The Inheritance: Anything He Craves by Terry Towers Page A

address to her sort-of brother on a slip of
letterhead and then passed it to her. "Good luck Angel."
    Good
luck? What a strange choice of words. She shook the thoughts of
fear from her mind. Considering the emotional trauma she'd been
through recently she was sure she was just imagining his
apprehension.
     
     
    ****
     
     
    "Wow." As
Angelica pulled her silver Mercedes up to the curb of the building
where Logan resided, she was impressed. It was nicer than the
building she lived in. It was situated in Manhattan, next to
Central Park and one of the highest buildings around, the top floor
reaching up into the clouds. At least it appeared that way looking
up from inside her car. A knock on her window from the valet pulled
her from her shocked state. Turning off the car, she opened the
door and slid out passing the keys to the young, freckled,
red-haired valet in exchange for a valet ticket.
    As he pulled
away she made her way into the building and the lobby was equally
as impressive. The decor Victorian in nature and screaming out
wealth. My God! Had her father been supporting Logan all
these years? How else could he afford to live in such an
extravagant place at such a young age? Maybe he's shacked up
with some wealthy cougar . She chuckled to herself at the
idea.
    After she
pressed the call button for the elevator, it dinged and the doors
opened. Inside was an elevator attendant, who gave her a smile and
curt nod of the head. "Which floor Ma'am?"
    Shit? Which floor? She chewed at her lower lip. The address Clayton had
given her only had the street address. With a shrug she gave him an
embarrassed smile. "Logan Sinclair."
    "Thank you
Ma'am." The attendant pressed the button for the highest floor, the
elevator doors closed and she found herself barrelling skyward, the
floor numbers lighting as they rose higher and higher. Less than a
minute later the elevator dinged again and the doors slid open
displaying a large foyer with a set of mahogany double doors at the
end. "Have a good evening Ma'am."
    "Thank you,"
she called over her shoulder walking up to the doors.
    He has the
whole floor to himself. Holy shit!
    She hesitated,
her French manicured index finger poised over the doorbell. She was
actually feeling butterflies in her stomach. She'd been so
confident coming down here, thinking that this would be easy, but
if he was able to afford this place without the assistance of her
father then maybe convincing him to move into the manor would be a
little trickier than she originally expected.
    Taking a shaky
breath in, she pressed the buzzer and waited. It was 6pm on a
Saturday night so there was the possibility that he wasn't home.
She hadn't considered that on her four hour drive into Manhattan
from her home in Boston. But she gave herself a little slack, she
hadn't been thinking too clearly since her father's unexpected
death, so this was a slight oversight.
    She pressed
the buzzer again and waited. She was about to turn and leave when
the door was flung open, to present a man she presumed to be Logan
Sinclair, wearing a pair of black boxers and nothing else. Holy
fuck, that's Logan! "I... Ummm."
    Her eyes
dropped to his bare feet and slowly worked their way up his firm,
muscular calves, to his thick powerful thighs. Without meaning to
her eyes paused at the front of his boxers and she could feel a
blush creeping into her cheeks as she took notice of the sizable
bulge under the thin material of the shorts. Giving her head a
quick shake she took in his perfect eight pack abdominals, lean
torso and broad hairless chest until they reached his forest green
eyes. He looked like he's just out of an underwear ad, he was that gorgeous.
    A smile tugged
at his lips as he raised a brow at her. "Can I help you with
something? Lost perhaps?" His voice was deep, satiny smooth and
sexy in its own right.
    Damn! Well,
hello Logan Sinclair!
     
     
    ****
     
     
    Logan looked
down at the young woman who was close, but not quite, a foot
shorter