Ulterior Designs (House of Evans Book 1) (3 page)

The beautiful creature standing before him reminded him exactly why he loved everything about the female form, regardless of whether or not he wanted a relationship. The creativity that fueled his passion for work was the same ingenuity he wanted to put to good use in the form of pleasuring women. Like the one staring up at him expectantly. To him, their bodies were like celestial pieces of architecture, or art that begged to be reinvented and crafted into something ethereal. Like his home. And he had the imagination and inventiveness to make it happen.

When he realized he was giving away too much about himself by sporting a semi-wood and lingering too long in his own head, he felt the heat of embarrassment rise to his own cheeks. He needed to seriously get his shit together, but damn if Ms. Stephens' zeal wasn't contagious. He could feel her excitement radiating off her in waves, turning him on to a degree nearly impossible to get under control. Seeing the eagerness shining brightly on her face made him wonder: did her appetite for life match her passion for interior design?

Something appeared to catch her eye, and she glanced over his shoulder. "Is that an authentic Louis XIV period armoire?"

"It is. You have a good eye for detail."

"I'd better or else my education was a waste."

She snapped her mouth closed, ran the palm of her hand over her pants, and her face brightened once again. She not only appeared excited, but uneasy, and Logan got the distinct impression that this might be her first dog and pony show.

"I take it you’re new at this?"

Her lashes flew up and her mouth hung open as if shocked that he had called her out.

"I really shouldn’t answer that," she whispered before biting her inner cheek.

"You’re not Mr. Moriarty's assistant?"

Logan’s question, phrased more like a statement, made her sigh and throw one shoulder up in a half shrug as if defeated.

"No, I’m not. I'm a new graduate working pro bono for the experience."
Well, that explained her enthusiasm.
"But, I'm not supposed to mention that."

He gave her a questioning shake of his head. "Why not?"

She eyed the toes of her shoes. "I’ve been told that admitting inexperience can be a turn-off to clients. I really shouldn't have …"

"I can assure you that I'm completely the opposite of turned off," he cut in. Her irises darted up to his, and when their eyes locked, there was a moment of white-hot awareness. "Look," he pressed on, "I don't mind. In my opinion, a fresh perspective can be a good thing." Her eyes remained guarded, so he reassured her, "I promise I won't mention your admission to Mr. Moriarty."

A slow-to-surface smile appeared as did her confidence, and she spun around to walk into the large open space that encompassed the living and dining area.

"This is going to look amazing when it's finished. Do you have specific ideas of what you want or is D-Mo," she quickly glanced back at him and corrected herself, "
Mr. Moriarty
going to be given creative license?"

"Oh, I definitely know what I want."

T
he gears were turning in Ms. Stephens' head, and Logan was itching to peek inside her brain to see in his home what she saw.

His furniture had been delivered the week before, and he was eager to see what would be done with all of it. His piano, a dozen pricey paintings, two Egyptian hand-woven tapestries, a seventeenth century antique cabinet and matching armoire, an old trunk that contained an assortment of tools strictly for pleasuring, and a two-hundred-year-old four-poster mahogany bed … each of the signature pieces that had been carefully chosen were more than mere physical possessions to him—they were a reflection of who he was. Like his house. To some, his tastes might seem eccentric; however, he preferred to think of his style as
eclectic
. He had been collecting the unique pieces for at least two years and was pleased that they were finally out of storage and now ready to be showcased, and more importantly, utilized.

As if being a homeowner wasn’t enough of a responsibility, owning one with such a significant history added to that pressure. The situation was made even more stressful when faced with the decision of choosing a design team that would be a good fit for not only his home, but for him. They were being asked to decorate what he envisioned to be his masterpiece and eventual legacy, and that was no small task. For them to fail to give him what he saw in his mind's eye was
not
an option. It couldn't be. He had spent far too much of his time and energy to accept anything less than perfection.

