Page 9 of Logan (The Valeur Billionaires #1)

Chapter Seven

SLOANE

T he bedroom door slams shut, and I bury my burning face in my hands, overwhelmed by a flood of regret. What did I do wrong? Well, besides the obvious slip of insulting him.

I shake my head, unable to believe the words that escaped my lips. Calling my boss a son of a bitch? It’s like I’m begging him to fire me.

I thought that by offering to help him, giving him a massage like I do for Mom when her headaches hit, he’d let go of my earlier slip and forget about my unfortunate outburst. But if anything, he seemed even more tense. And angrier.

God, he’s so wound up. His muscles feel like solid iron, though the experience was a far cry from what I do for Mom.

I enjoyed the sensation of touching him, easing the knots of tension in his shoulders. What I didn’t expect was my body’s reaction to him—the sight of him, the touch of him.

As he moaned softly under my hands, it felt like my whole body was vibrating, as if he were emitting a frequency that resonated deep within me.

I think my underwear might be wet, and he didn’t even lay a finger on me.

I must have reached a new level of desperation to get horny from giving a massage to The Dark Lord.

Maybe reality doesn’t quite match up to the men in the books I read, but Logan Valeur sure gives them a run for their money.

Well, at least in the looks department. Because when it comes to his personality if you can even call being mean a personality trait, he’s definitely not book boyfriend material.

Yet here I am, practically melting, while he remains as cool as a cucumber. Nothing seems to faze him. Not even a flicker of emotion crosses his face.

Not that it’s surprising or anything. The only reason he even exchanged a word with me is because I’m here, in his apartment.

In any other situation, he wouldn’t have given me a second glance.

I’m just an insignificant planet orbiting around him, and if I try to deviate from my course, I’ll burn up in his heat.

I think it’s time to go look for that one-off night I’ve been planning. Logan Valeur will have to remain a distant fantasy. I won’t risk a job I’m good at and one that I love for a fling. Besides, I’m sure I can find someone nice. I am a woman, after all.

I slip into the sexy red dress I brought along, admiring the way it drapes over my curves, accentuating every contour. The open back adds a touch of allure, making me feel confident and empowered. Taking my time, I apply my makeup.

The black eyeliner enhances the slant of my eyes, while layers of mascara add volume to my lashes. A bold swipe of red lipstick completes the look, adding a hint of sultriness to my lips.

I slip on a pair of matching stiletto heels, their click-clack against the floor adding an extra sway to my step. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I’m pleased with the result.

With a broad smile, I practice a few poses in front of the mirror, ready to take on the night ahead.

Dear dukes, here I come.

“Would you fancy a drink?”

I turn to find a rather handsome man—dark and tall, with a friendly smile. Not quite at the level of Logan Valeur, but then again, who is? His sexy British accent automatically earns him a few points.

We’re in a quaint London pub, its walls adorned with vintage posters and dimly lit by old-fashioned lanterns.

“I’d love one, thank you,” I reply.

“I’m Matthew.”

“Sloane,” I respond, shaking his hand.

“American?”

“Is it that obvious?” I chuckle.

He returns the smile. “You’re more beautiful than the locals. ”

I grin at his compliment. He’s quite the charmer.

“So, what brings you to London, Sloane from America?”

“I’m here on vacation. Just exploring and enjoying.”

“Alone?”

“I’m waiting for company,” I deflect. Admitting I’m alone in a foreign country doesn’t feel entirely safe, so I figure it’s better for him to think someone is about to join me. “What do you do?”

“I’m a senior manager at a local bank,” he responds with a wink. Then, he rolls up his sleeve, shaking it so I can’t miss the Cartier watch on his wrist. It’s a move that might work for some women, but I didn’t come here looking for money.

“Are you a duke, by any chance?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the lively chatter of the London pub. The clinking of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter create a vibrant ambiance around us. It would be nice to tell Emery I caught a duke. It’s like being part of a Bridgerton book.

“No, but I have a relative who got the title of sir if that helps.”

We continue to chat. Matthew’s flirtation becomes bolder, and his hand finds its way to my thigh.

“Maybe you want to move to a more private place?” he says, his gaze suggesting more than just conversation.

My heart races at the invitation. This is what I came for, right? To let loose and take a chance.

Be brave, Sloane .

