“Of course I paid them off. What else could I do? He’s my brother.”

  “As if that explains everything.”

  “Yes,” she said softly and without hesitation.

  He studied her as if trying to understand what she was all about. “Loyalty. It means everything to you, doesn’t it?” he asked finally.

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re so loyal you practically impoverished yourself for your brother.”

  She listened for judgment in his words, listened for a note that implied she was a fool. What she heard instead was a quiet, sincere admiration. Coining from Johnny, who threw caution to the wind, and who professed to look out only for himself, but in practice did just the opposite, it was a rare and stunning compliment.

  That didn’t mean she thought what she’d done was anything extraordinary.

  “I wanted him out from under their control. I’d have done whatever it took to make sure he was free of them.”

  “Whatever?” he asked darkly.

  She turned back to the sink, shaken by the look in his eyes that relayed anger and concern in equal measures.

  “He doesn’t deserve you, Carmen.”

  She didn’t see it that way at all. And she didn’t understand his reactions.

  “What you have to realize about Rico is that he’s always had this strong need to prove himself. He measures his worth by his possessions. It’s wrong, I know. But we grew up poor, Johnny. Like you. You should be able to identify with that. And you should be able to understand how he could get involved with those men.”

  Yeah, right, Logan thought cynically. Identify? Not quite. Understand? Hardly. Regardless of the wealth he’d taken for granted all his life, he couldn’t quite see himself taking advantage of a woman the way Rico had taken advantage of Carmen. He hoped for her sake she was right about Rico straightening out. He hoped so for Rico’s sake, too, because if he ever found out that her brother had a lapse and went back to using her, he’d personally see to it he’d never make that mistake again.

  Oh, this is great, he thought in disgust. Will you listen to yourself? You’ve got no responsibility here. You’ve got no ownership. And you’ve got no right to judge. You plan to use her too.

  The truth of his last thought echoed like a gunshot.

  He did plan to use her. No matter how he colored it, he realized he had been thinking about doing so from the first moment he’d seen her.

  It was so clear now. He’d orchestrated this bluff on the pretense of being burned out on corporate games and boardroom politics. While all that was true, she was the real reason he’d carried it through. One look from this woman whose eyes offered so much and whose body promised unlimited pleasure and he’d wanted her. Pared down, it was that basic. Pared down, it was that intense.

  He was playing out this charade because of her. Because of the way she’d looked at him during that first misty encounter when he’d awakened in her bed. He’d recognized even then what she could give him. Something special. Something real. Something rare.

  For the first time in his life he was in a position to experience pure emotion. Simple truths. Unaffected feelings that weren’t colored or covering ulterior motives.

  She didn’t know who he was. In fact, she thought he was someone else. What would it feel like, he wondered, to know a woman wanted him not because of who he was, but because of who he wasn’t? As Johnny Dallas, he wasn’t a rich man. He was only a man. As Johnny Dallas, he wasn’t the “social and financial catch of the decade.” He was only a man.

  Only a man. He’d never been only a man before. He’d never wanted to be. He’d always been the man. The man to watch out for. The man to impress. The man to contend with. And he’d gladly risen to every role.

  For this brief window in time, however, the opportunity to be something less—or something much more—was disarmingly appealing.

  The irony of his thoughts should have made him laugh. The fact that it didn’t told him he was treading on dangerous ground.

  He looked at the woman who was, in essence, responsible for perpetuating that danger . . . . Which of them, he wondered, stood the biggest chance of coming out of this unharmed?

  CHARADE

  Cindy Gerard

  THREE

  Logan slowly became aware that Carmen was watching him. Concern darkened her eyes to ebony, as if she, too, recognized a clear and present danger. She should be concerned, he thought grimly. And he was only kidding himself if he thought she wouldn’t be the one who got hurt if he played this through.

  He clenched his hands into tight, tense fists as the depth of his intended deception sobered him. He might have earned his reputation for being ruthless, but he also had gained respect from his peers for his honesty. Yet he’d compromised that honesty the moment he’d started this switch. He’d crossed the line.

  And as he watched her with increasing awareness of her vulnerability, he realized he’d be delving into other unknown territory if he hurt her. Guilt had never come to play in Logan Prince’s domain. His father had taught him long ago that there was no room for guilt in business or life. Some people were users. Some people got used. It was part and parcel of the overall scheme of things, a natural order and balance to power. Those Midas rules were the foundation for his father’s edicts. Those rules were absolutes and constants.

  Logan tried to anchor himself in those constants. Then he looked at Carmen—and he knew something was happening to him that threatened to rip that anchor from its mooring.

  Desperately he worked to convince himself that whatever happened between them was destined to happen. If she got hurt, it would be her fault, not his—and it would be her fault, too, if her sense of self-worth was diminished by the time he left her. She was an adult. He wasn’t responsible for her actions or reactions.

  When she moved to his side and placed that wonderfully cool hand on his forehead, however, he suspected it was his reactions he should be worrying about.

  The woman did extraordinary things to him. The longer he was around her, the more difficult it was to see things in black and white. With one look, she could have him second-guessing his priorities. With one look she could crumble stone to dust.

