The scarred man took the cards and gave Logan a wary look, but said nothing. That suited Logan just fine. If his mood was a bit black at the moment, he didn’t give a shit if his friends knew it or not. They could all be in pissy moods for all he cared. A table full of cranky assholes suited him at the moment, since he was one.
Brontë had been sad and listless for the past two days, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Fucking Danica. He still suspected that she’d gotten her claws into Brontë despite the talk he’d had with her. Something had changed between them that night. The lovemaking was just as intense as ever, but her smile seemed somewhat faded, and he could have sworn that when he came in the room sometimes, her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. She always said nothing was wrong, but he could tell.
She’d told him she loved him, and he’d given her a hug. He wasn’t the kind to declare his love, though. Not before a prenup was signed and he could be sure of her feelings. He’d traveled down that road once before, and he wasn’t going to be taken again. His father had been a tough buzzard, too. Just before he’d died, he’d mocked Logan for being so upset about Danica’s reluctance to sign the prenup. What had Logan expected after spouting off about feelings to her? Of course she wasn’t going to sign, his father had sneered. Logan had declared his love for her. She had him by the balls. Hawkings men didn’t declare their feelings, because it gave power to someone else.
Logan wouldn’t make that mistake again. So he had said nothing when Brontë had confessed her feelings to him, even though he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at her admission. She loved him. His beautiful, sweet Brontë loved him.
Brontë had common sense—it was one of the charming things about her—but he didn’t know what to do with her sadness. Common sense told him to ignore it. But her melancholy bothered him. It bothered him even more that she was trying to hide it. Hence, his foul mood.
The door opened, and Cade walked in, the last to arrive. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Hold up at the office. Someone deal me in?”
“’Bout fucking time,” Logan said, tossing the cigar in his mouth into the ashtray on the table. “We can start now.”
Drinks were passed in his direction, as well as chips. Cade was giving him a scrutinizing look but said nothing as Hunter dealt the cards. After a moment, he looked over at Logan again, and said, “I enjoyed meeting Brontë the other day.”
Logan grunted a response.
“Charming girl,” Griffin said, tossing a chip into the pot to start the bidding. “Very interesting education. She’s a step up from your normal airheads, Logan.”
“She’s a waitress,” he growled. “Don’t get too attached to her.”
This time, it was Reese who frowned as he tossed his chips into the pot. “What does her job have to do with anything?”
Logan said nothing.
But Cade’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “She’s not another Danica. You don’t know that she’s after your money.”
“He doesn’t not know it,” Hunter said in a grave tone, folding his hand.
“Do we have to talk about this right now?” Logan asked.
“Well, clearly it’s affecting your mood,” Reese pointed out. “Is the problem that she’s a waitress or that you like her enough that you’re worried you’re being taken for a ride?”
Logan’s temper flared. He forced himself to be calm, pick up his cigar, and stare at his cards. “She’s not like Danica.”
“No? She’s female, isn’t she? That means she’s interested in your wallet. Face facts, Logan.”
He ignored Reese and clenched his cigar. He would not get angry. These were his friends, after all.
“Well, if she’s just a fly-by-night, let me know when you’re done with her,” Reese began. “Because I saw her ass in that little red dress and—”
His words cut off with a yelp as Logan jumped across the table to grab him.
Chaos erupted. The men jumped to their feet, and hands pried him off of Reese’s collar. The other man smirked knowingly, pleased that he’d gotten a rise out of Logan. Cade stepped between them, staring at the two with narrowed eyes. “No fighting during a meeting, remember? Do we need to take this outside?”
“I’m fine,” Logan said, flexing his hands and taking a step back. The red was receding from his vision, but he was now more furious with himself. Furious that he’d come so close to punching Reese, and furious that he’d shown his thoughts as clear as day by jumping on him.
Hunter’s hand went to Logan’s shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go walk for a bit.” He looked back at the others. “Play on. Logan and I will be back shortly.”
Logan had half a mind to tell Hunter to fuck off, but he needed to get away from the table. Casting another furious look at Reese, he stormed away, heading up the cellar stairs.
He didn’t speak until he and Hunter were up on the roof of the bar. Hunter pulled out a fresh cigar and offered it to Logan, who declined. The scarred man pulled out a lighter, clipped the end of his cigar, and lit it as casually as if two of his friends hadn’t just gotten in a fight. “So. You do realize that Reese was just busting your balls?”
“I realize that now,” Logan said with a snarl. Fucking egomaniac.
“I’ve never seen you this stressed over a woman. Even Danica, and we both know she left her mark.”
Logan said nothing. Hunter knew him better than the others. The quiet, scarred billionaire had been Logan’s closest friend in college. Logan had led, and Hunter had followed. They shared a tight bond. And it was that friendship that kept Logan from storming off of the roof and heading home to see Brontë’s sad eyes.
“I agree with Cade, for what it’s worth,” Hunter said quietly. “She doesn’t sound like Danica. Griffin likes her. Griffin doesn’t like anyone. He says that Brontë’s very intelligent and can hold a conversation. How many of your supermodels has Griffin ever said that about?”