I nod and plaster a smile on my face, though a nagging voice in my head echoes Emery’s cautionary words. Perhaps I should text her the address, just in case she needs to locate my body later.

We step out onto the sidewalk, the sounds of the city blending with the faint music from the pub behind us and walk for a bit. “So, where do you live?” I ask, trying to mask my nerves.

“I thought we would go to your place,” Matthew suggests with a smirk.

My cheeks flush. There’s no way I’m bringing a man back to Logan Valeur’s apartment. I’d sooner face a firing squad. “No, I can’t,” I reply.

“Well, we can’t go to mine either. My wife won’t like it,” he quips, his tone oddly casual as if discussing the weather.

Wait. What? “You’re married?” I blurt out, my eyes widening.

“I thought it was obvious. I showed you the ring. I’m not trying to hide it,” he explains, waving his hand in front of me.

Shit. I thought he was flaunting his watch, but there it is—the telltale wedding band. I feel a pang of sympathy for his wife, who likely believes he’s working late while he’s out here whoring. “I didn’t realize you were married. Sorry, but I don’t sleep with married men.”

His expression darkens, his jaw clenching. “You can’t play with men like that. I spent the whole evening with you, bought you drinks. You owe me,” he asserts, his tone turning demanding.

“Owe you?” I take a step back. “Okay, I’ll give you the money back. How much did you pay for the drinks?” I reach into my handbag, my fingers trembling as I fish out some bills. “Is fifty pounds enough?” I hold the money out to him.

“And what about the time I invested?” He snatches my wallet, shoving me roughly against the wall behind me.

The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as the rough plaster scrapes against my bare skin .

“You think this is a game?” His grip tightens around my throat, his eyes narrowing. “You think you can promise a man something and not follow through? I wasted the whole evening on you when I could have invested it in someone else.”

Trapped against the unforgiving wall, panic surges through me. My heart thunders in my chest, threatening to burst from my ribcage.

Summoning all my strength, I send a knee aimed at his groin.

“Fuck.” He doubles over in pain, clutching his crotch, and I seize the opportunity to flee, running as fast as my legs will carry me.

Only after I’ve passed two blocks do I stop, panting heavily. My back feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t see the damage. I scan my surroundings, trying to orient myself. Across the road, there’s a tube station. I hurry toward it, my heart still racing while reaching into my bag.

“Fuck,” I whisper with a gasp.

He has my wallet!

All my money, my credit cards—everything. But there’s no way I’m going back there to confront him. It’s a lost cause.

Thank God I still have my phone.

I bump it at the entrance, and the doors open with a swoosh.

The train is nearly empty at this hour, offering a moment of respite. I sink into a seat and attempt to gather my wits.

I struggle to draw air into my constricted lungs.

Inhale. Exhale, I focus on regulating my breathing.

I’m okay. Everything is okay.

At least I got out of there without worse consequences .

No bodies in barrels.

When the train pulls into the station near the company apartment, I practically sprint off. I need a moment to collect myself, to find some peace in my room, and then I’ll figure out what to do. First, a hot bath to wash away this awful memory.

I stand before the door, fumbling with my key, but my trembling hands make it impossible to insert it into the keyhole. The keyholder clangs against the door as it swings erratically. I try to steady my hand with the other, finally slotting the key into place.

The door swings open, and Logan stands before me, dressed in a simple t-shirt instead of his usual suit.

Of all the things to fixate on, my mind latches onto this inconsequential detail.

“Sloane?” His voice is gentle, but urgency laces his tone as he notices my state. “What’s wrong?”

My hands are still shaking, along with every other part of me, and I struggle to catch my breath.

Logan’s fingers grasp my chin, guiding my gaze up to meet his. His touch sends a shiver down my spine. “Look at me.”

I meet his intense gaze, seeing concern and something else flickering in his eyes.

“What happened?” he asks again, his voice softer but no less urgent.

I try to speak, but my throat feels constricted, and words fail me. He places a hand on my shoulder, but the touch sends a jolt of pain through me, and I flinch.

His expression darkens. With a swift motion, he spins me around to inspect my back .

“What the hell happened to your back?” His voice is low and fierce. He pulls me into the apartment and closes the door behind us, his grip firm yet protective. I can’t stop the trembling that racks my body, despite my efforts to calm down.

“Sloane,” he says in a low voice. “I need to know what happened. Right now.”

