Moonlight on Nightingale Way

  I smiled weakly at my drunken date. “It’s all right. Let’s just finish dinner.”

  Thankfully, John prattled on through dinner without critiquing me again, although he also never asked me anything about myself. He talked a lot about his job and his parents and his love of rugby. In fact, the only time he asked me a question was when he gushed, “What it’s like to be friends with Aidan Ramage?”

  “Friendly?” I offered, not knowing how to answer the question when his tone bordered on sycophantic.

  His “admiration” for Aidan didn’t salvage the date. I understood how hard it could be to meet new people and how nerves could make the nicest person act like an idiot. But dating a lush was just not for me. Especially not one who reminded me of my mother.

  “Let me walk you home.” John swayed a little as we stood outside the restaurant. It had been a late dinner, so now the sky was dark and the moon was out. The restaurant was in Old Town and only a few streets away from my flat, and the area was still buzzing with people. I didn’t mind walking home alone despite the drizzle in the night air. In fact, I would have preferred it.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “No, I insist. You’re by the university, right?” He turned and began walking.

  I sighed and hurried after him. “You really don’t have to walk me home.”

  “It would be ungentlemanly of me not to see you home. There are creeps out here, you know.” He threw me another lazy, drunk grin.

  I just stopped myself from rolling my eyes.

  “So.” John stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at me. “Do you like your job?”

  I was surprised by the sudden interest in my life. “Um… yes. I love keeping my own hours and… well, I get to read and shape books for a living.”

  He wrinkled his nose like a little boy. “Books. Yak. Aren’t you bored all the time?”

  “No.” I huffed in annoyance.

  “What about your parents? They still in England?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do they do for a living?”

  “My father works in the media, and my mother is a housewife.”

  “A housewife, eh? Your dad must make a bob or two.”

  Or a billion. “Hmm.”

  “Got any brothers or sisters?”

  I stared up at his profile, annoyed that he’d decided to get nosy. “A brother. You?”

  “No, thank God. What does your brother do?”

  “He works for my father.”

  “What’s his name, then?”

  “Oh, look!” I said a little too brightly. “We’re almost at mine.” I stopped. “Well, good night, then.”

  “Oh no.” He shook his head and shot me a grin that caused an unpleasant shiver to ripple over me. “Let me walk you to the door.”

  Knowing exactly what he was expecting when we got to the door, I shook my head. “I think we should just say good night.”

  Instead of agreeing, he turned swiftly on his heel and started down Nightingale Way. The street was quite dark, shaded by all the buildings and interspersed sparsely with street lighting. Much of the light cast over the wet cobbles was offered by the ever-helpful moon. Feeling uneasy, I followed John.

  “What number are you?” he called back to me.

  “I’m right here.” I slowed to a stop in front of the blue door to my building. “Thank you for dinner.”

  John did a little skip back to me. “I could come up for coffee.” He grinned down at me hopefully.

  I gave him an apologetic smile. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Oh, come on.” He edged closer to me, and I stumbled back against the wall. “Ask me up, Grace. You know you want to.” He fingered the collar of my light coat, and I instinctively slapped his hand away.

  “I’m going inside. You should leave.”

  He held his hands up in a surrender gesture but took another step toward me.

  My stomach flipped, and I glanced right and then left. The dark street was empty. “Really, John. I’d just like to go inside. Good night.”

  “You’re nervous,” he said softly. “I get it. I had to have a few glasses of wine to loosen up tonight, I was so nervous about meeting you, but we don’t have to be nervous, Grace.” He brushed his fingers across my cheek, and I flinched away. “We’re two adults just looking for company.”

  “No. You’re drunk, and I want you to leave. Now, please step back.”

  The door to the building opened before John could react. A large figure stepped outside, and when he shut the door behind him and turned his face, the moonlight revealed Logan. He stopped a moment at the sight of me and gave me a nod before turning his back. He was dressed for work. And he was leaving.

  Fear forced my mouth open, and I was just about to call out Logan’s name when he halted and turned around. He looked at me, expressionless, and then he looked at John. Despite the blank look on his face, I knew right away he’d deduced the situation when, without a word, Logan pulled his keys out and opened the door. He pushed the door open and stepped toward me. “Grace,” he said.

  Relief flooded me, and I knew I couldn’t hide it just as I hadn’t been able to keep the panic from my face when I thought he was leaving. I darted past him and inside, glancing over my shoulder to see John take a step toward the door. Logan blocked the doorway, and I watched, fascinated, as he intimidated John into retreating without saying one bloody word.

  John ran a shaky hand through his hair, suddenly looking anywhere but at Logan, and then he spun on his heel and started striding a little unsteadily down our street.

  Logan entered the building and closed the door. We just stared at each other for a second before he gestured for me to move.

  I started down the hall, hearing him fall into step behind me. He followed me all the way up the stairs until we reached my flat, and he watched as I fumbled for my keys in my purse. When I managed to get ahold of them, they rattled in my trembling hands.

