Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Eight




Warm lips brushed her cheek. “We’re here.”

Brontë stirred, embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep in the car. “We are?”

“Yes. We have just enough time to get you situated upstairs, and then I have to head off to my meeting.”

Yawning, Brontë blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to wake up as she followed him out of the car. She stood on a wide sidewalk, the street lined with cars up and down both sides. All around her were tall, elegant buildings. Nearby was an awning and a doorman stood below it, waiting.

Logan leaned over the car and spoke into the window. “Wait here. I won’t be long.” Turning back to her, Logan took her by the arm and began to guide her toward the building with the doorman. “I’ll show you my place, and you can get comfortable.”

“Do you have to go?” She asked, glancing uncomfortably at the doorman as he opened the door for them.

Logan ignored the doorman and headed into the lobby, then toward the elevator. “It’s a meeting I’ve rescheduled twice already. I won’t reschedule it again.” When the elevator dinged, they stepped on, and Logan pushed the button for the forty-fourth floor. “When I get back, we can go out to dinner.”

She nodded, stepping closer to him when the elevator doors opened again and an older woman in a red suit carrying an enormous designer handbag stepped onto the elevator. She smiled at Logan, though her gaze frosted over at the sight of Brontë in jeans and a slobby T-shirt.

Brontë crossed her arms over her chest. Well, now she felt awkward. She smoothed a hand over her sleep-rumpled hair.

The woman got off the elevator ten floors later, and Logan gave her a curious look. “Uncomfortable?”

“Nah,” she lied, drawing the syllable out. “Just thinking that everyone in this building pays more in rent per month than what I make all year. What would make a girl nervous?”

“Don’t worry about what other people think,” he told her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re gorgeous just as you are.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is, yes.”

How was it that he managed to defuse her anxiety so easily? She shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to for me.”

The doors opened on the fourty-fourth floor, and they stepped out. Brontë glanced down the hall, surprised to see only one set of doors. “Is this your apartment?”

“It’s the only one on this floor.” He moved forward and slid an electronic key out of his wallet, pushing it into the lock.

“You have an entire floor? For one person?”

He chuckled. “Would you prefer I had a studio?”

“Studios are cozy,” she pointed out, uncomfortable. Why did one person need an entire floor?

“I prefer more living space. A studio doesn’t exactly set the right image for a billionaire.” The door opened with a click, and he gestured for her to enter.

She did, a bit stunned at her surroundings. She knew Logan had money. Lots and lots of money. But it was hard to visualize that. Even the jet, as ridiculous as it had been, hadn’t really made things sink in for her. Walking into his apartment, though, she realized just how much of a strange world she was entering. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before.

For one, it was enormous. Wasn’t the joke that apartments in New York City were the size of closets? This man’s living room was three times the size of her Kansas City apartment. Brontë stared around her in awe. His entire apartment was a showplace. He had vaulted ceilings, delicate crown molding accenting a chandelier in the center of the room. Across from where she stood, the entire south side of his apartment was nothing but windows looking out on the city. In between her and the windows, designer couches were strategically placed on plush Persian rugs over the most gorgeous oak floor she’d ever seen. Nearby he had a fireplace with a marble mantel, and over it was a painting she was pretty sure should have been in a museum somewhere.

She turned to look back at Logan, who was casually tossing his keys and wallet onto a small nearby table. “This is where you live?”

That charming half smile that made her insides melt slid across his face again as he turned to look at her. “When I’m in the city, yes.”

Which was a totally vague nonanswer that she could have asked a million more questions about. But she didn’t, since that seemed nosy. “How many rooms is this place?”

He shrugged. “I don’t recall. Four guest bedrooms? Five?”

“Naturally,” she teased. “Every bachelor needs at least five guest bedrooms.”

Logan moved forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her against him. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’ll be fine,” she lied. Since he was good at evading, she supposed she could be, too. “How long will you be gone?”

He glanced down at his watch. “Three hours, depending on traffic, of course. If you need anything, dial nine on the phone. That’ll forward your call to my assistant, and she can get you anything you need.”

“Gotcha.”

“What do you want for dinner? I’ll make reservations.”

She had no clue. Brontë had never been to New York City in her life, so she had no idea what was in the area. “You pick.”

He nodded and then glanced at his watch one more time. “I should go so I’m not late.” He hesitated again, watching her.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, straightening his jacket. “Seriously. It’ll probably take me three hours to figure out how to work the remote on your TV. Or discover where the TV is. You’ll be back before I know it.”

“If you need anything, call,” he said, then leaned in for a kiss. “Or if you’re thinking of me, call. Actually, think of me anyhow. I know I’m not going to be able to take my mind off of you here in my home, waiting for me.”

This was the part of Logan that she’d never be tired of. His lips met hers, the kiss starting out featherlight and sweet. His tongue brushed over the seam of her mouth, requesting entrance, and she opened for him. He swept into her mouth with a possessiveness that made her knees weak, and when they finally broke the kiss, she was dazed, and bitterly regretting that he had a meeting.

Logan gave her one last kiss. “I’ll be back soon.”

When he let go of her, she staggered, her legs wobbly. “I’ll be here.” She gave him a small wave as he left, and when the door shut, she sighed and stared around her like she’d been dropped on another planet.

But since she was alone, she decided to explore and count rooms. Sure enough, there were five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a game room with a pool table, a patio with trees and grass on it overlooking the city, a media room, and a study. She stopped in the study, delighted and wondering what kinds of books a billionaire would have. Of course, she was disappointed to find that the too-uniform books lining his shelves were nothing more than false fronts. Either he’d had a decorator just fill in the room with whatever or Logan didn’t read at all.

The bathrooms were exciting, though. The master bathroom had a sunken marble tub with jets that she was dying to try out, and a glass-walled shower. It was also lined with windows, and overlooked a distant Central Park. She wanted to see the park, but not today.

After wandering around Logan’s ridiculous apartment, she was a little bored. She would’ve liked to sit out on the patio for a time with a good book, but there weren’t any in the apartment. So she headed to the media room instead. Logan had a desk and a laptop set up in the corner, and she was tempted to play around with it, but she avoided it. Computers were personal. Instead, she sat in one of the enormous leather chairs and tried to figure out which of the six remotes on a nearby table turned the TV on.

