Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Six




Brontë didn’t speak during the entire helicopter ride back to the mainland. Instead, she seethed quietly.

She felt like an idiot. A huge one. How could he not tell her the truth? Did she matter so very little to him that he’d hide his identity from her? Was his name even Logan Hawkings? She couldn’t trust a single word that had come out of his mouth over the past few days.

And she’d slept with him! Oh, God. She wanted to hide her face in her hands, but that would give away too much of what she was feeling at the moment. Instead, she pasted on her best friendly-waitress smile and tried not to think about how she’d cuddled with the man the night before, or had gone down on him under a table that morning because she was goofy for him.

She’d thought she’d been so lucky to be stranded with someone like Logan. Handsome, take-charge, intelligent, sexy, and strong. Well, she could add a few more adjectives to that list. Words like “liar” and “jerk” and “untrustworthy.”

How he must have laughed at her, Brontë thought bitterly. Every time she’d mentioned how he ran the hotel, he’d been silently laughing at her. A waitress. Had he let her assume he was the manager so she wouldn’t be so intimidated by his job, thus ensuring that she’d sleep with him? Ugh.

Well, she’d wanted this to be a weekend fling, hadn’t she? Mission accomplished. If she never saw the man again, it would suit her just fine.

They landed some time later on an unfamiliar roof, and everyone began to unbuckle their seatbelts as the helicopter blades slowed to a stop. Brontë removed her headset when the others did, and she couldn’t help but ask as Logan hopped out of the helicopter, “Where are we?”

He didn’t answer her but simply extended a hand to help her out of the helicopter. She took it and waited for him to reply as she stepped down. When he didn’t, she turned to Jonathan and repeated the question.

He grinned over at her. “One of my summer homes in Miami. You can stay here until we get things sorted out.”

One of his summer homes? One of? She glanced around at the massive roof she stood on. It was probably bigger than her apartment building. Exactly how much money did Logan and his buddy have? She narrowed her eyes at their backs, following them down the stairs and into the house.

Inside, her suspicions were confirmed. The house was an enormous mansion. White walls that had never seen a speck of dirt were artfully decorated with expensive light fixtures and framed art. Her dirty sandals flapped on marble tiles, and she had to fight to keep her mouth from going slack at the sight of the expensive carpets and furniture. It looked like a showroom of some kind. Except this was someone’s house, which was bizarre.

Jonathan led them down a long hall and then gestured at one of the doors. “You can stay here, Brontë. I only have a few guest rooms in this house, so if you don’t like it, we can switch your room.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she told him with her polite waitress smile. She didn’t plan on staying here any longer than she had to. Of course, he didn’t have to know that.

“She stays with me,” Logan said in a firm voice.

Her eyes narrowed at his confident tone. “I want my own room.”

He glanced down at her and gave her a small shake of his head. “You’re staying with me.”

“Is that so?”

Jonathan gave her an appraising look. “In that case, I guess you can stay with Logan.” He nodded at his friend. “It’s your usual room.”

Logan grunted in acknowledgment.

So it was decided? Just like that? She gritted her teeth. “Care to show me which room that is? I think I’d like a shower.”

Jonathan grinned, as if remarking her barely contained fury. “I’ll let lover boy here do the honors. I need to make a few calls. Feel free to head downstairs when you’re up to it.” He put his hands in his pockets and whistled, heading down the long marble staircase at the end of the hall with a jaunty confidence that bespoke years of familiarity with the place.

She turned to look at Logan and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

“I know, and we’ll talk about it later. I promise,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and steering her down the long hall to a different set of doors.

Brontë waited for him to explain, but he paused in front of the door and said only, “This is our room.” He pushed it open, and she gaped at the room before her. Thick, plush red carpet covered the floor. A massive wooden four-poster bed dominated the room, along with a bay window that overlooked an enormous swimming pool. A Pre-Raphaelite painting hung over the bed. The entire thing screamed money.

And Logan had a “usual room.” Ugh again. Everything he’d told her was a lie. What was the point in lying to her about his job, though? It didn’t make sense. It only hurt her feelings that she hadn’t mattered enough for him to tell the truth.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Logan told her. “I need to meet with Jonathan to discuss a few things and then call my assistant. I’ve been out of pocket for too long.”

