so,’ said Max. ‘She’s undecided. Different beast altogether.’
‘You don’t take after her in looks.’
‘No,’ said Max. ‘I take after my father.’
‘You mean tall, dark, handsome and rich?’ Evie teased.
‘He’s not rich,’ said a deep voice from behind them. ‘Yet.’
That voice. Such a deep, raspy baritone. Max had a deep voice too, but it wasn’t like this one.
‘Logan,’ said Max turning around, and Evie forced herself to relax. Max had a brother called Logan; Evie knew this already. It was just a name—nothing to worry about. Plenty of Logans in this world.
And then Evie turned towards the sound of that voice too and the world as she lived in it ceased to exist, because she knew this man, this Logan who was Max’s brother.
And he knew her.
‘Evie, this is my brother,’ said Max as he headed towards the older man. ‘Logan, meet Evie.’
Manners made Evie walk puppet-like to Max’s side and wait while the two men embraced. Masochism made her lift her chin and hold out her hand for Logan to shake once they were finished with the brotherly affection. He looked older. Harder. The lines on his face were more deeply etched and his bleak, black gaze was as hard as agate. But it was him.
Logan ignored her outstretched hand and shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets instead. The movement made her memory kick. Same movement. Another time and place.
‘Pretty name,’ he rumbled as Evie let her arm fall to her side.
He’d known her as Angie—a name she’d once gone by. A name she’d worked hard to forget, because Angie had been needy and greedy and far too malleable beneath Logan Black’s all-consuming touch.
‘It’s short for Evangeline,’ she murmured, and met his gaze and wished she hadn’t, for a fine fury had set up shop beneath his barely pleasant façade. So he’d been duped by a name. Well, so had she. She’d been expecting Logan Carmichael, brother to Max Carmichael.
Not Logan Black.
Logan’s gaze flicked down over her pretty little designer dress, all the way to her pink-painted toenails peeking out from strappy summer sandals. ‘Welcome to the family, Evangeline.’
Max wasn’t stupid. He could sense the discord and he slid his arm around Evie’s waist and encouraged her to tuck into his side, which she did, every bit the small, sinking ship, finding harbour.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, restricting her gaze to the buttons of Logan’s casual white shirt. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken shelter in Max’s arms and it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just … wrong.
‘How long are you staying?’ Max asked his brother.
‘Not long.’
Logan ran a hand through his short cropped hair and the seams of his shirt-sleeve strained over bulging triceps. Evie shifted restlessly within Max’s embrace, every nerve sensitised and for all the wrong reasons.
‘Did you have to travel far to get here?’ she asked Logan. Not a throwaway question. She needed him to be based far, far away.
‘Perth. I have a company office there. Head office is based in London. Have you ever been to London, Evangeline?’
‘Yes.’ She’d met him in London. Lost herself in him in London. ‘A long time ago.’
‘And did it meet expectations?’ he asked silkily.
‘Yes and no. Some of the people I met there left me cold.’
Logan’s eyes narrowed warningly.
‘So what is it that you do, Logan? What’s your history?’ Rude now, and she knew it, but curiosity would have her know what he did for a living. She’d never asked. It hadn’t been that kind of relationship.
‘I buy things, break them down, and repackage them for profit.’
‘How gratifying,’ said Evie. ‘I build things.’
No mistaking the silent challenge that passed between them, or Max’s silent bafflement as he stared from one to the other.
‘Max, do you think your mother would mind if I took my bag up to the room?’ she asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind freshening up.’
‘Your luggage is already in your suite,’ said Caroline from the doorway. ‘And of course you’d like to freshen up. Come, I’ll show you the way.’
Five minutes ago, Evie wouldn’t have wanted to be alone with Caroline Carmichael.
Right now, it seemed like the perfect escape.
Logan watched her go, he couldn’t stop himself. He remembered that walk, those legs, remembered her broken entreaties as she lay on his bed, naked and waiting. He remembered how he was with her; his breathing harsh and his brain burning. No matter how many times he’d taken her it had never been enough. Whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it, and he hadn’t recognised the danger in giving her whatever she asked for until the table had given way beneath them and Angie had cut her head on the broken table leg on the way down. ‘I’m okay,’ she’d said, over and over again. ‘Logan, it’s okay.’
Eleven years later and he could still remember the warm, sticky blood running down Angie’s face, running over his hands and hers as he’d tried to determine the damage done. That particular memory was engraved on his soul.
‘An accident,’ she’d told the doctor at the hospital as he’d stitched her up and handed her over to the nurses to clean up her face. ‘I fell.’
And then one of the nurses had eased Angie’s shirt collar to one side so that she could mop up more of the blood, and there’d been bruises on Angie’s skin, old ones and new, and the nurse’s compassionate eyes had turned icy as she’d turned to him and said, ‘I’m sorry. Could you please wait outside?’
He’d lost his lunch in the gutter on the way to get the car; still reeling from the blood on his hands and the sure knowledge that accident or not, this was his fault, all of it.
Like father, like son.
No goddamn control.
Angie hadn’t known he was Max’s brother, just now.
Logan didn’t think anyone could conjure up that level of horrified dismay on cue. Or the hostility that had followed.
‘So what was that all about?’ asked Max, his easy-going nature taking a back seat to thinly veiled accusation. ‘You and Evie.’
‘Do you really intend to marry her?’
Do you love her, was what he meant.
Do you bed her? Does she scream for you
