[English] Stranded With A Billionaire

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 30



“I thought he hadn’t dated much in the past year?”

“He hasn’t. I’ve been with him for several.” Audrey gave her another tight, efficient smile. “Shall we go?”

They headed out, Audrey chattering a mile a minute as they walked the few blocks to the shopping district. Brontë tried to pay attention to Audrey’s nonstop stream of conversation, but she was too busy soaking in the atmosphere of New York. Skyscrapers rose all around her, and the streets were crawling with pedestrians, the curb lined with cars. Awnings hung over the front of apartment buildings, and nearby someone pushed a street cart. Taxis were everywhere.

She’d never seen anything like it. It was crazy . . . and vibrant. The city was alive with people and business, and it was like being in the center of a very slick, industrious anthill. She could see why so many people loved living there. Standing on the street, surrounding by endless tall buildings, it truly did feel like the center of the universe.

Audrey continued to chatter as they walked, barely paying attention to other pedestrians or traffic. She’d been working for Logan for three and a half years, Audrey told her. He was a very fair boss, though he could be demanding of her time. And even though she’d been asked to buy presents for occasional girlfriends or to manage his calendar for his personal life, she confessed that she did not shop for many women, which made Brontë feel better.

At least it did until Audrey added, “Especially after Danica.”

Danica? Brontë swallowed, feeling a sick knot in her stomach. “Who’s Danica?”

Audrey chewed on her lip, looking chagrined. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Except . . . the party tonight? You’re going to be there, and the other guests on the list? They all know about Danica, and someone’s sure to bring it up even if she doesn’t show up.”

Brontë gritted her teeth and repeated herself. “Who’s Danica?”

The assistant sighed. “I really shouldn’t tell you. My number one loyalty is to Logan, and this feels disloyal. It’s not my place to speculate—”

“Audrey,” Brontë interrupted. “Who is Danica, and why do I need to know about her?”

The other woman wrung her hands, clearly torn. After a moment, she said, “Danica is Logan’s fiancée. Ex-fiancée.”

Brontë stared at her. He was engaged? He’d never told her. “Exactly how ex of a fiancée is she?”

“They broke things off about two years ago. He hasn’t really dated anyone seriously since.”

Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. Logan had had a fiancée. Past tense. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He’d almost been married. That was a little different from dating. “Why did they break up?”

Audrey shrugged. “I can’t speculate. That’s Logan’s business and not something he shared with me. But I do know it was ugly. They’re not speaking. That’s why you have to look stellar at this party tonight. Odds are that she’s going to be there, and you can’t give her any reason to pick you apart.”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m a waitress. I’m dating a billionaire. You don’t think that’s reason enough for her to want to tear me apart?”

“It is. You just don’t want to give her any more.”

“‘The wise learn many things from their enemies.’”

Audrey paused to stare at her. “Huh?”

“Oh. Um. Aristophanes. Never mind.”

Audrey pointed to a store they were passing. “We can start here. They have some really nice selections. Sophisticated and moneyed. Nothing that screams streetwalker.” The assistant looked at Brontë’s clothes, and then added, “Not that I think you would have trouble with that, but you never know. Some women think that if they’re spending a lot, the clothes should have a lot of flash. It’s just the opposite, really.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Brontë murmured.

The store was like something out of a movie, complete with marble floors and soft music piped in. They wandered through some of the racks, Audrey leading the way. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and Brontë was content to let her take charge.

As they walked, a pretty blouse with a delicate ruffle along the neckline caught her eye. All right. If she was going to be staying with Logan for a few weeks—maybe more, maybe less—she needed clothing that wouldn’t embarrass him. She paused and examined it, admiring the pale silky fabric, then flipped over the tag. Her breath seized in her lungs.

That blouse cost more than two months’ rent of her Kansas City apartment.

Brontë put it back on the rack, hoping desperately that her fingerprints hadn’t smudged anything, and followed Audrey with wide eyes.

The assistant began to pick through a rack of dresses. “You have such lovely dark hair and pale skin that I think you could probably look great in a nice jewel tone. Maybe blue? Green? Do you have a preference?” She glanced up at Brontë and noticed her expression. “What’s wrong?”

Brontë reached for a nearby tag and winced. “I really don’t feel comfortable with the prices here.”

Audrey gave her an exasperated look. “Are you still going on about this?” She shook her head and turned back to the rack of clothing, flipping through dresses. “You are dating a billionaire. Wearing T-shirts and jeans is fine for at home, if that’s your thing. But if you go out? People are going to look at what he’s wearing, and they’re going to look at what you’re wearing. You have to convey an image. The functions that Logan attends? They frequently make the society pages. The last thing you want is for someone to point out fabulously wealthy and handsome Logan Hawkings and his thrift store girlfriend. Understand?”

Brontë said nothing.

Audrey gave her another disappointed look. “Do I need to call Logan? Because if we don’t get you outfitted appropriately, I’m the one who’s going to be in trouble, Brontë. As his assistant, it’s my job to make him look good. And if you look good, he looks good. And I really like my job and would hate to lose it.”

“That is totally emotional blackmail.”

“Yes, it is.” Audrey pulled a dress off the rack and held it up to Brontë’s chest. “Now, green or blue?”

***

Several hours later, Brontë returned to Logan’s apartment with sixteen shopping bags. Once Brontë had ****d in, Audrey had been a determined shopper, and Brontë now possessed several pairs of designer shoes, matching jewelry, four designer handbags, two clutch purses, four ****tail dresses (for starters, Audrey had said), and multiple sets of everyday clothing. Since Audrey had been determined that she be fashionably beautiful from the inside out, Brontë now had bags of designer unmentionables from Agent Provocateur and La Perla.

The lingerie, she admitted, she rather liked, since she knew Logan would appreciate them. The rest, though—well, it bothered her. But since she didn’t want to get Audrey in trouble, or embarrass Logan, she’d ****d in to the pressure and bought it. She’d stopped looking at price tags since that just seemed to slow everything down, and she felt sick at the amount they’d spent on clothes that day.

All she kept thinking about was that it could have paid her rent for a year. Fed a family of four for a year. Purchased a small car or two. Instead, it was just sweaters and skirts and matching earrings. For the amount of money they’d spent on her shoes, they should have been gold-plated and given her a foot massage as she put them on.

She and Logan hadn’t discussed closets, and she didn’t want to be presumptuous, so she filled a closet in one of the spare rooms. Once her things were put away, she took a long, luxuriant bath, pulled her hair into what she hoped was an elegant upsweep, and began to apply her makeup.

A half hour later, she was ready, and anxious. Brontë examined her appearance in the mirror. The designer dress she’d chosen for that night was a deep wine shade. It was made of gathered jersey that clung to her curves and outlined her figure in an elegant drape. The back was a low, daring cowl that swooped all the way to the base of her spine and made her feel just a bit scandalous. She’d paired it with dangling silver earrings and nude Manolo Blahniks (since Audrey had insisted) and examined the final picture.

Not bad. She didn’t look a thing like herself, but she didn’t look bad.

Brontë slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of one of the couches in the living room, waiting anxiously for Logan to return. When watching the door didn’t work, she moved to the window and watched the skyline slowly light up. She was fascinated by the city. It was more interesting viewing than TV.

The sun was setting behind the sea of buildings when she heard a click at the front door. She turned just as Logan entered, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

He stopped at the sight of her, his gaze sweeping up and down over her body. A grin crossed his face. “You look gorgeous, Brontë.”

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She smiled at him. “I look expensive, you mean.”

“You do, but it’s perfect for the party tonight.” A slow smile curved his mouth, and his gaze again roamed over her body approvingly. “You’re perfect.”

Brontë flushed under his scrutiny, secretly pleased. Audrey had been right after all. She made a mental note to hint that his assistant needed a raise. “I didn’t know you were going to work so late,” she began, feeling awkward as he continued to admire her.

He grimaced and held the flowers out to her. “Note my apology. I had a few meetings that ran late. If I’d have known you were so incredibly gorgeous while waiting for me, though . . .” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her neck, his hand sliding down her naked back. “I like this part.”

She took the flowers and slunk out of his grasp. “What time does the party start?”

“About a half hour ago.”

Her eyes widened, and she gave him an anxious look. “So we’re late? Please tell me this isn’t a dinner party.”

He shook his head, moving to the bedroom. “Just a mixer,” he called back to her. “Some close friends and business associates. Nothing to worry about.”

It didn’t exactly sound like nothing to worry about. The whole “business associates” part was exactly what she was worried about.

His eyes gleamed as he gazed down at her. “I think your dress needs something.”

“Does it?” She glanced down at the material, then twisted to see the back—or lack of back—on her gown. “I thought I looked pretty good, myself.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a long, blue velvet box, holding it out to her. “See if you like this.”

Brontë’s tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. “Oh, Logan. You shouldn’t have. Really. Whatever you spent, it’s too much.”

“Look at it,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I tried to find one like in the gift shop. Now that you know that I have money, I can give you these things.”

She gave him a skeptical look but opened the box. And gasped.

