Exposed (Madame X, #2)(82)

I interrupt his flow. “Logan. This all sounds wonderful, but . . .” I cannot help a sigh of defeat. “I don’t have a single dime to my name. I don’t own a single article of clothing of my own. Nothing. Where am I going to get the money to buy a town house in Manhattan, much less capital to open a business?”

He waves my objection away with his fork. “Told you, I’ll help you out. Run you a business loan.”

“I’m not taking your money, Logan. That would only—”

He sets his fork down, his gaze serious. “I didn’t say ‘give,’ Isabel, I said ‘loan.’ I’ll have my banker work up the paperwork for you. I know you wouldn’t take money from me, and that’s not what I’m offering. I’d have no stake in your business itself, other than the hope that you’re profitable so I see a return on my investment. I’m not looking to make a profit myself off this, so the terms would be pretty forgiving, low interest, make it easy for you to pay it off. This is to help you. Get you started.”

“Why, Logan?”

He makes a funny face. Sad, tender, loving, and confused all at once. “Because everyone needs help sometimes. And because I love you. I want to help you. I’d just give you the damn money if I thought you’d take it. I have more than I’ll ever be able to spend, even with giving a shitload away to charity. I want to see you succeed. I want to . . .” He sighs and leans back in his chair. “There’s selfish motivation at work here, too. If you’re successful, if you’re working for yourself, then you’re more likely to be happy. And if you’re happy, that just means things between us will be that much better.”

I can’t help a smile. “So even your selfish motivations are centered on my happiness?”

A grin. “Well, yeah. I mean, think about it. If you’re happy, then your focus can be on me. If you’re happy, my chances of being able to keep you naked in my bed for entire weekends are that much better. And after last night and this morning, Isabel honey, I’ve got plans to keep you naked and sweaty for as long as you’ll let me.”

“I like the sound of those plans.”

His eyes heat up. “We could buy a little place in the Caribbean, stay naked on the beach for weeks on end.”

I close my eyes and dream. Pretend I’m successful. Making my own money running my own business. Logan is mine, all mine. There is no one else. I imagine being on a beach somewhere. With him. Lying naked on a blanket in the sand, the sun hot above us. His mouth all over me. I squirm, desire flushing through me at the idea.

“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?” He’s leaning toward me over the table, whispering in my ear. “You and me, naked on a beach?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Picture it, babe. Keep that image in your mind. We’ll make it a reality.”

There are a few moments of silence then, as we finish our food. My mind wanders, back to his bedroom, to us. To him, asleep on the couch. The notepad, the scribblings.

“Logan?” I have to know. I have to ask.

He glances up, eyebrows lifted in query. “Hmmm?”

“Who is Jakob Kasparek?”

He freezes. “You saw that.”

“Yeah. I saw. What did that note mean, Logan?”

He chews, swallows, breathes. “I did a little more digging. I managed to get a peek at the discharge papers from the hospital. The signature on your discharge sheet is Jakob Kasparek.”

“Not Caleb Indigo?”

He shakes his head. “No. Jakob Kasparek.” A lift of his shoulder. “I looked for that name, but I found nothing. Not a single thing. So I don’t know anything except that whoever signed you out of the hospital was named Jakob Kasparek, not Caleb Indigo.”

I swallow hard. Try to breathe evenly. “I . . . I don’t mean to doubt you, but . . . are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. I’m sorry, I know that . . . probably doesn’t make things easier for you.”

“I just . . . I remember the day he signed me out. I remember him signing the paper. I—I didn’t see the signature, but . . . it just makes no sense. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

My head spins. Whirls. Aches. Nothing makes any sense. Nothing adds up. Nothing is true.

I feel panic boiling under my skin, gripping my throat and my mind. I have to shut it down. Think of something else. Don’t go there, not now. Not here.

“You said you give money to charity?” I ask, just to shift the conversation.

He shrugs, recognizing my gambit for what it is. “Yeah. I mean, my business is worth . . . well, a lot. Thirty million, last time I checked. I spread it around, make sure my people are raking in their own personal fortunes, because they do the lion’s share of the work. But even if I only kept thirty percent of the company’s profit, that’d be nine million a year, something like that. And I’m just one guy, you know? What does one guy do with nine million dollars a year? I keep my life simple. I own one home, and I stay around Manhattan for the most part. Take a few vacations here and there. But I like working, so I work a lot. Means I don’t spend a lot. I only have the one car, because driving in New York is a bitch so there’s no real point in owning a bunch of fancy cars. Not my thing anyway.” He waves a hand. “So I give a lot to various charities.”