[English] Stranded With A Billionaire

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 20



She felt like an idiot. A huge one. How could he not tell her the truth? Did she matter so very little to him that he’d hide his identity from her? Was his name even Logan Hawkings? She couldn’t trust a single word that had come out of his mouth over the past few days.

And she’d slept with him! Oh, God. She wanted to hide her face in her hands, but that would give away too much of what she was feeling at the moment. Instead, she pasted on her best friendly-waitress smile and tried not to think about how she’d cuddled with the man the night before, or had gone down on him under a table that morning because she was goofy for him.

She’d thought she’d been so lucky to be stranded with someone like Logan. Handsome, take-charge, intelligent, ***y, and strong. Well, she could add a few more adjectives to that list. Words like “liar” and “jerk” and “untrustworthy.”

How he must have laughed at her, Brontë thought bitterly. Every time she’d mentioned how he ran the hotel, he’d been silently laughing at her. A waitress. Had he let her assume he was the manager so she wouldn’t be so intimidated by his job, thus ensuring that she’d sleep with him? Ugh.

Well, she’d wanted this to be a weekend fling, hadn’t she? Mission accomplished. If she never saw the man again, it would suit her just fine.

They landed some time later on an unfamiliar roof, and everyone began to unbuckle their seatbelts as the helicopter blades slowed to a stop. Brontë removed her headset when the others did, and she couldn’t help but ask as Logan hopped out of the helicopter, “Where are we?”

He didn’t answer her but simply extended a hand to help her out of the helicopter. She took it and waited for him to reply as she stepped down. When he didn’t, she turned to Jonathan and repeated the question.

He grinned over at her. “One of my summer homes in Miami. You can stay here until we get things sorted out.”

One of his summer homes? One of? She glanced around at the massive roof she stood on. It was probably bigger than her apartment building. Exactly how much money did Logan and his buddy have? She narrowed her eyes at their backs, following them down the stairs and into the house.

Inside, her suspicions were confirmed. The house was an enormous mansion. White walls that had never seen a speck of dirt were artfully decorated with expensive light fixtures and framed art. Her dirty sandals flapped on marble tiles, and she had to fight to keep her mouth from going slack at the sight of the expensive carpets and furniture. It looked like a showroom of some kind. Except this was someone’s house, which was bizarre.

Jonathan led them down a long hall and then gestured at one of the doors. “You can stay here, Brontë. I only have a few guest rooms in this house, so if you don’t like it, we can switch your room.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she told him with her polite waitress smile. She didn’t plan on staying here any longer than she had to. Of course, he didn’t have to know that.

“She stays with me,” Logan said in a firm voice.

Her eyes narrowed at his confident tone. “I want my own room.”

He glanced down at her and gave her a small shake of his head. “You’re staying with me.”

“Is that so?”

Jonathan gave her an appraising look. “In that case, I guess you can stay with Logan.” He nodded at his friend. “It’s your usual room.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment.

So it was decided? Just like that? She gritted her teeth. “Care to show me which room that is? I think I’d like a shower.”

Jonathan grinned, as if remarking her barely contained fury. “I’ll let lover boy here do the honors. I need to make a few calls. Feel free to head downstairs when you’re up to it.” He put his hands in his pockets and whistled, heading down the long marble staircase at the end of the hall with a jaunty confidence that bespoke years of familiarity with the place.

She turned to look at Logan and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

“I know, and we’ll talk about it later. I promise,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and steering her down the long hall to a different set of doors.

Brontë waited for him to explain, but he paused in front of the door and said only, “This is our room.” He pushed it open, and she gaped at the room before her. Thick, plush red carpet covered the floor. A massive wooden four-poster bed dominated the room, along with a bay window that overlooked an enormous swimming pool. A Pre-Raphaelite painting hung over the bed. The entire thing screamed money.

And Logan had a “usual room.” Ugh again. Everything he’d told her was a lie. What was the point in lying to her about his job, though? It didn’t make sense. It only hurt her feelings that she hadn’t mattered enough for him to tell the truth.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Logan told her. “I need to meet with Jonathan to discuss a few things and then call my assistant. I’ve been out of pocket for too long.”

She stiffened, then turned to give him an incredulous look. “I thought we were going to talk.”

“It can wait.”

“No, it can’t. You lied to me.”

“The lie ended up being to your benefit.”

She gasped. “My benefit? Since when is lying to someone to their benefit?”

“I’m wealthy,” he said. “I’m sure that’ll make up for a lot of things. Take a shower, and you’ll feel better. I need to talk to Jonathan.”

He leaned in to kiss her, and she turned her face away, still stewing. She didn’t realize that he’d left until she heard the door shut and she was left all alone in the gorgeous room.

He wasn’t who she’d thought he was. He had money, and he obviously thought that having money made his opinion more important than hers.

The lie ended up being to your benefit.

Brontë wanted to punch him for saying that. She kicked off her sandals in a fury and crossed her arms, heading over to the window to stare out at the pool below. After the hurricane, it was odd to see a pool that wasn’t full of broken deck chairs. Jonathan’s pool was, of course, full of sky blue water. A large waterfall cascaded down some rocks on the far end of the pool, and to the side she saw a white linen tent fluttering in the breeze, with cushioned wooden deck furniture underneath.

Wooden deck furniture. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it and that white linen tent. Of having a pool with a freaking waterfall. She glanced around the room she was standing in. The carpet must have been two inches thick. She eyed the massive bed and expensive-looking coverlet, the painting with the plaque underneath that told her it was legit and not a copy. She went to the bathroom and flicked the light on.

The bathroom was bigger than her apartment. There was a sunken marble tub, a glass box shower, and three sinks. A wall full of mirrors on one side. A toilet and a bidet. Naturally.

This wasn’t just big money. This was ridiculous, stupid money.

And here she was, just a diner waitress who had gotten stuck in the elevator with a rich guy on an island.

No, she amended, a rich guy who owned the island.

She frowned, glancing back over at the bed. A telephone sat on an antique nightstand next to it. She went and picked it up, thinking hard. Brontë pulled out her wallet. Her cre*** card was intact, the few dollar bills she had in there a bit soggy but serviceable.

So she dialed information and got the number of a local taxi service. “I need a car to take me to the airport, please.”

“No problem. What’s your current address?”

“I have no idea. Can you do a reverse lookup on the number?”

The woman on the other end of the line agreed, then a moment later, said, “I’ve got the address. Someone will be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

Brontë hung up and crossed the room, sliding her shoes back on. She’d wanted a harmless weekend fling that she could leave behind, no strings attached. She’d gotten one. Logan might have wanted to continue their little island affair now that they were on the mainland, but he should have thought of that before he’d lied to her and then dismissed her concerns.

In her mind, she’d left Logan behind on the island. She’d liked the playful, fun Logan. Manager Logan. She had no interest in the rich asshole Logan, she thought sadly. The real Logan.

The one she’d fallen for was a fake.

***

Logan appropriated Jonathan’s study and made a few important phone calls that couldn’t wait another day. He called his assistant and asked her to order a new phone to be shipped to him overnight as well as to cancel his cre*** cards since he’d left his wallet somewhere at the resort. Then he called a few business partners to let them know he was indeed alive and that meetings should be rescheduled.

When he’d finished with the calls, he hung up the phone and found that Jonathan had reentered the room at some point during his last call. He’d brought a bottle of whiskey and sat down directly across from Logan, placing it between them. “Need a drink? You look like you could...

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He waved away the offer. “The only drink I could use right now is water. Alcohol just dehydrates you.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You never loosen up, do you? It’s a wonder that your little gal pal didn’t run away screaming as soon as you opened your mouth.”

Funny. Brontë hadn’t though he was a stiff-necked jerk. He scowled at Jonathan. His adventurous friend got on his nerves with his laissez-faire attitude. Jonathan would move mountains—or destroy companies—to help his friend out, but sometimes the man needed to learn to shut up.

“We got stuck in an elevator.”

Jonathan snorted, knocking back his drink. “Is that how you got left behind? I was wondering if that **** manager of the place had neglected to tell anyone that you were there.”

“I fired him a few hours before the evacuation.” So no, Logan hadn’t been really surprised that no one had come looking for them. “How’d you figure out I was still there?”

“Oh, Hunter’s assistant’s been trying to get a hold of you for something, and when he couldn’t contact you for a couple of days, he set Hunter on it. Hunter didn’t have a chopper, so he called me.” Jonathan shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to figure out where you were at.”

Huh. Logan supposed he should thank Hunter next time he saw him. “Thank you for the rescue.”

Jonathan grinned. “I figured I’d come after you. It might have taken anyone else a few more days.”

Yet another thing to tick off on his list of items to improve at the Seaturtle Cay resort: evacuation plans. From what he’d seen, he wasn’t impressed. He and Brontë could have been in serious danger. Damn useless manager. Logan was glad he’d fired the guy.

“So . . . the girl. You said her name was Brontë?”

Logan nodded absently, thinking of her wind-tossed hair and her brilliant smile. Her crawling under the table, her lips around his ****.

“Cute girl. She’s with you, I take it?”