  He swallowed hard, thinking of touching her . . . her flesh soft and giving, and he steeled himself against an illicit need to have her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, mistaking his apparent turmoil for pain.

  “I’m fine,” he managed in a gritty whisper.

  She frowned. “I think you’ve been up too long. You don’t even sound like yourself.” When he didn’t respond, she prompted, “Johnny?”

  He made a mistake then. He let himself be moved by the concern showing on her face. As much as he wanted her, he didn’t like the idea of hurting her. For a man who had always taken what he wanted, the prospect of self-denial was as painful as his battered ribs.

  Lowering his head to his hands, he swore under his breath.

  “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

  “Would you quit worrying about me and take care of yourself?” It came out as a growl, like the snarling warning of an animal boxed into a corner. Any animal would attack if pushed hard enough. He suddenly felt he’d been pushed to the limit.

  “That’s it. I’m helping you back to bed.”

  “No,” he insisted darkly. No matter how rough he felt, he didn’t want to be anywhere near her or her bed at the moment. He needed some distance from her. Trouble was, he didn’t think he was capable of moving. “You haven’t even taken time to change out of your work clothes. Go change. I’ll be fine.”

  She stood at his side for a moment, hesitant to leave him alone.

  Didn’t the woman have a shred of instinct when it came to self-preservation? “I promise I won’t pass out, okay?”

  Laced with frustrated anger, the words came out on a growl.

  She reacted to his anger with her own. “Always with the promises. Just make sure you keep this one. I don’t relish the thought of prying you off the floor and hauling you back to bed.”

  And then, thankfully, she left as the picture of her in her bed, of him in her bed, of them in her bed together, notched itself indelibly in his mind.

  Too soon she was back, and Logan found himself wishing he’d never suggested the change of clothes.

  Virginal white cotton had given him enough problems. At least the essential parts had been well covered. The red cotton knit tank top she’d slipped on and tucked into khaki shorts added whole new vistas to the demands of his libido.

  Much as he’d like to blame her, the problem lay entirely with him. She wasn’t a tease. Nothing about the clothes were suggestive or provocative. Mothers sent their ten-year-old daughters to school in less. Grandmothers took in the sights at the Alamo in similar garb. It simply was that on Carmen—specifically on Carmen’s curves—the effect was to fill him with aching desire.

  Didn’t she know what she did to a man? No, he decided, watching her set the table and work hard at avoiding his gaze. She didn’t know. He suspected that was part of the reason he found this difficult.

  She was so damn vulnerable, yet so desirable he knew his conscience wasn’t strong enough to keep him from taking advantage.

  Out of the blue, the conscience in question interjected a thought that broadsided him. Rico bled her dry of money. If he followed through, what he planned to take from her held far greater value.

  He wanted more than sex. Hell, if sex was the only issue, this wouldn’t be so difficult. What he truly wanted wasn’t his to take. He wanted a taste of what she was offering Dallas. Love—unconditional, uncompromising, not a cover-up for ambition and greed; something that regardless of his wealth, he’d never had before.

  And even sadder than his need was the knowledge that if he pressured her, she would let him take it all.

  Suddenly he was angry with her for leaving herself so open to hurt. “Don’t you ever get tired of taking care of other people’s problems?”

  She looked at him in leery silence before leaning close to set a salad plate in front of him. “I don’t. I don’t do that,” she said, and frowned as if that conclusion had never dawned on her.

  “No? You take care of Rico. You’re taking care of me. And when you aren’t taking care of people at the hospital, you’re volunteering your time at the free clinic.”

  “I love my work,” she said—so defensively, he knew he had her thinking.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you might work too hard?”

  Her gaze flashed to his, questioning, before she shrugged. “I’m doing fine.” Not a trace of regret. Not a hint of self-pity.

  “Don’t you sometimes think you deserve better than you get? Doesn’t it ever make you angry?”

  She set a bowl of soup in front of him and moved quickly away. “I get exactly what I want. Personal satisfaction. Not everyone can make a difference in another person’s life. I can. I do. Every day. I worked hard for my education, but I consider the opportunity a gift. I’m too grateful to take it for granted.”

  Coming from anyone else, those noble sentiments might have sounded insincere. Because they’d come from Carmen, Logan accepted them—though that didn’t mean he excused her naïveté.

  “Why aren’t you married, Carmen?” he asked point-blank, surprising himself as much as her. “Why isn’t someone taking care of you?”

  “Well, I guess that’s where I draw the line.”

  He tried not to be affected by her sadly poignant smile as she joined him at the table.

  “To my way of thinking, it would probably turn out the other way around. I’d end up taking care of him.”

  He gave a soft huff of agreement. “I suspect you’ve got a point there,” he said, glad to see she had some instincts for self-preservation after all, although he sincerely doubted they were strong enough.

  “Not that I’d expect to be taken care of,” she added, dragging his attention back to her mouth. “A relationship should be equal. Give and take.”

