[English] Stranded With A Billionaire

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 40



So she said. Hunter knew from experience that what women said they wanted in a man was soon forgetten if his physical appearance was unappealing. Still, he was fascinated with her. She was brash and clever, and a little sardonic, as if she were as weary of the world as he was. He watched as the two women, arguing and laughing, stepped out of the foyer of the empty home with the boxes of donations that he’d left for Logan’s assistant.

Her name was Gretchen. Gretchen. He racked his brain, trying to think of anyone who knew a Gretchen. A lovely redhead with a charmingly unusual face and a cutting tongue. He wanted to know more about her . . .

Hunter touched the jagged scars running down the left side of his face and frowned. Would she find him as hideous as the rest of the world did? Probably. But she’d also said she could look past that. That she wasn’t interested in a face as much as the brain behind it.

He was curious whether she’d been telling the truth.

Not that it mattered, since she’d just walked out the door and he’d likely never see her again.

A half-buried memory stirred in the back of his mind as he stared at the now-shut door. The other woman had an unusual name. Brontë. He knew that name, and where he’d heard it before.

He dialed Logan’s number, still thinking about the unusual redhead.

“What is it?” Logan said. “I’m about to head into a meeting.”

“There can’t be more than one ‘Brontë’ running around New York, can there?” Hunter asked.

The voice on the other end of the line got very still. “Brontë?” Logan asked after a moment. “You saw her? Where is she?”

Hunter stared at the door, half wishing the women would come back through it again, and half relieved they wouldn’t. “She just left with a redhead named Gretchen. I want to know more about her.”

“About my Brontë?” Logan’s voice was a growl.

“No. Gretchen. The one with red hair. I want her.”

“Oh.” A long sigh. “Sorry, man. Haven’t been myself lately. She left me, and I’ve been going crazy trying to find her.” Logan’s voice sounded strained, tense. “I can’t believe she’s still in New York. Where are you?”

“At the townhouse on the Upper East Side.” Hunter had been overseeing it to ensure that nothing was out of place. Plus, he’d been bored and restless. And more than a little lonely.

He wasn’t lonely any more, though. He couldn’t stop thinking about that redhead. Gretchen, with her big glasses and pert comebacks and red hair.

“Your assistant didn’t come by to pick up the boxes,” Hunter said after a moment. “This Gretchen did, and your Brontë was with her.”

“I have to go,” Logan said. “I’ll call Audrey and see who she sent over.”

“Send me information about this Gretchen woman,” Hunter reminded me. I want her.

“I will. And thanks.” Logan’s tone had changed from dejected to triumphant. “I owe you one.”

“You do,” Hunter agreed. “Just get me information on her friend, and we’ll call it even.”

Things had suddenly gotten a bit more . . . interesting. Hunter glanced at the empty townhouse and smiled to himself, his mind full of the unusual woman who had been there minutes before.

Chapter Eleven

“I have good news and bad news,” Cooper said as Brontë and Gretchen came in to work.

Brontë pulled her apron out of her locker, frowning as she tied it behind her back. “Oh?”

“Hit us with the good news first, of course,” Gretchen said. “No sense in bumming us out until you give us a bit of a lift.”

Cooper beamed at them, his gaze resting on Gretchen adoringly. “I can now afford to put you both on the payroll.”

“So what’s the bad news?” Gretchen asked, glancing over at Brontë.

“There’s a new boss. I have someone I’m answering to.”

Gretchen frowned. “I don’t understand.”

A queasy feeling began to stir in Brontë’s stomach. Oh, no.

“I sold the place.”

“Holy cow! I didn’t even know it was for sale.” Gretchen blinked wide eyes at him. “Congrats, I think?”

“It wasn’t up for sale officially, but someone approached me and made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

Oh, no.

Brontë stared at the door to the back room, then pushed it open, entering the main sitting area of the small coffee shop. Her stomach gave an unpleasant twist as she saw a familiar pair of shoulders in a tailored gray sport coat. Logan. He turned, and her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach dropped.

“Brontë.” His eyes moved over her body, as if assessing whether it was really her.

“What are you doing here, Logan?”

His gaze seemed to cool a bit at her response. “I own the place.”

Not again! This man was going to drive her mad. “Are you kidding me?”

“We need to talk.” He stood and moved forward, reaching for her arm.

Brontë quickly sidestepped his grip and began to pull off her apron. If he owned another place where she worked, it was another one she’d have to abandon. God, this was getting ridiculous. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Allow me to rephrase that. I need to talk to you.” His voice lowered and became husky as he moved to stand closer to her. He was so close that her body trembled with his nearness, but she forced herself to hold still. Remain strong.

“Please, Brontë.”

It was that soft, low “please” that made her knees turn weak and her resolve melt away like butter. She looked up at his face, noticed the circles under his eyes, and gave a sharp nod. Brontë turned and glanced back at Cooper and Gretchen. Cooper was watching her curiously, but Gretchen’s arms were crossed and she looked annoyed on Brontë’s behalf.

“Can you give us a minute to talk?” Brontë asked.

“Use my office,” Cooper volunteered, pulling the key out of his pocket and holding it out to Brontë.

She took it and turned toward the back office.

Gretchen stepped forward, concern in her eyes. “Are you sure this is wise, Brontë?”

“I’ll be fine,” she told Gretchen, and squeezed her hand in thanks. She’d only known her for a short period of time, but already Audrey’s sister had been a great and supportive friend to her.

“We’re right outside if you need us,” Gretchen said, casting a scowl in Logan’s direction.

Brontë nodded and went to the door of Cooper’s office, not glancing behind her to see whether Logan was following. If he wanted to talk, well, he’d come after her. Her fingers were shaking as she tried to calmly unlock the door, and it seemed like forever before she could turn the key in the lock and get it open. Once the door was open, though, she stepped inside and flicked on the light. Logan entered close behind her, and Brontë shut the door after him so no one could listen in.

He immediately reached out and touched her cheek in a gentle caress before she could back away. His gaze moved over her, scanning her face and figure. “Is everything okay? You’re doing all right? I’ve been worried about you.”

She stepped aside and out of his grasp, even though every nerve ending in her body screamed for her to go back to his arms. “I’m fine, Logan. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” His hand dropped, the movement seeming defeated. “I was just worried when you didn’t return to Kansas City. No one knew where you were.”

So he’d had his flunkies checking up on her? She wasn’t surprised, especially considering how he’d used every means available to find her last time. That was one reason why she’d stayed in New York. “I decided to extend my vacation a little longer. Take a mental health break.”

“I want you back.” The words were quiet but laced with emotion.

Brontë crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the floor. She refused to meet his gaze. If she did, she might see the emotion there, and it would make her weaken. She wanted to be strong. Needed to be strong. “I’m not going back to you, Logan. You don’t want me. You want a girl who isn’t a waitress and who knows which salad fork to use. That’s not me.”

“I don’t care about that. I want you. When you left, it felt like the lights went out. I don’t care if you eat with the wrong fork at every meal. I don’t care if you waitress for the rest of your life. I just want you at my side, Brontë.” Logan reached for her again, and then dropped his hand before he could touch her, as if suddenly remembering to respect her boundaries. “I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your hand in mine. I miss your laugh when you’re nervous. I wish to God I was hearing it right now.” His mouth crooked in a half smile. “That hurricane was the best thing that ever happened to me because it brought you into my life.”

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 41



She was in danger of letting the nervous giggle escape, but she dug her fingernails into her palms until the feeling passed. “If I’m so great, why did you tell me you wanted me to ‘make something of myself’?” Even now, the words hurt.

He sighed, and the sound made her look up at him. Logan’s handsome face was drawn. He normally looked confident and supremely in control, but right now, he just looked . . . desolate.

Good, she thought with a little mental stab.

“I’m not a nice guy, Brontë. I don’t have to be, most times, because of my money.” His gaze met hers. “I told you once that my fiancée was only interested in me for my money. She was the only one I let get close enough before you. Usually women make their fascination with my money known right away, and then it’s easy to just end things before someone gets hurt. I was afraid I was making the same mistake again, and I was losing my head over you. I wanted to test you, to see how you’d respond. Thing is . . .” He ran a hand down his face. “You passed the test, of course. Except I’d forgotten that you have feelings, too, and how you’d feel about my little test. I’m sorry. It was arrogant and stupid of me.”

“It was,” she agreed. “Why would you think I’m after your money?”

“Maybe because most of the time everyone is?” He shook his head. “It’s not you, Brontë. It’s me. I realize that now. I’m a cynical bastard, especially when it comes to women. That’s why I didn’t tell you who I really was when we were stranded together. And it’s why I offered you the diner. It’s not that there’s something wrong with you. It’s that there’s something wrong with every other woman I’ve ever had in my life. They couldn’t see past my wallet to me. You can. And that’s why I want you.”

Nice words. She felt her resolve weakened by them and by his entreating gaze. But she shook her head. “I can’t trust you, Logan. I thought I could, but this just proved that you’re not who I thought you were. You shouldn’t have to ‘test’ me. You should be able to trust me, and me you.”

