Stranded With a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  The next item was a brief history of the diner and financials on it. The place was months away from going out of business. There was a list of prior addresses that Brontë had lived at, along with roommates. Female names. Good. She didn’t have a live-in boyfriend. Not that he thought she would. She didn’t strike him as the type to lie about her relationship status when she’d been so very offended by his lie about his financial status.

  His gaze fell on her phone number. He called and listened to it ring.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice was soft and pleasant, just like he remembered. “It’s me, Brontë.”

  He heard her suck in a breath. “Don’t call me. Please.”

  “I wanted—”

  “You’re a liar.” She hung up.

  He stared down at the phone. He wasn’t going to call and beg her to see him. That wasn’t his style. But he wanted to talk to her. To see if they could connect like they had on the island. He needed to find a way that she’d be unable to avoid seeing him.

  Logan picked through the information the private investigator had sent him and paused on the diner’s financial info. And he smiled.

  ***

  “Hello?” Brontë picked up her phone, yawning and glancing at the clock next to the bed. It was seven thirty in the morning on her day off. This call had better be an emergency.

  “Hey, Bron, it’s me.” Sharon’s voice. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up. “What is it?”

  “The diner was sold.”

  “Sold?” Brontë sat upright, her heart pounding. “Do we still have our jobs?”

  “As far as I know. But the new management has called a meeting this morning at nine, and they want everyone to attend.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll be there.”

  Brontë dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and drove down to the diner. The diner sold? She knew that being a waitress wasn’t a permanent sort of job, but she didn’t have the savings to make a career transition at the moment. Plus, if your résumé showed nothing but waiting tables, people wouldn’t hire you for much else. Turned out that a philosophy degree didn’t really get you places in Kansas City. She hadn’t planned on being a waitress for so long, but now that she was in danger of losing her job, her stomach was tied in knots. She needed a paycheck.

  When she got to the diner, the sign was flipped to CLOSED, unusual given that it was breakfast rush hour, but maybe the new boss didn’t care about that. She slipped inside, noticing a cluster of employees seated at booths at the far end of the diner.

  “Hi,” she said, casting a worried look at Sharon, Angie, and Marj, fellow waitresses. The cooks sat at another table, and the old manager was nowhere to be seen. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Not yet,” Angie said, pushing a piece of gum into her mouth and chewing nervously. “You think the new boss is going to shut us down?”

  “Surely not,” Brontë said.

  “Then why call us all in here?” Marj asked, worried.

  Brontë didn’t know. “Maybe he just wanted to meet us all personally?”

  Sharon smacked her lips. “I caught a good look at him. I’d like to meet him up close and personal. Rowr. He’s sexy.”

  “He’s your new boss,” Marj snapped. “Keep your hormones under wraps.”

  “You saw him?” Brontë asked. “Does he seem nice?”

  “I don’t care if he’s nice,” Sharon said, grinning. She smoothed a hand down her ruffled apron. “I told you he was cute, didn’t I? I think he likes me. He keeps looking over here.”

  Brontë turned around, glancing back at the kitchen, only to have Sharon tug on her bushy ponytail.

  “Don’t look!” Sharon hissed. “You’re being too obvious.”

  She pulled her hair free from Sharon’s grasp. “Is he in the kitchen?”

  “Yep. Oh, here he comes now.”

  A pair of men in suits emerged from the kitchen. One was an older man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. The younger one was tall and chiseled, his hair effortlessly perfect. At the sight of him, all the blood drained from Brontë’s face.

  Logan.

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied the two men. She leaned over to Sharon. “Which one did you say was the new owner?”

  Sharon snorted. “It’s not the old geezer. The hot one. He bought the place. Seems he’s an investor of some kind. Likes to buy businesses and turn them over for a profit.”

  Just like he had with the hotel. But this silly little diner seemed too tiny to be on the radar of someone as important as Logan Hawkings. There could only be one reason he was here personally. Brontë’s jaw clenched. He’d bought her place of work because she’d hung up on him.

  And now she was trapped.

  That jerk.

  Chapter Seven

  She didn’t look pleased to see him.

  Logan had expected that. He’d guessed when Brontë had hung up on him that she was holding a grudge of some kind. That was his reason for buying this hole in the wall diner. He wanted to find out what the problem was so he could fix it.

  And then he wanted her back in his arms and in his bed, laughing as he kissed her skin and quoting Plato when he undressed her.

  But she was seated with the other waitresses, arms crossed over her chest, and she looked furious. Even furious, though, she was lovely. Her smooth brown hair was twisted into a messy knot at her neck, and she wore a slick of lip gloss that made him wonder what she tasted like with it on. She wore a plain blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, but even in the casual clothing, she appealed to him more than the last model he’d dated.