She stiffened, then turned to give him an incredulous look. “I thought we were going to talk.”

“It can wait.”

“No, it can’t. You lied to me.”

“The lie ended up being to your benefit.”

She gasped. “My benefit? Since when is lying to someone to their benefit?”

“I’m wealthy,” he said. “I’m sure that’ll make up for a lot of things. Take a shower, and you’ll feel better. I need to talk to Jonathan.”

He leaned in to kiss her, and she turned her face away, still stewing. She didn’t realize that he’d left until she heard the door shut and she was left all alone in the gorgeous room.

He wasn’t who she’d thought he was. He had money, and he obviously thought that having money made his opinion more important than hers.

The lie ended up being to your benefit.

Brontë wanted to punch him for saying that. She kicked off her sandals in a fury and crossed her arms, heading over to the window to stare out at the pool below. After the hurricane, it was odd to see a pool that wasn’t full of broken deck chairs. Jonathan’s pool was, of course, full of sky blue water. A large waterfall cascaded down some rocks on the far end of the pool, and to the side she saw a white linen tent fluttering in the breeze, with cushioned wooden deck furniture underneath.

Wooden deck furniture. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it and that white linen tent. Of having a pool with a freaking waterfall. She glanced around the room she was standing in. The carpet must have been two inches thick. She eyed the massive bed and expensive-looking coverlet, the painting with the plaque underneath that told her it was legit and not a copy. She went to the bathroom and flicked the light on.

The bathroom was bigger than her apartment. There was a sunken marble tub, a glass box shower, and three sinks. A wall full of mirrors on one side. A toilet and a bidet. Naturally.

This wasn’t just big money. This was ridiculous, stupid money.

And here she was, just a diner waitress who had gotten stuck in the elevator with a rich guy on an island.

No, she amended, a rich guy who owned the island.

She frowned, glancing back over at the bed. A telephone sat on an antique nightstand next to it. She went and picked it up, thinking hard. Brontë pulled out her wallet. Her credit card was intact, the few dollar bills she had in there a bit soggy but serviceable.

So she dialed information and got the number of a local taxi service. “I need a car to take me to the airport, please.”

“No problem. What’s your current address?”

“I have no idea. Can you do a reverse lookup on the number?”

The woman on the other end of the line agreed, then a moment later, said, “I’ve got the address. Someone will be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

Brontë hung up and crossed the room, sliding her shoes back on. She’d wanted a harmless weekend fling that she could leave behind, no strings attached. She’d gotten one. Logan might have wanted to continue their little island affair now that they were on the mainland, but he should have thought of that before he’d lied to her and then dismissed her concerns.

In her mind, she’d left Logan behind on the island. She’d liked the playful, fun Logan. Manager Logan. She had no interest in the rich a*shole Logan, she thought sadly. The real Logan.

The one she’d fallen for was a fake.

***

Logan appropriated Jonathan’s study and made a few important phone calls that couldn’t wait another day. He called his assistant and asked her to order a new phone to be shipped to him overnight as well as to cancel his credit cards since he’d left his wallet somewhere at the resort. Then he called a few business partners to let them know he was indeed alive and that meetings should be rescheduled.

When he’d finished with the calls, he hung up the phone and found that Jonathan had reentered the room at some point during his last call. He’d brought a bottle of whiskey and sat down directly across from Logan, placing it between them. “Need a drink? You look like you could use one.”

He waved away the offer. “The only drink I could use right now is water. Alcohol just dehydrates you.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You never loosen up, do you? It’s a wonder that your little gal pal didn’t run away screaming as soon as you opened your mouth.”

Funny. Brontë hadn’t though he was a stiff-necked jerk. He scowled at Jonathan. His adventurous friend got on his nerves with his laissez-faire attitude. Jonathan would move mountains—or destroy companies—to help his friend out, but sometimes the man needed to learn to shut up.

“We got stuck in an elevator.”

Jonathan snorted, knocking back his drink. “Is that how you got left behind? I was wondering if that shit manager of the place had neglected to tell anyone that you were there.”