The necklace in the box was way more expensive than the one at the hotel gift shop. Where that one had been a delicate chain of diamonds, this one was a thick wreath of dripping jewels. The matching earrings were encrusted. It looked as if it had cost more than her college education.

It was gorgeous. And it made her incredibly uncomfortable.

She snapped the box shut and tried to hand it back to him. “I can’t take this, Logan.”

“I want you to wear it, Brontë. You’ll look beautiful in it.”

“It’s too much. I’m already wearing stuff that’s way more expensive than it should be. You’re spending too much money, Logan. I don’t like it.”

Ignoring her protests, he flipped the box open again and pulled the necklace out. “Turn around.”

She made a frustrated noise in her throat, but it died with Logan’s smile of pride and the gorgeous sparkle of the necklace. “Do you always get your way?”

“Always,” he told her with a pleased expression. “Turn around.”

She did, and put a hand to the necklace as he clasped it around her neck. The it was heavy, decadent. “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned close and nibbled at her ear. “I think.”

***

A half hour later, they emerged from Logan’s sedan in front of an unfamiliar building. Brontë gave a nervous smile to the doorman who held the way open for them, but she couldn’t avoid the sick feeling in her stomach. This was like high school all over again. No, worse. It was like those nightmares she had where she was pushed out onto stage and didn’t know her lines. A thousand worries flew through her mind. What if someone asked what she did for a living? Should she lie? Act coy? Would the truth embarrass Logan? What if they had to eat something and she had no idea which fork to use? A small giggle escaped her at the thought of their horrified faces if she used a salad fork on her dessert.

“Are you all right?” Logan asked as they entered the elevator and waited for their floor. He was dressed in a gorgeous suit with nearly invisible pinstripes that had been tailored to fit his handsome form. He wore an equally dark gray shirt underneath it, with the collar slightly open and no tie. It wasn’t a super formal event by his standards.

“I’m okay,” Brontë told him. “Just nervous.”

“I know.”

She looked at him. “How do you know?”

“You have this strange giggle that you do when you’re nervous.” His eyes glinted down at her in amusement. “That, and you’ve got a death grip on my sleeve.”

She released his arm with a flush. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. His mouth began to move over her neck and jaw, pressing whispering little kisses over her skin. “You look utterly delectable. If we weren’t heading to this party, I might be convinced to stop this elevator and see what you’re wearing under that dress.”

“I’ll spoil the suspense for you,” she said flirtatiously. “Nothing.”

He groaned, pulling her hips against his own. “No tan lines, either?”

“Nope. I spent my day at the beach totally nude.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and grinned. “I had good company, if I recall.”

“The best.” He leaned in and lightly kissed her lips.

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened. A sea of people stood before them, and a wave of laughter and light applause erupted at the sight of Logan Hawkings and his date wrapped around each other. Logan simply smiled, releasing Brontë and extending a hand to hold the elevator open for her. “Very funny,” he said to the few people clapping nearby.

Mortified, Brontë stepped out of the elevator, her hand automatically going to touch the expensive necklace at her throat. Not the entrance she’d wanted to make. She wanted to look good, but she also wouldn’t have minded blending in with the scenery despite her backless gown. That hope had flown out the window, though. She’d shown up kissing a billionaire, and judging by the looks some of the women were casting in her direction, that was an unforgiveable offense.

It was going to be a long night.

A hand went to the small of her back, and Brontë jumped, relieved that it was Logan. “Come on. We should go say hello to our host.”

She nodded, allowing him to steer her through the party, mentally noting everyone. The room was glitzy, strings of lights hanging from the ceiling and chic decor. There was an ice sculpture in the center of the room that looked like a skyscraper of some kind, and soft music played from a band in the corner of the room. No one was dancing. Instead, everyone was dressed in suits or ****tail dresses, clutching glasses of wine and chatting in small, close-knit groups. Small party indeed.

Making conversation and drinking. Okay. She could do that. “Not even the gods fight against necessity.”

They approached a gray-haired man and his silver-haired wife. Both were kitted out in black, the woman’s neck sparkling with a thick choker of diamonds. Both lit up at the sight of Logan and turned toward him.

“Brontë,” Logan said. “I want you to meet my newest business partner, Doyle Bullet, and his wife, Rita.”

Her eyes widened at the name. The only Doyle Bullet she knew of was an oil tycoon who was sometimes mentioned in the news. She thrust her hand out. “Pleased to meet you both. I’m Brontë Dawson.”

Rita took her hand, smiling. “How lovely to meet you. Such an unusual name, too.”

“Thank you,” she said, noticing how Rita’s fingertips had barely grazed her hand. “It’s not after any Brontë in particular. Or rather, any or all of them. Pick a Brontë, any Brontë.” A high-pitched giggle escaped her.

Logan cast her a knowing look.

Oh, hell. She’d just done her nervous laugh again. She quickly shook Doyle’s hand, humiliated.

“Thank you for inviting us tonight,” Logan said smoothly. “And for letting me bring a friend on such late notice.”

“But of course,” Rita said generously, smiling at Brontë and then at Logan. “Would you excuse me? I just want to make sure that the caterers have everything under control.”

She slipped away, leaving Brontë and Logan with Doyle.

Doyle turned to Logan. “Don’t suppose that you saw what the Dow closed at today? It was a bloodbath in there.”

“I was in meetings all afternoon.” Logan casually snagged two glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to Brontë. “What happened?”

“News report about more banking scandals, of course,” Doyle said with a chuckle. He turned to Brontë. “Do you dabble in investments, my dear?”

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She clutched her wineglass, resisting the urge to touch the necklace at her neck to make sure it was safe. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

He gave her a friendly smile. “Well, you should consider it. You’ll never make any money if you don’t risk any money.”

“Of course,” she said, flustered. This was really not going well.

“Logan, you old dog. When did you get back?” A man’s cheerful voice boomed behind Brontë, making her jump.

She turned, and to her surprise, she saw Logan clapping hands and a slapping backs with a large blond man.

“Cade,” he said in the same easy voice, “I’d like you to meet my date. Brontë, this is Cade.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said in a small voice.

“Cade is also a business partner of mine,” Logan said smoothly.

“I prefer the term ‘friend,’” Cade said with a grin. “You know, like regular people.”

She laughed, feeling instantly more comfortable at Cade’s words.

“As I was saying, Logan . . .” Doyle’s reedy voice rose a bit. “I wanted to talk to you a bit more about the meeting this afternoon.”

“Of course,” Logan said, and glanced at Cade. “Would you mind introducing Brontë to a few people? I’m sure this won’t be interesting for her.”

“I would be delighted,” Cade said, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” she said, placing her hand in his arm and letting him lead. She gave Logan a reluctant wave good-bye and allowed Cade to pull her away and into the mix of the party. She looked up at her escort. He seemed friendly enough, and the expression on his face was kind. Handsome, she supposed, if she were looking, but everyone paled in comparison to Logan’s cool, austere good looks. “How do you know Logan?”

“We go way back,” Cade said easily. “College. Dartmouth. We studied business there together. Same frat and everything.”

She smiled at the thought. “Same frat? Logan doesn’t strike me as the party boy type.”

“He’s not. Even back then, he’d glare at us over our drinks and remind us that we had a test in the morning. He’s always been excessively responsible, I’m afraid. He tries to keep everyone in line.”

She laughed. “That sounds like Logan.”

“So how do you know Logan?” he asked her. “It’s been a long time since he’s brought a date to one of these sorts of things.”

“We met under inauspicious circumstances, I’m afraid. Did you hear about his trip to Seaturtle Cay resort?” At his interested glance, she filled him in on the details—their meeting in the elevator and how they’d been stuck there for nearly a day, their nights spent curled up in the stairwell as the hurricane raged around them, their day spent on the beach, and Jonathan’s timely rescue. She omitted her own subsequent return home due to hurt feelings. That seemed a bit too personal to share.

“I suppose we can cre*** Hurricane Latonya for bringing you both together, then. Logan seems happy enough.”

Brontë took a sip of her drink, smiling politely. “Does he?”

“Indeed.” Cade seemed amused. “From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t been at work nearly as much since returning, and we were speculating as to why. It seems I’ve found out the answer.”

“We?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Who is we?”

“Logan’s closest friends. Would you like to meet a few?”

“Please.” She was intrigued.

“Hunter’s not here tonight. He never attends these sorts of functions. But he and Logan are very close. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point. Griffin’s over there, by the ice sculpture. The one with the glasses.”

She turned, studying the crowd until she located a man with glasses. He was tall and lean, almost lanky. His face was handsome, his style and poise suggesting he was at ease in these surroundings. The expression on his face betrayed sheer aristocratic boredom.

“He seems . . . nice,” she lied.

“Oh, Griffin? He’s a snob,” Cade said easily. “His family’s British aristocracy. Very old money. Grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and a polo pony at the ready. He’s extremely intelligent. Good guy, once you get to know him, though.”

“I’m sure,” she said in a noncommittal voice.

“He doesn’t take kindly to strangers, though, which is why we’re standing over here talking about him instead of introducing you. If you were on a committee or wanted to discuss funding for a university project, I imagine he’d talk your ear off. Most of us run in fairly exclusive circles, you understand.”

