The One That Got Away (16 page)

‘Is this an ownership thing?’

‘Absolutely. And a size thing. Possibly a status thing.
Definitely a let’s buy somewhere together thing.’

‘What?’ He’d snuck that one in fast. But there was no way she
was going to let it pass without comment. ‘But...I have a red ceiling. You like
my red ceiling. And, more realistically, there is no way I could ever afford to
buy a house like this with you.’

‘Proportional investment,’ murmured Logan, his eyes lighting up
as if it were Christmas at the sight of the indoor lap pool and spa. Evie’s eyes
might have opened a little wider at the sight of them too. ‘You live a
comfortable life, Evie, and I’m not trying to dismiss it. I’m a huge fan of your
fire pole. But here you could have a flying fox from the bedroom to the
jetty.’

‘Floating tennis court,’ she suggested with a grin. ‘I could
make you make it happen.’

‘You could. I’d never deny it,’ he said, looking back over his
shoulder at her with a con man’s grin. ‘C’mon, Evie. I like this one. Keep your
apartment if it’ll assuage your need for independence but please...’ He knew
exactly how much she liked to please him. ‘Let’s buy this one together.’

‘You could buy it ten times over all by yourself.’

‘Yes, and if I did you’d think of it as mine. I’m ready for
something that’s ours, Evie. Are you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m thinking about it,’ she said, looking down
through the branches of a gum tree to the extensive gardens below. ‘Is there a
doghouse?’

‘Why? You thinking of relegating me to it already?’

‘No.’ Neither of them had been in the doghouse for quite some
time. Oh, he could still do a mighty fine possessive wolf impersonation, and he
did—most decidedly—have a superbly honed skill set when it came to getting his
own way. But he did his damndest to listen to her views and accommodate them,
and besides...Evie had a powerful negotiating weapon of her own.

Love.

Only three people in that small, select group for whom Logan
would do anything. Give anything. Cut out his heart and lay it at their
feet.

And one of them was Evie.

He’d turn his back on this place if Evie asked it of him. He’d
downsize his life so that Evie would feel more comfortable in it. He wasn’t
asking her to be a trophy wife who catered to his every need. He wasn’t asking
her to cut back on her workload. Apart from a comment about MEP needing another
project manager—which they did—Logan trusted her to sort out her work
commitments for herself. What he
was
asking for was
a commitment to sharing a future with him.

‘Maybe I can get your brother to build us a doghouse if there
isn’t one already,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he can convert the boathouse.
Mates’ rates. I’m pretty sure Kit would do the wiring for free. Maybe that could
be my initial contribution towards buying this place. That and the paint.’

‘Why would we need paint?’

‘Logan, every wall in this place is white. I’m planning on
living with you in glorious love-soaked Technicolor. Did you notice that there’s
a nursery? And an abundance of bedrooms?’

‘I noticed,’ he said gruffly.

‘Want to help me fill them?’

Logan’s smile came slow and full of promise. ‘When?’

‘Not straight away. But some day.’

‘We do that and I’m going to want to put a ring on your finger,
Evie.’

‘Traditionalist.’

‘It’s an ownership thing.’

‘Give you an inch and you’ll take ten thousand miles.’

Damn but he had the sweetest smile. ‘You can handle it.’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘You’re very smug,’ murmured Logan as he stalked towards
her.

‘It’s a love thing. It happens when love is returned in full.
With change. Speaking of which...did you want to put an offer in on this house
today? Because I’ve got a dollar on me. No, wait. I’ve got two.’ Evie patted her
pockets, not protesting at all when Logan backed her up against the pool room
door and claimed her wrists and pinned them above her head. She was going to
like sharing pool space with Logan. She was going to like it a lot.

‘Evie.’

Evie had no defences whatsoever against the way he whispered
her name as if all the colours of his world were wrapped up in it. His lips
began playing merry havoc with her pulse points and she had no defence against
that either. ‘What were we talking about again?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘This house.’ Logan slid his lips across to nibble at her ear.
‘Our children.’ Another nibble. ‘And you just agreed to marry me.’