“I fired him a few hours before the evacuation.” So no, Logan hadn’t been really surprised that no one had come looking for them. “How’d you figure out I was still there?”

“Oh, Hunter’s assistant’s been trying to get a hold of you for something, and when he couldn’t contact you for a couple of days, he set Hunter on it. Hunter didn’t have a chopper, so he called me.” Jonathan shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to figure out where you were at.”

Huh. Logan supposed he should thank Hunter next time he saw him. “Thank you for the rescue.”

Jonathan grinned. “I figured I’d come after you. It might have taken anyone else a few more days.”

Yet another thing to tick off on his list of items to improve at the Seaturtle Cay resort: evacuation plans. From what he’d seen, he wasn’t impressed. He and Brontë could have been in serious danger. Damn useless manager. Logan was glad he’d fired the guy.

“So . . . the girl. You said her name was Brontë?”

Logan nodded absently, thinking of her wind-tossed hair and her brilliant smile. Her crawling under the table, her lips around his cock.

“Cute girl. She’s with you, I take it?”

His eyes narrowed and a possessive surge rocketed through him. “Why?”

Jonathan raised a hand. “Down, boy. I was just going to comment that she wasn’t your regular type.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. Was this another Danica comment? “What exactly do you know about my regular type?”

“They’re friendlier, for one. That girl looked like she was ready to chew you up and spit you out once she found out you owned the place. You lied to her?”

“She saw my suit and assumed I was the manager. I decided not to disabuse her of that assumption. Seemed easier.”

“Well, I guess she’s not a gold digger,” Jonathan commented. “She did look pretty pissed, though.”

“She’ll get over it. The lie was to her benefit.”

“Shit, man, that’s cold. I hope you didn’t tell her that.”

Logan fixed his narrow gaze on Jonathan. The man wasn’t a player like Reese; he was constantly traveling or in some sort of adventure, and he had yet to find a woman to keep up with him. Ironic that he was giving Logan advice on a woman’s feelings. But if he was saying that Brontë would be offended, he might be right. “She’s not like other women. She’ll realize that I was protecting my identity and be fine with it.”

It had been an utterly pleasurable experience, too, he had to admit. Being with a woman and not having to worry whether she was thinking about what he could buy her? It had been freeing. He hadn’t realized how much so until he’d met Brontë.

“If you say so. You know her better than I do. What did you say she did for a living?”

“Nothing.”

Jonathan frowned and then leaned forward to pour himself another drink. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“I mean she does nothing for a living. She’s a waitress at a sock hop diner.” He tried hard not to let his lip curl at the thought. “She worked there during college and never really left.”

“Ah. I’m starting to see why you kept your identity a secret. Afraid she’s going to look to you to keep her in the lifestyle that she needs?”

Logan thought about that for a moment, frowning to himself. Actually, he didn’t see Brontë like that at all. She’d been so pleased with the smallest of things—like this morning’s breakfast. If anything, she seemed uncomfortable with wealth. She’d been looking around Jonathan’s beach house in pure dismay. It would take her a while to get used to this lifestyle, he figured.

He imagined bringing her with him to his penthouse in New York. Imagined dressing her in the finest silk lingerie and getting to strip it off of her body as she showed him how pleased she was with it. Introducing her to his friends and seeing her radiant smile light up her face. Coming to bed and having her roll over and snuggle close, her hand going automatically to his cock to grasp it even in her sleep.

He rather liked the thought of Brontë in his life. Low-key, unassuming Brontë in his arms, snuggled up next to him in the car, in his home . . . in his bed. He liked that visual very much. And she was a waitress, so it wasn’t like she’d be giving up a career to be at his beck and call. An inward smile curved his mouth.

“She’s not like that, Jonathan. She’s different. Trust me.”

“If you say so. She seems nice enough, the few minutes she wasn’t glaring at you.” His friend shrugged and picked up the liquor bottle, moving back to the cabinet by the window.

“I’ll make it up to her,” Logan decided after a long minute. Maybe he’d take her to another beach resort. A real one, not that rundown rat trap at Seaturtle Island.

But Jonathan was still staring out the window. His lips twitched, and he glanced back at Logan. “You said she won’t hold a grudge?”

Logan shook his head.

