Stranded With a Billionaire

  “It was,” she agreed. “Why would you think I’m after your money?”

  “Maybe because most of the time everyone is?” He shook his head. “It’s not you, Brontë. It’s me. I realize that now. I’m a cynical bastard, especially when it comes to women. That’s why I didn’t tell you who I really was when we were stranded together. And it’s why I offered you the diner. It’s not that there’s something wrong with you. It’s that there’s something wrong with every other woman I’ve ever had in my life. They couldn’t see past my wallet to me. You can. And that’s why I want you.”

  Nice words. She felt her resolve weakened by them and by his entreating gaze. But she shook her head. “I can’t trust you, Logan. I thought I could, but this just proved that you’re not who I thought you were. You shouldn’t have to ‘test’ me. You should be able to trust me, and me you.”

  “Give me another chance, Brontë. A chance to prove how much you mean to me.”

  She remained silent.

  Logan moved forward. His fingertips touched her chin and tilted her head back until she met his eyes. “You told me you loved me that night in the limo.”

  A knot formed in her throat, and she met his gaze steadily. “I was mistaken.”

  Logan’s eyes hardened. “You were not.”

  “I was,” she told him, even though it was a lie. “It was silly of me to think I’d fallen in love with someone so fast, and time has proved me right.”

  “I’m not mistaken,” he told her, and the fingers under her chin began to caress her jaw. “I’m still in love with you.”

  Her throat went dry at his husky words. “Logan, please.”

  “I’m not fighting fair,” he told her. “I know. I don’t care. I want you back. I don’t give a shit about being fair or being the better man. I will be the most ruthless man in the world as long as I can have you at my side and in my bed. You’re the only thing that matters. I love you.”

  “Love is not control, Logan. Love is partnership. Friendship. A wise man once said, ‘If you want to be loved, be lovable.’”

  His mouth quirked. “I’d say that’s Plato, but I know it’s not. I’ve been reading the book you left me, you know. ‘The madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s blessings.’”

  Tears stung her eyes. He’d been reading philosophy? To try and understand her better? Hope unfurled in her breast, but she forced herself to be calm, careful.

  “I don’t know, Logan. We haven’t exactly had the most normal relationship. I never know how to act around you. I’m about as comfortable in the hurricane as I am at one of your society parties. Both scare the pants off of me.”

  “Whatever you want to do, Brontë, I’ll do it.” He moved close, his mouth inches away from hers, and her pulse began to pound. Just an inch or two more and his lips would be on hers, coaxing hers into opening for him, his tongue thrusting into her mouth and conquering her all over again . . .

  Brontë took a step backward, out of his grasp.

  “Come home with me tonight, Brontë. We’ll start over.” Logan’s gaze was caressing as it moved over her.

  “No.”

  He stopped short. A flash of pain flickered in his eyes, quickly masked, and Brontë was both pleased to see that pain and saddened by it. Pleased because it meant he was genuinely invested, and saddened that she had to hurt him.

  “Is this good-bye, then?” Logan asked.

  “No,” she said again quickly. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. She needed more time to process how she felt about Logan. More time to pull herself together. More time to just be . . . her. An idea hit her, and she looked up at him with a bright smile. “I think we should date.”

  “Date?” His brows furrowed, as if the concept were foreign to him.

  “Yes,” she said, warming to her topic. “Date. You know, dinner and a movie. Bowling with friends. Going out for pizza and seeing the sights. Spending time together just to spend time together. A date. Several dates. I need to know that what I thought we had was real, Logan. And I need to know you want to be with me. I think we should date.”

  “I want you,” he said, and his tone was nearly a growl of frustration. “Going to see a movie isn’t going to change that. I love you, Brontë.”

  “But I need to date, Logan,” she said firmly. “No fancy parties, no buying of restaurants. No hurricanes. You and me, on a few regular dates like normal people. We can see if we’re truly compatible or if we’re just caught up in the madness of it all.”

  She suspected that she was still head over heels in love with him, but dating meant that she’d have him all to herself and that they’d be on familiar territory. She wasn’t at home at fancy society parties. But at a pizza place or a movie? She could relax and just be herself.

  There was a challenging gleam in his eyes that made her pulse flutter with excitement. “If you want me to win you over with romantic dates, Brontë. I will.”

  “Great,” she said enthusiastically, and when he leaned in to kiss her, she ducked away again. “Call me sometime.”

  “Let’s go out. Tonight.”

  “Can’t tonight,” she said lightly. “I’m working. Call me.” She stressed the last two words and turned to the door, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’m serious, Logan. I want to date like normal people. Not like a billionaire and the waitress he just bought.”

  She could practically hear his teeth grinding. “You know it’s not like that, Brontë.”

  Then prove it, she thought. But she gave him only an enigmatic smile and opened the office door. “Then call me sometime.”

