Collision Course

By Alison Kent

These days, PI Logan Burke does a lot of grunt work by choice. So when he's offered a surveillance case tied to industrial espionage, he's not too sure... until he sees the zeroes on the check. All he has to do to earn them is watch Hannah Evans and find out how she's leaking valuable research secrets.

Simple enough... or is it? Yeah. Logan's screwed. It's not enough to watch Hannah across a crowded restaurant. He wants to get close. And maybe, just maybe, find a way to move on after a past case left him with PTSD.

Hannah's in trouble. She knows someone's following her. She doesn't know who, but she's pretty sure she knows why. Thing is, with what she's discovered is going on at work, she's out of her league.

She needs help and turns to one of the only people she knows she can trust. Now to take his advice and lay out her worries to a highly recommended private investigator... one Logan Burke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094419886

Alison Kent

Alison Kent was a born reader, but it wasn't until she reached 30 that she knew she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Five years later, she made her first sale. Two years after that, she accepted an offer issued by the senior editor of Harlequin Temptation live on the 'Isn't It Romantic?' episode of CBS's 48 Hours. The resulting book, Call Me, was a Romantic Times finalist for Best First Series Book.

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Houston and Galveston, Texas - 1993

Why do you want to know who she’s sleeping with?

Slouched in a tufted, Italian leather chair, Logan Burke squared one ankle over the opposite knee and propped his elbows on the chair arms. With his fingers steepled beneath his chin, he waited while his question rolled over the room.

The effect was much like that of a damp coastal fog—unwelcome, discomfiting, and damned near impossible to ignore.

He studied Neil Harrington as the other man paced the length of the plush office, an office as different from his own as its occupant was from Logan himself. His prospective client pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from the pocket of his suit trousers and dabbed it across his upper lip.

Instead of giving Logan’s straightforward question an equally direct answer, Harrington came to a stop in front of his office’s plate glass wall. He ran an index finger around his starched collar, adjusted one gold cufflink then the other, buttoned and unbuttoned his suit coat, and stared out the window where the immaculate grounds of the ViOPet compound sprawled for acres.

As a stall tactic it was dull, but effective.

Blowing out a heavy sigh, Logan leaned forward and dragged a marble ashtray across the coffee table. Harrington spun at the abrasive sound.

Mind? Logan asked, shaking out a smoke he never intended to light. He carried the pack as a distraction, something to do with his hands while waiting for a mark to make a move.

Well— Harrington began before Logan cut him off.

Look, Mr. Harrington, if I’m wasting your time ... He left the sentence hanging and stood, smoothing the denim of his jeans down his thighs.

Sit. Sit, please, Harrington added and Logan stuffed the cigarettes back in his T-shirt pocket. This subject is just so ... distasteful.

Relax, Logan said, opting for the arm of the matching couch. He backed up and straddled the expensive leather. It smelled like power, brutal and unmerciful, and he settled his weight more fully. I’m very discreet. The lady will never know she’s being tailed.

About Miss Evans. Hannah, if you will, Harrington began, resituating the ashtray Logan had disturbed. I don’t want to know who she sleeps with. I want to know who she sees. There is a difference.

To you maybe. In my line of work they’re usually the same. Always the same, he privately corrected, thinking he was growing cynical as he slid down the backside of thirty-six. I’m not here to argue semantics. Why do you want her followed?

Harrington cleared his throat. ViOPet enjoys a spotless record in, not only our own industry, but the general business community as well. As vice-president of administration it is my duty to see no blemish taints that reputation.

And Miss Evans is a blemish. Logan shifted from the arm of the couch and balanced on the edge of the middle cushion, easing further away from a situation that reminded him too much of the corporate ties he’d cut three years prior.

A situation he didn’t want a damned thing to do with.

Brushing away a speck of lint on his sleeve, Harrington walked back to his desk and rested one hip against the corner. Ours is a sensitive industry, Mr. Burke. In her position, Miss Evans is privy to much classified information. Information, I might add, that others would pay dearly to get their hands on.

Or you would pay dearly to keep from leaking out. Logan took a deep breath. What exactly is her position? And what kind of information are we talking about here?

Our country is in the grips of an environmental frenzy, Mr. Burke. Recycling, preserving our natural resources, developing biodegradable materials. The latter is where ViOPet comes in.

Very earth-friendly of you, I’m sure. But you still haven’t told me where Miss Evans fits in.