“Give me another chance, Brontë. A chance to prove how much you mean to me.”

She remained silent.

Logan moved forward. His fingertips touched her chin and tilted her head back until she met his eyes. “You told me you loved me that night in the limo.”

A knot formed in her throat, and she met his gaze steadily. “I was mistaken.”

Logan’s eyes hardened. “You were not.”

“I was,” she told him, even though it was a lie. “It was silly of me to think I’d fallen in love with someone so fast, and time has proved me right.”

“I’m not mistaken,” he told her, and the fingers under her chin began to caress her jaw. “I’m still in love with you.”

Her throat went dry at his husky words. “Logan, please.”

“I’m not fighting fair,” he told her. “I know. I don’t care. I want you back. I don’t give a **** about being fair or being the better man. I will be the most ruthless man in the world as long as I can have you at my side and in my bed. You’re the only thing that matters. I love you.”

“Love is not control, Logan. Love is partnership. Friendship. A wise man once said, ‘If you want to be loved, be lovable.’”

His mouth quirked. “I’d say that’s Plato, but I know it’s not. I’ve been reading the book you left me, you know. ‘The madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s blessings.’”

Tears stung her eyes. He’d been reading philosophy? To try and understand her better? Hope unfurled in her breast, but she forced herself to be calm, careful.

“I don’t know, Logan. We haven’t exactly had the most normal relationship. I never know how to act around you. I’m about as comfortable in the hurricane as I am at one of your society parties. Both scare the pants off of me.”

“Whatever you want to do, Brontë, I’ll do it.” He moved close, his mouth inches away from hers, and her pulse began to pound. Just an inch or two more and his lips would be on hers, coaxing hers into opening for him, his tongue thrusting into her mouth and conquering her all over again . . .

Brontë took a step backward, out of his grasp.

“Come home with me tonight, Brontë. We’ll start over.” Logan’s gaze was caressing as it moved over her.

“No.”

He stopped short. A flash of pain flickered in his eyes, quickly masked, and Brontë was both pleased to see that pain and saddened by it. Pleased because it meant he was genuinely invested, and saddened that she had to hurt him.

“Is this good-bye, then?” Logan asked.

“No,” she said again quickly. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. She needed more time to process how she felt about Logan. More time to pull herself together. More time to just be . . . her. An idea hit her, and she looked up at him with a bright smile. “I think we should date.”

“Date?” His brows furrowed, as if the concept were foreign to him.

“Yes,” she said, warming to her topic. “Date. You know, dinner and a movie. Bowling with friends. Going out for pizza and seeing the sights. Spending time together just to spend time together. A date. Several dates. I need to know that what I thought we had was real, Logan. And I need to know you want to be with me. I think we should date.”

“I want you,” he said, and his tone was nearly a growl of frustration. “Going to see a movie isn’t going to change that. I love you, Brontë.”

“But I need to date, Logan,” she said firmly. “No fancy parties, no buying of restaurants. No hurricanes. You and me, on a few regular dates like normal people. We can see if we’re truly compatible or if we’re just caught up in the madness of it all.”

She suspected that she was still head over heels in love with him, but dating meant that she’d have him all to herself and that they’d be on familiar territory. She wasn’t at home at fancy society parties. But at a pizza place or a movie? She could relax and just be herself.

There was a challenging gleam in his eyes that made her pulse flutter with excitement. “If you want me to win you over with romantic dates, Brontë. I will.”

“Great,” she said enthusiastically, and when he leaned in to kiss her, she ducked away again. “Call me sometime.”

“Let’s go out. Tonight.”

“Can’t tonight,” she said lightly. “I’m working. Call me.” She stressed the last two words and turned to the door, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’m serious, Logan. I want to date like normal people. Not like a billionaire and the waitress he just bought.”

She could practically hear his teeth grinding. “You know it’s not like that, Brontë.”

Then prove it, she thought. But she gave him only an enigmatic smile and opened the office door. “Then call me sometime.”

Brontë forced herself to walk calmly through the store room and back out to the main café. With calm hands, she lifted the bar, stepped in behind it, and then let it slide shut behind her again, taking her place next to the others behind the counter.

She immediately approached the line of customers, smiled at Gretchen, and then took over manning the register. A few moments later, her heart flipped in her breast as she watched Logan’s tall form walk past the bar and leave the café.

Had he given up on her? So quickly?

Confused, she concentrated on the complicated order a very patient woman was trying to place. Brontë had to ask her to repeat it twice, because her head wasn’t in the right place. Had she messed things up with Logan? Had he decided she wasn’t worth the effort?

“Seventeen ninety-one,” she told the woman as she completed her order. Just then the phone in her pocket began to vibrate. Brontë jumped and pulled it out with shaking fingers and turned away from the cash register.

Logan Hawkings, the screen read, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. “H-hello?” she answered.

“I’m calling you,” Logan said in a gruff voice. “Go out with me.”

That wild, nervous giggle escaped, and she clapped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. When she recovered, she cleared her throat. “Where would you like to go?”

“Dinner. Tonight. Someplace casual.”

“I told you. I’m working tonight,” she said calmly, though she couldn’t stop grinning.

He made a frustrated sound that was nearly swallowed up by the sounds of traffic. He must have still been out on the street. “Tomorrow night, then.”

“Tomorrow night is good,” she said, smiling. “Where should we meet?”

***

As she prepared for her first date with the man she was in love with, Brontë was thankful that Audrey had dragged her out and made her go clothes shopping. Her own funds were still a little lean, and although working at the coffee shop was a good way to pass time, living in New York was expensive and she found...

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 42



Luckily, she had the clothes she’d taken when she’d left Logan’s apartment. She grabbed her favorite jeans, paired them with a silver belt, and tossed on a form-fitting black boatneck sweater and some ankle boots. She pulled her hair into a smooth ponytail and added a pair of hoop earrings, and then presented the ensemble to Gretchen.

“How do I look?”

Gretchen looked up from her laptop screen and squinted at Brontë. “Are you dating Logan?”

“I am.”

“Then I don’t care,” Gretchen said and turned back to her computer.

“Be fair, Gretchen,” Brontë said with a laugh. “We’re just going to try each other out and see if we can have a good time like regular people.”

“Oh, please,” Gretchen said with a roll of her eyes. She continued to type, her hair pulled atop her head in a wild red bun. At the side of her computer, Igor curled up, looking like a naked, wrinkly bat. Occasionally, Gretchen would reach over to pet the cat and then return to typing. “We both know that this is just some sadistic version of foreplay and you’re still madly in love with him. You just want to make him dance to your tune for a while instead of the other way around.”

Gretchen certainly knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

“So . . . does this outfit look okay for excruciatingly drawn-out foreplay?”

Gretchen peered up at her again; then her eyes settled on her chest. “Are you wearing a bra?”

“Absolutely.”

“A big ugly girdle?”

“No.”

“Mmm. You need a big ugly girdle. It’ll ensure you won’t want to get naked with him.”

Brontë smoothed a hand over her sweater. “I’m going to assume that this looks fine, then.”

“Fine, fine,” Gretchen waved a hand, then returned it to scratching Igor’s wrinkly skin. She didn’t look away from her monitor. “I’m two chapters from the end of this stupid project, so I’m going to be chained to the computer until it’s done. I’m totally fine with you staying out until all hours. Just in case you were wondering.”

“Gotcha.”

“Have fun.”

“I will.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. That means most everything, by the way.”

Brontë waved, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.

The walk to the subway station was a short one. Even though the network of subway lines was still confusing to her, she knew a few stops and was glad that the one they’d agreed to meet near was among them. After she emerged from the subway, she headed for the restaurant they’d picked and scanned the crowd of pedestrians for a familiar set of broad shoulders in an expensive jacket.

Her gaze nearly skipped over a tall man in a form-fitting navy henley, and then she paused, gazing at him in surprise. Logan. In jeans and a regular shirt. She continued to stare as he moved to her side, looking just as at ease as ever, and his hand went to her waist to pull her in to his embrace. His scent enveloped her, and she lifted her face for a kiss automatically.

But he only hugged her close, then released her.

Brontë was oddly disappointed.

“You look nice,” she told him with a small smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you out of a business suit.”

He grinned down at her, looking boyishly handsome, and it made her pulse pound. “It’s been a while. I admit that it seems like everything I have in my closet has somehow magically transformed into either workout clothing or a suit. I had Audrey pick me up a few things.” He ran a hand down his front and lifted his chin as if posing. “Do I pass muster?”

“You do,” she said with a small laugh.

“You look gorgeous,” he told her, his gaze devouring her body in the form-fitting sweater and jeans. “I’ve missed getting to look at you every day.”

Her breath quickened, and she gave another nervous laugh.

“I’ve missed that, too,” Logan said, grinning.

She couldn’t seem to stop smiling. When he offered her his arm, she placed her hand in the crook of it. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d grab something to eat and then see a movie.”

“What movie?”

He looked perplexed for a minute, then grimaced. “I don’t know what’s playing, to be honest. I forgot to ask Audrey to check.” He pulled out his phone.

