Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Thirteen




The next morning, Brontë woke up to find Logan’s body curled around hers, and her arm was asleep from being in a cramped position over her head. She lay in bed for a long moment, debating getting up, since there was no way she’d be able to get out of bed without waking Logan.

Sweet, gorgeous Logan. God, she loved him. Terrified of getting hurt again, she’d chickened out on saying it the night before. But he’d seemed to understand her fear, and it hadn’t bothered him. He’d just kissed her, and they’d climbed in to bed together, sleeping in a tangle of limbs because they didn’t want to be parted. She’d been resting on a spring all night, and her leg was trapped under his, and her arm hung off the bed.

It was the best night of sleep she’d had in a long time.

Her bladder was protesting the hour, though, and she sighed and sat up, beginning to extract herself. Logan woke up and kissed her arm before rolling out of bed, yawning and stretching to work out the kinks in his back. “Morning, love.”

He’d been calling her “love” all night, she’d noticed. She liked it, too. Brontë smiled at him. “I need to run to the bathroom before Gretchen gets in there. She’s a shower hog.”

“Go ahead,” he told her, lying back. He grabbed the pillow and tucked it under his head, as if to go back to sleep.

She grinned and shook her head at him, then raced for the bathroom.

When she returned from her shower, she was surprised to see him up and moving about her room. He’d dressed in his boxer shorts and had made the bed. Her suitcase lay atop the blankets, and he’d pulled several of her hung-up clothes out of the closet.

Brontë gave him a curious look, holding back her frown. “What’s all this?”

Logan smiled over at her. “Thought I’d help you get started while I waited for the shower.”

“Get started with what?” She crossed her arms over her towel and tried to look open-minded about what he was going to say.

His mouth thinned a little. “We’re back together now. You’re moving back in with me.”

She shook her head. “Logan, no.”

Frustration flashed in his gaze. “Why is that a problem, Brontë?” His voice sounded as if he were trying to be patient . . . and it were causing him pain.

“Because our relationship is all messed up, Logan. You and I were ‘moved in together’ before we barely even knew each other, and look at how well that worked out.”

“It worked out just fine in my eyes.”

She snorted. Of course he’d say that. “Nothing’s changed, Logan. Last night was great, but I’m allowed to sleep with a guy and not move in with him.”

His face hardened as a stark look of disbelief crossed his gaze. “Is there someone else?” His voice was deathly serious.

“What? No. Of course not.”

Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good.” He moved forward and pulled her into his arms. “I’m not seeing anyone else, and you’re not either. This thing we have, it’s just you and me.”

“All right.”

“And you’re moving back in with me.” He sounded so possessive and so utterly sure of himself.

“No, I’m not. Not until I’m ready.”

Logan seemed to think about that for a moment and then accepted it. “What will it take to make you ready? I want you back in my bed.”

“You have me back in a bed.”

“In my bed, for good. And in my life, Brontë. I want you in my life most of all. At my side.”

She tugged her towel a little tighter around her naked body. Being in his bed was no problem. It was being in his life that she was struggling with. “I’m not ready yet, Logan. Please don’t pressure me.”

Brontë thought he would protest again, but to her surprise, he moved in and caressed her neck, lifting strands of wet hair off of her skin. “I’m disappointed, but I understand.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “The offer remains, of course. Accept it when you’re ready.”

She trembled at the sweetness of his touch and the understanding in his voice. “Thank you, Logan.”

He kissed her again. “What are you doing today?”

“I work in an hour.”

“Want me to clear your schedule?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “I need to work, and Cooper could use the help today.” Working, mindless as it was, helped keep her mind off of things like her personal life. “Maybe tonight.”

He shook his head. “Tonight I’m busy.”

“Oh?” That was . . . interesting. “Busy with what?”

“Meeting,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be free tomorrow night.”

“All right,” she told him. “I’ll miss you tonight.”

Logan gave her a curious look, and then leaned in and kissed her fiercely, as if he’d just come to some sort of bizarre realization. “I love you.”

