Charade, page 1
Charade
Cindy Gerard
Copyright 2014 by Cindy Gerard
Smashwords Edition
CHARADE
Cindy Gerard
ONE
A half-drained tumbler of Scotch in hand, Logan Prince stared in brooding silence at the dazzling view of Houston at night. Thirty stories below, a flickering regiment of city lights and snaking traffic burned like a procession of guttering candles through a mist of July smog and humidity. The Prince-family money had bought him this view from the penthouse. As Preston Prince’s son, he was born with the equivalent of Fort Knox for a bankroll and raised on such adages as “money breeds success, success breeds money.” And power. Always power.
He shoved away from the window, then knocked back his glass and drained it. It was almost midnight. His stomach had turned to acid an hour ago as a persistent cliché clamped a stranglehold on his thoughts. It was lonely at the top.
Grimacing in self-disgust, he headed for the bar. “No points for originality there, Prince,” he muttered, filling his glass with fresh ice. Tonight, it seemed, he wasn’t up to thinking original thoughts. Truth was, he didn’t want to think at all. What he wanted was out.
Now, there was a twist worth contemplating. Pensive, he covered the ice with Scotch. He wanted out, yet if the movers and shakers who were slack-jawed with the lust for power could read his mind, they’d be leaving footprints on each other’s backs in the rush to squeeze in line for his position.
He tugged at the knot of his tie and stared at his drink, suddenly losing a taste even for that. Burnout. Wasn’t that the term for what he was feeling? Burned out, tapped out, played out. And all this at the ripe old age of thirty-six.
He was exactly where he’d been groomed to be, where he’d worked like hell to get. He possessed the fortune he’d been born to and had subsequently doubled it in an effort to prove himself as the eventual successor to his father kingdom.
And there was the rub, wasn’t it? The time had finally come. One month from now, Preston Edward Prince, the reigning king of the castle, was stepping down as CEO of Prince Enterprises. And he, Logan James Prince, was set to inherit the proverbial corporate throne.
Lonely at the top. The line played like a needle stuck on a scratched LP. He worked his jaw, staring at the extravagant art collection displayed casually about the decorator showplace of a penthouse—and felt empty. The price of one piece, one single piece of the Peruvian pottery, could feed a family of five for a year. He was surrounded by opulence and wealth. He lived in a world of excess where everything was beautiful, coveted—sterile.
Yes, it was lonely at the top . . . and yet so crowded with regrets that he suddenly felt suffocated by lack of space.
Compelled by an urge so strong that he knew it would deal him a swift defeat if he fought it, he headed for the door. He had no idea where he was going. He knew only that he had to get out of there.
Ignoring the carefully concealed surprise of both the elevator operator and the doorman, he shouldered his way out onto the street. Humidity as thick and cloying as his regrets hit him full in the face. He shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and tossed it along with his tie toward a nearby trash can.
And then he walked, head down, fists jammed in his pockets. He walked fast and for a long time, not knowing or caring where he was going— until he felt the blunt, cold thrust of deadly steel shoved against his ribs from behind.
“Nice night for a stroll, eh? Oh, no, fancy man, you just keep walkin’ and we won’t get any blood on that prissy white shirt a yours.” The voice was sandpaper gruff and edged with wild desperation. “And keep them hands right in those pockets so I know what they’re doin’.”
Logan did as he was told, glancing up and around him, realizing for the first time where his aimless wandering had taken him. It was not lovers’ lane. It was the deepest and the meanest part of the city. And it was no place for a “fancy man.”
“Take the wallet,” he said, slowing his pace marginally so he could get a feel for the size of the man propelling him toward the dark opening of an alley a few yards ahead.
“Oh, I plan to. I’ll have the wallet and a whole lot more. Me and the boys are figurin’ on having some fun carving up that pretty-boy face a yours—right, boys?”
The “boys” materialized like rats out of the dank depths of the alley as Logan was pushed into the blackness.
