Archive of Our Own

It was the brief flare of light from across the smoky dining car that first drew his attention. He watched as she replaced the lighter on the maître d’s podium and raised the cigarillo to her ruby lips. Full and pouty, they quivered with self-humor as they closed around the shaft. He quickly found himself cataloging the curve of her cheekbones, the distinctive bump on the bridge of her nose, her flashing blue eyes – the right one drifting with a light laze – which glittered with irritation as she waited to be shown to a table in the crowded car.

The maître d’ approached her with a sad shake of his head and she blinked. She coughed once and ground out the smoking nail, impatiently smoothing a stray falling curl behind her ear before she stepped closer towards the little man. He admired the blue curve of her hips against the dark black background of the entryway and the servant’s suit while she tried to work her wiles, but her only effect was to add a note of desperation to the glorified waiter’s shaking head while he stood making calf-eyes at the dame.

He chuckled at the sad state of the railway help, even as he raised his hand to summon the first-class waiter. He mumbled his instructions carelessly, but never took his eyes off of the woman. He traced the trim lines of her body as lovingly as her prim, woolen traveling suit seemed to cling to them, but he was careful to look directly into her eyes when the waiter finally spoke to her and she turned to see where the man pointed.

She balked and turned her shoulders, preparing to spin in that huff that proper skirts perfected at the same time they learned to snap stockings onto garters, always moving away with the bouncing hair and swaying ass designed to let a man know just what he was missing.

He just raised his eyebrows in an unspoken challenge.

And she stopped, just as he knew she would.

She broke their mating gaze and cast her eyes left, right, and down to her purse. He was holding his breath, and he didn’t know what for until she looked up again. It was like she climbed inside of him, fired two hot slugs right through his brain pan, and he couldn’t tear himself away as she crossed the room and stood at his small table, which now held a hurriedly-arranged place setting for a second guest.

She returned his challenge with a delicate arch of one golden brow.

“Interesting that first class seems to have at least three empty tables while my new friend at the door insisted the restaurant car was fully booked for the next hour.” Her voice was a sultry smoke in his ear, although tingling sparks of sarcasm still struck his eardrum at random intervals.

He allowed her a nod even as the left corner of his mouth climbed higher.

“Privileges of class, Kitten. But with great wealth comes great responsibility.” He winked because he instinctively knew it would bring a flush of pale pink irritation to her cheeks. “Such as rescuing classy ladies like yourself from the horrors of returning to your bunk on an empty stomach.” He watched her, waffling between taking a poke at him and making good use of her getaway sticks, and tried to keep her off balance by the friendly offer of his hand.

“I’m Logan Reynolds.”

Logan watched for the tell-tale flicker of recognition his last name sometimes excited, but there was none. Good. That was the way Logan preferred it, and his smile widened.

“Veronica Lester,” she said with a perfunctory nod, and Logan found that he was now the one fighting to recall where he knew a name. Ideas flickered through his head as he prolonged the hand shake, turning her hand so the pale flesh of her wrist was exposed to the sweep of his thumb when he moved it down the light turquoise contour of a vein. Where did he know that name from?

Veronica, whoever she was, yanked her hand from his grasp and spun away, only to come face to face with the waiter bearing a tray of oysters on-the-half-shell, which he set next to the basket of elegant dinner rolls. Her baby-blues widened.

“Is that real butter?”

“Only the best,” Logan agreed, pushing the basket closer towards her and indicating the chair next to him. He noticed that she held one hand to her belly as she sat, and tried not to grin as she made quick work of buttering a roll. He wouldn’t have been surprised had she shoved the entire thing in her pie-hole at once, but, instead, the first single, healthy bite set her eyelids flickering down in an expression he recognized only too well as sinful pleasure.

A small, whimpering sound of supreme enjoyment spilled over her lush lips along with the darting flicker of her pink tongue and Logan pledged to himself then and there to discover what other circumstances would produce that sound. She came back to herself slowly, gazing at him behind the amber fall of her lashes, and he had to resettle himself in his seat before she blinked and dropped the piece of bread on her side plate.

“I’m sorry. That was rude.” Even as she said it, she continued to glance at the dinner roll, and Logan found that, for the first time in his life, he was jealous of a piece of bread. He split a second bun, lathering it with a week’s worth of rations of the creamy spread, and was pleased to find her attention now riveted to the work of his hands.

He saluted her with a buttery bit. “Never apologize to me for enjoying yourself, Doll.” Logan popped the bread into his mouth with a loud smack of his lips.

A grin broke across Veronica’s face and her eyes twinkled mischievously as she observed, “You talk like we’ll be doing this often in the future. Like we’re not just… two trains passing in the night.” She let her irony slip with a lover’s caress, and Logan found himself swaying closer to her.

