‘Well,’ she said, in a what-happens-next voice, ‘thanks for a wonderful evening, Logan.’
He turned off the ignition and released his seat belt. ‘I have to thank you, Sally. For everything.’ He leaned towards her and touched her cheek with the knuckle of his forefinger. ‘I owe you so much.’
Something about his manner—an edge of carefulness and formality—bothered her. Where was last night’s easy banter? Where were his ready smiles? His passion? They were alone, for heaven’s sake. Why wasn’t she in Logan’s arms?
All night she’d seen the hunger in his eyes; she’d felt the heat of his longing whenever he’d touched her. But now she could only sense a new distance between them. A frightening distance.
She hunted for something light to say. ‘Now I can boast that I’ve danced with the man who’s danced with Diana Devenish.’
He gave a half-hearted chuckle.
‘I’m so proud of you, Logan.’
‘The credit’s all yours, Sally.’
She shook her head. ‘You were very brave. Carissa told me you used to get stage fright.’
‘Carissa has too much to say.’
He looked worried as he said this and he sighed heavily. Desperate to avoid ending this fabulous night on such an unsatisfactory note, Sally said quickly, ‘Would you like to come in for coffee?’
His eyes flashed. ‘Thanks, I’d like that.’
Phew. Thank heavens he wasn’t running away. Sally told herself she’d been worrying about nothing.
‘There should be an umbrella,’ he said, peering into the gloom of the back seat. ‘Yes, here it is. Wait there. We don’t want to get your lovely dress wet.’
The rain was gusting strongly when Logan opened Sally’s door and he tried to shield her with the umbrella as well as his body. She gathered up her long skirt to keep it clear of puddles, slipped off her strappy gold shoes, and they ran together through the rain to her front door.
Breathless, she fumbled in her clutch bag for her key while Logan closed the umbrella and set it in a corner of the porch.
The door swung open and he followed her inside. Sally switched on the light in the front hallway and she turned to him expectantly. Now he would haul her into his lovely strong arms.
But no.
Logan stood stiffly, hands tightly clenched at his sides. His jaw was clenched too, and his dark eyes held frightening shadows. He gave the slightest shake of his head, as if to warn her gently of impending danger, and fear strafed through her like a deadly bullet.
‘I was hoping we could talk,’ he said.
Talk? Not even a kiss? After last night’s incredible passion? After the glamour and romance of the ball?
Sally needed to close her eyes as she adjusted to this. What did Logan want to talk about? Surely it could only be bad news.
Was he going to tell her that last night had been an aberration—a celebratory fling after the shock of almost losing his company? But what about the ball? Would he feel compelled to remind her that it had been no more than a charity commitment? Was it back to business as usual for the boss of Blackcorp and the front desk girl?
Fighting disappointment, Sally tried to think straight, took a steadying breath. ‘The kitchen’s this way.’
Logan followed her through to the cosy, bright kitchen. He took off his jacket, which had damp patches on the shoulders, and hung it on the back of a chair. In his white shirt and bow-tie, he seemed somehow bigger and Sally had to remember to breathe as she filled the kettle.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked. ‘I prefer tea at this time of night.’
‘So do I.’
See, we’re compatible, she wanted to joke, but this was no longer a night for joking. While the water came to the boil, Logan leaned casually against the door of the fridge and she tried to look busy, getting the teapot and a tea strainer, mugs and sugar and a tin of shortbread.
‘I’ll need milk,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘If you could get it out of the fridge, please.’
When their mugs were filled with tea—black with two sugars for Logan, white with one for Sally—she suggested they go through to the lounge room.
‘I’d prefer to stay here,’ Logan said, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
Oh, yes. The lounge room held untold dangers. The sofa, for instance.
‘Take a seat, then,’ she said, pulling out a chair for herself. She thought how incongruous they must look, sitting at a scrubbed pine kitchen table in their glamorous evening finery, sipping tea like an old married couple.
Don’t even think that word.
Unwillingly, she asked, ‘What did you want to talk about?’
Logan’s mouth turned down and he stared at the pattern on the side of his mug. ‘We’ve had two wonderful evenings,’ he said and then he paused and looked uncomfortable.