She was beginning to understand, all right, she thought with a sinking feeling. Did all of Logan’s friends have money and success? How on earth would she fit into his world?

“Reese is also here tonight. See the man to Griffin’s left with the women hanging off of him?”

Brontë scanned the room and spotted a well-built, dark-haired man with a rakish look. Two gorgeous women were laughing at something he said, and as Brontë watched, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair off of one of his companion’s shoulders in a very intimate move.

He glanced up, as if noticing Brontë’s stare, and winked at her.

She blushed in response, turning back to Cade. “I think I found him.”

“Reese is a bit of a ladies’ man, which is why we’re standing way over here. If I take you over to Reese, Logan will probably charge over to protect his territory.”

That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Brontë thought with another sip of her wine. “And you? Where do you fit into the picture? You’ve shown me the professor and the playboy. Where do you fit into all these neat little categories?”

He grinned at her, flashing white teeth. “I am a Lancelot at heart, I’m afraid. I like nothing more than to be of service. You’re looking at the world’s largest Boy Scout. Show me an old lady who needs to cross the street, and I’ll show you a man who will trip over his own two feet to assist her.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s a rather interesting picture you paint of yourself.”

Cade shrugged. “I find that most people fit into basic archetypes if you think about it.”

“Oh? Where do you see me?”

“I don’t know enough about you yet.” He studied her for a moment. “What do you do for a living?”

It figured that he’d ask that. She bit back her grimace and kept her face deadpan. “I’m a waitress. Does that change things?”

His eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “I’m still forming my opinion. You’re definitely more of a Mary Ann than a Ginger, though.”

“Can’t argue with that. Unfortunately, it feels like this party is full of Gingers.”

“These sorts of shindigs always draw a lot of Gingers,” he said sympathetically. “Luckily for me, I’ve claimed the one Mary Ann in the bunch. Much better conversation.”

He was such a sweetheart. She couldn’t help but smile at him. She took another sip of her wine and then pointed at Logan’s broad back as he stood commanding a small group that was hanging on his every word. “And Logan? What is he?”

Cade grinned. “He’s the boss, of course. Just like everyone wishes they could be.”

“Mmm. ‘He who owns a hundred sheep must fight with fifty wolves.’”

He gave her an impressed look. “Who said that?”

Another man moved to her side, and to her surprise, she found it was Griffin. The snob. “Plutarch,” he told Cade with an arch smile. “And you’re keeping Logan’s new friend all to yourself tonight. I’m wounded, especially when I come and find that she’s quoting Greek philosophy to you.”

She put her hand out in greeting. “I’m Brontë.”

“Of course you are,” Griffin murmured, his voice cultured and smooth. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing the back of it. “Anne, Charlotte, or Emily?”

“Take your pick,” she said lightly, feeling a bit more comfortable. If he could name all three Brontë sisters, he was probably well educated and would be interesting to talk to.

“I’m chaperoning while Logan has to do the rounds,” Cade said. “Brontë didn’t look as if she was enjoying the stock market conversation, so I was put in charge of her rescue.”

“Wise choice,” Griffin agreed. “So you quoted Plutarch. Are you a big fan of his work?”

“Actually, I don’t know that I am. While I enjoyed his Parallel Lives,” she said, tilting her head to study Griffin’s expression, “I find them rather biased toward his own particular philosophy, which is ironic considering that he castigated Herodotus for doing the same in his works.”

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Cade chuckled. “And this is the part where both of you lose me. I think I’m off to get a refill while you two discuss dead Greek guys. Would you like more wine, Brontë?”

“Please,” she told him with a smile. “That would be lovely.”

Griffin stepped closer to her as Cade moved away. “So how did Logan end up with a woman who quotes philosophy? You’ll forgive me if I say that most women he dates don’t seem the type to be able to read anything beyond a fashion magazine, much less ancient history.”

“Well,” she began, smiling at Griffin. “We got stuck in an elevator together in a hurricane.”

***

The party continued on throughout the night, and Brontë caught occasional glimpses of Logan, but every time he paused to speak to her or pull her close for a stolen moment, someone else would appear and steal him away from her. Brontë took it all with good humor. It was fascinating to see just how many people wanted to talk to Logan and seemed to hang on his every word. It wasn’t his party, but he was the star of it.

Cade had courteously remained at her side throughout the night, chatting with her and making her comfortable, introducing her to people. She suspected that Logan had had a conversation with him in advance of the party itself to ensure that she was taken care of when he couldn’t be at her side, but she didn’t mind. Cade was charming, and he shielded her from uncomfortable questions. Griffin had turned out to be extremely pleasant and knowledgeable, too, and she had a standing invite to attend a philosophy salon he was holding at a local college.

She’d even met playboy Reese for a brief moment. He’d approached with a seductive look on his face, kissed her hand, and then backed off when Cade introduced her as Logan’s date. He’d given her a reluctant grin, as if to say “next time,” and moved on to a group of supermodels.

Cade excused himself to meet up with an old friend, and Brontë took the opportunity to escape out onto the balcony. Her head was swimming from all the wine she’d drunk, and she’d eaten very little due to nerves. Fresh air helped, though, and she leaned against the railing of the near-empty balcony breathing in the night air. At the far end of the balcony, a smoker finished his cigarette and returned to the party. Brontë remained, though, staring down at the view with something akin to wonder. Definitely not Kansas City. New York seemed to be a magical place. There was something about it that thrilled her. It was a place where things happened, and she liked that.

“Well, hello there,” a sweet, almost musical voice said at her shoulder.

Brontë turned and smiled faintly at the woman standing before her. She didn’t look familiar. She was gorgeous, though. Long, pale blond hair rippling in the night breeze, a thick fringe of bangs over her forehead. Her body was sheathed in a tight white bandage dress, and she towered over Brontë in platform sandals. She looked like a beautiful, cold ice queen.

She gave Brontë an assessing up-and-down glance. “I was wondering if I’d get a chance to talk to you. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they?”

Brontë smiled politely. “What do you mean, well guarded?”

The woman waved a hand. “His little friends. The band of billionaires or whatever they call themselves. Logan wants to make sure that you avoid people like me at this party, so he’s assigned his buddies to shadow you.”

Realization hit. Brontë kept the smile on her face with effort. “You must be Danica. I was told you’d be here.”

The woman looked impressed for a moment. “Not told by Logan, I imagine.” Her gaze dropped to Brontë’s diamond-encrusted throat. “Nice necklace. Present?”

Brontë said nothing.

Danica ****ed her head. “Did he tell you that we were engaged? My guess is no. He’s very closed off emotionally. I suppose you can blame his father for that. The elder Mr. Hawkings was a real asshole, but at some point, Logan has to take responsibility for himself. Not everything in life is a business transaction. Of course, Logan hasn’t learned that lesson yet. He thinks everything has a price. The old man taught him that.”

That sounded uncomfortably close to Brontë’s experiences with Logan. Hadn’t he bought the diner just so she’d have to talk to him? He used his money like it was power, and by using it, he got what he wanted. She studied Danica for a long moment, not responding. The woman was gorgeous, elegant, everything that Brontë was not. “I take it that you and Logan are not on friendly terms?”

Danica looked sad. “I wanted to be on friendly terms. Our breaking up was not my choice, you know. He dumped me.”

“Why?” As soon as the word escaped her lips, she wanted to bite it back, but the damage was done.

Danica’s beautiful smile turned hard. “Logan likes for everyone to stay in the neat little box he’s created for them. If you try to escape the box, he’ll try to push you back into it. And if that doesn’t work, he’s done with you. He’s ruthless.” She stared out into the night sky, then glanced over at Brontë again. “He wanted me to be the perfect little stay-at-home wifey. My schedule didn’t matter as long as I was available for him. And when I tried to have a life outside of him, or to assert my freedom, he cut me off at the knees.” She shrugged. “The next thing I knew, I was being removed from the apartment we shared and all of my belongings were put into storage. He didn’t even give me a warning before tossing me into the trash.”

Brontë’s stomach clenched painfully. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Logan wasn’t like that. Danica was just trying to crawl under her skin. “Why are you telling me this?”

Danica touched her arm, a pitying look on her face. “Because you look like a nice girl. And you’re out of your depth with Logan. You’re just his type.”

“I am?”

“Of course. You look soft and just a little bit shy. Intimidated. That’s the kind Logan likes, you know. He plucks a girl out of nowhere and molds her into the woman he wants at his side. If you don’t have a life, that makes it perfect for him, because he needs you available at his beck and call. He’s a great guy . . . for a time. He’ll make you the happiest woman on earth until you cross him. And if you try to be independent, be ready for him to send you packing. I don’t want you to be caught off guard like I was. I thought I loved him and he loved me. It turns out that he doesn’t know how to love. He just knows how *****cceed at business.”

Brontë stared at the other woman, saying nothing. What could she say? Could this possibly be true? It didn’t sound like Logan—cold, emotionless. And yet . . .

He was ruthless.

