“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.
She nearly kicked him. “Why are you so hateful?”
“Come on, babe, a little late now to play the victim.”
Logan turned her head away to stare out the window, emotions so chaotic and hot she could barely see straight. “So where are you taking me?”
“To a safe spot. Away from the media.”
“Good. If it’s a safe spot, you won’t be there.” She swallowed hard, and crossed her arms over her chest. “And my father. He’s really dead?”
“Yes.”
She turned her head to look at him. Rowan’s cool green gaze locked with hers, expression mocking. “If it makes you feel better,” he added, lip curling, “it was natural causes.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks and her face burned. Good God, he was even worse than she remembered. How could that be possible? “Of course it makes me feel better.”
“Because you are such a dutiful daughter.”
“Don’t pretend you cared for him,” she snapped.
“I didn’t. He deserved everything he got, and more.”
She hated Rowan. Hated, hated, hated him. Almost as much as she wanted to hate her father, who’d betrayed them all—and she didn’t just mean the Copeland family, but his hundreds of clients. They’d trusted him and he’d robbed them blind. And then instead of facing prosecution, instead of accepting responsibility for his crimes, he’d fled the country, setting sail in a private yacht, a yacht which was later stormed off the coast of Africa—he was taken prisoner. Her father was held captive for months, and as time dragged on, the kidnappers’ demands increased, the ransom increased. Only Morgan was willing to come up with money for the ransom...but that was another story.
And yet, even as much as she struggled with her father’s crimes and how he’d shamed them and broken their hearts, she still didn’t want him suffering. She didn’t want him in pain. Maybe she didn’t hate him as much as she thought she did. “So he wasn’t murdered. There was no torture,” she said, her mouth dry.
“Not at the end.”
“But he was tortured.”
His eyes met hers. “Shall we just say it wasn’t a picnic?”
For a long moment she held her breath, heart thumping hard as she looked into his eyes and saw far more than she wanted to see.
And then she closed her eyes because