[English] Stranded With A Billionaire

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 50



Her mind was still on this morning’s conversation with Gretchen. Logan had offered himself just as he was, and she had been the one with the problem. It was a bit humbling. There was nothing wrong with being a waitress, of course. She liked her job and liked working with people. But she couldn’t be a waitress and be with Logan. The two were completely incompatible. Waitressing was hard work with odd hours. She didn’t want to be too tired to see him—or too busy. And it didn’t make sense for her to bust her butt for tips when he had money.

She had to choose.

And she was going to pick the gorgeous man she was in love with, of course. It was just a matter of admitting it to herself.

She decided on a simple black sweater and dark gray skirt with heels. Dressy enough that she could pass for formal, but it wouldn’t look out of place if the evening was casual. She smoothed her hair, applied a bit of makeup, and waited for Logan to arrive, her stomach fluttering with nervousness.

She had a feeling tonight was going to change everything in their relationship.

***

The dark sedan had shown up for their date, and Brontë didn’t even blink when the driver got out to open the doors. She would just have to get used to that sort of thing in the future, she told herself.

Logan got out of the car and kissed her lightly, then held the door open for her to get in. Brontë smiled at the driver as she entered, then slid over to make room for Logan. When he was seated next to her, she asked, “Is what I’m wearing all right?”

“It’s fine,” he told her, seemingly distracted, but he reached for her hand. With a nod to the driver, the car pulled away from the curb, and they began to head back toward midtown.

Brontë watched the buildings that passed, noting streets and trying to determine where exactly they were going. Where was this meeting being held? To her surprise, they pulled up in front of a small bar.

She gave Logan a curious look, but followed him out of the car and onto the street.

He put his hand on the small of her back and guided her forward. Inside, the bar was quiet, only a few patrons seated at wooden tables. It looked very . . . ordinary. A hockey game was playing on a TV set in the corner, and no one was paying a bit of attention to them.

“Is this where the meeting is?”

“I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

Curious, she let him lead her to one of the back doors. A dark, narrow hallway was lit by a single unadorned lightbulb, and at the far end stood a large hulking man next to a door.

Logan stepped in front of her and headed toward the man, and unease grew in her stomach. This . . . wasn’t normal. Was this some kind under-the-table business deal? Something illegal? Oh, God. Was Logan into trafficking? The drug trade? Her stomach twisted with anxiety. Surely not. She’d never expected such a thing from Logan, but what were they doing down here in this dingy hallway for a business meeting? She didn’t understand.

The man eyed them with a cold expression, saying nothing, and Brontë resisted the urge to step behind Logan and let him shield her.

Logan lifted his hand and placed two fingers over his heart, then moved it up to his shoulder, and slid them down his sleeve. A very specific gesture. The man nodded as if satisfied, and his glare fixed on Brontë.

“She’s with me,” Logan told him.

The man’s eyebrows went up, but he simply nodded and gestured at the door. “The others are inside.”

This was clearly some sort of secret meeting. Her stomach clenched again. Surely Logan wasn’t in the Mafia, was he?

Then again, this was New York City.

Logan pushed the door open and then gestured for Brontë to enter.

She did, stepping down a narrow line of cement stairs into . . . a basement. A very well lit basement. Cigar smoke hung in the air, and she could hear the murmur of conversation that abruptly stilled as she descended the last stair and came into the others’ view.

A poker table sat in the center of the room. A drink table at the far end. Chips were scattered about, along with half-full glasses and ashtrays. Around the table sat five men, all scowling at the sight of her.

And . . . she recognized four of them. Jonathan, who’d been their helicopter rescuer—and who was as fabulously wealthy as Logan—sat on the far end of the table, a cigar held between his teeth. Cade sat in the middle, his expression more welcoming than the others, but equally perplexed. To his right she recognized Reese, whom she’d met only briefly. And Griffin. And there was one man with his back to her, only part of his face visible.

Reese threw down his cigar and cards, getting to his feet. “What the hell is this, Logan?”

Logan adjusted the cuff links of his jacket as if nothing were amiss. “This is Brontë. My girlfriend.”

“You can’t bring your girlfriend to—” Griffin abruptly stopped short, as if realizing what he was about to say.

Brontë’s heart sank. They were all wealthy. All wealthy and conducting secret meetings together? It could only be one thing. She turned to Logan, and tears shimmered in her eyes. She didn’t know whether she was hurt or terrified. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with the Mafia?”

“The Mafia?”

Loud bursts of laughter rocked the table behind her, and Brontë turned, confused, then looked back at Logan. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not with the Mafia, love,” he said patiently. “But I do need you to understand this if we’re going to make a life together. These men are my . . . friends.”

“Logan,” Jonathan said in a warning voice. “Don’t you dare.”

Logan ignored him, his gaze on Brontë. He took her hand in his. “They’ve been my friends since college. We were in the same fraternity together. We made a pledge to assist each other in business and remain friends for life.” He studied her face. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“God ****ing damn it,” Reese said.

“Leave him alone,” another gruff voice said. It was the man Brontë didn’t know. “He has to have his reasons.”