He nearly ripped off the waiter’s head when the discreet cough cut across the threads of their conversation. He chose to ignore the way Veronica’s eyes crinkled at the corners while they ordered. But he remained focused on her every bite of food and every private chuckle, and, as soon as they were alone again, he leaned forward and brushed his thumb along the bottom contour of her lip, just below its ruby-red line. With a gentle pressure, he reclaimed a small dab of pale yellow. Logan held her eye contact as he sucked it off the pad of his finger.

She blinked and turned her head to gaze at her place setting with fixed fascination.

“So you do this a lot, then? Try to pick up strange girls?” She spoke around bites of buttered bread, and to hell with him if he didn’t find it adorable.

“You make it sound so sordid.”

That earned him a reproachful glance, so he continued. “And you’re not so strange.”

Veronica looked at him gravely over the flickering candle that served as a centerpiece.

“I’m not your average Jane,” she informed him.

“Oh, believe me, I can see that.” She frowned as if disappointed, and he cut to the chase. “You’re alone on a train heading halfway across the country, and you were brave enough to come sit with me. You know how to take care of yourself. I’d wager you’re packing iron in that cute little satchel.” He angled his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Your clothes are well made, but they’re mended, and the rations have hit you hard,” he gestured to the bread she had set on the plate as her mouth dropped open. “You’ve got a slight accent. Midwestern? Maybe you’re going home to Chicago,” he mused, but he was quick to see the shade of sorrow as it swept over her eyes. “No? That’s not your home. You – you don’t really have a home, do you? You really are alone. Are you bad luck, or do you just chase them all away?”

The sorrow in her eyes was consumed by the flame of irritation. The firming of her lips and straightening of her shoulders issued the acceptance of a challenge as clearly as the return slap of a glove across his face. Damn, but he liked this tomato.

“You mean like you do? God, what is your problem? You change tracks from sizing up my gams to insulting me in the blink of an eye. Isn’t that a bit too cliché? Hollywood son –” he couldn’t arrest the flutter of his eye lids “– Oh, yes! I know who you are now. Your name was in all the papers. You’re more famous now for your romantic peccadilloes than your father ever was for his screen romances. But you can’t let anyone get close to you, can you? Treat them like garbage so they can’t hurt you down the line. Heaven forbid that any of them ever measure up to… what was her name?”

“Daisy.”

He forced himself to spit out her name, and willed the images away even as Veronica rambled on about the tragic official story. Logan had been there when they found the body. He had seen the needle marks, the trail of foam across her perfect cheek, her impossibly large eyes staring right through him without seeing anything. He remembered how those eyes had pleaded even as she had climbed off the lap of his old man and pushed down her wedding dress. Yeah, he did measure other sisters against Daisy, and he’d found so few who could match her for her charming cruelty. But it wasn’t his fault, what had happened to her, and he glared at Veronica as she finally fell silent.

The steaming plates of well-garnished cuisine were placed in front of them as they continued to stare. She looked away first, and Logan dedicated himself to finishing his meal quickly and dusting out as soon as possible. Miles of perfume-scented legs wouldn’t have been worth this abuse, and this sister probably wouldn’t even clear his shoulder. He waved his hand and had his glass refilled.

Halfway through his dish he heard a whispered sigh, and glanced up to find her looking at him with expectation.

“What?”

She cleared her throat. “I said I’m sorry.”

He released his fork and fell back into his chair with a smirk. The color had climbed high in her cheeks, and she shifted uncomfortably but she pressed on.

“I shouldn’t have brought up your fiancée. I know it was in all the papers a year ago, but they never get the story right and… I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

Logan struggled to hold onto his rage, but her obvious discomfort charmed him.

“Why do I get the feeling that it’s not easy getting an apology out of you?”

Her soft laughter broadened his smile. “Maybe you do know me fairly well after all.”

Logan caught the waiter hovering in the distance and summoned him forward. He claimed the whole bottle of wine and topped both glasses off as he considered how easily she had earned a rise from him when the taunts of others had never made him so much as flinch. She might be prickly as hell, but he had felt more genuine emotion in his short time with her than he had in the past year. He felt her gaze on him, he knew the train of her thoughts, and he had to wonder what it would be like…

He proposed a toast with a small wink in her direction.

“To strangers on a train.”

Their glasses resonated across the room. “And the things that they know,” she amended.

