She scowled at him. “How about asking me when I’m sober? I’m supposed to work for the next week.”
“Gretchen says they will be fine without you.”
“You talked to Gretchen?”
“She packed a bag for you. Don’t you remember?”
Brontë blinked, trying to recall. Nope, the night before was still a whiskey-filled blur. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me.”
“I’m sure,” Logan said, kissing her neck. He sounded amused.
Her hands went to his thick hair, and she ran her nails over his scalp, sighing with pleasure when he licked at the sensitive dip in her throat. “Logan, I want to talk to you.”
His teeth grazed her collarbone. “Talk, love. I’m listening.”
“You’re being very distracting.”
“I’ve only started to be distracting,” he told her in a husky voice. His hand slipped inside her robe and cupped her bare breast, thumb playing over her nipple.
Heat and longing shot through her body, and she moaned, her hips moving reflexively. “That’s not fair,” she gasped, her words rising an octave when he continued to circle her nipple with the pad of his thumb, making the sensitive peak stiff. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”
“I’m very serious right now,” Logan told her, tugging open the belt of her robe and exposing her breasts. His head moved down, and he kissed the other nipple. “I’ve wanted to touch you all day, and I’m very serious about getting to do so right now.”
“Logan,” she breathed, her fingers gripping his hair tightly. “I wanted to talk about you and me.”
His teeth gently bit her nipple. “How good we are together?”
She moaned as he raked his teeth lightly over her nipple again, then tongued the sensitive flesh. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
Grinding to a screeching halt, Logan jerked up, his gaze meeting hers. Those warm, delicious eyes were now staring back at her warily, and his voice was cold. “What were you thinking?”
Oh. Brontë felt a twinge of shame at his immediate wariness. His reaction was so strong as a result of her constant running away. He was expecting her to bail on him again. She reached up and stroked his strong, tense jaw. “I was thinking that . . . I’ve been unfair to you.”
He stared down at her, no emotion showing. Those hard eyes glittered. “You have been unfair . . . to me? Explain.”
“Yes,” she said, and skimmed her thumb over his lower lip. It was really unfair that he was so sensual and masculine. “Whenever things got a little frightening for me, I ran away. I should have stayed and talked to you. And . . . I’m sorry. I want this to work between us. I want you. I want to be with you.”
Logan’s cold expression finally cracked. He exhaled loudly, and then buried his face against her.
“Logan?” She touched his hair.
“I thought you were going to leave me again.” The relief in his voice was evident, and he began to press kisses on her stomach. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” she said, the nervous giggle escaping her throat. Damn stupid giggle. “I’m . . . I won’t run again. Not without talking to you first. I just . . . it’s hard to know where I fit in your world when I’ve always had trouble even fitting in to my own.”
“I know where you fit,” Logan said, sitting up suddenly. He pressed a fist to his heart. “Right here, Brontë.”
Sudden tears pricked her eyes. “I love you, Logan.”
“I love you, too,” he told her, leaning down and kissing her mouth lightly. “And I want you to be comfortable with me. If something bothers you, tell me so I can fix it or change it.”
“I think it’s me more than you, Logan. I thought that if I came to you and did nothing but sit around your house, I’d turn into one of those women that you hate. I’d do nothing but spend your money on shoes and purses all day long, like Danica.”
“It wasn’t that Danica spent my money, love. If you dedicated your life to shopping, you wouldn’t be able to spend all my money. It was that she valued the money more than she valued our relationship. You’ve never been like that. You never will be. It’s not in your nature.” He picked up her hand and kissed the palm of it tenderly. “That’s one reason why I fell for you so hard.”
“I might spend some of your money,” Brontë blurted, waiting for him to react. But he didn’t; he only continued to smile at her. “I’ve realized that I was resenting you for my being a waitress, which is stupid. It isn’t your fault I picked a major that wouldn’t get me anywhere except waiting tables. It wasn’t that you wanted me to make something of myself. It’s that I wasn’t happy with who I was. That doesn’t change with or without money, really. But Gretchen woke me up, and I realized that only I can make myself satisfied with my career path. All I know is I that being without you made me unhappy even when I was waiting tables again. So . . .” She breathed deep and blurted, “I want to go back to college and get a graduate degree. Or start a charity to donate books to schools and retirement homes like Gretchen does, but on a bigger scale. Or do both. Or all of it. I’m not sure. But I want to do something with myself. I’ll get bored sitting around your apartment all day.”
A smile curved his hard mouth. “Love, I want you to do whatever makes you happy. And if going back to school helps you—or starting a charity—then we’ll do both. As long as we do it together.”
“Together.” She blinked rapidly, overcome. “I’m sorry I’ve made this so difficult. I—”
“Shhh,” he told her. “You didn’t. You were just frightened, and I tend to be overbearing and controlling. It’s part of my nature.”
