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The intense remorse made her nauseous. She couldn’t believe what she’d done. She’d filled an entire credit card, maxing it out in a flash for one night with a stranger.
She didn’t even know then what Dunamas Maritime was. Insurance for yachts? Ship builder? Cargo exporter?
He knew that, too, from his faint mocking smile. He knew why she’d bought him.
She’d bought him for his intense male energy. She’d bought his confidence and the fact that of all the attractive men being auctioned, he was by far the most primal. The most sexual.
She’d bought him because he was tall and broad shouldered and had a face that rivaled the most beautiful male models in the world.
She’d bought him because she couldn’t resist him. But she hadn’t been the only one. The bidding had been fierce and competitive, and no wonder. He was gorgeous with his deep tan, and long, dark hair—sun-streaked hair—and his light arresting eyes framed by black lashes. There was something so very compelling about him that you couldn’t look away. And so she didn’t. She watched him...and wanted him. Like every other woman at the charity event.
They’d all looked and wanted. And many had bid, but she was the one who’d bid the longest, and bid the highest, and when the heart-pounding bidding frenzy was over, she came out the victor.
The winner.
And so, from across the room that night, he looked at her, his mysterious light hazel eyes holding hers, the corner of his mouth lifting, acknowledging her victory. Looking back she recognized the smile for what it was—mockery.
He’d dared her to bid, and she had, proving how weak she was. Proving to him how easily manipulated.
By morning he would hate her, scorning her weakness. Scorning her name.
But that hadn’t happened yet. That wouldn’t happen until he’d taken her again and again, making her scream his name as she climaxed once, twice and then, after a short sleep, two more times before he walked out the door the next morning.
The sex had been hot, so hot and so intense and so deeply satisfying. With anyone else it might have felt dirty, but it hadn’t been with him. It’d just felt real. And right.
But she did feel dirty, later, once he’d discovered she wasn’t Logan Lane, but Logan Lane Copeland, and the shaming began.
It was bad enough being hated by all of America, but to be branded a slut by your very first lover? A man that wasn’t just any man, but one of the best friends of your twin sister’s new husband?
Of all the people to sleep with...of all the men to fall for...why did it have to be Rowan Argyros with his passionate Irish Greek heritage and ruthless nature? There was a reason he’d risen through the military. He was a risk taker with nerves of steel. A man who seized opportunities and smashed resistance.
She knew, because he’d seized her and smashed her.
Logan exhaled now, blocking the past with its soul-crushing memories. She hated the past. It was only in the last year she’d come to terms with the present and accepted that there could be a future. A good one. If she could forgive herself...and him.
Not Rowan—she’d never forgive Rowan. It was her father she needed to forgive. And she was trying, she was.
“My father,” she said now, her gaze sliding across Rowan—still so tall and intimidating, still so sinfully good-looking—and then away, but not before she realized his long hair was gone. Shorn. He looked even harder now than before. “Is...he...?”
Rowan hesitated for just a fraction of a second, and yet his expression didn’t soften. “Yes.”
She willed herself not to move, or tremble. She firmed her voice so it wouldn’t quaver. “How?”
He hesitated yet again, and she knew that he knew every detail. He was a maritime antipiracy specialist, based out of Naples, with offices in Athens and London as well as a large country estate in Ireland. He hadn’t told her any of that. Her sister Morgan and her husband Drakon Xanthis had, after their wedding.
“Does it matter?” he asked quietly, coolly.
“Of course it matters,” she retorted, hating him even more. Hating him for taking her virginity and mocking her afterward for enjoying his body and touch and for leaving her to deal with the aftermath on her own, as if he hadn’t been the one in that big bed with her...
His silence made her fear the worst. Her heart hammered. Her stomach fell. She wished she was hearing this from Morgan or Jemma, or her older brother, Bronson. They would all have broken the news differently. “Did they...did they...?”
And then she couldn’t wait for the words, the confirmation that her father, kidnapped and held hostage off the coast of Africa, had been killed, possibly executed. It was all too sickening and her legs wobbled and her head spun, her body hot, then cold and then very cold.
She tried to look for Joe, the very best assistant one could ever hope for, but all she saw was Rowan and he was staring her down with those pale hazel-green eyes.
“Don’t,” he growled, his deep, rough voice now sounding far away, as if he was standing at the far end of a tunnel.