She put her hand over his, stopping him. “We can just see whatever’s showing. No big deal.”

Logan’s expression was a bit sheepish. “I seem to have thought of everything but the date itself.”

“Oh?”

They began to walk and Logan guided her through the streaming crowd.

“Indeed. I cleared my schedule, had Audrey purchase date clothes, picked out the restaurant, memorized some Plato—the usual. I even rode the subway here, just like a normal New Yorker.” He grimaced. “I’d prefer not to do that on a regular basis. The man next to me smelled like piss.”

She laughed again, feeling an insane urge to hug him. “Well, I appreciate the effort.”

They walked two blocks, chatting about ridiculous things like the weather, Gretchen’s obvious dislike of him and her protectiveness of Brontë, Cooper’s coffee shop, and Audrey’s efficiency as an assistant. Simple, easy conversation. She loved it.

“Here we go,” Logan said, and they stopped outside of a small pizza parlor with an old yellow-lit sign. “I thought we’d grab a slice here.”

It . . . definitely didn’t look like the regular sort of place Logan frequented. “You like their food?”

“I did when I was a teenager. This was my first job, you know.”

She looked up at him, surprised. “You worked here?”

“I did.” He stared up at the sign, the expression on his face half fond, half rueful. “I was going through a rebellious phase—drinking, smoking, staying out all night. The usual teenage boy stuff. My father couldn’t deal with me. Of course, I never dealt well with my father, either. I ended up skipping classes for a few days and was suspended from school. My father wanted to teach me a lesson. He told me that I was too arrogant for my own good and that I needed to learn from someone who wasn’t terrified of my family’s money or position. So he dropped me off here.” Logan gestured at the pizza parlor.

“A family friend?” she guessed, watching his face.

“A very old friend of his from school. It turned out my father had given him the loan to start the place, so he owed my dad a favor. That favor was taking me on as an employee for a week. Andy—that’s the owner’s name—was a real drill sergeant, too. He had me washing floors and scrubbing toilets and standing over the sink for hours at a time. I remember that was the longest week of my life. I hated every minute of it, but my father told me that if I didn’t stay, he’d kick me out. So I stayed.”

“Your father sounds . . .” She struggled for the right word. “Interesting.”

“My father was a real asshole. But he was right about Andy. He kicked my ass and worked me harder than anyone ever had. And you know what happened at the end of that week?”

“Your father relented?”

“Nope,” Logan said with a half smile. “Andy fired me. Said I was the ****tiest worker he’d ever seen and that three-year-olds had more drive than I did. That woke me up. Here was someone who wasn’t afraid of my father’s money or position. He just wanted a kid to wash dishes, and he ended up with me, who’d never washed a dish in my life and wasn’t about to start. But I was more afraid of my father than Andy, so I had to convince him to keep me on. Which meant working harder. I worked there all summer. Learned a lot about hard work and running a business. I respected the hell out of Andy, too.” He stared up at the pizza sign fondly again. “Hungry?”

Brontë nodded, fascinated by the story he’d told her. It gave her a lot to think about. “You’ve been wealthy all your life, haven’t you?”

“Always, but it wasn’t easy, either.” Logan stepped inside and moved to the counter, pointing at one of the pizzas and then holding up two fingers.

She waited for him to continue.

“My father was a hard man.”

“Surely not all hard. Your mother must have loved him.”

He gave her a wry look as he handed a twenty to the cashier. “My mother was a showgirl who wanted my father’s money. She tolerated his bad moods since he was rich, and he tolerated her since she was gorgeous and pregnant with me. She died when I was five.”

“I’m so sorry.” Brontë took her plate and followed Logan to one of the small, dingy tables in the back of the parlor.

“I am, too. That meant it was just me and my father.” He shrugged. “He died two years ago.”

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 43



And two years ago, Logan had broken off his engagement with Danica. No wonder he had trust issues. Brontë took a small bite, a mix of emotions swirling through her. “This pizza is good,” she said, changing the subject to safer territory. “Thank you.”

“So what was your first job?” He took a bite, waiting for her to respond.

She grimaced. “Babysitter, of course.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It depended on the kids, really. Some were great, some were horrible. It gave me a lot of time to read when they were napping, though.”

He grinned. “I can see why you took the job.”

“I am very transparent, aren’t I?” She smiled impishly back at him.

“And do you want kids someday?”

It was a tough question, but she’d been expecting it. Brontë chewed, thinking for a long minute. Then she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and gave him the only answer she could. “Someday, with the right person.”

He nodded.

“You?”

Logan’s eyes were on her again. “Someday. I’ve already found the right person. I’m just waiting for her to be ready.”

Brontë’s nervous giggle surprised neither of them.

***

The only movie that they could get tickets to was an action movie, but sitting in the dark with Logan was pleasant no matter what the flick. Though the movie theater was crowded, she still enjoyed herself, and spent half of the movie with her head on Logan’s shoulder, waiting for him to make a move. After all, date movies were for making out, weren’t they?

Except he didn’t, and when they walked back to the subway, Brontë was a little confused. Their date had gone so well. She’d found out so much about him and been so comfortable with Logan tonight, but he was keeping it platonic. Extremely platonic. And she didn’t know how to handle that. After all, they’d been intimate before.

Extremely intimate.

Since it was late, he walked her back to Gretchen’s apartment building, and they stood on the stoop, gazing at each other.

“Are you going to give me a kiss good night?” Brontë asked.

Logan looked up at her with a slow, assessing gaze, and then shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” She flushed at how forward that sounded. “I just mean . . . we’ve already been lovers. I—”

“Brontë,” Logan said in a soft voice, hushing her. He stepped closer, and his hand moving to her waist, tugging her a little closer to him. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. It’s that if I start, I don’t think I can stop.”

Her entire body felt suffused with heat at his words. “Logan, I—”

“No, let me finish,” he said. “You need this to feel comfortable with me again. You want to date without the money or the power. I understand that. And now that I’ve had some time to settle into the idea, I like it. So we’re going to take things slow.” He took her hand in his, and then raised it to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “We’re not going to take things to the next level again until you’re ready. But I don’t want just *** from you, Brontë. When we go to bed together again, it’s going to be you and me. Strings attached and all. So think long and hard about what you want. Because I know what I want. I want you.”

So direct and to the point. She felt breathless, gazing up into his serious face. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet,” she told him honestly.

He pressed another kiss to her knuckles and smiled. “Then we date again. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I have to check my work calendar to see if I’m free,” she began.

“Brontë,” he said patiently. “We both know you can be free tomorrow night. Don’t play games.”

He had a point. She was just pushing to see if she could win, and it wasn’t fair to him. “I’m free. What do you want to do, then?”

“Be with you.”

At this rate, she was never going to stop blushing. He made her feel . . . a little excited, but strangely pleased. She rather liked being the center of his universe, even if at the moment his universe consisted of small, easy dates. “Do you want to go bowling? Dinner?”

“Have you been to Broadway yet?”

Excitement flared through her. “Oh! No, I haven’t, but I’m dying to. I would love to see a show! Isn’t it too late to find tickets to anything good, though?”

“Leave that up to me. I’ll pick you up for dinner tomorrow.” He reluctantly released her hand. “Think of me tonight?”

“I will. Good night, Logan.”

She watched him descend the steps of her building and head back down the street to the subway. He didn’t look back at her, but that was okay. Her entire body was still warm from his words.

What do you want to do, then?

Be with you . . . Think of me tonight.

Strange how admitting that she would think of him somehow felt more intimate than a dozen kisses.

Brontë went inside, heading up to the apartment. Gretchen hadn’t moved from the space she’d occupied when Brontë had left hours earlier, except her bun now had several pencils stuck into it, and the cat had moved to curl around her feet. She looked up at Brontë as if surprised, then glanced at the clock. “Oh. Oh. It’s late.” She rubbed her eyes and stared at her computer screen. “Well, ****. I think I lost track of time. How’d it go?”

“Good,” Brontë said with a dreamy sigh. “And bad. I’m still totally in love with him.”

“Just don’t tell him that,” Gretchen said, reaching down to pet Igor. “I guess I’ll stop hating him until you two break up again.”

Brontë made a face. “Very funny. We’re going out again tomorrow night.”

“Fine with me. That’ll give me a chance to fix this last chapter I wrote. It’s horrible.” She stared at the screen and grimaced. “Good thing this book won’t have my real name on it.”

Brontë snorted. “Well, I’m heading off to bed. See you in the morning.”

Gretchen didn’t look up from the screen. “See you.”

Brontë went to bed, and just like she’d promised, her thoughts were entirely of Logan.

***

The next night, Logan took her out to a popular Broadway show, and she had an amazing time. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow when he produced box seats instead of ones in the nosebleed section. Afterward, they went out for drinks and spent the evening talking and laughing together. She told him about her childhood in the Midwest, and he told her about his adventures at boarding school as a boy. When they parted that night, he simply given her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The next night, he took her ice skating at Rockefeller, determined to show her a good time even if it meant hitting every tourist hot spot that New York had to offer. She didn’t care, though. She loved the sheer fun of being out with him, seeing all the famous places around town. Holding hands with him as they careened around the ice. She laughed the entire time, and even Logan’s serious face had a smile on it.