“It is,” she agreed with a small smile. “You’re used to handling the situation. But a girl likes to be asked every now and then.”
“I promise to ask more,” he said, and his eyes grew serious again. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small box. Logan held it out to her. “Starting now.”
She sucked in a breath, staring at the small, dark blue box. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, and slowly snapped the case open.
An oval diamond the size of a pebble was set into a thick gold band. She stared at the ring in surprise, then at Logan.
“I picked the inscription for you,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “Do you like it?”
“Inscription?” She pulled the ring out of the box and peered at the inside of the band, turning the ring to read the tiny lettering printed there. “‘Every heart hears a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.’” Her eyes filled with the tears she’d been unable to hold back. “It’s beautiful. Ovid?”
“Plato, actually,” he told her with a grin. A laugh escaped her, wild and free. Plato. Of course it was. How very perfect.
“You’re my heart, Brontë. I know it feels like such a short time together, but I want to wake up every day with you at my side and in my life.” He took the ring from her trembling fingers and held it out to her. “Will you marry me?”
“Of course I will,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” Logan told her. “Waitress, philosopher, or charitable organizer, I’ll love you all the same as long as you’ll be mine.”
Slipping the ring on her finger, she kissed him with all the love in her heart.
Epilogue
It didn’t take long for Brontë to decide what she wanted to do with her life. Gretchen’s book donation charity had inspired her, and after signing up for continuing education classes at NYU, she worked with Logan’s financial advisors to set up a charity. Philosophy Reads was soon born, complete with a fancy website and nonprofit status. Her goal? To bring her love of reading and knowledge to those who couldn’t afford it or couldn’t get out. Brontë selected two books—one classic and one modern—and then purchased hundreds of co
pies. These she had delivered to local libraries, retirement homes, and hospitals, and she set up weekly meetings for people to meet and discuss them.
She nearly danced with delight when her first meeting—at the retirement home where Gretchen had dropped off books before—had an attendance of nearly fifty people, all of them brimming with enthusiasm to discuss that month’s reads, The Iliad and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. She wanted to eventually introduce them to heavier reads, but she’d start them out slow. The discussions were a success in some venues, and in others, not as much—she had a few that were sparsely attended. But it was a work in progress, and she was determined to fine-tune her charity and turn it into a well-oiled machine that would help bring the joy of reading to those who might otherwise overlook it.
That part of her life had become incredibly satisfying—almost as much as living with Logan. As soon as she’d moved back in, she’d quietly begun to refill his library with new reads—some classics, which Logan read out a sense of obligation to her, but when she caught him quietly reading a Tom Clancy paperback, she also added men’s action thrillers to his section and even read some of them herself so they could discuss the books over dinner.
Logan was proud of her charity, and never objected to the amount of money she spent. At night they twined around each other, locked in bliss.
She’d signed the nondisclosure agreement without a word of complaint and had offered to sign a prenup. Logan turned down her offer vehemently and then spent the evening kissing her back into submission. The fact that she was willing, he told her, was more than enough for him.
Life was just about perfect for Brontë, and she grew to love Logan more each day. Every morning, she woke up eager for what the day would bring and excited about how much she enjoyed being with Logan. And every day she held her engagement ring—that big, audacious diamond she would have run from a few months prior—and read the heart-melting inscription to herself again.
Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.
And Brontë’s heart was complete now that Logan’s was whispering back.
Keep reading for a preview of the next book in the Billionaire Boys Club
BEAUTY AND THE BILLIONAIRE
Available July 2013 from InterMix
Hunter Buchanan didn’t believe in love at first sight. Hell, he didn’t much believe in love at all.
But the moment he’d seen the tall redhead standing in the foyer of one of his empty houses, a box of books in her arms and a skeptical look on her face, he’d felt . . . something. She’d been bold and fearless with her words, something that attracted him as a man that clung to the shadows.
And when she’d admitted to her quiet friend that most men bored her and she wanted something different in a relationship than just a pretty face?
Hunter knew she was meant for him.
She was pretty, young, and single. She had a smart mind and a sharp tongue. He liked that about her. She was unafraid and laughed easily. Days had passed since he’d glimpsed her and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. She haunted his dreams.
Hunter was smart as well, and rich, and only a few years older than her. It shouldn’t have been unattainable.
Unconsciously, he touched the deeply gouged scars on his face, fingers tracing the thick line of the scar at the corner of his mouth where damaged tissue had been reconstructed.
There was one thing preventing Hunter from pursuing a woman like that. His face. His hideous, scarred face. He could hide the scars on his chest and arm with clothing. He could clench his hand and no one would notice that he was missing a finger. But he couldn’t hide his face. When he chose to leave his house, people crossed the street to avoid him. Men frowned as if there were something unnerving about him. Women flinched away from the sight of it.
Just like the woman next to him currently was doing.