Maybe he was.
She couldn’t see him well. Things were cloudy at the edges. He was cloudy, and she blinked, almost amused that Rowan could think he could still dictate to her, once again telling her body what to do...
“You’re not doing this now,” he snapped.
But she did. Her world went dark.
* * *
Swearing, Rowan dove to catch Logan before she crashed to the ballroom floor, but he was too far away and couldn’t break her fall. Her head slammed on the edge on the stage as she went down.
He was there to scoop her up and he swore again, this time at himself, for not reaching her more quickly, and then at useless Joe, for not catching her, either.
She was still out cold as he settled her into his arms, her slender body ridiculously light. He shifted her so that her head fell back against his biceps, and his narrowed gaze raked her pale face, noting the blood pooling at the cut on her temple, and beginning to trickle into her thick honey-colored hair. She was going to have a nasty bruise, and probably one hell of a headache, later.
She was also still impossibly beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips, the elegant brow and nose of a Greek goddess.
But beauty had never been her issue. If she’d just been a pretty face, he could forgive himself for their night together, but she wasn’t just a beautiful girl, she was Logan Copeland, one of the scandalous Copelands, and as amoral as they came.
It was bad enough being bought at a charity auction but to be paid for with embezzled funds?
“Grab her things,” he told the man hovering at Logan’s side. He wouldn’t be surprised if Joe was Logan’s lover. A boy toy—
He broke off, unable to continue the thought. He didn’t like the thought. But then, he didn’t like anything about being here today.
He didn’t have to be the one doing this. He could have sent one of his men. Every one of his special ops team at Dunamas Intelligence had come from an elite military background: US Navy SEALs, British Special Forces, Russia’s Alpha Group, France’s National Gendarmerie Intervention Group, Spain’s Naval Special Warfare Force. Rowan hadn’t just interviewed and hired each, he’d then trained them personally for intelligence work and rescue operations.
Any one of his men could do what he was doing. He should have sent anyone but himself.
But Rowan wasn’t about to let anyone else near her. He told himself it was to protect them—she was a siren after all—but with her in his arms, he knew it was far more personal and far more primal than that.
He didn’t want any man near her because even three years later, her body belonged to him.
* * *
Logan struggled to open her eyes. Her head hurt. Her thoughts kept scattering. She was being carried up and up. They were moving, climbing, but climbing what? She could hear breathing as well as the sound of heavy, even thudding close to her ear. She was warm. The arms holding her were warm. She battled to open her eyes, needing to focus, wanting to remember.
She stared hard at the face above her, noting the jaw, a very strong, angular jaw with a hint of dark beard. He had a slash of cheekbone and a firm mouth. And then he looked down at her, and the sardonic hazel-green depths sent a shiver through her.
Rowan.
And then it started to come back. Joe saying there was a problem. Something with her father and then Rowan appearing...
She stiffened. “Put me down.”
He ignored her, and just kept climbing stairs.
Panic shot through her. “What’s happening? Why are you carrying me?”
She wiggled to free herself.
His grip grew tighter. “Because you fainted, and you’re bleeding.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. You smacked your head on the edge of the stage when you fainted, probably have a concussion.”
“I’m fine now,” she said, struggling once again. “You can put me down. Now. Thank you.”
“You won’t be able to make it up the stairs, and we’ve got to get out of here, so don’t fight me, because I’m not putting you down,” he said shortly, kicking the door to the roof open. “And if you don’t like being carried, then next time don’t be clumsy. Faint somewhere soft.”
“Where’s Joe? I need Joe!”
“I’m sure you do,” Rowan gritted as they stepped into the dazzling California sunshine. “Don’t worry, he’s following with your things.”
“My things? But why?”
“I’ll fill you in once we’re in the air. But enough chatter for now.” His cool gaze dropped and swept from her face down her neck to the swell of her breasts. “You’re not as light as you like to think you are.”
But before she could react, they were at the helicopter and the pilot was jumping out and opening the door. Rowan was putting her in the helicopter in one of the passenger seats but she turned in his arms, leaning past to find Joe.
“Logan,” Joe said, trying to reach her.
Rowan kept his arm up, blocking Joe from getting too close. “Put her things down,” Rowan directed, “and step back.”
But Logan grabbed Joe’s sleeve. “Handle things at home, Joe. Please?”