His eyes narrowed and a possessive surge rocketed through him. “Why?”

Jonathan raised a hand. “Down, boy. I was just going to comment that she wasn’t your regular type.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. Was this another Danica comment? “What exactly do you know about my regular type?”

“They’re friendlier, for one. That girl looked like she was ready to chew you up and spit you out once she found out you owned the place. You lied to her?”

“She saw my suit and assumed I was the manager. I decided not to disabuse her of that assumption. Seemed easier.”

“Well, I guess she’s not a gold digger,” Jonathan commented. “She did look pretty pissed, though.”

“She’ll get over it. The lie was to her benefit.”

“****, man, that’s cold. I hope you didn’t tell her that.”

Logan fixed his narrow gaze on Jonathan. The man wasn’t a player like Reese; he was constantly traveling or in some sort of adventure, and he had yet to find a woman to keep up with him. Ironic that he was giving Logan advice on a woman’s feelings. But if he was saying that Brontë would be offended, he might be right. “She’s not like other women. She’ll realize that I was protecting my identity and be fine with it.”

It had been an utterly pleasurable experience, too, he had to admit. Being with a woman and not having to worry whether she was thinking about what he could buy her? It had been freeing. He hadn’t realized how much so until he’d met Brontë.

“If you say so. You know her better than I do. What did you say she did for a living?”

“Nothing.”

Jonathan frowned and then leaned forward to pour himself another drink. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“I mean she does nothing for a living. She’s a waitress at a sock hop diner.” He tried hard not to let his lip curl at the thought. “She worked there during college and never really left.”

“Ah. I’m starting to see why you kept your identity a secret. Afraid she’s going to look to you to keep her in the lifestyle that she needs?”

Logan thought about that for a moment, frowning to himself. Actually, he didn’t see Brontë like that at all. She’d been so pleased with the smallest of things—like this morning’s breakfast. If anything, she seemed uncomfortable with wealth. She’d been looking around Jonathan’s beach house in pure dismay. It would take her a while to get used to this lifestyle, he figured.

He imagined bringing her with him to his penthouse in New York. Imagined dressing her in the finest silk lingerie and getting to strip it off of her body as she showed him how pleased she was with it. Introducing her to his friends and seeing her radiant smile light up her face. Coming to bed and having her roll over and snuggle close, her hand going automatically to his **** to grasp it even in her sleep.

He rather liked the thought of Brontë in his life. Low-key, unassuming Brontë in his arms, snuggled up next to him in the car, in his home . . . in his bed. He liked that visual very much. And she was a waitress, so it wasn’t like she’d be giving up a career to be at his beck and call. An inward smile curved his mouth.

“She’s not like that, Jonathan. She’s different. Trust me.”

“If you say so. She seems nice enough, the few minutes she wasn’t glaring at you.” His friend shrugged and picked up the liquor bottle, moving back to the cabinet by the window.

“I’ll make it up to her,” Logan decided after a long minute. Maybe he’d take her to another beach resort. A real one, not that rundown rat trap at Seaturtle Island.

But Jonathan was still staring out the window. His lips twitched, and he glanced back at Logan. “You said she won’t hold a grudge?”

Logan shook his head.

“And that she’s different from most women?”

“Where are you going with this, Jonathan?”

Jonathan grinned and thumbed toward the window. “She’s definitely different, I’ll give her that. I’m thinking she was so overcome at the news of your wealth that she felt the need to run. Your ladylove just escaped in a cab.”

Logan jumped to his feet, moving to the window. Sure enough, there was a cab pulling away from the house, heading east. Damn it. She’d run away. Why? He didn’t understand. “Where do you think she’s going?”

“Away from you?”

He glared at Jonathan. Bull****. His lovely, laughing Brontë? Running? Something was wrong. “Go tell your driver to follow them.”

Jonathan gave him an incredulous look. “You’re joking, right? She’s a free woman. She’s allowed to leave. Why don’t you call her and apologize?”

Logan didn’t have anything to apologize for, damn it. He scowled as he picked up the phone, then dropped it again. “I don’t have her number.”

Jonathan shrugged and glanced back out the window again. “So call your private investigator and ask him to look her up. There can’t be that many Brontës running around, can there?”

Logan watched the cab disappear into the distance with hard eyes. The time they’d spent together on the island had been perfect. Why was she running now that they were back on land? Was this punishment because he’d lied to her? A challenge of some kind? Did she want to be chased?

Little did she know that Logan Hawkings never backed down from a challenge. And her leaving without even saying good-bye? That was definitely a challenge.

Except she likely didn’t realize that it only made her more attractive to him, Logan thought. If there was any further proof needed that she wasn’t after his money, it was this. Brontë had wanted him when he was a nobody. Now he needed to find her again and prove to her that she’d still want him, regardless of the fact that he was really Logan Hawkings, billionaire.

And he could be very convincing when he wanted to be.

***

When Brontë entered the diner on Monday, Sharon approached her with a happy little squeal. “You’re home!”

“I am,” she said wearily, returning the enthusiastic hug with a halfhearted one. “Did you get home okay?”

“I did! Did you know that my passport was in the bar? Silly me. Anyhow, a nice man found it and gave it to me just before I got on a bus. I ended up spending the rest of the trip in some low-rent hotel on Miami Beach. It was free, but it wasn’t great.” She shrugged. “I tried calling you, though. You never answered and I couldn’t find you, and I couldn’t stick around. Which bus did you get on?”

Brontë moved to the break room and unlocked her locker, then tossed her purse in, all the while Sharon was at her heels. “I didn’t get on a bus. I got stuck in an elevator when the power went out.”

Sharon’s eyes went round. “The power went out?”

“Misfortune shows those who are not really friends,” she quoted to herself. Aristotle had certainly been right on that account. Sharon hadn’t even stuck around to see if Brontë was coming back? What a pal.

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Brontë pulled her frilly white apron out of her locker and tied it around her waist. “That’s right. I was stuck in there for almost a day.”

“By yourself?”

She hesitated a moment. “No, there was a guy in there.”

Sharon’s look went from shocked to sly in an instant. “Was he hot?” She paused, and then grinned. “You’re blushing. He was hot, wasn’t he? Did you two hook up?”

“Island fling,” Brontë said, keeping her tone casual. “Just like we talked about.”

“How totally romantic!” Sharon clutched her notepad to her breast and gazed at the ceiling. “So it was just you two, all alone in a big resort. . . .”

“Don’t forget the hurricane,” Brontë said drily. “And anyhow, it was just a momentary thing. It’s done. Over with. I didn’t even ask for his phone number.” She’d been too busy fleeing Jonathan’s house in Miami.

Sharon gave her a knowing look, reaching over and shutting Brontë’s locker. “Hound dog, huh? Maybe he only looked good in the middle of a hurricane.”

“I said he was good-looking.” She headed out to the front of the diner, which was already packed due to lunch hour. It was a themed restaurant, sock hop style. They served malts, burgers, and played fifties songs. Very kitschy. Her waitress outfit was retro, too. Sometimes it was fun. Sometimes it wasn’t. Today was one of those days when she would’ve rather been anywhere but the narrow little diner, since it meant she’d be bumping elbows with a very curious Sharon all afternoon.

“If he’s so hot and studly, why didn’t you bother to get the digits?” Sharon’s eyes widened, and she followed Brontë behind the bar. “Was he bad in bed? Is that why you ran?”

“I didn’t run,” Brontë gritted out. “And this is none of your business.”

“Bad in bed,” Sharon pronounced triumphantly, sauntering off to a table waving her down.

Brontë tucked a pencil and pad in her apron with extra care, determined to ignore Sharon. She was just trying to bug her, Brontë reasoned. And what exactly could she come back with? Actually, Logan was very ***y, and great in bed. Why did I run? Because he was loaded and he didn’t tell me. I felt like he lied to me.

Sharon wouldn’t understand that. She’d hear the word “loaded,” and her brain would stop functioning. And she’d insist on Brontë either hooking up with Logan again, or giving Sharon his number. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to do either.

She’d had a weekend to stew on her strategic retreat. All the way to the airport, then on the flight home, she’d half expected to turn the corner and see Logan waiting for her. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to come after her made her feel . . . well, she wasn’t sure. Part of her was disappointed that he’d let her walk away and part of her was relieved.

Brontë had searched for him on the Internet when she’d gotten home. He wasn’t just the owner of the resort, she’d found out. He owned that and an airline. And another hotel in Vegas. And a castle in England. And a private island in Fiji. And a dozen other companies that she didn’t even know what they did.

Logan Hawkings was not just rich. He was obscenely rich. Billionaire rich.

And that scared the hell out of her. It was just as well that he’d lied to her, or she would’ve run away. Guys like that had the ability to ruin someone’s life. That was a little too much power, in her opinion.

And sure, he’d been handsome and flirty . . . on the island. Then, it had been just the two of them. As soon as they’d gotten to Jonathan’s swanky house (which apparently was small compared to Logan’s sixteen residences), everything had changed. He’d gone from being the manager to being some foreign creature with tons of money, and she hadn’t known how to handle that.

So she’d run away.