  What she hadn’t said was more telling than what she had. He studied her lowered lashes, satin black, thick and lush, and he got lost for a moment in an image of those lashes lowered in anticipation of his kiss.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the food she’d set in front of him. “Yet so far, where men are concerned, you’ve done all the giving and they’ve done all the taking, am I right?”

  Her silence was his answer. Men were bastards. He ought to know. He was one of the worst. He clenched his jaw and looked away.

  He scanned the sparsely furnished apartment. If she’d let him, he sure as hell could make her life easier.

  Trying to buy your way out of the guilt? he asked himself darkly. At least he could do better by her than Dallas. While it was a given that he would leave her, he, at least, could compensate her. He told himself he would do just that, regardless of what happened or didn’t happen between them.

  Surely there were things she wanted. “Don’t you ever wish for more, Carmen?” he asked.

  She busied her hands breaking crackers into her soup, acting far too casual, far too unaffected by his insistent probing. “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “Answer me,” he pressed.

  She sighed heavily. “More what?”

  “More everything,” he said expansively, his irritation with her total lack of greed getting tangled with his admiration for the very same quality. “Someone to take care of you for a change. Someone to give you things. Material things—you should have diamonds, Carmen. Instead you’ve been given coal.”

  Logan Prince didn’t wax poetic. He told himself Johnny Dallas probably did and that he was only playing the role. The sweet, surprised smile tilting her mouth told him how good an actor he was.

  Her look was both wistful and bittersweet for a moment before she manufactured a stage frown and touched her palm to his forehead. “You running a fever, Johnny? It’s not like you to be so concerned about what I might need.”

  She was trying for cool, steady humor. The slight trembling of her hand told him she was neither cool nor steady. His preoccupation with this line of questioning told him he wasn’t either.

  “No fever,” he said wearily, unable to dodge an unshakable guilt over his deception. “Maybe I just realized what a selfish, self-centered bastard I am. Maybe I’m thinking I’ve got a lot to be sorry for where you’re concerned.”

  The sorrys hadn’t even begun. Too much heat, too much fire came to flame when their gazes met. And every time she touched him, he damn near went up in smoke. He wasn’t sure anymore if he could get out of this without hurting her. And he could see in her eyes that she was probably going to let him.

  It made him angry. At himself and a past that had made him the cold, calculating opportunist he was today. And at her, for placing so little value on her self-worth and for wasting her love on a ne’er-do-well like Dallas. Oddly these thoughts fueled a need in him to give her what she deserved.

  And what might that be, Prince? he asked himself. Does she deserve to be lied to and seduced by a man whose existence in her world is a lie?

  “What about love, Carmen?” He watched her closely, damned if he knew why he was pushing these points. Damned if he knew why he was letting himself care. “Let’s talk about that. You could have any man you wanted. Why do you think you want a man like me?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it took all her will to keep from bolting out of the chair and running from the room.

  “Why, Carmen?” he repeated, more gently but no less insistently.

  She raised her chin and glared at him. “I’m glad to see those lumps you took didn’t put any bruises in your ego.”

  He had to smile at her show of grit and blustery pride.

  “Okay,” he conceded, paying court to that pride. “For the sake of argument, let’s say you have better judgment than to fall for a saddle tramp like me. What kind of a man would you fall in love with?”

  Her quick, jerky motions told him she was wound as tight as a reel of microfiche.

  He didn’t want her to be so tense, though he also didn’t want her calm. Despite all his noble words and convoluted thoughts on the subject, he wanted her aware of him. He wanted her wild and reckless, lost in love, lost in him. Lost in Logan Prince, not Johnny Dallas.

  He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He was turned inside out by this woman. It wasn’t like him. But then, he wasn’t himself, was he? He was no longer Logan Prince, a ruthless, cold-blooded corporate raider. He was Johnny Dallas. A good-natured urban cowboy, quick with a grin, with time to kill and women to win.

  He looked at the woman sitting across from him. The one who brought a flurry of emotions swirling like a dust devil on a dry Texas plain. The one who made him as attuned to his needs as a man as he was attuned to hers as a woman . . . and he couldn’t stop wondering what it would take for Logan Prince to win her.

  Bullying wouldn’t do the trick. He decided to back off—at least until he was capable of thinking straight.

  “Look. Forget it. Forget I asked,” he said, then winced when he drew in too deep a breath. “Forget this whole conversation. It’s none of my business anyway what you do, or what you want.”

  She looked as confused as he felt. He didn’t like the fact that she prompted this acute sexual need, this sensation of new life from feelings he’d thought were dead inside him, this unsettling focus on longings he’d stowed away behind the man-of-steel image.

  The man of steel fought a slow but undeniable melting as she watched him with wary concern.

  Damn, he was tired. And confused. He fought both weaknesses and took refuge in the notion that the residual effects of the beating he’d taken were responsible for his state of mind.

  “You’re right about one thing,” he said wearily. “I think it’s time I got back to bed.”

  When she folded her napkin beside her plate and came to his side, he didn’t fight her. With her help he stood, then let her lead him back to her bed, where he collapsed and fell into a restless sleep.