He squared off against the faceless predators and the sharp click and flash of readied blades. There were four of them, each with an ax to grind against a society that made them gutter rats and made Logan the symbol of everything they’d never be.
He knew they meant to take him down, but it wouldn’t be without a fight. “Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I’m afraid you didn’t catch me in a party mood.”
The chuckles were feral and confident in what they sensed was certain victory. Like a pack of wild dogs, they circled then lunged, crowding him into the midst of pounding fists and a kaleidoscope of sharp, ripping pain.
He got in several good licks before sheer numbers got the best of him. They beat him with studied relish—and then, suddenly, they stopped.
“Listen! I said listen, dammit!” the leader snarled, silencing the pack to a hush of labored breathing and muttered expletives. “Someone’s coming.”
They let Logan go. He dropped to all fours, spitting blood and fighting for consciousness, when he heard a shout. Hard-edged, streetwise, and commanding, it sent the rats scurrying after one final kick that hurled Logan face-first onto the cracked filth of the pavement.
The ringing silence that engulfed him was as welcome and eloquent as the absence of fists and steel-toed boots slamming into his ribs. It didn’t last nearly long enough, though.
“Can you get up?”
He thought he could. He was wrong. The best he could manage was a groan.
“Look, man, I haven’t ever been accused of being a guardian angel. I’m no hero and I’m nobody’s fool. They’ll be back like flies shooed away from spilled beer. I don’t really care how you do it, but you’d better get the hell up and get outta here.”
Responding to the urgency in the voice, Logan tried again. Fire split like a whip crack through his ribs. He fell back to the concrete in a twisted heap.
Through a haze of exquisite agony, he heard a mumbled, “Why do I always let myself in for this kind of grief?” He gritted his teeth and fought to keep from passing out as he was hauled to his feet.
“Damn if we don’t prove the rule,” the same deep voice muttered, grunting against Logan’s weight. “There’s a fool born every minute and we’re two of the biggest. I’ll haul your sorry self out of here, but I swear, if they come back and it comes down to saving your ass or mine, you’re on your own.”
“Fair” —the effort cost him but he finished— “. . . enough.”
“Don’t talk. Just walk. And I don’t mean Sunday stroll.”
Pain accompanied each newly discovered detail as Logan slowly came to. A creaking bed. Clean sheets. A neon sign blinking softly but steadily through a window into the dimly lit room. And a fragrance— sweet, fresh, floral—that became his motivation to claw another inch back toward consciousness.
The scent brought comfort, an oasis of relief in a desert of misery. It was a woman’s scent, and with it came the caress of soft, soothing hands. And angel’s hands. He got lost in the feel of those hands. He wanted to stay lost . . . yet he wanted to see this woman whose hands made magic and whose scent hovered, like silk, around the periphery of his consciousness.
But when he managed to pry open his eyes and look at the wavering scowl on his angel’s face, he was afraid he was going to get another beating.
“You’ve got your nerve, Johnny Dallas.” Her musical voice was completely at odds with her scolding tone as she carefully dabbed a cool cloth on his forehead. “Stumbling in here in the dead of night. Bloody and bruised as a damn alley cat. Don’t you ever learn? And don’t you have someplace else to light every time you land your Anglo hide where it shouldn’t ought to be?”
Logan hurt too much to question why this beautiful young woman seemed to think she knew him, or why she’d called him Johnny. Or to consider the contradictions of her stern, judgmental words pitted against her soft eyes and gentle hands.
Her voice was soft too. Like her scent, it floated through the pain like a soothing balm as she worked over his beat-up face.
She was a very reluctant angel. But such a face this angel had. It was a Spanish face with a honey-warm complexion, huge dark eyes the color of hand-rubbed walnut, and a mouth that looked lush and ripe and molded for much more pleasurable endeavors than scowling.
He wanted to look at her forever. Wanting and accomplishing, however, were two entirely different things. Losing the battle to keep his eyes open, he had to settle for directing his dwindling energy toward assessing his condition instead.
