Instead, Logan went out of town for his amusements and he made a point to never choose a lover, resident or not, from the beauties that attended the weekend Socials hosted by Corbin County every year, much to their disappointment.
“Now, Mr. Callahan, you just know I can teach you how to move in perfect rhythm,” Skye said as she moved behind him, mocking the last hussy’s advances as she matched his sway. “Darlin’, you just have to let me.”
His lips almost quirked into a grin as he stared down at her ruefully. “I’ve seen you dancing in your living room,” he drawled. “Sweetheart, you’re so tune deaf you can’t even stay in rhythm with that damn eighties music you like so well. I rather doubt you can teach me anything.”
He could teach her though. In some very interesting ways.
“Oh my, be still my heart.” She poured all her non-existent Southern charm into the mocking response as her fingers fluttered against the flesh above her br**sts left bare by the tank top she wore. “I think I may expire of pure excitement. Dare you even deign to speak to me?” She batted her eyelashes at him as she gazed up at him from the corner of her eyes.
It wasn’t far from the truth. There weren’t many people Logan Callahan bothered to give more than monosyllabic response to.
He snorted at her mockery. “Sweetheart, I love a good comedy, and watching you dance has become the highlight of my evenings.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Peeping Tom.”
“Exhibitionist,” he countered. “You knew I was watching.”
“Of course I did.” The lie came easily. “I thought you needed a little amusement. Don’t expect a repeat performance.”
She had had no idea he watched her. She could barely keep her cheeks from flushing in embarrassment.
“Now, you’re breaking my heart,” he said, pretending to bemoan the loss. “Tell me you wouldn’t be so cruel.”
Setting her beer to the table beside her and tucking her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, Skye had to laugh at the retort. Her gaze swept out over the courtyard of the small town square called City Park.
The central courtyard was a lush summer haven of rich blooms, flowering trees, and small grottos. The gazebo held the band; around it, concrete stamped in the form of bricks served as a dance floor.
She loved it.
“I still can’t believe they have a crowd like this every weekend,” she commented as she watched dancers sway to the sensual beat.
“Next year will make sixty years of the Weekend Socials,” Logan agreed. “I’ve been coming to them most of my life, along with my cousins.”
His youngest cousin, Rafer Callahan, was dancing with his fiancée, Cami Flannigan. Holding her close, her head against his chest, they swayed to the music with a sensuality that was enviable.
Damn, they needed to find a bed, not a dance floor.
“So why aren’t you out there dancing?” he asked her.
“Not drunk enough yet,” Skye grumbled, knowing he was laughing at her.
Logan grinned. “I’ve been watching you come here since the first Social of the season, Miss O’Brien. You never dance and you never get drunk.”
“I know better than to humiliate myself in public.” He made her want to laugh.
How long had it been since she had wanted to laugh?
Was it her imagination or did he drift just a little bit closer? Could she really feel his body heat just a little bit more?
“Don’t know how to follow a lead either?” he asked.
“Whose lead?” she quipped, holding back a smile as she glanced over at him again. “Come on, Callahan, I think the only one out there that hasn’t yet stepped on his partner’s toes is your cousin. I like my toes unsquished if you don’t mind too much. Besides,” she drawled. “I hear the only nice Callahan is the one that’s taken.”
She gave him a wink and blew him a quick kiss before picking up the beer she had set beside her and moving off.
Logan watched silently from the corner of his eye as his friendly little neighbor stopped here and there, flirted a little, rejected every offer to dance, then slowly headed to the square’s more public entrance.
He frowned. She was leaving and this was not the time for a woman to walk home alone.
The party didn’t start breaking up before midnight. There were still the drawings for the homemade pies and gift baskets contributed by local bakers and businesses.
She would be on her own, and he knew, perhaps better than anyone, that there were monsters in the dark.
Setting his beer to the table beside him, Logan walked over to his cousin, Crowe, and clasped him on the shoulder. “I’m heading home.”
“Go, man,” Crowe murmured quietly. “I think I’m going to hang around and watch a while longer. See if I won that pie I bought chances on.”
Logan stared back at his cousin askance. “Which pie?”
“That apple cobbler, a’ course.” Crowe grinned, though the curve of his lips belied the ice in his eyes. “You know I like me some cobbler, cuz.”
It wasn’t pie his cousin was fond of, but perhaps he was a little too fond of the baker of that pie.
“Good luck on that one,” Logan snorted. “How much did you spend last week trying to win that cobbler?”
“Between the three of us?” Crowe growled. “Probably close to three hundred bucks.”
“And this weekend?” Logan asked.
Crowe grinned to that one and leaned closer. “I had Jeannie Thompson, the sheriff, and that new deputy, John Caine, buy my tickets. I’ll get it this time.”
He was pissing in the wind and leaning on luck. Because only a blind man reading braille would actually call out the correct numbers drawn. That one was rigged from the start.
But hell, it was Crowe’s money and his right to spend it wherever he wanted to spend it.
Moving off, Logan followed his own temptation, knowing he was making a mistake, but being too dumb to stop himself.
Was it safe? It was a question that raged through his mind day and night. Supposedly, the copycat Sweetrock Slasher who had struck out several months ago against his cousin Rafer was dead.
His name had been Lowry Berry. He had tried to kill Rafer’s fiancée, Cami, and had nearly succeeded, too. He’d killed one of Rafer’s ex-lovers and thought he would take Cami out as well. Instead, he had ended up dead himself.