‘I did?’

‘Devil’s honour.’

They could argue about the devil’s honour later. ‘Let’s go tell
the estate agent we want the house,’ she murmured. ‘Two dollars ought to be
enough to convince him of my sincerity, shouldn’t it?’

Logan’s soft laughter rippled along her skin as he freed her
wrists and she wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘It’s going to take a little
more than that.’

‘That’s okay,’ she murmured and offered up her mouth for his
kiss. ‘I also have you.’

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt of
The Downfall of
a Good Girl
by Kimberly Lang.

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ONE

Vivienne LaBlanc waited impatiently, trying not to bump
her wings against anything or move too quickly in a way that would cause her
halo to slide off, as Max Hale gave his introductory speech on the other side of
the curtain.

“There are many krewes, but none like the Bon Argent. Five
years ago, we decided to do something—in our own hometown style—to raise money
for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. We were far more successful than we
dreamed. Through the Saints and Sinners Festival—which grows bigger every
year—we've raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for dozens of local
charities, and I thank all of you for your continued support.”

After a short round of polite applause, Max continued to laud
their accomplishments, but Vivi listened with only half an ear. She was well
aware of the great work of Bon Argent;
she'd been
involved with the krewe since its inception. Candy Hale was one of her oldest
friends, and Max was like a second father. Her mother used to serve on the
board, for goodness' sake, so she didn't need to be sold on the success. She
did, however, need a primer on these wings.

How am I supposed to sit in these
things?
The feathered and bejeweled wings were beautiful, arching up
to head height and hanging to her calves. Vivi frowned as she tried to adjust
the buckle on her gold sandals and felt the whole getup shift dangerously.
Honestly, she looked less like a saint and more like a Vegas showgirl who'd
crashed the neighborhood nativity play.

The Saints and Sinners ball—and the whole Bon Argent
krewe—bordered on silly at times, but the costumes and the parody of pomp and
pageantry was what had made the Saints and Sinners fundraiser so fun, popular
and immensely successful in such a short time.

And there were three hundred people out there eagerly awaiting
the announcement of this year's Saint and Sinner. Following the traditions of
the traditional Mardi Gras krewes, those identities were top secret info. As far
as Vivi knew, only three people were in the know this year. Max, the head of the
Bon Argent charity, Paula, the head of PR, and Ms. Rene, the seamstress who'd
made the costumes for the Sinner and the Saint. Even she didn't know who would
be her other half between now and Fat Tuesday.

She had a few guesses in mind.

Unlike the traditional krewes, however, who would crown a king
and a queen, Bon Argent had no gender requirements to fulfill. The Saint and the
Sinner were chosen for their local celebrity and reputations and could be of the
same gender. Vivi had her bets on nightclub owner Marianne Foster, who'd been in
the news a lot recently and would provide excellent competition before Vivi
crushed her. While Marianne would be popular in the voting and bring in large
amounts of money, it wasn't an overstatement or egoism to say that she, herself,
was
more
popular and could raise
huge
amounts of money in comparison.

She stomped down the unkind thought. Thoughts were the
precursors to words and actions, and she'd learned to keep her head in the right
place in order to avoid saying or doing anything she might regret later.
It's about the money we can raise, not about
winning.

But it was
also
about winning. The
Sinner had taken the crown the last two years, but this year top honors were
going to the Saint, because she simply refused to lose. She'd only lost one
crown in her life, and she still remembered the bitter taste of watching Miss
Indiana walk away with it. It didn't matter how much she liked Janelle
personally, or what a great Miss America she'd turned out to be, it still sucked
to lose.

So she was competitive. It was hardly a personality flaw. No
one
liked
to lose. And in this case, her competitive
nature would be beneficial because it was all for a good cause.

Max was now introducing her Cherubim Court: ten local high
school kids chosen by the charity's board to be her team in the fundraising.

And now it was her turn. She took a deep breath, checked her
dress, and waited.

“...my pleasure to introduce Saint Vivienne LaBlanc!”