Brontë’s head swirled with what he was telling her. He was watching her and it seemed to be important, but she didn’t understand. “You’re college friends? But why the basement? Why—”

She stopped when he put his hand on his biceps, over the tattoo. Two fingers. A two-dollar bill. It had seemed so odd to her that someone like Logan would have such a bizarre tattoo. It made sense now, though. She gasped. “A secret society.”

“A brotherhood,” Logan agreed. “We help each other out, no matter what.”

“Hey, I can write down my social security number and my PIN if we’re giving her all of our information,” Reese said sarcastically.

But Logan’s gaze was serious as he stared down at her. “Do you understand?”

She thought for a moment, then took her clutch purse and whacked Logan on the arm with it. “You scared the **** out of me. I thought you were in the Mafia for a second.”

“This is just as secret, Brontë. If word got out that we had business dealings together, people would be crawling all over us. Feds, au***ors, you name it. This is a secret. Our secret.” After a long, serious moment, he added, “And I’m trusting you with it. I love you.”

Brontë gazed up at Logan, shocked. This . . . this was a big secret. He was trusting her with everything. Giving her everything that he was.

He wanted—needed—her in his life that badly?

She realized then that Danica had been wrong about Logan. He didn’t treat everything like business. He’d come down into this basement knowing full well that his friends—and business partners, it seemed—would be utterly furious with him. He was risking everything.

For her.

“I love you, too,” she told him with a catch in her throat. “But I think your friends are going to kill you.”

A grin lit his face, and he pulled her close. “They’ll get over it.” He kissed her—long, hard, and fierce. So fiercely that her knees went weak, and she sagged against him.

Behind them, someone cleared his throat. “This is really quite moving,” Griffin said in a cultured voice. “But you seem to forget the implications for the rest of us. We’re not in love with her.”

She turned to look at them, unhappy that this moment of trust was going to cost Logan so much. “You’re all such close friends—I don’t want this to be a problem.”

“Too late,” Jonathan said flatly.

Brontë looked at Logan. “Is there something I can sign that would prove it? That I can stay quiet? That you can trust me?”

“A nondisclosure agreement?” Logan asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said with a nod, glancing back at the table. “Would a nondisclosure agreement work?”

“It depends,” Reese said. “Exactly how many other women are we going to be dragging in here and sharing all our secrets with?”

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“Only this one,” Logan said, grinning. “I’m not in love with anyone else.”

A warm feeling swept through her, and she couldn’t stop smiling.

“Oh, jeez,” Reese said. “They’re so cute together I want to puke.”

“Be nice,” Cade said. “I’m happy for you both, Logan and Brontë. Come have a seat. We’ll get things worked out as we play.”

Logan moved to the table and pulled out his chair for Brontë, motioning for her to sit down. She did, pretending she didn’t see the wary looks on the men’s faces. While Logan had invited her in for the evening, it was clear that she still wasn’t exactly “invited” in their eyes. “Get an extra chair,” Logan said.

“There are no extra chairs,” Griffin pointed out succinctly. “There’s never anyone else down here but us.”

“We need to get another chair for in the future, then,” Logan said.

It got very quiet. Cade began to push some chips toward her, but Brontë shook her head. “I don’t know how to play poker,” she lied, sensing that her playing would push a few of the men past their comfort zone. “And I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” She smiled at Logan reassuringly. “Just because we’re a couple doesn’t mean we have to be together every moment. This is your time with your friends.”

“Marry this one,” Reese proclaimed, picking up his cigar again.

“I plan on it,” Logan said.

Brontë blushed, getting up from the chair so Logan could sit down. Was that just more guy talk? It was far too early to be thinking about marriage. But their banter and her backing off from the table had the desired effect. She immediately sensed a bit of the tension easing off the table and knew she’d made the right decision. These were Logan’s friends, and Logan’s club. He was welcome to it, and she wouldn’t share the secret.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Logan sat down in the chair and dragged her into his lap. Two drinks were set in front of them—whiskey or brandy from the looks of it.

“Drink up,” Jonathan said.

They did, and Brontë coughed at the burning taste of the drink, which made the men laugh. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but Logan only pulled her closer, settling her on his lap. “This meeting of the brotherhood is called into session,” he said, grinning up at her.

***

As the evening wore on, drinks, cards—and business advice—flew freely around the table. Brontë lost track of most of the conversation due to the drinks that the men kept sending her way—deliberately, she suspected, to distract her. That was fine. She ended up spending half the night discussing the exaggerations of the account of Atlantis in Plato’s Timaeus. Griffin was funding an archaeological dig in Spain for a theoretical site near Cadiz, and they chatted about it while the men played cards. It seemed that while Plato thought Atlantis was an island in the ocean, recent theory was that Atlantis was on the Spanish coast, and it intrigued him to investigate it. He even offered to take her and Logan to see the site sometime, which made her brighten and Logan scowl.

“Quit flirting with my woman, Griffin.”

“I’m not flirting with her, you Neanderthal. We can discuss mutual interests without it being flirting,” Griffin said, but he winked at her as if sharing a joke.

Logan snorted. “I’d believe it if I thought that talking archaeology didn’t give you a hard-on.”

Griffin just shook his head, but Brontë noticed he didn’t meet her gaze again, which told her that Logan had hit pretty close to the mark.