She had to strike three times before the damn cig caught light, and even then, the smoke she inhaled from the cheap cigarillo felt heavy in her throat. She worked hard not to choke as her mouth twisted in a grimace at her new form of self-torture. She surveyed the spacious train car, the quaint little tables resting in straight lines, bolted to the floor. It was currently packed with her fellow passengers; eating, drinking, telling loud stories, or simply staring out the wide windows as the night-cloaked terrain of southern California rolled past.

She could read the maître d’s answer in his hang-dog expression before he reached the podium. “I’m sorry, Miss, but our regular seating will be full for the next hour and a half by all estimates. Perhaps you can return then?”

She inhaled again and felt the scraping crawl of a thousand fiery demons across the back of her throat as she coughed. Ridding herself of the useless smoke stick, she gave the man her patented head tilt and a lethal dose of eyelash flutter, but he remained adamant , even as his forehead began to bead with sweat. She began to resign herself to at least another hour before dinner when there was a subtle cough behind her.

“A gentleman in first class has requested the honor of dining with you, Ma’am.”

She followed the young waiter’s outstretched hand and found herself gazing into two dark pools of mystery burning from a smirking face. The man wasn’t a classic dreamboat like Jake had been, but intensity and a sense of entitlement rolled off him like waves from the ocean in a high storm. She was familiar with men like this, who expected women to fall at their feet, and she could care less about playing his game.

But then he cocked his eyebrow as if he knew what she was thinking, as if he was daring her to run so he could give chase or write her off as a foolish little girl. The irritating blend of patronizing and knowing halted her flight. She stood rooted in place even after she tore herself away from his oddly compelling stare. She felt lost and adrift in a way she’s sworn she would never allow herself to feel ever since Jake – never again. She pinned him with her own stare, the one she held in reserve for murder suspects and blind dates, as she negotiated tables and entered the posh, rope-protected area of the first-class diners.

She flattered herself that he looked a bit dazed, even as she surprised herself in noting the slight skip of her heartbeat at the grudgingly impressed turn of his lips. She echoed his raised brow and made a clever remark about the absurdity of the three empty tables in his section while people were being turned away at the door. She fought the urge to clear her throat where it still tickled from the lingering claw of the cheap smoke while she smiled at him and admired the way his broad shoulders filled the fine wool of his dark suit jacket. Her finger tips seemed to tingle with the sudden desire to feel that fabric, and she made a fist against her leg as she watched him smile and nod.

“Privileges of class, Kitten. But with great wealth,” and he paused to throw a sardonic glance at the empty tables and fine china, “comes great responsibility. Such as rescuing classy ladies like yourself from the horrors of returning to your bunk on an empty stomach.” He winked at her with such unabashed glee that she felt the need to introduce her newly made fist to his smug face.

And then he was smiling and holding out his hand without a care in the world.

“I’m Logan Reynolds.”

He spoke with certainty, as if his name should mean something. Wisps of memories whispered through her mind, but nothing caught, and she shrugged and held out her hand.

“Veronica Lester.” She was grudging as she slipped her palm into his and watched a curious blend of emotions ripple across his face. She tried to pull away after a polite amount of time had passed, but he held firm. His thumb began to slide slowly down the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, and she sucked in a sharp breath of air as her eyes began to cross. This guy was dangerous, and it wasn’t just his sense of entitlement.

Veronica snatched her hand from his hypnotic touch and turned to leave. Her stomach caught a sniff of the salty scent of oysters, the chic tray drawing her eyes until they settled on a small basket of steaming bread rolls and a large mound of pale butter.

“Is that real butter?”

He was laughing at her as he pushed the basket towards her plate, but she didn’t care. Baking cookies to send in care packages to the boys overseas may have polished her national pride, but she was getting very tired of dry toast every morning. She hoped he didn’t hear the gurgle of her stomach as she took a seat and quickly bit into the fluffy white piece of bread. Then her eyes fluttered closed and she forgot all about Logan.

She may have made a sound as she licked her lips for any remaining crumbs, but she was too far gone to care as the delicious flavor of real, good, cream slid down her tongue. Then she blinked, remembered where she was, and gazed shyly across the table at his smirking face. Veronica set the rest of the roll on her plate and smiled with polite apology to her host.

“I’m sorry. That was rude.”

If anything, Logan’s grin spread wider, and he helped himself to the largest bun in the basket. She watched as his large fingers split the bun along its seam, and tried not to gasp as he slathered one side and then the other. He ripped a large piece and waved it at her.

“Never apologize to me for enjoying yourself, Doll.”

Veronica couldn’t help but smile at his boyish enthusiasm as he smacked his lips before taking another bite. She couldn’t let his presumption stand, though, and she dimpled across at him as she observed, “You talk like we’ll be doing this often in the future. Like we’re not just… two trains passing in the night.”