Not everything in life is a business transaction. Of course, Logan hasn’t learned that lesson yet.

“Logan’s not like that,” Brontë protested.

“Isn’t he? Have you told him you love him?”

Brontë said nothing.

“Try it. See how he responds. That’ll tell you everything you need to know.” She nodded as if agreeing with her own words. “I did, and he totally ignored me. Logan doesn’t know how to love. All he knows is how to make money.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news. But it’s best if you’re prepared for the eventual heartbreak.” Danica glanced at the door of the balcony. “And if anyone asks, we didn’t have this conversation, understand?” She gave Brontë’s hand a little pat and returned to the party.

Her head swimming with Danica’s bitter words, Brontë turned back stared at the skyline before her. Millions of lights dotted the nearby buildings and crawled through the streets below. Yet it was surprisingly quiet out here compared to the party inside, and she found it peaceful.

Perfect for gathering her thoughts.

Danica had to be lying. She’d been so incredibly vague about why she and Logan had broken up that her word couldn’t be trusted. And yet some of what she’d said had a ring of truth to it. When Brontë’d left Logan, he’d followed her and taken ownership of the diner simply because he’d wanted to talk to her. That wasn’t a man who was used to being told no.

And yet . . . Brontë liked him. She tried to picture him as the brutal tyrant that Danica had painted, as a man determined to push her into a box and mold her into what he wanted. Instead, all she could think about was Logan bringing her flowers when he’d come home late. Logan curled up against her, spooning in bed. Logan naked on the beach with her.

She didn’t want to believe it. She was already in love with the man, and she didn’t want to think that he wasn’t who she’d made him out him to be. Sick at the thought, Brontë clung to the railing and stared up at the black sky overhead.

That’s the kind Logan likes, you know. He plucks a girl out of nowhere and molds her into the woman he wants at his side.

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Is that what he was doing with her? Had he done the same with Danica? Made her into the woman he wanted, and when Danica had tired of being his plaything, he’d gotten rid of her?

Logan doesn’t know how to love.

If that was the case, Brontë had fallen in love with the wrong man.

Big, warm hands cupped her shoulders, and she smelled Logan’s aftershave a moment before he pressed against her back. “It’s cold out here.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said softly.

He rubbed her arms, sending shivers of pleasure through her. “Is everything all right?”

She smiled up at him. “Yes. It just got to be a bit too much, and I drank more than I should have. I thought this would help clear my head.”

Logan pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and she felt her nipples harden in response. “Would you like to go home? I’d love to peel this dress off of you.”

She pressed back against him, molding her body to his. “That sounds good to me.”

“If there weren’t two hundred people in the other room, I’d bend you over the balcony and make you mine right now.”

She shivered at the intensity of the mental image. A wave of heat pulsed through her, centering on her ***. A whimper escaped her throat. “Logan.”

“You’re lovely in that dress, Brontë, but I can’t wait to see you out of it. Every man here is jealous that you’re going home with me tonight. Your smile and your laugh are so charming that half the room turned around every time they heard you.”

She gave him a wry smile. “I think that’s your imagination.”

“It’s true. Why do you think I asked Cade to keep you company?”

Her smile faltered. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they? “I suppose. Let’s go home. I’m tired.”

They extracted themselves from the party and soon enough were in the limo, the driver steering them through the streets of New York. She grew sleepy, laying her head on Logan’s shoulder, and made a soft sound of pleasure when he pulled her close, his hand around her waist.

“Did you enjoy the party?” he asked in a soft voice, his mouth a breath away from her ear.

She thought about her response for a moment, then said, “I met Danica.”

He stiffened against her. “Oh?”

“She wanted to warn me about you. And how you treat everything like business.”

He cursed under his breath.

Brontë glanced up at him. “When were you going to tell me you had been engaged?”

“I didn’t think it was important. We were only engaged for a day or two. Never set a date. It was over two years ago.” He laughed, the sound mirthless. “Apparently she’s still quite upset over it.”

“She tried to warn me off of you. Said you’d dump me like so much trash the moment you got tired of me.”

He pulled her closer against him, then tugged her leg over his lap and turned her until she was straddling him in the backseat of the limo, her hips riding his. “You know that’s not true, Brontë.”

“I suspect she told me a lot of things that weren’t true,” she admitted. Danica didn’t have a motive other than to **** with Brontë. Still, there was nothing that hurt like the truth, so she suspected she’d been told just enough truth mixed with the lies to make her mind work in circles. “Why did you two break up?”

“I had my suspicions that Danica was with me for my money and not for me. I asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement. She refused, and that told me everything I needed to know.”

Brontë thought for a moment, then leaned in and wrapped her arms around Logan’s neck, her mouth a breath away from his. “She told me that she was trying to be independent and you didn’t like that.”

He gave her another humorless grin. “Danica’s version of independent was going on vacation with her friends without me. Repeatedly, and on my dime. When I suggested we take a trip together, she accused me of trying to smother her.”

“Boy, she sounds like a real winner,” she muttered.

Logan leaned in and kissed her softly. “She’s nothing like you, if that’s what you’re worried about. And our relationship is nothing like the one I had with her. Don’t let her lies get to you.”

“I won’t,” she said, and moved her hips on top of him, pressing against his erection as she straddled him. “But you should have told me.”

He groaned and reached over to the door to push a button. Behind her, the barrier between the driver’s seat and the backseat went up, shielding them from the driver’s eyes. “Trust me when I say she is not in my life anymore. Hasn’t been for some time. There’s only you.” His hand slid up to her hair, grasped the loose knot that threatened to fall apart. “Only you.”

Warmth curled through her, and she leaned in to brush her mouth over his skin, to run her tongue across his parted lips. “I want you, Logan.”

He groaned low against her mouth. “As soon as we get home, I’m making you mine, Brontë.”

That seemed like forever to wait. She flexed her thighs, clenching over the seat of his pants and feeling his erection press up against her. Her slinky dress had ridden up high on her thighs, and an inch or two more and she’d be exposed to him. She hadn’t been lying about her lack of undergarments, either, and right now she was feeling rather thankful for it.

Her hand slid between them, and she rubbed against his ****. “I don’t want to wait until we get home, Logan. I want you now.” Maybe it was the wine talking, or Danica’s bitter words that had dug into her skin . . . or her own desperate need for this man, but she needed him like a drowning woman needed air. “I don’t want to wait.”

Logan thrust up against her hand, his mouth sliding over hers desperately. “I don’t have a condom, Brontë.”

“I’m on the pill,” she said between frantic kisses, and then rubbed her hand over his **** again, stroking his length. “Please, Logan. Take me now.”

His hand slid between them, and she stilled, expecting him to unbutton his pants. Instead, she felt his hand slide over her ***, already wet with need. “Ah, Brontë,” he murmured. “Your skin feels like silk. Wet and ready for me already?”

She bit her lip and nodded, pressing her forehead to his, lost in sensation as his fingers danced over her needy flesh.

When his fingers grazed her clit, she cried out, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed her, his tongue thrusting slow and deep into her mouth in a steady, maddening motion. Her hips rose and fell, echoing the stroke of his tongue, and his fingers continued to work her clit. She spiraled higher, reaching for her orgasm, only to whimper when he slid his hand away and began to undo his pants. Her fingers moved to help, frantically working to free him from his clothing and get him inside her.

Then he was lifting her hips, just a little, and she felt his **** against the hot well of her ***. He sank deep inside her, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at how fully he fill her. Another whimper escaped, and she began to rock furiously over him, her movements just as jerky as his. Hard, fast, and frantic, he pumped into her, wild with need. Her moans were swallowed by his mouth as she rode him with abandon, her hips slamming down over his.

The orgasm that ripped through her was almost violent in its intensity, and she cried out at the feeling of it, her entire body shuddering. He slammed into her again, and his mouth took hers roughly, and then she felt him coming inside her, too.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she clung to him, still astride his lap, her breathing rough. He was hers. Danica was wrong. Bitter, envious, and wrong. “I love you,” she blurted out, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Logan’s arms wrapped around her waist and held her tight in his lap.

But he didn’t say anything back.

And a little part of Brontë died.

Chapter Nine

“This meeting of the brotherhood is called to order,” Logan said around the cigar in his mouth. He handed the deck of cards to Hunter at his right. “Deal.”

The scarred man took the cards and gave Logan a wary look, but said nothing. That suited Logan just fine. If his mood was a bit black at the moment, he didn’t give a **** if his friends knew it or not. They could all be in pissy moods for all he cared. A table full of cranky assholes suited him at the moment, since he was one.

Brontë had been sad and listless for the past two days, and he didn’t know what to do about it. ****ing Danica. He still suspected that she’d gotten her claws into Brontë despite the talk he’d had with her. Something had changed between them that night. The lovemaking was just as intense as ever, but her smile seemed somewhat faded, and he could have sworn that when he came in the room sometimes, her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. She always said nothing was wrong, but he could tell.