Of course, that night, he gave her just a caress on the cheek and a quick peck before leaving her on the stoop, her pulse throbbing with unfulfilled desire.

She knew he was doing it on purpose, of course. If she wanted to have a few dates just as a normal couple, they’d take it slow. Extremely slow. That had been her plan, after all. A week or two of just dating.

Unfortunately for her, the plan was backfiring in a major way. By the time they went on a walk through Central Park two days later, his every touch sent a ripple of desire through her body. Her nipples were hard enough at his nearness that she wore several layers of clothing to cover it up. And when he leaned in to nuzzle the nape of her neck in a quietly affectionate move, her knees went weak, her *** instantly wet.

This was not exactly how she’d planned for the week to go. She said nothing, of course, though she might have rubbed up against Logan’s thigh a bit more than she should have in the carriage ride around the park, and when he held her close, she might have pushed her hips back suggestively. Her skin was heated and flushed with need, but he only gave her a light kiss on the lips.

If this is how he thinks normal people date, she thought wryly, he is going to be very surprised when I jump his bones in the next date or two. She had wanted to move slow with Logan to prove that the real spark was there between them. However, he had apparently interpreted “slow” as “glacial.”

She couldn’t really complain, though. His schedule kept him busy in the daytime, though he’d send her occasional text messages throughout the day to let her know what their plans were for that evening, or simply to tell her he was thinking about her. When she’d told him she was looking forward to their date, he’d sent back a quote that made her heart flutter with delight.

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 44



“. . . and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment . . .”

She’d been giddy over that single text. She hadn’t even corrected him considering that was a quote from a satire of love. It was meant from the heart from Logan, and that was all that counted.

Meanwhile Gretchen, who was still on deadline and crankier than ever, complained that Brontë was too easily swayed. And maybe it was true.

But she knew it was love. At least, it was on her end. Love and desire and need and want all mixed into one giant bundle of nerves. And while she knew it was love, she also knew one other thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to be the one to say it first. Not this time.

Chapter Twelve

Logan told Brontë to ask Cooper for the day off on Monday. She asked, with a bemused smile on her face. Cooper was confused about the situation, of course. Since Logan was in the process of buying the coffee shop, and she was dating Logan, did she really have to ask Cooper?

Yes, Brontë informed him. She did.

She got the day off, of course.

When Logan showed up with the limo, she should have been mad at him, but he had such a I-know-I’ve-been-bad smile on his face that she couldn’t get upset. Instead, she eyed the car and then his clothing, noting that despite the expensive wheels, he was dressed down in jeans and a ribbed sweater. “What’s with the limo?”

“We need a ride out to where we’re going today.”

She crossed her arms but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “We do, huh?”

“We do,” he agreed, and produced a blindfold. “Unless you don’t mind walking the streets blindfolded. This is for you.”

Skeptical, Brontë took the length of fabric from him. “Blindfolded?”

“For our surprise date.” He took it from her and gestured for her to turn around.

Obediently, she turned, biting back her smile. She could feel his fingers moving over the back of her head, and skitters of delight moved through her at even that simple touch. When his hand clasped her arm, she jumped in surprise, gasping.

“Did I startle you?”

“No, I-I’m okay.” Her nipples were hard, though. Embarrassingly so. “How long do I have to wear this?”

“Until we get there,” he told her, and then led her into the limo.

It was impossible to tell how far they were driving—she couldn’t see a clock or see the streets to know where they were headed. Her entire world became the interior of the car and, more precisely, Logan’s large body next to hers in the backseat, his thigh warm next to her own. Her senses were enveloped with his nearness, and just the occasional whiff of his aftershave was driving her wild with need.

When he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, she tilted her head back, hoping he would kiss her. Instead, his thumb lightly traced the contours of her lips. The tender touch sent sensations cascading through her, and Brontë could barely breathe for the ache in her breast . . . and between her legs. God, she needed him. This was torture. Her breasts yearned for his touch, and her entire body felt attuned to him. Without the ability to see, all her other senses seemed to have come alive, and she was on fire with longing.

The car stopped, and Logan shifted next to her.

“Are we there?” Her voice was breathless and husky.

“Not quite,” Logan said. He took her hand in his and led her out of the car. “This is as far as the limo goes, though.”

Brontë tilted her head, wishing she could see his expression. She listened to the sounds around her—lots of people. Outdoors. But where? She wasn’t familiar with the city. “When can I take this off?”

“Now,” he said, and his hands moved to her hair.

He untied the knot, and she caught the blindfold in her hands, tugging it down off of her face, eyes open-wide to interpret what she was seeing.

People everywhere. A park with tall trees, and a large brick wall. Signs stood by the entrance, and she quickly scanned one. One gave ferry rates . . .

“The Statue of Liberty,” she gasped, delighted. Brontë turned back to Logan, unable to contain her smile. “Is that where we’re going?”

“It is.” He looked pleased at her response. “Come on.”

It was the most ridiculously touristy thing they’d done so far, but she loved every moment of it. They rode the ferry across the water to Ellis Island and the museum. Logan held her hand in his as they walked the grounds, their headsets on as they shuffled along listening to the tour. They stopped by the gift shop, and she got a Statue of Liberty T-shirt, postcards, and several pens for her friends back home. Once she’d finished her shopping, they went on to Liberty Island. The Statue was fascinating, and she stared up at it with wide eyes, delighted.

“Do you want a photo?” He asked. “I seem to recall that you wanted your picture taken in front of the Statue of Liberty.”

She nodded, beaming at him. “Want to do one together?”

“Of course.”

They took pictures in front of the Statue, pausing to switch off so they could both have photos on their individual phones. Brontë laughed at the sight of them in one shot. “Your eyes are closed in my picture, Logan. We have to take it again.”

“Let’s change up our pose, then,” he said, and took the phone from her, holding it low so the picture would be an uptilted view.

And he leaned in and very lightly kissed her mouth.

Immediate heat flushed through her body. Brontë clung to him, her hands going to his cheeks and anchoring her mouth against his. She’d wanted this for what felt like forever, and when his lips parted, she took advantage and swept her tongue into his mouth, letting him know her need. He groaned low in his throat at her kiss, and then his tongue was rubbing up against hers. An ache settled low in Brontë’s hips, and she whimpered in response.

Logan slowly pulled away from her lips and grinned down at her. “Let’s hope that photo turned out.”

Dazed, she stared up at him, and reached out to take the phone back. The photo was tilted awkwardly, and the Statue wasn’t even in the picture. “It’s fine,” she murmured, still flushed and tingling.

“It’s not. We need to do it again,” he said, and his hand went around her waist as he took the phone back from her. He angled it up once more, adjusted it, then leaned in and began to kiss her again. The kiss this time didn’t start off delicate. His mouth immediately claimed hers, sending driving desire rocketing through her. Over and over, his mouth slanted over hers, tongue licking at hers in a way that made her knees weak. People were probably watching, and she didn’t care.

She nearly sagged when he released her again, and glanced down at the phone. “Better?” She asked in a wobbly voice, clinging to him.

“My eyes are closed again,” he said, and couldn’t hide the triumphant expression on his face. “We should do it one more time.”

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Brontë protested, but her words were cut off by the heated kiss he bestowed on her mouth again. And oh, God, desire was hammering staccato notes through her body, and all her nerve endings seemed to be demanding one thing. His body, over hers. In hers. ASAP. All this dating and yearning seemed like one big cruel tease at the moment.

Endless, endless foreplay, she thought, lost in the feel of his mouth against hers. A low moan almost escaped her when he pulled away, but she bit it back. His gaze moved over her face with that same heated look that she was positive was plastered all over her own face. She licked her lips and nearly moaned again, because she could taste him on her skin.

Logan glanced down at her phone, and then handed it to her. “Perfect.”

Dazed, Brontë stared down at the picture. A hot flush crept over her cheeks—in the photo, she was clinging to Logan, the two of them wrapped around each other, the Statue looming in the distance.

She loved that picture.

He leaned in and her breath caught. She stared up at him, hoping for another kiss, but his mouth moved to her ear.

“I want you,” he told her. And he bit her earlobe.

She did moan then, the sound low and full of longing.

“Shall we find someplace private?” he asked her, still nibbling on her ear and making her bones turn to liquid. “Get to know each other a little better . . . all over again?”

“M-my place,” she breathed. “Not yours.”

“That’s fine. Your roommate?”

“Working today,” Brontë told him, and was suddenly wildly thankful that Gretchen had a job of some kind that got her out of the apartment. “All ours.”

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 45



“Good,” he told her, and the sound was full of so much satisfaction and promise that she went weak in the knees all over again.

Brontë clung to him on the ferry ride back to Battery Park. His arms were wrapped around her, and she had gone all too easily into his embrace. Waiting to get back to the apartment was a slow, delicious torture, but it gave her time to think . . . and stew in her own thoughts.

