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What happened in Salvation didn’t mean a damn thing to her. She was here to flip the brewery and finally get her corner office. She’d worked too hard and put up with too much shit from Patilla the Hun to veer off her plan now. Salvation’s future viability shouldn’t be any of her concern. It’s not like the town ever cared about her. And yet…none of that mattered. Because the truth was that she cared. Miss Linda’s chicken threatened to make a return visit.
The wine glass shook in her hand, and she shot back the rest of the chardonnay in one big gulp.
“Good, you’re still here.” Miranda jumped at the sound of Logan’s voice, which held a haggard edge that matched his appearance.
Gone was the cocky air of an alpha man here to close the deal of a lifetime. In its place was a bone-deep determination that rolled off him despite the weary droop of his broad shoulders. He’d pulled his navy tie loose and popped open the top button of his white dress shirt, revealing a few inches of the muscular chest she’d spent a good number of hours fantasizing about since their hookup in the vault. In real life and her imagination, Logan always appeared put together and in control, but seeing him a bit undone and rough around the edges sent her pulse skyrocketing. Damn, what was it about Logan that made her react this way?
“I hope like hell I’m not going to regret this, but I’m betting on a Sweet’s plan.” Logan shoved a hand through his already rumpled thick brown hair, the dining room light glinting off his gold cufflinks. “We can make this happen.”
“Two weeks and no more.” Marc stood up and pushed in his chair. “If there’s not interstate and river access agreement by then, I’m going to have to tell my clients it’s a bad investment.”
Ten minutes later, she and Logan stood at the valet station waiting for their cars to be brought to the front. Marc’s taillights shrank in the distance as he hit the highway for the drive back to Harbor City. The city of eight million people was her home, yet she didn’t have even the slightest twinge of regret that she wasn’t headed down the highway herself. Maybe Olivia was right; she may have started drinking the Kool-Aid.
A valet jogged up to the covered awning, a sheen of sweat dampening his forehead. “Ma’am, there’s a problem with your car.”
Her stomach sank. “What’s wrong?”
The valet gulped in a few breaths. “Your tires have been sla
shed.”
Chapter Eleven
After Miranda’s second call to Natalie went straight to voicemail, Logan offered to give her a ride home.
It made sense to accept Logan’s offer. Of course, that was before she was locked inside the cab of Logan’s truck, the tempting scent of cedar, musk, and a dangerous-to-her man heavy in the air. Despite her better judgment, she couldn’t ignore the way Logan’s hands lightly grasped the steering wheel, reminding her of what it had been like together in the vault. How soft yet intense his fingers had been on her hips. The roughness of his thumbs teasing her nipple to an almost painful pleasure point.
Miranda sat with her hands clasped in her lap. “Thanks for the ride.”
Logan shrugged his shoulders, having abandoned his jacket to a hanger in the truck’s minuscule back seat. “I couldn’t leave you cooling your heels at the country club for half an hour, waiting for your sister. You’ll be able to pick up your car tomorrow morning. Hud said the shop would be able to outfit you with a new set of tires right away.”
“Thanks.” This single word fought its way out of her throat, tight with emotion.
He turned left off the highway at the sign for the Salvation Marina. “I know just the thing to set you to rights.”
She eyeballed the full moon hanging low over the yachts lined up at the dock. She couldn’t spot the security guard, but she knew he was there keeping a watchful eye on the expensive toys bobbing gently on the river. The place had closed hours ago, and all of the yachts were shut up tighter than a Mason Jar after canning season. “You planning on breaking in?”
He rattled a small set of brass keys. “It’s the captain’s annual vacation to Bermuda. You feel like playing with the devil?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
He laughed. “Not a question. It’s the name of my private escape vessel.” He pulled the truck to a stop in front of a sixty-four-foot yacht, the white and stainless steel sparkling in the moonlight. The words “Playing With the Devil” were painted in swirling letters on the back.
“Of course it is.” She giggled, the stress of the night finally hitting her breaking point. “You are after all the prince of Salvation.”
“You keep saying that, but you need to know that crown doesn’t always fit. That’s when I take her out.” He flashed a wicked grin that did funny things to her stomach. “Come on.” He swung open his door and they both got out. “Let’s go see how you like her.”
Reaching down, he untied the ropes tethering the boat to the dock, then took her hand. Together, they hopped from the dock and onto the yacht, which swayed slightly in the breeze. His firm grip anchored her body, but even that small touch sent her mind off in a million directions, all of which involved him holding much more than her hand.
What Miranda knew about boats could fit into a shot glass, but even she couldn’t help but notice the luxury around her. The immaculate gleaming teak deck. A sun deck with two flush hatches leading, she presumed, to the cabin below.
“Do I call this a boat or a ship?”
“I just call it a relief.” He leaned back against the stainless steel railing around the deck but didn’t release her hand. “Whenever this town gets to me, whenever I’ve had enough, this is where I come. I figured you could use a little escape tonight. What do you say?”
“Can you do that without the captain?”
His eyes darkened. “You wouldn’t believe all of the things I can do.”
