Her Sinful Secret. Jane Porter
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dared her to bid, and she had, proving how weak she was. Proving to him how easily manipulated.
By morning he would hate her, scorning her weakness. Scorning her name.
But that hadn’t happened yet. That wouldn’t happen until he’d taken her again and again, making her scream his name as she climaxed once, twice and then, after a short sleep, two more times before he walked out the door the next morning.
The sex had been hot, so hot and so intense and so deeply satisfying. With anyone else it might have felt dirty, but it hadn’t been with him. It’d just felt real. And right.
But she did feel dirty, later, once he’d discovered she wasn’t Logan Lane, but Logan Lane Copeland, and the shaming began.
It was bad enough being hated by all of America, but to be branded a slut by your very first lover? A man that wasn’t just any man, but one of the best friends of your twin sister’s new husband?
Of all the people to sleep with...of all the men to fall for...why did it have to be Rowan Argyros with his passionate Irish Greek heritage and ruthless nature? There was a reason he’d risen through the military. He was a risk taker with nerves of steel. A man who seized opportunities and smashed resistance.
She knew, because he’d seized her and smashed her.
Logan exhaled now, blocking the past with its soul-crushing memories. She hated the past. It was only in the last year she’d come to terms with the present and accepted that there could be a future. A good one. If she could forgive herself...and him.
Not Rowan—she’d never forgive Rowan. It was her father she needed to forgive. And she was trying, she was.
“My father,” she said now, her gaze sliding across Rowan—still so tall and intimidating, still so sinfully good-looking—and then away, but not before she realized his long hair was gone. Shorn. He looked even harder now than before. “Is...he...?”
Rowan hesitated for just a fraction of a second, and yet his expression didn’t soften. “Yes.”
She willed herself not to move, or tremble. She firmed her voice so it wouldn’t quaver. “How?”
He hesitated yet again, and she knew that he knew every detail. He was a maritime antipiracy specialist, based out of Naples, with offices in Athens and London as well as a large country estate in Ireland. He hadn’t told her any of that. Her sister Morgan and her husband Drakon Xanthis had, after their wedding.
“Does it matter?” he asked quietly, coolly.
“Of course it matters,” she retorted, hating him even more. Hating him for taking her virginity and mocking her afterward for enjoying his body and touch and for leaving her to deal with the aftermath on her own, as if he hadn’t been the one in that big bed with her...
His silence made her fear the worst. Her heart hammered. Her stomach fell. She wished she was hearing this from Morgan or Jemma, or her older brother, Bronson. They would all have broken the news differently. “Did they...did they...?”
And then she couldn’t wait for the words, the confirmation that her father, kidnapped and held hostage off the coast of Africa, had been killed, possibly executed. It was all too sickening and her legs wobbled and her head spun, her body hot, then cold and then very cold.
She tried to look for Joe, the very best assistant one could ever hope for, but all she saw was Rowan and he was staring her down with those pale hazel-green eyes.
“Don’t,” he growled, his deep, rough voice now sounding far away, as if he was standing at the far end of a tunnel.
Maybe he was.
She couldn’t see him well. Things were cloudy at the edges. He was cloudy, and she blinked, almost amused that Rowan could think he could still dictate to her, once again telling her body what to do...
“You’re not doing this now,” he snapped.
But she did. Her world went dark.
* * *
Swearing, Rowan dove to catch Logan before she crashed to the ballroom floor, but he was too far away and couldn’t break her fall. Her head slammed on the edge on the stage as she went down.
He was there to scoop her up and he swore again, this time at himself, for not reaching her more quickly, and then at useless Joe, for not catching her, either.
She was still out cold as he settled her into his arms, her slender body ridiculously light. He shifted her so that her head fell back against his biceps, and his narrowed gaze raked her pale face, noting the blood pooling at the cut on her temple, and beginning to trickle into her thick honey-colored hair. She was going to have a nasty bruise, and probably one hell of a headache, later.
She was also still impossibly beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips, the elegant brow and nose of a Greek goddess.
But beauty had never been her issue. If she’d just been a pretty face, he could forgive himself for their night together, but she wasn’t just a beautiful girl, she was Logan Copeland, one of the scandalous Copelands, and as amoral as they came.
It was bad enough being bought at a charity auction but to be paid for with embezzled funds?
“Grab her things,” he told the man hovering at Logan’s side. He wouldn’t be surprised if Joe was Logan’s lover. A boy toy—
He broke off, unable to continue the thought. He didn’t like the thought. But then, he didn’t like anything about being here today.
He didn’t have to be the one doing this. He could have sent one of his men. Every one of his special ops team at Dunamas Intelligence had come from an elite military background: US Navy SEALs, British Special Forces, Russia’s Alpha Group, France’s National Gendarmerie Intervention Group, Spain’s Naval Special Warfare Force. Rowan hadn’t just interviewed and hired each, he’d then trained them personally for intelligence work and rescue operations.
Any one of his men could do what he was doing. He should have sent anyone but himself.
But Rowan wasn’t about to let anyone else near her. He told himself it was to protect them—she was a siren after all—but with her in his arms, he knew it was far more personal and far more primal than that.
He didn’t want any man near her because even three years later, her body belonged to him.
* * *
Logan struggled to open her eyes. Her head hurt. Her thoughts kept scattering. She was being carried up and up. They were moving, climbing, but climbing what? She could hear breathing as well as the sound of heavy, even thudding close to her ear. She was warm. The arms holding her were warm. She battled to open her eyes, needing to focus, wanting to remember.
She stared hard at the face above her, noting the jaw, a very strong, angular jaw with a hint of dark beard. He had a slash of cheekbone and a firm mouth. And then he looked down at her, and the sardonic hazel-green depths sent a shiver through her.
Rowan.
And then it started to come back. Joe saying there was a problem. Something with her father and then Rowan appearing...
She stiffened. “Put me down.”
He ignored her, and just kept climbing stairs.
Panic shot through her. “What’s happening? Why are you carrying me?”
She wiggled to free herself.
His grip grew tighter. “Because you fainted, and you’re bleeding.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. You smacked your head on the edge of the stage when you fainted, probably have a concussion.”
“I’m fine now,” she said, struggling once again. “You can put me down. Now. Thank you.”
“You won’t be able to make it