It was for the best, she told herself. People like Logan moved in entirely different circles from people like Brontë. Besides, he wasn’t really interested in her. She could just imagine how he’d sneered to himself when he’d found out what her job was. A waitress was good for a fling, but that was about it. And he’d told her that he didn’t want a long-term relationship. Fair enough.

Someone raised an empty glass of water, and Brontë grabbed a pitcher, heading over to the table.

She was a waitress, and she had a small, simple life. Someone like her had no business being in someone like Logan Hawkings’s life.

***

As soon as Logan returned to New York, he contacted his private detective to get an update on Brontë.

“Found her,” the detective said into the phone. “I’m sending the information over to your personal e-mail address. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Excellent work,” Logan told him, and hung up. He hit refresh on his e-mail and waited, staring out the window at the New York skyline. Gorgeous night. Gorgeous weather.

But he was restless as hell.

He blamed Brontë and the island. He’d woken up from a dream about her the night before and had found himself alone in bed with an aching erection. When he rode the elevator to his office, he automatically thought of Brontë curled up on the floor in the darkness in her bra and panties, and the way she’d slid her ass into his face as she’d escaped. When someone laughed, he thought of Brontë’s nervous giggle.

He . . . missed her.

It was pointless and a bit stupid, of course. He’d only known her for a few days. He’d spent more time with other women. But there had been something so easy and likable about Brontë. She hadn’t required anything of him but his attention. She hadn’t asked not-so-innocent questions about investments or properties. She’d been relaxing. Adorable. Charming. ***y.

And she’d run away from him.

The e-mail dinged, and Logan swiveled in his chair. He ignored the meeting invite that popped up on his calendar and opened the e-mail attachments instead, pleased to see the info he’d requested.

His private investigator was thorough, he’d give him that. Enclosed were several scans of Brontë’s personal documents. Her driver’s license showed a woman with smooth, silky brown hair, but the wide face and beaming smile were his Brontë. Brontë Dawson, it read, and it had her home address. Age twenty-four. Kansas City, Missouri. He studied the picture of her, then moved on to the cre*** report. Some cre*** card debt, a few late payments, but nothing egregious. Very normal middle-class American. He moved to her employment history next. She currently worked at Josie’s Diner. The private detective had even taken a few photos from afar and attached them to the e-mail, and Logan’s breath caught at a picture of Brontë in a short pink waitress costume with a frilly apron. Her head was tilted, and she looked like she was laughing at something someone had said. A man? His gut churned with jealousy.

The next item was a brief history of the diner and financials on it. The place was months away from going out of business. There was a list of prior addresses that Brontë had lived at, along with roommates. Female names. Good. She didn’t have a live-in boyfriend. Not that he thought she would. She didn’t strike him as the type to lie about her relationship status when she’d been so very offended by his lie about his financial status.

His gaze fell on her phone number. He called and listened to it ring.

“Hello?”

Her voice was soft and pleasant, just like he remembered. “It’s me, Brontë.”

He heard her suck in a breath. “Don’t call me. Please.”

“I wanted—”

“You’re a liar.” She hung up.

He stared down at the phone. He wasn’t going to call and beg her to see him. That wasn’t his style. But he wanted to talk to her. To see if they could connect like they had on the island. He needed to find a way that she’d be unable to avoid seeing him.

Logan picked through the information the private investigator had sent him and paused on the diner’s financial info. And he smiled.

***

“Hello?” Brontë picked up her phone, yawning and glancing at the clock next to the bed. It was seven thirty in the morning on her day off. This call had better be an emergency.

“Hey, Bron, it’s me.” Sharon’s voice. “You’re not going to believe this.”

She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up. “What is it?”

“The diner was sold.”

“Sold?” Brontë sat upright, her heart pounding. “Do we still have our jobs?”

“As far as I know. But the new management has called a meeting this morning at nine, and they want everyone to attend.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be there.”

Brontë dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and drove down to the diner. The diner sold? She knew that being a waitress wasn’t a permanent sort of job, but she didn’t have the savings to make a career transition at the moment. Plus, if your résumé showed nothing but waiting tables, people wouldn’t hire you for much else. Turned out that a philosophy degree didn’t...

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When she got to the diner, the sign was flipped to CLOSED, unusual given that it was breakfast rush hour, but maybe the new boss didn’t care about that. She slipped inside, noticing a cluster of employees seated at booths at the far end of the diner.

“Hi,” she said, casting a worried look at Sharon, Angie, and Marj, fellow waitresses. The cooks sat at another table, and the old manager was nowhere to be seen. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not yet,” Angie said, pushing a piece of gum into her mouth and chewing nervously. “You think the new boss is going to shut us down?”

“Surely not,” Brontë said.

“Then why call us all in here?” Marj asked, worried.

Brontë didn’t know. “Maybe he just wanted to meet us all personally?”

Sharon smacked her lips. “I caught a good look at him. I’d like to meet him up close and personal. Rowr. He’s ***y.”

“He’s your new boss,” Marj snapped. “Keep your hormones under wraps.”

“You saw him?” Brontë asked. “Does he seem nice?”

“I don’t care if he’s nice,” Sharon said, grinning. She smoothed a hand down her ruffled apron. “I told you he was cute, didn’t I? I think he likes me. He keeps looking over here.”

Brontë turned around, glancing back at the kitchen, only to have Sharon tug on her bushy ponytail.

“Don’t look!” Sharon hissed. “You’re being too obvious.”

She pulled her hair free from Sharon’s grasp. “Is he in the kitchen?”

“Yep. Oh, here he comes now.”

A pair of men in suits emerged from the kitchen. One was an older man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. The younger one was tall and chiseled, his hair effortlessly perfect. At the sight of him, all the blood drained from Brontë’s face.

Logan.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the two men. She leaned over to Sharon. “Which one did you say was the new owner?”

Sharon snorted. “It’s not the old geezer. The hot one. He bought the place. Seems he’s an investor of some kind. Likes to buy businesses and turn them over for a profit.”

Just like he had with the hotel. But this silly little diner seemed too tiny to be on the radar of someone as important as Logan Hawkings. There could only be one reason he was here personally. Brontë’s jaw clenched. He’d bought her place of work because she’d hung up on him.

And now she was trapped.

That jerk.

Chapter Seven

She didn’t look pleased to see him.

Logan had expected that. He’d guessed when Brontë had hung up on him that she was holding a grudge of some kind. That was his reason for buying this hole in the wall diner. He wanted to find out what the problem was so he could fix it.

And then he wanted her back in his arms and in his bed, laughing as he kissed her skin and quoting Plato when he undressed her.

But she was seated with the other waitresses, arms crossed over her chest, and she looked furious. Even furious, though, she was lovely. Her smooth brown hair was twisted into a messy knot at her neck, and she wore a slick of lip gloss that made him wonder what she tasted like with it on. She wore a plain blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, but even in the casual clothing, she appealed to him more than the last model he’d dated.

“Mr. Hawkings is the new owner of Josie’s Diner,” the consultant he’d hired began. “Over the next few weeks, we’re going to be looking carefully at every aspect of the business to determine where the most profit can be made. This means an inspection of purchasing, cooking, hours clocked in, and anything else you can think of. Mr. Hawkings is simply here to show you his commitment to the business.”

As Logan watched, Brontë’s lips thinned into a line.

Logan stood then, straightening his suit and casting a dispassionate look over all of them. “I’d like to meet with each of you individually so you have nothing to fear in regard to your job.” He picked up a clipboard and ignored the name on the top of the list, calling out the only one he was truly interested in. “I’ll start with Brontë Dawson.”

She got to her feet reluctantly, her jaw set firmly.

“Please follow me.” He gestured toward the kitchen.

She stomped through the door, letting it swing behind her, and he resisted the urge to smile.

Logan followed her in a moment later and gestured at the metal folding chair that had been set up in the center of the floor. “Please, have a seat.”

She glanced at the door and then moved in a few feet, as if making sure that no one could hear their conversation. “You can drop the charade, Logan. We both know why you’re here.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at her, keeping his expression cool.

“You’re doing this to get back at me.”

Get back at her? Nothing could have been further from the truth. But Logan kept his expression neutral. “Perhaps you are not aware that my business excels at purchasing small, failing companies and making them profitable?”

For a moment, she looked uncertain of herself. “Is that why you bought this one? Because it was failing?”

“No,” he said, keeping his voice light and playful. “I purchased this one because I knew it was the only way I could speak to you again.”

“So I was right. This is about me and you.” She gave him a sharp look. “It seemed like a bit too much of a coincidence that you showed up here.”

“You got me,” he said, and stepped a bit closer, wondering if she’d back down or hold her ground.

Brontë put her hands on her hips and stared up at him with a defiant look. “I did get you, didn’t I?” Her tone was half flirt, half challenge. “The problem is, you seem to think I want more of you.”

“I think you do,” he said in a low, seductive tone. She hadn’t back down when he’d moved closer. They were so close now he could reach out and touch her, but he wouldn’t until she indicated she wanted him. “I think the real problem here is that you’re mad at me.”

“Mad at you?” She gave a small, sharp laugh. “How can I be mad at you? I don’t even know who you are. Remember?”