He’d taken her out to Liberty Island to see the Statue. Brontë thought of her comment on the plane ride to New York. She’d asked him about seeing the Statue and teased him about how clichéd it was and how she still wanted to do it. Such a small, offhand comment, but he’d remembered it. He’d remembered that she loved sightseeing and had wanted to see the city, and had taken her on a tour of New York City with every date. Even when Logan was deliberate, he was thoughtful.

And he’d completely stolen her heart.

Gretchen had warned her about falling too fast all over again, but this was Logan. Her Logan. Warm and delicious and handsome and thoughtful . . .

And totally loaded. And all wrong for a poor Midwestern waitress.

Well, she wouldn’t worry about that right now. They were heading back to her apartment she shared temporarily with Gretchen, and they were going to make love. Her body thrummed and ached with need for him.

He hadn’t told her he loved her, though.

She wouldn’t tell him she loved him, either. This, she told herself, was just mutual using. Both parties seeking satisfaction. No emotions had to be involved, really. It was just the natural progression of a normal relationship, after all.

It sounded totally convincing in her head.

Truth was, their relationship had never been all that normal. From the moment she’d met Logan until now, it seemed they’d done everything half backward and sideways.

He wasn’t the right guy for her in the long run, she told herself. No billionaire could see himself with a waitress long-term. Those sorts of things were generally pretty incompatible.

But she could enjoy him while she had him. And she would. She would think about the future some other time.

***

Logan rubbed Brontë’s shoulder as she leaned against him in the car. The drive to Gretchen’s apartment was ****ing endless, and his entire body sang with a need to pull Brontë into his lap, tear down her panties, and drive into her.

But he had to be patient. She was calling the shots for now, because she needed to feel comfortable again. That was why they were going all the way across town to Gretchen’s apartment instead of heading to his place on the Upper East Side. Brontë was in control.

At least until he got her naked and squirming under him. Then he was taking control, and he’d make sure she was screaming her pleasure before he even thought about his own.

He nearly swore with relief when the apartment building came into sight. He opened the door, got out, and then held the door for Brontë. He gave the driver a nod, signaling that he wouldn’t need his services for the rest of the evening, and then wrapped his arm around Brontë’s waist again.

She stared up at him with a soft, passion-dazed expression that made his **** hard. “What about your driver?”

“I dismissed him for the night.” He met her gaze, almost daring her to contradict him and send him home with a peck on the cheek—like he’d been doing to her—and a raging hard-on.

He forced himself to be patient as Brontë fumbled with the keys, and then they climbed the stairs of the walk-up. By the time they got to Gretchen’s floor, he was pretty sure he would kill Audrey’s sister if they opened the door and found her standing there. His **** was so hard he ached, and he’d just spent four flights of stairs gazing up at Brontë’s perfect ass as it flexed with every step.

To his relief, the apartment was dark. Brontë flipped on a light when they entered, and a wrinkly gray animal darted across the room, startling Logan. “What was that?”

Brontë seemed amused by his reaction, her laughter chasing away the soft desire in her face. “That’s Igor. He’s a hairless cat.”

He glanced at the animal, which seemed to be all ears and wrinkles. It stared back at him with wide golden eyes. “Hideous.”

“It does take some getting used to,” she agreed with a smile.

“Can you shut him away in Gretchen’s room?”

“I can,” she said, and her voice had gone all breathy again. She bent low and snapped her fingers, and the cat darted over to her. Brontë scooped it up in her arms and disappeared into a side room, returning a moment later and shutting the door behind her. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d been running . . . or was aroused. The anticipation was getting to her.

Good. Because it was driving him mad. Had been for the past week.

Brontë was gazing up at him, her eyes shining with a look that seemed half expectant, half anxious. Her expression was so full of emotion that it was driving him wild . . . and tormenting him. There was hurt in her eyes—hurt that he’d put there. And a little bit of fear that she might get hurt again.

They needed to move past that moment. And he had an idea of how to do that.

He pulled the blindfold back out of his pocket again and offered it to her. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

Her eyes widened as she looked down at it, then up at him, realizing what was about to happen. “I . . . Logan . . .”

“You can say no,” he told her. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

She nodded, swallowing, and then her entire face seemed to flush red as she took the blindfold from his hand with trembling fingers and lifted it to her eyes. “Would you tie me?”

An innocent question, but it fired his blood. He moved behind her, taking the ends of the blindfold from her and tying them against the back of her head. She was standing there, stiff and wooden, so he leaned in and whispered huskily in her ear. “Too tight?”

She jumped, her elbow nearly slamming into his jaw. “N-no! It’s fine.” Her hands reached for him. “Just a little unnerving is all.” She turned and grasped his jacket in her hands and then gave it a small tug. “Should we go to my room?”

“I’ll lead the way,” he told her, and swept her into his arms, enjoying the muffled sound of surprise she made and the way she clung to him. Desire surged through him, mixing with triumph. He’d won her back. She was in his arms, and he was going to make love to her and show her that he’d never wavered.

His arms tightened around her possessively. Brontë was his again.

Good.

He pushed open the door to the other bedroom. Brontë’s room. There was a single twin bed in the corner of the room with a plain wrought iron headboard, and a small dresser that held a few mementos from their dates that week. A vase of flowers—flowers that he’d given her—sat in the windowsill. There were no pictures on the walls, and the entire room seemed barely lived in. The realization pleased him—she’d be back with him after tonight. His place felt empty and lonely without her.

Logan gently laid her on the bed and admired her, the curves of her body, the beauty of her face, the way the ends of her hair curled wildly. The way she bit her lip as she anticipated his touch. Carefully, almost reverently, he brushed his fingers down the length of one denim-clad leg and enjoyed seeing her shiver in response. He turned and shut the door to Brontë’s small room, just in case her roommate did show up again, and she jumped at the sound.

“Everything all right?” he asked her.

A nervous giggle was his answer. “I’m fine. Just . . . a little on edge.”

“That’s part of the appeal of having you like this,” Logan murmured. His hands went to one of her shoes and eased it off her foot, and he smiled at the way she wiggled her toes in response. “Watching your response as I touch you. Watching you anticipate my moves. All of it pleases me.”

“And are you hard?” she asked breathlessly.

He took her hand and placed it on his ****. That quick caress had him nearly groaning aloud at her touch. His **** felt like steel and ached with the need to bury itself into her, but he would pace himself.

Her fingers lightly glided along his shaft, exploring and feeling him. She licked her lips, the unconscious move making his **** jerk in her hand. “You’re so hard, Logan. So big in my hand.”

And she was so delicate under his. “Beautiful Brontë,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her lips.

She made a small noise of protest when he kept the kiss brief, automatically reaching for him again and stroking her hands down his cheeks. “I want you.”

“Let me play with you, Brontë. It would give me such pleasure.”

She shuddered at his words and nodded.

“First, I’d like to undress you,” he said in a low, seductive voice, intending to seduce her with words as well as touch. Her hands automatically moved to the waist of her jeans as if to help out, and he caught her hands in his. “Allow me.”

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 46



Her hands fluttered at her waist, as if uncertain, and then she dropped them to her sides. “Okay.”

Logan leaned in and pushed her sweater up, exposing an inch of skin above the waist of her jeans. He kissed the skin, enjoying her shiver of pleasure beneath him. “I plan on taking my time exploring you, love. You’re going to be begging for me to take you by the time I’m done with you.”

She sucked in a breath. At her sides, her hands clenched and then flexed, as if she didn’t know where to put them.

“Just relax,” he told her with a small grin, knowing that she’d never be able to.

“Oh, sure,” she said with a small laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

“It is,” he agreed, undoing the button of her jeans and then lowering the zipper with excruciating slowness. His **** throbbed at the sight of the sliver of pale blue satin exposed. His mouth lowered, and he nipped at her skin through the satin, enjoying her small jerk of response. “These are lovely.”

“My panties or my hips?” she teased.

“Both,” he teased back. He tugged the thick fabric of the jeans down her legs, tossing them aside and on the floor when he was done. Her socks went next, each one carefully removed with a light skimming of fingers over her flesh.

Now her sweater. There were no buttons that he could lovingly pull apart. Shame. He slid a hand under the soft fabric, caressing her belly.

She squirmed, ticklish. “Stop that.”

“Stop touching you?” His fingertip dipped into her belly button.

Brontë sucked in a breath, and when his tongue followed the finger, she moaned in response. “Never mind. Keep touching me. I’m obviously delusional.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, swirling his tongue around the edge of her belly button as he pushed her sweater upward. Ah, damn. She’d worn a matching bra. The cups were the same ice blue satin decorated with little black bits of lace around the edges and between her breasts. He’d wanted to see her naked right away, but the sight of her curves cupped in that gorgeous lingerie made him rethink his idea. He’d leave her in it a bit longer, and then strip it off of her later.

But for now, her sweater had to go.

“Hands?” he asked her, sitting upright again.

Her forehead furrowed over the blindfold, and she lifted her hands in the air after a moment’s hesitation. “Like this?”