When she gave up on that, she returned to the master bedroom and examined it. The bed was neatly made and a pair of Logan’s shoes tucked under one side of the bed. Either Logan was a very neat person or he had a maid come in and clean house. She suspected the latter. Unable to resist being nosy, she opened his closet and examined his clothing. Row upon row of suits on dry cleaning hangers hung before her, each one with a more impressive label than the last. Armani. Versace, Domenico Vacca, and others she’d never heard of but was pretty sure were equally pricey.

Yeah. His socks probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. A little disturbed by that, she took off her shoes and lay on the bed. It seemed like the only safe thing to touch at the moment.

She woke up later to find that the sun had set and Logan was lying on the bed next to her. He’d pulled her close and spooned her body, still dressed in his suit. Brontë sighed and rolled over, snuggling close.

“Tired?” he asked in a low voice.

“More like bored,” she told him with a yawn. “Did you know that you have six remotes? And none of them turn on the TV?”

“It’s voice-activated,” he told her with a chuckle. “I can show you how to use it.”

“I’m afraid to touch it. Actually, I’m afraid to touch most everything in here.”

“Why?”

“It’s expensive. All of it.”

He snorted. “My home is your home while you’re here.”

But that was just it. This wasn’t her home. Her home had a big comfy easy chair with duct tape over a cushion rip and mismatched throw pillows. Her home had a mattress that sagged on one side, so she slept on the other. Her home had a few paintings and mismatched plates that she’d picked up at yard sales. If anything broke, it didn’t matter. Here, she was afraid to leave fingerprints on anything for fear that a maid would come by and smack her hand for daring to touch the great Logan Hawkings’s expensive furnishings.

He began to kiss her neck, nibbling on her skin. “Do you not want to be here?”

She sighed, his touch sending feelings skittering through her and making her nipples hard. “No, I want to be here. I think I’d just feel better if this didn’t look like a museum. You need a puppy to dirty this place up or something.”

Logan chuckled, the sound muffled by her hair. “I have you.”

“Gee, thanks.” Her hand slid up to twine in his hair, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips on her skin. “I’m glad you’re back. Did your meeting go well?”

“Well enough,” he said. “We have a cocktail party to go to tomorrow night. I want you to meet some of my friends.”

She stiffened at the thought. “I don’t have clothes for that.”

“Tell my assistant your size. She can pick out something for you.”

“I’d like to buy my own clothing, thank you.”

He sat up in bed, gazing down at her. “I suppose you should change for dinner, too.”

Brontë groaned. “Logan, I don’t have anything to wear.”

“We can stop by a store and pick something up on the way out.”

She grimaced at the thought. It was nice just lying in bed, their legs tangled together. When his hand slid down to her stomach and began to slide under her shirt, Brontë burrowed closer to him. “Can’t we just stay in bed tonight? Surely you can get a pizza delivered or something.”

His thumb skimmed over her belly button. “Chinese?”

“Sounds delicious.” She leaned up and nibbled on his chin, enjoying the scrape of his stubble.

Logan pulled out his phone. “I’ll get my assistant—”

She pulled the phone away from him and continued to kiss along his jaw. “Or we could just order it ourselves. You know, like normal people. You don’t have to call your assistant for everything.”

“You win,” he said, leaning in and capturing her mouth. “You order, and I’ll pay?”

“Deal.” But she didn’t get up. Instead, she curled her fingers in his shirt, wishing that she could feel his skin underneath the layers of clothing. She kissed his mouth lightly again, her lips brushing over his, and when his parted, she began to lightly suck on his upper lip.

A low groan escaped him, and his hands began to rub up and down over her body. “Exactly how hungry are you?”

She shifted, her thigh moving between his legs. “Mm, not so hungry just yet.”

“Good,” he told her, and lifted her arm over her head. Her shirt was pulled up, revealing her belly, and he leaned down to kiss the exposed flesh. “I thought about you through my entire meeting.”

“Oh?” Her voice was shaky, just a little tremulous with desire.

“I liked the thought of you in my house, in my bed. Though, in my daydreams, you were naked.”

Brontë laughed. “In my daydreams, your library had real books.”

He grinned up at her, then kissed her belly again. “If you want real books, buy some. Buy as many as you want.”

She rolled her eyes. This man was constantly trying to get her to go shopping. “I didn’t come here to shop. I came here for you.”

“So you did,” he said in a husky voice, and pushed her shirt up farther, exposing her bra. He cupped one of her breasts through the fabric, skimming his thumb over her nipple. “I find that very . . . arousing.”

“I find your touch very arousing,” she told him, running her hands over his shirt. She tugged on his tie, slowly undoing the knot. “Though you’re wearing entirely too much clothing.”

Logan peeled back the cup of her bra, adjusting the fabric so it clung to the underside of her breast and pushed her exposed skin up. “I could say the same of you,” he murmured.

Brontë cried out when he leaned in to suck on her exposed nipple. His mouth moved against the tender flesh, his tongue circling the areola in a teasing gesture that made her want to writhe on the bed. His teeth grazed the tip in a light scraping motion that was quickly soothed away by his mouth once more.

Her hands went to his hair, and she clung to him as he lavished attention on her breast. His hands were roaming over her body, too, smoothing over her skin as he eased her fully onto her back and then began to pull down the other cup of her bra until both breasts were exposed. Then, with a nip, he left one breast and began to pay attention to the other, working it with the same maddening precision.

The feeling of his mouth on her breasts was driving her wild with need. Her breath was coming in small pants, excitement and arousal pulsing through her body. When his knee pressed her legs apart, she rubbed up against him, a small whimper escaping her.

“I want you, Logan,” she whispered. “I need to feel your skin against mine.”

His hands went to her jeans. “You first.”

Within moments, they had her jeans undone and were working them down her thighs. He groaned seeing she had no panties on. “I think you forgot something.”

“I had a rendezvous with my lover in a freezer earlier, and I had to discard them.”

