Some Kind of Hero

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

It took Riane Quinlan half a minute to peg the tall, dark-haired man across the room as an out-of-towner, another thirty seconds to figure him for a cop.

She’d spotted him the minute he stepped through the ornately carved double doors of the hotel ballroom where the Fourth Annual Quinlan Camp Charity Ball was in progress. Part of the reason was that his was an unfamiliar face at this type of event. Another part of the reason was much more basic. Whoever he was, he was an incredible specimen of masculinity: broad shoulders, hard muscles, thick dark hair that was just a little too long for the conservative tastes of the social elite.

Not a departmental regulation crew cut, but some guys took pride in breaking the rules. This man, with the chiseled jaw, strong nose and slashing brows, looked like one of them.

From a distance, Riane couldn’t determine what color his eyes were, just that they were dark and intense.

He took a slow survey of the room. Deliberately casual. Too casual.

Definitely a cop.

As the daughter of a U.S. senator, Riane had been shadowed often enough to recognize the inherent attributes of those in law enforcement. The sculpted physique, the guarded stance, the constant attentiveness. There were security personnel hovering in the background this evening, but she knew this man wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t hired muscle—just a cop.

Her lips curved in a small smile. Just a cop was hardly an accurate description. He was almost larger than life—a real man’s man, the type of man she didn’t often have opportunity to cross paths with in her social circles.

As he continued his perusal of the room, his gaze collided with hers. The force of the impact literally took her breath away. His eyes narrowed, skimmed over her in a blatantly masculine assessment. She felt her skin heat, an unavoidably feminine reaction.

He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned his head, dismissing her.

Except that Riane wouldn’t be dismissed.

She made her way through the sea of rustling silk and black ties, stopping now and again to speak with someone she hadn’t caught up with earlier. She smiled at the secretary of state and tried to ignore the fact that her toes were starting to cramp.

It had been a mistake to wear new shoes when she was going to be on her feet for the better part of the evening, but the sling-back sandals were such a perfect match for the silk crepe dress, she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d spent the better part of her twenty-four years in the public eye and knew that image was more important than comfort.

She glanced toward the back of the room again, and her eyes locked with his.

Blue, she realized. His eyes were a startling, stunning shade of blue. And just a little wary.

Her curiosity further piqued, she breached the last few feet that separated them and offered her most winning smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

He hesitated a beat before he shifted his untouched champagne glass and offered his hand. “Joel Logan.”

His voice was deep and incredibly sensuous, causing her blood to heat in her veins. She disregarded the sensation. She was more than likely overheated from the multitude of lights in the enormous chandeliers, not from hearing this man speak two words to her.

Reassured, she put her hand in his, felt it engulfed by his warm strength. His handshake was firm, his palm wide and slightly callused. There was nothing improper or inappropriate about the contact, and yet she felt a sudden burst of heat arrow straight to her core. She withdrew her hand quickly from his grasp.

“Riane Quinlan,” she told him.

“I know.”

He said nothing else, offered none of the usual pleasantries.

Riane was intrigued. Her family’s wealth and political connections had accustomed her to more deferential treatment. People went out of their way to impress her, never knowing when they might need a personal favor or political ally. But she’d bet every last dollar of the trust fund her grandmother had left her that Joel Logan didn’t bow and scrape for anyone, and she couldn’t help but admire him for it.

She tried another smile. “What brings you here tonight, Mr. Logan?”

“A desire to support the Quinlan Camp for Underprivileged Children?”

It was more of a question than an answer, and she couldn’t decide if he was just unsociable or deliberately trying to annoy her. She should thank him for his support and leave it at that, but there was something about him that made it impossible for her to walk away.

“It must help that your shoulders are so broad,” she commented.

He frowned at her. “Excuse me?”

“Your shoulders,” she said again. “They must be the reason you can walk upright with the size of that chip you’re carrying.”

He shifted his champagne glass into his other hand again, his scowl deepening.

Dark, moody, and no sense of humor, Riane decided. She signaled to a nearby waiter, turned to speak with him briefly. When the server disappeared, she plucked the crystal flute from Joel’s hand and brought it to her own lips, sipping the cool, bubbly liquid.

“I wasn’t finished with that,” he said testily.

“I know.” Her response was unapologetic.

His mouth opened, then closed again when the waiter returned with a tall pilsner glass filled with amber-colored liquid, a thick foam head skimming the frosty rim.

“Thanks, Jeffrey.” Riane took the glass and offered it to Joel. “I thought this might be more to your liking.”

For half a second she thought he might refuse the drink, but thirst must have triumphed over obstinacy as he reached for the glass. His fingers brushed against hers and she felt that zing again.

“What makes you think you know what I like?” Joel challenged.

She took another sip of his champagne before responding. “It’s something of a hobby of mine—studying people.”

“Have you been studying me?”

“I study everyone.”

“And what do you think you’ve learned?”

“You don’t like champagne,” she said, “and you won’t pretend to enjoy it, even though everyone else guzzles it like water at this kind of event.”

He tipped the glass of beer to his lips and drank, his eyes still on hers.

“I imagine you suffered through dinner,” she continued.

“The food and the conversation. You would probably have preferred a nice thick steak, rare, and a discussion about the Yankees’ chances at the pennant.”

She saw the corners of his mouth twitch, wondered if he might actually smile. He didn’t.

“Medium well,” was all he said.

“Sorry?”