Stranded With a Billionaire

  The redhead said nothing, just continued to wipe mugs dry.

  “Gretchen?”

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s just business reports. Apparently her boss is skipping a lot of meetings lately, so she has to listen to recordings and recap them for him so he doesn’t miss out on anything.” She gave Brontë a pointed look. “Don’t read too much into that.”

  “I won’t,” Brontë promised, but her mind was already racing. Why was Logan missing meetings? Was he all right? She squelched the rising worry and forced herself to focus. “So, a movie tonight?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Gretchen said. “I want to stop somewhere first and pick up a donation.”

  “Donation?”

  “Yeah. I pick up used books and take them in to a local retirement home.”

  “Oh, Gretchen, that’s so sweet.”

  Gretchen waved a hand, dismissing Brontë’s compliment. “Not so sweet. I started doing it when I kept getting so many author copies of my ghostwritten books. I didn’t want them, so I donated them to my nana’s nursing home. I didn’t realize when I first went that so few of the elderly get out, so I bring them books. I can’t imagine sitting around all day staring at the wall.”

  Brontë smiled. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I love the idea and I want to help.”

  “Good, because Audrey bailed on me. She’s working late, which means you and I get to go and pick up a few boxes from an estate sale. Someone told her there were two boxes to pick up and she volunteered us to go in her place.”

  An order popped up on the screen, and Brontë moved to the blender to prepare the drink. “Your sister’s very dedicated to her job.”

  “Eh. She likes working for that soulless bastard.”

  Brontë bristled a little at Gretchen’s dismissive tone. “He’s not a soulless bastard.”

  “Says the now proud owner of a diner,” Gretchen teased.

  Brontë flushed, turning the blender on so she wouldn’t have to hear more about it. Perhaps she shouldn’t have shared so much of her story with Gretchen. The woman was fun to live with, and funny, but she had a caustic sense of humor and absolutely zero patience for anything related to Logan Hawkings. He kept Audrey hopping, apparently, and Gretchen resented it.

  Brontë handed the blended drink to a customer with a smile, struggling to hide her heartache. After a few days, the pain had dulled into an ever-present ache that triggered tears at the slightest thought of Logan. Unfortunately for her, almost everything seemed to inspire thoughts of Logan. She and Gretchen had gone out for drinks the night before, and when someone at the bar had ordered a hurricane, she’d nearly burst into tears.

  The girls working the evening shift came in to Cooper’s Cuppa, and Brontë and Gretchen left the counter, heading to the back room to take off their aprons and count out their tips. As Brontë stuffed her apron into her locker, Gretchen pulled out her phone and checked her text messages, then sighed. “I have the address for Audrey’s pickup. You ready to haul some books a few blocks? She says it’s two boxes.”

  Brontë pretended to flex her muscles. “Ready.”

  “Let’s go, then. The place should be empty. Audrey says the key’s under the mat.”

  ***

  Hunter strolled through the empty, silent town house, regarding it with an eye long-used to appraising at a glance. He mentally sized up the asking price, tallying all the things that would make it a prize—the luxurious décor, the reputation of the prior owner, the fact that it was a historical building, and the number one thing that always made his interest perk: location. The Upper East Side was a great one.

  This town house, he knew, would command several million on the market . . . provided he bothered to put it up for sale. It was a lovely gem of a home, and one of the Brotherhood might be interested in it. Griffin, perhaps, he thought, examining the Victorian wainscoting. An elegant townhouse would be something he’d be in the market for. Reese wanted it for a director friend of his, but Brotherhood came first. He’d probably offer to Griffin to see if he was interested, and if not, talk to Reese’s friend.

  Hunter stopped and cocked his head, listening. Someone had entered the town house.

  At the sound of voices, he paused in the foyer of the enormous home. Out of habit, he moved into a shadowy alcove, lest they catch him unawares and stop to stare at him. Even after years of being a scarred, ugly bastard, he was still bothered by the expressions people made at the sight of his face. It was easier to just blend in with the shadows until they were gone. He waited, his ears straining to determine who was there. The only people he’d expected to stop by were Logan’s assistant, who’d insisted on picking up some of his books for a donation, and the movers who’d come to clean out the rest of what was left in the house.