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She’d told him she loved him, and he’d given her a hug. He wasn’t the kind to declare his love, though. Not before a prenup was signed and he could be sure of her feelings. He’d traveled down that road once before, and he wasn’t going to be taken again. His father had been a tough buzzard, too. Just before he’d died, he’d mocked Logan for being so upset about Danica’s reluctance to sign the prenup. What had Logan expected after spouting off about feelings to her? Of course she wasn’t going to sign, his father had sneered. Logan had declared his love for her. She had him by the balls. Hawkings men didn’t declare their feelings, because it gave power to someone else.

Logan wouldn’t make that mistake again. So he had said nothing when Brontë had confessed her feelings to him, even though he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at her admission. She loved him. His beautiful, sweet Brontë loved him.

Brontë had common sense—it was one of the charming things about her—but he didn’t know what to do with her sadness. Common sense told him to ignore it. But her melancholy bothered him. It bothered him even more that she was trying to hide it. Hence, his foul mood.

The door opened, and Cade walked in, the last to arrive. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Hold up at the office. Someone deal me in?”

“’Bout ****ing time,” Logan said, tossing the cigar in his mouth into the ashtray on the table. “We can start now.”

Drinks were passed in his direction, as well as chips. Cade was giving him a scrutinizing look but said nothing as Hunter dealt the cards. After a moment, he looked over at Logan again, and said, “I enjoyed meeting Brontë the other day.”

Logan grunted a response.

“Charming girl,” Griffin said, tossing a chip into the pot to start the bidding. “Very interesting education. She’s a step up from your normal airheads, Logan.”

“She’s a waitress,” he growled. “Don’t get too attached to her.”

This time, it was Reese who frowned as he tossed his chips into the pot. “What does her job have to do with anything?”

Logan said nothing.

But Cade’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “She’s not another Danica. You don’t know that she’s after your money.”

“He doesn’t not know it,” Hunter said in a grave tone, folding his hand.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” Logan asked.

“Well, clearly it’s affecting your mood,” Reese pointed out. “Is the problem that she’s a waitress or that you like her enough that you’re worried you’re being taken for a ride?”

Logan’s temper flared. He forced himself to be calm, pick up his cigar, and stare at his cards. “She’s not like Danica.”

“No? She’s female, isn’t she? That means she’s interested in your wallet. Face facts, Logan.”

He ignored Reese and clenched his cigar. He would not get angry. These were his friends, after all.

“Well, if she’s just a fly-by-night, let me know when you’re done with her,” Reese began. “Because I saw her ass in that little red dress and—”

His words cut off with a yelp as Logan jumped across the table to grab him.

Chaos erupted. The men jumped to their feet, and hands pried him off of Reese’s collar. The other man smirked knowingly, pleased that he’d gotten a rise out of Logan. Cade stepped between them, staring at the two with narrowed eyes. “No fighting during a meeting, remember? Do we need to take this outside?”

“I’m fine,” Logan said, flexing his hands and taking a step back. The red was receding from his vision, but he was now more furious with himself. Furious that he’d come so close to punching Reese, and furious that he’d shown his thoughts as clear as day by jumping on him.

Hunter’s hand went to Logan’s shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go walk for a bit.” He looked back at the others. “Play on. Logan and I will be back shortly.”

Logan had half a mind to tell Hunter to **** off, but he needed to get away from the table. Casting another furious look at Reese, he stormed away, heading up the cellar stairs.

He didn’t speak until he and Hunter were up on the roof of the bar. Hunter pulled out a fresh cigar and offered it to Logan, who declined. The scarred man pulled out a lighter, clipped the end of his cigar, and lit it as casually as if two of his friends hadn’t just gotten in a fight. “So. You do realize that Reese was just busting your balls?”

“I realize that now,” Logan said with a snarl. ****ing egomaniac.

“I’ve never seen you this stressed over a woman. Even Danica, and we both know she left her mark.”

Logan said nothing. Hunter knew him better than the others. The quiet, scarred billionaire had been Logan’s closest friend in college. Logan had led, and Hunter had followed. They shared a tight bond. And it was that friendship that kept Logan from storming off of the roof and heading home to see Brontë’s sad eyes.

“I agree with Cade, for what it’s worth,” Hunter said quietly. “She doesn’t sound like Danica. Griffin likes her. Griffin doesn’t like anyone. He says that Brontë’s very intelligent and can hold a conversation. How many of your supermodels has Griffin ever said that about?”

“I bought her a necklace. She didn’t want it.”

“But she accepted it, didn’t she?” Hunter’s gaze was cynical.

Damn. Logan stared out at the night sky. He thought of Brontë’s sweet smile. The curve of her lips when she leaned in to kiss him. Her fury when she’d found out that he owned the resort.

But how did he know it wasn’t simply a masterful act by a consummate actress? Danica had had him fooled, after all, and she wasn’t half as clever as Brontë. “I need to know for sure,” he told Hunter.

“Then test her,” his friend said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

***

The next evening, Logan tucked a manila envelope under his arm and strode down the hall to his apartment. An odd sense of anticipation curled through him, much like the adrenaline rush he got from a lucrative business deal. This was it.

This was how he’d see if Brontë was after him or his money. Hunter had suggested a test, and Logan thought it was a brilliant plan. He’d give her something valuable out of the blue, something that would be important to her, and watch her reaction.

If she was pleased with his gift, or demanded more, he’d know that she wanted it more than him. If she refused his gift, he could feel more confident in how she felt about him. She’d been upset when she’d found out he was rich . . . but she’d also been quick to **** in to his demands to go to New York. And every time he told himself that Brontë wasn’t like that, he saw Danica’s face again. Danica, who’d had him totally fooled.

And maybe, just maybe, if Brontë passed this test, he’d feel comfortable telling her how he felt about her, too.

Logan entered the apartment, pleased to find Brontë curled up on one of the couches, an open book spread across her breasts as she napped.

She was beautiful. Her long, chestnut hair was tousled around her face, her small nose pointed up in the air, her lips slightly parted in sleep. She wore her favorite T-shirt and jeans: Audrey had complained to him that she couldn’t persuade Brontë to part with them, no matter what lovely clothes she was bought. He liked seeing Brontë in jeans, he had to admit. Her ass filled them out nicely, and the T-shirt showed off the rounded swells of her small breasts to perfection. He pulled the book off her chest, and her eyes opened slowly.

Brontë blinked and focused on him, then smiled, her expression sleepy. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”

“I am. I canceled the rest of my meetings.” He didn’t tell her that it was because he’d been unable to concentrate on anything but her that day. They’d made love fiercely the night before, but when she’d come, she’d been utterly silent. She didn’t whisper words of love anymore when they had ***.

And for some reason, he wanted to hear her say it again.

Logan smoothed a lock of hair off of her cheek. “I have a present for you.”

She sat up on the couch, frowning, one leg tucked under her, and ran a hand through her hair. “Present? Why?”

He forced himself to be indifferent and held the envelope out to her. “No reason. I just wanted to give you something.”

“You’ve already given me enough stuff, Logan.” But she obediently took the envelope and opened the clasp, pulling out the contract inside. She stared at it, puzzled, then looked back at him. “What’s this?”

“It’s the paperwork for the diner. There’s three of them, actually. One in Kansas City, and the other two are in Dallas and Atlanta. They’re yours.”

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Brontë looked down at the paperwork in her lap, then back to him. “Why?”

Her reaction didn’t tell him anything. “What do you mean, why?”

“I mean, why give me a diner? What’s the point?”

“It’s a gift. Income. You can live off of the profits, if you want, or you can work on improving the chain. I’ve set up a meeting with the consultant so he can go over what he’s learned so far and suggest improvements. You—”

She held up a hand, giving a small shake of her head to stop him. “Logan, I don’t understand.”

“It’s an expensive gift,” he pointed out, frustrated by her mulish responses. “Most people would say thank you.”

“I guess I’m confused. Why do you think I’d want the diner?”

“So you can make something of yourself.”

She stiffened. “You mean, so I can be something other than a waitress?”

“Something like that,” Logan said.

The papers smacked his chest. Brontë leapt to her feet. “Keep the diner.”

She didn’t want it. Didn’t want his money. Elation surged, and Logan watched her get up and cross the room. “You don’t want it?”

She didn’t answer him.

She was . . . angry? Logan got to his feet and followed her down the hall. She stormed into one of the guest rooms, and when he followed, he noticed she was emptying one of the closets. He noted her stiff shoulders, her furious movements.

And that she had a suitcase open.

“Where are you going?” he asked, frowning.

“You said I could stay as long as I wanted,” Brontë said, her voice tight. “This is as long as I want. I’m done here.”

“Why? His voice was harsh. Anger rocketed through him. This was completely irrational of her. “You’re mad because I tried to give you a gift?”

“No,” she cried, turning to face him. “I’m mad because you think I’m not good enough for you. Are you embarrassed that I’m a waitress? Is that why you’re trying to turn me into some sort of diner tycoon?”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why would you do such a hurtful thing?” Her eyes shimmered with tears.

“Brontë,” he said, his voice soft. He moved to draw her into his arms, but she stiffened and pulled away. He’d made a mistake, then. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I’m not embarrassed by you.”

“Then why give me the diner? I never said I wanted it.”