The curtain opened to a strobe of flashes from the
photographers gathered in front of the stage and a very heartening roar of
approval and applause from the guests. Vivi heard her sister's distinctive
whistle and looked over at the table where her family sat. When she'd left the
table twenty minutes ago, claiming she had an emergency phone call from the
gallery, Lorelei had given her a knowing look. She waved as she watched people
from the surrounding tables congratulate her parents.

Being chosen as the Saint was quite an honor, and Vivi was
beyond touched by the applause that showed so many people thought her deserving
of it. She'd won a lot of contests in her life, brought home quite a few crowns,
but this was different. It wasn't about being pretty or popular. The downside to
her pageant career was the assumption by all that she was just a pretty little
face with no real substance. She'd spent years fighting that stereotype, trying
to prove that there was more to her. It had been her biggest challenge to date,
and the halo on her head was proof she'd succeeded. It might be cheesy and
rather silly-looking, but it suddenly meant more to her than any crown she'd
ever worn.

Beating the Sinner—whoever that turned out to be—would be icing
on the cake at this point, and now she wanted that trophy more than
anything.

Vivi removed her halo with the proper pomp, placing it on the
blue satin pillow that would hold both the Saint's halo and the Sinner's horns
until the competition ended and the winner claimed both trophies. She then took
her seat with her court and applauded politely as the Sinner's court, the Imps,
was introduced.

Max took a deep breath and looked so excited he might burst
with it. “Our Sinner this year is an obvious choice, and we're so pleased he's
made time in his schedule to reign over this important event.”

The pronoun usage told Vivi that she'd lost her bet. Damn,
she'd been so sure it would be Marianne.
It doesn't really
matter,
she thought with a mental shrug. She was ready to take on
anyone.

“...Connor Mansfield!”

Vivi's smile froze as the crowd broke into wild applause.
You're freakin' kidding me.

* * *

Connor
caught a glimpse of Vivi's face as he stepped onto the stage and nearly
laughed at the perfect mix of horror and fury against a feathery backdrop of
angel wings. Not that he blamed her; his response had been very similar when
he'd heard her name called, but he'd still been safely behind the curtain.

He had to hand it to the board of Bon Argent; they certainly
knew how to guarantee maximum attention from the local press—attention that
could be otherwise difficult to draw amid everything else happening during the
Mardi Gras season. They'd probably break every fundraising record in
history.

Vivi just looked like she'd like to wring his neck, but then
she always looked at him like that. Some things just never changed, no matter
how long you were gone from your hometown.

But the show must go on, and everyone was waiting for them to
take their seats so dinner could be served. He removed his horns and solemnly
placed them next to the Saint's halo. Then he walked over to Vivi, nodded
politely and waited for her to return the gesture. Slowly, they made their way
to the high table. When they reached their seats a cheer went up from the crowd,
and the competition of the Saints and Sinners Festival officially began. Servers
appeared from the woodwork and the crowd turned its attention to the salad
course.

He leaned a few inches in her direction. “You're going to ruin
three years of orthodontic work if you don't stop grinding your teeth,
Vivi.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she released her jaw the tiniest bit.
She reached for her wineglass, noticed it was empty and reached for a water
glass instead. He saw her look at it carefully, then shrug before she drank.
Knowing Vivi, she'd debated dumping it in his lap.

“I'd say Welcome Home, but—”

“But you wouldn't mean it.” He grinned at her to annoy her.

“But,”
she corrected, “it would be
rather redundant, considering the reception you just got.”

“Jealous I got more applause?”

“No.” She shifted in her chair. “I'm not an attention
whore.”

“Big talk from the pageant queen.”

Vivi inhaled sharply and her smile became tight. “Some of us
have outgrown our adolescence.”

He pretended to think about that for a second, then shook his
head sadly. “No, you're still sanctimonious.”

“And you're still a—”

She stopped herself so suddenly Connor wondered if she'd bitten
her tongue.

She inhaled sharply through her nose and swallowed. “You must
be very pleased to finally be recognized for
your
achievements.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,
Saint
Vivienne, but these titles aren't character references.”