  He’d thought the place would be empty, so it would be a perfect time for him to inspect it. He hadn’t realized someone else would be coming in, much less two women.

  There was a shuffle of footsteps, and then the sound of a box thumping onto the ground.

  “What is this place?” A soft, pleasant female voice asked. “It’s lovely.”

  “Some dead celebrity’s home or something. I don’t care.” The other woman’s voice seemed full of laughter and amusement, but her tone was cutting. “All I care about is how we’re supposed to get these damned boxes back to SoHo. What the heck was Audrey thinking?”

  “Could we call a cab?”

  The women approached Hunter’s shadowed hiding place, and he stilled, waiting for them to pass without noticing him.

  The redhead was standing not ten feet away from him, her head bent. He couldn’t see her face, but she was curvy and tall, her ass a perfect heart from where he was standing, and her hair was a brilliant shade of red. The other girl—a pretty brunette with wide eyes—balanced two boxes and was waiting for instructions from the other woman.

  “I don’t know about a cab,” the redhead said. “That’ll clean us out, and I still want to order that pizza.”

  “So?” the dark-haired one asked.

  “Brontë,” the redhead said in a crisp voice, and Hunter came to attention. That was a familiar name.

  But the redhead was still talking. “You have to understand something about my sister. She’s not the most practical creature.”

  “She’s not? She seems practical to me.”

  “Not when it comes to work. She thinks we’re mules or something, as evidenced by all this. And if I need to call and gripe at her to get her in line, then, by golly, I’m going to do it.” She put the phone to her ear. A few seconds later, she made a frustrated sound. “Voice mail. I can’t believe her. She said there were two boxes. Not five boxes of hardbacks. Does she think we’re bodybuilders?”

  “It’s not that bad,” the brunette placated her, adjusting the boxes in her arms. “I’m sure we can manage.”

  “I blame Logan Hawkings,” the redhead exclaimed, catching Hunter’s attention. “He thinks the world just belongs to him, doesn’t he?”

  The look on the other woman’s face was sad. “I suppose.”

  “Ugh. Look at that hang-dog expression. You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

  The brunette turned sad eyes on her friend. “‘I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so. I do not know, but I feel it, and am in agony.’”

  “Oh, quit quoting that crap at me. You’re being dramatic. He’s a jerk. You’ll get over him.”

  The redhead turned, and Hunter got a good look at her face for the first time. She was unusual-looking, with round cheeks smattered in freckles. Her expressive eyes dominated her face despite being hidden behind square, scholarly glasses. Her chin ended in a small point, and she looked fascinating. Smart. Annoyed. “Save me from rich, attractive alpha males. They think they’re the heroes from a fairy tale. Little do they know, they’re more like the villains.”

/>   “That’s not fair, Gretchen,” the one called Brontë protested.

  “Life’s not fair,” Gretchen said in a cheerfully acerbic voice. “I’d rather have a man who isn’t in love with his own reflection than one who needs hair product or designer labels.” She bent over, and that heart-shaped ass was thrust into his vision again, and his cock stirred with need.

  “So you’d rather have a pizza guy with a weak chin and a knight-in-shining-armor complex?”

  “Yes,” Gretchen said emphatically, and a dimple flashed in her pointed little face. “His looks aren’t half as important as his brain.”

  So she said. Hunter knew from experience that what women said they wanted in a man was soon forgetten if his physical appearance was unappealing. Still, he was fascinated with her. She was brash and clever, and a little sardonic, as if she were as weary of the world as he was. He watched as the two women, arguing and laughing, stepped out of the foyer of the empty home with the boxes of donations that he’d left for Logan’s assistant.

  Her name was Gretchen. Gretchen. He racked his brain, trying to think of anyone who knew a Gretchen. A lovely redhead with a charmingly unusual face and a cutting tongue. He wanted to know more about her . . .