He was just leaning closer to her, and no doubt about to carry the train metaphor a bit too far – she was looking forward to that – when a discreet cough sounded behind her. Logan clenched his jaw and Veronica tried not to giggle as they placed their orders.

But she didn’t laugh when he leaned across the table and ran his thumb down her lip until it came away glistening with forgotten butter. She watched, once again mesmerized, as he placed the finger between his lips and sucked.

Oh, he was a real pro at this.

“So you do this a lot, then? Try to pick up strange girls?” Veronica avoided the danger of his gaze as she casually nibbled at her roll.

“You make it sound so sordid,” he chided with mock gravity, and she could only narrow her eyes at him before glancing away from his sad expression. “And you’re not so strange.”

She glared at him, “I’m not your average Jane.”

Logan wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Oh, believe me, I can see that.” He was still playing his game of flirtation, and he began to rattle off his impressions of her. Sure, he was correct on many levels. She was heeled. The little Derringer pistol was nestled among her makeup and travel papers in the small bag at her feet. Her father had given it to her when he finally realized he couldn’t convince her not to pursue a life of investigation and justice. He knew better than anyone the dangers from twenty-four years as a cop. He had died learning it, thanks to a mugger three years back. And now she was alone. Jake couldn’t handle the change in her after her father’s death. It had been worse than what had happened after the mob did Rose in. The loss of her father and best friend honed to a razor’s edge the sharp walls she used to keep the world out. Jake Conathan had grown tired of the fights, and had never agreed with her unofficial work for the Bureau. She’d been happy to see him go in the end. But that didn’t mean a part of her wasn’t sad.

Veronica didn’t tear up as Logan Reynolds continued to tell her how well he knew her. How she was all alone in the word and – Reynolds! And he was lecturing her on personal relations?

“You mean like you do? God, what is your problem?” She leaned across the table. “You change tracks from sizing up my gams to insulting me in the blink of an eye. Isn’t that a bit too cliché? Hollywood son –” she savored his flinch “– Oh, yes! I know who you are now. Your name was in all the papers. You’re more famous now for your romantic peccadilloes than your father ever was for his screen romances. But you can’t let anyone get close to you, can you? Treat them like garbage so they can’t hurt you down the line. Heaven forbid that any of them ever measure up to… what was her name?”

“Daisy,” his voice was bitter as he spit out the name of the girl he’d left at the altar.

“The secretaries at the L.A. office couldn’t stop talking about you two. The wedding of the new century, they said. And then you didn’t show. She told them all. She was too poor for you in the end, even if she was willing to look past the affairs. She was very happy to spin the talk to the press about them afterwards, right? But you just started flaunting it, and it was clear she couldn’t take your stepping out. Did you ever blame yourself when she turned to drugs?” she mused, watching his face grow hard. “They found her in a gum house, right? Too much pure poppy in the veins, I heard.” She toasted him with her glass when she heard the waiter walking up behind her. “No wonder you prefer strangers.”

Logan was still staring at her. A dark storm swirled in the depths of his eyes, and she felt a sudden blush climb her cheeks. She looked at her meal and tried to savor the excellent flavors. She’d only spoken the truth, and she knew she shouldn’t feel bad now. But then she reflected on the things the Chicago papers had printed about Rose’s wild life. As if not crossing your legs in church entitled you to be gang-raped and double-tapped by low life scum.

“I’m sorry.” The apologetic words were faint and rusty from ill-use, and she steeled herself as he glanced up at her in irritation.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

Logan’s fork clattered to the plate as his mouth twisted with false humor.

She shifted in her suddenly-uncomfortable seat but pressed on. “I shouldn’t have brought up your fiancée. I know it was in all the papers a year ago, but they never get the story right and…” She tried to read his face and judge the effects of her words, but he was a cipher. She sighed. “I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

He sat still for a minute before a weak smile split his mask.

“Why do I get the feeling that it’s not easy getting an apology out of you?”

She had to laugh at that and concede, “Maybe you do know me fairly well after all.”

Logan clicked his fingers then, but, instead of allowing the waiter to pour them more wine, he claimed the bottle and waved the addled boy away. Veronica watched as he filled her glass, then his own, noting the way his fingers held the smooth bottle with a firm certainty, and the near sensual slide they made down its side when he placed it within easy reach. Veronica wondered if all those women he was reputed to have had possibly knew something that she didn’t.

He held his glass high and then moved it towards her.

“To strangers on a train,” he suggested.

Veronica clinked her rim to his and confirmed, “To strangers, and the things that they know.”