“And that she’s different from most women?”

“Where are you going with this, Jonathan?”

Jonathan grinned and thumbed toward the window. “She’s definitely different, I’ll give her that. I’m thinking she was so overcome at the news of your wealth that she felt the need to run. Your ladylove just escaped in a cab.”

Logan jumped to his feet, moving to the window. Sure enough, there was a cab pulling away from the house, heading east. Damn it. She’d run away. Why? He didn’t understand. “Where do you think she’s going?”

“Away from you?”

He glared at Jonathan. Bullshit. His lovely, laughing Brontë? Running? Something was wrong. “Go tell your driver to follow them.”

Jonathan gave him an incredulous look. “You’re joking, right? She’s a free woman. She’s allowed to leave. Why don’t you call her and apologize?”

Logan didn’t have anything to apologize for, damn it. He scowled as he picked up the phone, then dropped it again. “I don’t have her number.”

Jonathan shrugged and glanced back out the window again. “So call your private investigator and ask him to look her up. There can’t be that many Brontës running around, can there?”

Logan watched the cab disappear into the distance with hard eyes. The time they’d spent together on the island had been perfect. Why was she running now that they were back on land? Was this punishment because he’d lied to her? A challenge of some kind? Did she want to be chased?

Little did she know that Logan Hawkings never backed down from a challenge. And her leaving without even saying good-bye? That was definitely a challenge.

Except she likely didn’t realize that it only made her more attractive to him, Logan thought. If there was any further proof needed that she wasn’t after his money, it was this. Brontë had wanted him when he was a nobody. Now he needed to find her again and prove to her that she’d still want him, regardless of the fact that he was really Logan Hawkings, billionaire.

And he could be very convincing when he wanted to be.

***

When Brontë entered the diner on Monday, Sharon approached her with a happy little squeal. “You’re home!”

“I am,” she said wearily, returning the enthusiastic hug with a halfhearted one. “Did you get home okay?”

“I did! Did you know that my passport was in the bar? Silly me. Anyhow, a nice man found it and gave it to me just before I got on a bus. I ended up spending the rest of the trip in some low-rent hotel on Miami Beach. It was free, but it wasn’t great.” She shrugged. “I tried calling you, though. You never answered and I couldn’t find you, and I couldn’t stick around. Which bus did you get on?”

Brontë moved to the break room and unlocked her locker, then tossed her purse in, all the while Sharon was at her heels. “I didn’t get on a bus. I got stuck in an elevator when the power went out.”

Sharon’s eyes went round. “The power went out?”

“Misfortune shows those who are not really friends,” she quoted to herself. Aristotle had certainly been right on that account. Sharon hadn’t even stuck around to see if Brontë was coming back? What a pal.

Brontë pulled her frilly white apron out of her locker and tied it around her waist. “That’s right. I was stuck in there for almost a day.”

“By yourself?”

She hesitated a moment. “No, there was a guy in there.”

Sharon’s look went from shocked to sly in an instant. “Was he hot?” She paused, and then grinned. “You’re blushing. He was hot, wasn’t he? Did you two hook up?”

“Island fling,” Brontë said, keeping her tone casual. “Just like we talked about.”

“How totally romantic!” Sharon clutched her notepad to her breast and gazed at the ceiling. “So it was just you two, all alone in a big resort. . . .”

“Don’t forget the hurricane,” Brontë said drily. “And anyhow, it was just a momentary thing. It’s done. Over with. I didn’t even ask for his phone number.” She’d been too busy fleeing Jonathan’s house in Miami.

Sharon gave her a knowing look, reaching over and shutting Brontë’s locker. “Hound dog, huh? Maybe he only looked good in the middle of a hurricane.”

“I said he was good-looking.” She headed out to the front of the diner, which was already packed due to lunch hour. It was a themed restaurant, sock hop style. They served malts, burgers, and played fifties songs. Very kitschy. Her waitress outfit was retro, too. Sometimes it was fun. Sometimes it wasn’t. Today was one of those days when she would’ve rather been anywhere but the narrow little diner, since it meant she’d be bumping elbows with a very curious Sharon all afternoon.