“It was a test,” he confessed.

“A test?” Her voice rose an octave in response. “A test? What sort of test?”

He remained silent at that.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. You think I’m after your money. Like Danica. Is that it? You’re testing me to see if I want it.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” she said bitterly.

“I love you, Brontë.”

“You do now,” she bit out. “Now that you realize I don’t want your money. Well, news flash, Logan. You can’t withhold love as a reward. You either love someone or you don’t. Money plays no part in this.”

“Money always plays into things, Brontë. That’s not fair—”

“You’re not being fair,” she said, viciously slamming her suitcase shut. “And I hate to say it, but Danica was right.”

“Danica doesn’t have anything to do with this—”

“No? She told me that you treat everything like a business transaction. And silly me, I thought she was wrong.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, driving a knife into his gut. “It turns out she was right after all.”

She moved to the dresser and pulled out a blue velvet case—the necklace case. She looked at it and her lip curled, almost in disgust, and she held it out to him. “Take this.”

“It’s yours.”

Brontë shook her head. “I don’t want it. I told you I didn’t want it, and you pushed it on me.” When she held it out again and he didn’t reach for it, she tossed it on the bed as if it were garbage and pulled out the handle of her suitcase.

“Brontë,” he said, trying to take the suitcase from her. “We need to talk about this—”

“No,” she said, and her voice broke a little. “We don’t need to talk. You’ve said enough. Good-bye, Logan.”

She pushed past him and headed out the front door, rolling the suitcase behind her.

“Brontë—”

“No,” she repeated. “Don’t make this ugly, Logan.”

And she turned and left. He watched her go, his mind seething with turmoil. She wasn’t willing to listen to reason right now. She was furious—and she had every right to be, he supposed—but he wasn’t going to give up. Somehow, he’d get her to talk to him again. He’d explain his side of the story, and then they’d hash things out. Kiss and make up.

And then he could tell her he loved her like he should have—with no strings attached.

He went back to the room she’d emptied and stared at the discarded necklace box. I told you didn’t want it, and you pushed it on me.

It seemed like he’d pushed and pushed until she’d finally broken. Damn it. There had to be a way to fix this.

Chapter Ten

Brontë dashed down the street, ignoring the people around her. The suitcase dragged behind her on tiny wheels, slowing her down, but she didn’t care. Hot tears splashed down her cheeks, and her heart felt like a burning hole in her chest.

Logan wanted her to make something of herself.

The words made her sick. He didn’t like who she was. He thought she was a joke. Worse, someone to be embarrassed of.

Well, screw that, and screw him, she thought, dashing the tears from her cheek with the back of one hand. A subway station appeared down the street, and she headed for it, needing a sense of purpose. Somewhere to go. Anywhere.

Of course, when she got into the station itself, she swiped the MetroCard she’d gotten with Audrey while shopping and then realized that she had nowhere to go. She frowned and took a seat on one of the benches, staring in dismay at a nearby map of subway interchanges. She’d been so content, wrapped up in her little cocoon that Logan had created for her, that she hadn’t even bothered to sightsee in the city she’d been so excited to visit. No Statue of Liberty, no Guggenheim, nothing. All she’d done was go shopping and attend a party.

And spend hours in Logan’s bed, being pleasured out of her mind, she corrected herself.

Except he didn’t want her. Not really. Brontë the waitress was embarrassing. He needed her to be Brontë the small business owner so he could retain his billionaire street cred or something. She sighed in humiliation and hugged the suitcase closer to her as someone sat down on the far end of the bench.

And here she was, stranded all over again. Except this time, there wasn’t an elevator or a hurricane or a handsome man to keep her company. This time she was stuck in New York City with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, her heart broken into a hundred pieces.

She could always go straight to the airport. Call this little vacation quits, admit defeat, and return home. Of course, then she’d have to find another job. Logan was her new boss, after all. She wouldn’t be able to stay at the diner knowing that at any moment he could come through that door and insist that she talk to him again. So. New job. It was a shame. She liked her coworkers.

Despair threatened to overwhelm her. She’d lost the man she loved, lost her job, and was stuck in a strange city. Had she ever been lower? Tears welled in her eyes.

Music began to play at the far end of the station, and she automatically looked up. A man stood by a pillar, his violin case open, his soft song echoing in the tunnel. Someone passed by and dropped a dollar, barely even looking, but Brontë was entranced.

She was sitting in New York City, and she hadn’t even explored the place. “Adventure is worthwhile,” she told herself. Aristotle had it right. Why not visit all the places in New York City that she wanted to see before going home? A thought occurred to her, and she pulled out her phone, flipping through the list of numbers. She dialed a recent one.

“Audrey Petty,” the woman on the line answered promptly.

“Audrey? It’s me, Brontë.”

“Brontë?” The other woman sounded confused for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”

“I need a place to stay,” Brontë said, her eyes on the subway map. “I’ve left Logan.”

Just saying it out loud made her chest ache. They’d had a whirlwind courtship. She’d fallen fast, and she’d fallen hard. Logan Hawkings was going to be a difficult man to get over, she realized. She felt raw, completely shredded on the inside. Part of her wanted to turn around and hear him explain, to have him soothe away her hurt, and to return into his arms. She would’ve done anything just to curl up against him again.

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Except he didn’t love her, did he? She’d told him that she loved him, and he’d given her a polite pat on the back. And then he’d tried to fix her, which rankled. Danica had been right. She’d blindly trusted him, and he’d tried to shove her into the mold of what he thought she should be.

“You . . . huh?” Audrey paused. “Wait. You left him, and you’re calling me? His assistant?”

A weepy little laugh escaped her. “You’re the only person I know in this town.”

“Oh.” Audrey got quiet. Then she sighed, as if resigned to her course of action. “Where are you?”

“The subway.”

“Yes, but where?”

Brontë curled up on the bench, feeling a little foolish. The subway map looked like a bunch of scribbly lines to her, and she’d never even taken as much as a bus in her life. “I honestly have no idea. It’s by Logan’s building.”

“Okay. I’m pretty sure I can guess what station that is. Just wait there, and I’ll swing by to get you. We’ll talk.”

“Thanks, Audrey,” she said softly. “I appreciate it.”

“You bet,” the assistant said, and hung up.

The violinist began to play a sad tune, and Brontë’s heart sank with every sorrowful note.

Logan didn’t love her. She’d given him everything he’d asked for—her time, her attention, her affection—and he’d still thought she wasn’t good enough. A fresh onrush of sadness rippled through her, and she swiped at her eyes again, frustrated with her own emotions.

Crying didn’t do any good. She was sad and hurt—okay, more like devastated—but she was also angry with herself. She’d let Logan control how their relationship had gone, and she’d gotten burned. If she ever dated someone like him again, she wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake twice.

***

Audrey showed up a short time later, a rounded bundle in a stylish gray peacoat. She was always dressed as if about to head into the office, Brontë realized with a sniff. “Hi, Audrey.”

“Hi,” she said, immediately offering a small packet of tissues to Brontë. “You look rough.”

Eyes watering, she nodded. “I don’t seem to be taking this well.”

“No,” Audrey said, a little troubled. “I don’t think you are. I suppose I should be offering you condolences, but I’m mostly just mystified. You broke it off with him? Are you aware he’s a billionaire? A really good-looking one? Was it truly that bad?”

Brontë blew her nose. “He tried to give me a business.” Her face crumpled. “So I could ‘make something’ of myself.”

“Ouch.”

“I told him I loved him, and he ignored it.”

“Double ouch. Okay, I can see why the lure of his money palls a bit in the face of his emotional assholeness.” She glanced down at Brontë’s suitcase. “Did you want to go grab a coffee and talk this out or something?”

“I guess so.” She lifted her wet eyes to Audrey. “Then I guess I have to find a hotel.”

“You do know how much most hotels in this area cost?”

Brontë shook her head, her stomach sinking.

Audrey sighed. “Brontë, listen. I really like you and I would love to offer my couch, but if Logan found out, he’d have kittens. So I don’t mind shepherding you somewhere as a Good Samaritan, but I can’t take sides in this. You know whose side I have to take.”

“I know,” Brontë said miserably. “I really appreciate the help, Audrey. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

The assistant brightened. “However . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I know someone who needs a roomie. Were you planning on staying long?”

“I hadn’t really decided,” Brontë said. She looked around the subway station and then back at Audrey. “I wouldn’t mind taking a few days off to clear my head.” Before crawling back home, she thought.

“Well, if you volunteer to pay half of this month’s rent, I imagine you can stay with her a couple of weeks. I guarantee it’ll end up being cheaper than a few nights in a hotel.”

“Who is this person?”

Audrey smiled brightly. “My sister, Gretchen. Want me to call her?”

Brontë thought about her savings account and the tip money she’d tucked away for a rainy day or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She could cover half a month’s rent, she supposed, even if it was crazy-expensive compared to Kansas City. And she could take her time, see New York, and try to forget all about the man that had stormed into her life and taken over her heart so completely.

She nodded at Audrey. “Can you find out if it’s available?”

