Wooden deck furniture. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it and that white linen tent. Of having a pool with a freaking waterfall. She glanced around the room she was standing in. The carpet must have been two inches thick. She eyed the massive bed and expensive-looking coverlet, the painting with the plaque underneath that told her it was legit and not a copy. She went to the bathroom and flicked the light on.
The bathroom was bigger than her apartment. There was a sunken marble tub, a glass box shower, and three sinks. A wall full of mirrors on one side. A toilet and a bidet. Naturally.
This wasn’t just big money. This was ridiculous, stupid money.
And here she was, just a diner waitress who had gotten stuck in the elevator with a rich guy on an island.
No, she amended, a rich guy who owned the island.
She frowned, glancing back over at the bed. A telephone sat on an antique nightstand next to it. She went and picked it up, thinking hard. Brontë pulled out her wallet. Her credit card was intact, the few dollar bills she had in there a bit soggy but serviceable.
So she dialed information and got the number of a local taxi service. “I need a car to take me to the airport, please.”
“No problem. What’s your current address?”
“I have no idea. Can you do a reverse lookup on the number?”
The woman on the other end of the line agreed, then a moment later, said, “I’ve got the address. Someone will be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
Brontë hung up and crossed the room, sliding her shoes back on. She’d wanted a harmless weekend fling that she could leave behind, no strings attached. She’d gotten one. Logan might have wanted to continue their little island affair now that they were on the mainland, but he should have thought of that before he’d lied to her and then dismissed her concerns.
In her mind, she’d left Logan behind on the island. She’d liked the playful, fun Logan. Manager Logan. She had no interest in the rich asshole Logan, she thought sadly. The real Logan.
The one she’d fallen for was a fake.
***
Logan appropriated Jonathan’s study and made a few important phone calls that couldn’t wait another day. He called his assistant and asked her to order a new phone to be shipped to him overnight as well as to cancel his credit cards since he’d left his wallet somewhere at the resort. Then he called a few business partners to let them know he was indeed alive and that meetings should be rescheduled.
When he’d finished with the calls, he hung up the phone and found that Jonathan had reentered the room at some point during his last call. He’d brought a bottle of whiskey and sat down directly across from Logan, placing it between them. “Need a drink? You look like you could use one.”
He waved away the offer. “The only drink I could use right now is water. Alcohol just dehydrates you.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “You never loosen up, do you? It’s a wonder that your little gal pal didn’t run away screaming as soon as you opened your mouth.”
Funny. Brontë hadn’t though he was a stiff-necked jerk. He scowled at Jonathan. His adventurous friend got on his nerves with his laissez-faire attitude. Jonathan would move mountains—or destroy companies—to help his friend out, but sometimes the man needed to learn to shut up.
“We got stuck in an elevator.”
Jonathan snorted, knocking back his drink. “Is that how you got left behind? I was wondering if that shit manager of the place had neglected to tell anyone that you were there.”
“I fired him a few hours before the evacuation.” So no, Logan hadn’t been really surprised that no one had come looking for them. “How’d you figure out I was still there?”
“Oh, Hunter’s assistant’s been trying to get a hold of you for something, and when he couldn’t contact you for a couple of days, he set Hunter on it. Hunter didn’t have a chopper, so he called me.” Jonathan shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to figure out where you were at.”
Huh. Logan supposed he should thank Hunter next time he saw him. “Thank you for the rescue.”
Jonathan grinned. “I figured I’d come after you. It might have taken anyone else a few more days.”
Yet another thing to tick off on his list of items to improve at the Seaturtle Cay resort: evacuation plans. From what he’d seen, he wasn’t impressed. He and Brontë could have been in serious danger. Damn useless manager. Logan was glad he’d fired the guy.
“So . . . the girl. You said her name was Brontë?”
Logan nodded absently, thinking of her wind-tossed hair and her brilliant smile. Her crawling under the table, her lips around his cock.
“Cute girl. She’s with you, I take it?”
His eyes narrowed and a possessive surge rocketed through him. “Why?”
Jonathan raised a hand. “Down, boy. I was just going to comment that she wasn’t your regular type.”
Logan’s jaw clenched. Was this another Danica comment? “What exactly do you know about my regular type?”
“They’re friendlier, for one. That girl looked like she was ready to chew you up and spit you out once she found out you owned the place. You lied to her?”
“She saw my suit and assumed I was the manager. I decided not to disabuse her of that assumption. Seemed easier.”
“Well, I guess she’s not a gold digger,” Jonathan commented. “She did look pretty pissed, though.”
“She’ll get over it. The lie was to her benefit.”
“Shit, man, that’s cold. I hope you didn’t tell her that.”
