“You speak such sharpness with such softness, Ms Jones.”
If he ‘Ms Jonesed’ her once more, she was going to snap. She loathed her full name. One of her mom’s attempts at snobbishness, it was so pretentious. ‘Min’ wasn’t much better. She’d gotten the Minnie Mouse thing at school. Not to mention Minty—like toothpaste. Min it was. Minimum.
“Please call me Min,” she said.
“Only if you call me ‘Master’.”
Min’s jaw dropped. She shut it with a snap and glared at him—wishing for the powers of Medusa so that the man would turn to a stone pillar.
He suddenly laughed—a deep, wicked, appallingly inviting sound. “It was worth it for that look alone.”
Anger made Min forget her breathiness—forget her speech at all. Only it wasn’t just anger. “Are you sexually harassing me, Mr Hughes?”
“Probably,” he nodded. “But then you’re sexually harassing me.”
“How so?” She queried. “My manner and conversation have been beyond reproach.” Apart from that one look, she’d been working hard to hide her base level interest—
“Your mere presence is the problem.”
A ball of heat exploded in her belly. Anger, not attraction. Definitely not arousal. The guy was a playboy—an utter shark. No, that was unfair to sharks. He was just a jerk.
“Easily resolved.” She stood.
He didn’t mean it. The guy just couldn’t resist trying it on with anything. And she guessed this meant he was over the tweet if he was more concerned about flirting inappropriately. “But even so,” she turned back to face him. Desperately ignoring the huge, wicked smile on the man’s face. “It’s not my p-p-presence but your reaction to it that’s at fault. It’s up to you to take yourself in hand.”
His eyebrows shot up. Something sinful gleamed in the depths of his eyes.
“You question my self-control, Ms Jones?” he asked softly.
“Do you b-blame me? When you speak so inappropriately?”
It wasn’t just his self-control at risk right now. Min was all but steaming.
“Maybe I speak too honestly,” he replied. “Maybe that’s always been my problem.”
“Not knowing when to keep your mouth shut?”
“I bet you know when to keep your mouth shut. I bet you know all those proper rules.”
Oh Logan was playing with an inferno here and he really shouldn’t. Even for him this was beyond bad. But he didn’t care, he’d fix the stupid tweet himself and pay her off if there really was a problem. It had been too much fun to resist provoking that reaction.
For the first time in months he felt himself again. Excitement, adrenalin rippled through his veins. He did so like a challenge. He did enjoy a risk. And right now the payoff was perfect. He stood, took that step towards her, watched her chin lift again as she prepared for battle.
“Mr Hughes—”
“Call me Logan,” he said, deliberately peaceably.
That earned him a startled look, quickly infused with a cynical narrowing of the eyes. Araminta Jones was no fool and if he wasn’t careful she’d be using his verbal lapse in judgment against him. Sadly, it was time to tidy the situation up. “Look—”
He broke off at the rough rap on the door. It opened before he said anything. Ed stood in the frame, looking as concerned as Ed ever did. Tiny twin frown lines creased his brow.
“Sorry Logan, Rocco’s on the line. He insisted I bring the phone to you.”
A chilled finger pressed low on Logan’s spine. Ed’s frown wasn’t because he was scared of disturbing him. It was something else. Something Rocco had said?
He took the phone with a nod and closed the door on Ed again. He turned to lean back against it, mainly to prevent Ms Jones from leaving. He didn’t trust that she wouldn’t do a runner, for all her defiant chin tilting. Because she was looking more anxious now he’d gone for the friendly approach.
He held the phone to his ear but kept his eyes on her. “What is it?”
“You know there’s a picture of her on the internet already.” Rocco said.
Logan paused. “Picture of who?”
“Aren’t you watching your own feed?”
“What?” Logan quickly glanced at his computer but didn’t want to leave his position at the door.
“Entering the building.” Rocco added. “She’s pretty cute. Amazing hair judging by the braid.”
“You’re kidding.” Logan swore. “You can see her?”
“I just told you, there’s a picture of her on the internet already.”
Logan was momentarily robbed of speech. Some camera-clutching loon had been bored enough to stake out his apartment building? Surely there were more important things going on in the world? He closed his eyes, the cult of celebrity really was crazy.
