.
Her gaze settled on his face, noticing for the first time the circles under his eyes, the deep grooves carved on either side of his mouth. She kept silent and a strange insight prodded her.

Maybe his betrayal wasn't what hurt any more. Maybe it was facing the fact that he'd never said the words in return, that she'd walked away without knowing his feelings. Maybe it was time to find the truth behind the lies.

"No," she answered, studying him anew, seeing him through wizened eyes. "No," she repeated. "They left me alone."

He closed his eyes and released a sigh, weighty for all its silence. Her gaze took in the casual tilt of his chin, the easy slope of his shoulders, the slouching angle of his hips. The pose was deceptive. The realization struck her with a jolt.

The tendons in his neck throbbed in meter with the pulse in his throat. His sharply cocked knees fought the bounce of the truck instead of listing with the movement. The veins in his biceps stood in rigid relief as he worked against his bonds.

She'd known him to be an actor, able to slip into a role without compunction. Now she knew him well enough to sense the difference. This time it wasn't working. The reserve wasn't there. Even behind the mask of control she saw him shaking.

"You're different, Logan."

His eye opened, fiercely golden in the dim light. A disturbing smile twisted his face into a picture of bleak acceptance. "Takes some of us a little longer to see the light."

She thought about that a minute then asked, "Are you still having the nightmares?"

This time his smile touched the tiniest corner of her heart. "I'll let you know when I sleep again."

"You haven't been sleeping?"

He shook his head. "I've been on the road. Looking for a jerk who got himself lost."

"Tough case?"

"The worst."

"Did you find him?"

"I think so."

An eerie sense of déjà vu swirled through her belly and flowed into her veins like hot liquor. With a catch in her breath she felt to her soul, she asked, "Do you like him?"

Slowly, deliberately, he nodded. "A whole lot better than before. The question is—" He paused for a heart-stopping second. "Do you?"

What could she say when she didn't know what he was asking? He'd done what she hadn't been able to do, settled past doubts and moved on. She read the promise in his eyes, the truth that reaching for life's pleasures took more courage than holding onto the past. The moment dragged on in timeless anticipation until with one sharp jerk he wrenched his hands free from his bonds.

Rubbing the circulation back into his wrists, he answered her unspoken question. "It's how you hold your hands when they tie you up. Easy stuff when you're dealing with amateurs."

He crawled the six feet to her side, stirring up dust in his wake. Reaching back, he loosened the ropes binding her to the pipe soldered to the floor. She massaged her numb fingers, wincing as the blood rushed to the tips with burning speed, then stopped, sensing his gaze on her, close, persistent and needy.

She looked up. His gaze, locked with hers. She felt him beside her like he was her own skin, her shoulder tucked up against his armpit, his hard thigh wedged underneath hers. His rough palm cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked her lips. His knuckles grazed her neck.

She whimpered and caught his hand, desperate to pull away before she came unglued in his arms. Her strength was no match for his, his will equaled her own. He pressed his thumb against the pulse in her throat.

Her voice gone raw with feeling, she asked, "What do you want from me, Logan?"

"No more than you're willing to give," he answered simply, roughly, his ragged breath stirring the hair around her ear.

She heard the lie in all the words he didn't say and the way he spoke the ones he did. He wanted more, was afraid to ask. And she feared answering. What was she willing to give? How much more could she afford to risk?

Knowing no way to reply, she remained silent, feeling him seep into the cold, bleak region of emptiness she had inside. Hesitantly, she nuzzled his shoulder, her face snug against him.

Her palm skimmed his chest, her fingers grazed the torn neck of his sweatshirt, the faint dusting of hair a sensual tickle. He smelled like Logan, salt and sea. Her lover.

He groaned, shifting her half onto his lap so her knee pressed into his belly, his thigh against her bottom. "That's not true, Hannah," he said in a ragged tone. "I want more than I have the right to expect from you." He gave a small, humorless chuckle. "Hell, it was a lot to expect from myself."

"What?" she whispered, feeling her breath condense against his throat, inhaling his taste with her next breath.

