“Does the word Leopold mean anything to you?” Logan asked as soon as the door closed.

Rachel blinked in disbelief as she took in the interior of the home. It was as if she’d stepped into an alternate universe. Joe may have not updated anything on the outside, but inside, everything was immaculate from the crystal chandelier hanging over their heads to hardwood floors beneath their feet. The walls were painted a soothing pale yellow, and as they progressed farther, she noted the gray leather furniture and massive flat-screen television in one of the rooms. He may not get out much, but somehow he’d appropriated the modern items. Not what she would’ve expected from someone living off the grid, but what the hell did she know? Maybe there was an underground network for people like Joe. She filed that away as a question to ask. Just because she was running from the law didn’t mean she couldn’t pick up a story or two for later.

“Leopold,” Joe repeated. “Someone’s name?”

“Possibly. I’ll need to use your computer to see what boats are coming into Port Everglades this Friday and then hack into the cruise lines to check their passenger lists.”

“If you live off the grid, how do you have electricity and Wi-Fi?”

“I generate my own power through a combination of solar, wind, and micro hydroelectricity. It’s fairly simple and a lot cheaper than the energy the government mandates you use. Here in Florida, lots of municipalities make it mandatory to hook your home up to an electrical grid, but I know my constitutional rights. They can’t make me. Besides, they don’t know I’m here anyway, and I plan to keep it that way. Wi-Fi was a bit tougher, but I managed to hook into a satellite and now I have both Wi-Fi and ten thousand television channels from all over the world.”

She’d heard about a couple of different companies trying to start up something they termed the “Outernet,” which would provide international access to Wi-Fi for free, but she hadn’t known the capabilities were already available. “Aren’t you worried you’ll get discovered and thrown in jail?”

Joe laughed, his teeth stained yellow and a couple of them missing toward the back. “Been living like this since the seventies. Feds haven’t discovered me yet. Doubt they will now. According to their records, I died in Vietnam in a helicopter crash, my body never recovered. Not quite sure how they missed that I’d never been in the helicopter in the first place. Could have knocked me over with a feather when Logan’s dad, whom I’d listed as my next of kin, had showed me the letter he’d gotten from the government notifying him of my death.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I figured I might as well remain dead.” He moved closer and whispered to her, his eyes wild. “You’re talking to a ghost.” Leaving her spooked, he backed away with a smile and headed toward a staircase. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room. You both look like you could use a good night’s sleep.”

It was only nine at night, but they’d been on the go for twenty-four hours and Logan hadn’t slept at all in that time. She’d slept a couple of hours that afternoon as was typical for her. In fact, she wasn’t tired at all.

They followed Joe up the stairs, and it was then she noticed that he walked with a bit of a limp. It didn’t seem to slow him down at all though. He led them past a couple of closed doors before bringing them to the spare bedroom.

“You both can stay here. I’ll take the dog with me. Give you two some privacy,” Joe said, giving them a wink as he took Walter from her arms.

Privacy? That’s the last thing she and Logan needed. “That’s kind of you, but we don’t need—”

“Thanks, Uncle Joe. See you in the morning.” Logan hugged his uncle, who left, shutting the door behind him.

There wasn’t much to the room, but then again, why did he have an extra bedroom at all when he lived out in the middle of nowhere by himself? The room had a tropical feel to it, decorated in teal and tangerine colors with artwork of ocean scenes and a ceiling fan with blades resembling palm tree leaves. The queen-size bed in the center of the room was covered by a seashell-themed comforter and matching throw pillows.

Heat bloomed in her core and her muscles tensed.

One bed.

She may have fucked plenty of men, but she’d never slept with one. Bad enough she had insomnia, but to have someone sleeping next to her while her mind raced all night long . . .

“We can’t share a bed,” she said.

“Why not?” Logan smirked as he prepared for bed, pulling down the blankets and tossing the decorative pillows on the floor. “Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?” He clutched the bottom of his shirt and, in a single move, drew it over his head.

“I just don’t . . . ” She lost her thought, distracted by the sight of Logan’s bare chest. Her heart began to flutter and her throat went dry. Dear God in heaven, the man was cut for being so lean. Her fingers itched to play with the light patch of hair sprinkled over his sternum and to explore the chiseled planes and contours of his abs.

Logan’s brows furrowed as he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down his thighs, leaving him clothed in only a pair of tight navy boxer briefs that did nothing to conceal what hid underneath. “Don’t do what? Share a bed?” He dropped onto the mattress, putting his hands under his head.

Before she did something she’d regret, she sat on the edge of bed, linking her fingers together on her lap and keeping her gaze focused on them. “Couldn’t you ask Joe if there’s somewhere else you can sleep? I mean, he probably just assumed we were together since the media made it seem that way. Just tell him the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Yes.” She refused to look at him. “That we can hardly stand one another.”

The ensuing silence made her uncomfortable, something she wasn’t used to feeling. What was it about Logan that set her on edge? She was balls-to-the-wall Rachel Dawson, Detroit’s number one investigative reporter. Nothing fazed her. She didn’t get camera shy or stage fright. She’d interviewed foreign dignitaries and cold-blooded murderers. So why couldn’t she handle sleeping next to Logan?

And why did it bother her that he hadn’t immediately repudiated her claim that they couldn’t stand one another?

“Rachel, I’m tired,” he said on a sigh. “It’s been a long forty-eight hours, and before I start figuring out why a couple of FBI agents are trying to frame us for murder, I’d like to get some rest. I promise I won’t touch you. Now get in bed.”

She jumped up, nearly stumbling over her own feet, and hurried toward the door. “I’m not really tired. Maybe I’ll go see if I can find Joe’s computer and start on our research.”

“Get. In. Bed.”

A full-body shiver stopped her cold at the deep tone of his voice. She twirled around. “Is this how you usually get women to sleep with you? You just order them?”

Humor lit up his eyes. “Only the ones who want me to.”

Exasperated, she turned off the lights. She wasn’t going to win this battle. She was trapped for the next eight hours without her phone, computer, or even a book. Forget waterboarding. This would be pure torture for her.

She stomped across the floor and tugged her pants off before climbing into bed and pulling the comforter up to her neck. She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she watched the fan whirling around and around.

He rolled to his side, facing her. Her body shivered from the awareness of him, practically naked, lying next to her. Although she didn’t look for confirmation, she could feel the heat of Logan’s stare. “Good night, Rachel.”

“Night, Logan.”

It wasn’t thirty seconds before his breathing evened out. Typical man.

She flipped to her side and forced herself to relax. Following advice she’d gotten from a sleep specialist a few years ago, she tensed all her muscles for ten seconds then relaxed them one by one, beginning with her neck. By the time she got to her toes, she’d identified every noise in the room. The ceiling fan, while pretty, made a whooshing sound; the house creaked; and she was pretty sure she could make out the ticking of a clock from another room.