Mal's Scribbles: Hello Campers. Thanks so much for all the wonderful little gems you've been leaving for me—they're just so warm and fuzzy. I'm leaving tomorrow and I probably won't be back until the middle of next week, but I have a request would someone pretty, please with a strawberry (I hate cherries) on top volunteer to be a bouncer. (No, not that kind of a bouncer). I really need someone to volley some ideas back and forth with about a troublesome chapter. See you when I get back!
Chapter Three
The smell of coffee brewing was enough to rouse Logan from his dreamless sleep. Exchanging his pajama pants for a pair of jeans and a gray cashmere sweater, he made his into the kitchen. Passing by the open door of the guest room he glanced inside, noting that the bed had not been slept in. Shaking his head, he wondered how long Max could go without sleep; his personal best was three days.
Max tapped her foot anxiously, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. She tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "Why is your coffeepot so slow?" Max asked Logan without turning to look at him. She could feel his presence in the entryway.
Logan took in Max's appearance before answering. Skin tight, long-sleeved red shirt, black leather pants, hiking boots, and her hair still partially damp from her morning shower. The fact that she hadn't needed to turn to see who was watching her intrigued him. "Maybe the person waiting for the coffee is too anxious. Haven't you ever heard a watched pot never boils?"
Max groaned at the expression, and then removed the pot from the heating unit and placed her mug underneath the steady stream without spilling so much as a fizzled drop. Smirking she replaced the pot, and breathed in the wonderful smell of caffeine.
Logan smiled at the delighted expression on her face. "Glad you like my coffee."
"I like any and all coffee, it is one of the major food groups, you know."
Logan nodded and went to retrieve his mug from the counter. He liked this Max better than the one from last night. The Morning-time Max was more playful. After filling his cup, he turned to look at her. She was perched on one of the stools reading the front page. She looked too damn innocent to be a bodyguard, but maybe that was part of the ruse. If she looked innocent she could be easily underestimated and disregarded as a threat.
"I don't like it when people stare at me," she told him without looking up from the paper. "It's rude."
"Sorry about that, my mind wandered." Turning away from her he walked to the refrigerator, "Do you like omelets?"
"I'm not fussy when it comes to food."
"Two omelets coming up," Logan said pulling the ingredients out of the refrigerator, and going to work on slicing vegetables, ham and cheese to go into the buttery egg mixture.
Max was pleasantly surprised when a plate filled with a fluffy omelet was placed on top of the paper she was reading, and another plate set beside her. She looked up and smiled when she saw Logan filling two glasses with orange juice.
Handing her the juice, he sat down next to her and proceeded to devour his breakfast. "Would you give me the Business section?"
Mentally he forced himself to ignore the tremor that had gone through Max when he sat down next to her. It was nice to know that he had the same effect on her as she did on him. An effect that was entirely unexpected. He had not counted on this kind of attraction when he contacted Zack and asked to be sent a guard. In the past, he had dealt with Max's sisters, but never even felt a brief interest in them. Why now, why this one?
"No problem," she responded, dropping the paper in front of his plate.
As Logan ate and read about the latest drops in the stock market, Max made quick work of her breakfast, finishing before he had even made it to the halfway mark. He looked up in surprise when he heard her rinsing her dishes off and then putting them into the dishwasher. "You don't have to do that, Max."
Max shrugged slightly, "You cooked for me, the least I can do is pick up after myself."
Smiling at her, Logan replied, "If you call an omelet 'cooking,' I'd hate to see your usual breakfast fare." Returning his attention to the paper before him as the price of soy suddenly intrigued him, he continued, "Anyway, the maid will be here tomorrow."
Max's head snapped up, and she stalked over to him, tapping her foot until he looked up at her, "Maid?"
Logan nodded oblivious to Max's rapidly churning thoughts.
"That wasn't in the file."
"Why would it be?"
Looking him up and down, Max trained her glaring eyes on his. "Get rid of her," she practically snarled as she accentuated each word.
Slightly taken aback by the abrupt change in her attitude,
Logan tried for the sympathetic approach.
"I can't, she depends on the income.
Besides, how does this affect you?"
"Maids talk," she called over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen
headed for the guest room. "Hope you
have some extra space in your closet."
"What," Logan exclaimed as he quickly vacated his seat, following her into the bedroom.
"Relax," Max said replacing her clothing into the backpack, "your virtue will remain intact," unfortunately.
"I didn't…wait…what?"
Max couldn't help but smile at his flustered expression and took pity on him explaining her actions. "Jace posed as your cousin, which is why they didn't buy the act—it's really hard to fool your own family. I'll be taking on the role of your very own playmate."
All the blood in his body raced south, as images of Max as his lover played through his overactive imagination. Oh this is bad, Logan thought, this is so very bad. He could barely control the desire to hold her as it was, how the hell was he going to share the same bed with her.
"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to show me where to unpack in your room?"
Audibly gulping, and shifting in his suddenly too tight jeans Logan tried to take control of the situation. "Maybe we should just forget this idea. I haven't heard from anyone in two days, maybe they decided I wasn't worth the effort."
"Ever dealt with Russia's answer to the mafia?" Max asked as she brushed past him, headed for his bedroom. Turning her head slightly to study his expression she continued, "I didn't think so. Well, allow me to educate you," she said tossing her backpack on the unmade bed, and spinning around to face him, "as bad as America is right now, the people over there would still sell their souls for the chance to live here. They are ruthless, and they will not fail."
"How do you know…"
"Later," Max interrupted, "for now, just clean out a drawer and make some room in the closet for me."
Logan acceded to Max's demand for the moment and allowed the subject to close, while the journalist in him raged.
While they worked on rearranging the room to reflect the façade that a woman now shared Logan's life, Max explained the plan. The two had met at the museum fundraiser last month and had been emailing one another since then because she had been at the Vineyard. It was a suitable plan on such short notice, and while not airtight it could work. If anyone bothered to check their story, which Max had a hunch that they would; the emails would show on Logan's computer, thanks to Ben's uncanny ability with computers. And when they started prying into the life of Max Guevara, they would find she was indeed at the family home—well, at least the company's safe house—in Martha's Vineyard.
As Max bent to strategically place a few of her 'personal' items under Logan's bed, she found an envelope. "What's this?"
Taking the envelope from her, Logan opened the seal and read through the words written on the heavy parchment. "Shit," Logan cursed.
"Problems?" Max smirked, as she realized that Logan had forgotten something.
"Charity fundraiser tonight," Logan responded focusing his attention on her. After studying her long enough to make her shift uncomfortably in his gaze, he cocked his head, "What are you? An eight?"
"A six," Max responded, with a slight look of disgust on her face.
"Hmm, well I'm guessing that you didn't exactly bring anything with you that would pass muster with the social elite in that little backpack."
"You guessed wrong," Max replied pulling out a long piece of shapeless black material.
Studying the cloth in Max's hand, Logan had serious doubts about her understanding of dressing well. "Don't worry, I've got Chrisa's on speed dial."
"No worries," Max tossed over her shoulder as she headed for his bathroom, "when I'm finished, you'll be drooling over me and erasing Chrisa's number from your phone and adding Csora's."
Logan stared at the shut door, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had the oddest feeling that when she reappeared from the bathroom, his fantasies would have nothing on reality.