Stranded With a Billionaire

  As if he could tell what she was thinking, Logan sat down in the chair and dragged her into his lap. Two drinks were set in front of them—whiskey or brandy from the looks of it.

  “Drink up,” Jonathan said.

  They did, and Brontë coughed at the burning taste of the drink, which made the men laugh. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but Logan only pulled her closer, settling her on his lap. “This meeting of the brotherhood is called into session,” he said, grinning up at her.

  ***

  As the evening wore on, drinks, cards—and business advice—flew freely around the table. Brontë lost track of most of the conversation due to the drinks that the men kept sending her way—deliberately, she suspected, to distract her. That was fine. She ended up spending half the night discussing the exaggerations of the account of Atlantis in Plato’s Timaeus. Griffin was funding an archaeological dig in Spain for a theoretical site near Cadiz, and they chatted about it while the men played cards. It seemed that while Plato thought Atlantis was an island in the ocean, recent theory was that Atlantis was on the Spanish coast, and it intrigued him to investigate it. He even offered to take her and Logan to see the site sometime, which made her brighten and Logan scowl.

  “Quit flirting with my woman, Griffin.”

  “I’m not flirting with her, you Neanderthal. We can discuss mutual interests without it being flirting,” Griffin said, but he winked at her as if sharing a joke.

  Logan snorted. “I’d believe it if I thought that talking archaeology didn’t give you a hard-on.”

  Griffin just shook his head, but Brontë noticed he didn’t meet her gaze again, which told her that Logan had hit pretty close to the mark.

  At some point, Logan kissed her ear and stood up, sliding her out of his lap. “I’m heading upstairs to chat with Reese and Jonathan, love. We’ll be back in a moment.”

  “All right,” she said, clutching her newly refilled glass to her breast, her head buzzing. “Don’t take too long.”

  “I won’t. We’re just going to discuss . . . your nondisclosure agreement.”

  She nodded, her brain fuzzy, and sat back down in Logan’s chair.

  Cade frowned as the three men left and then stood himself. “I’d better go and see what they’re up to.”

  He left, and Griffin followed him out. That left Brontë holding her glass and the man seated next to her, who had been quiet all night. He’d been careful not to look over at her, and she was curious about him.

  Hunter. Did he not like her? Brontë frowned and took another swig of her whiskey, watching him over the rim of her snifter.

  “Your friend,” Hunter said after a long moment. His voice was deep and gravelly. He spoke as if the words were a chore. He was an odd man. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”

  “You mean Gretchen?”

  “Gretchen.” He repeated the name, as if tasting it. “What is her last name?”

  “Why? How do you know about Gretchen?”

  “I saw her with you the other day. Tell me more about Gretchen.”

  Brontë frowned, her thoughts slow and diffuse from alcohol. Something about giving her friend’s information to a stranger seemed . . . not right, but she was having a hard time reasoning as to why. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”

  Hunter stared down at his cards, and she realized he was carefully hiding one hand behind the other. Interesting.

  “I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”

  “Like a stalker,” Brontë repeated drunkenly.

  “Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”

  “That’s what a stalker would say,” she pointed out, taking another sip of her drink.

  He ground his teeth and glared over at her. Brontë got her first good look at his face . . . and she suddenly understood why he’d been so careful to turn away from her, and why he hid his hand. Thick white scars stood out in relief against his tanned skin. They crossed his face in an irregular, scattered pattern that indicated massive trauma. One corner of his eye was tilted down, as if the repairs had altered its shape, and the side of his mouth had a jagged white line curving from it—a seam that had been torn open and repaired. Even the hand he’d covered showed the white, gouging lines of scarring.

  It was not a pretty sight. Not in the slightest. Brontë swallowed hard, her stomach churning from the alcohol.

  “Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests,” Hunter gritted out. “I simply wish to learn more about her.”

  “Oh,” Brontë said, forcing herself to turn away from the hideous webbing of scars. She stared down at her glass, which seemed a little too empty at the moment. “Penway,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”

  “What kinds of books?”

  “Books with other people’s names on them.”

  His gaze seemed to pin her to Logan’s chair, and she wished she had a bit more to drink. “A ghostwriter?”

  Brontë nodded, then stopped because it made the room wobble. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”

  “Cooper?” He rasped the word out harshly.

  “It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. She wants adventure or a fairy tale or something.”

  The scarred man snorted and lifted his own drink, and Brontë peeked over at him. Nope, the scars didn’t look any better on the second glance.

  “Is Logan coming back?” she asked, feeling a little faint. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Hunter smiled grimly over at her. “Depends on whether Jonathan and Reese have given him a few black eyes yet.”

  She stared at him in surprise, then bolted to her feet. The room shifted woozily, and she grasped at the chair. “But . . . they . . . I don’t want them to hurt Logan! I said I’d sign the nondisclosure agreement.”

  “The agreement takes care of the future. Fists take care of right now,” Hunter said. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

  Brontë flopped back to her seat, holding her stomach. Suddenly, being drunk in a dark, smoky room didn’t seem like such a good idea. “I need a drink of water, I think. And Logan. I want Logan.”