Joe’s dark eyes met hers and held. “Where are you going? When will you be back?”
“She’ll call you,” Rowan said drily. “Now say goodbye.”
“Tomorrow’s event,” Logan said.
Joe nodded. “We’ll make it work. I’ll make it work. Don’t worry.”
And then Rowan was climbing into the helicopter and the pilot began lifting off, forcing Joe to run backward to escape the intense wind from the churning blades.
“Nice boy,” Rowan said, shutting the door as Joe scrambled to safety. “Definitely on the young side, but so much more trainable before twenty-five.”
Logan shot him a furious glance. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Your lover, whatever.” He shrugged. “It’s not for me to judge what you do with your father’s money—”
“I don’t have a penny of my father’s money.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t his money. His embezzled billions.”
She ground her jaw tight and looked away, chest aching, eyes burning, mouth tasting like acid. She hated him...she hated him so much...
And then he leaned over and checked her seat belt, giving it a tug, making the harness shoulder straps pull tight on her chest.
She inhaled sharply, and his fingers slid beneath the wide harness strap, knuckles against the swell of her breasts.
“Too tight?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers, even as her nipples tightened.
“With your fingers in there, yes,” she choked, flushing, her body now hot all over. The linen and cotton fabric of her cream dress thin enough to let her feel everything.
He eased his hand out, but not before he managed to rub up against a pebbled peak.
And just like that memory exploded within her—his mouth on her breast, alternately sucking and tonguing the taut tip until he made her come just from working her nipple.
Her response had whetted his appetite. Not content with just the one orgasm, he devoted himself to exploring her body and teaching her all the different ways she could climax. It had been shocking but exciting. She’d been overwhelmed by the pleasure but also just by being with him. He’d felt so good to her. She’d felt so safe with him. Nothing he did seemed wrong because she’d trusted him—
Logan bit into her bottom lip hard to stop the train of thought. Couldn’t go there, wouldn’t go there, not now, not when her head ached and the helicopter soared straight up, leaving the top of the old Park Plaza Hotel building so quickly that her stomach fell, a nauseating reminder that she still wasn’t feeling 100 percent.
She put a hand up to her temple and felt a sticky patch of blood. She glanced down at the damp crimson streaking her fingers, rubbed them, trying not to throw up. “I know you specialize in rescue and intelligence, but isn’t the helicopter getaway a bit much?”
Rowan thrust a white handkerchief into her hands.
She took it, wiping the blood from her fingers, hoping she hadn’t gotten any on her dress. This was a new dress, a rare splurge for her these days. As she rubbed her knuckles clean she could feel him watching her. He wasn’t amused. She wasn’t surprised. He didn’t have a sense of humor three years ago. Why should he have one now?
“I just meant, it’s a little Hollywood even for you,” she added, continuing to scrub at her skin, feeling a perverse pleasure in poking at him, knowing he’d hate anything to do with Hollywood. Rowan Argyros might look like a high-fashion model, but she’d come to learn after their—encounter—that he was hardcore military, with the unique distinction of having served once in both the US Navy and the Royal Navy before retiring to form his own private maritime protection agency, a company her brother-in-law had invested heavily in, wanting the very best protection for his Greek shipping company, Xanthis Shipping.
Even more bruising was the knowledge that Morgan and Drakon were such good friends with Rowan. They both spoke of him in such glowing terms. It didn’t seem fair that Rowan could forgive Morgan for being a Copeland, but not her.
“Look down,” Rowan said tersely, gesturing to the streets below. The huge hotel, built in 1925 in a neo-Gothic style, filled the corners of Wilshire, Park View, and West Sixth Street. “That mob scene is for you.”
Still gripping the handkerchief, she leaned toward the window which made her head throb. A large crowd pressed up against the entrance to the building, swarming the front steps, completely surrounding the front, with more bodies covering the back.
It was a mob scene. They were lying in wait for her. “Why didn’t they go in?” she asked.
“I chained the front door. Hopefully your Joe will find the key, or he’ll be in there a while.”
Logan reached for her purse and slipped the handkerchief inside and then removed her phone. “Where did you put the key? Joe can’t stay in there—”
“That’s right. You’ve left him with instructions to manage things at home.” He watched her from beneath heavy lids. “What a good boy.”
She ignored him to shoot a quick text to Joe.
Rowan swiped the phone from her hands before she could hit Send.