“Exactly.” He tugged her sweater over her head and arms in a deft move and tossed it aside, pleased at the sight of her beautiful body. “You’re gorgeous. I could look at you all day and never get tired of it.”

A soft smile touched her mouth, and she reached for him, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I could look at you all day, too.”

“Ah, but this is about me pleasing you,” he said, clasping her hands in his. “And you’re not playing fair. No touching.”

She did a mock pout that made him want to lean down and kiss her mouth. Instead, he took her hands and directed them over her head, to the wrought iron headboard’s bars.

“Keep them here,” he instructed her. “I want to play with you a little longer.”

He was pleased to see the little shiver move over her body at the thought. She obeyed him, her breathing quickening with excitement.

Logan skimmed a hand down her leg, caressing the skin. The front of her thigh was smooth and soft, her calves dainty and her ankles elegant. He could indeed spend all day admiring her body. He ran a finger along her skin, tracing a light pattern over her from foot to thigh, noticing how she reacted when he touched her. She jumped when he moved over her thighs, and he repeated the motion, this time skimming the inside of her thigh, and was pleased to see her twitch even more.

“‘Afflicted by love’s madness, all are blind,’” she quoted suddenly.

“Oh?”

“I just . . . it felt appropriate at the moment.”

Logan chuckled. “Very appropriate, except I am enjoying looking at you far too much to claim to be blind.” His fingers played along the lace of her panties. “Plato?” he asked innocently.

Her lips quirked with amusement. “***tus Propertius, I believe.”

“Intriguing name,” he commented. His fingers grasped her thighs, and he pulled them apart, eliciting a startled gasp from her. “Keep these open for me, Brontë. I want to get my fill of looking at you.”

A whimper escaped her throat, but she did as he’d commanded, her knees falling open, her legs spread wide on the bed. He pushed them apart until they were flat on the mattress , the ice blue panties totally exposed. She was so wet that he could see it seeping through the fabric of her panties, and he palmed his **** in response, groaning. “I see how wet you are, love. Should I taste you?”

A shudder rippled through her, and she moaned, clutching at the iron headboard. He watched with fascination as her thighs quivered, as if desperate to lock together again. He ran a curious finger down the inside of her thigh, starting at her knee and moving toward her ***.

She seemed to shudder with every inch caressed, until her hips were rolling on the bed. “Logan,” she breathed, her head turning back and forth despite the blindfold. “Touch me.”

“Where shall I do it?” He brushed a knuckle over her belly button again. “Here?”

“Lower.”

He went to her knee and caressed it. “Here?”

She moaned in frustration. “You’re a horrible tease.”

“Now, love,” he chided. “If I was a horrible tease, I’d move in and touch you like so.” And he stroked one finger up the damp satin between her legs.

Brontë’s sucked-in breath was audible.

He pushed his finger, nudging at the clit under the layers of clothing. “But I’m not finished playing, Brontë. And if I continue to touch you here, you’ll come. And I don’t want that just yet. I’m enjoying teasing you far too much.”

Her hips bucked against his hand, trying to create friction between his fingers and her flesh. Naughty woman. He spanked her *** lightly in reproach, enjoying her startled gasp. “Are you not having fun, love?”

“I’m not sure if this is fun or torture,” she panted. Her body shifted on the bed, about as close to squirming as she could get away with. Her hips wriggled under his hand, still resting atop her ***. He let it remain there a moment, a silent tease, before he removed it.

A small protest escaped her throat.

It died when his knuckles brushed over the tip of one of her breasts. He could tell they were hard and tight through the fabric of the pretty bra. Tight and needing, and probably delectable. Logan’s mouth watered just thinking about how she’d taste in his mouth, and he tugged at the cups of her bra, freeing her breasts. The underwire of the bra pushed her breasts upward, plumping them as if offering them to his lips. And who was he to refuse such an offering? Logan bent forward and took one succulent tip in his mouth.

Brontë moaned.

“Delicious,” he murmured against her skin, rolling the tip of her nipple against his lips. Such a hard little nub. He flicked his tongue against it. He loved her nipples—a dusky rose, slightly tilted. Dark and pretty against all that creamy flesh. He began to tease the other with his fingertips as he tongued the first, flicking and teasing it with his mouth.

Underneath him, Brontë whimpered, her hips undulating again. Her hands clenched the iron headboard tight, as if she needed to hold on to something desperately. “Oh, Logan.”

He kissed her flesh—the tips of each breast, the sweet valley between them, the gentle curves underneath them. She moaned wildly with each caress, her blindfolded head moving back and forth, as if in denial.

And so he paused.

“More,” she demanded, arching her back so her breasts were thrust oh-so-beautifully into his face. “Please, Logan.”

“Not yet, love,” he murmured, kissing one nipple and then sitting up. His **** strained against his pants, so ****ing eager that he could feel pre-come beading on the thick crown. He stood and began to remove his pants, desperate to free his ****.

She whimpered, confused. “Logan? Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, love,” he told her. “Just getting undressed. My ****’s so hard it’s aching and my clothes are too tight.”

A smile curved her lips, and she licked them, which nearly made him come in his pants. “I love your ****.”

“Do you, now?” He stripped off the rest of his clothing, kicking it onto the floor before kneeling back alongside her again. His **** thrust into the air, hard, the head slick.

“Mmm-hmmm,” she said with a small sigh of delight.

He wrapped a hand around his ****, stroking it while looking at her lying in the bed, legs spread for him, panties wet, her breasts thrust up. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were listening for his movements since she couldn’t see him.

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 47



Logan moved back over her, leaning in to kiss her mouth. His hand went to her breast, palming it, and he settled between her legs. She responded to his kisses eagerly, her tongue meeting his and rubbing against it with soft mews of desire. He moved down a little, settling his **** against her wet core and thrusting.

She gasped, her hips rocking against his flesh.

“Feel good?” he asked her, thrusting his **** against her *** again. The wet fabric prevented him from pushing deep inside her, a teasing barrier.

“Oh, God, yes,” she moaned. “Logan, I need you so bad. I want you inside me.”

He wanted to be there, too. But he wasn’t done playing. He thrust again, enjoying her moans of response.

When she parted her lips and licked them again, a mental image formed in his mind that made him groan aloud. He had to get up.

She whimpered a protest, turning her head and looking for him.

“I’m here,” he told her, standing by the head of the bed.

He caressed her breasts, plucking at the nipples. Then, he ran a thumb over her lower lip, unable to resist that mental image in his mind. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

Her entire body seemed to tremble with anticipation, and then she took his thumb in her mouth and bit down lightly. “I trust you.”

“Do you want me?”

“More than anything.”

He grasped the headboard and leaned forward until the head of his **** pressed against her mouth. “Then taste me.”

Her lips parted, and she ran her tongue over the head of his ****, licking up the salty pre-come there. He groaned when her tongue slipped down the shaft, flicking against it. Then she opened her mouth and tilted her head, taking him in deeper. The sight of her lips wrapped around his **** was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he clutched at the headboard, trying to keep control. “Brontë,” he groaned. “Ah, God, your mouth.”

Her tongue licked against the underside of his ****, running along the thick vein there. So trusting and loving. So incredibly erotic.

She sucked, trying to take him deeper, but he pulled out of her mouth. It was too much pleasure too fast, and it would be over with far too quickly if he let her continue.

He wanted her to come first. Logan moved a step back from the bed, eyeing her all spread out and delicious. “Are you enjoying yourself, love?”

She nodded, biting her lip. Her hips lifted a little, as if unable to stay down. “More, Logan. I need you.”

“I know,” he told her. “I’m going to give you more. But I need you on your hands and knees.”

Her little gasp was followed by a low moan, and she obediently turned over, moving to her knees and then leaning forward to rest on her elbows. The position pushed her pretty ass high into the air.

Logan ran his hand all over her exposed skin—her thighs, her calves, the small of her back, along her spine. It was a pleasure simply to touch her. She seemed to be enjoying it as well, her little breathy sighs of pleasure almost as enticing as touching her. His fingertips snagged on the waistband of her panties, and he tugged them down her thighs, exposing her wet, gleaming flesh.

Brontë moaned again, her fingers curling into the blankets on the bed, anticipation making her entire body tense.

Well, now. He had to reward that. Logan brushed his fingertips over the slick lips of her ***, then parted them, stroking up and down.

She jerked in surprise, and then a whimper escaped her when he circled the slick opening to her core. She rolled her hips, forcing his fingers to dip in, just a little. “Logan,” she breathed. “I need you so badly.”

He moved down to her clitoris, rubbing it between two of his slick fingers and stimulating it. Brontë jerked again, her hips flexing, and her gasps became rapid and wild, as if she were unable to control herself. She worked her hips against his hand, and he continued to rub her clit, then pushed his thumb into her core.

She went wild, writhing against his hand and moaning his name as he continued to work her. He could feel her ***** shuddering with each shallow thrust, and he pushed the pad of his thumb forward, increasing the friction even as he continued the measured, steady rubbing of her clitoris. “Logan,” she cried. “Oh, please! I—”

Her entire body clenched under him, muscles quivering, and she made a soft, keening sound. Her ***** clenched around his thumb, milking it with the force of her orgasm. He continued to rub, wanting to prolong the pleasure for her, and she continued to make that low keening noise that made his **** throb with wanting her.

