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 glitz
y, 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.”