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Logan hated working off-site.

Everyone wanted to know “how he was managing” because he looked too much like a visitor, despite his company badge. It wasn’t the fault of how he was dressed; the New York office was full of sharp dressing movers and shakers, no less so than their sister branch in Boston, so he looked the part.

It was just aggravating. It always took him a couple of hours just to get his bearings. He hated walking around looking confused when hunting for the copy room, bathroom, conference rooms, or the cafeteria. This time, he kept a Xerox copy of the building’s map in his briefcase, which was slightly helpful. Not much, of course, since close-up, every hallway and corner looked the same once he got out of the elevator.

The only thing worse was the guest cubicle they found him. Logan tried to work for a while with his headphones on while he checked his emails. Fifty messages made a stack of red flags. Sure. All of them were that urgent. Geez…

But the noise surrounding him was too distracting. Thankfully the training was almost complete, and he only had one more meeting left before he could head back to his hotel.

The denizens of the third floor periodically “checked up on him”. Women made frequent stops to scope out the newcomer in his sharp suit. Even after five days, the novelty hadn’t worn off.

Logan had a strong, virile presence that drew them like honey bees. But he was about to shout “YES, I’m settling in just FINE, fer fuck’s sake!” if one more person asked him. The feminine attention wasn’t the problem itself; Logan just wanted to be back home, in his own office or on his own couch. He hated the office’s poor excuse for coffee; more often than not, every time he went to get a cup, it was either empty or burnt because no one felt like making a new pot. He didn’t sleep well on the too-soft bed at the hotel, either, and their Wi-Fi access sucked.

He checked the scores for the Celtics game under the guise of “getting caught up.” He was so absorbed that he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a female voice over his shoulder.

“Geez!” He jerked himself around in his seat and stared up at his guest. She had the temerity to smile at him.

He vaguely remembered her from the meeting, the striking redhead sitting in his row at the first training snoozefest…session. Mary, something. Maybe.

“It’s so bare in here,” she remarked.

“Eh?”

“Your cube. I know, you’re visiting, but it’s kinda drab. No pictures of family, or anything.” She was definitely fishing, he decided.

“Uh-uh. No family to share.”

“Hmmm.” She invaded his space and turned, leaning back against the edge of his desk and crossing her long, slender legs. She wore brutally high pumps that looked a little like black suede. Logan wasn’t into shoes, no surprise, but he was a leg man. “What’s it like in New York?”

“Cold. Ain’t much different from this.”

“I find that hard to believe. I’ve always wanted to travel to Long Island.”

“It’s nothing like the city.” Apples and pomegranates, he mused. So not the same.

He guessed she’d probably love the garment district. She opted for a black wool dress with a wrap waist that emphasized her curves; Logan guessed they’d stand eye to eye when she was in stockingfeet, perhaps shorter than medium height.

“How long are you in town?”

He indulged her game of twenty questions. “Checking out tomorrow morning. I’ve got an early flight back, just soon enough to go back to work.”

“No rest for the weary?” Her green eyes and an impish smile inserted the word “wicked” in weary’s place. She sounded hopeful.

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Has anyone fed you?”

“Packed a snack.”

“I meant lunch.”

She was blunt. It was refreshing.

“I’ll mull it over.” It wasn’t a yes or a no. “If I’m hungry, I might eat.”

“That’s usually how it works. We’re not robots in this office. Not yet, anyway. We require sustenance and potty breaks every now and again.” He smirked. Okay, he liked her. Maybe a little. “Can I check on you later, if you want to go to lunch?”

“Feel free.”

“What’s your ID on Outlook?”

Okay. That irritated him a little. It never made any sense to Logan to email someone who was sitting only a few yards away or no farther than a couple of rows of cubicles. Throwing a paper airplane over one of the walls and talking in a loud whisper was more effective and took up less bandwidth, in his opinion.

“Look me up under Howlett. I’m the only one on the directory.”

“What do you like to be called?”

“James,” he decided. In the back of his mind, he chided himself for his misstep with “Tory.” No nicknames and no aliases meant no bullshit. His eyes drifted down to her badge, hanging from a beaded lanyard meant to look like a necklace.

Madelyne, with a ‘Y’. It figured…

She caught his look and she rose from her perch, arms folded beneath her breasts. Her smile was warm. “Then I know where to find you.” She drifted off in a cloud of some floral perfume that tickled his nose. He enjoyed the view.