Logan fixed his narrow gaze on Jonathan. The man wasn’t a player like Reese; he was constantly traveling or in some sort of adventure, and he had yet to find a woman to keep up with him. Ironic that he was giving Logan advice on a woman’s feelings. But if he was saying that Brontë would be offended, he might be right. “She’s not like other women. She’ll realize that I was protecting my identity and be fine with it.”
It had been an utterly pleasurable experience, too, he had to admit. Being with a woman and not having to worry whether she was thinking about what he could buy her? It had been freeing. He hadn’t realized how much so until he’d met Brontë.
“If you say so. You know her better than I do. What did you say she did for a living?”
“Nothing.”
Jonathan frowned and then leaned forward to pour himself another drink. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“I mean she does nothing for a living. She’s a waitress at a sock hop diner.” He tried hard not to let his lip curl at the thought. “She worked there during college and never really left.”
“Ah. I’m starting to see why you kept your identity a secret. Afraid she’s going to look to you to keep her in the lifestyle that she needs?”
Logan thought about that for a moment, frowning to himself. Actually, he didn’t see Brontë like that at all. She’d been so pleased with the smallest of things—like this morning’s breakfast. If anything, she seemed uncomfortable with wealth. She’d been looking around Jonathan’s beach house in pure dismay. It would take her a while to get used to this lifestyle, he figured.
He imagined bringing her with him to his penthouse in New York. Imagined dressing her in the finest silk lingerie and getting to strip it off of her body as she showed him how pleased she was with it. Introducing her to his friends and seeing her radiant smile light up her face. Coming to bed and having her roll over and snuggle close, her hand going automatically to his cock to grasp it even in her sleep.
He rather liked the thought of Brontë in his life. Low-key, unassuming Brontë in his arms, snuggled up next to him in the car, in his home . . . in his bed. He liked that visual very much. And she was a waitress, so it wasn’t like she’d be giving up a career to be at his beck and call. An inward smile curved his mouth.
“She’s not like that, Jonathan.
She’s different. Trust me.”
“If you say so. She seems nice enough, the few minutes she wasn’t glaring at you.” His friend shrugged and picked up the liquor bottle, moving back to the cabinet by the window.
“I’ll make it up to her,” Logan decided after a long minute. Maybe he’d take her to another beach resort. A real one, not that rundown rat trap at Seaturtle Island.
But Jonathan was still staring out the window. His lips twitched, and he glanced back at Logan. “You said she won’t hold a grudge?”
Logan shook his head.
“And that she’s different from most women?”
“Where are you going with this, Jonathan?”
Jonathan grinned and thumbed toward the window. “She’s definitely different, I’ll give her that. I’m thinking she was so overcome at the news of your wealth that she felt the need to run. Your ladylove just escaped in a cab.”
Logan jumped to his feet, moving to the window. Sure enough, there was a cab pulling away from the house, heading east. Damn it. She’d run away. Why? He didn’t understand. “Where do you think she’s going?”
“Away from you?”
He glared at Jonathan. Bullshit. His lovely, laughing Brontë? Running? Something was wrong. “Go tell your driver to follow them.”
Jonathan gave him an incredulous look. “You’re joking, right? She’s a free woman. She’s allowed to leave. Why don’t you call her and apologize?”
Logan didn’t have anything to apologize for, damn it. He scowled as he picked up the phone, then dropped it again. “I don’t have her number.”
Jonathan shrugged and glanced back out the window again. “So call your private investigator and ask him to look her up. There can’t be that many Brontës running around, can there?”
Logan watched the cab disappear into the distance with hard eyes. The time they’d spent together on the island had been perfect. Why was she running now that they were back on land? Was this punishment because he’d lied to her? A challenge of some kind? Did she want to be chased?
Little did she know that Logan Hawkings never backed down from a challenge. And her leaving without even saying good-bye? That was definitely a challenge.
Except she likely didn’t realize that it only made her more attractive to him, Logan thought. If there was any further proof needed that she wasn’t after his money, it was this. Brontë had wanted him when he was a nobody. Now he needed to find her again and prove to her that she’d still want him, regardless of the fact that he was really Logan Hawkings, billionaire.
And he could be very convincing when he wanted to be.
***
When Brontë entered the diner on Monday, Sharon approached her with a happy little squeal. “You’re home!”
“I am,” she said wearily, returning the enthusiastic hug with a halfhearted one. “Did you get home okay?”
“I did! Did you know that my passport was in the bar? Silly me. Anyhow, a nice man found it and gave it to me just before I got on a bus. I ended up spending the rest of the trip in some low-rent hotel on Miami Beach. It was free, but it wasn’t great.” She shrugged. “I tried calling you, though. You never answered and I couldn’t find you, and I couldn’t stick around. Which bus did you get on?”