"Forgiveness," he ground out. "Forgiving myself was a long time in coming. It had to come from here." He found her hand, covered it with his and held them both against his chest. "As hard as I tried, I couldn't buy a clean conscience."

What a strange sensation to know her suffering had bought his freedom from the past. Her forgiveness was small enough price to add. She smiled deep inside, a private sort of satisfaction knowing she'd forgiven him long before he asked.

"Logan ..."

"I returned the check to Harrington."

"What?"

"After I dropped you off and before I hit the road." He moved again, lifting her securely into the cradle of his arms. "It was blood money, Hannah," he murmured against her forehead, worrying a strand of her hair between his fingers. "Thirteen pieces of silver stained with broken trust. I screwed up a really good thing. And realized it too late."

"No." Her breath locked tight in her chest, the burning sensation singed her throat. She laid her hand on the stubble of his cheek, looking directly into his eyes. Nothing mattered more at this moment than making him understand how much she loved him. "Not too late. Never too late. We'll get out of this mess. We'll ..."

"It'll still be too late," he groaned, seconds before his mouth covered hers. His possession was swift and sure, his tongue delving deep, but one brief moment of hesitation told the tale. He was going to say goodbye.

She wanted to scream at him, to tell him he couldn't go. Suddenly, she didn't care that her life depended on the sanity of a man gone mad, that she and Logan might not come out of this alive. Logan planned to walk away. He'd made his peace with himself but refused to allow make it with her.

She squirmed in his lap and straddled his legs, both arms around his neck. With a drowning desperation she clung, pressed to him like a missing piece of herself, opening her mouth over his and searching for his tongue. For so many years she'd been strong, independent, never letting herself need. Now she did. Fiercely.

It struck her like lightning, furious and hot. The seemliness of her response barely crossed her mind. This reckless craving demanded completion. She pulled his tongue deep in her mouth, rocked her body against him. He answered with a groan. His hands cupped her bottom, separating, lifting, settling her against his desire, thick and hard and undeniable.

She moved her hands to his head, holding his face while she rained kisses across his cheek, down his jaw and back to his ear. Against the wall of her chest, her heart pounded incessantly; his thumped back just as hard. She wanted to crawl inside him, hold his heart in her hands. Her need for him, her love for him was that great.

With a strangled cry, she brought her mouth back to his, tasting her tears as they rolled between their lips.
I love you, Logan. I love you, love you.
Her mind screamed the words; her body paralleled the thought in the basic thrust and retreat of sex. Deep inside she was coming apart, crawling with the need to make their bodies one. Then he could never leave.

He jerked his head back with a ragged groan. "Hannah, stop."

She shook her head and blindly reached for him again.

"Wait." He grasped her upper arms and jostled her sharply. Her head snapped back. "We're slowing down," he said, his gaze darting around the interior of their prison.

Before his words had time to sink in, the truck bounced onto a rutted surface. The jarring bumps and jolts tumbled them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs. With a squeal of brakes, tires, and flying rocks they slid to a stop. Logan scrambled to his feet, crouched low to the floor and shoved Hannah behind him.

"Don't move," he commanded in that steel-encased voice. "Don't say a word."

Two doors slammed in quick repetition. Footsteps crunched outside the truck. A key flicked in the lock and the back door swung open. In a confusion of blinding light, a curtain of choking dust, and rapidly spoken Spanish, several figures took shape, silhouetted in the open door.

Graham Elliot's face was the first to materialize through the haze. "Out. Now," he barked, his voice gone quite mad.

Logan tensed, poised to spring through the door. Hannah felt the unease shifting through him like sand sinking to the point of highest concentration. He reached back, laid a hand on her thigh and squeezed sharply, his message more than clear.

She followed him out the door, a handful of twisted sweatshirt keeping him close. A quick glance at her surroundings brought a single word to mind. Isolation. A single emotion, panic, followed quickly in its wake.

The truck had stopped on a deserted runway, stubborn weeds and tufts of grass making good use of the cracks in the pavement. Several hundred yards down the concrete strip a half dozen men hefted and heaved the barrels from the second truck into the cargo hold of a plane. A smaller passenger plane sat directly in front of it.