“I bought her a necklace. She didn’t want it.”
“But she accepted it, didn’t she?” Hunter’s gaze was cynical.
Damn. Logan stared out at the night sky. He thought of Brontë’s sweet smile. The curve of her lips when she leaned in to kiss him. Her fury when she’d found out that he owned the resort.
But how did he know it wasn’t simply a masterful act by a consummate actress? Danica had had him fooled, after all, and she wasn’t half as clever as Brontë. “I need to know for sure,” he told Hunter.
“Then test her,” his friend said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”
***
The next evening, Logan tucked a manila envelope under his arm and strode down the hall to his apartment. An odd sense of anticipation curled through him, much like the adrenaline rush he got from a lucrative business deal. This was it.
This was how he’d see if Brontë was after him or his money. Hunter had suggested a test, and Logan thought it was a brilliant plan. He’d give her something valuable out of the blue, something that would be important to her, and watch her reaction.
If she was pleased with his gift, or demanded more, he’d know that she wanted it more than him. If she refused his gift, he could feel more confident in how she felt about him. She’d been upset when she’d found out he was rich . . . but she’d also been quick to cave in to his demands to go to New York. And every time he told himself that Brontë wasn’t like that, he saw Danica’s face again. Danica, who’d had him totally fooled.
And maybe, just maybe, if Brontë passed this test, he’d feel comfortable telling her how he felt about her, too.
Logan entered the apartment, pleased to find Brontë curled up on one of the couches, an open book spread across her breasts as she napped.
She was beautiful. Her long, chestnut hair was tousled around her face, her small nose pointed up in the air, her lips slightly parted in sleep. She wore her favorite T-shirt
and jeans: Audrey had complained to him that she couldn’t persuade Brontë to part with them, no matter what lovely clothes she was bought. He liked seeing Brontë in jeans, he had to admit. Her ass filled them out nicely, and the T-shirt showed off the rounded swells of her small breasts to perfection. He pulled the book off her chest, and her eyes opened slowly.
Brontë blinked and focused on him, then smiled, her expression sleepy. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”
“I am. I canceled the rest of my meetings.” He didn’t tell her that it was because he’d been unable to concentrate on anything but her that day. They’d made love fiercely the night before, but when she’d come, she’d been utterly silent. She didn’t whisper words of love anymore when they had sex.
And for some reason, he wanted to hear her say it again.
Logan smoothed a lock of hair off of her cheek. “I have a present for you.”
She sat up on the couch, frowning, one leg tucked under her, and ran a hand through her hair. “Present? Why?”
He forced himself to be indifferent and held the envelope out to her. “No reason. I just wanted to give you something.”
“You’ve already given me enough stuff, Logan.” But she obediently took the envelope and opened the clasp, pulling out the contract inside. She stared at it, puzzled, then looked back at him. “What’s this?”
“It’s the paperwork for the diner. There’s three of them, actually. One in Kansas City, and the other two are in Dallas and Atlanta. They’re yours.”
Brontë looked down at the paperwork in her lap, then back to him. “Why?”
Her reaction didn’t tell him anything. “What do you mean, why?”
“I mean, why give me a diner? What’s the point?”
“It’s a gift. Income. You can live off of the profits, if you want, or you can work on improving the chain. I’ve set up a meeting with the consultant so he can go over what he’s learned so far and suggest improvements. You—”
She held up a hand, giving a small shake of her head to stop him. “Logan, I don’t understand.”
“It’s an expensive gift,” he pointed out, frustrated by her mulish responses. “Most people would say thank you.”
“I guess I’m confused. Why do you think I’d want the diner?”
“So you can make something of yourself.”
She stiffened. “You mean, so I can be something other than a waitress?”
“Something like that,” Logan said.
The papers smacked his chest. Brontë leapt to her feet. “Keep the diner.”
She didn’t want it. Didn’t want his money. Elation surged, and Logan watched her get up and cross the room. “You don’t want it?”
She didn’t answer him.
She was . . . angry? Logan got to his feet and followed her down the hall. She stormed into one of the guest rooms, and when he followed, he noticed she was emptying one of the closets. He noted her stiff shoulders, her furious movements.
And that she had a suitcase open.
“Where are you going?” he asked, frowning.
“You said I could stay as long as I wanted,” Brontë said, her voice tight. “This is as long as I want. I’m done here.”
“Why? His voice was harsh. Anger rocketed through him. This was completely irrational of her. “You’re mad because I tried to give you a gift?”
“No,” she cried, turning to face him. “I’m mad because you think I’m not good enough for you. Are you embarrassed that I’m a waitress? Is that why you’re trying to turn me into some sort of diner tycoon?”
“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why would you do such a hurtful thing?” Her eyes shimmered with tears.
“Brontë,” he said, his voice soft. He moved to draw her into his arms, but she stiffened and pulled away. He’d made a mistake, then. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I’m not embarrassed by you.”