The weeks leading up to this meeting had passed slowly for him, and now with the appointment finally at hand, game day excitement and arousal were making it almost impossible for him to concentrate on anything of importance.

When Ms. Stephens walked tentatively toward the kitchen, he offered her a short tour. He might as well. The man to whom he was paying the big bucks still hadn't made an appearance, and there was no sense in letting the little bit of time he was allowed to spend alone with the dark-haired beauty go to waste.

Willingly, she accepted his offer, and he began telling her about the home's past.

"This place was built at the turn of the century and has changed hands many times, as well as housed several different religions. For the most part, it was Evangelical." He guided her to the first row of windows and ran a fingertip along the edge of the frame that he had meticulously restored. "Growing up, I didn’t live far from this church. I remember hearing the loud music and worship sessions on Sundays for hours on end, and imagining the crazy antics that my mother said took place here," he said with a smile. "I didn't see those
antics
first-hand as I was raised Catholic, but my mother had plenty of stories about those
holy-rollers
."

Worried he might be boring her, he glanced in her direction, gave her a sheepish half-grin, and cleared his throat. Her feminine scent and the small smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes persuaded him to continue.

"I used to sneak in here on the weekends and drink the wine they had stored in the back. For being Christians, they had pretty decent taste in wine. But then again, what the hell did I know?" A burst of laughter barreled through him. "The first time I got drunk was in this church."

Ms. Stephens' amusement vibrated in her throat, and the corners of her lips tipped further upward. "I love that you have a personal connection and history with this place. What else did you do here?"

He contemplated whether or not to tell her about his little unholy indiscretion. He hadn't told anyone. The only other person who knew about his dirty impropriety was the girl who had laid waste to his virtue in the old church.

Unable to deny the brown-haired hottie who seemed so genuinely interested in his history with his home, he leaned down and whispered into her ear, "I lost my virginity here."

The smile she gave him was irresistible, but disbelief flashed in her irises. "You're making that up."

"Absolutely not. I lost it right over there," he pointed to an area below the staircase. "The staircase wasn't there at the time—I added that. It was a just a row of pews back then."

"That's …" she trailed off. When she hesitated, he braced himself for judgment, but her eyes sparkled and her grin widened. "So
bad
. Tell me more."

Oh, he could tell her more. He'd done lewd, dishonorable things within these walls long before he owned them. He had grown up here, and become a man here. When he had been feeling shitty about the circumstances surrounding his father's death or simply needed time to think, this was the place he had come to for solace. That's why it held such a special place in his heart.

His lips twitched with unspoken words, but he decided it was probably best to keep a few secrets to himself—at least for now.

"When my mom called to tell me the owner was going to demo the place and sell off the land, I couldn't bear the thought," he explained, changing the direction of their conversation. "I flew back to Nebraska and checked into what it would take to have it moved here. Everyone involved thought I was crazy and doubted it could make the journey, but this old place proved them all wrong. It turns out the Puritans built it sturdy as hell. Go-figure,” he laughed. “It was a major undertaking as we had to bring it in two pieces, but, fortunately, all the major aspects remained intact."

Ms. Stephens crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at the loft where the two extra bedrooms were perched. "You're brilliant. This place," she sighed, "it's so … I can't even put it into words. I can feel the love you put into it." She gave him a quick side-glance. "Can I see the bedrooms?"

His mouth twisted into a tight-lipped grin. Before he had a chance to change his mind, he began rambling about the house’s uprooting and voyage as he guided her toward the stairs. When Logan heard the anxiousness in his voice, he took in a deep breath and paced himself. He was giving away too much about himself again. It was easy to do with someone who appeared to be just as enchanted with his place as he was.

As they ascended the tiled staircase lined by a decorative railing, she glided her fingers over the ornate metal. His hand placed on the small of her back to guide her along seemed to cause her body to soften under his touch. She peeked at him over her shoulder to see if he had noticed. He had.