He kissed her inner thigh. “Lucky man.”

A knot formed in her throat. “He is,” she agreed, wiggling when he continued to kiss up her leg. She slid her bra and T-shirt off over her head while he kissed a trail over her belly. “He’s also still wearing entirely too much clothing.”

Logan grinned up at her and pressed a kiss to her mound. Her breath caught in her throat, and she watched, entranced, as his tongue crept out and slicked through the folds of her sex, his gaze on her. Desire rocked through her, and she shuddered.

“I want you naked on top of me,” she moaned when he continued to ignore her words, leisurely spreading her p-ssy with his fingers and continuing to lick her in a measured, leisurely fashion that drove her mad with need. She whimpered, her hips bucking as his tongue circled her * over and over again. He continued the slow, deliberate motions, not speeding up or slowing down despite her writhing beneath him, and the unhurried torment brought her to a screaming release when he casually thrust two fingers deep and began to work her.

When she’d recovered from the sudden orgasm, she leaned in and kissed him, laughing and panting. “‘Short is the joy that guilty pleasure brings.’”

He studied her, a smile on his lips. “Are you using Plato to criticize my techniques?”

Brontë laughed at his smug expression and pushed on his shoulders. “Not at all. Just sad that it didn’t last longer.” She leaned in and bit his earlobe. “And I’m pretty sure that was Euripides.”

“Ah. Good old Euripides.”

“Mmmm.” She ran a hand over his chest. “You are still wearing entirely too much clothing.”

He rolled over on his back, grinning at her. His cock had formed a hard tent in his pants.

He looked so delicious that she immediately rolled on top of him, straddling him there. She grinned down at him playfully. “Now I have you right where I want you.” She finished undoing his tie and tossed it aside, then began to work on the buttons of his pants. “And I want you naked.”

Logan groaned, his hips thrusting up against her wet sex, driving his cock against her. “I think I like you on top of me.”

“Do you, now?” She teased, exposing his pecs and breathing a sigh of pleasure at the sight of his chest hair. It felt like it had been forever since she’d seen him naked. The quickie in the freezer this morning had been nice, but it hadn’t been enough. She tugged at his clothing, exposing his chest, and ran her fingers over him even as he bucked his hips under her again. “I love looking at you.”

“It’s mutual,” he told her, and his hands reached out to cup her breasts.

She gasped at the sudden surge of pleasure, then batted his hands away. “Clothes off.”

He sat up then and leaned in to kiss her as she straddled him. She slid her hands under his shirt,and they were able to push it off of him, and then his torso was exposed and beautiful and, my, she loved staring at his skin.

Brontë gave a little wriggle over his hips, a deliberate tease. “Now we need to get rid of these pants.”

He flipped her down on the bed in a quick motion that surprised her, and got up, ripping his belt off and flinging it aside. His pants and boxers quickly followed, and then he was lying down naked. But to her surprise, he grabbed her and rolled her back on top of him, settling her hips over his erect, straining cock. “I like you there,” he told her, and thrust again.

This time, she could feel his cock slide through the slick lips of her sex, brushing against her *, and she moaned at the sensation. He palmed her breasts again, and she held his hands there, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of his body against hers. “You’re right,” she breathed. “This definitely has merit.”

“We need a condom,” he told her, tweaking her nipples. “In the nightstand.”

She leaned over him and reached for the drawer of the nightstand, laughing when he nipped at her breast as it dangled too close to his face. She opened the condom and gave him a challenging look. “Shall I do the honors?”

“Please do,” he said in a courteous voice that was ruined by the husky growl low in his throat.

Brontë moved to the side and took his cock in her hand, working it with a few teasing squeezes. He thrust against her fist, and she leaned in and gave the head a quick lick, tasting the pre-come that slicked the crown.

“Tease,” he growled.

“You like being teased,” she told him, rolling the condom on quickly. Her own desire had escalated, and she was feeling aroused and needy again. She desperately wanted him inside her and was done with teasing.

She straddled him again, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her as she grasped his cock and pressed it to the entrance of her sex. She ached for him, she needed this so badly. But she wasn’t used to being on top, and so she sank onto him with small, careful motions, rocking her hips a little to take him deeper and deeper. His hands on her waist guided her down until she was seated on top of him and full of his cock.

It was a delicious, overwhelming sensation. Every nerve ending felt alive, and he felt enormous inside her from this angle. Brontë bit her lip and rolled her hips a little, experimenting.

He groaned beneath her.

That was encouraging. She repeated the motion, rolling her hips even more, and was pleased when he rocked with her. She began a rhythm, moving over him and working her hips in a way that made him brush up against that spot inside her that drove her so wild. His movements echoed hers, and before long, she was increasing the pace, needing more and needing it faster, harder, than what she was doing.

His hips began to buck hard against hers, so that when she bore down, he thrust upward roughly. Brontë cried out each time he did, and when his hands moved to her breasts, teasing the nipples as she bounced on top of him, she lost control. She rode him wildly, lost to the sensation, until her entire body stiffened and began to quake with her orgasm.

“Brontë,” he growled, and she felt him clasp her hips again, grinding her down on top of him as he pushed to his own release. A moment later, he bit out a curse and shuddered, and she knew he’d come too.

She fell on top of him to catch her breath, twining her fingers in his chest hair. It was ridiculous that one man could make her feel so very good. Her entire body was one big bundle of pleasure right then.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her on top of him.

Her stomach growled, ruining the moment.

Logan chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Why don’t you jump in the shower, and I’ll order the food?”

“You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

They stayed in the rest of the evening. Brontë borrowed one of Logan’s T-shirts to wear. The Chinese food was excellent, and they ended up watching a movie in the media room with their takeout. She wanted to cuddle next to him on the couch, but the media room had only big, overstuffed recliners, so she was thwarted. He promised to put a couch in for her, though, and she simply rolled her eyes.

After dinner, they made love again, and she curled into his arms to sleep. All in all, not a bad day. When she was in Logan’s arms, she forgot about everything else.