Hannah joined us six months ago. The plastics group she was assigned to had been making spectacular progress with a one-hundred percent biodegradable alternative. A very inexpensive alternative, I might add. Until she joined our team, the news was highly classified. Now it’s common industry knowledge.

And you automatically assume Miss Evans to be the leak.

Not automatically.

Then you have evidence against her.

Circumstantial only. Harrington frowned. Her supervisor, Graham Elliot, came to me after returning from a recycling seminar. He was livid. The research his sector spent the last two years on, the same research Miss Evans was involved in mind you, seemed to be the most popular topic of the day.

Patiently, Logan tried once more. Again. Why Miss Evans?

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Harrington wandered across the room. I scrutinized the files of each employee in Graham’s section. Several interesting facts turned up in Hannah’s. She came to us from Vandale Chemical where she’d worked for nine months. She spent not much longer than that at TriChem the previous year. Dow, before that.

Why wasn’t her employment history questioned before now?

At the time of her hiring, we were thrilled to gain her credentials. Her broad experience is a plus.

You didn’t find it strange that she’d held three separate jobs for less than a year each?

From what she told our personnel manager, I gather she resigned each position to care for her ailing mother. Rather than take an extended leave of absence when she needed time off, she afforded her employer the opportunity to function at top capacity by replacing rather than working around her.

Very noble of her.

Or very cunning, Harrington countered.

So because of her employment history, she’s your number one suspect. Logan rubbed his neck, wondering if Hannah Evans was as cunning as any of the con artists he’d come up against in his other life. Or as cunning as himself. Then he wondered what it would be like to pit his skills against an equal instead of the hopeless wrecks he’d dealt with the past three years.

Do you blame me for coming to such a conclusion? Harrington’s question brought Logan back to the present.

Why me? Why not investigate this from the inside? Surely you have a security section to handle internal affairs. Logan sensed Harrington’s unease as he scrambled for an answer.

Graham Elliot came to me with his suspicions. I agreed to look into the matter. We both acknowledged secrecy to be of utmost concern. ViOPet’s reputation has already been seriously compromised. We don’t want inside speculation furthering the damage.

Logan hauled himself off the couch and started toward the door, knowing his intuition had been right. This scenario sucked. Big time. No thanks.

Is it a matter of money?

His hand on the polished doorknob, Logan paused. Everything in here was polished—from the gilt-edged certificates hung on the walls, to the sparkling windows, chrome and glass furniture, and bank of high-tech screens centered behind Harrington’s desk.

The setting was a juxtaposition, reminding him of everything dark and ugly in his past. He clenched his jaw, his gaze piercing Harrington with the cutting steel of a switchblade. No, thanks. There are some things even I won’t do for money. Getting involved in company politics is one of them.

To be frank, I thought corporate surveillance was your specialty. You must know you have quite a reputation.

Had, Logan corrected. He bit his tongue against giving Harrington his current opinion about corporate circles and the dog-eat-dog machinations they called good business. Schemes that more often than not ended with someone getting hurt. Or worse. Not any more. These days I stay on the side of town where I belong, with the people who need my particular talents.

That’s exactly the reason I called you. Miss Evans would never suspect a man such as yourself to be following her.

Logan turned on a slow thread of temper. Just what kind of man am I … Neil?

One who is very capable, I’m sure. Harrington fiddled with a gold letter opener lying on his desk. But one who would blend in. One who wouldn’t call attention to himself.

One who is dispensable you mean, Logan thought, not the least bit surprised. He parked his hand on his hip and glanced at his feet, noting with indifference his seen-their-better-days red and white Nikes. One knee poked through his ragged jeans and his over-washed Houston Rockets T-shirt was more orange than red.

But this was who Logan Burke was now. Sticking his nose where it didn’t belong had gotten him here. Presuming he could make a difference had gotten him here. Falling down on the job had gotten him here. And if Harrington thought less of him because of it, the man could kiss —

You also come with impeccable references. And even if money is not an issue, I think you may want to hear my offer before you walk out that door.

Money. The word was as much of a curse as the four-letter ones he used with alarming regularity. He crossed the spacious room, the plush white carpet beneath his feet a cushy reminder of life’s warped sense of humor.

These research projects spent more money than he’d see in a lifetime. Money he’d never have. Money he needed. He braced one fist against the window frame, one against his waist, and stared at the ViOPet facility.