He worked with no further distractions for the next two hours. Like clockwork, his stomach grumbled. He contemplated an email, but decided to let her tag him first.

The tiny white envelope prompt flashed across his screen. He grinned. You have a new Outlook message.

His smile faded. Sender: Munroe, Ororo.

Subject: Rate proposal for the X Effect Account.

“Great,” he snarled. He took a gulp of the tepid coffee and read its contents.

James,

I’m reviewing the package you’ve pitched to the client. The rates you’re suggesting don’t add up for the services we’re providing, nor do they reflect the number of lives we want to insure, based on what I received from Eligibility.

Please review the package again and the eligibility tapes and get back to me. I think you’ll find I’m right about this. You may need to call the customer back.

Like hell.

Her autosignature was still in its playful purple print. It annoyed him.

He opened the attachments. She’d included the benefit summary and the Access file; the username showed up as Essex, Nathan when he opened it. Figured. Even Scott, who got along with everyone at all the sites they collaborated with, couldn’t stand that guy. The file’s timestamp said it was two days old.

Shit.

He recalled that the point of service plan he sold covered network services at eighty percent with a sweet pharmacy plan and dental option. X Effect was a slick company and generous employer, but they were also a tough, sensitive client with a legal team who would ream OptforWellth, and Logan, up the ass if they screwed up this sale.

Logan scanned through the eligibility numbers and hissed “Fuck!” His fingers fumbled over the keys as he printed the message and the attachments. He had a bone to pick with “Ororo.”

He was up and running, the perfect picture of a man you didn’t want to piss off. “Tessa,” he said, catching sight of the dark-haired admin he recognized from the meeting, “could you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Ororo’s office. She’s on this floor, right?”

“Sure. Underwriting’s down the hall, to the left, right past the copy room.”

“Appreciate it.” He wove his way through the maze of cubicles, glad to leave its buzz behind him. The corridor was drafty and brought him a welcome breath of fresh air. He briefly wet his lips at the fountain and nearly stumbled into two women as they rounded the corner.

“Oh!”

“Sorry, didn’t see you,” he offered. He was batting a thousand. It was the account manager, Selene Gallio. A barracuda with a saccharine tongue.

“You seem like you’re in a rush.”

“I wanted to talk to your right hand woman,” he informed her.

“Oh…you mean Tory!” she said, giving herself a silly little slap to the forehead. “Of course you mean Tory! Well, she’s in her office. She has her little sign on the door saying she’s out to lunch, so you might want to just knock. I’m lucky to have carte blanche to walk in whenever I please. What good’s being an account manager if it doesn’t open doors?”

Geez…

“She’s such a busy girl,” Selene continued. “Is it urgent?”

“I just need to talk to her.” She eyed the attachments in his hand, but he held them protectively against his gut and began to skirt around her.

“It’s nice meeting you, er…” Cassandra eyed him expectantly.

“James.”

“Ah. Of course.” She’d forget it as soon as they made it down the hall. No matter.

“Have a good one,” he threw over his shoulder as he sped toward his goal.

“Goodness,” Selene mused as the door at the end of the corridor banged shut behind him.

“Seemed rather distracted. And a bit rude,” Cassandra said.

“Nice suit, though.” Cassandra nodded in agreement.


Ororo was waiting in suspense for a return message. Her tuna salad bagel sat on its white wrapper, half-finished. Anticipation always made her stomach twist.

He gave her more than he bargained for.

Knock, knock, knock…

“C’mon in. It’s open.”

The door swung open. Logan stood before her with a death grip on the knob, the attachments clutched in his free hand.

Oh, goodie…

“Ya mind explainin’ what the hell this is about?”

“Good morning.”

“It’s practically noon.” He tossed the papers onto her desk; the draft from the motion rattled the hard copies she already had spread across her blotter.

“Make yourself at home,” she tossed back.

“I’m fine where I am.”

“Suit yourself.” She leaned back in her seat to stare up at him. She knew that was his motive. Big whoop. Be a grouch.

“That ain’t the eligibility that the group sent over when we made the sale.”

“That’s the most recent file. Call Nate if you don’t agree with me.”

“I don’t believe you. That ain’t the same as disagreeing with you.”

“Get…OVER yourself. Do you want the email?”

“Fine.” She scanned through her messages, pissed off.