***

The next morning, she woke up to see Logan off for the day. He kissed her at the door for several minutes, then sighed. “I have meetings all day, but I’ll be back in time to pick you up tonight.”

“Gotcha. Is there a bookstore nearby I can hit up once I find some pants?”

Logan chuckled. “You have all of New York at your disposal, and you want a bookstore?”

“Pretty much.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But it comes second to pants.”

He leaned in and kissed her again. “Tell you what. I’ll send my assistant over in about an hour with some clothes for you. She can escort you around town.”

She wasn’t sure that she needed a chaperone, but it might be wise until she got her feet under her. “All right.” She wrapped her leg around his and clung to him in a way that left nothing to the imagination. “You’re going to think about me today, right?”

Logan groaned, his hands moving to cup her naked ass under his shirt. “I couldn’t stop if I tried.”

“A wise man once said, ‘We strive after the forbidden.’”

“More Plato?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s Plato to you. That was Ovid.”

“If you find a bookstore, buy me some Plato. I hear he’s interesting.” Logan leaned in and kissed her one more time, then reluctantly pulled away. “I’ll call when I’m on my way home.”

That felt . . . domestic. But she nodded, a hint of a smile on her face as she closed the door behind him. They were clicking so well it was almost scary. Scary, but enjoyable. Was it too good to be true? She supposed she’d see when she met his friends.

Just the thought of it made her stomach knot up. She was a waitress. He was a billionaire. They were going to think she was after his money, when the truth was his money just made her downright uncomfortable. Money was nice, but it wasn’t the reason to have a relationship.

Of course, she doubted anyone would believe her if she said that.

Brontë took a quick shower and had just combed her hair into a damp ponytail when the doorbell rang. She bounded to the door, pulling on her dirty jeans. “Coming.”

When she opened the door, a woman about her age stood on the other side holding a Saks Fifth Avenue bag. She was about the same height as Brontë, but her figure was radically different. Where Brontë was lean everywhere except her behind, the woman in the doorway seemed to be all softness and curves bundled up into a stuffy brown suit and tight bun. Her makeup was minimal, her skin pale, and she wore a pair of oversized sunglasses that she removed as Brontë opened the door.

She gave Brontë a friendly, efficient smile and stepped inside. “You must be Brontë Dawson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Audrey Petty, and I’m Logan’s assistant. He asked me to come by and see if I could help out today.”

Brontë shook her hand enthusiastically. “Hi there. Yes. I’m Logan’s girlfriend.”

The look on Audrey’s face remained professional. Her smile could have been painted on. “Well, Logan told me to come by with some clothes so you could go shopping today. It seems he didn’t give you time to pack?”

“That’s right.” Brontë crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a little awkward. “Sorry to be such trouble.”

She gave Brontë an odd look. “Trouble? Logan once asked me to drive to Pennsylvania to pick up floor plans because he didn’t like the way they looked faxed. Taking someone shopping? That is not trouble in the slightest.”

Brontë relaxed a little at that, even as Audrey moved past her and began to unpack the contents of the bag she’d brought. “Does Logan often make you run strange errands?”

“I don’t know if they’re strange,” Audrey said. “But he does sometimes ask me to run favors for him. It’s my job as his assistant, of course. He has a secretary for other business needs.”

Brontë stared. “So wait. He has an assistant and a secretary?”

Audrey turned and gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. Now, Logan told me that he had no idea what your size was, so I bought a sweater and some pants in every size. We can just return the ones that don’t fit. I also brought some panties and bras in some common sizes. If you don’t have shoes, I can go back out and get some.”

“This is fine,” Brontë said, reaching out to touch one of the sweaters. It was plain black, cashmere, and extremely soft. “This is nicer than what I normally wear, actually. You could have brought me a T-shirt and jeans.”

“Not if I wanted to keep my job,” Audrey said cheerfully. “I know Logan, and if he thought I was cheaping out on you, he’d have my head.”

He’d never seemed to mind what Brontë had worn before, though. She picked up the sweater in the right size and grabbed the closest slacks and panties. “These’ll work.”

“Super. You go change and I’ll pack everything else up, and then we can get started. We’ve got a lot of shopping ahead of us.”

She gave Audrey a dismayed look. “We do?”

“Logan’s instructions are, and I quote,” she said, pulling out her BlackBerry and reading from the screen, “‘Make sure that she gets a few weeks’ worth of clothing, along with some evening wear. You know my events calendar.’” She looked up from the screen. “I do, and it’s a doozy.” She looked back down again and continued to read. “‘Also, take her to the best bookstore in Manhattan. My library needs restocking.’” She looked up at Brontë in surprise. “He has a library?”

“Not really,” Brontë admitted, her lips twitching with her efforts not to smile like a lovesick idiot. “And I really don’t need that many clothes. Just a change or two.”

Audrey shook her head and waved the phone. “I have my orders, and I’m afraid they trump yours.”

Brontë didn’t disagree. She just took the clothes and went to change. She emerged a few minutes later, fully dressed. The clothing was elegant and yet casual. The price tags had been removed, so she didn’t know what they’d cost, but she had horrible visions of exactly how much everything had set Audrey back. “Thanks for the clothes. How much do I owe you?”

Audrey gave her a look. “Very funny.”

“I can write you a check.”

The other woman stared at her. “Are you or are you not aware that you’re dating a billionaire? He has a little cash to throw around. This is coming from his wallet, not mine.”

Brontë flushed. “Just because he has the cash doesn’t mean that I want him to spend ridiculous amounts on me. I’m a grown woman. I can buy my own clothes.”

Audrey arched a brow at her. After a moment, she said, “Well, that’s something I don’t hear very often from women in Logan’s circles. Huh.” She shook her head, as if not quite believing her ears. “Anyhow. Today, the shopping is on Logan. You can argue with him when he gets home. As long as you’re with me, though, his card is the one we’re using.”

Fair enough. She’d go light on the shopping today to please Audrey and go back later for more stuff if she needed it. “Sounds good. Where are we heading?”

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

“Someplace with reasonable, comfortable clothing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Audrey paused to stare at her. “Huh?”

“Oh. Um. Aristophanes. Never mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brontë said nothing.