  “Mr. Hawkings is the new owner of Josie’s Diner,” the consultant he’d hired began. “Over the next few weeks, we’re going to be looking carefully at every aspect of the business to determine where the most profit can be made. This means an inspection of purchasing, cooking, hours clocked in, and anything else you can think of. Mr. Hawkings is simply here to show you his commitment to the business.”

  As Logan watched, Brontë’s lips thinned into a line.

  Logan stood then, straightening his suit and casting a dispassionate look over all of them. “I’d like to meet with each of you individually so you have nothing to fear in regard to your job.” He picked up a clipboard and ignored the name on the top of the list, calling out the only one he was truly interested in. “I’ll start with Brontë Dawson.”

  She got to her feet reluctantly, her jaw set firmly.

  “Please follow me.” He gestured toward the kitchen.

  She stomped through the door, letting it swing behind her, and he resisted the urge to smile.

  Logan followed her in a moment later and gestured at the metal folding chair that had been set up in the center of the floor. “Please, have a seat.”

  She glanced at the door and then moved in a few feet, as if making sure that no one could hear their conversation. “You can drop the charade, Logan. We both know why you’re here.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at her, keeping his expression cool.

  “You’re doing this to get back at me.”

  Get back at her? Nothing could have been further from the truth. But Logan kept his expression neutral. “Perhaps you are not aware that my business excels at purchasing small, failing companies and making them profitable?”

  For a moment, she looked uncertain of herself. “Is that why you bought this one? Because it was failing?”

  “No,” he said, keeping his voice light and playful. “I purchased this one because I knew it was the only way I could speak to you again.”

  “So I was right. This is about me and you.” She gave him a sharp look. “It seemed like a bit too much of a coincidence that you showed up here.”

  “You got me,” he said, and stepped a bit closer, wondering if she’d ba
ck down or hold her ground.

  Brontë put her hands on her hips and stared up at him with a defiant look. “I did get you, didn’t I?” Her tone was half flirt, half challenge. “The problem is, you seem to think I want more of you.”

  “I think you do,” he said in a low, seductive tone. She hadn’t back down when he’d moved closer. They were so close now he could reach out and touch her, but he wouldn’t until she indicated she wanted him. “I think the real problem here is that you’re mad at me.”

  “Mad at you?” She gave a small, sharp laugh. “How can I be mad at you? I don’t even know who you are. Remember?”

  She was mad at him. Interesting. “If you’re not mad at me, then why avoid my phone calls?”

  Brontë ruined it by giggling. That high-pitched, nervous giggle told him volumes. “Because I went to that island to hook up with someone. You were nothing more than an island fling. I’m not interested in carrying on something off the island”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You should know what it’s like. You’re a liar.”

  “Am I?”

  “You didn’t tell me who you were.” She crossed her arms over her chest again. “You let me go on and on about the hotel, all because I thought you were the manager. Except you weren’t. You were the owner. And you never bothered to share that with me. You just kept it from me and laughed behind my back.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” His voice was husky now. “That I lied to you because I was laughing at you? Truly?”

  “I don’t know what to think of you,” she said in a soft voice that trembled just a little. “I don’t know you, remember? You made that very clear.”

  “I had my reasons for keeping my identity a secret from you, Brontë, and none of my reasons involve laughing at you.”

  She cast him another hurt look, and he began to realize just how much that secret had wounded her. Was it truly such a big deal to her? He’d been protecting himself, but it seemed that it had come at the expense of her feelings.

  And he needed to fix that.

  Logan stepped closer to her and brushed his fingers over her cheek. She slapped his hand away, but he supposed he deserved that.

  “You know who I am now, don’t you?” he asked.

  “The entire world seems to know who you are,” she said bitterly. “Stupid me was the only one that didn’t clue in to it.”

  “You’re not stupid,” he told her. “Don’t speak of yourself like that. I doubt you’d be familiar with my face unless you read the Wall Street Journal or followed the business section in the papers. And I’m not even sure then. Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you’re a celebrity.” He shrugged. “It does change how they react to you, though.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased just a little. “Oh?”

  “Most women I meet are more interested in my wallet than who I am. I thought I was going to be stuck in an elevator for God knows how long. I didn’t want it to be with someone who only saw dollar signs when she looked at me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest once more. “You should have had more faith in me.”

  “I didn’t know you,” he corrected gently, throwing her words back in her face. “We spent days together, and I feel like we still don’t know enough about each other. The time we had? It wasn’t enough. I want more time with you, Brontë. I want to learn about you, and you to learn about me.”

  Brontë looked up at him, chewing her lip as she thought. She shook her head. “How do I know that’s not a line you tell all the girls?”

  He flipped out his phone and offered it to her. “Call my assistant. She’ll tell you how many women I’ve dated in the last year. And then ask her how many women I asked to see again. The answer is none.”