White-coated chemists and uniformed guards moved from building to building, the clear April sky above an umbrella of false optimism. He thought about the never-ending parade of medical bills hanging like a noose around his neck. Bills an investigator’s fees would never begin to cover. Not now. Not ten years from now.

He turned back to Harrington, hating the gloating satisfaction in the man’s face, hating himself for what he was about to do even more. He opened his mouth, ready to sell himself one more time. One so-help-him-God last time.

Let’s talk.

Table for one?

Hannah Evans dropped her sunglasses into her purse, shifted her briefcase to the opposite hand, and smoothing down her navy linen blazer, said to the hostess, I’m meeting Julian Vandale.

This way, please, the hostess replied, and led the way through a maze of intimate alcoves to a cozy, secluded corner where ivy trailed from hanging baskets and framed the window behind in a lacy curtain of green. She placed a menu on the table. Your waiter will be with you shortly. Enjoy your meal.

Julian stood and pulled out Hannah’s chair.

Julian. It’s been a long time. Hannah set her briefcase on the chair nearest the window and offered her former boss a warm smile. How are you?

As well as can be expected considering my best lab tech up and deserted me for the competition, Julian answered, sitting back down.

I wouldn’t call it desertion. She tilted her head to one side and brushed back a wayward strand of hair. Just an upwardly mobile career move.

Julian’s husky laugh resounded in the tiny nook. Hannah, you’re about the last person I’d label a yuppie. You’re also the last person I expected to hear from. His crooked nose gave him the look of a tough street fighter, an advantage he’d never hesitated to use. He used it now. What gives?

I wish I knew, Hannah began, then fell silent as the waiter set glasses of water before them.

Are you ready to order, sir?

Chef salad okay? Julian asked and Hannah nodded. Make that two, he said, handing the waiter both unopened menus.

Hannah waited until they were alone before continuing. What I have to say I don’t want leaving this room. Not until we know more about what’s going on.

His steel grey eyes warmed with interest. I love it already.

Hannah pulled two sheets of paper from her briefcase. What do you make of this?

Julian donned his glasses but still had to squint to decipher the hastily scribbled notes she’d made late one night after stumbling onto a secret she wasn’t happy to possess. A secret she wished she could bury, but one her conscience demanded she reveal.

Before Julian finished giving the paper a lengthy visual third degree, the waiter reappeared, salads in hand, and Hannah forked a morsel of turkey into her mouth, tasting nothing but the bitterness of what she was doing.

Betrayal had a nasty flavor, but it was nothing, she reminded herself, compared to cold-hearted ruthlessness. Her employer’s reputation didn’t matter half as much as the human lives at risk because of their criminal neglect.

Lives like her father’s.

Her appetite squelched, Hannah laid her fork aside and stared out the window, glancing Julian’s way time and again. Finally he laid the papers on the table and set his glasses on top, punctuating the thick silence with a low whistle.

What do you think? Hannah prompted.

He plowed one hand through his long black hair. I’d say the EPA has a hell of a nightmare on its hands. He tapped the papers with his index finger. How’d you come up with this?

It was an accident, I assure you.

That I don’t doubt for a minute. Even hint at the possible mishandling of toxic chemicals and you’ve got a media blitz, not to mention panic on your hands.

It gets worse.

How much?

Hannah took a deep breath and swallowed the lump of nerves stuck in the back of her throat. I think I’m being followed.

His gaze sliced through her, his concern razor sharp. Someone else know about this?

She quickly shook her head. You’re the only one I trust enough to tell.

Good. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll call in some markers, see what I can turn up. Concern deepened the grooves framing his mouth. But if someone is onto your secret, you’ve got another problem on your hands.

I was afraid of that. Hannah shoved his comment into a whole new category of worry. She wanted to walk away. Leave the mess for someone else to clean up. But she couldn’t. And Julian knew her well enough to know why. So, do you have any advice?

He jerked at the knot of his tie. Yes and no. I can’t tell you what to do. But I know someone who might be able to help. He reached into his hip pocket for his billfold, pulled out a dog-eared business card, and handed it to her.

She took it and rubbed one finger across the bold, raised lettering. Logan Burke?

He did a lot for work for me when my wife ran off with my daughter. He’s got the best contacts in town.

Is he still working for you?

No. Once Liz left the state he referred me to another investigator. Burke keeps his expertise to the city. Give him a call and tell him I put you onto him. He keeps a low profile. Doesn’t advertise, but he doesn’t have to. His reputation does all the talking he needs.