At some point, Logan kissed her ear and stood up, sliding her out of his lap. “I’m heading upstairs to chat with Reese and Jonathan, love. We’ll be back in a moment.”

“All right,” she said, clutching her newly refilled glass to her breast, her head buzzing. “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t. We’re just going to discuss . . . your nondisclosure agreement.”

She nodded, her brain fuzzy, and sat back down in Logan’s chair.

Cade frowned as the three men left and then stood himself. “I’d better go and see what they’re up to.”

He left, and Griffin followed him out. That left Brontë holding her glass and the man seated next to her, who had been quiet all night. He’d been careful not to look over at her, and she was curious about him.

Hunter. Did he not like her? Brontë frowned and took another swig of her whiskey, watching him over the rim of her snifter.

“Your friend,” Hunter said after a long moment. His voice was deep and gravelly. He spoke as if the words were a chore. He was an odd man. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”

“You mean Gretchen?”

“Gretchen.” He repeated the name, as if tasting it. “What is her last name?”

“Why? How do you know about Gretchen?”

“I saw her with you the other day. Tell me more about Gretchen.”

Brontë frowned, her thoughts slow and diffuse from alcohol. Something about giving her friend’s information to a stranger seemed . . . not right, but she was having a hard time reasoning as to why. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”

Hunter stared down at his cards, and she realized he was carefully hiding one hand behind the other. Interesting.

“I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”

“Like a stalker,” Brontë repeated drunkenly.

“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”

“That’s what a stalker would say,” she pointed out, taking another sip of her drink.

He ground his teeth and glared over at her. Brontë got her first good look at his face . . . and she suddenly understood why he’d been so careful to turn away from her, and why he hid his hand. Thick white scars stood out in relief against his tanned skin. They crossed his face in an irregular, scattered pattern that indicated massive trauma. One corner of his eye was tilted down, as if the repairs had altered its shape, and the side of his mouth had a jagged white line curving from it—a seam that had been torn open and repaired. Even the hand he’d covered showed the white, gouging lines of scarring.

It was not a pretty sight. Not in the slightest. Brontë swallowed hard, her stomach churning from the alcohol.

“Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests,” Hunter gritted out. “I simply wish to learn more about her.”

“Oh,” Brontë said, forcing herself to turn away from the hideous webbing of scars. She stared down at her glass, which seemed a little too empty at the moment. “Penway,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”

“What kinds of books?”

“Books with other people’s names on them.”

His gaze seemed to pin her to Logan’s chair, and she wished she had a bit more to drink. “A ghostwriter?”

Brontë nodded, then stopped because it made the room wobble. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”

“Cooper?” He rasped the word out harshly.

“It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. She wants adventure or a fairy tale or something.”

The scarred man snorted and lifted his own drink, and Brontë peeked over at him. Nope, the scars didn’t look any better on the second glance.

“Is Logan coming back?” she asked, feeling a little faint. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Hunter smiled grimly over at her. “Depends on whether Jonathan and Reese have given him a few black eyes yet.”

She stared at him in surprise, then bolted to her feet. The room shifted woozily, and she grasped at the chair. “But . . . they . . . I don’t want them to hurt Logan! I said I’d sign the nondisclosure agreement.”

“The agreement takes care of the future. Fists take care of right now,” Hunter said. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

Brontë flopped back to her seat, holding her stomach. Suddenly, being drunk in a dark, smoky room didn’t seem like such a good idea. “I need a drink of water, I think. And Logan. I want Logan.”

Hunter set a tumbler in front of her and filled it with water. When she reached for it, he laid a hand over it, blocking her. “Tell me more about Gretchen.”

Brontë glared at him and brushed his hand aside. She took the glass anyhow and started sipping it. When her stomach stopped doing flips, she began, “Well, she has a cat . . .”

Chapter Fourteen

When Brontë woke up the next morning, her head was pounding and her mouth felt like a dirty, old sock. She groaned, rolling over in the bed and smacking into Logan’s broad chest.

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His arms went around her, and he pulled her close, nuzzling her ear. “Morning.”

Even that small word made her head hurt insanely. She groaned and closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. “I hurt.”

“Do you need aspirin?”

Just the thought of dry, medicinal-tasting aspirin sticking to the roof of her mouth made her want to vomit. “Dry toast, please?”

He kissed her cheek. “Coming right up.”

The bed shifted as he climbed out of it, and Brontë spent the next five minutes trying not to throw up from the quaking that small movement had produced. There was something not quite . . . normal about where she lay. There was a roaring in her ears.

God, had she ever been so drunk in her life?

She had vague memories of a smoky room and a man with scars, and lots of poker chips being passed back and forth. That was it, really.

Logan returned, his hand smoothing the messy hair off of her brow. “You okay?”

She forced herself to sit up in bed slowly, her eyes squeezed into slits, and she reached for the glass of water her put in her hand and began to drink. After a moment, she said, “My head’s so fuzzy, it feels like the ground is moving.”

“Huh.”

Logan’s innocent syllable made her frown. Unfortunately, the bright light in the room was killing her, so she couldn’t glare at him. She lay back down in the bed and reached for a pillow to pull over her head, ignoring Logan’s chuckle of amusement. The bed shook again, and her stomach gurgled in response.

That shaking . . . was not her imagination.