  Logan’s warm hand curled around mine, and he gently eased the keys from my grip. He opened my door for me. “You all right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I gave him a small, grateful smile. “I just feel like I’ve been stuck in episodes of Sex and the City on my last few dates. There are some bizarre men out there.” He didn’t reply, and I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, thanks again.” I moved to go inside, and he said my name. “Yes?”

  Logan was no longer expressionless. There was a tautness to his features and a shadow of dark purple in his eyes. I recognized that look. He was angry. “Never let a drunk man walk you home again.”

  Flummoxed that his anger seemed to be born from concern, I could only nod, tongue-tied.

  He stared at me pointedly, and I stared dumbly back at him.

  Logan sighed impatiently. “Close your door, Grace. I’m not leaving for work until I hear the sound of your lock turning.”

  “Oh.” I flushed at my silliness and eased the door shut. I turned my lock and put the chain in place. “Good night!” I called through the door.

  “Good night, Miss Farquhar,” he returned, and I heard the rumble of dry amusement in his voice before the sounds of his footsteps faded into the distance.

  The sun felt wonderful on my skin. The waves were crashing to shore. I had no worries, no responsibilities, just never-ending time and white sands.

  Life was perfectly, gloriously cliché in its utter heavenliness.

  “Grace.”

  I squeezed my eyes tighter shut against the sound of the masculine voice in my ear.

  “Grace.” The voice became more insistent. “Grace, wake up.”

  Suddenly my sun lounger was flipped on its side, and I awoke with a jolt. Breathing hard, I blinked against the darkness of my bedroom, and as my eyes adjusted to the light, my heart started to hammer harder against my chest. Logan was sitting on my bed.

  “What?” I whispered in fright, leaning over to switch my bedside light on. I wasn’t imagining it. Logan MacLeod was sitting on my bed, wearing not
hing but a pair of faded old jeans. I forced my gaze to his face. “What are you doing here?”

  His violet eyes were hot on me, his silent presence potent.

  My breath caught.

  My lower stomach clenched against the burst of tingles between my legs.

  “Logan?”

  He placed a hand slowly on either side of my hips and leaned forward until his face was so close to mine our lips were almost touching. A fierce hunger flashed across his face, and I gasped, feeling arousal shoot through my body.

  He wanted me.

  Suddenly he grasped me by the nape of the neck and hauled me against him. His mouth captured mine. I instantly melted into him and wrapped my arms around him, my fingers pressing into the muscle beneath his hot skin.

  His kiss was hard, demanding, almost punishing, and I reveled in it. Logan groaned, the reverberations causing my nipples to tighten in reaction, and I shuddered. My reaction ignited something inside of him, and he shoved me roughly onto my back before hauling the covers off me. I stared up at him in aroused astonishment as he tugged on my pajama shorts. He slid them deftly down my legs, along with my underwear, and then he was braced over me, nudging my thighs apart as he stared down into my eyes. Logan’s hands encircled my wrists, and he pinned my arms above my head as he pressed his jeans-covered erection between my legs. “Grace,” he whispered hoarsely, the word filled with need.

  “Logan,” I pleaded.

  His right hand left my wrist to draw down his zipper. He shoved his jeans low enough to release his erection and then returned his hand to my wrist to pin me to the bed.

  Logan slammed inside me before I could draw another breath. I cried out at the pleasure-pain that surged through me.

  My legs parted, urging him to go deeper. He did. He pulled back out only to thrust in even harder. His rhythm was fast. It was rough. It was molten.

  It was unlike any sex I’d ever had before.

  I gasped for more as Logan pounded into me, his features fierce and taut with lust.

  The headboard rattled against the wall as Logan fucked me toward climax. As the orgasm tore through me, I cried out his name so loudly, I was sure the whole building heard me.

  Lost in some lust-fogged hyperspace, I distantly felt Logan still. And then he shuddered on a throaty groan that made my inner muscles clench around him. He threw his head back as he came, and I watched him in awe. Finally, he finished and his head lowered.

  Violet eyes pierced right through me, and he gave me this mocking, calculated smile. “I told you all you needed was to get laid.”

  My eyes flew open, and I couldn’t see anything or hear anything but the rushing waves of blood in my ears.

  I launched myself across my bed and fumbled for the light switch on my bedside lamp. Soft light flooded the room, and I gazed around.

  I was alone.

  I was also covered in sweat.

  My body was lit with arousal.

  I flopped back against my pillow, my cheeks inflamed and the erotic dream burned into my brain.

  I’d had a sex dream about Logan MacLeod.

  With a moan of absolute mortification, I covered my eyes with my arm as if somehow I could block out the memory of the dream.

  But I couldn’t.

  I’d had a sex dream about that grumpy, irritating, arrogant, inconsiderate ruffian of a man! How was it possible? He wasn’t even my type! No.

  No.

  NO!

  “Oh God,” I groaned as I thought of something even worse.

  How on earth was I ever going to face him again?

  CHAPTER 5

  H

  is considerate streak was over.

  I glowered at my reflection in the gilded silver mirror in my bedroom.

  The person looking back at me was unrecognizable.

  I looked like hell.

  Because of him.

  Only hours after I was jolted awake by the dream I needed to stop acknowledging ever happened, I was awoken by the noise coming from Logan’s bedroom. Loud – extremely loud – sex.