“If he’s so hot and studly, why didn’t you bother to get the digits?” Sharon’s eyes widened, and she followed Brontë behind the bar. “Was he bad in bed? Is that why you ran?”

“I didn’t run,” Brontë gritted out. “And this is none of your business.”

“Bad in bed,” Sharon pronounced triumphantly, sauntering off to a table waving her down.

Brontë tucked a pencil and pad in her apron with extra care, determined to ignore Sharon. She was just trying to bug her, Brontë reasoned. And what exactly could she come back with? Actually, Logan was very sexy, and great in bed. Why did I run? Because he was loaded and he didn’t tell me. I felt like he lied to me.

Sharon wouldn’t understand that. She’d hear the word “loaded,” and her brain would stop functioning. And she’d insist on Brontë either hooking up with Logan again, or giving Sharon his number. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to do either.

She’d had a weekend to stew on her strategic retreat. All the way to the airport, then on the flight home, she’d half expected to turn the corner and see Logan waiting for her. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to come after her made her feel . . . well, she wasn’t sure. Part of her was disappointed that he’d let her walk away and part of her was relieved.

Brontë had searched for him on the Internet when she’d gotten home. He wasn’t just the owner of the resort, she’d found out. He owned that and an airline. And another hotel in Vegas. And a castle in England. And a private island in Fiji. And a dozen other companies that she didn’t even know what they did.

Logan Hawkings was not just rich. He was obscenely rich. Billionaire rich.

And that scared the hell out of her. It was just as well that he’d lied to her, or she would’ve run away. Guys like that had the ability to ruin someone’s life. That was a little too much power, in her opinion.

And sure, he’d been handsome and flirty . . . on the island. Then, it had been just the two of them. As soon as they’d gotten to Jonathan’s swanky house (which apparently was small compared to Logan’s sixteen residences), everything had changed. He’d gone from being the manager to being some foreign creature with tons of money, and she hadn’t known how to handle that.

So she’d run away.

It was for the best, she told herself. People like Logan moved in entirely different circles from people like Brontë. Besides, he wasn’t really interested in her. She could just imagine how he’d sneered to himself when he’d found out what her job was. A waitress was good for a fling, but that was about it. And he’d told her that he didn’t want a long-term relationship. Fair enough.

Someone raised an empty glass of water, and Brontë grabbed a pitcher, heading over to the table.

She was a waitress, and she had a small, simple life. Someone like her had no business being in someone like Logan Hawkings’s life.

***

As soon as Logan returned to New York, he contacted his private detective to get an update on Brontë.

“Found her,” the detective said into the phone. “I’m sending the information over to your personal e-mail address. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Excellent work,” Logan told him, and hung up. He hit refresh on his e-mail and waited, staring out the window at the New York skyline. Gorgeous night. Gorgeous weather.

But he was restless as hell.

He blamed Brontë and the island. He’d woken up from a dream about her the night before and had found himself alone in bed with an aching erection. When he rode the elevator to his office, he automatically thought of Brontë curled up on the floor in the darkness in her bra and panties, and the way she’d slid her ass into his face as she’d escaped. When someone laughed, he thought of Brontë’s nervous giggle.

He . . . missed her.

It was pointless and a bit stupid, of course. He’d only known her for a few days. He’d spent more time with other women. But there had been something so easy and likable about Brontë. She hadn’t required anything of him but his attention. She hadn’t asked not-so-innocent questions about investments or properties. She’d been relaxing. Adorable. Charming. Sexy.

And she’d run away from him.

The e-mail dinged, and Logan swiveled in his chair. He ignored the meeting invite that popped up on his calendar and opened the e-mail attachments instead, pleased to see the info he’d requested.

His private investigator was thorough, he’d give him that. Enclosed were several scans of Brontë’s personal documents. Her driver’s license showed a woman with smooth, silky brown hair, but the wide face and beaming smile were his Brontë. Brontë Dawson, it read, and it had her home address. Age twenty-four. Kansas City, Missouri. He studied the picture of her, then moved on to the credit report. Some credit card debt, a few late payments, but nothing egregious. Very normal middle-class American. He moved to her employment history next. She currently worked at Josie’s Diner. The private detective had even taken a few photos from afar and attached them to the e-mail, and Logan’s breath caught at a picture of Brontë in a short pink waitress costume with a frilly apron. Her head was tilted, and she looked like she was laughing at something someone had said. A man? His gut churned with jealousy.

