Page 135 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Logan had wanted to know that Blaze hadn’t crashed on that frantic dash down the highway.
And Blaze had never revoked the location sharing.
Logan had known where Blaze and Sarah were every damned step of the whole trip.
The whole time.
His house, where Mary Varvara’s goons had shown up in the middle of the night.
The Cleveland Ritz-Carlton, where the hitman from the farm had drawn guns on them.
And now, as they were turning into Logan’s building, and that’s why Logan had texted.
Logan Bell’s betrayal felt impossible. The four guys—Logan, Tristan “Twist” King, Micah Shine, and himself—had called themselves the Scholarship Mafia for their four years of sheer high school Hell at the Le Rosey boarding school in Switzerland.
They’d survived together.
Since then, they’d come to each other’s aid in every circumstance, whether it was when Twist had burned down a restaurant and needed a helicopter ride out, Micah had crossed the Sokolov and Butorin bratva families in Monaco, or that other time when Micah had been shivering naked in a Parisian bathroom because his lover had burned all his clothes in the street.
And then there’d been the incident when Blaze’s SEAL Team had discovered hundreds of kidnapped girls in Libya, and the US government hadn’t been able to provide transportation for political reasons. Blaze called his cavalry: Logan, Twist, and Micah. Within hours, dozens of yachts had lifted anchor from Monaco and the Italian Riviera, crossing the Mediterranean overnight to stage a Dunkirk-style rescue.
Logan had been on the first plane to the Naples Capodichino Airport, the nearest airport to Italy’s Amalfi Coast, and had been obtaining financing for rented ships and calling in favors from yacht-owning friends the whole way. He and Twist had been standing on the prow of the first yacht to dock in Libya like they were the kings of the world, where he’d jumped onto the pier and coordinated rescue efforts.
Micah had been on the last yacht out of Portofino, Italy because he was fluent in Italian. He’d coordinated the last half of the flotilla and liaised with the Italian government to offer the girls shelter until they could be returned to their families in Nigeria and Algeria.
Those three guys, and especially Logan, had always been there.
Surely, not Logan. Not the guy Blaze had depended on. Not the guy with that much history with him, that much tested and trusted loyalty.
Dear God, not Logan.
A betrayal of that magnitude was inconceivable.
Impossible.
Yeah, it was impossible. Logan would never betray him.
And if Logan had even thought about it, Twist and Micah would’ve strongarmed him into line. The four of them were as solid as a double-clasped handshake.
Not any of those three guys would screw Blaze over, just as he would drop everything and do anything for one of them. They were each other’s responsibility. They were tighter than blood family.
As Blaze and Sarah approached 15 Central Park West, a double-towered, soft gray limestone building with the zigzag stepped outline of the Empire State Building and the window pattern of a punch card, Blaze spied the gap in the monolith and turned the steering wheel. His car dove onto the descending ramp to the basement parking garage, where his quarter-mil Aston Martin Vantage became just another vehicle parked at that exclusive address. A Bentley Bacalar coupe hunched in the first parking space.
As Blaze emerged, a valet with a bouncer’s physique said, “Mr. Bell is expecting you and has preregistered your vehicle. You may proceed directly to the elevator. I’ve already programmed the floor for you, so you won’t need a keycard tonight. Shall I call for someone to bring your luggage up?”
Blaze tossed the keys to the night valet despite his shaking hand and told him, “Don’t send up the luggage. We might not be staying.”
“But you said this is where Logan lives,” Sarah said, searching his face with her gaze as if inspecting him for skin cancer. “We’re going to need the luggage, or at least, I’ll need mine.”
Blaze turned back to the valet. “Wait on the bags. We’ll call down if we need them.” He started walking toward the elevator.
Sarah followed, but she kept glancing behind them.
The rock-stillness of the glassy polished marble and refined furnishings of the mini-lobby where they waited for the elevator was too solid after the rushing landscape of driving for two days. The grouping looked more like a private martini and cigar club than an apartment building’s vestibule.
They were almost to Logan’s apartment, and a pall settled over Blaze.
Yes, Logan had had some tough breaks in his life.