A bit surprised, she laughed at his expression. She almost blurted “I love you, too,” but stopped herself. “What brought that on?”

The look he gave her was intense, making her laughter die in her throat. “I want you to come to my meeting tonight.”

“You do? To a business meeting?

“It’s more of a meeting of . . . friends.”

“Are you sure that’s allowed?”

“It will be,” he said, his smile surprisingly grim.

***

Brontë was lost in thought as she walked the streets of SoHo, heading to Cooper’s Cuppa. Gretchen hadn’t been at the apartment that morning, and Brontë suspected that she had returned home late the night before and quietly left for work that morning without disturbing Brontë or her guest. It suited Brontë just fine. While they normally walked to work together, strolling by herself allowed her to clear her head and think a little.

Her night with Logan had been . . . intense. Magical. Wonderful. If she hadn’t already been in love with him, she would be by now. But it was also a little troubling. He’d wanted her to move back in with him as if nothing had happened, and she was still mentally working through some of their issues.

When all was said and done, he was still a billionaire used to getting his way in everything, and she was still a waitress. Their massive power incompatibility worried her. Men like him didn’t date waitresses. Men like him bought the establishment and slept with the waitresses, she thought wryly. That was her situation . . . and yet it wasn’t. Logan had proved he wasn’t what she’d expected, just as she wasn’t what he’d expected, she supposed.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to fling it all away and return to being his live-in girlfriend. To have no other role in his life than being arm candy that was fun in bed.

She didn’t know what to do. Logan had said the offer stood, but what if he didn’t wait forever? What if he got tired of waiting for her to be comfortable with who he was and he moved on and forgot about her? Tears pricked at her eyes, and she swiped them away, pulling open the door to the coffee shop.

Gretchen was behind the counter already, her red hair pulled up in a messy knot, her glasses sliding down her nose. She looked up at Brontë’s entrance and gave her a startled look. “You’re here today?”

“Of course,” Brontë said stiffly, heading to the back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gretchen stepped out from behind the counter, following Brontë to the office. “Oh, I don’t know. Could it have something to do with the tall, dark, and rich guy who was over last night?”

“Why does everyone assume that just because Logan and I sleep together that I automatically decide to shirk all my duties?”

“’Cause that’s what happened last time?” Gretchen asked playfully.

The words were meant as a tease, but it was too much for Brontë. She sniffed loudly and stared at her locker, willing herself not to cry.

It didn’t work.

“Oh, jeez,” Gretchen said, pulling one of the spare brown aprons off of a coat hook and handing it to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay,” Brontë said, dabbing at her eyes with the apron and collapsing into a heap on a nearby stool. “I’m just all confused on the inside.”

“You want to talk? I can get us a couple of coffees, and we can steal one of the booths in the back. It’s kind of slow this morning.”

Brontë nodded.

Five minutes later, they were settled into the smallest back booth of the coffee shop, hot mocha cappuccinos in hand. Cooper looked at them curiously from time to time, but he didn’t pry, and Brontë was grateful.

“So,” Gretchen said. “You had Mr. Moneypants over last night. It went badly, and that’s why you’re crying.”

Brontë shook her head, grabbing a handful of napkins as she felt the confused tears welling up again. “It went great. It was beautiful. He told me he loved me.”

Gretchen nodded thoughtfully. “And this is bad? Admission of love pre–blow job as incentive, then?”

She giggled, the sound a little choked with tears. “Post–blow job. And no, it’s not bad. I just don’t know what to do. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City. A life. Well, such as it is. But this morning, I got out of the shower, and Logan was packing my bags as if sleeping with him meant that I was automatically moving back in.”

“That bastard,” Gretchen said ironically. “How dare he want to spend all his time with you? Do you need me to talk to him and set him straight?”

She made a face at her friend. “I’m serious. My problem with Logan is that last time we did the exact same thing—we moved in together right away, and he just kind of took over my life.”

“I see.” Gretchen sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Took over like how?”