Brontë’s eyes flew open as the jet’s thrusters started roaring. Pressure made her ears pop and pushed her down on the bed, and she tried to struggle to her elbows. “Are we . . . are we flying?”

“Don’t get up,” Logan said, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “Lie down and relax. You’re hungover.”

Her gaze moved to his face, and she gasped. Her handsome, contained, so-in-control billionaire boyfriend had a hell of a shiner. A dark purplish-green ring lined his eye, and it was puffy and swollen.

“Your face!”

He grinned and touched his fingers just below his eye, wincing. “Yeah. The guys and I had a little talk. When we land, the nondisclosure agreement will be waiting at my office for you to sign. The others insist.”

“That’s fine,” Brontë said, eyeing him for other bruises. “Whatever gets them off your back.”

“I’m sorry if you feel I’m pushing you into it,” he told her in a guarded voice. “I know you’re probably not happy about it.”

She shrugged, holding the pillow close to her throbbing head. “I actually don’t care,” she told him, closing her eyes and trying to relax to ease her throbbing head. “It’s not a big deal. I wouldn’t go telling all your secrets anyhow, but if the paperwork makes them feel better . . .” When he said nothing, she opened one eye. “Why?”

Logan shook his head, staring down at her. “I just . . . I guess I expected you to be upset.” A smile curved his mouth again, and he leaned down to lightly kiss her brow. “This is why I love you, Brontë.”

Because she wasn’t like Danica? She snorted, and that tiny move made her head hurt all over again.

“Rest, love,” Logan told her, brushing a hand over her cheek and pulling the covers back up around her chest. “You have a few hours before we land.”

“Where are we going?” she asked sleepily.

“It’s a surprise. One I think you’ll enjoy.”

***

It was a surprise, all right. Hours later, after she’d taken aspirin for her hangover, Brontë stared in surprise at the small airport where they’d just landed. It looked . . . familiar. She looked up at Logan questioningly.

“Come on. We’ll miss the ferry to Seaturtle Cay if we don’t hurry.”

“We’re going back to the resort?” She wobbled behind him a few steps as he began to head down the tarmac briskly. “I don’t understand. Isn’t it wrecked? How can it be open for business?”

“It’s not open,” he told her. “But not all the rooms are destroyed, and I thought you wouldn’t mind having another look at the place when a hurricane isn’t bearing down on you.”

Brontë was silent as they took the ferry out to Seaturtle Island, then drove out to the resort. The downed trees had been cleaned up and the power lines restored, she noticed as they drove. When they pulled up to the main resort, the sounds of drills and power saws greeted her, and she looked at the hotel in surprise. Large swaths of the entire eastern wing of the resort were covered in construction plastic. There was no broken glass littering the lobby any longer—everything had been cleaned up and repaired. Trees had been righted, or replanted, and the entire place seemed different from when she’d last seen it.

Brontë passed by the gift shop and noticed a floral beach dress, very similar to the one she’d salvaged from the place when they’d been stranded, hanging on the mannequin. The diamond necklace was still there, which made her smile ironically at the sight. To think she’d been worried about Logan taking it because he wouldn’t be able to afford it. How he must have laughed at her concern. She shook her head and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and felt warm when he automatically placed his hand over hers.

They entered the hotel, and a curly-haired man with a swarthy tan and wearing a suit appeared, extending his hand for Logan to shake. “Mr. Hawkings. It is a pleasure to see you here.”

“Mr. Douglas,” Logan said. “Things look like they are proceeding well.”

“Indeed they are. Repairs have continued around the clock, and once the upgrades are decided upon, we can continue with the renovations.” Mr. Douglas smiled at Brontë. “This must be Miss Dawson.”

Brontë extended her hand politely, smiling at the manager. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Miss Dawson is tired from our trip,” Logan said in a crisp voice. “Is our room ready?”

“It is,” Mr. Douglas exclaimed with a bright smile. “Everything that you have asked for is ready and waiting.”

Both men paused for a moment, and then Logan looked down at her. “Love, I need to meet with Mr. Douglas to discuss some things. Would you like to go up and check out our suite? Let me know if there’s something that’s not to your liking.”

She nodded absently. It felt like Logan was trying to get rid of her at the moment, but the need for a shower outweighed everything else at the moment. “What floor are we on?”

“I will have someone show you the way, Miss Dawson.” The manager turned and waved over a tall, willowy woman. “Luz, please escort Miss Dawson to Mr. Hawkings’s personal suite.”

“Right away,” Luz said, smiling at Brontë. “Please follow me.”

Logan kissed her temple and whispered in her ear, “I’ll be up shortly.”

She nodded and pulled away from him, following Luz across the lobby. Brontë paused when Luz stopped in front of an all-too-familiar elevator. “Can we take the stairs?”

Luz seemed surprised at her request. “It is twenty floors up. Are you sure you wish to take the stairs?”

Brontë grinned. “Oh, I’m sure. Very sure.”

“Very well,” Luz said, leading her farther down the west wing. At the end of a long hallway, they opened the door to the stairwell. It was well lit and there wasn’t a single mattress in sight, which was almost disappointing. Brontë thought of the long nights she’d spent there, curled up with Logan. Funny how at the time she’d been wondering what he was thinking about her.

