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|Moonlight on Nightingale Way(On Dublin Street #6)(11) by Samantha Young|
“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.
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.