She was mad at him. Interesting. “If you’re not mad at me, then why avoid my phone calls?”

Brontë ruined it by giggling. That high-pitched, nervous giggle told him volumes. “Because I went to that island to hook up with someone. You were nothing more than an island fling. I’m not interested in carrying on something off the island”

“You’re lying.”

“You should know what it’s like. You’re a liar.”

“Am I?”

“You didn’t tell me who you were.” She crossed her arms over her chest again. “You let me go on and on about the hotel, all because I thought you were the manager. Except you weren’t. You were the owner. And you never bothered to share that with me. You just kept it from me and laughed behind my back.”

“Is that what you think of me?” His voice was husky now. “That I lied to you because I was laughing at you? Truly?”

“I don’t know what to think of you,” she said in a soft voice that trembled just a little. “I don’t know you, remember? You made that very clear.”

“I had my reasons for keeping my identity a secret from you, Brontë, and none of my reasons involve laughing at you.”

She cast him another hurt look, and he began to realize just how much that secret had wounded her. Was it truly such a big deal to her? He’d been protecting himself, but it seemed that it had come at the expense of her feelings.

And he needed to fix that.

Logan stepped closer to her and brushed his fingers over her cheek. She slapped his hand away, but he supposed he deserved that.

“You know who I am now, don’t you?” he asked.

“The entire world seems to know who you are,” she said bitterly. “Stupid me was the only one that didn’t clue in to it.”

“You’re not stupid,” he told her. “Don’t speak of yourself like that. I doubt you’d be familiar with my face unless you read the Wall Street Journal or followed the business section in the papers. And I’m not even sure then. Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you’re a celebrity.” He shrugged. “It does change how they react to you, though.”

The tension in her shoulders eased just a little. “Oh?”

“Most women I meet are more interested in my wallet than who I am. I thought I was going to be stuck in an elevator for God knows how long. I didn’t want it to be with someone who only saw dollar signs when she looked at me.”

She crossed her arms over her chest once more. “You should have had more faith in me.”

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“I didn’t know you,” he corrected gently, throwing her words back in her face. “We spent days together, and I feel like we still don’t know enough about each other. The time we had? It wasn’t enough. I want more time with you, Brontë. I want to learn about you, and you to learn about me.”

Brontë looked up at him, chewing her lip as she thought. She shook her head. “How do I know that’s not a line you tell all the girls?”

He flipped out his phone and offered it to her. “Call my assistant. She’ll tell you how many women I’ve dated in the last year. And then ask her how many women I asked to see again. The answer is none.”

She wavered. “How would she know about your dating life?”

“She schedules my reservations,” he said with a hint of a smile curving his mouth. “She knows my personal business because it’s her job to.”

Brontë stared down at the phone for a minute, then back up at him. “Why me? You can have anyone you want. Why waste your time with a waitress from Kansas City?”

“Because you treat me like a regular guy,” he told her. This time, when he leaned in to stroke her cheek, she didn’t pull away. “Because you make me smile. Because you light up when you find a perfect quote for the situation, and I love to see that. Because you’re smart and funny and down-to-earth, and that’s a rare combination in a pretty woman. Because you thought I was no one, and you still took your top off to swim naked with me.”

A hot blush stained her cheeks. “I was trying to have an island fling, thank you very much.”

“But now we’re off the island,” he told her. “And I’m still interested in flinging with you.”

“Logan, I don’t know. You’re not the guy I thought you were. I wasn’t intimidated when I thought you were some guy with a hundred grand a year salary. Now you’re some guy with two hundred million dollars in businesses.”

“Actually, it’s more like two billion.”

She looked sick.

“Technically.”

“And you bought this diner just to meet with me again?” Her voice rose a squeaky octave.

“Do you want this place? It’s yours.”

She threw her hands up, shaking her head quickly. “No, absolutely not. I don’t want it. I don’t want my friends to lose their jobs just because you want me to date you, though.”

“Your friends are safe. I don’t plan on interfering with business. Improving it, yes. Shutting it down, no. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

She sighed with evident relief. “Thank you.”

For some reason, that irked him. It was as if she didn’t believe him when he said that her turning him down wouldn’t affect her job. “Don’t thank me. It has nothing to do with your decision. I’m not a monster.”

“So if I told you that I never wanted to see you again, you wouldn’t close the diner out of revenge?”

“I would not. Even I can take a hint, Brontë.”

She challenged him with a look. “You haven’t been very good at it so far.”

Time to be direct, then. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently. “I liked what we had before. I liked waking up with you beside me. I liked wrapping my arms around you.” His mouth twitched with amusement. “I liked watching you play naked on the beach.”

“Boy, you sure are focused on the naked—”

“I also liked just talking with you, and laughing with you. Just being normal Logan with normal Brontë, having a dinner of MM’s and s****nged crackers.”

This time, her mouth curved into a smile. Her gaze went to his lips, and he continued to hold her hand close, ready to kiss the back of it.

“Will you give me another chance, Brontë? A chance to get to know you better?”

She nodded slowly. “But I want things to be normal between us. No more buying companies just to get close to me.”

He grinned down at her and kissed her knuckles again, then flipped over her hand to graze her palm with his lips. “No more buying companies. Got it.”

She leaned in, and he felt a surge of triumph when he saw her tilt her head back as if waiting for a kiss. Lust surged through him, and he leaned in and claimed her mouth, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in tight against him. His mouth conquered hers, their tongues slicking together and when they parted, she was breathless as she gazed up at him.

“Logan, I—”

He leaned in to kiss away any sort of protest she was about to make. When they parted again, she looked up at him, dazed.

“I missed you,” she blurted, and then blushed. “Wow, that just sounded stupid.”

“Not to me.” He found himself grinning down at her. “Was that Plato?”

She rolled her eyes, but was unable to stop the beaming smile that spread across her face. “You think everything is Plato.” She smoothed a hand over her hair and gave him an awkward little smile. “So, um, do you live in Kansas City, too? I thought the articles said you live in New York City.”

“I do.”

Confusion swept over her face. “Then how are we going to see each other?”

“I thought you’d come back with me,” he told her. “Stay with me for a few weeks. See if we still click.”

Her mouth worked in silent protest.

He moved in, wrapping her tight in his arms. His mouth descended on hers once more, taking her in a hard, relentless kiss that promised so many things. By the time he released her, she staggered and had to cling to him for support.“Say you’ll come with me.”

“I don’t know. I—”

The words died in her throat as he kissed her once more, his tongue stroking against hers in a rhythmic, suggestive fashion that sent curls of heat licking through her body. When he released her that time, he repeated the same command.

“Say you’ll come with me, Brontë.”

“I—”

Logan leaned in to kiss the protest out of her again.

“Okay,” she said quickly, putting a hand to his chest. “You don’t have to convince me again. This’ll just be vacation two-point-oh or something.” Brontë peered up at him suspiciously, still dazed from the kisses. “I don’t suppose you have a nice, low-key little flat in Manhattan?”

“I own several nice, low-key little high-rises.”

She rolled her eyes. “Forget I asked. So when are we doing this?”

He glanced down at his watch. “Now?”

“Now? Don’t you have to interview the other employees?”

“The consultant’ll take care of that. I hired him for that reason. You and I have other plans.”

Brontë stared up at him, her expression a mixture of wonder and consternation. “You’re not good at people telling you ‘no,’ are you?”

He pulled her close again, his hands resting on her lower back. “I’d rather hear you saying ‘yes.’”

Her breath caught in her throat as his intentions were made clear. And she slid her hands up the lapels of his suit and then tugged on his coat, lowering him down to her mouth. “I’m definitely more of a ‘yes’ girl.”

“So this is a yes, then?” Logan leaned in close.

“Do you need more proof?” She ran a finger down the front of his tie, and his nerve endings lit up at the brush of her fingertip. “I told you I like you. I’m not exactly sure that we’re a good fit, but I’m willing to see where this goes. ‘Fortune favors the bold’ and all that.”

His hand slid to her ass, cupping it. “I love it when you talk Plato to me.”

“Virgil, baby. Virgil.” Her lips brushed his.

“Mmm. I wish we were somewhere private right about now.”

She grabbed him by his tie and began to drag him to the back freezer. “Come with me. I’m wanting to test that ‘fortune favoring the bold’ thing right now.”

He allowed her to lead him in by his tie. They entered the walk-in freezer, and he immediately felt the chill through his jacket and clothing.

“Cold in here.”

“I’ll warm you up,” she teased. “Come here.” And she gave him a slight push, knocking him against a large box of frozen burger patties.

A crate shifted nearby, and he sat down on it, dragging her down with him. “You sure you want to do this here, Brontë? Once I start kissing you again, I’m not going to stop.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pretended to consider it for a moment. “Think anyone is going to follow us into the kitchen?” Her fingers lightly trailed along his ear, distracting him.

“Not if they value their jobs,” Logan said. “I made it quite clear to the consultant that we were not to be disturbed.”

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“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” she said in a sultry voice, and leaned in to kiss him.

He tilted his head back in anticipation of the kiss, but she stopped just before her lips met his. “You don’t have anything else to tell me, do you? Secret marriage? Bodies in the backyard?”