The orgasm seemed to go on forever, but then Brontë gave one final shudder and sagged against the blankets, resting her cheek against them. Her legs were sprawled, her *** gleaming wet from her pleasure. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Logan.”

He licked his fingers, tasting her pleasure on his skin. “Beautiful.”

A soft, sated smile curved under the blindfold, and it made his **** jump with need. “Condoms?”

She stilled, reaching for the blindfold. “Oh . . . I don’t think I have any . . . I don’t—” He spanked her ass lightly, and her hand flew away from the blindfold. “Pill. I’m on the pill.”

“Right. Good.” He was pleased to see that her hand had slipped between her thighs and she was playing with her flesh, lightly rubbing along her clit. She bit her lip as he waited, watching her. She let her hand slide away.

“No,” he told her. “Keep touching yourself. I like seeing that.”

He could see the hot blush stealing over her cheeks under the blindfold, but her hand returned between her legs and began to move slowly again. He watched her, fascinated by the sight of her pleasing herself. His **** jerked with need again.

Logan moved behind her on the bed, moving between her spread legs. Her ass was so beautiful, perched in the air, that he couldn’t resist running his hands over it again. “Are you still touching yourself?”

She sucked in an excited breath and nodded, as if unable to trust her voice.

He thrust into her in one swift move, hands gripping her hips. She jerked in surprise, a choked moan escaping her. He stilled immediately, worried that she’d been too surprised and he’d somehow hurt her. “Brontë?”

“Move,” she moaned, her hips bucking up against him. “Oh, God, move.”

He groaned in response to that, thrusting hard again. He’d wanted to be so controlled in his movements, slowly driving her back up the peak of desire, but it seemed that, sheathed deep in her warmth, he’d lost all control. His thrusts were rough and wild, his hands gripping her hips to anchor her back against him. And she was out of control, too, pushing back against him to add force to his thrusts, a low scream building in her throat.

“Keep touching yourself,” he demanded, his voice ragged as he continued to pump into her.

Her only response was another muffled scream, and he felt her ***** clench all around him. Logan uttered a curse, trying to retain control, trying to keep his rhythm, to make this as good for her as possible. Make it last until she was mindless with pleasure. Show her how much he ****ing loved her and her body.

She made a soft sound that was almost like a sob, and then she spasmed around his ****, sucking him tight as she began to come again, her body trembling all over with the force of her passion.

He lost control. Thrusting hard into her again, he groaned her name and went over the edge, his own orgasm exploding from his body with a fierce intensity that shocked him. It seemed to go on forever, coming hard and fierce, until it left him as breathless and wrung out as the woman beneath him.

Logan pulled out of Brontë, ignoring her small noise of protest, and rolled the condom off, tossing it into a nearby trash can. When he turned around, she was sitting up in bed, her hands pulling at the blindfold. He moved toward her, gently undoing the knot at the back of her head and then leaning in to kiss her when she smiled up at him.

“I love you,” he told her, his voice gruff. “I mean that.”

Her smile faltered a little. “Thank you.”

She didn’t say it back. For a moment he was surprised, and then angry. And then he chuckled at himself. So this was how she’d felt when she’d confessed and he’d ignored her. Fair enough. It was a good lesson for him to learn. “You don’t trust me yet.” It wasn’t a question.

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just really . . . I just—”

“Don’t apologize. You can’t help the way you feel. Just know that I do love you, and I’ll prove it to you somehow.” Logan sat down on the edge of the small bed and grabbed the blankets. “You’d better move over if you want to get any sleep tonight.”

Brontë gave a small squeal and shifted on the bed, elbowing him by accident as they tried to make all of their limbs fit in the twin bed. “We both won’t fit,” she protested.

“We will,” he said with determination, and pulled her hips against him until their bodies were flush. The fit was tight but pleasant, and it allowed him free rein to nibble on her ear.

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 48



She was already drifting to sleep, though, her eyes drooping with exhaustion, and so he watched her doze off, his mind whirling with thoughts. One particular quotation that he’d read in another of her books came to mind, though. To test whether she was awake, he leaned in and whispered something sure to get a response.

“Veni, vidi, vici.” I came, I saw, I conquered.

“I heard that,” she muttered sleepily, but she smiled and patted him on the arm.

He decided to keep the other to himself. “Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.”

It seemed that loving Brontë brought out the philosopher in him as well.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Brontë woke up to find Logan’s body curled around hers, and her arm was asleep from being in a cramped position over her head. She lay in bed for a long moment, debating getting up, since there was no way she’d be able to get out of bed without waking Logan.

Sweet, gorgeous Logan. God, she loved him. Terrified of getting hurt again, she’d chickened out on saying it the night before. But he’d seemed to understand her fear, and it hadn’t bothered him. He’d just kissed her, and they’d climbed in to bed together, sleeping in a tangle of limbs because they didn’t want to be parted. She’d been resting on a spring all night, and her leg was trapped under his, and her arm hung off the bed.

It was the best night of sleep she’d had in a long time.

Her bladder was protesting the hour, though, and she sighed and sat up, beginning to extract herself. Logan woke up and kissed her arm before rolling out of bed, yawning and stretching to work out the kinks in his back. “Morning, love.”

He’d been calling her “love” all night, she’d noticed. She liked it, too. Brontë smiled at him. “I need to run to the bathroom before Gretchen gets in there. She’s a shower hog.”

“Go ahead,” he told her, lying back. He grabbed the pillow and tucked it under his head, as if to go back to sleep.

She grinned and shook her head at him, then raced for the bathroom.

When she returned from her shower, she was surprised to see him up and moving about her room. He’d dressed in his boxer shorts and had made the bed. Her suitcase lay atop the blankets, and he’d pulled several of her hung-up clothes out of the closet.

Brontë gave him a curious look, holding back her frown. “What’s all this?”

Logan smiled over at her. “Thought I’d help you get started while I waited for the shower.”

“Get started with what?” She crossed her arms over her towel and tried to look open-minded about what he was going to say.

His mouth thinned a little. “We’re back together now. You’re moving back in with me.”

She shook her head. “Logan, no.”

Frustration flashed in his gaze. “Why is that a problem, Brontë?” His voice sounded as if he were trying to be patient . . . and it were causing him pain.

“Because our relationship is all messed up, Logan. You and I were ‘moved in together’ before we barely even knew each other, and look at how well that worked out.”

“It worked out just fine in my eyes.”

She snorted. Of course he’d say that. “Nothing’s changed, Logan. Last night was great, but I’m allowed to sleep with a guy and not move in with him.”

His face hardened as a stark look of disbelief crossed his gaze. “Is there someone else?” His voice was deathly serious.

“What? No. Of course not.”

Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good.” He moved forward and pulled her into his arms. “I’m not seeing anyone else, and you’re not either. This thing we have, it’s just you and me.”

“All right.”

“And you’re moving back in with me.” He sounded so possessive and so utterly sure of himself.

“No, I’m not. Not until I’m ready.”

Logan seemed to think about that for a moment and then accepted it. “What will it take to make you ready? I want you back in my bed.”

“You have me back in a bed.”

“In my bed, for good. And in my life, Brontë. I want you in my life most of all. At my side.”

She tugged her towel a little tighter around her naked body. Being in his bed was no problem. It was being in his life that she was struggling with. “I’m not ready yet, Logan. Please don’t pressure me.”

Brontë thought he would protest again, but to her surprise, he moved in and caressed her neck, lifting strands of wet hair off of her skin. “I’m disappointed, but I understand.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “The offer remains, of course. Accept it when you’re ready.”

She trembled at the sweetness of his touch and the understanding in his voice. “Thank you, Logan.”

He kissed her again. “What are you doing today?”

“I work in an hour.”

“Want me to clear your schedule?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “I need to work, and Cooper could use the help today.” Working, mindless as it was, helped keep her mind off of things like her personal life. “Maybe tonight.”

He shook his head. “Tonight I’m busy.”

“Oh?” That was . . . interesting. “Busy with what?”

“Meeting,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be free tomorrow night.”

“All right,” she told him. “I’ll miss you tonight.”

Logan gave her a curious look, and then leaned in and kissed her fiercely, as if he’d just come to some sort of bizarre realization. “I love you.”

A bit surprised, she laughed at his expression. She almost blurted “I love you, too,” but stopped herself. “What brought that on?”

The look he gave her was intense, making her laughter die in her throat. “I want you to come to my meeting tonight.”

“You do? To a business meeting?

“It’s more of a meeting of . . . friends.”

“Are you sure that’s allowed?”

“It will be,” he said, his smile surprisingly grim.

***

Brontë was lost in thought as she walked the streets of SoHo, heading to Cooper’s Cuppa. Gretchen hadn’t been at the apartment that morning, and Brontë suspected that she had returned home late the night before and quietly left for work that morning without disturbing Brontë or her guest. It suited Brontë just fine. While they normally walked to work together, strolling by herself allowed her to clear her head and think a little.

