Eclipse of the Heart

chapter 18

Amanda dreaded going in to work. How would she be able to act in front of Logan as though nothing had happened? How would he treat her? She didn't know if it would be better if he showed some acknowledgement of the change in their relationship, or if he behaved as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

On the whole, she thought he'd carry on as if nothing had changed. If she'd experienced some feelings of tenderness toward him, that was her unlucky lot as a female. In fact, if attachment hormones flowed from women during orgasm, well, she must have been awash in them all night long.

But he certainly hadn't felt any emotional attachment.

In hindsight, she'd made a terrible mistake. She never should have had that second glass of wine, even a half-glass, because she had no tolerance for liquor. Although she hadn't been flat-out drunk, she'd certainly been tipsy. Too tipsy to maintain her self-control when Logan had finally made his move.

It would have taken the willpower of a hundred sober women to resist his hot kisses, his expert hands, his hard body.

But there was only one woman who'd reap the heartache.

Her.

She could already feel that heartache reaching out exploratory tendrils, looking for an opening. When Logan ignored her at the office, those tendrils would take root.

Fool, they would whisper. Sap. You knew he'd never have emotional feelings for a lover. He told you that right from the beginning. What made you think you could change a man like him?

Sighing, she grabbed the small white card resting in front of a vase of flowers that had been waiting on her desk when she arrived at the office. She wasn't surprised he'd send flowers, even as she knew the gesture was meaningless.

She exited her office as she slid the card out of the envelope.

"Enjoyed my dessert last night," she read. Her eyes widened even as she looked up and saw Logan striding down the hallway toward her. Her breath escaped her as he filled her vision with his clean, white-shirted presence.

He looked fresh and polished, not at all like the hard, heaving, mass of muscles who'd turned her world inside out last night.

"Don't send me flowers," she said. The message may have surprised her, but the gesture made her feel cheap. It was the kind of thing he'd do with a mistress.

His lips twitched. "Good morning to you. Feeling a bit tired?"

"If I'm tired, I know exactly who to blame."

"I can take it." A full smile emerged. "And more."

"I—I—" She didn't know what to say to that.

Logan stopped in front of her. "I thought all women liked flowers."

"I’m not all women," she snapped. I’m me, she wanted to shout. Me. Look at me for myself, not as one in a long parade of generic women. She bit down hard on the side of her mouth. There was no point in going there.

But she didn't mind putting him on the spot. "What kind of flowers did you send me?" She was sure the housekeeper had ordered them.

He raised his eyebrows. "Roses."

A safe answer.

She glanced back. She'd closed her office door as she always did since finding Phoebe Cattus snooping in there.

"What color?" She didn't understand her strange determination to embarrass him, except that she refused to let him get away with treating her like all his other women.

His eyes met hers. "Yellow. I overheard you once telling Rosie they were your favorite color."

For a second she thought she saw a flash of amusement in his gaze, but then she decided she must have imagined it when he said, "Plan to have lunch with me. We'll go out."

She repressed a sharp sigh. Would he ever issue an invitation, rather than a command? But he was her boss. What choice did she have?

At lunchtime, he ushered her out of the building into a cold, but sunny, day. The limo idled at the curb.

Logan glanced at her feet. "I usually walk at lunchtime, but I asked Felipe to be available in case you preferred a ride."

"Walking is fine." She had no intention of acting like one of the pampered princesses he was undoubtedly used to.

Logan waved at Felipe, and they set off going south on Fifth Avenue. Cars whizzed by, and pedestrians hunched into their coats, gripping their cell phones. Honking horns punctuated the urban energy that pulsed in the air. A blast of wind pushed against them. She shivered.

Logan grasped her elbow. "Let's buy you some boots. Ferragamo is nearby."

"I don't need boots."

"But I like them." He dropped his arm around her and pulled her to his side. "Since I know you're practical, think about how much warmer they are."

She tried not to notice how good it felt to have him tuck her protectively against his body. Nothing could warm her up better than he did. But she could not afford to start feeling mushy about him.

"I don't need boots," she repeated. She knew damn good and well that if she said she couldn't afford them, he'd begin wearing down her resistance.

"Most women like to shop."

She had to grit her teeth for a moment. "As I mentioned earlier, I am not most women."

He tugged her inside the wide doors of Tiffany's. She sighed, but knew better than to balk. If he had a chore to do, he wouldn't be interested in hearing about the work she had waiting for her back at the office. For all his charm, Logan Winter was a man who did exactly as he pleased.

They walked past the gleaming glass counters presided over by watchful, black-clad employees.

"You feel like browsing?" Logan asked.

She looked up at him. "Are you kidding? I don't shop here."

"Fine." He pushed the elevator button. "I have a person who shops for me. I asked her to set aside a few things."