“Oh, really?” Vivi's face was the picture of confused
innocence. “You seem to be perfectly suited for the title.”

And there was the first dig.
He
should have known that Vivi wouldn't let that pass. Although he'd been
vindicated, rumor and gossip had done their damage. Everyone believed there had
to be a grain of truth in there somewhere—
which
grain it might be was the engine that drove the gossip that wouldn't die.

Vivi might have hit a sore spot with her first salvo, but
damned if he'd admit that. “Sanctimonious
and
judgmental. You need to increase your repertoire.”

“Maybe you should add some to yours, as well. A little decorum
from you would be nice, considering the honor you've been given.”

“According to you, it's not really an honor, now, is it?”

“Yet you still seem very pleased with yourself.” She snorted.
“You look ridiculous, you know. Black leather pants, Connor? Really? What is
this? 1988?”

He'd had a similar thought when they'd been presented to him.
“I agree on the pants. Very eighties glam metal. But then I guess it fits the
costume.”

Vivi smiled—a genuine one this time—at the server who filled
her wineglass, but the smile disappeared as soon as the server did. “I don't
know what Max was thinking,” she grumbled at her salad. “The Saint and the
Sinner are supposed to be
local
celebrities.”

“I'm literally the boy next door, Vivi. I'm as local as you
are.”

“You
were
local,” she corrected
him. “Now you're international. You're off touring far more than you're in
town.”

He tried to get comfortable in his chair, but the enormous
black wings attached to his back made that feat nearly impossible. He didn't
quite understand the mixed-metaphor approach to Saints and Sinners, but Ms. Rene
had gone for a Lucifer vibe. He felt more like a giant crow. “So it's the fact
that my job requirements keep me out of town a lot that you object to?”

Vivi tried to brush her hair back over her shoulder, but it
only got tangled in her wings, creating modern art-inspired shapes in the white
feathers. She tugged at the strands as she spoke. “I object to the creation of
an unlevel playing field.”

Except for that jet-black hair, Vivi had the right looks to
pass as an angel—wide blue eyes, fair skin, elegant features. The fire in her
eyes was far from angelic, though. Irritation made her movements jerky, tangling
her hair even worse.

“How is this unlevel in any way?”

With one final tug that probably pulled some of it out by the
roots, Vivi finally got the last of her hair loose. A rhinestone from her wings,
loosened in the tussle, fell into her cleavage. Vivi looked down briefly, and
Connor's eyes followed hers to the valley of creamy skin before he snapped them
back to her face. She had a beautiful mouth, lush and full and sinful—until she
opened it and killed the illusion.

“Your groupies and your fan club and all your famous friends
will make sure to fill your coffers so that you win.”

“But that's what this is about, right? Raising money?”

“Of course that's what's important,” she conceded through a jaw
clenched so tight it had to be painful, “but you have an unfair advantage when
it comes to the actual contest. No one could compete with you.”

He grinned at her. “I'm glad to finally hear you admit it.”

“I meant,” she gritted out, “that I'm a hometown girl and
you're a freakin' rock star. You have a bigger fan base by default and
that's
an unfair advantage.”

“Your title is ‘Saint', Vivi, not ‘martyr'.”

Vivi's knuckles turned white, and Connor expected the stem of
her wineglass to snap at any moment.

“Just eat your dinner.”

He shot her a smile instead. “You could just concede now, you
know.”

She choked on her wine. “Hell has not frozen over.”

“So it's on?” he challenged.

“You're damn right it's on.” Grabbing her fork, she speared her
lettuce with far more force than necessary.

Vivi could never turn down a challenge. It didn't matter what
it was, Vivi went after everything in her full-out, take-no-prisoners style. He
actually respected that about her. It was one of the few things they had in
common. Everything
else
about her, though, drove him
insane. Always had.

He really shouldn't let Vivi get to him. He was an adult, for
God's sake. Vivi might not like him, but plenty of other women did, so her
holier-than-Connor attitude shouldn't bother him. There was something about her,
though, that just crawled under his skin and itched.