Stranded With a Billionaire (14 page)

Chapter Eight

Wa
rm lips brushed her cheek. “We’re here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gotcha.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tired?” he asked in a low voice.

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

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

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

“Why?”

“It’s expensive. All of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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