“He bought me some clothes.”

“That bastard.”

“Shut up, Gretchen. I’m trying to tell you. He bought me clothes, and we went to a party and . . .” She frowned in thought. “I bought books for his library.”

“Well,” Gretchen said huffily. “What a douche bag. How dare he spend his billions on you?”

Brontë glared. “You’re not helping.”

“Of course I am,” Gretchen said, matter-of-factly. “I’m making you realize how silly you’re being.”

Brontë continued to glare at Gretchen.

The redhead shrugged. “Look. He’s got so much money he could roll in it. You, meanwhile, count the change in your wallet for a slice of pizza. Is it weird that he wants to shower you with presents and nice things? Maybe he likes buying them for you.”

“He doesn’t like gold diggers, Gretchen. Everyone always uses him for his money. I don’t want to be like everyone else.”

“Then don’t be. Don’t go running off buying a truckful of Birkin bags. Though if you do, remember your bestie, Gretchen, and her sister, Audrey.” When Brontë glared at her again, Gretchen sighed. “Look. It doesn’t sound like the problem is his money. It sounds like the problem is you.”

“What?”

“As in, Logan doesn’t need you. He likes you, he finds you fun, but he doesn’t need you to survive. So you don’t know what to do with yourself. That’s a little unhealthy, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the case at all!”

“No? What did you do when you moved in with him?”

Brontë opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again. “I shopped with Audrey, and then I sat around in his apartment.”

“Gee, exciting. I’m amazed he let you get away the first time,” Gretchen said drily.

“Oh, my God,” Brontë said. “All this time I’ve been thinking I can’t be with him because I can’t be who he wants me to be. What if it’s because I am the problem?”

“Well, you are a waitress,” Gretchen said. “It’s not as if you can continue waitressing if you’re living with a billionaire.”

She was right, Brontë realized. Oh, God. Everything she was saying was right. Brontë was blaming Logan for being . . . Logan. Logan was who he was—a little alpha, take-charge, and always thinking ahead. And she’d been punishing him for being who he was instead of loving him for it.

She’d been the problem all along.

Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. “I don’t know what to do, Gretchen. If I move in with him again, I worry that I’m going to turn into one of those women he hates. Sitting around all day spending money and doing nothing.”

“That won’t happen. You’re smart. You’re constantly spouting ancient wisdom and writing little sayings on customers’ cups. They love that. Do something with that big philosophizing brain of yours instead of serving coffee.”

Brontë stared down at her cappuccino. “I really wanted to do something with my philosophy degree, you know. Show the world just how wise and intelligent they were in classical times. Make others love the ancients just as much as I do.”

“Then maybe you should go back to school. Teach. Or write books about ancient philosophers. I know a great editor or two. Or you could set up charity foundations with all of your boyfriend’s ridiculous money that he wants you to spend.” Gretchen leaned over and clasped Brontë’s hand. “My point is that the money’s not a problem. It’s not an obstacle if you don’t make it one. If he wants to shower you with money, use it and really make something of yourself, Brontë. Be who you want to be, not just a Midwestern waitress with big dreams. Understand? You can always pay him back.”

Strange how a friend telling her to make something of herself came across far more gently than when Logan had. Brontë smiled at Gretchen. “So if you were me, you’d move back in with him?”

“Hell, no,” Gretchen said. “If I were you, I’d have killed him in a week. But you’re wimpy. You’re great with him.”

Brontë stuck her tongue out at Gretchen.

The redhead grinned, and gave Brontë’s hand another squeeze. “If he makes you happy, don’t set up obstacles that don’t have to be there. Love is more important than anything else in the world. Well, almost, but you’ve got the money thing taken care of already. I’d kill to have a man look at me the way Logan looks at you.”

“Cooper looks at you that way, Gretchen,” Brontë said carefully.

The look of chagrin on Gretchen’s face was terrible to see. “I keep hoping he’ll grow out of it,” she said quietly. “I like Cooper, but he’s not the right guy for me. He’s so . . . normal. Bland. I need someone different.” She smiled at Brontë, and her smile was sad. “I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, you know. Holding out for a hero and all that.”