  Hunter touched the jagged scars running down the left side of his face and frowned. Would she find him as hideous as the rest of the world did? Probably. But she’d also said she could look past that. That she wasn’t interested in a face as much as the brain behind it.

  He was curious whether she’d been telling the truth.

  Not that it mattered, since she’d just walked out the door and he’d likely never see her again.

  A half-buried memory stirred in the back of his mind as he stared at the now-shut door. The other woman had an unusual name. Brontë. He knew that name, and where he’d heard it before.

  He dialed Logan’s number, still thinking about the unusual redhead.

  “What is it?” Logan said. “I’m about to head into a meeting.”

  “There can’t be more than one ‘Brontë’ running around New York, can there?” Hunter asked.

  The voice on the other end of the line got very still. “Brontë?” Logan asked after a moment. “You saw her? Where is she?”

  Hunter stared at the door, half wishing the women would come back through it again, and half relieved they wouldn’t. “She just left with a redhead named Gretchen. I want to know more about her.”

  “About my Brontë?” Logan’s voice was a growl.

  “No. Gretchen. The one with red hair. I want her.”

  “Oh.” A long sigh. “Sorry, man. Haven’t been myself lately. She left me, and I’ve been going crazy trying to find her.” Logan’s voice sounded strained, tense. “I can’t believe she’s still in New York. Where are you?”

  “At the townhouse on the Upper East Side.” Hunter had been overseeing it to ensure that nothing was out of place. Plus, he’d been bored and restless. And more than a little lonely.

  He wasn’t lonely any more, though. He couldn’t stop thinking about that redhead. Gretchen, with her big glasses and pert comebacks and red hair.

  “Your assistant didn’t come by to pick up the boxes,” Hunter said after a moment. “This Gretchen did, and your Brontë was with her.”

  “I have to go,” Logan said. “I’ll call Audrey and see who she sent over.”

  “Send me information about this Gretchen woman,” Hunter reminded me. I want her.

  “I will. And thanks.” Logan’s tone had changed from dejected to triumphant. “I owe you one.”

  “You do,” Hunter agreed. “Just get me information on her friend, and we’ll call it even.”

  Things had suddenly gotten a bit more . . . interesting. Hunter glanced at the empty townhouse and smiled to himself, his mind full of the unusual woman who had been there minutes before.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I have good news and bad news,” Cooper said as Brontë and Gretchen came in to work.

  Brontë pulled her apron out of her locker, frowning as she tied it behind her back. “Oh?”

  “Hit us with the good news first, of course,” Gretchen said. “No sense in bumming us out until you give us a bit of a lift.”

  Cooper beamed at them, his gaze resting on Gretchen adoringly. “I can now afford to put you both on the payroll.”

  “So what’s the bad news?” Gretchen asked, glancing over at Brontë.

  “There’s a new boss. I have someone I’m answering to.”

  Gretchen frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  A queasy feeling began to stir in Brontë’s stomach. Oh, no.

  “I sold the place.”

  “Holy cow! I didn’t even know it was for sale.” Gretchen blinked wide eyes at him. “Congrats, I think?”

  “It wasn’t up for sale officially, but someone approached me and made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  Oh, no.

  Brontë stared at the door to the back room, then pushed it open, entering the main sitting area of the small coffee shop. Her stomach gave an unpleasant twist as she saw a familiar pair of shoulders in a tailored gray sport coat. Logan. He turned, and her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach dropped.

  “Brontë.” His eyes moved over her body, as if assessing whether it was really her.

  “What are you doing here, Logan?”

  His gaze seemed to cool a bit at her response. “I own the place.”

  Not again! This man was going to drive her mad. “Are you kidding me?”

  “We need to talk.” He stood and moved forward, reaching for her arm.

  Brontë quickly sidestepped his grip and began to pull off her apron. If he owned another place where she worked, it was another one she’d have to abandon. God, this was getting ridiculous. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Allow me to rephrase that. I need to talk to you.” His voice lowered and became husky as he moved to stand closer to her. He was so close that her body trembled with his nearness, but she forced herself to hold still. Remain strong.

