But Logan Hughes was.
“You have a problem,” he said sharply.
She’d kinda gotten that from the way he’d said his name, all ice-cold and spiky.
“Oh?” She closed her eyes and winced at how rude she sounded. But she was thrown. Her throat tightened. She knew a total block wasn’t far away. Silence reigned.
“The last tweet from my account,” he said even more curtly.
She paused before replying, swallowing, trying to relax the knots twisting up her windpipe. “The picture,” she managed a whisper. Whispers tended to work.
“It’s not the picture.”
It wasn’t? She had posted the picture, hadn’t she? She’d been in his Twitter account. She’d attached the file and then...
Quickly she tapped the space bar so the screensaver vanished. She checked her posting. And froze.
Oh no.
Iced-up blood sluiced through her system, chilling her back to sub-zero temps in less than a second. Yet sweat swept over her body. This time the temperature fluctuations were extreme—like she had some virulent flu and it was only a matter of minutes before it took her out.
Death by mortification.
She’d sent Blake’s tweet from the wrong account. She’d sent ‘she said yes’ as the text along with Logan’s photo. With him looking so fiercely sexy and commanding and master of his damn destiny. The guy who would never settle for just one woman.
How could she have been so stupid? She who was so careful about everything she wrote?
“Ms Jones?”
She jumped. She’d forgotten he was on the freaking phone. He didn’t sound like he was going to see the funny side anytime soon.
“I’ve sent a car. It should be there in ten minutes.”
What? He’d sent a car to collect her? He expected her to go and see him?
“N-now?” She pressed her lips together. It was after six. It was getting dark and cold and she so didn’t want to have to see him. She avoided face to face as much as possible. But there was no avoiding this. This was her business—and a bad report card from Logan Hughes?
That could kill her career.
“My driver will bring you here and you can sort this mess out.”
So cold. So unimpressed.
Fair enough. It was laughable—Logan Hughes getting married? No wonder it was all over the internet. Anything as unlikely as that was bound to be an instant hit.
She tried to answer. Couldn’t.
“Are you there?” Impatience, irritation deepened his voice.
She knew he thought she was being rude. It made her block worse. And her block made her angry.
“Mmm hmm.” She didn’t even try to form words.
“The car will be there in ten.”
He was going to hang up. She was making the worst first impression ever.
“Mr Hughes.” Min tried to stay calm. “I… I c-c-can’t, I—” She winced as she tried to speak. Damn stress always made her stutter rear up like some long lost scary sea monster. But he just interrupted anyway.
“I’ll see you soon. You can grovel then.”
Min stared at her phone.
Logan Hughes was going to eat her alive.
Chapter Three
#CraziestShitEver
Stop. Check. Send. Never send anything online before checking. Always stop and check first. It was so easy to make a mistake and once something was online it was online forever.
That was the lecture she included in the info pack she gave her clients. For her to have made such a basic, rookie mistake? What had she been thinking?
She glanced down at her stained Scooby tee, torn jeans and slippers. This was worse than being sent to the principal’s office or the lions’ den or the flaming pit of hell. She’d rather have her teeth drilled with no anesthetic.
For a minute she stood uselessly in the center of the room. Meet with the Logan Hughes? Face to face? Now?
Already she could feel her throat closing again, felt like her tongue was swelling to triple size. If she had to see her clients, she employed all her tactics. If she did stutter¸ most people she met were polite. She had the feeling Logan mightn’t be that polite. He’d probably be the kind to think a stutter equaled incompetence.
Who was she kidding. She had been incompetent. But she had to pull herself together. She’d quickly shower and change into something professional. She could do professional as well as anyone else when she had to.
She’d just made it to the bathroom and was mentally debating what to wear when her intercom buzzed. Aghast she stared at her messed up reflection. The driver couldn’t be here already.
The buzzer went again—long and loud.
Min didn’t bother with the intercom. She was only on the first floor so she raced down the stairs and opened the door.
The big and broad man standing in front of her was tall, taciturn and tough-looking. The kind who looked like he could drive fast and fight hard. One of those combo deals—chauffeur slash bodyguard slash enforcer.
“If you’re ready to go, Mr Hughes is waiting.”
He wasn’t in that car was he? Min peered at the darkened windows of the big, black vehicle illegally parked in front of her building.
“I don’t think you want to keep him waiting,” the driver added. He
had one of those earpiece things in to make him look important and officious.
Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. “I n-n-need some ID.”
The driver didn’t soften his chiseled cheekbones with a smile. Brusquely he pulled out a leather wallet like he’d been anticipating her request and flashed it at her. “Here’s my driver’s license and my certification. Anything else you need?”
A double shot of pure alcohol. Because yeah, that certification proved he was a bodyguard. Clearly an efficient and valued one because his suit was made-to-measure not off the rack. Was he wearing a gun too? How would she ever know when he was all male-model? Was that a requirement of Logan Hughes’ employment? To be good-looking?
She’d definitely be getting the sack the second he saw her.
“If you’re worried I’m abducting you,” the bodyguard said slowly, as if she were special needs. “Hold onto your cell. You can phone a friend anytime you like.”
Min blinked. “One moment.” She shut the door on him and dashed back up the stairs.
She grabbed the denim jacket hanging over the back of her sofa and kicked off the slippers. She stuffed her feet into the nearest pair of shoes. She was just going to have to do as she was. Back outside, the driver was still on the step. Still not smiling.
He didn’t speak. She didn’t either as she climbed into the roomy back seat of the sleek car and found—thankfully—that she was the only occupant. She clutched her phone, smothered a half-hysterical laugh. It was like something out of a B-grade thriller. Was she about to be driven to some abandoned factory and whacked?
Of course not. They were headed to Manhattan—there weren’t abandoned factories in Manhattan anymore. There were art galleries, cute boutiques and conversions. And this was Logan Hughes. Extreme playboy he might be, ruthless murderer he wasn’t.
Inhale. Exhale. What’s the worst that can happen?
Trouble was there were some serious possible repercussions. Her business. It was only just getting off the ground and she was still living hand to mouth—loss of clients, a bad rep would kill it as easy as a bug under a boot. She was going to have to grovel.