Brontë nodded and squeezed Gretchen’s hand back. “You’ll find the right guy. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere.”

“He might be, or he might just be fictional. Or broke. Or both.” Gretchen gave her a teasing laugh. “It’d help if he was half as rich as your boyfriend, though.”

***

For the first time in years, Logan felt an emotion that had become foreign to him.

He was nervous.

Tonight was going to be a clusterf*ck. It was one of the brotherhood meetings. They had a strict rule that no additional parties were allowed. No siblings. No buddies. No parents. No business partners. Just the original six. No one had ever thought of breaking the rules, because it would have been unfair to the others in the group.

And here Logan was, their leader, about to bring the woman he loved to a meeting and explain to her that he was part of a secret society of billionaires. The tattoo on his arm? A badge of membership. His success? Interlocked with that of his brothers.

He hoped she’d understand. He knew there couldn’t be any more secrets between them, not if he wanted to keep her. And he was laying it all on the line, betting everything he had, because he needed her to realize just how much he loved and trusted her. And how different she was from everyone else.

The others would be furious. They wouldn’t understand. None of them were married or even had steady girlfriends, though Reese had a steady stream of women. But Logan had to do this.

He couldn’t risk losing Brontë forever. So he’d show her everything . . . and hope she wouldn’t be put off by the nondisclosure agreement she’d have to sign. Danica had balked at the prenup and shown her true colors. What would Brontë do?

Was he going to lose everything just by trying to include her in his life? He hoped not.

***

Brontë studied her closet. She had no idea what to wear to this mystery meeting. Meeting implied business, but Logan said it was friends. She studied the clothes hanging in the small closet. Go casual? Or dress up in anticipation of something fussy? She couldn’t decide. Tonight felt important for some reason, though she had no idea why.

Her mind was still on this morning’s conversation with Gretchen. Logan had offered himself just as he was, and she had been the one with the problem. It was a bit humbling. There was nothing wrong with being a waitress, of course. She liked her job and liked working with people. But she couldn’t be a waitress and be with Logan. The two were completely incompatible. Waitressing was hard work with odd hours. She didn’t want to be too tired to see him—or too busy. And it didn’t make sense for her to bust her butt for tips when he had money.

She had to choose.

And she was going to pick the gorgeous man she was in love with, of course. It was just a matter of admitting it to herself.

She decided on a simple black sweater and dark gray skirt with heels. Dressy enough that she could pass for formal, but it wouldn’t look out of place if the evening was casual. She smoothed her hair, applied a bit of makeup, and waited for Logan to arrive, her stomach fluttering with nervousness.

She had a feeling tonight was going to change everything in their relationship.

***

The dark sedan had shown up for their date, and Brontë didn’t even blink when the driver got out to open the doors. She would just have to get used to that sort of thing in the future, she told herself.

Logan got out of the car and kissed her lightly, then held the door open for her to get in. Brontë smiled at the driver as she entered, then slid over to make room for Logan. When he was seated next to her, she asked, “Is what I’m wearing all right?”

“It’s fine,” he told her, seemingly distracted, but he reached for her hand. With a nod to the driver, the car pulled away from the curb, and they began to head back toward midtown.

Brontë watched the buildings that passed, noting streets and trying to determine where exactly they were going. Where was this meeting being held? To her surprise, they pulled up in front of a small bar.

She gave Logan a curious look, but followed him out of the car and onto the street.

He put his hand on the small of her back and guided her forward. Inside, the bar was quiet, only a few patrons seated at wooden tables. It looked very . . . ordinary. A hockey game was playing on a TV set in the corner, and no one was paying a bit of attention to them.

“Is this where the meeting is?”

“I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

Curious, she let him lead her to one of the back doors. A dark, narrow hallway was lit by a single unadorned lightbulb, and at the far end stood a large hulking man next to a door.