Hovering on the landing and near the threshold of one of the spare bedroom doors, he mulled over whether or not to tell her what kind of design plan he had in mind for his home. But her fascination proved too tempting, so he pushed forward, leading her into the empty room. He immediately turned to watch her reaction, keeping his eyes locked onto her as she eyed her surroundings from floor to ceiling.

Casually, she walked around, studying the scattered boxes and miscellaneous furniture. Sun streaming through a window illuminated her delicate features. When she shifted, the movement caused the hair around her shoulders to fan out around her neckline in a web of dark silk. The pants he’d thought were boring now accentuated her narrow waist and sensually hung off her hips, revealing a body that looked as if it was built to be fucked in scandalous ways. Her naturally bronzed skin gleamed, and when she faced him, her almond-shaped eyes came into full view.

As his eyes roamed endlessly over her, his imagination kicked into high-gear, and she conversely gave him a sweeping glance. When his irises rested on her breasts too long, one of her dark brows curved in a slight arch as if she had read his inappropriate thoughts.

Averting her gaze to the etched glass of the window, she moved toward it to peer out at the valley beyond his home. “It’s a lovely space, open and bright. Is it going to be a guestroom?”

And there it was—his foot in the door
. He hadn't anticipated discussing the room so soon—hell, he hadn't even decided yet what he wanted to do with it except house his kinky memorabilia. But, since she was showing such an interest …

“Guests will be welcome in here, but it won't be a guest room per se.”

She didn’t seem to pay any mind to his vague comment as she looked longingly out at the countryside. “I see. An office or master suite?

"No, my office will be the smaller of the spare rooms, and the master is down the short hallway off the stairs."

"A workout room?” she plunged on.

“Of sorts.”

Facing him, she appeared visibly perplexed by his elusiveness. “Then,
what
?”

“It’ll be …,” he searched his brain for the right words, “… a room for my collectibles."

Her interest piqued. "What type of collectibles?"

“Adult."

His straight-forward answer made her tilt her head to one side like a confused puppy as her eyes flicked over his body. “Adult?"

His filthy sense of humor could barely be contained. "Adult as in
wood
work," he casually commented with a smirk.

"You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does woodwork."

Ms. Stephens’ failure to pick up on his lame hint caused Logan’s eyes to round as he tried to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside of him. "I did a fair amount of carpentry here, Ms. Stephens.”

His short, breathy laugh seemed to catch her off guard and her face reddened.

"What I mean is manual labor."

He knew what she meant, but he couldn't help but rib her a little. It was too easy and damn if she wasn't adorable.

“I can
lay wood
with the best of them," he offered up an even more obvious sexual innuendo as he flashed a nefarious grin.

“Adult,” she repeated under her breath as her eyes roamed over his face. "Can you elaborate, please?"

Unable to stifle his amusement with her naivety any longer, his playful smile broadened into something ornery. “All I can tell you is that there will definitely be
wood
involved, though not the kind that you’re referring to.” He motioned with his hand toward the door. “I'd love nothing more than to go into detail about what I have in mind for not only this room,”
though demonstrating would be even better,
“but the entire house. Perhaps one of these days I will.”

Realization slowly took hold of her causing her mouth to hang open, but other than the wind whistling past the window, only silence filled the room. Not even her expression gave him a hint as to what she was thinking. It was maddening, but what did he expect? He had probably overstepped his boundaries, something he tended to do when faced with unrestrained sex-appeal.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, she turned to face him with a look of apprehension on her face.

"Does Dimitry know about your
adult
plans for this room?"

The worried tone of her voice and hesitancy in her eyes gave Logan pause. Just as he was about to question her reservation, a knock on the door startled them both. A look of unease flitted over her face just before she smoothed her hair and straightened her posture. Her friendly demeanor from only moments before disappeared and was quickly replaced with anxiety. It was dispiriting, and Logan began to wonder if the renowned designer he had hired was the right man for the job after all.