Logan slid closed the door to his private cabin. He leaned against it as he watched Veronica standing at the window, framed by the fast moving shadows beyond. She turned and a faint dusting of pink climbed her cheeks when she found him looking at her.

“How about that nightcap?” she chirped, her eyes darting low, from his made up bunk to his small pile of reading materials, looking at anything to avoid looking directly at him. He crossed the distance between them in four long strides, and she was forced to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened when he raised his hand, but she let him touch the back of his fingers to the velvet softness of her cheek. She allowed him to trail it down her delicate neck, and her body shivered when his hand lifted from her exposed collar bone as if it already missed the touch.

“We could drink some more,” he considered. “But there are other things we could be doing, too.”

Veronica’s gaze was knowing, but she asked anyway. “And what would those other things be?”

“This.” He lowered his head to hers and was rewarded when her hands quickly slid beneath his dinner jacket and pressed him to her. She tasted like butter and wine and raspberries, and he wanted to feast on her mouth for an eternity.

Her bravado abandoned her the minute she walked into his swanky private cabin. She found herself at the large picture window, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the reflected casualness of his form to look into the darkness beyond. She turned.

“How about that nightcap?” It should have diffused the tension and given her time to collect herself. But Logan wasn’t as easily diverted as Jake had been. Logan stalked toward her, and she felt her pulse pick up speed at the sheer intensity reflected in his eyes. His hand raised, and Veronica expected a kiss, but he merely touched her, sliding the back of his fingers across her exposed skin. He left a trailing burn of sensation, and she couldn’t help but lean into him as he tilted his head in studied preponderance.

“We could drink some more,” he let his head fall the other way as he gazed down at her. “But there are other things we could be doing, too.”

Veronica curled her toes in the tips of her shoes at the promise in his words. “And what would those other things be?” she asked coyly.

With a simple breathing of the word ‘this,’ Logan captured her mouth with his. Veronica was surprised at how quickly she pulled him towards her, and at how her heart thrilled to feel his hands molding the back of her head, scattering her hair pins to the floor.

Logan turned their bodies and stepped into her.                                                    Veronica felt the pallet pressing at her thighs.

               He never stopped kissing her.                                             She pulled him down to cover her.

Their hands flew at the buttons and zippers of the many offending articles of clothing while their mouths moved against each other, communicating passion and desire better than mere words ever could.

Veronica arched away from the bed as Logan pulled her skirt over her hips, down her legs, and let it fall on top of the growing pile of clothing, but he broke their kiss when his hands encountered what her skirt had hidden. He examined her legs with a feral grin, running his palms up the smooth silk of her stockings until they hit the four pink ribbons of her garters. Veronica shuddered as he lowered his head and took the end of one ribbon between his teeth.

“I’m starting to miss these,” he bemoaned, unhappy at the effect the war was having on the state of women’s undergarments.

“Funny,” Veronica squirmed as his tongue bathed the line of the ribbon against her flesh, “it feels like you found them just fine.”

Logan smirked up at her and deftly unhooked the ribbons from the silk. He kissed each inch of flesh as it was uncovered to the cool air, and then held the two scraps of silk while he looked at her with mock-despair.

“Why, Miss Lester, I do believe you’ve been holding out on our boys. Could these possibly be nylon?”

Veronica sat up and plucked the flimsy fabric out of his hands and tossed it on the ground. “There’s only one boy who’s in danger of being held out on, funny man.” She slipped her hand around the back of his neck and tugged until his warm chest was flush with hers. “I’ve got a small tour of service for you.”

He followed her to the bed with a small laugh. “Private Reynolds, reporting for duty, ma’am.”

They laughed into each other’s mouths, but the friction of skin on skin soon sobered them. Her legs were long enough to wrap around his thighs, and her feet hooked behind his back as her body made a request of his with a small movement of her hips. He framed her head on either side as he held himself above her, and her golden hair spread freely across the white sheets. Both pairs of eyes fell closed as he slid into her, and his forehead fell on top of hers.

The rumble of the train shook the small cot, adding unexpected but not unwelcome vibrations to their lovemaking. The clicking of the wheels along the rails was like a metronome that increased its paces instead of standing still as a straight stretch of track loomed before them. The whistle blew shrilly in the night at the same time Veronica screamed his name, gripping his arms as she thrashed out her climax. Logan managed to fall to the side when he went over, his chest still heaving, his arms twitching as they strove to relax.

Veronica was having a hard time not grinning like a loon at the telegraph operator. Logan had left her at the office with a lingering kiss, earning them a death glare from a wrinkled prune of a woman before Veronica had pushed him away with a laugh and a wave. She couldn’t wait to check in and hurry back to the station to make the connecting train they’d both ride to New York. If Logan’s business finished quickly, they might be able to grab a bite to eat together… among other things.