  “THAT’S RIGHT. RIGHT THERE. OH BOY. RIGHT THERE. OH, LOGAN. OH, LOGAN. OH, LOGAN… AHHHHHHH!”

  And she was American. He was obviously branching out.

  Not that I cared. Nope.

  I was, however, surprised and outraged when the next night I got even less sleep because the American was back, and she and Logan went three rounds of “RIGHT THERE.”

  And she returned last night for more rounds of it.

  Seventy-two hours of no sleep.

  It did not look good on me.

  If he bloody well returned with the American again, I was going to… “What, Grace?” I curled my lip at my exhausted reflection. “Shout at him? Let him have it? Scold him? Because you’ve done so well at it in the past.”

  What if the American did make a fourth appearance? I lowered my gaze, unable to look at myself anymore as I stood there with my messy hair, wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt because I was too tired to iron something decent.

  Was Logan MacLeod finally settling in to become a one-woman man?

  I turned around and strode out of my bedroom, my mood darkening to the black-hole level. Marching through my flat, I snatched up my purse. I needed chocolate and coffee. There was no way I was getting through the day without either one of those.

  Locking the door behind me, my shoulders instantly hunched up around my ears at the familiar sound of Logan’s door opening.

  Oh God, was life really this unfair?

  Feeling my cheeks bloom with heat at the thought of Logan seeing me so disheveled, I turned slowly around.

  He was staring over at me as he locked up. “Grace.”

  “Mr. MacLeod.” I glanced away, willing the memory of that bloody dream away.

  “You all right? You look like shit.”

  And that was it.

  The straw that broke the back of that damn camel everyone was always piling straw on top of! Looking at him, seeing him standing there, well rested despite his sexual gymnastics at the crack of bloody dawn, I saw red.

  “I look like shit?” I took a bristling step toward him.

  Logan raised an eyebrow at my tone.

  “Do you know why I look like shit?”

  “No, but I suddenly have a feeling I’m to blame.” He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not amused.

  “Yes.” I nodded frantically, the lack of sleep making me frenzied in my anger. “You are to blame!” My voice echoed off the concrete walls of our stairwell, but I was past caring. “Seventy-two hours. Seventy-bleeding-two hours I have been awake.”

  “That’s not my problem, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to deal with this… hysteria.” He walked toward the stairs, dismissing me.

  “Don’t you walk away from me.”

  He stopped. Turned. He raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be frightened? Christ, Grace, it’s like getting bitten by a butterfly.”

  I huffed, furious that he was making fun of me when my standing up to him was a momentous accomplishment. “How dare you! For the last three nights I’ve had to put up with the constant loud sex from you and your bloody American. I just want peace and quiet! I want some bloody goddamn fucking sleep!”

  My words seemed to soak into the coldness of the stairwell, ringing against the walls, stunning Logan.

  After a moment’s silence, during which I at once berated myself for losing my ladylike cool and mentally shook my hand for taking a stance, Logan cleared his throat.

  “Have you got a glass up against the wall?”

  “Excuse me?” I shook my head, confused.

  “How did you know I’ve been fucking an American?”

  My mouth dropped open at his obtuseness. “Because. I. Can. Hear. Every. Word. She. Says.”

  “Och, no. You must be straining to listen.”

  My anger reignited. “Are you mad? Why on earth would I be straining to listen?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell
me.”

  “Are you always this deliberately irritating?” I huffed, mirroring his stance by crossing my arms over my chest.

  To my surprise, this caused Logan’s lips to twitch, and his eyes started dancing with humor. “I only seem to irritate you.” He cocked his head to the side. “I wonder why that is.”

  “Because,” I whined, my head lolling with exasperation and tiredness, “I’m sleep deprived, and it’s all your fault, you bloody wretched manwhore.”

  “Well, this is a whole other side to you. It’s quite unpleasant. I may have to speak to the landlord about it. I can’t take this kind of abuse.”

  My head jerked upright and I glowered at him. “I swear if you don’t start taking this seriously I will push you down those stairs.”

  “Now you’re threatening my life.” He tsked. “That won’t do at all.”

  “Now!” I yelled. “Now you decide you have a sense of humor?”

  “Uh, excuse me.” A soft, young voice interrupted our argument.

  Standing a few steps down from our landing was a girl. A very pretty girl with dark hair and olive skin. She was dressed in a school uniform, and she looked a little pale – when she swallowed hard, I realized she was nervous.

  I glanced at my watch. The girl should be in school. Concerned, I took a step toward her, but she was staring up at Logan in scared awe. “Can we help?”

  Instead of answering me, she took a shaky step up toward us and light flooded over her face. I drew in a gasp. Behind her glasses, she had the most beautiful eyes. Violet eyes surrounded by thick black lashes.

  My gaze jerked to Logan, who was staring at the girl in stupefied confusion.

  “My name is…” She gulped, her chest rising and falling in shallow, fast movements. “I – I’m Maia.” Maia licked her lips and clutched tighter to the strap of her shoulder bag. “You’re Logan MacLeod, right?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “Well, I think… I think I – I’m your kid. I’m your daughter.”