Hannah glanced behind her. Trees lined that side of the runway, obscuring all sign of civilization. Even the dirt trail the driver had used for a road vanished once it hit the line of thick foliage. At the edge of the clearing a small shack listed to one side, piles of rusted plane parts and bald tires stacked against it preventing it from total collapse.

Her legs felt like lead, then water. No one would find them here. Graham Elliot had done his job well. They were completely secluded, not to mention outnumbered by at least ten to two. Make that twenty to two. One gun per man put her and Logan at a definite disadvantage. She stumbled over the rocky surface, gripping Logan to regain her balance. He came to a stop, motioning her one step behind him with a quick wave of his hand.

"What now, Elliot?" Logan asked, the calm level of his voice at odds with the taut set of his shoulders.

Elliot's face twisted into a grim parody of a smile. "Ah, bravery in the face of danger. Such a noble, but stupid, quality." He paced around them in a narrowing circle, his hands clasped behind his back like a man in deep reflection. "Since the ropes didn't do the job—" he grabbed Hannah and pulled her away from Logan's side "—maybe this will." He snapped a handcuff around her wrist.

Logan stiffened, his jaw working furiously, his gaze bouncing from Elliot to Hannah and back. She could almost feel the wheels whirring in his mind. "Look, Elliot," he began in that let's-make-a-deal persuasive tone of his. "Surely there's a bit of negotiating to be done here."

"The only negotiating, Mr. Burke, will be done by my friends here." Elliot whistled sharply. Two beefy Latinos emerged from the shack to flank Logan's either side. With a quick nod of his head, Elliot sent his message. One man stepped forward, his rifle butt raised.

It took but one solid blow.

Horrified, Hannah watched Logan crumple to the ground in a heap of blond hair, grey sweatshirt, and blood.

Logan woke to a herd of elephants trumpeting, shrieking, thundering through his head. His body vibrated, teeth knocked, bones rattled, the whole bit. He fought the compelling voice telling him to enjoy this well-deserved siesta. God knew he needed the rest. The roar in his head refused to subside, the elephants refused to retreat. Both made sleep impossible.

He peeled open one eye. Blood oozed past the lid, thick, warm, and unfortunately his very own type B+. He decided that when at the barest flutter of his lashes, pain pierced his skull. Fighting both the nausea and the need to scream, he lay perfectly still.

Best he could tell on a closer, thoroughly painful mental inspection, the rifle butt had glanced off the skin between his temple and his ear. He knew head wounds bled profusely. He just wasn't thrilled it was his head bleeding.

This time he opened the other eye and found himself staring at a huge slab of metal airplane, an open door, and a softly rounded corner of Hannah's backside. The metal and the hatch explained the elephants. Two huge props whirled in explosive unison, shaking the fuselage of the plane with every rotation. The floor of the plane made a jarringly uncomfortable bed.

Hannah's bottom, inches from his face, gave him cause for serious worry of a different nature. Except worrying hurt his head even more. And if he didn't get a handle on the pain in about half a second, he was going to pass flat out again.

He inhaled a steadying, quiet breath and blew it out like a whisper. One arm at an awkward angle under his head, the other crooked behind him, he swiveled both ankles, relieved to find himself free.

Hannah's predicament wasn't quite as encouraging. Elliot had taken his observation seriously and cuffed her right hand to the leg of the co-pilot's seat. A discouraging thought nudged him and a discreet pat of his pocket confirmed his pick to be gone.

Hell, his pockets were stripped for that matter. Empty. Not a pocketknife, toothpick, or credit card to work with. Just great.

He tucked his chin to his chest for a final look-see, gritting his teeth at another precipitate burst of pain.
Deal with the pain later, Burke. Right now you've gotta figure a away to get you and your lady outta here
. Hannah. His lady.

Damn, but that sounded good, even if it was more dream than reality. Because somewhere between the lies, the secrets, and that one endless night between the sheets he'd taken the dream to heart. He wanted her to be his lady. Forever.