Brontë, Logan’s big-eyed girlfriend, sat next to him at the Brotherhood’s poker table. The dark basement was filled with a haze of cigar smoke and the scent of liquor. Normally the room was filled with his five best friends, but they’d gone upstairs to ‘talk’ to Logan about the fact that he’d brought his new girlfriend with him to a secret society meeting. Brontë had stayed behind . . . with him. It was clearly not by her choice, either. She sat at the table quietly, nursing her wine glass and trying not to look as if she’d wanted to bolt from the table once she’d gotten a good look at his face. Her gaze slid to his damaged hand, and then back to his face again.
He was used to that sort of thing. And he wondered if the redhead who was her friend would react the same way to his face.
Experience told him that she would. But he remembered the redhead’s sarcastic little smile and that shake of her head. The words she’d said.
And he found he had to know more.
“Your friend,” he said to Brontë. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”
She looked over at him again, those dark eyes wide and surprised, pupils dilated from alcohol. “You mean Gretchen?”
“Yes.” He knew her first name, but he wanted to know more about her. “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.”
She frowned at him. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”
Hunter glanced down at his cards and tried not to suppress the annoyance he felt at her caginess. Couldn’t a man ask a simple question? “I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”
“Like a stalker.”
“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”
“That’s what a stalker would say.”
Hunter gritted his teeth, glancing over at her. She automatically shied back, her expression a little alarmed as she studied his scars. He ignored that. “Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests. I simply wish to learn more about her.”
After all, what woman would want to date a man with a grotesque face? Only ones that wanted his money, and he wasn’t interested in those. He wanted a companion, not a whore.
“Oh,” Brontë said, and studied her wineglass as if it were fascinating to her. “Petty,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”
Now they were getting somewhere. He mentally filed the information away. Gretchen Petty, author. He could see that. She had a sharp mind. “What kinds of books?”
“Books with other people’s names on them.”
He gave her an impatient stare, hating the way she shrank back in her chair just a bit. “A ghost writer?”
Brontë nodded. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”
“Cooper? Who is Cooper?” Whoever it was, Hunter fucking hated him. Probably good looking, smug, and not nearly good enough for her. Damn it.
“Cooper’s her friend. It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. Gretchen likes guys that are different. She likes to be challenged.”
He snorted. Well, she’d definitely get a challenge with him.
They chatted for a bit longer, the conversation awkward. Brontë kept turning her face to the door, no doubt anxiously awaiting Logan’s return. Logan was a good looking man, tall, strong, and unscarred. Brontë was a soft, sweet creature, but he doubted she’d ever look at someone like him with anything more than revulsion or pity.
He’d had his share of pity already, thanks.
Gretchen Petty, he repeated to himself. A ghostwriter. Someone that wrote books for others and hid behind their names. Why, he wondered. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind a moniker. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind anything. And that fascinated him. What would draw a woman like her to him? Did he even want to try? Did he want to see if she looked at him with a horror that she was
trying desperately to hide for the sake of politeness, just like Logan’s woman? Or would she see the person behind the scars and determine that he was just as interesting as any other man?
A plan began to form in his mind.
It wasn’t a nice plan, or a very honest one. The good thing about money, though, was that it allowed you to take control of almost any situation, and Hunter definitely planned on using what he had to his advantage.
***
The Brotherhood played poker on into the night while his bodyguard stood at the door, keeping out anyone that would disturb them. They drank, they smoked cigars, and they played cards. It was one of their usual meetings, if one could ignore the quietly sleeping woman curled up on the couch in the corner of the room, Logan’s jacket a blanket over her shoulders. Business was discussed, alcohol drank in quantity, and notes taken for analyzing in the morning. Tips were shared back and forth, investment opportunities and the like.
The Brotherhood had met like this once a week since their college days, vowing to help one another. At the time, it had seemed like an idealistic pledge—that those born with money would help the others succeed, and as a result, they would all rise to the top of the ladder of success.
It had been an easy vow to make for Hunter. When Logan had befriended him in an Economics class, he’d been oddly relieved to have a friend. After being home schooled for the majority of his education, Dartmouth seemed like a nightmare landscape to him. People were everywhere, and they stared at his hideous face and scarred arm like he was a freak. He had no roommate or companions to introduce him to others on campus, and so he’d lurked in the background of the bustling campus society, avoiding eye contact and silent.
Logan had been popular—wealthy, handsome, and outgoing, he knew what he wanted and pursued it. Women flocked to him and other guys liked him. It had surprised Hunter when Logan had struck up a conversation with him one day. No one talked to the scarred outcast. But Logan had stared at Hunter’s scars for a long moment, and then gone right back to their Economics homework, discussing the syllabus and how he felt the class was missing some of the vital concepts they would need to succeed. Hunter had privately agreed, having learned quite a bit of his father’s business on his own, and they’d shared ideas. After a week or two of casual conversation, Logan had taken him aside and suggested that Hunter attend a meeting he was putting together.
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 27