Logan stepped in front of her and headed toward the man, and unease grew in her stomach. This . . . wasn’t normal. Was this some kind under-the-table business deal? Something illegal? Oh, God. Was Logan into trafficking? The drug trade? Her stomach twisted with anxiety. Surely not. She’d never expected such a thing from Logan, but what were they doing down here in this dingy hallway for a business meeting? She didn’t understand.

The man eyed them with a cold expression, saying nothing, and Brontë resisted the urge to step behind Logan and let him shield her.

Logan lifted his hand and placed two fingers over his heart, then moved it up to his shoulder, and slid them down his sleeve. A very specific gesture. The man nodded as if satisfied, and his glare fixed on Brontë.

“She’s with me,” Logan told him.

The man’s eyebrows went up, but he simply nodded and gestured at the door. “The others are inside.”

This was clearly some sort of secret meeting. Her stomach clenched again. Surely Logan wasn’t in the Mafia, was he?

Then again, this was New York City.

Logan pushed the door open and then gestured for Brontë to enter.

She did, stepping down a narrow line of cement stairs into . . . a basement. A very well lit basement. Cigar smoke hung in the air, and she could hear the murmur of conversation that abruptly stilled as she descended the last stair and came into the others’ view.

A poker table sat in the center of the room. A drink table at the far end. Chips were scattered about, along with half-full glasses and ashtrays. Around the table sat five men, all scowling at the sight of her.

And . . . she recognized four of them. Jonathan, who’d been their helicopter rescuer—and who was as fabulously wealthy as Logan—sat on the far end of the table, a cigar held between his teeth. Cade sat in the middle, his expression more welcoming than the others, but equally perplexed. To his right she recognized Reese, whom she’d met only briefly. And Griffin. And there was one man with his back to her, only part of his face visible.

Reese threw down his cigar and cards, getting to his feet. “What the hell is this, Logan?”

Logan adjusted the cuff links of his jacket as if nothing were amiss. “This is Brontë. My girlfriend.”

“You can’t bring your girlfriend to—” Griffin abruptly stopped short, as if realizing what he was about to say.

Brontë’s heart sank. They were all wealthy. All wealthy and conducting secret meetings together? It could only be one thing. She turned to Logan, and tears shimmered in her eyes. She didn’t know whether she was hurt or terrified. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with the Mafia?”

“The Mafia?”

Loud bursts of laughter rocked the table behind her, and Brontë turned, confused, then looked back at Logan. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not with the Mafia, love,” he said patiently. “But I do need you to understand this if we’re going to make a life together. These men are my . . . friends.”

“Logan,” Jonathan said in a warning voice. “Don’t you dare.”

Logan ignored him, his gaze on Brontë. He took her hand in his. “They’ve been my friends since college. We were in the same fraternity together. We made a pledge to assist each other in business and remain friends for life.” He studied her face. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“God f*cking damn it,” Reese said.

“Leave him alone,” another gruff voice said. It was the man Brontë didn’t know. “He has to have his reasons.”

Brontë’s head swirled with what he was telling her. He was watching her and it seemed to be important, but she didn’t understand. “You’re college friends? But why the basement? Why—”

She stopped when he put his hand on his biceps, over the tattoo. Two fingers. A two-dollar bill. It had seemed so odd to her that someone like Logan would have such a bizarre tattoo. It made sense now, though. She gasped. “A secret society.”

“A brotherhood,” Logan agreed. “We help each other out, no matter what.”

“Hey, I can write down my social security number and my PIN if we’re giving her all of our information,” Reese said sarcastically.

But Logan’s gaze was serious as he stared down at her. “Do you understand?”

She thought for a moment, then took her clutch purse and whacked Logan on the arm with it. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were in the Mafia for a second.”

“This is just as secret, Brontë. If word got out that we had business dealings together, people would be crawling all over us. Feds, auditors, you name it. This is a secret. Our secret.” After a long, serious moment, he added, “And I’m trusting you with it. I love you.”