“They’re all saying she’s the fiancée. That right?” Speculation sped up Rocco’s usually leisurely speech.
“I can’t see the feed right now. Describe her to me.” Though he already knew it was her, the braid reference gave it away. But Logan needed to understand what everyone was seeing. And saying.
He looked again at Min, she was watching him, no hiding the wariness in her big green eyes.
Damn. Disappointment stabbed him in the gut—the situation was rapidly worsening. He didn’t want her thrown to the wolves. He didn’t want anyone to go through that shit.
“She kinda looks your type.” Rocco said like he was actually unsure of that. “Maybe dressed a bit casual.” Rocco stifled a laugh. “She’s all covered up.”
Araminta—Min—wasn’t Logan’s type. Nothing like his usual high-maintenance models. She wasn’t dressed remotely stylishly. The tee-shirt was more crusty than cool, so she couldn’t even claim the vintage title. Certainly not with the weird stains on her fingertips. And she was barely made-up. There was no foundation to hide the dusting of freckles that many of his dates would hate. No eyeshadow to enhance the green of her eyes or mascara to thicken those long lashes. Zero artifice. Even her hair had been hurriedly scraped back. It truly was the thickest, longest braid he’d ever seen. Rapunzel all the way. Was she locked in her ivory tower typing meaningless tweets on her computer?
Yet all of this apparently made her… perfect. His damn cock twitched.
So not happening. Provocative joking aside, this was not happening.
“What are they saying?” He frowned, trying to concentrate on what Rocco was implying.
“Trying to make an ID but it’s pretty hard, picture is blurry. Just jeans and that hair. She’s labelled your mystery woman.”
Mystery was right.
There’d been a frisson of sexual awareness between them from the moment they’d locked angry looks. Hell, there’d been a time when there was a frisson of sexual awareness between him and any woman. But it had been a while since those hedonistic days. And Araminta here had tossed her head defiantly and blanked it. There’d been no coy ‘quick look away’ and flirt back at him. No small, inviting smile. Instead her soft mouth had firmed, her eyes had cooled. She’d blown it—him—off before they’d even spoken.
Logan had been the target of a ‘treat him mean, keep him keen’ campaign more than once. But this was different. With her icy eyes and her come-to-bed voice Min was all sultry contradiction.
Lust—long since banished by boredom—now roared. It taunted, sending images into his head, plans. He’d release her hair, strip her from the stained clothing and set about making her scream. He wanted her naked, freed and well satisfied—smiling at him, with none of that silent scorn.
Yeah, the jaded sexual side of him stirred with a rippling, searing anticipation that had been missing for months. Hell, he’d been so bored he’d decided to try a two-for-one in an attempt to feel some real thrill. Look how that idea had turned out. Then, after a couple more unsatisfying—and ultimately unconsummated—encounters in which women only wanted a re-enactment of the edited highlights from that damn clip, he’d lost all interest.
But now?
He took another look into those green eyes, peripherally aware of those pretty freckles and that glorious hair. On the surface, stains and all, she looked the cleanest cut woman he’d met in ages. Different and so-determinedly indifferent.
But he shoved aside the wicked thoughts. So wrong in so many ways.
The important question was whether she’d be indifferent to the trolls. He knew the kinds of things people said online, the way they could tear a person—dehumanize, destroy. Though she worked in social media, he doubted she’d had all that venom directed at her.
And the threat wasn’t only online for little Ms Hipster. To be hounded by long lenses and crazies blocking the sidewalk—trying to provoke reactions for the money shot?
In an instant, he decided.
“Yeah, that’s her,” Logan said to Rocco. “She’s the one.”
“Really?” Rocco choked over the words. “This is for real?”
“Absolutely,” Logan said enthusiastically, warming to the idea. He could keep an eye on things this way. “She said yes.”
“Fuck me,” Rocco breathed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why not?” Logan asked, a spurt of irritation stabbing in his chest.
“Because…” Rocco didn’t say anything more.
Yeah, he didn’t need to. No one could ever believe Logan Hughes would ever settle down. Too wild. Too reckless. In that instant Logan truly hated the judgment of the world.
Then the old temptation to shock surged in. Irresistible.
“It’s real. She’s the one. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“But—”
Logan hung up and took a split-second to believe what he’d just said. Should he feel bad?