“Ya might wanna sort ‘em by sender, since ya don’t look like ya clean out yer inbox that often.” His Boston twang was back, she noticed. It seemed to come out more when he wasn’t in meetings or on the phone.

Or when he was hopping mad.

“I can go through my email pretty well by myself. Like I said earlier, make yourself comfortable. Please.” She nodded sharply at the chair in front of her desk.

Hostility radiated from him. He obeyed. She hit the “Sender” bar and her messages reordered themselves neatly. She saw messages older than six months and made a note to archive them, anyway. What is he, the tech support police?

She wanted to crow when she found it. “I’m sending it to that printer,” she said sweetly. She was lucky enough not to have to share it with anyone but Selene.

He took the sheaf of papers and thumbed through them. He snorted. “Who’s Anna?”

“What?” She stood and leaned over her desk.

“Anna. She wants to know what time you’re leaving for the shower.”

“Give me that!” She circled her desk and snatched the sheet out of his hand, not caring how…snatchy it looked. She was embarrassed at his amused look. “It says confidential on the bottom, or didn’t you notice?”

“Then don’t leave it on the printer shelf,” he suggested.

“This is what you wanted.” She sifted neatly through the papers and handed him the one from Nate. “They added another eligibility group for retirees under 65.”

“Added?”

“Yup.”

“Why the hell wasn’t I copied in on this?”

“Beats me.”

“This should’ve come through me first.”

“So contact the account manager. That didn’t come from Selene’s desk.”

He fumed. Being left out of the loop was bad enough. Watching his least favorite member of the account management team gloat about it pissed him off.

“It’s gonna look sloppy to the client that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”

“So start being the left hand. Check with the client beforehand if they need to add any more eligibility groups.” She returned to her desk. “Be more proactive.”

“Proactive.” The word felt razor-sharp on his tongue. She didn’t flinch.

“It helps in the environment we work in to watch your communications with the customer.”

“So I’ve gotta go back to them with different premiums than what was agreed.”

“Bingo.” Not her problem.

That bitch.

“Yer pretty happy about this, arentcha?”

“Me? Of course not!”

“Pfft.”

“Why would I be happy? Logan, I had to go back over their numbers, their claims experience, and their personal data to see if they had preexisting conditions among that group. I had to do my homework. It’s not just a matter of punching a few numbers into a calculator.”

“I thought ya were drawing sticks in the sand.”

No. You. DIDN’T.

“What is WITH you? You just barge into my office, acting indignant-“

“Are ya calling me indignant?”

“No. I said you acted indignant, and I don’t appreciate it.” She stood this time to her full height.

She took off her reading glasses and thunked them down on her blotter. Anger blazed from her blue eyes, undiluted and all for him.

“If you want, James, I can happily send the client an email, or better yet, route it through Client Services first, explaining that the earlier rates didn’t reflect the addition of the eligibility group. They should have realized this by now, themselves. No one says you have to look uninformed.”

“Fine,” he muttered. His anger dwindled down to its last spark.

“Blame me, if you want. I’ll once again be the evil underwriter. Next time just send me an email back. Save yourself the trouble and the walk.”

“It ain’t any trouble. My legs aren’t broken, Ororo.” His eyes narrowed. “Or is it Tory?”

“Whichever one is easier to remember.”

“I think ya know what I think about that.”

“No. I don’t.” Her steps were brisk as she came back around to the front of her desk again. She approached the door and swung it open, giving him his cue to leave. “And I don’t need to know.”

She still looked the part of the “evil underwriter.” Her suit was still severe, but the saving grace was that she chose a skirt this time. He saw her long black boots sitting in the corner of the room behind her coat rack. Her feet were shod in a pair of two-inch heels, slightly more practical, and besides, she didn’t need the boost to her height.

But they surprised him. Red patent leather with black buttons over the toes. They cut the severity of so much black, since she’d draped herself in it like a funeral shroud again. The shoes matched a silver necklace with red seed pearls at her throat.


If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d dressed that way for him, just to put him off, but he dismissed it. It niggled at him that she’d probably transform back into the carefree beach siren with her ripple of hair loose and flowing, begging to be touched once he was gone…

Right now, Hands Off was written all over her.

Her legs. Long, lithe and muscular, like a casual jogger’s. They were even better than Madelyne’s. His gut clenched at the memory of those legs.


Ororo’s heart thudded. He was so close.