A slow and cautious shifting told him his ribs were bandaged. The difficulty he was having breathing told him why. If a couple weren’t broken, they were badly bruised.
“Don’t move.” She settled her hands gently but firmly on his shoulders before pressing another cool wet compress to his forehead.
He drifted with the sound of her voice and mouthed a, “Thank you,” around the swollen flesh that used to be his lips.
She gave a very unladylike snort. “Save your thanks for someone who’ll appreciate it.”
Again she scolded. Again he formed the distinct impression that she was more concerned than angry.
She was a complete and utter contrast to the chic, elite women he was used to: Women who fluttered through his life like satin butterflies, cloaked in beauty but devoid of substance; women who needed their perfectly lacquered hair and designer clothes to conceal the scars they’d garnered while clawing their way up the social ladder.
He sensed that this woman, unlike them, had no such needs. No sharp edges. No predatory instincts. No ulterior motives. He could see it in her face. Feel it in her hands. She was the softest of women, a composite of every man’s fantasy of what a woman should be. Unaffected. Pure. Sensual. Her expressive eyes shone with virginal innocence. Through them he could see a rich, rare heart.
And a shimmering sensuality.
He swallowed hard as she leaned in close. Another ache, this one heavy and low in his body, joined the others vying for attention.
She may have the face of a saint, but she had the body of a sinner. Her breasts were full and heavy, at once at odds yet in complete harmony with an earth-mother quality and a voluptuous siren’s lure. Softly curved, lushly molded, her hips were a perfect complement to waist he suspected he could span with both hands. If he’d had the strength, he’d have reached for her and eliminated any doubt.
He must have groaned because she frowned. A wave of fatigue suddenly swamped him. Damning his weakness, he fought to keep her in focus. He didn’t want to lose her and was certain he would if he let consciousness slip away.
Suspended somewhere between now and nowhere, and not wanting to give up on the now, he forced his eyes to remain open. Was she real? he wondered, searching her face. Or was she a wonderful fantasy his mind had manufactured to help combat this vicious pain? Feeling a desperate need for an answer to his questions, he reached out to touch the thick, jet-black braid that fell over her left breast . . . and found substance and satin under his fingertips. Testing the heaviness of her hair in his hand, he brought the floral scent of it to his face and drew it in a silken caress across his lips.
“Just like you,” she muttered in a hushed and husky attempt to sound angry. She tugged his hand away from her hair and set to work cleaning the cuts on his knuckles. “Stupid drunk and half-dead and you want to paw me. It’s the only time you ever want me, though, isn’t it, Johnny?”
Johnny. Why was she calling him Johnny? In some distant corner of his mind, he was angry that it was Johnny she thought she was taking care of. Whoever this Johnny was, he was a fool. Logan couldn’t imagine any man, drunk or sober, not wanting this woman. Fire shot through his ribs, reminding him he was in no position to be calling anyone names.
Names . . . he didn’t even know her name . . . or how he had ended up in her bed. Must be her bed, he thought, muzzily aware of pastel sheets, frilly pillows, and the rare flutter of a flouncy lace curtain stirred by a stingy hot breeze.
He felt himself going under again and suddenly he was afraid he’d slip away without ever knowing who she was or if she was what she appeared to be. No woman he’d ever known had struck him as this genuine. He needed to know if she really was the exception.
He tried to ask her name. The words wouldn’t come. He wet his lips and tried again. The only sound that came out was a long frustrated groan as he gave in to the black haze that enveloped him.
It was daylight. But for the ever-present company of the dismally familiar pain, Logan felt he was alone. Eyes closed, he tried to reconstruct a vague memory of having come to in this room, in this bed. Other memories, stronger ones, courted him. Gentle brown eyes and even gentler hands, a fragrance that was hauntingly elusive yet indelibly imprinted on his senses.
“So you’re not dead after all. And just when I was beginning to think I’d have to find a place to dump the body.”