The next item was a brief history of the diner and financials on it. The place was months away from going out of business. There was a list of prior addresses that Brontë had lived at, along with roommates. Female names. Good. She didn’t have a live-in boyfriend. Not that he thought she would. She didn’t strike him as the type to lie about her relationship status when she’d been so very offended by his lie about his financial status.

His gaze fell on her phone number. He called and listened to it ring.

“Hello?”

Her voice was soft and pleasant, just like he remembered. “It’s me, Brontë.”

He heard her suck in a breath. “Don’t call me. Please.”

“I wanted—”

“You’re a liar.” She hung up.

He stared down at the phone. He wasn’t going to call and beg her to see him. That wasn’t his style. But he wanted to talk to her. To see if they could connect like they had on the island. He needed to find a way that she’d be unable to avoid seeing him.

Logan picked through the information the private investigator had sent him and paused on the diner’s financial info. And he smiled.

***

“Hello?” Brontë picked up her phone, yawning and glancing at the clock next to the bed. It was seven thirty in the morning on her day off. This call had better be an emergency.

“Hey, Bron, it’s me.” Sharon’s voice. “You’re not going to believe this.”

She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up. “What is it?”

“The diner was sold.”

“Sold?” Brontë sat upright, her heart pounding. “Do we still have our jobs?”

“As far as I know. But the new management has called a meeting this morning at nine, and they want everyone to attend.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be there.”

Brontë dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and drove down to the diner. The diner sold? She knew that being a waitress wasn’t a permanent sort of job, but she didn’t have the savings to make a career transition at the moment. Plus, if your résumé showed nothing but waiting tables, people wouldn’t hire you for much else. Turned out that a philosophy degree didn’t really get you places in Kansas City. She hadn’t planned on being a waitress for so long, but now that she was in danger of losing her job, her stomach was tied in knots. She needed a paycheck.

When she got to the diner, the sign was flipped to CLOSED, unusual given that it was breakfast rush hour, but maybe the new boss didn’t care about that. She slipped inside, noticing a cluster of employees seated at booths at the far end of the diner.

“Hi,” she said, casting a worried look at Sharon, Angie, and Marj, fellow waitresses. The cooks sat at another table, and the old manager was nowhere to be seen. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not yet,” Angie said, pushing a piece of gum into her mouth and chewing nervously. “You think the new boss is going to shut us down?”

“Surely not,” Brontë said.

“Then why call us all in here?” Marj asked, worried.

Brontë didn’t know. “Maybe he just wanted to meet us all personally?”

Sharon smacked her lips. “I caught a good look at him. I’d like to meet him up close and personal. Rowr. He’s sexy.”

“He’s your new boss,” Marj snapped. “Keep your hormones under wraps.”

“You saw him?” Brontë asked. “Does he seem nice?”

“I don’t care if he’s nice,” Sharon said, grinning. She smoothed a hand down her ruffled apron. “I told you he was cute, didn’t I? I think he likes me. He keeps looking over here.”

Brontë turned around, glancing back at the kitchen, only to have Sharon tug on her bushy ponytail.

“Don’t look!” Sharon hissed. “You’re being too obvious.”

She pulled her hair free from Sharon’s grasp. “Is he in the kitchen?”

“Yep. Oh, here he comes now.”

A pair of men in suits emerged from the kitchen. One was an older man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. The younger one was tall and chiseled, his hair effortlessly perfect. At the sight of him, all the blood drained from Brontë’s face.

Logan.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the two men. She leaned over to Sharon. “Which one did you say was the new owner?”

Sharon snorted. “It’s not the old geezer. The hot one. He bought the place. Seems he’s an investor of some kind. Likes to buy businesses and turn them over for a profit.”

Just like he had with the hotel. But this silly little diner seemed too tiny to be on the radar of someone as important as Logan Hawkings. There could only be one reason he was here personally. Brontë’s jaw clenched. He’d bought her place of work because she’d hung up on him.

And now she was trapped.

That jerk.