  Hunter set a tumbler in front of her and filled it with water. When she reached for it, he laid a hand over it, blocking her. “Tell me more about Gretchen.”

  Brontë glared at him and brushed his hand aside. She took the glass anyhow and started sipping it. When her stomach stopped doing flips, she began, “Well, she has a cat . . .”

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Brontë woke up the next morning, her head was pounding and her mouth felt like a dirty, old sock. She groaned, rolling over in the bed and smacking into Logan’s broad chest.

  His arms went around her, and he pulled her close, nuzzling her ear. “Morning.”

  Even that small word made her head hurt insanely. She groaned and closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. “I hurt.”

  “Do you need aspirin?”

  Just the thought of dry, medicinal-tasting aspirin sticking to the roof of her mouth made her want to vomit. “Dry toast, please?”

  He kissed her cheek. “Coming right up.”

  The bed shifted as he climbed out of it, and Brontë spent the next five minutes trying not to throw up from the quaking that small movement had produced. There was something not quite . . . normal about where she lay. There was a roaring in her ears.

  God, had she ever been so drunk in her life?

  She had vague memories of a smoky room and a man with scars, and lots of poker chips being passed back and forth. That was it, really.

  Logan returned, his hand smoothing the messy hair off of her brow. “You okay?”

  She forced herself to sit up in bed slowly, her eyes squeezed into slits, and she reached
for the glass of water her put in her hand and began to drink. After a moment, she said, “My head’s so fuzzy, it feels like the ground is moving.”

  “Huh.”

  Logan’s innocent syllable made her frown. Unfortunately, the bright light in the room was killing her, so she couldn’t glare at him. She lay back down in the bed and reached for a pillow to pull over her head, ignoring Logan’s chuckle of amusement. The bed shook again, and her stomach gurgled in response.

  That shaking . . . was not her imagination.

  Brontë’s eyes flew open as the jet’s thrusters started roaring. Pressure made her ears pop and pushed her down on the bed, and she tried to struggle to her elbows. “Are we . . . are we flying?”

  “Don’t get up,” Logan said, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “Lie down and relax. You’re hungover.”

  Her gaze moved to his face, and she gasped. Her handsome, contained, so-in-control billionaire boyfriend had a hell of a shiner. A dark purplish-green ring lined his eye, and it was puffy and swollen.

  “Your face!”

  He grinned and touched his fingers just below his eye, wincing. “Yeah. The guys and I had a little talk. When we land, the nondisclosure agreement will be waiting at my office for you to sign. The others insist.”

  “That’s fine,” Brontë said, eyeing him for other bruises. “Whatever gets them off your back.”

  “I’m sorry if you feel I’m pushing you into it,” he told her in a guarded voice. “I know you’re probably not happy about it.”

  She shrugged, holding the pillow close to her throbbing head. “I actually don’t care,” she told him, closing her eyes and trying to relax to ease her throbbing head. “It’s not a big deal. I wouldn’t go telling all your secrets anyhow, but if the paperwork makes them feel better . . .” When he said nothing, she opened one eye. “Why?”

  Logan shook his head, staring down at her. “I just . . . I guess I expected you to be upset.” A smile curved his mouth again, and he leaned down to lightly kiss her brow. “This is why I love you, Brontë.”

  Because she wasn’t like Danica? She snorted, and that tiny move made her head hurt all over again.

  “Rest, love,” Logan told her, brushing a hand over her cheek and pulling the covers back up around her chest. “You have a few hours before we land.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked sleepily.

  “It’s a surprise. One I think you’ll enjoy.”

  ***

  It was a surprise, all right. Hours later, after she’d taken aspirin for her hangover, Brontë stared in surprise at the small airport where they’d just landed. It looked . . . familiar. She looked up at Logan questioningly.

  “Come on. We’ll miss the ferry to Seaturtle Cay if we don’t hurry.”

  “We’re going back to the resort?” She wobbled behind him a few steps as he began to head down the tarmac briskly. “I don’t understand. Isn’t it wrecked? How can it be open for business?”

  “It’s not open,” he told her. “But not all the rooms are destroyed, and I thought you wouldn’t mind having another look at the place when a hurricane isn’t bearing down on you.”

  Brontë was silent as they took the ferry out to Seaturtle Island, then drove out to the resort. The downed trees had been cleaned up and the power lines restored, she noticed as they drove. When they pulled up to the main resort, the sounds of drills and power saws greeted her, and she looked at the hotel in surprise. Large swaths of the entire eastern wing of the resort were covered in construction plastic. There was no broken glass littering the lobby any longer—everything had been cleaned up and repaired. Trees had been righted, or replanted, and the entire place seemed different from when she’d last seen it.

  Brontë passed by the gift shop and noticed a floral beach dress, very similar to the one she’d salvaged from the place when they’d been stranded, hanging on the mannequin. The diamond necklace was still there, which made her smile ironically at the sight. To think she’d been worried about Logan taking it because he wouldn’t be able to afford it. How he must have laughed at her concern. She shook her head and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and felt warm when he automatically placed his hand over hers.

