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She wasn't sure why she'd said that out loud. She turned to face him, putting more space between them.
"Sounds like her," he said.
"Hmm. 'A woman stops thinking.' So you're saying nothing gets in the way of a woman's desires like her mind?" Madison arched a brow. "So sad for you men, that females can't be lobotomized for our mutual pleasure."
He shook his head. "When a woman gets out of the way of her instincts, and doesn't let the baggage she brings from her day-to-day life drag her down, she's the one who leads. As her Master, I put her in touch with those instincts; she's the one who uses them to take us both to a deeper level of connection."
As her Master . . . The way he said it, it was so painfully straightforward. The way his gaze stayed trained on her, waiting for something, made her shift uncomfortably, look elsewhere. "I think it's time for me to go
home. It's getting late."
"All right," he said at last. "But I have something for you up front. Based on what I overheard today, I think it will help you with the store."
After today's disaster, she thought only a miracle would do that, but she was willing to give anything a try. Then she registered his words. "What do you mean, 'overheard'?"
He held up a placating hand. "Patrons tend to talk about their shopping experiences elsewhere on the street when they're in the store."
Her first impetus was to tell him to mind his own business, go to hell, but he was only telling her what she already knew, right? What good would it do to jump in his face about it? But it still rankled.
"They talk about you, too. One of the women said you had a really poor selection of wood chippers. Nothing the right size to dispose of her husband's body."
"I'll work on that. I do like to satisfy a woman." Giving her a wink, he moved toward the counter while she thought about whacking him with one of his hammers. Seeing its price tag brought her to a stop.
"Over a hundred dollars? For a hammer?"
"There are five-dollar ones as well. That's titanium, perfectly balanced, guaranteed for life." He came back to her and picked it up, handing it to her to examine. "The tool you choose should fit the job. To a craftsman, or a person who makes his living building, it's essential to pick the right one."
"What about the guy with more money than sense who wants to have the best in his garage, even if he hires out all his handiwork?" That had been Henry, relationship number four.
Logan acknowledged the truth of that with a half chuckle. "They're a good revenue source, but most men take their tools seriously. I know I do."
He picked up one of the tool belts. "In the box stores, you'll find plenty of tool belts made in China that can handle a year of wear, if you're lucky. I don't carry much stuff like that. People don't come to me when they're looking for cheap and disposable. This one costs far more, but it will last a good long time. The material is supple but strong, double-stitched around the buckle and edges."
He wrapped it around his own wrist to show her, his knuckles curled into a fist, his forearm flexing below the rolled-up cuff of his shirt. "I depend on my tools to hold up to what I require of them. In return, I take very good care of them."
Hanging the belt back up, he guided her onward, that broad palm resting on her lower back again, and her moving slow enough to feel its pressure. At checkout, he had an antique cash register with metal keys and a pull-down arm. Since a computer system was next to it, she assumed the antique was for show, but he'd used the metal sides to display magnets like "if I can't fix it, it ain't broke" and other appropriate sentiments for a hardware store.
He had to lift his hand from her back to stretch over the counter, reach beneath it for whatever he wanted to give her. While that was a pleasure to watch, she felt the loss of his touch. While she'd learned to be hellishly good at repressing her desires, he was way too immediate, too strong an impact on her senses. She reminded herself she was going home in a few moments. It was all right. She could hold it together until then.
Logan revealed a carved wooden box that matched the workmanship she'd seen in the back, clearly another of his creations. Placing it on the counter and opening it, he withdrew a pair of police handcuffs, a key, and what appeared to be a tarot deck, contained in a transparent gauze bag. The cuffs made her stiffen, but he put the three things down before her in a precise line.
"I thought a little experiment might help you understand how Alice ran her store so successfully. You'll be alone when you do it. It's a self-test."
That made her feel a little better, but even so, she wasn't giving an unconditional response to anything. "What kind of test?"
He put his finger on the key and met her gaze. "Freeze this in an ice tray. Change into something that makes you feel sexy. I'm thinking you go for the simple and devastating. A lace black thong and nothing else, except a necklace. A pretty choker."
She had a jet bead choker. It was one of her favorites, reminiscent of the 1940s. Maybe because of the close fit around her neck, the caress of the beads, it always made her feel supremely feminine and sexy. She'd had an all-too-similar sensation when he'd closed his fingers around her throat.
She didn't say anything, waiting for him to continue. She wasn't going to tell him about the choker, and she definitely wasn't going to get in an in-depth discussion about her underwear choices. But she didn't tell him to stop.
"After the key is frozen in the ice, put on the cuffs. Take the ice and this deck of cards to an open space on your floor. Kneel."
When he spoke the one word, her knees weakened. She thanked the gods she was wearing slacks that covered the reaction. With that penetrating scrutiny, Logan could probably discern an elevation in heart rate, let alone a visible quiver in her knees. "Fan them out in a circle around you," he said, "and flip thirteen of them randomly. When you look at the images, think of them like breadcrumbs, leading you to your own fantasies. Then think about the type of breadcrumbs your store can offer people coming through your door, helping them reach their own."
He was an expert in his field, so to speak. This was his milieu, and he was simply trying to be helpful. Being entranced by how he put the items back in the box, and how his fingers felt brushing hers when he handed over the box was incidental.
The carving on the top was the triskelion. As her fingers slid over it, he nodded to the symbol. "Do you know its meaning?"
