Not sparing him a glance, she stormed toward the door.
“Tara.”
Her first instinct was to turn and look at him. Because his voice snapped with command and made her pu**y ache for some mysterious reason? Because she’d deluded herself into thinking that she heard pain?
Tara kept walking.
She was so angry she could spit nails. It was irrational, she knew. Logan hadn’t done anything to her today but surprise her. Too much frustration piled onto too little sleep, mixed with too much fear that her friend and fellow agent, Darcy Miles, could die any minute she spent in this tie-’em-down-whip-’em-up dungeon learning her role.
But her new boss, Jon Bocelli, had been perfectly clear when finally granting her this assignment. She’d been given this opportunity because she solved mysteries well, kept her cool, was hell with a gun, and fit the victims’ general background. Of course, he could find all that among existing agents. She’d also been told she was the perfect bait because she had the physical attributes these men seemed to want. She was voluptuous and had a soft look about her. It didn’t hurt that word had it they were looking for redheads. Beyond all that, though, what she possessed that others lacked, according to her psychological profile, was a submissive streak. Tara shuddered. Even the suggestion made her bristle. She hated being told what to do, but if the misconception worked in her favor, Bocelli could believe whatever he wanted. If she patently denied her “nature,” Bocelli would shuttle her behind a desk again, filtering intel.
She’d volunteered for a field assignment to see if she was cut out to be an agent . . . and to see if following in Adam’s footsteps would make her stepfather proud. She’d only been given this assignment now because Bocelli didn’t have a better option. No one would work harder to rescue Darcy.
And Tara knew that, unless she did something, Logan would be squarely in her way.
If she wanted him gone, she’d have to talk to the club’s owner. Mr. Thorpe seemed like a calm, rational man. Then, hopefully, she’d never see her high school flame again.
But Logan was faster than her and took hold of her elbow.
He didn’t exert pressure; he didn’t need to. His touch alone sizzled through her like the shock of a live wire. To her horror, Tara felt her entire body heat up.
“Stop.”
His snapped command detonated through her system, his voice so hypnotic, so deep, it compelled her to obey. The need was almost more than she could resist. Her ni**les peaked. An ache took up residence between her legs.
She hesitated, though her entire body stayed tensed for flight.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
Damn it, she didn’t want to. But that tone alone nearly seduced her compliance. Refusing would only make her look ridiculously stubborn. Or scared. The last thing Tara wanted to do was give Logan a reason to think he mattered, to presume for an instant that she’d measured all lovers against him and found each lacking.
Drawing in a bracing breath, she met his gaze.
“Good,” he murmured. “Let’s sit and talk. You can tell me more about this mission, and we’ll talk about our best next steps.”
No way was she going to risk Darcy’s safety any more by wasting time with Logan. Yes, Tara was a professional, but she’d have to be dead not to be distracted by the perceptive, gorgeous man staring at her now. Toss in their crappy history, and this had train wreck written all over it.
“Or you could f**k off.” Tara jerked from his grasp and marched out the door, giving it a satisfying slam behind her.
She didn’t delude herself; if Logan wanted to make something of their unlikely meeting, he would. God knew, he’d once pursued her with a single-minded intensity that had made her sixteen-year-old heart flutter. But unlike her teenage self, she knew better than to give him a second more of her time or mental energy.
And no, she wouldn’t think about him at all when she lay in her bed late at night and put her hand on her clit, seeking satisfaction. Damn it.
After sneaking into a restroom in the hall, Tara wriggled into her gray suit and tucked her hair back into her professional chignon. She stepped into her heels and repaired her makeup. Feeling a thousand percent more confident, she wrenched open the door, half expecting to find Logan blocking her way. The hall was empty.
Hoping he’d taken the hint, she made her way to Mr. Thorpe’s office, the echo of her heels against the concrete floors too loud. At the office door, she knocked and waited.
“You may come in, Agent Jacobs.”
Tara smothered her surprise as she opened the door. He’d either known her identity because he had cameras installed in the hall or Logan had told him to expect her. Either way, she didn’t care. “Hello.”
The tight smile playing at his full mouth pricked her with unease. “Sit.”
It was an order; not an invitation. If she wanted his cooperation, she shouldn’t risk pissing him off.
Quickly, she settled into the stylish leather chair in front of the gigantic walnut desk and crossed her legs. Brushed nickel accented the rest of the office, along with glass shelves peppered with books, silk plants, and heinously expensive pottery. A Picasso hung on his wall. She was pretty sure it was real.
“Mr. Thorpe, I know you’re busy, so I’ll get to the point.”