Some Kind of Hero. Brenda Harlen
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Quinlan might fit in his arms, but she could never fit into his life. Nor he in hers. He knew that opposites could attract. He also knew, from personal experience, that they couldn’t coexist for very long.
“How long are you going to be in West Virginia?” Riane asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them.
“I’m not sure,” he responded, then he made the mistake of looking at her. She’d tilted her head upward to speak to him, and her glossy lips were mere inches from his own. He only needed to lower his head a fraction and he could taste her. It was a tempting proposition. Too tempting. Too dangerous.
He tore his gaze from her mouth, saw that she was watching him. Her own eyes were dark, aware. He’d feel much more confident in his ability to do his job if he could keep his distance from Riane Quinlan. And he wouldn’t be able to keep his distance if she kept looking at him like that.
Focus, Logan.
Somewhere in the back recesses of his mind this niggling reminder from his conscience registered. He knew he was dangerously close to losing his focus, and he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Not this time.
“Riane,” he said. “That’s a rather unusual name, isn’t it?”
“It’s a feminine form of Ryan, which is my father’s name.”
His preliminary investigation had revealed that fact, but he didn’t know if the similarity was by design or coincidence. That was what he needed to find out, and that was why he needed to talk to the senator.
“Isn’t your mother usually a supporter of the Quinlan Camp Charity Ball?”
So much for being discreet, he thought, as the question blurted out of his mouth. But he was more worried about self-preservation than discretion at this point.
If Riane was startled by the abrupt change of topic, she gave no indication of it. “Yes,” she admitted. “And I was a little worried that her absence this year would affect attendance, but thankfully it hasn’t been a problem.”
“She won’t be making an appearance tonight?”
“I doubt it.” She smiled at him once more, drawing his gaze back to that luscious mouth, tempting him all over again. “She’s in Thailand.”
“Thailand?”
Riane nodded. “She and my father went on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary.”
Joel expected to be annoyed, even angry, at this revelation. His sole purpose in being here this evening was to contact the senator. But it was difficult to be angry when there was a soft, fragrant woman in his arms. Impossible to be annoyed that his source of information had been wrong.
“How long will they be gone?”
“What is your interest in my mother, Mr. Logan?”
“Joel,” he said, and smiled.
But she’d homed in on the direction of his questions and wouldn’t be deterred. “What is your interest in my mother, Joel?”
“I was just hoping, since I was in town anyway, that I might have an opportunity to meet with the senator.”
“Are you a Republican supporter?”
He realized, with reluctant admiration, that she was trying to trip him up. And had he not done his homework thoroughly, she might have done so with that question. Her mother was a Democrat.
“I’m not a card-carrying member of any party,” he told her.
He wasn’t sure if his response convinced her, but she let it drop. Joel accepted the reprieve, recognizing that he’d have to be a little more subtle if he didn’t want to raise Riane’s suspicions any further.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, he failed to spot the photographer until the flash of the camera’s bulb blinded him. He instinctively stepped away, crushing Riane’s toes in his haste.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” He mumbled the apology automatically, concentrated on breathing to slow the rapid beating of his heart as different reminiscences assailed him. Flash after flash. The incessant glare blinding. Reporters shoving, shouting. Microphones thrust at him. Headline after headline. Day after day. Until he dreaded even leaving his home.
“Are you undercover?” Riane asked.
Joel scowled. “I’m not a cop.”
“Then why did you jump three feet when that flashbulb went off?”
“I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not very photogenic,” he said dryly.
Riane laughed, and the soft, sexy sound was a welcome distraction from the recent direction of his thoughts.
“I doubt that,” she said.
“I didn’t know the press would be here,” Joel admitted. But he should have known, and he should have been prepared.
“I would have been disappointed if they weren’t,” Riane told him. “The more publicity we can generate for the Quinlan Camp, the better. High-level exposure equates to high-level contributions.”
He understood that. Just as he understood that Riane was accustomed to living in the spotlight—the last place Joel wanted to be. He’d had his life scrutinized by the media before, and he never wanted to live like that again.
He could only hope that some enterprising young reporter didn’t dig deep enough to discover the identity of Riane Quinlan’s dance partner. Then as soon as this case was closed, he’d be out of her life forever.
Still, as the song began to wind down, Joel found himself reluctant to let her go. He knew she was a distraction he could ill afford, a complication he wasn’t prepared for, but he couldn’t deny his attraction to her.
And when the final notes of the song merged into the first bars of the next, he didn’t figure it would hurt to hold her just a little while longer.
Then there was a firm tap on his shoulder and a smooth, masculine voice saying, “If you don’t mind, I’d like a dance with my fiancée.”
Chapter 2
Riane felt the censure in Joel’s gaze as he relinquished her hand to Stuart without comment and walked off the dance floor. She wanted to follow him, to explain, but pride prevented her from doing so. He had no right to make judgments about her, and besides, a well-bred lady didn’t chase after any man.
Instead she concentrated her attention on her new dance partner, who had already swept her into his arms and was moving smoothly to the strains of the music. Stuart’s movements were effortless, each step and turn flawlessly executed. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t do well, and he was an incredible dancer. But his touch didn’t heat her blood the way Joel’s had done. Her body didn’t yearn to press close to his as it had when she’d been dancing with the mysterious Mr. Logan.
She pushed the traitorous thoughts impatiently aside. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman, not a hormonal adolescent. It wasn’t like her to react to a man on such a primal level. Human beings were supposed to be civilized, to have power over their more basic urges.
Still, she couldn’t deny that something about Joel Logan appealed to her on a most fundamental level. Unwillingly, her gaze strayed to the back of the room where he’d once again stationed himself.
The formality of his attire failed to disguise the raw power he exuded. He had to be well over six feet—as she’d had to tip her head to meet his gaze despite the three inches her heels added to her five-foot, ten-inch frame—with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and long, lean legs. Just the memory of those muscles, solid and unyielding, caused her breath to quicken, her pulse to race.
“You