She tucked the card in her blazer pocket. Thanks. Maybe I’ll call him.

No maybes, Hannah. Do, Julian said, and she nodded because he’d always known best.

Six weeks later …

Parked in ViOPet’s visitor’s lot, Logan fastened down the convertible top of his Mustang, wondering if his luck was about to change. Why else would his air conditioner have picked the almost bearable warmth of late May rather than the dog days of August to go belly-up? If his luck held, maybe by the time August rolled around he’d be able to spare a couple of bucks for a compressor, he mused, and slid behind the wheel.

Neil Harrington’s check crinkled in the pocket of his khakis, and Logan made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Even if he wasn’t too keen on how he’d made them, he had to admit those zeroes had a nice sound. Not to mention the sizable dent they’d make in the medical bills he’d accrued three years ago. Medical bills he’d poured every cent from every case into since. Medical bills he’d die before he quit trying to pay off.

Maneuvering into the traffic headed south on Interstate 45, he snapped a farewell salute to the piney woods surrounding ViOPet. The past six weeks had dragged by like a dead snail. He was definitely glad to be done with Harrington’s case. Except for the fact he no longer had an excuse to watch Hannah Evans.

For the first time in what he considered his recent history, he’d actually considered dumping the case and pursuing the mark. A definite slip of control. She’d gotten to him. Reached a level he’d not let anyone near the last three years. And he couldn’t say exactly why.

She’d been there when he closed his eyes at night, when he opened them in the morning. And during the dark hours between, her image had kept the demons at bay.

Until he’d come to realize she might not be the guardian angel he’d been using her for.

When handed the portfolio detailing Hannah’s meeting with the president of Vandale Chemical, Neil Harrington’s reaction bordered on schizoid. The way Logan saw things, no one deserved to be on the receiving end of that type of unbalanced rage. But obviously Harrington felt Hannah Evans had it coming.

Logan found it hard to argue after the evidence he’d dug up. Even if it turned out to be circumstantial, it was damned convincing.

Seemed Hannah’s finances had been strapped for more than a few years, since, in fact, her father had died, leaving her and her mother close to destitute. The medical bills approached astronomical. And some people would do just about anything for money.

He ought to know. He’d sold his soul so many times the devil owned it ten times over.

Still, the funny thing was that taking the pictures hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted to follow her into the restaurant where she’d met Vandale. To be a fly on the wall and hear their conversation. To see what was on the papers she’d handed him. To find out if she was as guilty as the evidence painted her.

He’d wanted to breathe her scent. He’d wanted to hear her voice. He’d wanted to place his palm in the small of her back and draw her close. And more than anything, he’d wanted to find a bit of the innocence he’d given up on finding.

None of the reasons had anything to do with the case and everything to do with the woman.

Logan flipped his blinker up, wedged the Mustang into an opening half its size in the far lane, and headed for his exit. Black and white photos had distinct disadvantages. Like not divulging the color of a person’s eyes. He wanted to know about Hannah’s eyes. To figure out why they hypnotized him, beckoned him, made him think of salvation.

The traffic thinned the further he drove from the center of town. After a quick stop at the hole in the wall that served as his office, he would hit the road for the Gulf. He wanted to suck in gallons of sea air, feel the wind whip his hair, and let the salt spray sting Hannah Evans right out of his mind.

He took the corner on two wheels and, leaving long strips of black rubber behind, fishtailed into his usual parking spot. Wrists draped over his steering wheel, he grudgingly eyed the sporty yellow Miata parked across the lot.

So much for luck or making it to the beach any time soon. He vaulted out of the car and sent his office door open on a crash. The frosted window bearing eight out of the ten letters of his name rattled in the frame.

Who’s th ... What’s go ... Mr. Burke! his secretary gasped. She pressed a shocked hand against her bosom then patted her helmet of blue-gray hair into place.

Now, Maggie, I’m just keeping you on your toes. I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep on the job. He narrowed his eyes and arched one brow, trying to get a rise out of the unflappable grandmother. I might just have to fire you.

I would never do such a thing, she answered, indignant.

Well, I wouldn’t blame you for taking a snooze. There’s hardly enough work around here for me, much less you, too. He parked his hip on the corner of her battered metal desk and studied the early garage sale decor of the room as if seeing it for the first time.

Margaret tugged an envelope out from beneath him and swatted him on the arm. "Maybe if you’d learn