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

“That is totally emotional blackmail.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About a half hour ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was gorgeous. And it made her incredibly uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“I know.”

She looked at him. “How do you know?”

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

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

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

“I’ll spoil the suspense for you,” she said flirtatiously. “Nothing.”

He groaned, pulling her hips against his own. “No tan lines, either?”

“Nope. I spent my day at the beach totally nude.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and grinned. “I had good company, if I recall.”

“The best.” He leaned in and lightly kissed her lips.

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened. A sea of people stood before them, and a wave of laughter and light applause erupted at the sight of Logan Hawkings and his date wrapped around each other. Logan simply smiled, releasing Brontë and extending a hand to hold the elevator open for her. “Very funny,” he said to the few people clapping nearby.

Mortified, Brontë stepped out of the elevator, her hand automatically going to touch the expensive necklace at her throat. Not the entrance she’d wanted to make. She wanted to look good, but she also wouldn’t have minded blending in with the scenery despite her backless gown. That hope had flown out the window, though. She’d shown up kissing a billionaire, and judging by the looks some of the women were casting in her direction, that was an unforgiveable offense.

It was going to be a long night.

A hand went to the small of her back, and Brontë jumped, relieved that it was Logan. “Come on. We should go say hello to our host.”

She nodded, allowing him to steer her through the party, mentally noting everyone. The room was glitzy, strings of lights hanging from the ceiling and chic decor. There was an ice sculpture in the center of the room that looked like a skyscraper of some kind, and soft music played from a band in the corner of the room. No one was dancing. Instead, everyone was dressed in suits or cocktail dresses, clutching glasses of wine and chatting in small, close-knit groups. Small party indeed.

Making conversation and drinking. Okay. She could do that. “Not even the gods fight against necessity.”

They approached a gray-haired man and his silver-haired wife. Both were kitted out in black, the woman’s neck sparkling with a thick choker of diamonds. Both lit up at the sight of Logan and turned toward him.

“Brontë,” Logan said. “I want you to meet my newest business partner, Doyle Bullet, and his wife, Rita.”

Her eyes widened at the name. The only Doyle Bullet she knew of was an oil tycoon who was sometimes mentioned in the news. She thrust her hand out. “Pleased to meet you both. I’m Brontë Dawson.”

Rita took her hand, smiling. “How lovely to meet you. Such an unusual name, too.”

“Thank you,” she said, noticing how Rita’s fingertips had barely grazed her hand. “It’s not after any Brontë in particular. Or rather, any or all of them. Pick a Brontë, any Brontë.” A high-pitched giggle escaped her.

Logan cast her a knowing look.

Oh, hell. She’d just done her nervous laugh again. She quickly shook Doyle’s hand, humiliated.

“Thank you for inviting us tonight,” Logan said smoothly. “And for letting me bring a friend on such late notice.”

“But of course,” Rita said generously, smiling at Brontë and then at Logan. “Would you excuse me? I just want to make sure that the caterers have everything under control.”

She slipped away, leaving Brontë and Logan with Doyle.

Doyle turned to Logan. “Don’t suppose that you saw what the Dow closed at today? It was a bloodbath in there.”

“I was in meetings all afternoon.” Logan casually snagged two glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to Brontë. “What happened?”

“News report about more banking scandals, of course,” Doyle said with a chuckle. He turned to Brontë. “Do you dabble in investments, my dear?”

She clutched her wineglass, resisting the urge to touch the necklace at her neck to make sure it was safe. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

He gave her a friendly smile. “Well, you should consider it. You’ll never make any money if you don’t risk any money.”

“Of course,” she said, flustered. This was really not going well.

“Logan, you old dog. When did you get back?” A man’s cheerful voice boomed behind Brontë, making her jump.

She turned, and to her surprise, she saw Logan clapping hands and a slapping backs with a large blond man.

“Cade,” he said in the same easy voice, “I’d like you to meet my date. Brontë, this is Cade.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said in a small voice.

“Cade is also a business partner of mine,” Logan said smoothly.

“I prefer the term ‘friend,’” Cade said with a grin. “You know, like regular people.”

She laughed, feeling instantly more comfortable at Cade’s words.

“As I was saying, Logan . . .” Doyle’s reedy voice rose a bit. “I wanted to talk to you a bit more about the meeting this afternoon.”

“Of course,” Logan said, and glanced at Cade. “Would you mind introducing Brontë to a few people? I’m sure this won’t be interesting for her.”

“I would be delighted,” Cade said, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” she said, placing her hand in his arm and letting him lead. She gave Logan a reluctant wave good-bye and allowed Cade to pull her away and into the mix of the party. She looked up at her escort. He seemed friendly enough, and the expression on his face was kind. Handsome, she supposed, if she were looking, but everyone paled in comparison to Logan’s cool, austere good looks. “How do you know Logan?”

“We go way back,” Cade said easily. “College. Dartmouth. We studied business there together. Same frat and everything.”

She smiled at the thought. “Same frat? Logan doesn’t strike me as the party boy type.”

“He’s not. Even back then, he’d glare at us over our drinks and remind us that we had a test in the morning. He’s always been excessively responsible, I’m afraid. He tries to keep everyone in line.”

She laughed. “That sounds like Logan.”

“So how do you know Logan?” he asked her. “It’s been a long time since he’s brought a date to one of these sorts of things.”

“We met under inauspicious circumstances, I’m afraid. Did you hear about his trip to Seaturtle Cay resort?” At his interested glance, she filled him in on the details—their meeting in the elevator and how they’d been stuck there for nearly a day, their nights spent curled up in the stairwell as the hurricane raged around them, their day spent on the beach, and Jonathan’s timely rescue. She omitted her own subsequent return home due to hurt feelings. That seemed a bit too personal to share.

“I suppose we can credit Hurricane Latonya for bringing you both together, then. Logan seems happy enough.”

Brontë took a sip of her drink, smiling politely. “Does he?”

“Indeed.” Cade seemed amused. “From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t been at work nearly as much since returning, and we were speculating as to why. It seems I’ve found out the answer.”