  She wavered. “How would she know about your dating life?”

  “She schedules my reservations,” he said with a hint of a smile curving his mouth. “She knows my personal business because it’s her job to.”

  Brontë stared down at the phone for a minute, then back up at him. “Why me? You can have anyone you want. Why waste your time with a waitress from Kansas City?”

  “Because you treat me like a regular guy,” he told her. This time, when he leaned in to stroke her cheek, she didn’t pull away. “Because you make me smile. Because you light up when you find a perfect quote for the situation, and I love to see that. Because you’re smart and funny and down-to-earth, and that’s a rare combination in a pretty woman. Because you thought I was no one, and you still took your top off to swim naked with me.”

  A hot blush stained her cheeks. “I was trying to have an island fling, thank you very much.”

  “But now we’re off the island,” he told her. “And I’m still interested in flinging with you.”

  “Logan, I don’t know. You’re not the guy I thought you were. I wasn’t intimidated when I thought you were some guy with a hundred grand a year salary. Now you’re some guy with two hundred million dollars in businesses.”

  “Actually, it’s more like two billion.”

  She looked sick.

  “Technically.”

  “And you bought this diner just to meet with me again?” Her voice rose a squeaky octave.

  “Do you want this place? It’s yours.”

  She threw her hands up, shaking her head quickly. “No, absolutely not. I don’t want it. I don’t want my friends to lose their jobs just because you want me to date you, though.”

  “Your friends are safe. I don’t plan on interfering with business. Improving it, yes. Shutting it down, no. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

  She sighed with evident relief. “Thank you.”

  For some reason, that irked him. It was as if she didn’t believe him when he said that her turning him down wouldn’t affect her job. “Don’t thank me. It has nothing to do with your decision. I’m not a monster.”

  “So if I told you that I never wanted to see you again, you wouldn’t close the diner out of revenge?”

  “I would not. Even I can take a hint, Brontë.”

  She challenged him with a look. “You haven’t been very good at it so far.”

  Time to be direct, then. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently. “I liked what we had before. I liked waking up with you beside me. I liked wrapping my arms around you.” His mouth twitched with amusement. “I liked watching you play naked on the beach.”

  “Boy, you sure are focused on the naked—”

  “I also liked just talking with you, and laughing with you. Just being normal Logan with normal Brontë, having a dinner of M&M’s and scavenged crackers.”

  This time, her mouth curved into a smile. Her gaze went to his lips, and he continued to hold her hand close, ready to kiss the back of it.

  “Will you give me another chance, Brontë? A chance to get to know you better?”

  She nodded slowly. “But I want things to be normal between us. No more buying companies just to get close to me.”

  He grinned down at her and kissed her knuckles again, then flipped over her hand to graze her palm with his lips. “No more buying companies. Got it.”

  She leaned in, and he felt a surge of triumph when he saw her tilt her head back as if waiting for a kiss. Lust surged through him, and he leaned in and claimed her mouth, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in tight against him. His mouth conquered hers, their tongues slicking together and when they parted, she was breathless as she gazed up at him.

  “Logan, I—”

  He leaned in to kiss away any sort of protest she was about to make. When they parted again, she looked up at him, dazed.

  “I missed you,” she blurted, and then blushed. “Wow, that just sounded stupid.”

  “Not to me.” He found himself grinning down at her. “Was that P
lato?”

  She rolled her eyes, but was unable to stop the beaming smile that spread across her face. “You think everything is Plato.” She smoothed a hand over her hair and gave him an awkward little smile. “So, um, do you live in Kansas City, too? I thought the articles said you live in New York City.”

  “I do.”

  Confusion swept over her face. “Then how are we going to see each other?”

  “I thought you’d come back with me,” he told her. “Stay with me for a few weeks. See if we still click.”

  Her mouth worked in silent protest.

  He moved in, wrapping her tight in his arms. His mouth descended on hers once more, taking her in a hard, relentless kiss that promised so many things. By the time he released her, she staggered and had to cling to him for support.“Say you’ll come with me.”

  “I don’t know. I—”

  The words died in her throat as he kissed her once more, his tongue stroking against hers in a rhythmic, suggestive fashion that sent curls of heat licking through her body. When he released her that time, he repeated the same command.

  “Say you’ll come with me, Brontë.”

  “I—”

  Logan leaned in to kiss the protest out of her again.

  “Okay,” she said quickly, putting a hand to his chest. “You don’t have to convince me again. This’ll just be vacation two-point-oh or something.” Brontë peered up at him suspiciously, still dazed from the kisses. “I don’t suppose you have a nice, low-key little flat in Manhattan?”

  “I own several nice, low-key little high-rises.”