  Brontë forced herself to walk calmly through the store room and back out to the main café. With calm hands, she lifted the bar, stepped in behind it, and then let it slide shut behind her again, taking her place next to the others behind the counter.

  She immediately approached the line of customers, smiled at Gretchen, and then took over manning the register. A few moments later, her heart flipped in her breast as she watched Logan’s tall form walk past the bar and leave the café.

  Had he given up on her? So quickly?

  Confused, she concentrated on the complicated order a very patient woman was trying to place. Brontë had to ask her to repeat it twice, because her head wasn’t in the right place. Had she messed things up with Logan? Had he decided she wasn’t worth the effort?

  “Seventeen ninety-one,” she told the woman as she completed her order. Just then the phone in her pocket began to vibrate. Brontë jumped and pulled it out with shaking fingers and turned away from the cash register.

  Logan Hawkings, the screen read, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. “H-hello?” she answered.

  “I’m calling you,” Logan said in a gruff voice. “Go out with me.”

  That wild, nervous giggle escaped, and she clapped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. When she recovered, she cleared her throat. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Dinner. Tonight. Someplace casual.”

  “I told you. I’m working tonight,” she said calmly, though she couldn’t stop grinning.

  He made a frustrated sound that was nearly swallowed up by the sounds of traffic. He must have still been out on the street. “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “Tomorrow night is good,” she said, smiling. “Where should we meet?”

  ***

  As she prepared for her first date with the man she was in love with, Brontë was thankful that Audrey had dragged her out and made her go clothes shopping. Her own funds were still a little lean, and although working at the coffee shop was a good way to pass time, living in New York was expensive and she found she was constantly a bit strapped for cash. A date outfit would have been out of the question.

  Luckily, she had the clothes she’d taken when she’d left Logan’s apartment. She grabbed her favorite jeans, paired them with
a silver belt, and tossed on a form-fitting black boatneck sweater and some ankle boots. She pulled her hair into a smooth ponytail and added a pair of hoop earrings, and then presented the ensemble to Gretchen.

  “How do I look?”

  Gretchen looked up from her laptop screen and squinted at Brontë. “Are you dating Logan?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I don’t care,” Gretchen said and turned back to her computer.

  “Be fair, Gretchen,” Brontë said with a laugh. “We’re just going to try each other out and see if we can have a good time like regular people.”

  “Oh, please,” Gretchen said with a roll of her eyes. She continued to type, her hair pulled atop her head in a wild red bun. At the side of her computer, Igor curled up, looking like a naked, wrinkly bat. Occasionally, Gretchen would reach over to pet the cat and then return to typing. “We both know that this is just some sadistic version of foreplay and you’re still madly in love with him. You just want to make him dance to your tune for a while instead of the other way around.”

  Gretchen certainly knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

  “So . . . does this outfit look okay for excruciatingly drawn-out foreplay?”

  Gretchen peered up at her again; then her eyes settled on her chest. “Are you wearing a bra?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “A big ugly girdle?”

  “No.”

  “Mmm. You need a big ugly girdle. It’ll ensure you won’t want to get naked with him.”

  Brontë smoothed a hand over her sweater. “I’m going to assume that this looks fine, then.”

  “Fine, fine,” Gretchen waved a hand, then returned it to scratching Igor’s wrinkly skin. She didn’t look away from her monitor. “I’m two chapters from the end of this stupid project, so I’m going to be chained to the computer until it’s done. I’m totally fine with you staying out until all hours. Just in case you were wondering.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. That means most everything, by the way.”

  Brontë waved, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.

  The walk to the subway station was a short one. Even though the network of subway lines was still confusing to her, she knew a few stops and was glad that the one they’d agreed to meet near was among them. After she emerged from the subway, she headed for the restaurant they’d picked and scanned the crowd of pedestrians for a familiar set of broad shoulders in an expensive jacket.

  Her gaze nearly skipped over a tall man in a form-fitting navy henley, and then she paused, gazing at him in surprise. Logan. In jeans and a regular shirt. She continued to stare as he moved to her side, looking just as at ease as ever, and his hand went to her waist to pull her in to his embrace. His scent enveloped her, and she lifted her face for a kiss automatically.

  But he only hugged her close, then released her.

  Brontë was oddly disappointed.

  “You look nice,” she told him with a small smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you out of a business suit.”

  He grinned down at her, looking boyishly handsome, and it made her pulse pound. “It’s been a while. I admit that it seems like everything I have in my closet has somehow magically transformed into either workout clothing or a suit. I had Audrey pick me up a few things.” He ran a hand down his front and lifted his chin as if posing. “Do I pass muster?”

  “You do,” she said with a small laugh.

  “You look gorgeous,” he told her, his gaze devouring her body in the form-fitting sweater and jeans. “I’ve missed getting to look at you every day.”

  Her breath quickened, and she gave another nervous laugh.