Brontë gazed up at Logan, shocked. This . . . this was a big secret. He was trusting her with everything. Giving her everything that he was.

He wanted—needed—her in his life that badly?

She realized then that Danica had been wrong about Logan. He didn’t treat everything like business. He’d come down into this basement knowing full well that his friends—and business partners, it seemed—would be utterly furious with him. He was risking everything.

For her.

“I love you, too,” she told him with a catch in her throat. “But I think your friends are going to kill you.”

A grin lit his face, and he pulled her close. “They’ll get over it.” He kissed her—long, hard, and fierce. So fiercely that her knees went weak, and she sagged against him.

Behind them, someone cleared his throat. “This is really quite moving,” Griffin said in a cultured voice. “But you seem to forget the implications for the rest of us. We’re not in love with her.”

She turned to look at them, unhappy that this moment of trust was going to cost Logan so much. “You’re all such close friends—I don’t want this to be a problem.”

“Too late,” Jonathan said flatly.

Brontë looked at Logan. “Is there something I can sign that would prove it? That I can stay quiet? That you can trust me?”

“A nondisclosure agreement?” Logan asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said with a nod, glancing back at the table. “Would a nondisclosure agreement work?”

“It depends,” Reese said. “Exactly how many other women are we going to be dragging in here and sharing all our secrets with?”

“Only this one,” Logan said, grinning. “I’m not in love with anyone else.”

A warm feeling swept through her, and she couldn’t stop smiling.

“Oh, jeez,” Reese said. “They’re so cute together I want to puke.”

“Be nice,” Cade said. “I’m happy for you both, Logan and Brontë. Come have a seat. We’ll get things worked out as we play.”

Logan moved to the table and pulled out his chair for Brontë, motioning for her to sit down. She did, pretending she didn’t see the wary looks on the men’s faces. While Logan had invited her in for the evening, it was clear that she still wasn’t exactly “invited” in their eyes. “Get an extra chair,” Logan said.

“There are no extra chairs,” Griffin pointed out succinctly. “There’s never anyone else down here but us.”

“We need to get another chair for in the future, then,” Logan said.

It got very quiet. Cade began to push some chips toward her, but Brontë shook her head. “I don’t know how to play poker,” she lied, sensing that her playing would push a few of the men past their comfort zone. “And I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” She smiled at Logan reassuringly. “Just because we’re a couple doesn’t mean we have to be together every moment. This is your time with your friends.”

“Marry this one,” Reese proclaimed, picking up his cigar again.

“I plan on it,” Logan said.

Brontë blushed, getting up from the chair so Logan could sit down. Was that just more guy talk? It was far too early to be thinking about marriage. But their banter and her backing off from the table had the desired effect. She immediately sensed a bit of the tension easing off the table and knew she’d made the right decision. These were Logan’s friends, and Logan’s club. He was welcome to it, and she wouldn’t share the secret.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Logan sat down in the chair and dragged her into his lap. Two drinks were set in front of them—whiskey or brandy from the looks of it.

“Drink up,” Jonathan said.

They did, and Brontë coughed at the burning taste of the drink, which made the men laugh. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but Logan only pulled her closer, settling her on his lap. “This meeting of the brotherhood is called into session,” he said, grinning up at her.

***

As the evening wore on, drinks, cards—and business advice—flew freely around the table. Brontë lost track of most of the conversation due to the drinks that the men kept sending her way—deliberately, she suspected, to distract her. That was fine. She ended up spending half the night discussing the exaggerations of the account of Atlantis in Plato’s Timaeus. Griffin was funding an archaeological dig in Spain for a theoretical site near Cadiz, and they chatted about it while the men played cards. It seemed that while Plato thought Atlantis was an island in the ocean, recent theory was that Atlantis was on the Spanish coast, and it intrigued him to investigate it. He even offered to take her and Logan to see the site sometime, which made her brighten and Logan scowl.

“Quit flirting with my woman, Griffin.”