“I’m afraid that I am alarmingly dull,” he said in a dry voice. “No kids. No wives. No bodies in the backyard.” His hands rubbed up and down on her round ass through the seat of her jeans. He loved her curves. She was so damn ***y and vibrant.

“Seems like I’m getting the raw end of this deal,” she said teasingly, nipping at his mouth. “You sound terribly boring.”

“Terribly, terribly boring,” Logan agreed. He grabbed that messy bun of her hair and dragged her mouth to his. She’d been intending on a light, teasing kiss, but he made it slick and deep and wet. He was determined to show her just how much he wanted her.

Brontë whimpered low in her throat. “Your mouth makes my panties so wet.”

God, that was erotic. He groaned. “Plato again?” he asked between kisses.

“Brontë Dawson,” she replied huskily. “I hear she’s got a thing for tall, dull guys.”

“It’s a lucky day to be a dull guy.” He took her lower lip in his mouth and sucked on it, enjoying her moan in response and the way she arched against him, straddling his lap as he sat atop the crate.

She rocked her hips against his, rubbing deliberately over his rock-hard erection. “I don’t suppose you brought condoms?”

He had brought one, just in case. “We’re good.” His hands slid to her front, and he cupped her breasts through her T-shirt, his thumbs stroking her hard nipples. She had such high, perfectly curved small breasts. He loved them, and loved that she was confident enough in her body not to change a thing.

Her gasp of pleasure was a thing of beauty . . . and incredibly loud in the small, cold room.

Logan kissed her hard again. “We’ll have to be quiet unless we want to broadcast to your coworkers exactly what you’re doing with your new boss.”

“I’m thinking they’ve already guessed,” she said between kisses, groaning as his fingers continued to skate over her nipples. “And I’m thinking I don’t care that much. I just want you.”

Her words made his **** ache with need. He groaned against her mouth, letting his hands slide to her jeans, and he paused there, waiting to see her reaction. They were in a walk-in freezer, after all. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she wanted to continue this some other time.

But she brushed his hands aside and undid the buttons of her jeans, shoving them down her hips even as they continued to kiss, her lips moving over his with the same desperation he felt.

She broke the kiss after a moment, then slid out of his lap and shucked her jeans, tossing them to the floor. Skimpy panties cupped the curves of her ass, and he couldn’t resist running a hand up the bared flesh of her smooth thighs. So beautiful. So ***y.

“I want you, Brontë,” he told her in a low, husky voice.

“I want you too, Logan,” she breathed, stepping in close and straddling his hips again. “Make love to me.”

Before she could sit down in his lap again, he undid his belt and unzipped his slacks. He shoved his boxers down, freeing his **** from the restraints that were making him ache. The bite of the cold air was bracing, but not so cold that it was disturbing. But when she moved in close and slid into his lap again, her warm thighs hugging him and the hot cradle of her *** cupping his ****, he groaned. She felt so good. Strange that he’d missed being with her this quickly. He could take or leave most women. Relationships were time-consuming and not worth the effort. But Brontë was different.

He pulled the condom from his wallet and tore it open, shifting the warm, delicious woman in his lap so he could roll it on. She pressed her breasts to his face in response, and he bit at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt.

She whimpered, the sound making his **** throb in response.

And then the condom was on. Thank God. He needed to be in her, now. Logan ran a finger up the seam of her ***—she was already wet and waiting for him. With a groan, he pushed aside the fabric of her panties, exposing her slick *****. He rubbed a finger along her folds, watching her reactions until she was moaning against him, her fists clutching his lapels.

“Please.”

He sank home inside her.

She cried out softly, and he inhaled at the sensation of her, so tight and hot around his ****. She felt so good. “Brontë,” he murmured, his hands going to her hips and dragging her upward and then slamming her back down again. “My Brontë.”

“Yours,” she whispered, her hips following his lead. She began to buck and ride him, increasing the motion of his thrusts with her own hip movements, until he was pounding into her, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight with pleasure, gasping with every thrust. “Yours, Logan.”

He came with a groan, unable to hold back. The ****ing had been quick, brutal. And she hadn’t come, he realized, even as his own release flooded out of him. But she only kissed him and rubbed her body against him, still rocking even though he was no longer thrusting. Telling him that it was all right, that she’d enjoyed herself even if she hadn’t come.

But he was going to make this good for her, too. He slid a hand between them and stroked down her belly until he felt the damp nest of curls. Then he pushed his thumb deeper until he hit her clit, and began to rub.

She stiffened against him, her fingers digging in, her eyes going wide. His other hand moved to the back of her neck, and he pulled her in for a searing kiss, silencing her cries even as he began to rapidly flick her clit with his thumb, bringing her over the edge.

She didn’t last long, either. Her tense body began to shudder almost immediately, her groan of his name swallowed by his kiss. Her ***** spasmed around him, clenching him tight like a vise.

And then she was falling against him, replete.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she absently trailed her fingers over his jaw.

“Can I make a suggestion to my new manager?” she asked in a drowsy, sated voice.

“Ask away.”

“I recommend tossing out this food,” she murmured. “I don’t know that I could serve it to anyone after knowing what we just did in here.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that into consideration. But you’re not going to be here to serve it, Brontë. You’re going to be with me.”

“I shouldn’t go with you, but I’m going to anyhow. The others are going to talk a mile a minute if I leave with you for a week.”

He wanted to tell her that it’d be more than just a week, but there was no sense in alarming her if she was still skittish. “You can tell them you’re doing training at my corporate office if anyone asks.”

“I’m not sure they’d approve of that kind of training,” she said with a wry smile.

“They wouldn’t dare say anything to you,” Logan said. “Not if—”

“Logan,” she said in a warning tone.

“You’re going to the corporate office to represent your company for a few business meetings,” he told her, smoothing a hand down her backside. “A few friendly, intimate business meetings.”

And night after night in his bed.

***

Getting out of the restaurant was more embarrassing than Brontë had imagined. Her cheeks were flushed a bright red as they left the kitchen. Logan had raked a hand through his hair and straightened his clothes, and he looked fine. Her? Her mouth red from his kisses, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was pretty sure her jeans were dirty from where she’d tossed them on the floor, too, but she supposed that didn’t matter.

Everyone was staring at them as if they knew exactly what they’d were doing. Sharon was giving Brontë a highly suspicious look, the other waitresses were giving her mystified glances, and only the consultant was acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

The consultant turned to Logan. “The next employee on the list is Marj Davis.”

Logan straightened his tie, barely glancing at the woman that stood nervously. “I’ve got another appointment to get to. I trust you’ll be able to handle it from here?”

Brontë studied her nails, positive that her cheeks were lit up like a string of Christmas lights. She peered at Marj’s face, but Marj seemed relieved that she wouldn’t be meeting with Logan after all.

Sharon was still staring at Brontë, though.

“Everything’s under control, Mr. Hawkings,” the consultant said. “I’ll send you my full report in the morning.”

“Excellent,” Logan said, adjusting a cuff link as he turned toward the door. He paused, glanced at Brontë, and turned back to the watching group. “I’ll be taking Miss Dawson with me.”

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And there it was. The looks of the other waitresses turned from confused to knowing. Brontë gave them all a hesitant wave and then bolted for the door as soon as Logan opened it. Everyone knew she’d just made a ‘special’ arrangement with the boss. Everyone. Her cheeks stung with embarrassment. Her earlier bravado about not caring what they thought vanished instantly.

“Well,” she told him as soon as they stepped out on the street. “That’s going to make things awkward when I have to go back to work.”

He frowned down at her, as if just now realizing what she meant. “Should I have the consultant speak to them?”

“What? No!” God, she could just imagine how that conversation would go. “Let’s just forget about it. I’ll give it a few days to die down before I come back. I’ll talk with the manager about clearing my schedule.”

“I’m clearing it.” He put a hand on the small of her back, directing her to a waiting black sedan.

She stopped, looking up at him. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely. I want you with me.”

Her mouth opened, and then she snapped it shut again. Hadn’t she been so excited to take a vacation? To get away for a few days? This was just an extended one, really. “And I’ll have my job when I get back?”

“You will,” he agreed.

Of course, if she and Logan didn’t work out, that would make returning to work doubly awkward. She tried not to think about that. “A happy life consists in tranquillity of mind,” she reminded herself. If that philosophy worked for Cicero, it would work for her.

Logan moved to the door of the sedan and opened it for her, gesturing for her to enter. Brontë eyed it. Black, shiny, and brand-new. It screamed money. Totally not her kind of ride. She pulled her keys out of her purse and jingled them. “I drove myself here.”

Logan extended his hand, palm up.

She gave him a curious look. “You want to drive to my apartment?”

“No.” He grimaced and looked at his watch, clearly torn. “I wasn’t lying, Brontë. I do have a meeting I have to get to back in the city. We don’t have time to go back to your apartment. I can have someone drive your car back safely.”

Her jaw dropped. “You want me to go with you? Right now? I don’t have any of my stuff.”

A hint of a smile curved his mouth, and he slid on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “I need to go, but I’m not letting you out of my sight again. So, yes, I want you to come with me.”

