Stranded With a Billionaire (16 page)

“Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue,” Audrey said promptly. “That’s where the best shopping is. Do you have a preference?”

“Someplace with reasonable, comfortable clothing?”

Audrey stared at her for a minute. “Oh, honey. No. We’ll start with your dress for the party tonight. I’m thinking Bergdorf’s or Saks. And shoes. We’ll definitely need some shoes. This could get a little pricey, so I just want you to close your eyes and remember who’s buying, okay?”

Brontë crossed her arms. “Audrey, this makes me . . . really uncomfortable. I don’t know that I can spend someone else’s money like this.”

“I know you can’t,” she said with a reassuring pat. “That’s why I’m in charge. And may I just say that this is a refreshing change? Usually I have to pry his girlfriends away from the Centurion card.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Audrey paused to stare at her. “Huh?”

“Oh. Um. Aristophanes. Never mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brontë said nothing.

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

“That is totally emotional blackmail.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About a half hour ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was gorgeous. And it made her incredibly uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“I know.”

She looked at him. “How do you know?”

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

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

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