***

They took the subway to SoHo, a part of town that Audrey rolled her eyes at. “Such a cliché.”

Brontë hugged her suitcase close, staring around her at the subway with wide eyes. It seemed . . . crowded. Maybe she just wasn’t used to it. “I don’t understand. Why is it a cliché?”

“SoHo’s where all the artists used to live.”

Ah. “Is your sister an artist, then?”

“She likes to imagine she is,” Audrey said with a grin. “Artistic temperament, yes. Artist, no. She’s a ghostwriter.”

“Oh, wow. That’s fascinating.”

Audrey shrugged. “Some days she seems to like it. Some days she seems to hate it. I suppose it depends on who she’s working with.” When the subway announced their stop, she grinned and gestured at the door. “This is us.”

They walked a few blocks to an older apartment building. Audrey jogged up the steps and pushed the call button.

“Who is it?”

“It’s your sister. Open up. I got you a roomie.”

The door buzzed, and Audrey grabbed the handle, motioning for Brontë to enter. Brontë followed Audrey up four flights, the suitcase getting heavier with each step. One of the apartment doors was open by the time they got to the top of the stairs, and a woman who looked just like Audrey was looking at both of them curiously. She was tall, her form hidden by baggy clothing. Unlike Audrey’s pale orange hair, this woman’s was a fiery dark red, and she had the brows and pale skin to match.

“How’d you find me a roommate?” The other woman crossed her arms over her chest, looking suspicious.

Audrey put her arm around Brontë’s shoulders, tugging her close and beaming. “Brontë, this is my sister, Gretchen. Gretchen, Brontë.”

Gretchen studied Brontë with one raised eyebrow. “Bronty like . . . brontosaurus?”

“Like Charlotte Brontë,” she replied.

“I knew that. I was just ****ing with you.” Gretchen adjusted square, thick-rimmed nerd glasses on her nose. She was the epitome of a writer on a deadline: Her red hair was pulled into a disheveled bun, her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore a pair of dark yoga pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that seemed a size too big for her. “So you want to be my roomie? You haven’t even seen the place.”

“Brontë here just broke up with her boyfriend and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.”

Gretchen flashed an annoyed look at her sister. “I need a permanent roommate, not a temporary one.”

“Yes, but Brontë’s willing to pay half of the rent this month, and she can’t stay with me because the boyfriend she broke up with happens to be my boss.”

Gretchen’s eyes widened, and she looked at Brontë like she was crazy. “Isn’t he rich?”

“Too rich,” Brontë said defensively. “He’s let it go to his head.”

The writer blinked behind her glasses. “Huh. Well, come take a look at the place.”

The apartment was small but cheerful, with plants on the windowsill and bookshelves lining the living room. A computer desk covered in paper and books sat at the far end of the apartment, and more books covered the countertops in the kitchen. Brontë immediately liked it, of course. “How many bedrooms?”

“Two,” Gretchen said, brushing past and opening the door to the bedroom down the hall. “It’s not very big.”

That was an understatement. The room was the size of her closet back home, but there was a narrow bed against the wall and a small dresser, which was really all she needed. “Looks good to me,” she said. “I probably will only be staying until the end of the month, though. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City.”

Gretchen shrugged. “I won’t take down my want ads, then. I do have to warn you about one thing.”

“Oh?”

“I have a pet. His name is Igor.”

“He’s hideous,” Audrey said flatly.

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“He is not!” Gretchen opened her bedroom door and picked a small lump up off of the corner of the bed and held it out to Brontë. “He’s just a cat.”

Igor blinked enormous eyes at Brontë. Gretchen’s cat was hairless, apparently. It looked like a naked rat, if she was honest with herself. The thing had long, spindly legs and wrinkly gray skin. Enormous triangle ears jutted from the tiny, pointy face, and it stared up at her with wide golden eyes and then meowed.

Brontë laughed at the sight of him.

“Well, that’s a better reaction than the last potential roomie,” Gretchen said. “Welcome aboard.”

***

Brontë curled under the blankets of her new temporary apartment. The bed was narrow and uncomfortable, with a spring sticking into her lower back, and she was pretty sure she could hear someone talking on the other side of the wall.

She got out of bed and padded over to the small window of her room, pushing it open a crack. It eased open only about two inches, just enough to let the sounds of the street below carry into the room.

The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but Gretchen seemed nice, and Brontë still had a curious fascination for New York. Being here in the apartment felt a bit like hiding from reality. Back home, she’d have to deal with the fact that she’d slept with the boss and then broken up with him. But for now? She could hide away in this tiny room with a bunch of expensive clothes that would do her no good, a jillion books, a hairless cat, and a writer who was, even at two in the morning, seated at her computer and working frantically on her manuscript. It still felt a bit like an escape.

She’d left the diamond necklace behind, too. She supposed she could have sold it for rent money, but that would have been . . . painful. And unfair. And somehow wrong. It seemed to symbolize their relationship, and she couldn’t have sold it. She just couldn’t have.

Brontë wondered if Logan would be looking for her. She hugged her knees close, a stab of pain in her heart. The night before she’d been curled in his arms, deliciously sated after a round of incredible, blissful ***. He’d pulled her close and hugged her against him, his fingers playing over her skin as she drifted off to sleep, and she’d thought that she’d never been held so tenderly.

Funny how a day could put things into perspective. Fresh tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked them back. He hadn’t wanted her. Not really. He liked her in bed. It was just out of it that she was . . . lacking.

Oh, Logan, she thought sadly. Why did I have to fall for you? You’re going to be a hard one to get over.

But even as she said the words to herself, she knew. There were just some men you never got over, and she suspected that Logan Hawkings might be one of them.

***

Brontë woke up the next morning reaching for Logan. Her heart sank when the realization struck her—he wasn’t there.

Not the best way to wake up in the morning. She pushed the sadness away and got out of bed, heading to the kitchen. Maybe today she’d get out and explore the city. She needed a new focus to keep her mind off of Logan. Exploring would do the job just as well as anything else. Of course, she’d be alone, which was a little depressing, but there was nothing to do about that.

Gretchen sat eating a bowl of cereal in the tiny portion of the apartment designated as the kitchen. She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black pants. Unlike the night before, she now wore makeup and her hair was up in a ponytail. The oddly naked cat rubbed against the leg of her pants, begging for attention.

“Headed out this morning?” Brontë asked in a friendly voice.

“Yup.” Gretchen picked up her bowl and went to the sink. “Off to work.”

Brontë sat down at the small kitchen table. “Work? But I thought you were a ghostwriter.”

“I am. I have a friend who owns a coffee shop. I barista *****pplement my income and help him out.”

Brontë smiled. “I wish your friend was hiring. I wouldn’t mind supplementing my own income.”

Gretchen snorted, dropping her spoon into the sink and placing her bowl on the floor. Igor ran over at it immediately and began to lap up the milk. “He’s always hiring. I have to warn you, though, he pays me off the books. He’d probably do the same for you.”

“I don’t mind. I need something to do.”

The other woman gave her a sympathetic look. “Trying to get your mind off your ex, huh?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“No, of course not,” Gretchen said. “I’m pretty good at figuring people out. Like I figured that since your eyes were all red and puffy from crying, you probably missed him.”

Brontë touched her face, blushing. “Gotcha. At any rate, if you’d like the company, I could use the money and the distraction.”

“Of course. Cooper’d love to have you. Do you have a white shirt to work in?”

“I think so.” It probably was Gucci or something equally expensive and ridiculous. She thought of Logan briefly. Wouldn’t he just hate that she was wearing the designer clothes he’d bought for her and serving drinks? “Give me ten minutes and I’ll get dressed.”

***

For a week straight, Logan had called the consultant that he’d left at the Kansas City diner. Every day, the answer was the same. Brontë hadn’t come back to work. She hadn’t called.

She certainly hadn’t called Logan. It was driving him crazy, too.

Logan rubbed a hand over his face wearily. He hadn’t slept as well without Brontë there. His empty bed just felt wrong, as if it were missing something vital. His apartment, too. He’d run across a stack of books she’d left in the library for him. Real books, not the fakes he’d had lining the shelves because he’d been too busy to bother. She’d cleared the false fronts out of one of his shelves and had begun to fill it with her favorites. He’d found a book on top of the stack with a yellow Post-it stuck to the dust jacket.

The Post-it had a smiley face on it. The book? Plato’s Collected Works.

Seeing that had made his chest ache. She’d clearly been thinking of him when she’d gone shopping. Thinking of him with love.

And he’d been the asshole who doubted her. Even after everything they’d been through together on the island, he’d still not quite believed she liked him for him, not his money. When she’d gone, she’d left behind the necklace he’d bought her and taken only her clothes. He suspected that if she could have left those behind without going naked, she would have done that, too.

She truly didn’t want his money. Just him. Except now she didn’t want him at all. He felt like an ass. And he wanted her back, because he wanted to explain himself. To try to explain why he’d done something that was clearly so hurtful to her.

But she wasn’t anywhere.

Logan called his private investigator again. “Any leads?”