“I’m not flirting with her, you Neanderthal. We can discuss mutual interests without it being flirting,” Griffin said, but he winked at her as if sharing a joke.

Logan snorted. “I’d believe it if I thought that talking archaeology didn’t give you a hard-on.”

Griffin just shook his head, but Brontë noticed he didn’t meet her gaze again, which told her that Logan had hit pretty close to the mark.

At some point, Logan kissed her ear and stood up, sliding her out of his lap. “I’m heading upstairs to chat with Reese and Jonathan, love. We’ll be back in a moment.”

“All right,” she said, clutching her newly refilled glass to her breast, her head buzzing. “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t. We’re just going to discuss . . . your nondisclosure agreement.”

She nodded, her brain fuzzy, and sat back down in Logan’s chair.

Cade frowned as the three men left and then stood himself. “I’d better go and see what they’re up to.”

He left, and Griffin followed him out. That left Brontë holding her glass and the man seated next to her, who had been quiet all night. He’d been careful not to look over at her, and she was curious about him.

Hunter. Did he not like her? Brontë frowned and took another swig of her whiskey, watching him over the rim of her snifter.

“Your friend,” Hunter said after a long moment. His voice was deep and gravelly. He spoke as if the words were a chore. He was an odd man. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”

“You mean Gretchen?”

“Gretchen.” He repeated the name, as if tasting it. “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.”

Brontë frowned, her thoughts slow and diffuse from alcohol. Something about giving her friend’s information to a stranger seemed . . . not right, but she was having a hard time reasoning as to why. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”

Hunter stared down at his cards, and she realized he was carefully hiding one hand behind the other. Interesting.

“I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”

“Like a stalker,” Brontë repeated drunkenly.

“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”

“That’s what a stalker would say,” she pointed out, taking another sip of her drink.

He ground his teeth and glared over at her. Brontë got her first good look at his face . . . and she suddenly understood why he’d been so careful to turn away from her, and why he hid his hand. Thick white scars stood out in relief against his tanned skin. They crossed his face in an irregular, scattered pattern that indicated massive trauma. One corner of his eye was tilted down, as if the repairs had altered its shape, and the side of his mouth had a jagged white line curving from it—a seam that had been torn open and repaired. Even the hand he’d covered showed the white, gouging lines of scarring.

It was not a pretty sight. Not in the slightest. Brontë swallowed hard, her stomach churning from the alcohol.

“Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests,” Hunter gritted out. “I simply wish to learn more about her.”

“Oh,” Brontë said, forcing herself to turn away from the hideous webbing of scars. She stared down at her glass, which seemed a little too empty at the moment. “Penway,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”

“What kinds of books?”

“Books with other people’s names on them.”

His gaze seemed to pin her to Logan’s chair, and she wished she had a bit more to drink. “A ghostwriter?”

Brontë nodded, then stopped because it made the room wobble. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”

“Cooper?” He rasped the word out harshly.

“It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. She wants adventure or a fairy tale or something.”

The scarred man snorted and lifted his own drink, and Brontë peeked over at him. Nope, the scars didn’t look any better on the second glance.

“Is Logan coming back?” she asked, feeling a little faint. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Hunter smiled grimly over at her. “Depends on whether Jonathan and Reese have given him a few black eyes yet.”

She stared at him in surprise, then bolted to her feet. The room shifted woozily, and she grasped at the chair. “But . . . they . . . I don’t want them to hurt Logan! I said I’d sign the nondisclosure agreement.”

“The agreement takes care of the future. Fists take care of right now,” Hunter said. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

Brontë flopped back to her seat, holding her stomach. Suddenly, being drunk in a dark, smoky room didn’t seem like such a good idea. “I need a drink of water, I think. And Logan. I want Logan.”

Hunter set a tumbler in front of her and filled it with water. When she reached for it, he laid a hand over it, blocking her. “Tell me more about Gretchen.”

Brontë glared at him and brushed his hand aside. She took the glass anyhow and started sipping it. When her stomach stopped doing flips, she began, “Well, she has a cat . . .”