Some Kind of Hero. Brenda Harlen

not a hormonal adolescent. It wasn’t like her to react to a man on such a primal level. Human beings were supposed to be civilized, to have power over their more basic urges.

      Still, she couldn’t deny that something about Joel Logan appealed to her on a most fundamental level. Unwillingly, her gaze strayed to the back of the room where he’d once again stationed himself.

      The formality of his attire failed to disguise the raw power he exuded. He had to be well over six feet—as she’d had to tip her head to meet his gaze despite the three inches her heels added to her five-foot, ten-inch frame—with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and long, lean legs. Just the memory of those muscles, solid and unyielding, caused her breath to quicken, her pulse to race.

      “You seem lost in thought,” Stuart commented lightly.

      Riane started, felt her cheeks flush. “Just tired.”

      “You’ve had a busy few weeks preparing for tonight.”

      “Yes,” she agreed, grateful for his easy acceptance of her explanation. Still, she was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that Stuart’s absence had gone unnoticed until he’d interrupted her dance with Joel. She’d been so preoccupied with the success of the charity ball she hadn’t spared him a single thought.

      And then she’d met Joel Logan, and she hadn’t thought about anything else.

      She felt a twinge of guilt at the realization, but only a slight twinge. After all, she wasn’t really engaged to Stuart Etherington III. Although they’d talked, in abstract terms, about marriage, she resented his reference to her as his “fiancée,” as if their engagement was a fact rather than a possibility. But she wasn’t in the mood to take issue with his vocabulary now. It had been a wonderfully successful evening and she wouldn’t ruin it by bickering with him.

      So she ignored the multitude of recriminations running through her mind and only said, “You were late.”

      “I’m sorry.” His apology was more automatic than sincere. “I got tied up in meetings.”

      She wasn’t surprised. Stuart had a successful corporate law practice and was often required to work long into the evening and frequently on weekends. She knew his hours would grow longer still when he launched the political career he wanted so much.

      “You missed dinner,” she told him. “Cream of artichoke soup, warm chicken salad with rosemary dressing, poached salmon with tarragon sauce, champagne sherbet and peppered strawberries.”

      “That sounds much better than the Italian takeout I had delivered to the office.”

      “I’m sure it was,” she agreed. “But as long as you paid for your ticket, I won’t complain about the squandered meal.”

      “You’re a mercenary.” There was admiration mingled with amusement in his tone.

      “This camp is important to me. And to the kids who visit every summer.”

      “I know,” Stuart placated. “And, yes, I paid for my ticket.”

      She smiled. “Then I thank you for your support.”

      “Has it been a successful evening?”

      “Very,” she told him. “Even more so than last year.”

      “You have a knack for this sort of thing,” Stuart told her.

      “Organizing, fund-raising, delegating. Valuable qualities in a politician’s wife.”

      Riane’s smile was strained. She resented Stuart’s implication that tonight’s charity ball was an exercise in politics for her; she hated that he couldn’t understand how much the camp mattered.

      And yet, despite this fundamental difference of opinion, Riane believed that they were well suited for one another. They had similar goals and interests. They’d both been raised in political families, and they both understood the expectations and responsibilities of living in the public eye.

      She sometimes wondered if he was more attracted to her political connections than her person, but she could hardly judge him when her own motives were less than ideal. Ultimately she and Stuart wanted the same thing: the White House. He had the ideas and the connections to take him there, and when he did, Riane had no qualms about exploiting her position as his wife and first lady to focus attention on the plight of underprivileged children in this country and around the world.

      Yes, her relationship with Stuart was exactly what she wanted. She just sometimes wished he made her feel…

      The thought fizzled. She didn’t know what was missing; she only knew that she wanted to feel the way she’d felt when Joel had held her in his arms.

      She glanced toward the back of the room, searching, seeking.

      But he was already gone.

      Joel awoke the morning after the charity ball with the mother of all hangovers. He winced against the bright sunlight flooding through the window and cursed himself for not remembering to close the curtains the night before. Slowly he eased his legs over the side of the bed and found the floor. Satisfied that the world was once again solid beneath his feet, he scrubbed a hand over his cheek. It had been a lot of years since he’d drunk himself into a stupor, but he’d done it often enough in the past that he should have known better.

      Women, he thought disparagingly. They were all the same. From his mother, who’d abandoned him when he was six, to Jocelyn, who’d dumped him with no hint of remorse when the going got tough, they weren’t to be trusted. It was a lesson he should have learned long ago.

      Unfortunately, he was a man, and there were times that basic urges couldn’t be denied. But sex and love were different things, and he’d managed to avoid emotional entanglements for the most part. Since Jocelyn, anyway. He was smart enough and discerning enough to seek companionship from women who wanted the same thing he did: simple, uncomplicated sex.

      Riane Quinlan had almost made him forget that. There was nothing simple about the way she’d looked at him. Nothing simple about the feelings she’d roused inside him.

      He shook his head, then winced at the explosion of pain that resulted from the movement. He’d obviously been too long without a woman if he could be taken in by a pair of dark eyes.

      Cursing Shaun McIver for ever asking him to take on this case, everyone with any connection to the name Rutherford, and Riane Quinlan in particular, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face, then filled a glass and fished a couple of aspirin out of the bottle.

      He winced again when the shrill ring of his cell phone echoed in the empty room. He might have been tempted to ignore it, but he knew the only person who would be calling this early on a Sunday morning was his partner. And Mike would only be calling if he had information to share.

      “Logan.”

      “I tracked Felicia Elliott to Flint, Michigan,” Mike said without preamble. “She was in a women’s shelter there for a few months after she left her husband.”

      “Have you spoken to her?” Joel was less interested in the trail than he was in the results.

      “She moved out several weeks ago.”

      “Where is she now?”

      “The director of the shelter wouldn’t give me that information.”

      Although Joel understood the reasons for such a policy, he was frustrated. Every time he started to make any headway in this case, yet another obstacle was thrown in his path.

      “Maybe I should go to Michigan,” he suggested. He needed to wrap this case up and move on to something else. Somewhere else. Anywhere but West Virginia.

      “I wouldn’t bother,” Mike told him. “I left our number with the woman at the shelter. She agreed to pass it along to Felicia Elliott if she hears from her again.”

      Joel