“We?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Who is we?”

“Logan’s closest friends. Would you like to meet a few?”

“Please.” She was intrigued.

“Hunter’s not here tonight. He never attends these sorts of functions. But he and Logan are very close. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point. Griffin’s over there, by the ice sculpture. The one with the glasses.”

She turned, studying the crowd until she located a man with glasses. He was tall and lean, almost lanky. His face was handsome, his style and poise suggesting he was at ease in these surroundings. The expression on his face betrayed sheer aristocratic boredom.

“He seems . . . nice,” she lied.

“Oh, Griffin? He’s a snob,” Cade said easily. “His family’s British aristocracy. Very old money. Grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and a polo pony at the ready. He’s extremely intelligent. Good guy, once you get to know him, though.”

“I’m sure,” she said in a noncommittal voice.

“He doesn’t take kindly to strangers, though, which is why we’re standing over here talking about him instead of introducing you. If you were on a committee or wanted to discuss funding for a university project, I imagine he’d talk your ear off. Most of us run in fairly exclusive circles, you understand.”

She was beginning to understand, all right, she thought with a sinking feeling. Did all of Logan’s friends have money and success? How on earth would she fit into his world?

“Reese is also here tonight. See the man to Griffin’s left with the women hanging off of him?”

Brontë scanned the room and spotted a well-built, dark-haired man with a rakish look. Two gorgeous women were laughing at something he said, and as Brontë watched, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair off of one of his companion’s shoulders in a very intimate move.

He glanced up, as if noticing Brontë’s stare, and winked at her.

She blushed in response, turning back to Cade. “I think I found him.”

“Reese is a bit of a ladies’ man, which is why we’re standing way over here. If I take you over to Reese, Logan will probably charge over to protect his territory.”

That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Brontë thought with another sip of her wine. “And you? Where do you fit into the picture? You’ve shown me the professor and the playboy. Where do you fit into all these neat little categories?”

He grinned at her, flashing white teeth. “I am a Lancelot at heart, I’m afraid. I like nothing more than to be of service. You’re looking at the world’s largest Boy Scout. Show me an old lady who needs to cross the street, and I’ll show you a man who will trip over his own two feet to assist her.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s a rather interesting picture you paint of yourself.”

Cade shrugged. “I find that most people fit into basic archetypes if you think about it.”

“Oh? Where do you see me?”

“I don’t know enough about you yet.” He studied her for a moment. “What do you do for a living?”

It figured that he’d ask that. She bit back her grimace and kept her face deadpan. “I’m a waitress. Does that change things?”

His eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “I’m still forming my opinion. You’re definitely more of a Mary Ann than a Ginger, though.”

“Can’t argue with that. Unfortunately, it feels like this party is full of Gingers.”

“These sorts of shindigs always draw a lot of Gingers,” he said sympathetically. “Luckily for me, I’ve claimed the one Mary Ann in the bunch. Much better conversation.”

He was such a sweetheart. She couldn’t help but smile at him. She took another sip of her wine and then pointed at Logan’s broad back as he stood commanding a small group that was hanging on his every word. “And Logan? What is he?”

Cade grinned. “He’s the boss, of course. Just like everyone wishes they could be.”

“Mmm. ‘He who owns a hundred sheep must fight with fifty wolves.’”

He gave her an impressed look. “Who said that?”

Another man moved to her side, and to her surprise, she found it was Griffin. The snob. “Plutarch,” he told Cade with an arch smile. “And you’re keeping Logan’s new friend all to yourself tonight. I’m wounded, especially when I come and find that she’s quoting Greek philosophy to you.”

She put her hand out in greeting. “I’m Brontë.”

“Of course you are,” Griffin murmured, his voice cultured and smooth. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing the back of it. “Anne, Charlotte, or Emily?”

“Take your pick,” she said lightly, feeling a bit more comfortable. If he could name all three Brontë sisters, he was probably well educated and would be interesting to talk to.

“I’m chaperoning while Logan has to do the rounds,” Cade said. “Brontë didn’t look as if she was enjoying the stock market conversation, so I was put in charge of her rescue.”

“Wise choice,” Griffin agreed. “So you quoted Plutarch. Are you a big fan of his work?”

“Actually, I don’t know that I am. While I enjoyed his Parallel Lives,” she said, tilting her head to study Griffin’s expression, “I find them rather biased toward his own particular philosophy, which is ironic considering that he castigated Herodotus for doing the same in his works.”

Cade chuckled. “And this is the part where both of you lose me. I think I’m off to get a refill while you two discuss dead Greek guys. Would you like more wine, Brontë?”

“Please,” she told him with a smile. “That would be lovely.”

Griffin stepped closer to her as Cade moved away. “So how did Logan end up with a woman who quotes philosophy? You’ll forgive me if I say that most women he dates don’t seem the type to be able to read anything beyond a fashion magazine, much less ancient history.”

“Well,” she began, smiling at Griffin. “We got stuck in an elevator together in a hurricane.”

***

The party continued on throughout the night, and Brontë caught occasional glimpses of Logan, but every time he paused to speak to her or pull her close for a stolen moment, someone else would appear and steal him away from her. Brontë took it all with good humor. It was fascinating to see just how many people wanted to talk to Logan and seemed to hang on his every word. It wasn’t his party, but he was the star of it.

Cade had courteously remained at her side throughout the night, chatting with her and making her comfortable, introducing her to people. She suspected that Logan had had a conversation with him in advance of the party itself to ensure that she was taken care of when he couldn’t be at her side, but she didn’t mind. Cade was charming, and he shielded her from uncomfortable questions. Griffin had turned out to be extremely pleasant and knowledgeable, too, and she had a standing invite to attend a philosophy salon he was holding at a local college.

She’d even met playboy Reese for a brief moment. He’d approached with a seductive look on his face, kissed her hand, and then backed off when Cade introduced her as Logan’s date. He’d given her a reluctant grin, as if to say “next time,” and moved on to a group of supermodels.