Veronica shook her head and thanked the operator for the small reply envelope. She cleared away her thoughts of dangerous dark eyes and clever hands as she unfolded the expected confirmation of receipt. Only that wasn’t what this was. She scanned the simple lines as a sickness grew in the pit of her stomach.

TO: LAY AGENT LESTER FROM: SPECIAL AGENT RAM, NY FIELD OFFICE REPORT RECEIVED. STOP. NEW ASSIGNMENT ISSUED. STOP. INTELLEGENCE REPORTS MAFIA PRESENCE ON YOUR SCHEDULED ROUTE TO NEW YORK, NY. STOP. ACTING AGENT TO SEEK OUT, LOCATE, AND MONITOR ONE LOGAN REYNOLDS AND PROVIDE IDENTIFICATION AND CAPTURE ASSISTANCE AT GRAND CENTRAL STATION. STOP. SUBJECT SHOULD BE CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. STOP.

The yellow paper fluttered to her feet as Veronica’s world shattered yet again.

Logan nursed his tumbler of cheap booze as he waited for Big Tony to hang up the blower. Now-a-days, he couldn’t afford to pass through the home turf of the Gilelmi crime family without stopping in for a ‘chat.’ Things had been different before that investment grift had gone south. And now, they had so much on him he had no choice but to dance like a puppet on a string whenever they called. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though. Logan tossed back the shine as Tony finally turned to him.

“Logan, my boy. How’s the old man doing?” His teeth were stained yellow behind his smile.

“Don’t dick with me, Tony. What do you need me to do?”

Tony chuckled as he reached into a the side drawer of his desk. “You got balls, kid. I’ll give you that.” He set a shining Colt .45 in the center of his stained blotter as all humor flew from his face. “Just don’t be stupid.”

Logan stood up so abruptly that his chair overturned. “I don’t do that, gunsel. You know that. I’m no hatchet-man.”

“You are what I say you are, cacasenno.”

Logan stood in the center of the room. His muscles twitched and his teeth ground together. But there was nothing to do. He was trapped in a web of his own making, and he could only sit and wait for this fat spider to devour him whole. He righted the chair and waited for the death sentence to come down.

“The broad’s name is Veronica Lester. She works for the Feds, and she’s their star witness against old Mickey the Hand up in New York. I want you to bump her off, see? She’s on the same train we’s told you to take.” He slid a well-thumbed black-and-white photograph across the desk.

Logan looked down at the familiar face and felt the web tighten.

The walls of the hallway of the passenger car swayed under Veronica’s searching hand as the train picked up speed after pulling away from the station. She pressed her palm into the wood with a firmer pressure as she struggled to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He was a mobster.

He was the first guy since Jake – Hell’s bells – the only guy to ever make her feel at home in the churning whirlpool that was her life. Not a steady rock on which to stand, dragging her down to the depths; but someone who knew how to ride the waves of change and cruise to the eye of the storm, who showed her the beautiful order present in chaos, and could bring her to such sweet heights of passion.

He was a killer, a button man, a sleaze. He was her target, and he would spend the rest of his life behind bars when she did her job and brought him in.

Veronica stumbled into the next car, not caring that it was stacked high with leaning piles of packages and crates that creaked with each jolt of the train. She fell back against the wall and closed her eyes as she willed herself to remember Rose’s face as it had been after those slime balls had finished with her. All she could see was him, leaning over her in the dark, sweet and naughty words falling from his mouth like stars as he moved within her.

She wasn’t surprised when she opened her eyes and found the dream replaced with the flesh-and-blood man. She fancied that she could see her despair reflected in his eyes as he moved closer. Logan veered to the side at the last moment, and she gasped at the feel of his lips moving on the curve of her jaw, the heat of his mouth replacing the chilled air of the uninsulated baggage car.

She sobbed her painful pleasure into his ear and clutched at his shoulders, digging deep into his muscled arms before pushing his pinstriped jacket down his arms and to the floor. It landed with a thunk, freeing herself to explore his chest and back before she plunged her fingers into his hair. His fedora toppled to the floor.

Veronica wasn’t in the numbered coach cabin she’d read to him from her ticket. As the train rumbled to start, he had shouldered his way past the new strangers and sought out the old one. He didn’t know her at all. They’d only met five nights ago and yet he’d managed to convince himself that he knew her, that he understood her.

She was a cop.

Broads were all the same. He should have known that, after Daisy and his father – Goddamnit – he should have known since he watched his mother pickle herself in rotgut. You couldn’t trust them to be there for you, a constant light of warmth in the dark world. If he’d felt more alive in a few days with Veronica Lester than he had in over half his life, well, that was just one more joke at his expense.