Funny how she was back to square one in that aspect.

Since she’d been living in Gretchen’s fourth-floor walk-up for the past two weeks, the flights of stairs were not so bad, and she handled them better than poor Luz. They paused repeatedly between sets of stairs, and it took longer than anticipated to get up to the top floor. But she was in no hurry to step back into that elevator, so she didn’t mind.

When they finally got to the twentieth floor, Brontë noticed the hall had been recently recarpeted, and art hung on the walls. New art? she wondered. The smell of paint was still strong, the walls crisp and fresh with color. Had they remodeled this portion of the building first, knowing that Logan would be stopping by for a visit?

And was there anywhere in the world that Logan Hawkings’s every whim was not catered to? She smiled wryly at the thought.

Luz moved to the door and tapped in a code on the keypad. “There are no keys for this room, Miss Dawson. You simply need to use the access code. It is five-five-four-three.” She opened the door and gestured for Brontë to enter. “Please call down and let me know if there is anything else I can do for you during your stay.”

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“I will,” Brontë said. “Thank you, Luz.”

The other woman nodded and left, and Brontë stepped into the suite with a dumbfounded look on her face. She’d been expecting the room to be posh, but once again she was surprised at the wealth and luxury that Logan enjoyed.

The room was palatial. Slow-moving fans lazily whirled overhead from the high-beamed loft ceiling. A breeze ruffled white curtains on the balcony. The room was full of sweet-smelling flowers, vases artfully perched on end tables and countertops. Those were the only splashes of color—everything else was stark, brilliant white—from the fluffy bedspread to the artful netting hanging over the bed to the thick carpet beneath her feet. There were even white couches in the “living room” area, offset by dark teakwood furniture accompanying it.

It was lovely and cool and tropical, and she immediately felt relaxed at the sight. How beautiful. Brontë moved to the small kitchen area, looking for bottled water to soothe her dry throat. She laughed when she opened the mini fridge and saw it was full of MM’s. Logan truly seemed to recall every small thing she’d ever mentioned, and the thought made her feel warm inside.

The bed was gorgeous, but Brontë wanted to wash up first. She groaned with pleasure at the sight of the shower. It was made entirely from stone instead of tile and the showerhead was a built-in waterfall, meant to mimic a tropical paradise. It was also heaven on her skin, and she took a long, exceedingly hot shower, enjoying every minute of luxury. Then she curled up in one of the fluffy white robes left for her and headed to the bed, intending to try it out only for a moment.

She woke up hours later, when Logan’s heavy weight sagged on the bed next to her. She smiled as he pulled her close and turned her face up for his kiss.

His mouth lightly touched hers. “Do you like the room?”

“It’s gorgeous,” she said with a small sigh. “I could stay here forever.”

His lips continued to move along her jawline. “How about a week? I have some business to attend to while we’re here and need to stay until next Saturday.”

Brontë sat up, pushing him away. “How about you ask before dragging me onto your jet?”

“I did ask,” he said, his stern lips quirking with amusement. “If I recall, you told me that you loved the idea. And then you fell over and began to snore.”

She scowled at him. “How about asking me when I’m sober? I’m supposed to work for the next week.”

“Gretchen says they will be fine without you.”

“You talked to Gretchen?”

“She packed a bag for you. Don’t you remember?”

Brontë blinked, trying to recall. Nope, the night before was still a whiskey-filled blur. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me.”

“I’m sure,” Logan said, kissing her neck. He sounded amused.

Her hands went to his thick hair, and she ran her nails over his scalp, sighing with pleasure when he licked at the sensitive dip in her throat. “Logan, I want to talk to you.”

His teeth grazed her collarbone. “Talk, love. I’m listening.”

“You’re being very distracting.”

“I’ve only started to be distracting,” he told her in a husky voice. His hand slipped inside her robe and cupped her bare breast, thumb playing over her nipple.

Heat and longing shot through her body, and she moaned, her hips moving reflexively. “That’s not fair,” she gasped, her words rising an octave when he continued to circle her nipple with the pad of his thumb, making the sensitive peak stiff. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

“I’m very serious right now,” Logan told her, tugging open the belt of her robe and exposing her breasts. His head moved down, and he kissed the other nipple. “I’ve wanted to touch you all day, and I’m very serious about getting to do so right now.”

“Logan,” she breathed, her fingers gripping his hair tightly. “I wanted to talk about you and me.”

His teeth gently bit her nipple. “How good we are together?”

She moaned as he raked his teeth lightly over her nipple again, then tongued the sensitive flesh. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

Grinding to a screeching halt, Logan jerked up, his gaze meeting hers. Those warm, delicious eyes were now staring back at her warily, and his voice was cold. “What were you thinking?”

Oh. Brontë felt a twinge of shame at his immediate wariness. His reaction was so strong as a result of her constant running away. He was expecting her to bail on him again. She reached up and stroked his strong, tense jaw. “I was thinking that . . . I’ve been unfair to you.”

He stared down at her, no emotion showing. Those hard eyes glittered. “You have been unfair . . . to me? Explain.”

“Yes,” she said, and skimmed her thumb over his lower lip. It was really unfair that he was so sensual and masculine. “Whenever things got a little frightening for me, I ran away. I should have stayed and talked to you. And . . . I’m sorry. I want this to work between us. I want you. I want to be with you.”