Cade excused himself to meet up with an old friend, and Brontë took the opportunity to escape out onto the balcony. Her head was swimming from all the wine she’d drunk, and she’d eaten very little due to nerves. Fresh air helped, though, and she leaned against the railing of the near-empty balcony breathing in the night air. At the far end of the balcony, a smoker finished his cigarette and returned to the party. Brontë remained, though, staring down at the view with something akin to wonder. Definitely not Kansas City. New York seemed to be a magical place. There was something about it that thrilled her. It was a place where things happened, and she liked that.

“Well, hello there,” a sweet, almost musical voice said at her shoulder.

Brontë turned and smiled faintly at the woman standing before her. She didn’t look familiar. She was gorgeous, though. Long, pale blond hair rippling in the night breeze, a thick fringe of bangs over her forehead. Her body was sheathed in a tight white bandage dress, and she towered over Brontë in platform sandals. She looked like a beautiful, cold ice queen.

She gave Brontë an assessing up-and-down glance. “I was wondering if I’d get a chance to talk to you. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they?”

Brontë smiled politely. “What do you mean, well guarded?”

The woman waved a hand. “His little friends. The band of billionaires or whatever they call themselves. Logan wants to make sure that you avoid people like me at this party, so he’s assigned his buddies to shadow you.”

Realization hit. Brontë kept the smile on her face with effort. “You must be Danica. I was told you’d be here.”

The woman looked impressed for a moment. “Not told by Logan, I imagine.” Her gaze dropped to Brontë’s diamond-encrusted throat. “Nice necklace. Present?”

Brontë said nothing.

Danica cocked her head. “Did he tell you that we were engaged? My guess is no. He’s very closed off emotionally. I suppose you can blame his father for that. The elder Mr. Hawkings was a real a*shole, but at some point, Logan has to take responsibility for himself. Not everything in life is a business transaction. Of course, Logan hasn’t learned that lesson yet. He thinks everything has a price. The old man taught him that.”

That sounded uncomfortably close to Brontë’s experiences with Logan. Hadn’t he bought the diner just so she’d have to talk to him? He used his money like it was power, and by using it, he got what he wanted. She studied Danica for a long moment, not responding. The woman was gorgeous, elegant, everything that Brontë was not. “I take it that you and Logan are not on friendly terms?”

Danica looked sad. “I wanted to be on friendly terms. Our breaking up was not my choice, you know. He dumped me.”

“Why?” As soon as the word escaped her lips, she wanted to bite it back, but the damage was done.

Danica’s beautiful smile turned hard. “Logan likes for everyone to stay in the neat little box he’s created for them. If you try to escape the box, he’ll try to push you back into it. And if that doesn’t work, he’s done with you. He’s ruthless.” She stared out into the night sky, then glanced over at Brontë again. “He wanted me to be the perfect little stay-at-home wifey. My schedule didn’t matter as long as I was available for him. And when I tried to have a life outside of him, or to assert my freedom, he cut me off at the knees.” She shrugged. “The next thing I knew, I was being removed from the apartment we shared and all of my belongings were put into storage. He didn’t even give me a warning before tossing me into the trash.”

Brontë’s stomach clenched painfully. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Logan wasn’t like that. Danica was just trying to crawl under her skin. “Why are you telling me this?”

Danica touched her arm, a pitying look on her face. “Because you look like a nice girl. And you’re out of your depth with Logan. You’re just his type.”

“I am?”

“Of course. You look soft and just a little bit shy. Intimidated. That’s the kind Logan likes, you know. He plucks a girl out of nowhere and molds her into the woman he wants at his side. If you don’t have a life, that makes it perfect for him, because he needs you available at his beck and call. He’s a great guy . . . for a time. He’ll make you the happiest woman on earth until you cross him. And if you try to be independent, be ready for him to send you packing. I don’t want you to be caught off guard like I was. I thought I loved him and he loved me. It turns out that he doesn’t know how to love. He just knows how to succeed at business.”

Brontë stared at the other woman, saying nothing. What could she say? Could this possibly be true? It didn’t sound like Logan—cold, emotionless. And yet . . .

He was ruthless.

Not everything in life is a business transaction. Of course, Logan hasn’t learned that lesson yet.

“Logan’s not like that,” Brontë protested.

“Isn’t he? Have you told him you love him?”

Brontë said nothing.

“Try it. See how he responds. That’ll tell you everything you need to know.” She nodded as if agreeing with her own words. “I did, and he totally ignored me. Logan doesn’t know how to love. All he knows is how to make money.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news. But it’s best if you’re prepared for the eventual heartbreak.” Danica glanced at the door of the balcony. “And if anyone asks, we didn’t have this conversation, understand?” She gave Brontë’s hand a little pat and returned to the party.

Her head swimming with Danica’s bitter words, Brontë turned back stared at the skyline before her. Millions of lights dotted the nearby buildings and crawled through the streets below. Yet it was surprisingly quiet out here compared to the party inside, and she found it peaceful.

Perfect for gathering her thoughts.

Danica had to be lying. She’d been so incredibly vague about why she and Logan had broken up that her word couldn’t be trusted. And yet some of what she’d said had a ring of truth to it. When Brontë’d left Logan, he’d followed her and taken ownership of the diner simply because he’d wanted to talk to her. That wasn’t a man who was used to being told no.

And yet . . . Brontë liked him. She tried to picture him as the brutal tyrant that Danica had painted, as a man determined to push her into a box and mold her into what he wanted. Instead, all she could think about was Logan bringing her flowers when he’d come home late. Logan curled up against her, spooning in bed. Logan naked on the beach with her.

She didn’t want to believe it. She was already in love with the man, and she didn’t want to think that he wasn’t who she’d made him out him to be. Sick at the thought, Brontë clung to the railing and stared up at the black sky overhead.

That’s the kind Logan likes, you know. He plucks a girl out of nowhere and molds her into the woman he wants at his side.

Is that what he was doing with her? Had he done the same with Danica? Made her into the woman he wanted, and when Danica had tired of being his plaything, he’d gotten rid of her?

Logan doesn’t know how to love.

If that was the case, Brontë had fallen in love with the wrong man.

