Stranded With a Billionaire (18 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brontë said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am?”

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

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

He was ruthless.

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

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

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

Brontë said nothing.

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

“Thanks for the warning,” she said softly.

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

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

Perfect for gathering her thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

Logan doesn’t know how to love.

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

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

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffened against her. “Oh?”

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

He cursed under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t say anything back.

And a little part of Brontë died.

Chapter Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan grunted a response.

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

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

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

Logan said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you can make something of yourself.”

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

“Something like that,” Logan said.

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

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

She didn’t answer him.

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

And that she had a suitcase open.

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

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

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

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

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

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

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

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

“It was a test,” he confessed.

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

He remained silent at that.

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

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

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

“I love you, Brontë.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s yours.”

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

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

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

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

“Brontë—”

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

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

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

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