He smelled good. He looked good, even though that tiny divot was still between his eyebrows. He was still annoyed with her, which suited her fine.

Logan’s body seemed to radiate heat. Her own felt almost compelled to lean in closer, even though she was in the process of giving him the bum’s rush.

Wasn’t she?

She wanted him to back down first, to break eye contact and give her his retreating back.

He had no such plans.

“I don’t even know what to call you, half the time. James.” She said it in such a bland tone. He wanted to shake her. That didn’t help him with his determination to keep his hands off of her.

“Just as well ya don’t hafta call me. Ain’t it?”

“There’s always email,” she scoffed. She held the door open wider.

“Great. Like I need more. Save some server space, darlin’.”

“Fine by me.” Then, “And don’t call me darling.”

“Ya didn’t mind before.”

“That was before.” She felt foolish still holding onto the door, fearful that someone would round the corner and catch them bickering like siblings. Scratch that; like the school bully and the wallflower.

“Then which is it? Tory, or Ororo?”

“Just don’t call me late for dinner. James.”

That was it. She’d flicked the switch.

“That ain’t what ya called me before.”

“How would I have? I didn’t know you. I still don’t.”

“That didn’t matter, did it?” His eyes flicked over her, making her self-conscious and her cheeks grow hot. Her fingers tightened on the knob. She began to back away and tug the door partly closed, hoping he would take the hint and vacate the space.

He neatly slapped the door back against the stop, not hard enough to slam. Her lips thinned.

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“No. I ain’t.” He advanced in slow increments. She backed up, swallowing against the knot in her chest. “Ya mighta found that out if ya’d stuck around long enough, Tory.”

Her name. In his voice. That rumbly, almost gravelly voice that narrated her wet dreams. Oh, man…

“Ya like it when I say yer name.”

“Please,” she snarked, but why did her voice sound…more desperate than snide?

Her knees felt weak. Her urge to flee warred with her need to stay close to that scent, to his heat, and her desire to drown in his dark eyes.

She licked her lips. Those luscious, ripe lips.

She nearly fell back against the chair he’d abandoned. He caught her by her shoulders, clamping them in his beefy grip.

He was touching her. The voice of reason in the back of his mind bellowed at him, Abort! Eject! Get the hell outta there, soldier! RETREAT! Fall back!

But electricity and heat sizzled between them, channeling through her pulse and stomach, back up through his chest.

“Damn it, Tory.”

She made a helpless sound, a whimper, if she had to describe it, and she trembled “ trembled! “ when he slid his grip from her shoulders to the small of her back, almost circling her narrow waist in one smooth movement. One second she was staring at him like he was insane.

The next, she was tasting him.

They came together like magnets from opposite poles, charged with need and lust. It defied reason. Logan remembered himself and freed one of his hands long enough to swat the door shut.

Yes.

Her body sang its approval of the way he kissed her, greedy and hot. He devoured her lips. She opened for him with no entreaty on his part. After all, it wasn’t about what he wanted, was it? It was her office, and her lunch hour that he’d hijacked. She just had to take more of him, more of his hearty, satisfyingly male flavors and textures, mints mingled with coffee and his firm lips. Her fingers were clutching his crisp white shirt, hopelessly wrinkling it, but he didn’t care.

She hated him restrained as much as he had. Her hands were creeping inside his blazer, molding the contours of his pecs. God, he has nice pecs… She wanted to peel him out of that suit and lick salt and lemon from every inch of his body.

She felt the stroke of his fingers at her nape, tracing the shape of her neck. And something else; her hair seemed to be shifting…falling. He freed it of the pins, loosening her snug chignon that she had to admit, now, had given her a headache all morning. She had such heavy hair…

He clutched handfuls of it once it was all loose, sexy and soft. She moaned as his lips traced the curve of her ear.

The indignities of the past week melted away with her touch. Bad coach flights, lumpy hotel mattresses and piss-poor coffee evaporated into the ether. The cure for all of his ills was sliding the toe of one slick red shoe up the back of his calf. He was practically on top of her, fer cryin’ out loud. They tumbled back against her desk. It was temptingly horizontal.

They couldn’t.

The wouldn’t.

They could.

The metal inbox racks on her desk tumbled off the side with a low clank. Her commuter cup, thankfully, was still sealed, but it, too, rolled off onto the floor as he scooted her back. Her hands were fisted in his hair and tie. She pried apart the Windsor knot she despised, craving his pulse and the taut cords of his neck. His breath hitched when she claimed it with her mouth.