“Then why give me the diner? I never said I wanted it.”
“It was a test,” he confessed.
“A test?” Her voice rose an octave in response. “A test? What sort of test?”
He remained silent at that.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. You think I’m after your money. Like Danica. Is that it? You’re testing me to see if I want it.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” she said bitterly.
“I love you, Brontë.”
“You do now,” she bit out. “Now that you realize I don’t want your money. Well, news flash, Logan. You can’t withhold love as a reward. You either love someone or you don’t. Money plays no part in this.”
“Money always plays into things, Brontë. That’s not fair—”
“You’re not being fair,” she said, viciously slamming her suitcase shut. “And I hate to say it, but Danica was right.”
“Danica doesn’t have anything to do with this—”
“No? She told me that you treat everything like a business transaction. And silly me, I thought she was wrong.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, driving a knife into his gut. “It turns out she was right after all.”
She moved to the dresser and pulled out a blue velvet case—the necklace case. She looked at it and her lip curled, almost in disgust, and she held it out to him. “Take this.”
“It’s yours.”
Brontë shook her head. “I don’t want it. I told you I didn’t want it, and you pushed it on me.” When she held it out again and he didn’t reach for it, she tossed it on the bed as if it were garbage and pulled out the handle of her suitcase.
“Brontë,” he said, trying to take the suitcase from her. “We need to talk about this—”
“No,” she said, and her voice broke a little. “We don’t need to talk. You’ve said enough. Good-bye, Logan.”
She pushed past him and headed out the front door, rolling the suitcase behind her.
“Brontë—”
“No,” she repeated. “Don’t make this ugly, Logan.”
And she turned and left. He watched her go, his mind seething with turmoil. She wasn’t willing to listen to reason right now. She was furious—and she had every right to be, he supposed—but he wasn’t going to give up. Somehow, he’d get her to talk to him again. He’d explain his side of the story, and then they’d hash things out. Kiss and make up.
And then he could tell her he loved her like he should have—with no strings attached.
He went back to the room she’d emptied and stared at the discarded necklace box. I told you didn’t want it, and you pushed it on me.
It seemed like he’d pushed and pushed until she’d finally broken. Damn it. There had to be a way to fix this.
Chapter Ten
Brontë dashed down the street, ignoring the people around her. The suitcase dragged behind her on tiny wheels, slowing her down, but she didn’t care. Hot tears splashed down her cheeks, and her heart felt like a burning hole in her chest.
Logan wanted her to make something of herself.
The words made her sick. He didn’t like who she was. He thought she was a joke. Worse, someone to be embarrassed of.
Well, screw that, and screw him, she thought, dashing the tears from her cheek with the back of one hand. A subway station appeared down the street, and she headed for it, needing a sense of purpose. Somewhere to go. Anywhere.
Of course, when she got into the station itself, she swiped the MetroCard she’d gotten with Audrey while shopping and then realized that she had nowhere to go. She frowned and took a seat on one of the benches, staring in dismay at a nearby map of subway interchanges. She’d been so content, wrapped up in her little cocoon that Logan had created for her, that she hadn’t even bothered to sightsee in the city she’d been so excited to visit. No Statue of Liberty, no Gug
genheim, nothing. All she’d done was go shopping and attend a party.
And spend hours in Logan’s bed, being pleasured out of her mind, she corrected herself.
Except he didn’t want her. Not really. Brontë the waitress was embarrassing. He needed her to be Brontë the small business owner so he could retain his billionaire street cred or something. She sighed in humiliation and hugged the suitcase closer to her as someone sat down on the far end of the bench.
And here she was, stranded all over again. Except this time, there wasn’t an elevator or a hurricane or a handsome man to keep her company. This time she was stuck in New York City with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, her heart broken into a hundred pieces.
She could always go straight to the airport. Call this little vacation quits, admit defeat, and return home. Of course, then she’d have to find another job. Logan was her new boss, after all. She wouldn’t be able to stay at the diner knowing that at any moment he could come through that door and insist that she talk to him again. So. New job. It was a shame. She liked her coworkers.
Despair threatened to overwhelm her. She’d lost the man she loved, lost her job, and was stuck in a strange city. Had she ever been lower? Tears welled in her eyes.
Music began to play at the far end of the station, and she automatically looked up. A man stood by a pillar, his violin case open, his soft song echoing in the tunnel. Someone passed by and dropped a dollar, barely even looking, but Brontë was entranced.
She was sitting in New York City, and she hadn’t even explored the place. “Adventure is worthwhile,” she told herself. Aristotle had it right. Why not visit all the places in New York City that she wanted to see before going home? A thought occurred to her, and she pulled out her phone, flipping through the list of numbers. She dialed a recent one.
“Audrey Petty,” the woman on the line answered promptly.
“Audrey? It’s me, Brontë.”
“Brontë?” The other woman sounded confused for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”
Stranded with a Billionaire (THE BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB) Page 18
