LOGAN (The Innerworld Affairs Series, Book 5) by Marilyn Campbell
Authors: Marilyn Campbell
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ask him for help, even if her life was threatened.
Logan was accustomed to life being one kick in the teeth after another, but this little turn of events sure beat the hell out of anything that had come before, including the court martial. It was the typical sort of trick fate always played on him. He had been spared from life in one prison, only to find himself being held captive in another in which his wardens were either fairies or aliens.
And the only woman in the entire universe capable of twisting him into knots with nothing more than the sound of her voice, was there to make sure he didn't have a moment's peace.
As he had a hundred times before, he drifted back to the moment when he first realized that Tarla was neither an angel nor a hallucination...
* * *
He squinted his eyes in an attempt to focus on the woman looking down on him. Either the concussion or whatever drug they'd used on him for the surgery still had him feeling disoriented and drowsy, but the throbbing pain in his thigh assured him he was very much alive.
"Welcome back, Logan."
Her voice sent a shiver up his spine in spite of the numbing narcotic. The way she said his name suggested they'd known each other forever and the way she smiled at him made it seem as though they really had.
Her fingers combed his hair back from his forehead. "I'm Tarla. How do you feel?"
He wanted her to touch him again, but he didn't dare ask aloud.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" She lightly stroked one of the scars on his shoulder. "But it looks like you've been through this before."
"Slovenia," he mumbled hoarsely.
Her fingertip traced the scar along his jaw, then his forehead.
"Detroit."
"Is that where you're from?" He nodded once. "Too bad about the Chevies, huh? I thought they were a shoe-in for the championship this year."
He wasn't much of a soccer fan but he was willing to discuss any topic that might keep her by his side. The drug in his system prevented him from intelligently holding up his side of the conversation, but she seemed to understand and did most of the talking.
He remembered fading in and out for a day or two. Each time he awakened, she was there, smiling, telling him little bits of news and gossip. Once the amount of narcotic he'd been prescribed was reduced, he was able to get her talking about what he really wanted to know, which was anything and everything about her.
She was from Baltimore, Maryland, thirty-four, had a large number of relatives and friends, each of whom she could relate a humorous story about. She liked children, rescued stray animals and, most important, had no husband, fiancé, or boyfriend waiting at home.
The strange part was she seemed to really like him. For some reason, she saw right past what everyone else saw when they looked at him. He even had the urge to tell her about his own life, thinking she might be the one woman who wouldn't judge him by his past, but he needed more confidence for that.
With each encounter, he grew more certain that she was feeling the same attraction to him as he was to her. And when he held her hand and she didn't pull it back, his hope rose.
His leg felt a little better by the end of the second week and her nearness was keeping him in a constant state of arousal. He could tell Tarla wasn't the type of woman he usually associated with, and normally, he wouldn't have even bothered talking to her, but everything about her had him believing his life could be different with her.
He wanted her, but he didn't want her to see him as an animal. He vowed to go slowly with her but he couldn't stand another day of only holding her hand.
That night, after it was dark and quiet and she came by to say goodnight, he shifted to one side of the cot and asked her to sit next to him.
"I know it's only been a couple weeks," he began, then stopped because her eyes were telling him he didn't have to explain. He reached up and, with his hand lightly stroking the back of her neck, he brought her head down to
Logan was accustomed to life being one kick in the teeth after another, but this little turn of events sure beat the hell out of anything that had come before, including the court martial. It was the typical sort of trick fate always played on him. He had been spared from life in one prison, only to find himself being held captive in another in which his wardens were either fairies or aliens.
And the only woman in the entire universe capable of twisting him into knots with nothing more than the sound of her voice, was there to make sure he didn't have a moment's peace.
As he had a hundred times before, he drifted back to the moment when he first realized that Tarla was neither an angel nor a hallucination...
* * *
He squinted his eyes in an attempt to focus on the woman looking down on him. Either the concussion or whatever drug they'd used on him for the surgery still had him feeling disoriented and drowsy, but the throbbing pain in his thigh assured him he was very much alive.
"Welcome back, Logan."
Her voice sent a shiver up his spine in spite of the numbing narcotic. The way she said his name suggested they'd known each other forever and the way she smiled at him made it seem as though they really had.
Her fingers combed his hair back from his forehead. "I'm Tarla. How do you feel?"
He wanted her to touch him again, but he didn't dare ask aloud.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" She lightly stroked one of the scars on his shoulder. "But it looks like you've been through this before."
"Slovenia," he mumbled hoarsely.
Her fingertip traced the scar along his jaw, then his forehead.
"Detroit."
"Is that where you're from?" He nodded once. "Too bad about the Chevies, huh? I thought they were a shoe-in for the championship this year."
He wasn't much of a soccer fan but he was willing to discuss any topic that might keep her by his side. The drug in his system prevented him from intelligently holding up his side of the conversation, but she seemed to understand and did most of the talking.
He remembered fading in and out for a day or two. Each time he awakened, she was there, smiling, telling him little bits of news and gossip. Once the amount of narcotic he'd been prescribed was reduced, he was able to get her talking about what he really wanted to know, which was anything and everything about her.
She was from Baltimore, Maryland, thirty-four, had a large number of relatives and friends, each of whom she could relate a humorous story about. She liked children, rescued stray animals and, most important, had no husband, fiancé, or boyfriend waiting at home.
The strange part was she seemed to really like him. For some reason, she saw right past what everyone else saw when they looked at him. He even had the urge to tell her about his own life, thinking she might be the one woman who wouldn't judge him by his past, but he needed more confidence for that.
With each encounter, he grew more certain that she was feeling the same attraction to him as he was to her. And when he held her hand and she didn't pull it back, his hope rose.
His leg felt a little better by the end of the second week and her nearness was keeping him in a constant state of arousal. He could tell Tarla wasn't the type of woman he usually associated with, and normally, he wouldn't have even bothered talking to her, but everything about her had him believing his life could be different with her.
He wanted her, but he didn't want her to see him as an animal. He vowed to go slowly with her but he couldn't stand another day of only holding her hand.
That night, after it was dark and quiet and she came by to say goodnight, he shifted to one side of the cot and asked her to sit next to him.
"I know it's only been a couple weeks," he began, then stopped because her eyes were telling him he didn't have to explain. He reached up and, with his hand lightly stroking the back of her neck, he brought her head down to
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