Logan crushed his napkin in his fist. “Tell me, Veronica Vale of Veronica Vale Weddings, you surround yourself with bridal bliss all day long, every day of the week. Why haven’t you locked your chain around a groom’s ankle yet?”
She shrugged. “Guess I haven’t found the right guy.”
“Must not have been looking very long.”
Was that a compliment? Was he saying she could find someone easily? “That’s not true. I’ve been keeping my eye open. I’ve always wanted to settle down and have a family. My sister, on the other hand, never wanted to get married. In two weeks, she’ll be off the market.”
“Funny how things change when love gets in the way. Don’t worry, you’ll find someone soon enough. You can’t be more than…what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Ah, you’re still a pup.” Logan tensed. His shoulders pulled back, his jaw clenched, and he took deep breaths of air through his nose. Bizarre. He brushed crumbs off his hands and didn’t touch the rest of his lunch. He should’ve been starving—sneezing fits were sure to work up an appetite. “How long have you been in the wedding business?”
“Five years.” She spun her empty Coke cup in her hand. “I started as an assistant for another local company, and built my client list off of recommendations.”
“I’m sure you’ve got your wedding all planned out by now.”
“Oh yeah,” Veronica said, as a family of four passed by their table. “I want it alclass="underline" the big puffy dress, the cathedral train, the church, five hundred guests with table assignments. I’m ready.”
Logan didn’t meet her eyes. “All lies.”
“How would you know? I do want those things.”
“Nah, you won’t have any of that.”
She was lying, but how did he know? “If I’m planning weddings every weekend all year long, my own wedding should be spectacular—one to top them all, shouldn’t it?”
When he finally met her gaze, his gray eyes burned hot. “I think that’s precisely the reason you’d want something small and intimate. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve had thoughts of eloping.”
She had. How did he know that about her? She’d never told anyone. Logan’s insight drew Veronica’s stomach tight. “I don’t think you know me, or what I want, at all.”
The corner of his lips pulled into a smile, reminding Veronica of the bad boys she’d seen on TV when they were about to say something deviously sexy. “You’re right. I don’t know you. I don’t know what kind of wedding you dream of having, or why the relationship with your sister is the way that it is. But I do know what you want. I know what turns you on, and what turns you off, and that should count for something.”
Air caught in Veronica’s throat and her stomach went all topsy-turvy. How could Logan shake her up this easily? Was it the smolder behind those eyes? That strong, square jaw showing a hint of stubble? Logan shouldn’t have this kind of control over her, damn it! She needed to flip the tables! She smothered down the feelings fluttering deep in her belly and swiveled around on the bench to face him. She crossed her legs, drawing his attention there, and leaned forward so that he could look down her shirt if he let his gaze drift a bit.
“Logan?” she asked, lowering her voice so that it came out as a purr.
“Um-hmm?” He made the sound from his throat, as if he couldn’t find the strength to open his mouth.
“You knew what turned me on and what turned me off.” She cupped his cheek in her hand, then patted. “You knew, sweetheart. Know implies the present tense, and we won’t be going there again.”
As his gaze zoned far over her shoulder, his face fell.
“What is it?” She craned her neck to look behind her. People strolled by, mostly tourists wearing sweatshirts and pants—travelers visiting Washington often didn’t expect the chilly summer days—with their cameras pointed at the water rising in the lock. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought I saw something.” Leaning down, Logan tugged on something in his boot, then straightened. “I’m finished with lunch. Are you ready?”
“I guess.”
Logan scooped up their plates and tossed them into the trash, then pulled her by the hand. It was the first time he’d ever reached for her like that. His touch buzzed with electricity, shooting currents of bristly heat up her arm. His pace was quick, and they’d only made it a few steps before Veronica felt like she was being ushered away from a crime scene.
“What are you doing?” She asked, as he opened the passenger door to the truck. “Why are we rushing? We have plenty of time to pick up my car. If something’s wrong, tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Logan slammed the door shut and practically ran around the hood. He opened the door, brought the truck roaring to life, and slammed the gearshift into reverse. “I think your car is ready now, and there’s no reason to sit around here if I’m picking up a strange vibe.”
“Okay.” There was more to it than that. “But I’d like to get there in one piece.”
“That’s all I’m trying to do,” he said.
The truck lurched into first gear, groaning as Logan pounded on the gas pedal. Veronica grabbed the oh-shit handle and slid across the seat as Logan spun out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway.
Chapter Eight
Logan dropped Veronica at the car dealership and stayed outside while she went in to sign some paperwork and pay the bill. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror, searching for any sign of the stalker.
Werewolves picked up more than common scents—they sensed heightened emotions, which were translated into different smells. Arousal or attraction was sweet and floral. Disdain or anger was bitter. Fear was sharp and crisp, often burning the nose. Hostility—what Logan picked up down at the locks—smelled like wet ash, pungent and nasty.
He’d picked up the stalker’s scent at the dock, but at the dealership…nothing.
Over lunch, Logan had spotted several people he thought might’ve been the guy following Veronica around, but none of them gave off the scent of a wolf. There was the guy with dark hair and binoculars standing at the edge of the waterway, leaning against the wooden rail. There was the guy buying hot dogs at the vendor down the street. And the guy sitting on a turned-over milk crate, playing a tune on the violin. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the scent was coming from, but the longer he and Veronica sat at the table, the stronger the smell of anger became. When Veronica had faced him, swiveling around to play up her gorgeous assets, the unmistakable scent of jealousy smacked into him like a rancid gust of wind.
Since he couldn’t determine which of the guys at the locks was the stalker, he’d ushered Veronica out of there as quickly as possible.
There was no messing around anymore.
Logan had told Veronica he was going to send her latest note to a guy for analysis, but it wasn’t necessary. He could pick up the traces of blood from where he stood in front of the flower shop. The sick bastard had written the “love note” with his own blood.
Pulling in behind her, Logan parked on the street in front of the Veronica Vale Weddings offices. She climbed out of her car, tugged down her skirt, and slammed the door behind her. He didn’t know why they were at her office, but this was a hell of a lot better than sneaking down the street and watching her from afar. He pushed the front door open wide and held his breath as she swept by.
At the front counter, a secretary held out a puffy white envelope, the kind that people used to send pictures or small valuables. “For you, Miss Vale,” she said. “It came in with this morning’s mail drop.”