“I’ll need clothes,” she warned him.

“I have cre*** cards.”

Yeah, so did she, but they were pretty much maxed at the moment. Brontë crossed her arms and studied him. “So you’re going to buy me a plane ticket, put me up in a hotel, buy me clothes, and pay me a salary, all so I can spend time with you?”

“That’s right.”

“That puts all the power in your hands, don’t you think?”

The smile he gave her was feral. “I didn’t get where I am by letting others have control.”

Yes, but what did that mean for a relationship, exactly? “I don’t like being a kept woman.”

“Think of them as necessary expenses for my new . . . philosophy consultant.”

She snorted.

He grinned, and for a minute, he didn’t look like the confident, aloof billionaire. He looked like a mischievous little boy. Her heart melted, just a little.

“All right,” she grumbled and stepped forward, handing him the keys. “But if you start picking out my clothes, I’m leaving.”

“I don’t know a thing about women’s sizes,” Logan told her, pocketing the keys. “You’re safe on that count.”

Brontë slid into the sedan, noticing the plush black leather seats. The windows were heavily tinted, the interior immaculate. A man in a black suit and sunglasses nodded at her from the driver’s seat.

Logan slid in beside her and shut the door.

“Where to?” The driver glanced at the mirror, his gaze on Logan.

“Airport.” Logan rested a hand on Brontë’s knee, the gesture intimate and possessive. He looked over at her and that arch smile returned to his mouth. “Ever ridden on a private plane?”

“Never. You have one?”

“Two, actually.”

“Naturally,” she said. “Let me guess. Two, just in case the other needs an oil change?”

He chuckled.

That wasn’t a no. Brontë laughed and shook her head. He was impossible.

Soon enough, they were at the airport and crossing the runway to a large plane. She’d thought he’d have a tiny plane, but this seemed like a regular-sized one. Just for one person?

The interior was like nothing she’d seen before. Thick, beige carpet covered the floor. On one side of the plane was a wet bar of some sort. On the right, two enormous leather chairs sat across from a table and two ad***ional chairs. A large flat-screen TV was set into the wall, and the entire back of the plane was closed off, with a door barring it. She gawked at the interior, clutching her purse close. This was so not what she was used to.

“Have a seat,” Logan told her, brushing his fingers over her lower back again. “If you’re tired, you can take a nap in the bedroom after we take off.”

“Bedroom?” She looked at him incredulously. “You have a bedroom on this thing?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes I have to take late flights. It makes things easier.”

No kidding. She supposed having your own flying apartment did make things easier. Brontë sat down in one of the chairs, trying not to seem too intimidated.

Chapter Eight

Warm lips brushed her cheek. “We’re here.”

Brontë stirred, embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep in the car. “We are?”

“Yes. We have just enough time to get you situated upstairs, and then I have to head off to my meeting.”

Yawning, Brontë blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to wake up as she followed him out of the car. She stood on a wide sidewalk, the street lined with cars up and down both sides. All around her were tall, elegant buildings. Nearby was an awning and a doorman stood below it, waiting.

Logan leaned over the car and spoke into the window. “Wait here. I won’t be long.” Turning back to her, Logan took her by the arm and began to guide her toward the building with the doorman. “I’ll show you my place, and you can get comfortable.”

“Do you have to go?” She asked, glancing uncomfortably at the doorman as he opened the door for them.

Logan ignored the doorman and headed into the lobby, then toward the elevator. “It’s a meeting I’ve rescheduled twice already. I won’t reschedule it again.” When the elevator dinged, they stepped on, and Logan pushed the button for the forty-fourth floor. “When I get back, we can go out to dinner.”

She nodded, stepping closer to him when the elevator doors opened again and an older woman in a red suit carrying an enormous designer handbag stepped onto the elevator. She smiled at Logan, though her gaze frosted over at the sight of Brontë in jeans and a slobby T-shirt.

Brontë crossed her arms over her chest. Well, now she felt awkward. She smoothed a hand over her sleep-rumpled hair.

The woman got off the elevator ten floors later, and Logan gave her a curious look. “Uncomfortable?”

“Nah,” she lied, drawing the syllable out. “Just thinking that everyone in this building pays more in rent per month than what I make all year. What would make a girl nervous?”

“Don’t worry about what other people think,” he told her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re gorgeous just as you are.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is, yes.”

How was it that he managed to defuse her anxiety so easily? She shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to for me.”

The doors opened on the fourty-fourth floor, and they stepped out. Brontë glanced down the hall, surprised to see only one set of doors. “Is this your apartment?”

“It’s the only one on this floor.” He moved forward and slid an electronic key out of his wallet, pushing it into the lock.

“You have an entire floor? For one person?”

He chuckled. “Would you prefer I had a studio?”

“Studios are cozy,” she pointed out, uncomfortable. Why did one person need an entire floor?

“I prefer more living space. A studio doesn’t exactly set the right image for a billionaire.” The door opened with a click, and he gestured for her to enter.

She did, a bit stunned at her surroundings. She knew Logan had money. Lots and lots of money. But it was hard to visualize that. Even the jet, as ridiculous as it had been, hadn’t really made things sink in for her. Walking into his apartment, though, she realized just how much of a strange world she was entering. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

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For one, it was enormous. Wasn’t the joke that apartments in New York City were the size of closets? This man’s living room was three times the size of her Kansas City apartment. Brontë stared around her in awe. His entire apartment was a showplace. He had vaulted ceilings, delicate crown molding accenting a chandelier in the center of the room. Across from where she stood, the entire south side of his apartment was nothing but windows looking out on the city. In between her and the windows, designer couches were strategically placed on plush Persian rugs over the most gorgeous oak floor she’d ever seen. Nearby he had a fireplace with a marble mantel, and over it was a painting she was pretty sure should have been in a museum somewhere.

She turned to look back at Logan, who was casually tossing his keys and wallet onto a small nearby table. “This is where you live?”

That charming half smile that made her insides melt slid across his face again as he turned to look at her. “When I’m in the city, yes.”

Which was a totally vague nonanswer that she could have asked a million more questions about. But she didn’t, since that seemed nosy. “How many rooms is this place?”

He shrugged. “I don’t recall. Four guest bedrooms? Five?”

“Naturally,” she teased. “Every bachelor needs at least five guest bedrooms.”

Logan moved forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her against him. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’ll be fine,” she lied. Since he was good at evading, she supposed she could be, too. “How long will you be gone?”

He glanced down at his watch. “Three hours, depending on traffic, of course. If you need anything, dial nine on the phone. That’ll forward your call to my assistant, and she can get you anything you need.”

“Gotcha.”

“What do you want for dinner? I’ll make reservations.”

She had no clue. Brontë had never been to New York City in her life, so she had no idea what was in the area. “You pick.”

He nodded and then glanced at his watch one more time. “I should go so I’m not late.” He hesitated again, watching her.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, straightening his jacket. “Seriously. It’ll probably take me three hours to figure out how to work the remote on your TV. Or discover where the TV is. You’ll be back before I know it.”

“If you need anything, call,” he said, then leaned in for a kiss. “Or if you’re thinking of me, call. Actually, think of me anyhow. I know I’m not going to be able to take my mind off of you here in my home, waiting for me.”

This was the part of Logan that she’d never be tired of. His lips met hers, the kiss starting out featherlight and sweet. His tongue brushed over the seam of her mouth, requesting entrance, and she opened for him. He swept into her mouth with a possessiveness that made her knees weak, and when they finally broke the kiss, she was dazed, and bitterly regretting that he had a meeting.

Logan gave her one last kiss. “I’ll be back soon.”

When he let go of her, she staggered, her legs wobbly. “I’ll be here.” She gave him a small wave as he left, and when the door shut, she sighed and stared around her like she’d been dropped on another planet.

But since she was alone, she decided to explore and count rooms. Sure enough, there were five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a game room with a pool table, a patio with trees and grass on it overlooking the city, a media room, and a study. She stopped in the study, delighted and wondering what kinds of books a billionaire would have. Of course, she was disappointed to find that the too-uniform books lining his shelves were nothing more than false fronts. Either he’d had a decorator just fill in the room with whatever or Logan didn’t read at all.

The bathrooms were exciting, though. The master bathroom had a sunken marble tub with jets that she was dying to try out, and a glass-walled shower. It was also lined with windows, and overlooked a distant Central Park. She wanted to see the park, but not today.

After wandering around Logan’s ridiculous apartment, she was a little bored. She would’ve liked to sit out on the patio for a time with a good book, but there weren’t any in the apartment. So she headed to the media room instead. Logan had a desk and a laptop set up in the corner, and she was tempted to play around with it, but she avoided it. Computers were personal. Instead, she sat in one of the enormous leather chairs and tried to figure out which of the six remotes on a nearby table turned the TV on.

When she gave up on that, she returned to the master bedroom and examined it. The bed was neatly made and a pair of Logan’s shoes tucked under one side of the bed. Either Logan was a very neat person or he had a maid come in and clean house. She suspected the latter. Unable to resist being nosy, she opened his closet and examined his clothing. Row upon row of suits on dry cleaning hangers hung before her, each one with a more impressive label than the last. Armani. Versace, Domenico Vacca, and others she’d never heard of but was pretty sure were equally pricey.

