His Fantasy Girl (Things To Do Before You Die)

By: Nina Croft

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes stretched wide. “What? No way. I think I would have remembered.” But that bad feeling was getting bigger, swelling, and any second now she was guessing it was going to burst all over her.

“It was a long time ago,” he said.

No. Freaking. Way.

She wanted to squeeze her eyes tightly shut and put her hands over her ears. Because she knew what was coming next and she didn’t want to hear it. And she was suddenly quite aware of why he looked so familiar. Finally, she managed to croak out a question. “How long?”

“Eleven years.” He studied her, his head cocked to one side. “I’m guessing it’s coming back.”

She stared at him—well, at his chest, where his T-shirt strained tight over the swell of muscles. Why? Why was he here after so long? What could he possibly want? Whatever it was, she couldn’t deal with it right now.

“Logan McCabe.” The name came out as a whisper.

She’d had sex with this man. And multiple orgasms. She was tied to him by tethers he knew nothing about. Did he?

It was weird that she’d been thinking about him lately, but in abstract; she’d never expected him to turn up on her doorstep.

She had to get rid of him.

Right now. Before disaster struck.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I have no clue what you want after all this time.”

He gave a casual shrug. “Just to talk.”

“What can we possibly have to talk about?” Actually a whole load of stuff, but she needed preparation for that, a clear head, advice from a lawyer, and maybe a couple of hundred years to think about it. “I can’t. I really can’t. I have to leave for work. Right now.”

When he just stood there, staring down at her, she gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to push him off the doorstep.

His eyes narrowed. Then he pulled a card from his back pocket and handed it to her. She took it automatically, her eyes straying to the road, expecting to see the car pull up any moment.

“Call me,” he said. “Or come by the club. When this has sunk in, I would like to…talk to you.”

When she didn’t answer, his nostrils flared and something flashed in his eyes. “You remember the club? The place where you picked me up and fucked my brains out.”

He turned and strolled away, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Ouch.” The tension oozed out of her, and she leaned against the doorway, closed her eyes, and released a ragged breath.

When she opened them, he was gone.

By the following afternoon, Logan still hadn’t gotten over his feeling of… What? Maybe that was the problem. He had no clue how he felt. The meeting certainly hadn’t gone as he’d imagined, but then again, what had he expected? He realized, obviously too late, that he hadn’t given any thought to his fantasy girl’s feelings in all this. Hey, she was his fantasy girl. She was supposed to act in an appropriate fantasy-like manner.

She wasn’t supposed to look at him as though he was all her nightmares rolled up into one big pile of dog crap that she couldn’t wait to scrape off her sensible shoes. And that was only after she’d finally recognized him—which had taken far longer than it should have done considering they’d had hot, mind-blowing sex every night for a year.

In his dreams.

He’d spent last night lying awake, going over the meeting, trying to decide what his next move should be, if any. But Josh and Vito would have a field day if he gave in this easily. And he was one hundred and ten percent convinced she wouldn’t be calling, or turning up at the club, any time soon.

She was nothing like he remembered, and certainly nothing like the sort of woman to indulge in his kinkier fantasies, which was a pity and a dash to his hopes. For a moment, he’d thought he’d gotten the wrong Abigail Parker. Josh’s security company had found her for him. Logan had only had the name Abigail and her date of birth—she’d told him she’d been celebrating her eighteenth birthday that night—but Josh had said that was enough. Logan had asked for a name and address. Perhaps he should have asked for more. But when he’d examined her closely, the basics were all there. The dark mahogany hair, though it was caught up tight in some sort of bun thing, and the big blue eyes. Her mouth…

But he somehow remembered her as bigger. She was medium height, about five-five in her low heels, and she had a trim figure in a gray skirt that reached past her knees and a white shirt, buttoned up tight. Prim and proper. Especially when she’d pursed her lips and looked him over as if trying to work out what a tattooed, ex-con like him was doing on her pristine doorstep.

At first he’d been amused when she so obviously had no clue who he was. Then he’d been pissed off. Once she had finally recognized him, she had gotten rid of him so fast it should have been funny.

Except he wasn’t laughing.

People had always looked at him and made assumptions about the sort of man he was—most of them bad and many of them correct—and it had never bothered him before.

And it shouldn’t bother him now. So why the hell—

“Are we boring you, boss?”

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