  “Please, Brontë.”

  It was that soft, low “please” that made her knees turn weak and her resolve melt away like butter. She looked up at his face, noticed the circles under his eyes, and gave a sharp nod. Brontë turned and glanced back at Cooper and Gretchen. Cooper was watching her curiously, but Gretchen’s arms were crossed and she looked annoyed on Brontë’s behalf.

  “Can you give us a minute to talk?” Brontë asked.

  “Use my office,” Cooper volunteered, pulling the key out of his pocket and holding it out to Brontë.

  She took it and turned toward the back office.

  Gretchen stepped forward, concern in her eyes. “Are you sure this is wise, Brontë?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she told Gretchen, and squeezed her hand in thanks. She’d only known her for a short period of time, but already Audrey’s sister had been a great and supportive friend to her.

  “We’re right outside if you need us,” Gretchen said, casting a scowl in Logan’s direction.

  Brontë nodded and went to the door of Cooper’s office, not glancing behind her to see whether Logan was following. If he wanted to talk, well, he’d come after her. Her fingers were shaking as she tried to calmly unlock the door, and it seemed like forever before she could turn the key in the lock and get it open. Once the door was open, though, she stepped inside and flicked on the light. Logan entered close behind her, and Brontë shut the door after him so no one could listen in.

  He immediately reached out and touched her cheek in a gentle caress before she could back away. His gaze moved over her, scanning her face and figure. “Is everything okay? You’re doing all right? I’ve been worried about you.”

  She stepped aside and out of his grasp, even though every nerve ending in her body screamed for her to go back to his ar
ms. “I’m fine, Logan. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can.” His hand dropped, the movement seeming defeated. “I was just worried when you didn’t return to Kansas City. No one knew where you were.”

  So he’d had his flunkies checking up on her? She wasn’t surprised, especially considering how he’d used every means available to find her last time. That was one reason why she’d stayed in New York. “I decided to extend my vacation a little longer. Take a mental health break.”

  “I want you back.” The words were quiet but laced with emotion.

  Brontë crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the floor. She refused to meet his gaze. If she did, she might see the emotion there, and it would make her weaken. She wanted to be strong. Needed to be strong. “I’m not going back to you, Logan. You don’t want me. You want a girl who isn’t a waitress and who knows which salad fork to use. That’s not me.”

  “I don’t care about that. I want you. When you left, it felt like the lights went out. I don’t care if you eat with the wrong fork at every meal. I don’t care if you waitress for the rest of your life. I just want you at my side, Brontë.” Logan reached for her again, and then dropped his hand before he could touch her, as if suddenly remembering to respect her boundaries. “I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your hand in mine. I miss your laugh when you’re nervous. I wish to God I was hearing it right now.” His mouth crooked in a half smile. “That hurricane was the best thing that ever happened to me because it brought you into my life.”

  She was in danger of letting the nervous giggle escape, but she dug her fingernails into her palms until the feeling passed. “If I’m so great, why did you tell me you wanted me to ‘make something of myself’?” Even now, the words hurt.

  He sighed, and the sound made her look up at him. Logan’s handsome face was drawn. He normally looked confident and supremely in control, but right now, he just looked . . . desolate.

  Good, she thought with a little mental stab.

  “I’m not a nice guy, Brontë. I don’t have to be, most times, because of my money.” His gaze met hers. “I told you once that my fiancée was only interested in me for my money. She was the only one I let get close enough before you. Usually women make their fascination with my money known right away, and then it’s easy to just end things before someone gets hurt. I was afraid I was making the same mistake again, and I was losing my head over you. I wanted to test you, to see how you’d respond. Thing is . . .” He ran a hand down his face. “You passed the test, of course. Except I’d forgotten that you have feelings, too, and how you’d feel about my little test. I’m sorry. It was arrogant and stupid of me.”