Logan’s cold expression finally cracked. He exhaled loudly, and then buried his face against her.

“Logan?” She touched his hair.

“I thought you were going to leave me again.” The relief in his voice was evident, and he began to press kisses on her stomach. “You scared the **** out of me.”

“Sorry,” she said, the nervous giggle escaping her throat. Damn stupid giggle. “I’m . . . I won’t run again. Not without talking to you first. I just . . . it’s hard to know where I fit in your world when I’ve always had trouble even fitting in to my own.”

“I know where you fit,” Logan said, sitting up suddenly. He pressed a fist to his heart. “Right here, Brontë.”

Sudden tears pricked her eyes. “I love you, Logan.”

“I love you, too,” he told her, leaning down and kissing her mouth lightly. “And I want you to be comfortable with me. If something bothers you, tell me so I can fix it or change it.”

“I think it’s me more than you, Logan. I thought that if I came to you and did nothing but sit around your house, I’d turn into one of those women that you hate. I’d do nothing but spend your money on shoes and purses all day long, like Danica.”

“It wasn’t that Danica spent my money, love. If you dedicated your life to shopping, you wouldn’t be able to spend all my money. It was that she valued the money more than she valued our relationship. You’ve never been like that. You never will be. It’s not in your nature.” He picked up her hand and kissed the palm of it tenderly. “That’s one reason why I fell for you so hard.”

“I might spend some of your money,” Brontë blurted, waiting for him to react. But he didn’t; he only continued to smile at her. “I’ve realized that I was resenting you for my being a waitress, which is stupid. It isn’t your fault I picked a major that wouldn’t get me anywhere except waiting tables. It wasn’t that you wanted me to make something of myself. It’s that I wasn’t happy with who I was. That doesn’t change with or without money, really. But Gretchen woke me up, and I realized that only I can make myself satisfied with my career path. All I know is I that being without you made me unhappy even when I was waiting tables again. So . . .” She breathed deep and blurted, “I want to go back to college and get a graduate degree. Or start a charity to donate books to schools and retirement homes like Gretchen does, but on a bigger scale. Or do both. Or all of it. I’m not sure. But I want to do something with myself. I’ll get bored sitting around your apartment all day.”

A smile curved his hard mouth. “Love, I want you to do whatever makes you happy. And if going back to school helps you—or starting a charity—then we’ll do both. As long as we do it together.”

“Together.” She blinked rapidly, overcome. “I’m sorry I’ve made this so difficult. I—”

“Shhh,” he told her. “You didn’t. You were just frightened, and I tend to be overbearing and controlling. It’s part of my nature.”

“It is,” she agreed with a small smile. “You’re used to handling the situation. But a girl likes to be asked every now and then.”

“I promise to ask more,” he said, and his eyes grew serious again. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small box. Logan held it out to her. “Starting now.”

She sucked in a breath, staring at the small, dark blue box. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, and slowly snapped the case open.

An oval diamond the size of a pebble was set into a thick gold band. She stared at the ring in surprise, then at Logan.

“I picked the inscription for you,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “Do you like it?”

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“Inscription?” She pulled the ring out of the box and peered at the inside of the band, turning the ring to read the tiny lettering printed there. “‘Every heart hears a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.’” Her eyes filled with the tears she’d been unable to hold back. “It’s beautiful. Ovid?”

“Plato, actually,” he told her with a grin. A laugh escaped her, wild and free. Plato. Of course it was. How very perfect.

“You’re my heart, Brontë. I know it feels like such a short time together, but I want to wake up every day with you at my side and in my life.” He took the ring from her trembling fingers and held it out to her. “Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Logan told her. “Waitress, philosopher, or charitable organizer, I’ll love you all the same as long as you’ll be mine.”

Slipping the ring on her finger, she kissed him with all the love in her heart.

Epilogue

It didn’t take long for Brontë to decide what she wanted to do with her life. Gretchen’s book donation charity had inspired her, and after signing up for continuing education classes at NYU, she worked with Logan’s financial advisors to set up a charity. Philosophy Reads was soon born, complete with a fancy website and nonprofit status. Her goal? To bring her love of reading and knowledge to those who couldn’t afford it or couldn’t get out. Brontë selected two books—one classic and one modern—and then purchased hundreds of copies. These she had delivered to local libraries, retirement homes, and hospitals, and she set up weekly meetings for people to meet and discuss them.

She nearly danced with delight when her first meeting—at the retirement home where Gretchen had dropped off books before—had an attendance of nearly fifty people, all of them brimming with enthusiasm to discuss that month’s reads, The Iliad and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. She wanted to eventually introduce them to heavier reads, but she’d start them out slow. The discussions were a success in some venues, and in others, not as much—she had a few that were sparsely attended. But it was a work in progress, and she was determined to fine-tune her charity and turn it into a well-oiled machine that would help bring the joy of reading to those who might otherwise overlook it.

That part of her life had become incredibly satisfying—almost as much as living with Logan. As soon as she’d moved back in, she’d quietly begun to refill his library with new reads—some classics, which Logan read out a sense of obligation to her, but when she caught him quietly reading a Tom Clancy paperback, she also added men’s action thrillers to his section and even read some of them herself so they could discuss the books over dinner.

