“Garrett.” She glanced back at Logan, who was sporting a murderous scowl. “Now’s not really a good time.”
There was silence for a few seconds as Garrett digested that. Logan bent and retrieved his shirt, stuffing his arms into the sleeves with angry motions.
“I get it,” Garrett said, sounding hurt. “The ink’s not even dry on the divorce papers yet. Is someone there with you?”
“No,” she denied, sending Logan an apologetic look with her eyes. “I’m just tired. Let’s talk later. Please.”
Logan cast her another dark look and spun on his heel, striding from the room. She didn’t want him to leave, not like this.
“I’ll call you,” she told Garrett, barely waiting for his reply before she hung up and hurried after Logan.
And not a moment too soon. His hand was resting on the doorknob when she made it to the entry hall. Her mind and her heart were a jumbled mix of emotions. She didn’t know what she was feeling or why, just that she didn’t want him to leave, not like this.
“Logan, wait,” she called. “Don’t go yet.”
He looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes glittering with intense anger. “I think our business is done. Don’t you?”
She stopped in her tracks, searching Logan’s gaze. “Business?”
“Yeah. Business.” He turned to face her completely. “If I have to fuck you to get you to stay at LM, I will. But next time, make sure your ex-husband doesn’t interrupt us.”
At his harsh words, Claire unaccountably felt tears stinging her eyes. Unnatural emotionalism, she told herself, a known side effect of pregnancy. Still, she couldn’t reconcile this cold, harsh stranger with the man who’d been burning in her arms.
“You’re a jerk,” she said softly, the words carrying the weight of an accusation.
“No.” That single word vibrated with fury as it left Logan’s lips. He slammed his fist against the closed door. “I’m not the one in the wrong here. You are. One second you’re panting for me and the next you drop everything to answer your ex-husband’s call. Why don’t you quit LM and hide here forever?”
“I’m not hiding.” Claire glared at him. “Not that my personal life is any of your business.”
“You made it my business.” He looked her up and down scornfully.
That did it. God, it really was amazing how she could be insanely attracted to someone one minute and utterly loathe him the next.
“Leave, Logan.”
He nodded, his usually sensual mouth a tight, grim line. “I’m out the door, but you need to think about some things. Figure out what the hell you want.”
With that parting shot, he was gone.
He shouldn’t give a damn about Claire Morton. He shouldn’t want to touch her, to kiss her, to care about her. On the way home, Logan repeated this mantra to himself over and over again, hoping that if he heard the words long enough he would actually begin to believe them.
Something was wrong with him. He’d never felt this restless before, this unsatisfied and determined to have something he knew he had no business wanting. He needed help.
He slammed his fist into his steering wheel as he pulled up to the black iron gate blocking his driveway. It slid to the side after he punched the remote opener he kept inside his car. His home loomed up ahead, mocking him.
Logan’s house wasn’t really a house. He thought as much to himself every time he drove up the winding, tree-bedecked driveway that led to his imposing, three-story ode to Classical architecture. From the outside, it looked like an overgrown mausoleum, a family crypt on steroids.
He braked as he pulled into the circular parking area at the end of the drive. Logan killed the engine and sat for a moment, staring up at the well-lit exterior of his home. It was gorgeous, outside and in. He’d had every last one of the twenty-one rooms inside decorated to the point of extravagance by a Philadelphia designer. It was incredible to look at, which it damn well should be since it had cost him upward of four million when he’d bought it a few years ago.
The final jewel in his crown.
Yeah, he knew his employees called him King Monroe, and he usually enjoyed the sobriquet. He had built an empire, so why not revel in his creation? Why not flaunt the money he’d worked so hard to accumulate? Looking at his world, from the outside in, no one would guess that he’d once been a dirt-poor foster kid grubbing food from alley dumpsters.
His early life hadn’t been easy, or happy, or even particularly good. Logan didn’t know who his parents were, only knew that they hadn’t wanted him. He’d been pawned off onto a line of foster parents, some caring, others more interested in the extra cash he brought them each month. At fourteen he’d run away, living on the streets for a year, until an elderly woman had taken him into her home. Eunice Withers had literally saved Logan’s life. She’d put him through college and given him the financial backing to build LM. Eunice had been the only person to ever tell him that she loved him.
She’d died of heart failure eight years ago, and sometimes Logan forgot just how much he missed her. Forgot just how much it meant to have someone close their arms around him, to say those words and mean them.I love you.
Inexplicably, he thought of Claire. His house was so empty, so cavernous. A maid came to clean it three times a week, but beyond that, Logan was entirely alone, with the exception of his cat, Caesar. But Logan was growing weary of watching late-night TV with a fat, purring feline.