She was a shamus, a bull, a fucking federal agent. She was his target, and she would be cold come morning, if he could bring himself to snuff her out.

He caught sight of her petite form at the end of the car, just as she slipped the door shut. He picked up his pace at merely the glint of her hair in the afternoon sun . Like a moth he moved towards death. His or hers, who could say? They all died sometime. Every woman he’d ever cared about was six feet under while he stumbled on, through the sliding door. All except this one, who was currently leaning against the wall, breathing, moving, living, and looking like every dream he’d ever told himself was too good for him.

Her eyes were weary when they fluttered open, but that was only further proof of her vibrancy. Veronica lived, and she had breathed that life back into him. How the fuck could he ever kill her? Logan fell into her, to the fragile length of her neck and the pulsing vitality that ran up the delicate tracery of blue. He inhaled the clean scent of her living flesh and moaned.

When she cried out with such sweet torment, Logan felt a stinging at the corner of his eyes. But that was quickly forgotten when she pulled him towards her. He sank into her warmth, letting his hands slip gently along the smooth curve of her back as she pulled frantically on his jacket and shoulders.

As Logan kissed his way along the slender column of her neck, he reached down, catching the free-hanging fabric of her skirt at the knees, and wrapping his fingers around her silk clad thighs. Veronica shuddered as he pulled slowly upward and tugged his mouth to her eager lips, his tongue meeting with her own.

Logan pressed her into the wall as soon as the skirt’s hem cleared her waist, and caught her as she jumped into his arms. They both ignored the clatter of her shoes on the splintered wood floor as Veronica’s hand snaked down the soft linen of his shirt front until her finger tips touched his waistband. As Logan tightened his grip on the bare flesh of her behind, they both gave thanks for the brief, carefree romp they had indulged in that morning, and the hurried packing afterwards which had resulted in the pleasant absence of cotton interference between his fingers and her skin.

They stopped kissing then, and blue eyes held with brown as Veronica’s clever fingers pulled first at the leather strap of his belt, and then at the top button of his fly. Neither one of them smiled, and their panted breaths mingled, hot and moist, between them. They marked the slide of each rounded piece of bone through its slit of fine wool with a shared catch of breath. A second hand joined the first as Logan’s arms began to shake from the full weight of her small frame. Then he was free to her grasp and they both moaned softly. Veronica pulled herself up his torso, and he quietly slid home. They finally broke the mating contact of their eyes. She rose again, and then he pushed up slowly as she fell.

His head fell forward onto her shoulder, and he began to nibble and suck at the arching grace of her collar bone while her head lulled back, tapping against the wooden wall with a soft thud each time he filled her. They moved together with a near-choreographed perfection, Logan adding a slight upward grind which caused her to moan louder each time and to dig her nails into the flesh of his flexing back through the fine fibers of his shirt.

The measured pace increased with the patience of a sea tide on the night of the full moon: growing to a surging rush so gradually that momentary observations would detect no change even as the pressure and tension mounted. Logan breathed her name into the curve of her neck as Veronica bit down on her inner lip to stop from calling out.

And then he sucked, hard, at the pulse below her jaw, her life’s beat. She shuddered, her head pounding hard into the wall while her feet flexed and quivered behind his back. Seconds later he cried out, still beside her ear, where she couldn’t help but hear.

“Oh, fucklove, Veronica, I -.”

Veronica’s gasp halted Logan in the middle of re-tucking his front shirt tails. She was standing against the wall with his pinstriped blazer in her left hand, and his shiny new rod in her right. He noticed the tears now, streaming down her face, even while she dropped his jacket, and he was so tired of this game.

He found her clutch purse, lying forgotten in the corner, and bent slowly to grab it. Logan ignored the flood of disappointment when he saw Veronica jump at his moves in his peripheral vision. He focused on opening the dainty metal clasp in front of him, and not on the way Veronica was clutching the gun.

“What are you doing? Drop my purse, Logan.” His insides quivered in sympathy with her voice.

He didn’t raise his eyes from the black interior of the sack. “You’re not going to shoot me, Veronica.” He dropped a few small containers of make-up and a well-thumbed memo pad before his hands closed on a length of cold iron.

“I’m not?”

Logan pulled out a small Derringer pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle and finally looked up. He met with eyes as confused and despairing as his own as he shook his head.

“You know, don’t you? You’ve known all along that I was connected with the Gilelmi Family.” He moved closer to her as she shook her head. “Did they send you onto the train to bait me? To get close to me?”