Logan was proud of her charity, and never objected to the amount of money she spent. At night they twined around each other, locked in bliss.

She’d signed the nondisclosure agreement without a word of complaint and had offered to sign a prenup. Logan turned down her offer vehemently and then spent the evening kissing her back in*****bmission. The fact that she was willing, he told her, was more than enough for him.

Life was just about perfect for Brontë, and she grew to love Logan more each day. Every morning, she woke up eager for what the day would bring and excited about how much she enjoyed being with Logan. And every day she held her engagement ring—that big, audacious diamond she would have run from a few months prior—and read the heart-melting inscription to herself again.

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.

And Brontë’s heart was complete now that Logan’s was whispering back.

Keep reading for a preview of the next book in the Billionaire Boys Club

BEAUTY AND THE BILLIONAIRE

Available July 2013 from InterMix

Hunter Buchanan didn’t believe in love at first sight. Hell, he didn’t much believe in love at all.

But the moment he’d seen the tall redhead standing in the foyer of one of his empty houses, a box of books in her arms and a skeptical look on her face, he’d felt . . . something. She’d been bold and fearless with her words, something that attracted him as a man that clung to the shadows.

And when she’d admitted to her quiet friend that most men bored her and she wanted something different in a relationship than just a pretty face?

Hunter knew she was meant for him.

She was pretty, young, and single. She had a smart mind and a sharp tongue. He liked that about her. She was unafraid and laughed easily. Days had passed since he’d glimpsed her and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. She haunted his dreams.

Hunter was smart as well, and rich, and only a few years older than her. It shouldn’t have been unattainable.

Unconsciously, he touched the deeply gouged scars on his face, fingers tracing the thick line of the scar at the corner of his mouth where damaged tissue had been reconstructed.

There was one thing preventing Hunter from pursuing a woman like that. His face. His hideous, scarred face. He could hide the scars on his chest and arm with clothing. He could clench his hand and no one would notice that he was missing a finger. But he couldn’t hide his face. When he chose to leave his house, people crossed the street to avoid him. Men frowned as if there were something unnerving about him. Women flinched away from the sight of it.

Just like the woman next to him currently was doing.

Brontë, Logan’s big-eyed girlfriend, sat next to him at the Brotherhood’s poker table. The dark basement was filled with a haze of cigar smoke and the scent of liquor. Normally the room was filled with his five best friends, but they’d gone upstairs to ‘talk’ to Logan about the fact that he’d brought his new girlfriend with him to a secret society meeting. Brontë had stayed behind . . . with him. It was clearly not by her choice, either. She sat at the table quietly, nursing her wine glass and trying not to look as if she’d wanted to bolt from the table once she’d gotten a good look at his face. Her gaze slid to his damaged hand, and then back to his face again.

He was used to that sort of thing. And he wondered if the redhead who was her friend would react the same way to his face.

Experience told him that she would. But he remembered the redhead’s sarcastic little smile and that shake of her head. The words she’d said.

And he found he had to know more.

“Your friend,” he said to Brontë. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”

She looked over at him again, those dark eyes wide and surprised, pupils dilated from alcohol. “You mean Gretchen?”

“Yes.” He knew her first name, but he wanted to know more about her. “What is her last name?”

“Why? How do you know about Gretchen?”

“I saw her with you the other day. Tell me more about Gretchen.”

She frowned at him. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”

Hunter glanced down at his cards and tried not *****ppress the annoyance he felt at her caginess. Couldn’t a man ask a simple question? “I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”

“Like a stalker.”

“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”

“That’s what a stalker would say.”

Hunter gritted his teeth, glancing over at her. She automatically shied back, her expression a little alarmed as she studied his scars. He ignored that. “Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests. I simply wish to learn more about her.”

After all, what woman would want to date a man with a grotesque face? Only ones that wanted his money, and he wasn’t interested in those. He wanted a companion, not a whore.

“Oh,” Brontë said, and studied her wineglass as if it were fascinating to her. “Petty,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”

Now they were getting somewhere. He mentally filed the information away. Gretchen Petty, author. He could see that. She had a sharp mind. “What kinds of books?”

“Books with other people’s names on them.”

He gave her an impatient stare, hating the way she shrank back in her chair just a bit. “A ghost writer?”

Brontë nodded. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”

“Cooper? Who is Cooper?” Whoever it was, Hunter ****ing hated him. Probably good looking, smug, and not nearly good enough for her. Damn it.

“Cooper’s her friend. It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. Gretchen likes guys that are different. She likes to be challenged.”

He snorted. Well, she’d definitely get a challenge with him.

They chatted for a bit longer, the conversation awkward. Brontë kept turning her face to the door, no doubt anxiously awaiting Logan’s return. Logan was a good looking man, tall, strong, and unscarred. Brontë was a soft, sweet creature, but he doubted she’d ever look at someone like him with anything more than revulsion or pity.

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He’d had his share of pity already, thanks.

Gretchen Petty, he repeated to himself. A ghostwriter. Someone that wrote books for others and hid behind their names. Why, he wondered. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind a moniker. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind anything. And that fascinated him. What would draw a woman like her to him? Did he even want to try? Did he want to see if she looked at him with a horror that she was trying desperately to hide for the sake of politeness, just like Logan’s woman? Or would she see the person behind the scars and determine that he was just as interesting as any other man?