Big, warm hands cupped her shoulders, and she smelled Logan’s aftershave a moment before he pressed against her back. “It’s cold out here.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said softly.

He rubbed her arms, sending shivers of pleasure through her. “Is everything all right?”

She smiled up at him. “Yes. It just got to be a bit too much, and I drank more than I should have. I thought this would help clear my head.”

Logan pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and she felt her nipples harden in response. “Would you like to go home? I’d love to peel this dress off of you.”

She pressed back against him, molding her body to his. “That sounds good to me.”

“If there weren’t two hundred people in the other room, I’d bend you over the balcony and make you mine right now.”

She shivered at the intensity of the mental image. A wave of heat pulsed through her, centering on her sex. A whimper escaped her throat. “Logan.”

“You’re lovely in that dress, Brontë, but I can’t wait to see you out of it. Every man here is jealous that you’re going home with me tonight. Your smile and your laugh are so charming that half the room turned around every time they heard you.”

She gave him a wry smile. “I think that’s your imagination.”

“It’s true. Why do you think I asked Cade to keep you company?”

Her smile faltered. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they? “I suppose. Let’s go home. I’m tired.”

They extracted themselves from the party and soon enough were in the limo, the driver steering them through the streets of New York. She grew sleepy, laying her head on Logan’s shoulder, and made a soft sound of pleasure when he pulled her close, his hand around her waist.

“Did you enjoy the party?” he asked in a soft voice, his mouth a breath away from her ear.

She thought about her response for a moment, then said, “I met Danica.”

He stiffened against her. “Oh?”

“She wanted to warn me about you. And how you treat everything like business.”

He cursed under his breath.

Brontë glanced up at him. “When were you going to tell me you had been engaged?”

“I didn’t think it was important. We were only engaged for a day or two. Never set a date. It was over two years ago.” He laughed, the sound mirthless. “Apparently she’s still quite upset over it.”

“She tried to warn me off of you. Said you’d dump me like so much trash the moment you got tired of me.”

He pulled her closer against him, then tugged her leg over his lap and turned her until she was straddling him in the backseat of the limo, her hips riding his. “You know that’s not true, Brontë.”

“I suspect she told me a lot of things that weren’t true,” she admitted. Danica didn’t have a motive other than to f*ck with Brontë. Still, there was nothing that hurt like the truth, so she suspected she’d been told just enough truth mixed with the lies to make her mind work in circles. “Why did you two break up?”

“I had my suspicions that Danica was with me for my money and not for me. I asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement. She refused, and that told me everything I needed to know.”

Brontë thought for a moment, then leaned in and wrapped her arms around Logan’s neck, her mouth a breath away from his. “She told me that she was trying to be independent and you didn’t like that.”

He gave her another humorless grin. “Danica’s version of independent was going on vacation with her friends without me. Repeatedly, and on my dime. When I suggested we take a trip together, she accused me of trying to smother her.”

“Boy, she sounds like a real winner,” she muttered.

Logan leaned in and kissed her softly. “She’s nothing like you, if that’s what you’re worried about. And our relationship is nothing like the one I had with her. Don’t let her lies get to you.”

“I won’t,” she said, and moved her hips on top of him, pressing against his erection as she straddled him. “But you should have told me.”

He groaned and reached over to the door to push a button. Behind her, the barrier between the driver’s seat and the backseat went up, shielding them from the driver’s eyes. “Trust me when I say she is not in my life anymore. Hasn’t been for some time. There’s only you.” His hand slid up to her hair, grasped the loose knot that threatened to fall apart. “Only you.”

Warmth curled through her, and she leaned in to brush her mouth over his skin, to run her tongue across his parted lips. “I want you, Logan.”

He groaned low against her mouth. “As soon as we get home, I’m making you mine, Brontë.”

That seemed like forever to wait. She flexed her thighs, clenching over the seat of his pants and feeling his erection press up against her. Her slinky dress had ridden up high on her thighs, and an inch or two more and she’d be exposed to him. She hadn’t been lying about her lack of undergarments, either, and right now she was feeling rather thankful for it.

Her hand slid between them, and she rubbed against his cock. “I don’t want to wait until we get home, Logan. I want you now.” Maybe it was the wine talking, or Danica’s bitter words that had dug into her skin . . . or her own desperate need for this man, but she needed him like a drowning woman needed air. “I don’t want to wait.”

Logan thrust up against her hand, his mouth sliding over hers desperately. “I don’t have a condom, Brontë.”

“I’m on the pill,” she said between frantic kisses, and then rubbed her hand over his cock again, stroking his length. “Please, Logan. Take me now.”

His hand slid between them, and she stilled, expecting him to unbutton his pants. Instead, she felt his hand slide over her sex, already wet with need. “Ah, Brontë,” he murmured. “Your skin feels like silk. Wet and ready for me already?”

She bit her lip and nodded, pressing her forehead to his, lost in sensation as his fingers danced over her needy flesh.

When his fingers grazed her *, she cried out, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed her, his tongue thrusting slow and deep into her mouth in a steady, maddening motion. Her hips rose and fell, echoing the stroke of his tongue, and his fingers continued to work her *. She spiraled higher, reaching for her orgasm, only to whimper when he slid his hand away and began to undo his pants. Her fingers moved to help, frantically working to free him from his clothing and get him inside her.

Then he was lifting her hips, just a little, and she felt his cock against the hot well of her sex. He sank deep inside her, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at how fully he fill her. Another whimper escaped, and she began to rock furiously over him, her movements just as jerky as his. Hard, fast, and frantic, he pumped into her, wild with need. Her moans were swallowed by his mouth as she rode him with abandon, her hips slamming down over his.

The orgasm that ripped through her was almost violent in its intensity, and she cried out at the feeling of it, her entire body shuddering. He slammed into her again, and his mouth took hers roughly, and then she felt him coming inside her, too.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she clung to him, still astride his lap, her breathing rough. He was hers. Danica was wrong. Bitter, envious, and wrong. “I love you,” she blurted out, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Logan’s arms wrapped around her waist and held her tight in his lap.

But he didn’t say anything back.

And a little part of Brontë died.