Stranded With a Billionaire (28 page)

“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?”

“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 into submission. 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 to suppress 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 fucking 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.

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 Brot
herhood 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 to succeed. 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 to suspect 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. Ditto 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.