“Logan,” she whimpered. Her control was slipping away. She didn’t miss it.

“Tory. Aw, man, Tory.” He groaned in satisfaction at the feel of her pressed beneath his body.

Fate intervened where common sense failed.

“I think I left my folder in Tory’s office, Cass. I’ll grab it and we can head to that café you wanted.”

Ororo’s blue eyes flew open and she inadvertently bit his lip as she broke the kiss.

“Ow! Shit,” he hissed. He was dazed and confused as she began to wriggle out from under him.

“GogoGO! OFF!” she grunted as he heaved himself up. She was up in a flash, straightening her clothes.

“What?”

“Go. Please. Just…go.”

“Ya’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Uh-uh. No.” Then, more plaintively, “Please.”

He straightened his blazer and gave her a hard look. “This ain’t over.”

“Yes. It is.” He shook his head.

He left her office in swift strides with his tie carefully tucked in his blazer pocket. He could redo it when he had a moment’s privacy in the men’s. Ororo was a different story. She’d just managed to fasten the rest of her buttons, but her hair…

She caught sight of it in her reflection as she peeked at her monitor. It was a shambles, tousled as though someone had been running their hands through it.

Bedroom hair, complete with less lipstick than what she’d worn to work.

“I’ll just be a second…Tory, hi! Sorry, I just need my folder.” Selene was grabbing the folder, only planning to breeze in, then breeze out. She froze as she caught sight of her underwriter. “Goodness. What happened to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Ah…I had a mishap. Bad hair day.”

“So, did, um, James get a hold of you? He was looking for you.”

“I-yes, h-he did. He found me. We spoke.”

“Is everything…fine?”

“Yes. Sure. Fine. Fine.”

“Okay.” She caught sight of Ororo’s unfinished sandwich. “Looks like you’re working hard, you’re eating at your desk!”

“I like to keep my day moving.”

“Take some time for yourself some time,” Selene urged insincerely. An hour from then would find her hounding Ororo for file updates on the shared drive and numbers from her Rolodex.

Ororo stifled a laugh.

“Bye!” she trilled as she left.

Ororo’s sigh echoed off the walls. She rounded her desk and picked up her fallen possessions, thankful that Selene hadn’t noticed.

*


Coach class sucked.

Logan was grateful that his flight was brief and that he didn’t need a rental car. Thank heaven for the Red Line.

He was done.

His lunch went as planned with Madelyne, who had no problem with him calling her Maddie. She was easy to be with, funny and seemed to have no expectations. There was no “lightning bolt” of chemistry between them, but he felt an attraction to her that was comfortable and familiar. He couldn’t place why. But it just made sense. Logan craved things that made sense.

She traded business cards with him and punched his cell number into her iPhone while they waited for the check.

“Drop me a line once in a while. Stay in touch. Maybe we could do something the next time you’re in town.”

“Likewise.”

It went fine.

So what was wrong with him?

Why was he chafing at the light peck she snuck from him before she exited the cab they shared back to the office? Why did it feel like a sacrilege?

Only an hour before, he’d righted himself and the raging erection cursing him went away. He’d scrubbed his face, removing a vestige of red lipstick from the corner of his mouth. Damn. He still had a restless look in his eye. She’d done that to him. He managed a neat knot with his tie and fixed his hair, dampening it to reactivate the hair gel he used that morning.

Ororo drew him in, then kicked him out. It was twice the insult of just leaving him hanging, alone in his hotel room with her scent still in his sheets.

What happened was crazy. He didn’t have time for crazy. Life was too short, and Logan was tired.

He knew he should have headed back to his office; it was certainly early enough. Logan decided he needed the comforts of his own apartment more than his office needed him.

He basked in the lived-in smell and silence as he set down his mail and coat. He no sooner shucked his blazer and tie than the phone rang.

“H’lo?”

“Hey. It’s John.”

“What’s up?”

“Wanted to give you a call. Have you talked to Dad?”

“Nope. Why, what’s going on?”

“I’m going to give you his room number.” John’s voice was all business. “That way you can call him when he gets out.”

“Gets out of what?”

“Surgery.”

Logan’s heart dropped into his shoes.

“What?”

“Dad’s having a triple bypass. He’s in the hospital.”





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