Her night with Logan had been . . . intense. Magical. Wonderful. If she hadn’t already been in love with him, she would be by now. But it was also a little troubling. He’d wanted her to move back in with him as if nothing had happened, and she was still mentally working through some of their issues.

When all was said and done, he was still a billionaire used to getting his way in everything, and she was still a waitress. Their massive power incompatibility worried her. Men like him didn’t date waitresses. Men like him bought the establishment and slept with the waitresses, she thought wryly. That was her situation . . . and yet it wasn’t. Logan had proved he wasn’t what she’d expected, just as she wasn’t what he’d expected, she supposed.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to fling it all away and return to being his live-in girlfriend. To have no other role in his life than being arm candy that was fun in bed.

She didn’t know what to do. Logan had said the offer stood, but what if he didn’t wait forever? What if he got tired of waiting for her to be comfortable with who he was and he moved on and forgot about her? Tears pricked at her eyes, and she swiped them away, pulling open the door to the coffee shop.

Gretchen was behind the counter already, her red hair pulled up in a messy knot, her glasses sliding down her nose. She looked up at Brontë’s entrance and gave her a startled look. “You’re here today?”

“Of course,” Brontë said stiffly, heading to the back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gretchen stepped out from behind the counter, following Brontë to the office. “Oh, I don’t know. Could it have something to do with the tall, dark, and rich guy who was over last night?”

“Why does everyone assume that just because Logan and I sleep together that I automatically decide to shirk all my duties?”

“’Cause that’s what happened last time?” Gretchen asked playfully.

The words were meant as a tease, but it was too much for Brontë. She sniffed loudly and stared at her locker, willing herself not to cry.

It didn’t work.

“Oh, jeez,” Gretchen said, pulling one of the spare brown aprons off of a coat hook and handing it to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 49



“It’s okay,” Brontë said, dabbing at her eyes with the apron and collapsing into a heap on a nearby stool. “I’m just all confused on the inside.”

“You want to talk? I can get us a couple of coffees, and we can steal one of the booths in the back. It’s kind of slow this morning.”

Brontë nodded.

Five minutes later, they were settled into the smallest back booth of the coffee shop, hot mocha cappuccinos in hand. Cooper looked at them curiously from time to time, but he didn’t pry, and Brontë was grateful.

“So,” Gretchen said. “You had Mr. Moneypants over last night. It went badly, and that’s why you’re crying.”

Brontë shook her head, grabbing a handful of napkins as she felt the confused tears welling up again. “It went great. It was beautiful. He told me he loved me.”

Gretchen nodded thoughtfully. “And this is bad? Admission of love pre–blow job as incentive, then?”

She giggled, the sound a little choked with tears. “Post–blow job. And no, it’s not bad. I just don’t know what to do. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City. A life. Well, such as it is. But this morning, I got out of the shower, and Logan was packing my bags as if sleeping with him meant that I was automatically moving back in.”

“That bastard,” Gretchen said ironically. “How dare he want to spend all his time with you? Do you need me to talk to him and set him straight?”

She made a face at her friend. “I’m serious. My problem with Logan is that last time we did the exact same thing—we moved in together right away, and he just kind of took over my life.”

“I see.” Gretchen sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Took over like how?”

“He bought me some clothes.”

“That bastard.”

“Shut up, Gretchen. I’m trying to tell you. He bought me clothes, and we went to a party and . . .” She frowned in thought. “I bought books for his library.”

“Well,” Gretchen said huffily. “What a douche bag. How dare he spend his billions on you?”

Brontë glared. “You’re not helping.”

“Of course I am,” Gretchen said, matter-of-factly. “I’m making you realize how silly you’re being.”

Brontë continued to glare at Gretchen.

The redhead shrugged. “Look. He’s got so much money he could roll in it. You, meanwhile, count the change in your wallet for a slice of pizza. Is it weird that he wants to shower you with presents and nice things? Maybe he likes buying them for you.”

“He doesn’t like gold diggers, Gretchen. Everyone always uses him for his money. I don’t want to be like everyone else.”

“Then don’t be. Don’t go running off buying a truckful of Birkin bags. Though if you do, remember your bestie, Gretchen, and her sister, Audrey.” When Brontë glared at her again, Gretchen sighed. “Look. It doesn’t sound like the problem is his money. It sounds like the problem is you.”

“What?”

“As in, Logan doesn’t need you. He likes you, he finds you fun, but he doesn’t need you *****rvive. So you don’t know what to do with yourself. That’s a little unhealthy, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the case at all!”

“No? What did you do when you moved in with him?”

Brontë opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again. “I shopped with Audrey, and then I sat around in his apartment.”

“Gee, exciting. I’m amazed he let you get away the first time,” Gretchen said drily.

“Oh, my God,” Brontë said. “All this time I’ve been thinking I can’t be with him because I can’t be who he wants me to be. What if it’s because I am the problem?”

“Well, you are a waitress,” Gretchen said. “It’s not as if you can continue waitressing if you’re living with a billionaire.”

She was right, Brontë realized. Oh, God. Everything she was saying was right. Brontë was blaming Logan for being . . . Logan. Logan was who he was—a little alpha, take-charge, and always thinking ahead. And she’d been punishing him for being who he was instead of loving him for it.

She’d been the problem all along.

Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. “I don’t know what to do, Gretchen. If I move in with him again, I worry that I’m going to turn into one of those women he hates. Sitting around all day spending money and doing nothing.”

“That won’t happen. You’re smart. You’re constantly spouting ancient wisdom and writing little sayings on customers’ cups. They love that. Do something with that big philosophizing brain of yours instead of serving coffee.”

Brontë stared down at her cappuccino. “I really wanted to do something with my philosophy degree, you know. Show the world just how wise and intelligent they were in classical times. Make others love the ancients just as much as I do.”

“Then maybe you should go back to school. Teach. Or write books about ancient philosophers. I know a great e***or or two. Or you could set up charity foundations with all of your boyfriend’s ridiculous money that he wants you to spend.” Gretchen leaned over and clasped Brontë’s hand. “My point is that the money’s not a problem. It’s not an obstacle if you don’t make it one. If he wants to shower you with money, use it and really make something of yourself, Brontë. Be who you want to be, not just a Midwestern waitress with big dreams. Understand? You can always pay him back.”

Strange how a friend telling her to make something of herself came across far more gently than when Logan had. Brontë smiled at Gretchen. “So if you were me, you’d move back in with him?”

“Hell, no,” Gretchen said. “If I were you, I’d have killed him in a week. But you’re wimpy. You’re great with him.”

Brontë stuck her tongue out at Gretchen.

The redhead grinned, and gave Brontë’s hand another squeeze. “If he makes you happy, don’t set up obstacles that don’t have to be there. Love is more important than anything else in the world. Well, almost, but you’ve got the money thing taken care of already. I’d kill to have a man look at me the way Logan looks at you.”

“Cooper looks at you that way, Gretchen,” Brontë said carefully.

The look of chagrin on Gretchen’s face was terrible to see. “I keep hoping he’ll grow out of it,” she said quietly. “I like Cooper, but he’s not the right guy for me. He’s so . . . normal. Bland. I need someone different.” She smiled at Brontë, and her smile was sad. “I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, you know. Holding out for a hero and all that.”

Brontë nodded and squeezed Gretchen’s hand back. “You’ll find the right guy. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere.”

“He might be, or he might just be fictional. Or broke. Or both.” Gretchen gave her a teasing laugh. “It’d help if he was half as rich as your boyfriend, though.”

***

For the first time in years, Logan felt an emotion that had become foreign to him.

He was nervous.

Tonight was going to be a cluster****. It was one of the brotherhood meetings. They had a strict rule that no ad***ional parties were allowed. No siblings. No buddies. No parents. No business partners. Just the original six. No one had ever thought of breaking the rules, because it would have been unfair to the others in the group.

And here Logan was, their leader, about to bring the woman he loved to a meeting and explain to her that he was part of a secret society of billionaires. The tattoo on his arm? A badge of membership. His success? Interlocked with that of his brothers.

He hoped she’d understand. He knew there couldn’t be any more secrets between them, not if he wanted to keep her. And he was laying it all on the line, betting everything he had, because he needed her to realize just how much he loved and trusted her. And how different she was from everyone else.

The others would be furious. They wouldn’t understand. None of them were married or even had steady girlfriends, though Reese had a steady stream of women. But Logan had to do this.

He couldn’t risk losing Brontë forever. So he’d show her everything . . . and hope she wouldn’t be put off by the nondisclosure agreement she’d have to sign. Danica had balked at the prenup and shown her true colors. What would Brontë do?

Was he going to lose everything just by trying to include her in his life? He hoped not.

***

Brontë studied her closet. She had no idea what to wear to this mystery meeting. Meeting implied business, but Logan said it was friends. She studied the clothes hanging in the small closet. Go casual? Or dress up in anticipation of something fussy? She couldn’t decide. Tonight felt important for some reason, though she had no idea why.