“You should see the other guy.” I attempt a smile.

“I’m definitely going to do that,” he responds, his expression momentarily flickering with what seems like anger before his features settle back into their usual stoic mask.

It’s hard to decipher his emotions.

“Now tell me what happened.”

“Someone at the bar?—”

“What did he do?” His mouth tightens into a narrow line. “Did he force himself on you? If he did anything, he’ll die.”

“No.” I shake my head. “He just…shoved me against a wall. I kicked him in the balls and ran away. But he took my wallet.”

“Good girl. Now tell me who it was?” Logan’s tone is insistent.

I shake my head once more, the tremors beginning to subside.

“Name and description, Sloane.”

I swallow hard and provide him with all the details I know. He moves through the apartment without making a sound. In mere minutes, he’s fully dressed, all in complete silence.

Even now, his eyes are cold as ice, but his stiff movements betray the anger that lies beneath. I remain silent as he leaves, closing the door behind him. What is he going to do? What if he gets hurt? What if he gets in trouble because of me ?

Billionaire Arrested After Bar Brawl . That’s the headline I imagine for tomorrow’s papers.

If he’s arrested because of me, what will happen? To him? To me? I stumble into the kitchen and drink some water, trying to calm my nerves.

I’m in a safe place. I’m fine. Slowly, my breathing evens out.

I wait for an hour, pacing and wringing my hands, then stand by the window, licking my dry lips, peering out at the street, hoping to spot Logan’s familiar figure approaching the building. What if something happened to him?

I pick up my phone, my fingers hovering over the keys. I shouldn’t call him. He’s a grown man. He’s also my boss, for Heaven’s sake. He knows what he’s doing, or at least I hope so.

The door swings open, and a wave of relief washes over me at the sight of him standing there. He seems unharmed, his usual stoic expression firmly in place.

No visible injuries. His hair is tousled, a departure from his usual impeccably groomed appearance. And damn, he looks even sexier in this raw, imperfect state. Then my gaze falls on the bloodstains marring his shirt.

“Are you hurt?” I hurry to him, raising my hand, then retracting it almost as quickly.

“It’s not my blood,” he says.

“But your hand...” I reach for his palm, tracing my fingers over his knuckles. A surge of heat floods through me, but I dismiss it as mere adrenaline.

“It’s nothing,” he says, pulling his hand away.

“What happened?”

He hands me my wallet. “Is that yours? ”

I take it and nod.

“He won’t be touching you or any other woman anytime soon.”

Panic fills me. “Shit. Is he dead?”

Logan shakes his head. “No. Although he deserved to die. He will be in pain for the foreseeable future, though.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“I protect what’s mine.”

My legs give way beneath me, and I sink onto the couch. His?

He called me his.

I know he means I work for him—I’m his employee—but no one has ever called me his, not even Johnny, and I thought he loved me. And no one has ever protected me like this before.

I look at Logan with wide eyes. He did all that for me. He went and beat a man just for me. And he got my wallet back for me.

We don’t even know each other. This is a scene from a book. It can’t be happening to me. I’m hallucinating. That’s what this is.

I should be horrified that he went and beat a man because of me. But I’m not. I’m not even sorry. Is there something wrong with me if I take pleasure in a man being beaten because of me?

“Lie down,” Logan says, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Wh–what?”

“Your back needs to be taken care of, and you won’t be able to do it yourself. Lie down, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I’m already lost in fantasies, and he’s merely concerned about my scratches. I settle on my stomach, and he returns with a small bag.

“This might sting a bit, so I apologize in advance.”

He moves the thin straps of the dress, and I shiver.

He doesn’t say anything, but the last thing on my mind is the scratches on my back.

He disinfects the scratches and applies a soothing ointment, his gentle touch eliciting erotic thoughts in my fantasy-infused brain, and I bite my lips to stifle any sounds.

The touch of his fingertips on me quickens my heartbeat. I’m sure he can feel it. My heart pounds so hard it might echo down the street.

I silently hope he’ll make a move, touch me somewhere else, maybe massage the throbbing spot between my thighs, but he does nothing other than tend to my injuries.

He clears his throat. “I’m done. The scratches aren’t deep, but you may feel sore for a few days. You should get some rest.” With that, he rises and exits the room, leaving me breathless and longing for more.