Her arms hung loosely at her sides as she gaped at him and muttered something about New York and a job transfer and betrayal. Her eyes looked so damn blue as they swam with tears, and it pissed him off that all he wanted to do was pull her close and never let go.

“How much do they pay you to whore –” the left uppercut set him stumbling back and her shining eyes were hidden by the muzzle of his piece when he regained his balance.

“You… Boob! I wasn’t wise to anything and you approached me. How dare you imply that I –” the gun wavered and then was still. “I’m not some pro-skirt or roundheel who falls into bed with every man I meet. I thought we… But you sat there and listened to me tell you about Rose and what they did to her. And you – you’re a gangster.”

Logan settled the tiny bean-shooter into his right hand and glared at Veronica from across the confined space. “And you’re turning state’s evidence in the Hand’s trial.” He still knew her well enough to recognize the fear flashing across her face.

He laughed, sharp and hollow.

“They told me to kill you, Veronica. To rub you out and throw your body from the train.”

Her gun hand wavered, lowered.

“I said I would.”

The Colt was up in a flash but he had her small little Derringer pinned on her just as fast.

The compartment door flew open.

An unexpected weight at the bottom of his coat attracted Veronica’s curiosity, but she couldn’t control her gasp when she reached into the inner pocket and pulled out a Colt .45. She met his gaze with incredulity, but it was his bleak expression of annoyance that made her loosen her grip on the light wool and caused her eyes to water once more.

She blinked several times, hoping to clear away the image of his casual stride towards the corner. She jumped when he retrieved her purse from the floor, and her hands moved of their own accord, wrapping around the comforting cold iron. He began to open the bag and her fear began to mount.

“What are you doing?” She tried, and failed, to steady her voice as it wavered. “Drop my purse, Logan.” Her palms were growing sweaty as she tried to remember what exactly she had been carrying today, to remember her handgun training, to remember her duty. To forget the way his fingers felt on her flesh.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Veronica.” A chill blew through his words.

“I’m not?” She wasn’t sure who she was really asking.

Veronica winced as he pulled out her father’s final gift to her: a Derringer pistol, clean and well cared for, and deadly at this range. He finally met her eyes with a despairing shake of his head.

“You know, don’t you? You’ve known all along.” He let slip the Gilelmi name and moved closer to her, poisonous words dripping with each step.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d never seen you before in my life. I told you, I’m heading to New York on a job transfer. I’m not the one who lied. I’m not the one who betrayed a trust.” She stared at him unblinking.

He smirked down at her. “How much do they pay you to whore –” She felt the pain in her knuckles before she recognized that she had played a bit of chin music on him.

“You… Boob!” she raged. “You approached me. How dare you imply that I –. I’m not some pro skirt or roundheel who falls into bed with every man I meet. I thought we… But you sat there and listened to me tell you about Rose and what they did to her. And you – you’re a gangster.” She leveled the gun at him, her duty finally clear.

“And you’re turning state’s evidence in the Hand’s trial.”

Veronica felt as if her blood had turned to ice as she watched Logan raise his gun – her gun – casually and survey her expression, dark humor flashing within his hooded eyes. He chuckled without mirth as he idly pet the shaft of her tiny heater.

“They told me to kill you, Veronica. To rub you out and throw your body from the train.”

She was more scared by what she found in his dark eyes than what she did not.

“I said I would.”

Veronica raised the heavy Colt and cursed the effortless way with which he countered.

The compartment door flew open.

Logan Echolls awoke with a start, his hands flying over his body, checking for injuries. He was alright. But the shot had come from somewhere. The bullet had gone somewhere. He was okay but…

But what about her? What about Veronica?

It wasn’t until his bare feet landed on the cold wooden floors of his bedroom at the Neptune Grand that he remembered a few basic facts: he wasn’t a gangster, he’d never ridden a train in his life, and he had no idea what a ‘shamus’ was.

And Veronica was fine. At this time of night, she was no doubt curled up with the world’s friendliest pit-bull and dreaming of all the delightful evil she could accuse him of. Or maybe she was on a stake-out. Or maybe she was bleeding…

The phone was in his hand and dialed before he could finish the thought.

Veronica Mars jerked awake and lay panting. It took her a moment to realize that her sheets and pajamas were wet from sweat instead of blood. Where had that shot come from? Had she really fired on him? Impossible.

Logan? Had he been shot? Was he…

But Logan Reynolds wasn’t a real person. It had just been a dream: a very scary, amazingly hot, oddly familiar dream.

She was fine.

Logan was fine. Probably passed out on the couch while one of his games flickered in the background. Or draped across some fortune-hunting bimbo. Or bleeding…

She reached for the phone with a sigh and dialed.