Logan jerked his head toward the deep, male voice. Pain ricocheted inside his skull. When the haze cleared, he tried to focus on the man standing at the foot of the bed. Slowly, his features became clear. For a moment all Logan could do was stare . . . and wonder if the beating he’d taken had affected his vision. Knowing what agony it would bring, he resisted the urge to shake his head. He closed his eyes instead and counted to a slow ten.
When he opened them again, nothing had changed. Standing in front of him was a man with eyes the same ice-blue color as his own. Eyes that could slice like a knife, or seduce with a look – or so he’d been told. His mouth—what Logan could see of it beneath a thick, chamois-colored mustache—was Logan’s own mouth, thin and hard, one most people would characterize as cynical. Until he smiled. And when he smiled, as this man was doing now, it was the same smile that Logan had been told could charm the most ruthless of corporate moguls into mergers or lay the coldest of Houston’s socialites between his sheets.
The resemblance didn’t end there. His nose had the same sharp, clean lines and so did his strong, square jaw. Even his chin had the same deep cleft. And while the hair beneath a battered gray Stetson was longer and shaggier than his own, the color was the same tanned-leather blond.
Studying the man, Logan tried to make some sense of the phenomenon. At times during the night, he’d thought he might be dying. He’d even dreamed he’d seen an angel. Maybe he had died, because the man facing him now couldn’t be from this world.
A sharp jab in his ribs assured him that he hurt too much to be dead. That meant that this cowboy, a mirror image of himself, was as real as his pain.
He watched in dazed silence as the man hooked his thumbs in his belt loops then slanted him a crooked grin.
“It’s a kicker, ain’t it?” the man asked in a heavy Texas drawl.
It was a kicker, all right. And if he hadn’t already been flat on his back, Logan thought, the “kicker” would have knocked him there.
“Who the hell are you?” Logan’s voice was a mere croak, his tongue was so swollen.
“Well, I ain’t your long-lost twin, if that’s what you had in mind.”
But he could have been, Logan realized, finally accepting what he saw.
“Bit of a shock, huh? Meeting your double and you not even sure if you’re afoot or on horseback.”
Shock? As understatements went, that ranked with the biggest. Logan looked him over again. Aside from the face and the frame—and if everything else ran true to form, he stood a full six-two and carried the same one-ninety Logan weighed in at each morning—the voice, as well, had a familiar ring.
His memory suddenly caught hold. “It was you . . . you’re the one who . . . called off the dogs last night.”
“There ya go. No short-term memory loss. I’d say that’s a good sign. The lump on your skull must not be as bad as it looks. The name’s Dallas. Johnny Dallas. Don’t bother to get up,” he added with a sardonic quirk of his mouth.
Johnny Dallas. The name triggered another recent but elusive memory of the woman with soft brown eyes and even softer hands. He quickly scanned the room.
“She’s not here,” Dallas supplied when Logan’s questioning gaze returned to his.
So his angel, whoever she was, had been real. He hadn’t been dreaming. He felt a rush of relief before his heart started to beat faster. “She? Who is she? Where is she?”
“Her name is Carmen. She’s at work.”
“Carmen,” he repeated, thinking how the name fit his memory of her—pretty, delicate, unique.
“Carmen Rodriquez.” Dallas hesitated then added meaningfully, “And she’s a friend.”
Logan swallowed and shifted, sucking in another harsh breath as his body reminded him of his stupidity with vicious relish. Another piece of memory clicked into place. His angel had called him Johnny. And as he lay there, staring at this man who said his name was Johnny Dallas, Logan realized why. “She . . . Carmen . . . she thinks I’m you.”
Dallas grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t stick around for intros or explanations last night. Besides, she was pulling a double shift at the hospital and wasn’t supposed to come home until this afternoon. I was figurin’ to have you gone before she ever saw you.”
Logan tried to think that through. But it hurt to think. Hell, it hurt to breathe. A coma seemed a viable option. Silence would be a welcome relief.
