Stranded With a Billionaire (21 page)

“That’s not fair, Gretchen,” the one called Brontë protested.

“Life’s not fair,” Gretchen said in a cheerfully acerbic voice. “I’d rather have a man who isn’t in love with his own reflection than one who needs hair product or designer labels.” She bent over, and that heart-shaped ass was thrust into his vision again, and his cock stirred with need.

“So you’d rather have a pizza guy with a weak chin and a knight-in-shining-armor complex?”

“Yes,” Gretchen said emphatically, and a dimple flashed in her pointed little face. “His looks aren’t half as important as his brain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gretchen frowned. “I don’t understand.”

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

“I sold the place.”

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

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

Oh,
no
.

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

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

“What are you doing here, Logan?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Brontë.”

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

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

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

She took it and turned toward the back office.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good
, she thought with a little mental stab.

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

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

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

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

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

She remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brontë took a step backward, out of his grasp.

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go out. Tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

Had he given up on her? So quickly?

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

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

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

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

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

“Dinner. Tonight. Someplace casual.”

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

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

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

***

As she prepared fo
r her first date with the man she was in love with, Brontë was thankful that Audrey had dragged her out and made her go clothes shopping. Her own funds were still a little lean, and although working at the coffee shop was a good way to pass time, living in New York was expensive and she found she was constantly a bit strapped for cash. A date outfit would have been out of the question.