  They entered the hotel, and a curly-haired man with a swarthy tan and wearing a suit appeared, extending his hand for Logan to shake. “Mr. Hawkings. It is a pleasure to see you here.”

  “Mr. Douglas,” Logan said. “Things look like they are proceeding well.”

  “Indeed they are. Repairs have continued around the clock, and once the upgrades are decided upon, we can continue with the renovations.” Mr. Douglas smiled at Brontë. “This must be Miss Dawson.”

  Brontë extended her hand politely, smiling at the manager. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Miss Dawson is tired from our trip,” Logan said in a crisp voice. “Is our room ready?”

  “It is,” Mr. Douglas exclaimed with a bright smile. “Everything that you have asked for is ready and waiting.”

  Both men paused for a moment, and then Logan looked down at her. “Love, I need to meet with Mr. Douglas to discuss some things. Would you like to go up and check out our suite? Let me know if there’s something that’s not to your liking.”

  She nodded absently. It felt like Logan was trying to get rid of her at the moment, but the need for a shower outweighed everything else at the moment. “What floor are we on?”

  “I will have someone show you the way, Miss Dawson.” The manager turned and waved over a tall, willowy woman. “Luz, please escort Miss Dawson to Mr. Hawkings’s personal suite.”

  “Right away,” Luz said, smiling at Brontë. “Please follow me.”

  Logan kissed her temple and whispered in her ear, “I’ll be up shortly.”

  She nodded and pulled away from him, following Luz across the lobby. Brontë paused when Luz stopped in front of an all-too-familiar elevator. “Can we take the stairs?”

  Luz seemed surprised at her request. “It is twenty floors up. Are you sure you wish to take the stairs?”

  Brontë grinned. “Oh, I’m sure. Very sure.”

  “Very well,” Luz said, leading her farther down the west wing. At the end of a long hallway, they opened the door to the stairwell. It was well lit and there wasn’t a single mattress in sight, which was almost disappointing. Brontë thought of the long nights she’d spent there, curled up with Logan. Funny how at the time she’d been wondering what he was thinking about her.

  Funny how she was back to square one in that aspect.

  Since she’d been living in Gretchen’s fourth-floor walk-up for the past two weeks, the flights of stairs were not so bad, and she handled them better than poor Luz. They paused repeatedly between sets of stairs, and it took longer than anticipated to get up to the top floor. But she was in no hurry to step back into that elevator, so she didn’t mind.

  When they finally got to the twentieth floor, Brontë noticed the hall had been recently recarpeted, and art hung on the walls. New art? she wondered. The smell of paint was still strong, the walls crisp and fresh with color. Had they remodeled this portion of the building first, knowing that Logan would be stopping by for a visit?

  And was there anywhere in the world that Logan Hawkings’s every whim was not catered to? She smiled wryly at the thought.

  Luz moved to the door and tapped in a code on the keypad. “There are no keys for this room, Miss Dawson. You simply need to use the access code. It is five-five-four-three.” She opened the door and gestured for Brontë to enter. “Please call down and let me know if there is anything else I can do for you during your stay.”

  “I will,” Brontë said. “Thank you, Luz.”

  The other woman nodded and left, and Brontë stepped into the suite with a dumbfounded look on her face. She’d been expecting the room to be posh, but once again she was surprised at the wealth and luxur
y that Logan enjoyed.

  The room was palatial. Slow-moving fans lazily whirled overhead from the high-beamed loft ceiling. A breeze ruffled white curtains on the balcony. The room was full of sweet-smelling flowers, vases artfully perched on end tables and countertops. Those were the only splashes of color—everything else was stark, brilliant white—from the fluffy bedspread to the artful netting hanging over the bed to the thick carpet beneath her feet. There were even white couches in the “living room” area, offset by dark teakwood furniture accompanying it.

  It was lovely and cool and tropical, and she immediately felt relaxed at the sight. How beautiful. Brontë moved to the small kitchen area, looking for bottled water to soothe her dry throat. She laughed when she opened the mini fridge and saw it was full of M&M’s. Logan truly seemed to recall every small thing she’d ever mentioned, and the thought made her feel warm inside.

  The bed was gorgeous, but Brontë wanted to wash up first. She groaned with pleasure at the sight of the shower. It was made entirely from stone instead of tile and the showerhead was a built-in waterfall, meant to mimic a tropical paradise. It was also heaven on her skin, and she took a long, exceedingly hot shower, enjoying every minute of luxury. Then she curled up in one of the fluffy white robes left for her and headed to the bed, intending to try it out only for a moment.

  She woke up hours later, when Logan’s heavy weight sagged on the bed next to her. She smiled as he pulled her close and turned her face up for his kiss.

  His mouth lightly touched hers. “Do you like the room?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said with a small sigh. “I could stay here forever.”

  His lips continued to move along her jawline. “How about a week? I have some business to attend to while we’re here and need to stay until next Saturday.”

  Brontë sat up, pushing him away. “How about you ask before dragging me onto your jet?”

  “I did ask,” he said, his stern lips quirking with amusement. “If I recall, you told me that you loved the idea. And then you fell over and began to snore.”