“You are very adept at avoiding talking about yourself.”
I shrug. “There’s not much to say about myself.” This, at least, is a truth.
“There’s so much to who you are, it’s impossible to even know where to start.”
I frown. “You make it seem like I’m complicated.”
“Complexity, thy name is X.” He’s close to me again, the damp, cool towel the only barrier between our bodies. I can’t help but rest my forehead against his chest.
“That’s not true,” I protest.
“Then what’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t know.”
“Favorite poet?”
“E. E. Cummings.”
“Favorite food?” His voice is in my ear. Rumbling, buzzing, intimate and familiar.
“I don’t know.”
“Favorite band?”
“I don’t know.” Instinctively, I turn away from the scrutiny of his gaze, except the towel is only loosely draped against my front, so I now bare my back to him. I feel his eyes on me, on the curve of my spine and the swelling bubble of my backside. “I don’t know anything about myself, Logan. I don’t know. Okay? I’m not complicated, I’m... incomplete.”
“Babe. You’re complex.” His palms skate over my back, both of them moving in soothing circles. “It’s not a bad thing. It makes you mysterious. I get the feeling a man could spend a lifetime getting to know you and still not unwrap all your layers.”
“You barely know me.”
“Exactly.” A pause. Fingers in my hair, which is still damp. The intimacy of this moment makes my heart ache. “The only name I’ve got for you is X. I know you’re of Spanish descent. I know you work for Caleb Indigo, and you’re hard as hell to find, even for one of Caleb’s girls. Andthatis saying something.”
Logan has both of his hands on my hips now, holding me pressed back against him, my spine to his chest, my buttocks curved against the rough scratch of denim. I feel the bulge of his erection behind the zipper. I move just so, and were he naked as well—I inhale sharply and push away that need, that desire, that thought.
But we are puzzle pieces, he and I. How else might we fit perfectly together?
I tremble at the possibilities roiling in the dark depths of my basest desires.
“What is your real name?”
Anger, sudden and hot. “Itoldyou my real name, damn it!” I try to pull away, but he won’t let me. For the first time since I’ve known him, I get a tiny taste of his real strength.
He holds me in place with his hands on my hips, his grip unbreakable but still gentle and careful.
He is implacable.
“The hell it is!” He’s angry too. “You’re trying to tell me your real,legalname is Madame X?”
“Yes!”
“Bullshit. I can take a lot on faith, honey, but I won’t tolerate being lied to, or having the truth kept from me.” His voice is a low growl, colder than I thought he could sound. Here is the man who has killed, the man who was once a criminal.
“I’m not lying.” I sound small, and sad, and defeated.
His hands turn me. Tilt my face up to his. “Then what is your name?”
“My name is Madame X. I am named after the painting by John Singer Sargent.” I shrug away from him, all of my fire tamped and doused now. Something stings my eyes. Something wet. Why am I crying? I don’t know. Or maybe there are just too many reasons to choose one.