Amanda stepped into the elevator. "Who are you buying for?"

A slight frown creased his brow. "You, of course. Why else would we be here?"

Her jaw fell open. "Me? You'd better not mean that!"

An older man and woman, the only other occupants of the car besides the attendant, watched them discreetly as the elevator hummed upwards.

"Of course I mean it." A trace of impatience colored his voice. "What's the big deal?"

The doors opened and the other couple got off. But not before the woman said in a low voice, "He likes you, honey. Go for it."

Amanda sputtered with fury. Even a stranger thought she was bought and paid for.

"It is a big deal to me," she said, baring her teeth at Logan, "that you are treating me exactly the way you treat your—your paid companions. I do not want flowers or jewelry or—or boots!" She had to resist the urge to stamp her non-boot-shod foot.

A slight frown creased his brow. "I can't buy you anything?"

The elevator doors opened just as she hissed, "I am not for sale!"

The very handsome, impeccably clad, older man who got on looked from Amanda's face to Logan's. He stepped close to Logan, but his deep voice carried too easily. "Double your offer," he muttered. "Always works."

"Double of nothing is still nothing," Amanda snapped. "Which is precisely what he's going to spend on me."

The other man raised his brows at Logan. "Spitfire," he mouthed.

Logan shook his head slightly at the man before turning to Amanda. "You don't even want to see what they've set aside? I'd like to get you something."

Amanda grabbed for her control. She couldn't afford to humiliate him or really anger him. "I'm hungry," she said. "Let's have lunch. I'll let you pay."

But lunch didn't ease the depression that was creeping over her.

Logan Winter was a man who bought and paid for sex. Emotion and tenderness were not the coins he used. None of that changed just because Amanda wasn't a hired escort. She was still an object to him, a person to be "paid for" with gifts, if not cash.

She had to move on from him. Hope was a poor substitute for affection. "What did you want to discuss?" she asked, as the waiter handed them menus. "Dallas Robotics?" She was proud of her cool tone.

"No," he answered. "I worked out the problem we were having with them this morning."

She eyed him, wondering if she should challenge him on his subterfuge last night. She didn't believe he'd ever intended to talk about the deal. But she didn't want to raise the subject of last night.

Logan closed his menu. "Let's order lunch before we talk."

When the waiter left after taking their orders, Logan folded his hands on the table. "We have a few things to discuss about last night."

"Sorry," she said tersely. "I was drunk."

Surprise flitted across his face. "Had you been drinking earlier in the evening?"

"No! I'm not an alcoholic. I just get drunk easily."

He nodded. "I wondered about that at the wedding."

"Wonder no more. It makes me a cheap date and, obviously, an—an—easy—" She fluttered her hands as a substitute for words.

Logan laughed. "You," he pronounced, "are not an easy lay."

Her lips twisted. He wasn't one to mince words. It sounded ugly.

He captured her hands across the small table, and folded them within his. "I apologize if I took advantage of you. I deliberately didn't give you much wine in order to avoid compromising your sobriety."

"I'm not a child," she said pettishly.

"Five percent of the population can't tolerate alcohol well. You must be one of them. It's actually a good trait to have."

"You would think so. But it wasn't last night. If I'd been in my right mind, I never would have—stayed with you."

His face darkened as he let go of her hands. "Given the circumstances, I'll let that rude comment pass. However, I had you last this morning at dawn, and the effects of the alcohol must have worn off by then. I didn't hear any complaints from you."

Amanda stared at the tablecloth. She had been rude, and he was right about her willingness. But his emotional disengagement hurt her, and this was the only way she had to fight back.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, still talking to the table. "The whole episode was a mistake. Can we leave it at that?"

The waiter arrived with their food, a filet mignon for him and a yellowfin tuna burger for her.

Logan took a bite and then began talking again as if he hadn't heard her last plea. "I enjoyed myself very much last night." His gray eyes bored into hers. "I thought you did, too."

"Whether or not we enjoyed ourselves is irrelevant." She fought a blush. "It can't happen again."

"That kind of pleasure is never irrelevant." He took a sip of wine. "I'd like very much to have it happen again."

She clenched her hands around her fork and knife. "No." She couldn't have him pursuing her. She was honest enough, at least with herself, to fear she would succumb just as she had last night. So, to keep herself safe, she had to convince him to back off. Which wouldn't be easy, as he wasn't the type to give up easily on something he wanted.

He nodded, and took another bite of steak while she waited tensely for his next approach. But he managed to surprise her.

"I'm disappointed," he said in his calm way. "But I'll respect your wishes."

Geez. Why did his easy acquiescence make her feel worse? She was right to end this now. She knew it and he had to know it as well. Whether they ended this now or a month from now, he'd be able to move on. But she, a month hence, might well be in over her head. She couldn't take the chance.