  “I’ve missed that, too,” Logan said, grinning.

  She couldn’t seem to stop smiling. When he offered her his arm, she placed her hand in the crook of it. “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d grab something to eat and then see a movie.”

  “What movie?”

  He looked perplexed for a minute, then grimaced. “I don’t know what’s playing, to be honest. I forgot to ask Audrey to check.” He pulled out his phone.

  She put her hand over his, stopping him. “We can just see whatever’s showing. No big deal.”

  Logan’s expression was a bit sheepish. “I seem to have thought of everything but the date itself.”

  “Oh?”

  They began to walk and Logan guided her through the streaming crowd.

  “Indeed. I cleared my schedule, had Audrey purchase date clothes, picked out the restaurant, memorized some Plato—the usual. I even rode the subway here, just like a normal New Yorker.” He grimaced. “I’d prefer not to do that on a regular basis. The man next to me smelled like piss.”

  She laughed again, feeling an insane urge to hug him. “Well, I appreciate the effort.”

  They walked two blocks, chatting about ridiculous things like the weather, Gretchen’s obvious dislike of him and her protectiveness of Brontë, Cooper’s coffee shop, and Audrey’s efficiency as an assistant. Simple, easy conversation. She loved it.

  “Here we go,” Logan said, and they stopped outside of a small pizza parlor with an old yellow-lit sign. “I thought we’d grab a slice here.”

  It . . . definitely didn’t look like the regular sort of place Logan frequented. “You like their food?”

  “I did when I was a teenager. This was my first job, you know.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. “You worked here?”

  “I did.” He stared up at the sign, the expression on his face half fond, half rueful. “I was going through a rebellious phase—drinking, smoking, staying out all night. The usual teenage boy stuff. My father couldn’t deal with me. Of course, I never dealt well with my father, either. I ended up skipping classes for a few days and was suspended from school. My father wanted to teach me a lesson. He told me that I was too arrogant for my own good and that I needed to learn from someone who wasn’t terrified of my family’s money or position. So he dropped me off here.” Logan gestured at the pizza parlor.

  “A family friend?” she guessed, watching his face.

  “A very old friend of his from school. It turned out my father had given him the loan to start the place, so he owed my dad a favor. That favor was taking me on as an employee for a week. Andy—that’s the owner’s name—was a real drill sergeant, too. He had me washing floors and scrubbing toilets and standing over the sink for hours at a time. I remember that was the longest week of my life. I hated every minute of it, but my father told me that if I didn’t stay, he’d kick me out. So I stayed.”

  “Your father sounds . . .” She struggled for the right word. “Interesting.”

  “My father was a real asshole. But he was right about Andy. He kicked my ass and worked me harder than anyone ever had. And you know what happened at the end of that week?”

  “Your father relented?”

  “Nope,” Logan said with a half smile. “Andy fired me. Said I was the shittiest worker he’d ever seen and that three-year-olds had more drive than I did. That woke me up. Here was someone who wasn’t afraid of my father’s money or position. He just wanted a kid to wash dishes, and he ended up with me, who’d never washed a dish in my life and wasn’t about to start. But I was more afraid of my father than Andy, so I had to convince him to keep me on. Which meant working harder. I worked there all summer. Learned a lot about hard work and running a business. I respected the hell out of Andy, too.” He stared up at the pizza sign fondly again. “Hungry?”

  Brontë nodded, fascinated by the story he’d told her. It gave her a lot to think about. “You’ve been wealthy all your life, haven’t you?”

  “Always, but it wasn’t easy, either.” Logan stepped inside and moved to the counter, poi
nting at one of the pizzas and then holding up two fingers.

  She waited for him to continue.

  “My father was a hard man.”

  “Surely not all hard. Your mother must have loved him.”

  He gave her a wry look as he handed a twenty to the cashier. “My mother was a showgirl who wanted my father’s money. She tolerated his bad moods since he was rich, and he tolerated her since she was gorgeous and pregnant with me. She died when I was five.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Brontë took her plate and followed Logan to one of the small, dingy tables in the back of the parlor.

  “I am, too. That meant it was just me and my father.” He shrugged. “He died two years ago.”

  And two years ago, Logan had broken off his engagement with Danica. No wonder he had trust issues. Brontë took a small bite, a mix of emotions swirling through her. “This pizza is good,” she said, changing the subject to safer territory. “Thank you.”

  “So what was your first job?” He took a bite, waiting for her to respond.

  She grimaced. “Babysitter, of course.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “It depended on the kids, really. Some were great, some were horrible. It gave me a lot of time to read when they were napping, though.”

  He grinned. “I can see why you took the job.”

  “I am very transparent, aren’t I?” She smiled impishly back at him.

  “And do you want kids someday?”

  It was a tough question, but she’d been expecting it. Brontë chewed, thinking for a long minute. Then she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and gave him the only answer she could. “Someday, with the right person.”