Yeah. His socks probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. A little disturbed by that, she took off her shoes and lay on the bed. It seemed like the only safe thing to touch at the moment.

She woke up later to find that the sun had set and Logan was lying on the bed next to her. He’d pulled her close and spooned her body, still dressed in his suit. Brontë sighed and rolled over, snuggling close.

“Tired?” he asked in a low voice.

“More like bored,” she told him with a yawn. “Did you know that you have six remotes? And none of them turn on the TV?”

“It’s voice-activated,” he told her with a chuckle. “I can show you how to use it.”

“I’m afraid to touch it. Actually, I’m afraid to touch most everything in here.”

“Why?”

“It’s expensive. All of it.”

He snorted. “My home is your home while you’re here.”

But that was just it. This wasn’t her home. Her home had a big comfy easy chair with duct tape over a cushion rip and mismatched throw pillows. Her home had a mattress that sagged on one side, so she slept on the other. Her home had a few paintings and mismatched plates that she’d picked up at yard sales. If anything broke, it didn’t matter. Here, she was afraid to leave fingerprints on anything for fear that a maid would come by and smack her hand for daring to touch the great Logan Hawkings’s expensive furnishings.

He began to kiss her neck, nibbling on her skin. “Do you not want to be here?”

She sighed, his touch sending feelings skittering through her and making her nipples hard. “No, I want to be here. I think I’d just feel better if this didn’t look like a museum. You need a puppy to dirty this place up or something.”

Logan chuckled, the sound muffled by her hair. “I have you.”

“Gee, thanks.” Her hand slid up to twine in his hair, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips on her skin. “I’m glad you’re back. Did your meeting go well?”

“Well enough,” he said. “We have a ****tail party to go to tomorrow night. I want you to meet some of my friends.”

She stiffened at the thought. “I don’t have clothes for that.”

“Tell my assistant your size. She can pick out something for you.”

“I’d like to buy my own clothing, thank you.”

He sat up in bed, gazing down at her. “I suppose you should change for dinner, too.”

Brontë groaned. “Logan, I don’t have anything to wear.”

“We can stop by a store and pick something up on the way out.”

She grimaced at the thought. It was nice just lying in bed, their legs tangled together. When his hand slid down to her stomach and began to slide under her shirt, Brontë burrowed closer to him. “Can’t we just stay in bed tonight? Surely you can get a pizza delivered or something.”

His thumb skimmed over her belly button. “Chinese?”

“Sounds delicious.” She leaned up and nibbled on his chin, enjoying the scrape of his stubble.

Logan pulled out his phone. “I’ll get my assistant—”

She pulled the phone away from him and continued to kiss along his jaw. “Or we could just order it ourselves. You know, like normal people. You don’t have to call your assistant for everything.”

“You win,” he said, leaning in and capturing her mouth. “You order, and I’ll pay?”

“Deal.” But she didn’t get up. Instead, she curled her fingers in his shirt, wishing that she could feel his skin underneath the layers of clothing. She kissed his mouth lightly again, her lips brushing over his, and when his parted, she began to lightly suck on his upper lip.

A low groan escaped him, and his hands began to rub up and down over her body. “Exactly how hungry are you?”

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She shifted, her thigh moving between his legs. “Mm, not so hungry just yet.”

“Good,” he told her, and lifted her arm over her head. Her shirt was pulled up, revealing her belly, and he leaned down to kiss the exposed flesh. “I thought about you through my entire meeting.”

“Oh?” Her voice was shaky, just a little tremulous with desire.

“I liked the thought of you in my house, in my bed. Though, in my daydreams, you were naked.”

Brontë laughed. “In my daydreams, your library had real books.”

He grinned up at her, then kissed her belly again. “If you want real books, buy some. Buy as many as you want.”

She rolled her eyes. This man was constantly trying to get her to go shopping. “I didn’t come here to shop. I came here for you.”

“So you did,” he said in a husky voice, and pushed her shirt up farther, exposing her bra. He cupped one of her breasts through the fabric, skimming his thumb over her nipple. “I find that very . . . arousing.”

“I find your touch very arousing,” she told him, running her hands over his shirt. She tugged on his tie, slowly undoing the knot. “Though you’re wearing entirely too much clothing.”

Logan peeled back the cup of her bra, adjusting the fabric so it clung to the underside of her breast and pushed her exposed skin up. “I could say the same of you,” he murmured.

Brontë cried out when he leaned in *****ck on her exposed nipple. His mouth moved against the tender flesh, his tongue circling the areola in a teasing gesture that made her want to writhe on the bed. His teeth grazed the tip in a light scraping motion that was quickly soothed away by his mouth once more.

Her hands went to his hair, and she clung to him as he lavished attention on her breast. His hands were roaming over her body, too, smoothing over her skin as he eased her fully onto her back and then began to pull down the other cup of her bra until both breasts were exposed. Then, with a nip, he left one breast and began to pay attention to the other, working it with the same maddening precision.

The feeling of his mouth on her breasts was driving her wild with need. Her breath was coming in small pants, excitement and arousal pulsing through her body. When his knee pressed her legs apart, she rubbed up against him, a small whimper escaping her.

“I want you, Logan,” she whispered. “I need to feel your skin against mine.”

His hands went to her jeans. “You first.”

Within moments, they had her jeans undone and were working them down her thighs. He groaned seeing she had no panties on. “I think you forgot something.”

“I had a rendezvous with my lover in a freezer earlier, and I had to discard them.”

He kissed her inner thigh. “Lucky man.”

A knot formed in her throat. “He is,” she agreed, wiggling when he continued to kiss up her leg. She slid her bra and T-shirt off over her head while he kissed a trail over her belly. “He’s also still wearing entirely too much clothing.”

Logan grinned up at her and pressed a kiss to her mound. Her breath caught in her throat, and she watched, entranced, as his tongue crept out and slicked through the folds of her ***, his gaze on her. Desire rocked through her, and she shuddered.

“I want you naked on top of me,” she moaned when he continued to ignore her words, leisurely spreading her ***** with his fingers and continuing to lick her in a measured, leisurely fashion that drove her mad with need. She whimpered, her hips bucking as his tongue circled her clit over and over again. He continued the slow, deliberate motions, not speeding up or slowing down despite her writhing beneath him, and the unhurried torment brought her to a screaming release when he casually thrust two fingers deep and began to work her.

When she’d recovered from the sudden orgasm, she leaned in and kissed him, laughing and panting. “‘Short is the joy that guilty pleasure brings.’”

He studied her, a smile on his lips. “Are you using Plato to criticize my techniques?”

Brontë laughed at his smug expression and pushed on his shoulders. “Not at all. Just sad that it didn’t last longer.” She leaned in and bit his earlobe. “And I’m pretty sure that was Euripides.”

“Ah. Good old Euripides.”

“Mmmm.” She ran a hand over his chest. “You are still wearing entirely too much clothing.”

He rolled over on his back, grinning at her. His **** had formed a hard tent in his pants.

He looked so delicious that she immediately rolled on top of him, straddling him there. She grinned down at him playfully. “Now I have you right where I want you.” She finished undoing his tie and tossed it aside, then began to work on the buttons of his pants. “And I want you naked.”

Logan groaned, his hips thrusting up against her wet ***, driving his **** against her. “I think I like you on top of me.”

“Do you, now?” She teased, exposing his pecs and breathing a sigh of pleasure at the sight of his chest hair. It felt like it had been forever since she’d seen him naked. The quickie in the freezer this morning had been nice, but it hadn’t been enough. She tugged at his clothing, exposing his chest, and ran her fingers over him even as he bucked his hips under her again. “I love looking at you.”

“It’s mutual,” he told her, and his hands reached out to cup her breasts.

She gasped at the sudden surge of pleasure, then batted his hands away. “Clothes off.”

He sat up then and leaned in to kiss her as she straddled him. She slid her hands under his shirt,and they were able to push it off of him, and then his torso was exposed and beautiful and, my, she loved staring at his skin.

Brontë gave a little wriggle over his hips, a deliberate tease. “Now we need to get rid of these pants.”

He flipped her down on the bed in a quick motion that surprised her, and got up, ripping his belt off and flinging it aside. His pants and boxers quickly followed, and then he was lying down naked. But to her surprise, he grabbed her and rolled her back on top of him, settling her hips over his erect, straining ****. “I like you there,” he told her, and thrust again.

This time, she could feel his **** slide through the slick lips of her ***, brushing against her clit, and she moaned at the sensation. He palmed her breasts again, and she held his hands there, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of his body against hers. “You’re right,” she breathed. “This definitely has merit.”

“We need a condom,” he told her, tweaking her nipples. “In the nightstand.”

She leaned over him and reached for the drawer of the nightstand, laughing when he nipped at her breast as it dangled too close to his face. She opened the condom and gave him a challenging look. “Shall I do the honors?”

“Please do,” he said in a courteous voice that was ruined by the husky growl low in his throat.