A plan began to form in his mind.

It wasn’t a nice plan, or a very honest one. The good thing about money, though, was that it allowed you to take control of almost any situation, and Hunter definitely planned on using what he had to his advantage.

***

The Brotherhood played poker on into the night while his bodyguard stood at the door, keeping out anyone that would disturb them. They drank, they smoked cigars, and they played cards. It was one of their usual meetings, if one could ignore the quietly sleeping woman curled up on the couch in the corner of the room, Logan’s jacket a blanket over her shoulders. Business was discussed, alcohol drank in quantity, and notes taken for analyzing in the morning. Tips were shared back and forth, investment opportunities and the like.

The Brotherhood had met like this once a week since their college days, vowing to help one another. At the time, it had seemed like an idealistic pledge—that those born with money would help the others succeed, and as a result, they would all rise to the top of the ladder of success.

It had been an easy vow to make for Hunter. When Logan had befriended him in an Economics class, he’d been oddly relieved to have a friend. After being home schooled for the majority of his education, Dartmouth seemed like a nightmare landscape to him. People were everywhere, and they stared at his hideous face and scarred arm like he was a freak. He had no roommate or companions to introduce him to others on campus, and so he’d lurked in the background of the bustling campus society, avoiding eye contact and silent.

Logan had been popular—wealthy, handsome, and outgoing, he knew what he wanted and pursued it. Women flocked to him and other guys liked him. It had surprised Hunter when Logan had struck up a conversation with him one day. No one talked to the scarred outcast. But Logan had stared at Hunter’s scars for a long moment, and then gone right back to their Economics homework, discussing the syllabus and how he felt the class was missing some of the vital concepts they would need *****cceed. Hunter had privately agreed, having learned quite a bit of his father’s business on his own, and they’d shared ideas. After a week or two of casual conversation, Logan had taken him aside and suggested that Hunter attend a meeting he was putting together.

It was a secret meeting, the kind legendary on the older Ivy League campuses and spoke about in hushed whispers. Hunter was immediately suspicious. As a Buchanan, his father was one of the wealthiest men in the nation, a legend among business owners for the sheer amount of property he owned. Their family name was instantly recognizable, and several of their houses landmarks. His father’s real estate investments had made him a billionaire, and Hunter was his only heir. He’d learned long ago *****spect others of ulterior motives.

But Logan was incredibly wealthy in his own right. He had no need for Hunter’s money. And Hunter was . . . lonely, though he would never admit such things to anyone that asked. So he’d gone to the meeting, expecting it to be a scam or a joke—or worse, a shakedown.

Instead, he’d been surprised. The six men attending had come from all walks of life and had a variety of majors. Reese Duncan was attending college on a scholarship, and his clothes were worn and ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He’d been ribbed about being a charity case by the other wealthy students, and had gotten into a few fist fights. ***to Cade Archer, though he was a favorite on campus with his easy, open demeanor and friendly attitude. His family did not come from money, and rumor had it that they were up to their necks in debt to send Cade to college. He did recognize Griffin Verdi, the only foreigner. British and titled, the Verdi family was well connected with the throne and still owned ancestral lands. And there was Jonathan Lynde, whose family had some wealth, but had lost it all in a business scandal.

It was an eclectic group to say the least, and Hunter had been immediately wary. But once Logan had begun to speak, the reality of their gathering came to light: Logan Hawkings wanted to start a secret society. A brotherhood of business-oriented men that would help each other rise to the top of their selective fields and assist one another. He believed that the ones that had power could use that power to elevate their friends, and in doing so, could expand upon their empire. And he’d selected like-minded individuals that he hoped would have the same goals as him.

Hunter had been reluctant at first, since his family had the most money of all of the attendees. The others had been equally skeptical, of course. But once they began to talk, ideas were shared and concepts and strategies born. And Hunter realized that these men might not be after his family’s wealth after all, but to make some of their own.

He’d joined Logan’s secret society. The Brotherhood was formed, and over the years, he’d gone from no friends to having five men that were closer to him than brothers.

And even though years had passed, they still met weekly (unless business travel prevented it) and still caught up with each other and shared leads.

Until tonight, a woman had never been invited. The others had been unhappy at Logan’s invitation to Brontë, but Hunter didn’t mind. He was actually inwardly pleased, though he’d shown no outward reaction.

Brontë’s inclusion into their secret meant that she would be around a lot more. And Brontë was good friends with his mysterious redhead—Gretchen.

This was information that Hunter could use. And so he didn’t protest when Logan had brought her in. She’d given him plenty of information, too. His Gretchen was a writer. A ghost writer. There had to be a way to get in contact with her. Spend time with her without arousing her suspicions. He simply wanted to be around her. To have a conversation with her. To enjoy her presence.

Of course he wanted more, but a man like him knew his limits. He knew his face was unpleasant. He’d seen women clutch their mouths at the sight of him. He’d never have someone like Gretchen—smart, beautiful, funny—unless she was interested in his money. And the thought of that repulsed him.

He’d take friendship with a beautiful woman, if friendship was all he could have.