“Nothing. No tickets purchased at the airport. If she’s gone back to Kansas City, she hasn’t flown. Maybe she hitched a ride with a friend.”

But Brontë didn’t know anyone in the city other than him and his friends. Worry made him grit his teeth. If anything happened to her, he’d go mad.

He needed her back. She was the only thing that felt right in his life anymore.

***

One Week Later

“I am ready for the day to be over,” Brontë said with a smile at Cooper and Gretchen as she finished the whip on a soy mocha latte. “How’s our tip jar looking?”

Gretchen leaned over the counter and peered at the tip jar. “Fat enough to order a pizza tonight. We could watch some total chick movies. You in the mood?”

“I am,” Brontë said with a nod. “As long as it’s not Pretty Woman. Something New Yorky.”

“Maid in Manhattan?” Gretchen teased.

Brontë shot her a look. “Very funny.”

“Cloverfield?” suggested Cooper. “I have it on DVD. I could bring it over.”

“Not exactly a chick flick, Cooper,” Gretchen said, tossing a hand towel over her shoulder. “And you’re not exactly a chick.”

Cooper flushed at her tease, heading back to the counter when a new customer lined up. Brontë winced at the adoring look that Cooper cast at Gretchen before smiling at the customers. After a week of working at Cooper’s Cuppa, two things had become extremely obvious to her: one, that Cooper was one of the nicest guys she had ever met anywhere, and two, that he was carrying a major torch for Gretchen.

A torch that Gretchen seemed determined to ignore.

“How about 300?” Gretchen asked, pulling out a mug and drying it with her towel. “That’s practically a chick flick, considering it’s filled with oiled-up beefcake. It’s not New Yorky, but with all that man-meat, does it matter?”

“Works for me,” Brontë said. “Want to invite Audrey?”

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Gretchen shook her head. “She can’t. A certain someone is keeping her busy on a secret project.”

“Oh?” Brontë feigned casualness, even though her heart sped up at the thought. “What sort of project?”

The redhead said nothing, just continued to wipe mugs dry.

“Gretchen?”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s just business reports. Apparently her boss is skipping a lot of meetings lately, so she has to listen to recordings and recap them for him so he doesn’t miss out on anything.” She gave Brontë a pointed look. “Don’t read too much into that.”

“I won’t,” Brontë promised, but her mind was already racing. Why was Logan missing meetings? Was he all right? She squelched the rising worry and forced herself to focus. “So, a movie tonight?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Gretchen said. “I want to stop somewhere first and pick up a donation.”

“Donation?”

“Yeah. I pick up used books and take them in to a local retirement home.”

“Oh, Gretchen, that’s so sweet.”

Gretchen waved a hand, dismissing Brontë’s compliment. “Not so sweet. I started doing it when I kept getting so many author copies of my ghostwritten books. I didn’t want them, so I donated them to my nana’s nursing home. I didn’t realize when I first went that so few of the elderly get out, so I bring them books. I can’t imagine sitting around all day staring at the wall.”

Brontë smiled. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I love the idea and I want to help.”

“Good, because Audrey bailed on me. She’s working late, which means you and I get to go and pick up a few boxes from an estate sale. Someone told her there were two boxes to pick up and she volunteered us to go in her place.”

An order popped up on the screen, and Brontë moved to the blender to prepare the drink. “Your sister’s very dedicated to her job.”

“Eh. She likes working for that soulless bastard.”

Brontë bristled a little at Gretchen’s dismissive tone. “He’s not a soulless bastard.”

“Says the now proud owner of a diner,” Gretchen teased.

Brontë flushed, turning the blender on so she wouldn’t have to hear more about it. Perhaps she shouldn’t have shared so much of her story with Gretchen. The woman was fun to live with, and funny, but she had a caustic sense of humor and absolutely zero patience for anything related to Logan Hawkings. He kept Audrey hopping, apparently, and Gretchen resented it.

Brontë handed the blended drink to a customer with a smile, struggling to hide her heartache. After a few days, the pain had dulled into an ever-present ache that triggered tears at the slightest thought of Logan. Unfortunately for her, almost everything seemed to inspire thoughts of Logan. She and Gretchen had gone out for drinks the night before, and when someone at the bar had ordered a hurricane, she’d nearly burst into tears.

The girls working the evening shift came in to Cooper’s Cuppa, and Brontë and Gretchen left the counter, heading to the back room to take off their aprons and count out their tips. As Brontë stuffed her apron into her locker, Gretchen pulled out her phone and checked her text messages, then sighed. “I have the address for Audrey’s pickup. You ready to haul some books a few blocks? She says it’s two boxes.”

Brontë pretended to flex her muscles. “Ready.”

“Let’s go, then. The place should be empty. Audrey says the key’s under the mat.”

***

Hunter strolled through the empty, silent town house, regarding it with an eye long-used to appraising at a glance. He mentally sized up the asking price, tallying all the things that would make it a prize—the luxurious décor, the reputation of the prior owner, the fact that it was a historical building, and the number one thing that always made his interest perk: location. The Upper East Side was a great one.

This town house, he knew, would command several million on the market . . . provided he bothered to put it up for sale. It was a lovely gem of a home, and one of the Brotherhood might be interested in it. Griffin, perhaps, he thought, examining the Victorian wainscoting. An elegant townhouse would be something he’d be in the market for. Reese wanted it for a director friend of his, but Brotherhood came first. He’d probably offer to Griffin to see if he was interested, and if not, talk to Reese’s friend.

Hunter stopped and ****ed his head, listening. Someone had entered the town house.

At the sound of voices, he paused in the foyer of the enormous home. Out of habit, he moved into a shadowy alcove, lest they catch him unawares and stop to stare at him. Even after years of being a scarred, ugly bastard, he was still bothered by the expressions people made at the sight of his face. It was easier to just blend in with the shadows until they were gone. He waited, his ears straining to determine who was there. The only people he’d expected to stop by were Logan’s assistant, who’d insisted on picking up some of his books for a donation, and the movers who’d come to clean out the rest of what was left in the house.

He’d thought the place would be empty, so it would be a perfect time for him to inspect it. He hadn’t realized someone else would be coming in, much less two women.

There was a shuffle of footsteps, and then the sound of a box thumping onto the ground.

“What is this place?” A soft, pleasant female voice asked. “It’s lovely.”

“Some dead celebrity’s home or something. I don’t care.” The other woman’s voice seemed full of laughter and amusement, but her tone was cutting. “All I care about is how we’re supposed to get these damned boxes back to SoHo. What the heck was Audrey thinking?”

“Could we call a cab?”

The women approached Hunter’s shadowed hiding place, and he stilled, waiting for them to pass without noticing him.

The redhead was standing not ten feet away from him, her head bent. He couldn’t see her face, but she was curvy and tall, her ass a perfect heart from where he was standing, and her hair was a brilliant shade of red. The other girl—a pretty brunette with wide eyes—balanced two boxes and was waiting for instructions from the other woman.

“I don’t know about a cab,” the redhead said. “That’ll clean us out, and I still want to order that pizza.”

“So?” the dark-haired one asked.

“Brontë,” the redhead said in a crisp voice, and Hunter came to attention. That was a familiar name.

But the redhead was still talking. “You have to understand something about my sister. She’s not the most practical creature.”

“She’s not? She seems practical to me.”

“Not when it comes to work. She thinks we’re mules or something, as evidenced by all this. And if I need to call and gripe at her to get her in line, then, by golly, I’m going to do it.” She put the phone to her ear. A few seconds later, she made a frustrated sound. “Voice mail. I can’t believe her. She said there were two boxes. Not five boxes of hardbacks. Does she think we’re bodybuilders?”

“It’s not that bad,” the brunette placated her, adjusting the boxes in her arms. “I’m sure we can manage.”

“I blame Logan Hawkings,” the redhead exclaimed, catching Hunter’s attention. “He thinks the world just belongs to him, doesn’t he?”

The look on the other woman’s face was sad. “I suppose.”

“Ugh. Look at that hang-dog expression. You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

The brunette turned sad eyes on her friend. “‘I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so. I do not know, but I feel it, and am in agony.’”

“Oh, quit quoting that crap at me. You’re being dramatic. He’s a jerk. You’ll get over him.”

The redhead turned, and Hunter got a good look at her face for the first time. She was unusual-looking, with round cheeks smattered in freckles. Her expressive eyes dominated her face despite being hidden behind square, scholarly glasses. Her chin ended in a small point, and she looked fascinating. Smart. Annoyed. “Save me from rich, attractive alpha males. They think they’re the heroes from a fairy tale. Little do they know, they’re more like the villains.”

“That’s not fair, Gretchen,” the one called Brontë protested.

“Life’s not fair,” Gretchen said in a cheerfully acerbic voice. “I’d rather have a man who isn’t in love with his own reflection than one who needs hair product or designer labels.” She bent over, and that heart-shaped ass was thrust into his vision again, and his **** stirred with need.

“So you’d rather have a pizza guy with a weak chin and a knight-in-shining-armor complex?”

“Yes,” Gretchen said emphatically, and a dimple flashed in her pointed little face. “His looks aren’t half as important as his brain.”