Brontë moved to the side and took his **** in her hand, working it with a few teasing squeezes. He thrust against her fist, and she leaned in and gave the head a quick lick, tasting the pre-come that slicked the crown.

“Tease,” he growled.

“You like being teased,” she told him, rolling the condom on quickly. Her own desire had escalated, and she was feeling aroused and needy again. She desperately wanted him inside her and was done with teasing.

She straddled him again, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her as she grasped his **** and pressed it to the entrance of her ***. She ached for him, she needed this so badly. But she wasn’t used to being on top, and so she sank onto him with small, careful motions, rocking her hips a little to take him deeper and deeper. His hands on her waist guided her down until she was seated on top of him and full of his ****.

It was a delicious, overwhelming sensation. Every nerve ending felt alive, and he felt enormous inside her from this angle. Brontë bit her lip and rolled her hips a little, experimenting.

He groaned beneath her.

That was encouraging. She repeated the motion, rolling her hips even more, and was pleased when he rocked with her. She began a rhythm, moving over him and working her hips in a way that made him brush up against that spot inside her that drove her so wild. His movements echoed hers, and before long, she was increasing the pace, needing more and needing it faster, harder, than what she was doing.

His hips began to buck hard against hers, so that when she bore down, he thrust upward roughly. Brontë cried out each time he did, and when his hands moved to her breasts, teasing the nipples as she bounced on top of him, she lost control. She rode him wildly, lost to the sensation, until her entire body stiffened and began to quake with her orgasm.

“Brontë,” he growled, and she felt him clasp her hips again, grinding her down on top of him as he pushed to his own release. A moment later, he bit out a curse and shuddered, and she knew he’d come too.

She fell on top of him to catch her breath, twining her fingers in his chest hair. It was ridiculous that one man could make her feel so very good. Her entire body was one big bundle of pleasure right then.

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He wrapped his arms around her, holding her on top of him.

Her stomach growled, ruining the moment.

Logan chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Why don’t you jump in the shower, and I’ll order the food?”

“You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

They stayed in the rest of the evening. Brontë borrowed one of Logan’s T-shirts to wear. The Chinese food was excellent, and they ended up watching a movie in the media room with their takeout. She wanted to cuddle next to him on the couch, but the media room had only big, overstuffed recliners, so she was thwarted. He promised to put a couch in for her, though, and she simply rolled her eyes.

After dinner, they made love again, and she curled into his arms to sleep. All in all, not a bad day. When she was in Logan’s arms, she forgot about everything else.

***

The next morning, she woke up to see Logan off for the day. He kissed her at the door for several minutes, then sighed. “I have meetings all day, but I’ll be back in time to pick you up tonight.”

“Gotcha. Is there a bookstore nearby I can hit up once I find some pants?”

Logan chuckled. “You have all of New York at your disposal, and you want a bookstore?”

“Pretty much.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But it comes second to pants.”

He leaned in and kissed her again. “Tell you what. I’ll send my assistant over in about an hour with some clothes for you. She can escort you around town.”

She wasn’t sure that she needed a chaperone, but it might be wise until she got her feet under her. “All right.” She wrapped her leg around his and clung to him in a way that left nothing to the imagination. “You’re going to think about me today, right?”

Logan groaned, his hands moving to cup her naked ass under his shirt. “I couldn’t stop if I tried.”

“A wise man once said, ‘We strive after the forbidden.’”

“More Plato?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s Plato to you. That was Ovid.”

“If you find a bookstore, buy me some Plato. I hear he’s interesting.” Logan leaned in and kissed her one more time, then reluctantly pulled away. “I’ll call when I’m on my way home.”

That felt . . . domestic. But she nodded, a hint of a smile on her face as she closed the door behind him. They were clicking so well it was almost scary. Scary, but enjoyable. Was it too good to be true? She supposed she’d see when she met his friends.

Just the thought of it made her stomach knot up. She was a waitress. He was a billionaire. They were going to think she was after his money, when the truth was his money just made her downright uncomfortable. Money was nice, but it wasn’t the reason to have a relationship.

Of course, she doubted anyone would believe her if she said that.

Brontë took a quick shower and had just combed her hair into a damp ponytail when the doorbell rang. She bounded to the door, pulling on her dirty jeans. “Coming.”

When she opened the door, a woman about her age stood on the other side holding a Saks Fifth Avenue bag. She was about the same height as Brontë, but her figure was radically different. Where Brontë was lean everywhere except her behind, the woman in the doorway seemed to be all softness and curves bundled up into a stuffy brown suit and tight bun. Her makeup was minimal, her skin pale, and she wore a pair of oversized sunglasses that she removed as Brontë opened the door.

She gave Brontë a friendly, efficient smile and stepped inside. “You must be Brontë Dawson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Audrey Petty, and I’m Logan’s assistant. He asked me to come by and see if I could help out today.”

Brontë shook her hand enthusiastically. “Hi there. Yes. I’m Logan’s girlfriend.”

The look on Audrey’s face remained professional. Her smile could have been painted on. “Well, Logan told me to come by with some clothes so you could go shopping today. It seems he didn’t give you time to pack?”

“That’s right.” Brontë crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a little awkward. “Sorry to be such trouble.”

She gave Brontë an odd look. “Trouble? Logan once asked me to drive to Pennsylvania to pick up floor plans because he didn’t like the way they looked faxed. Taking someone shopping? That is not trouble in the slightest.”

Brontë relaxed a little at that, even as Audrey moved past her and began to unpack the contents of the bag she’d brought. “Does Logan often make you run strange errands?”

“I don’t know if they’re strange,” Audrey said. “But he does sometimes ask me to run favors for him. It’s my job as his assistant, of course. He has a secretary for other business needs.”

Brontë stared. “So wait. He has an assistant and a secretary?”

Audrey turned and gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. Now, Logan told me that he had no idea what your size was, so I bought a sweater and some pants in every size. We can just return the ones that don’t fit. I also brought some panties and bras in some common sizes. If you don’t have shoes, I can go back out and get some.”

“This is fine,” Brontë said, reaching out to touch one of the sweaters. It was plain black, cashmere, and extremely soft. “This is nicer than what I normally wear, actually. You could have brought me a T-shirt and jeans.”

“Not if I wanted to keep my job,” Audrey said cheerfully. “I know Logan, and if he thought I was cheaping out on you, he’d have my head.”

He’d never seemed to mind what Brontë had worn before, though. She picked up the sweater in the right size and grabbed the closest slacks and panties. “These’ll work.”

“Super. You go change and I’ll pack everything else up, and then we can get started. We’ve got a lot of shopping ahead of us.”

She gave Audrey a dismayed look. “We do?”

“Logan’s instructions are, and I quote,” she said, pulling out her BlackBerry and reading from the screen, “‘Make sure that she gets a few weeks’ worth of clothing, along with some evening wear. You know my events calendar.’” She looked up from the screen. “I do, and it’s a doozy.” She looked back down again and continued to read. “‘Also, take her to the best bookstore in Manhattan. My library needs restocking.’” She looked up at Brontë in surprise. “He has a library?”

“Not really,” Brontë admitted, her lips twitching with her efforts not to smile like a lovesick idiot. “And I really don’t need that many clothes. Just a change or two.”

Audrey shook her head and waved the phone. “I have my orders, and I’m afraid they trump yours.”

Brontë didn’t disagree. She just took the clothes and went to change. She emerged a few minutes later, fully dressed. The clothing was elegant and yet casual. The price tags had been removed, so she didn’t know what they’d cost, but she had horrible visions of exactly how much everything had set Audrey back. “Thanks for the clothes. How much do I owe you?”

Audrey gave her a look. “Very funny.”

“I can write you a check.”

The other woman stared at her. “Are you or are you not aware that you’re dating a billionaire? He has a little cash to throw around. This is coming from his wallet, not mine.”

Brontë flushed. “Just because he has the cash doesn’t mean that I want him to spend ridiculous amounts on me. I’m a grown woman. I can buy my own clothes.”

Audrey arched a brow at her. After a moment, she said, “Well, that’s something I don’t hear very often from women in Logan’s circles. Huh.” She shook her head, as if not quite believing her ears. “Anyhow. Today, the shopping is on Logan. You can argue with him when he gets home. As long as you’re with me, though, his card is the one we’re using.”

Fair enough. She’d go light on the shopping today to please Audrey and go back later for more stuff if she needed it. “Sounds good. Where are we heading?”

“Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue,” Audrey said promptly. “That’s where the best shopping is. Do you have a preference?”

“Someplace with reasonable, comfortable clothing?”

Audrey stared at her for a minute. “Oh, honey. No. We’ll start with your dress for the party tonight. I’m thinking Bergdorf’s or Saks. And shoes. We’ll definitely need some shoes. This could get a little pricey, so I just want you to close your eyes and remember who’s buying, okay?”

Brontë crossed her arms. “Audrey, this makes me . . . really uncomfortable. I don’t know that I can spend someone else’s money like this.”

“I know you can’t,” she said with a reassuring pat. “That’s why I’m in charge. And may I just say that this is a refreshing change? Usually I have to pry his girlfriends away from the Centurion card.”