Brontë moved to the break room and unlocked her locker, then tossed her purse in, all the while Sharon was at her heels. “I didn’t get on a bus. I got stuck in an elevator when the power went out.”
Sharon’s eyes went round. “The power went out?”
“Misfortune shows those who are not really friends,” she quoted to herself. Aristotle had certainly been right on that account. Sharon hadn’t even stuck around to see if Brontë was coming back? What a pal.
Brontë pulled her frilly white apron out of her locker and tied it around her waist. “That’s right. I was stuck in there for almost a day.”
“By yourself?”
She hesitated a moment. “No, there was a guy in there.”
Sharon’s look went from shocked to sly in an instant. “Was he hot?” She paused, and then grinned. “You’re blushing. He was hot, wasn’t he? Did you two hook up?”
“Island fling,” Brontë said, keeping her tone casual. “Just like we talked about.”
“How totally romantic!” Sharon clutched her notepad to her breast and gazed at the ceiling. “So it was just you two, all alone in a big resort. . . .”
“Don’t forget the hurricane,” Brontë said drily. “And anyhow, it was just a momentary thing. It’s done. Over with. I didn’t even ask for his phone number.” She’d been too busy fleeing Jonathan’s house in Miami.
Sharon gave her a knowing look, reaching over and shutting Brontë’s locker. “Hound dog, huh? Maybe he only looked good in the middle of a hurricane.”
“I said he was good-looking.” She headed out to the front of the diner, which was already packed due to lunch hour. It was a themed restaurant, sock hop style. They served malts, burgers, and played fifties songs. Very kitschy. Her waitress outfit was retro, too. Sometimes it was fun. Sometimes it wasn’t. Today was one of those days when she would’ve rather been anywhere but the narrow little diner, since it meant she’d be bumping elbows with a very curious Sharon all afternoon.
“If he’s so hot and studly, why didn’t you bother to get the digits?” Sharon’s eyes widened, and she followed Brontë behind the bar. “Was he bad in bed? Is that why you ran?”
“I didn’t run,” Brontë gritted out. “And this is none of your business.”
“Bad in bed,” Sharon pronounced triumphantly, sauntering off to a table waving her down.
Brontë tucked a pencil and pad in her apron with extra care, determined to ignore Sharon. She was just trying to bug her, Brontë reasoned. And what exactly could she come back with? Actually, Logan was very sexy, and great in bed. Why did I run? Because he was loaded and he didn’t tell me. I felt like he lied to me.
Sharon wouldn’t understand that. She’d hear the word “loaded,” and her brain would stop functioning. And she’d insist on Brontë either hooking up with Logan again, or giving Sharon his number. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to do either.
She’d had a weekend to stew on her strategic retreat. All the way to the airport, then on the flight home, she’d half expected to turn the corner and see Logan waiting for her. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to come after her made her feel . . . well, she wasn’t sure. Part of her was disappointed that he’d let her walk away and part of her was relieved.
Brontë had searched for him on the Internet when she’d gotten home. He wasn’t just the owner of the resort, she’d found out. He owned that and an airline. And another hotel in Vegas. And a castle in England. And a private island in Fiji. And a dozen other companies that she didn’t even know what they did.
Logan Hawkings was not just rich. He was obscenely rich. Billionaire rich.
And that scared the hell out of her. It was just as well that he’d lied to her, or she would’ve run away. Guys like that had the ability to ruin someone’s life. That was a little too much power, in her opinion.
And sure, he’d been handsome and flirty . . . on the island. Then, it had been just the two of them. As soon as they’d gotten to Jonathan’s swanky house (which apparently was small compared to Logan’s sixteen residences), everything had changed. He’d gone from being the manager to being some foreign creature with tons of money, and she hadn’t known how to handle that.
So she’d run away.
It was for the best, she told herself. People like Logan moved in entirely different circles from people like Brontë. Besides, he wasn’t really interested in her. She could just imagine how he’d sneered to himself when he’d found out what her job was. A waitress was good for a fling, but that was about it. And he’d told her that he didn’t want a long-term relationship. Fair enough.
Someo
ne raised an empty glass of water, and Brontë grabbed a pitcher, heading over to the table.
She was a waitress, and she had a small, simple life. Someone like her had no business being in someone like Logan Hawkings’s life.
***
As soon as Logan returned to New York, he contacted his private detective to get an update on Brontë.
“Found her,” the detective said into the phone. “I’m sending the information over to your personal e-mail address. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Excellent work,” Logan told him, and hung up. He hit refresh on his e-mail and waited, staring out the window at the New York skyline. Gorgeous night. Gorgeous weather.
But he was restless as hell.
He blamed Brontë and the island. He’d woken up from a dream about her the night before and had found himself alone in bed with an aching erection. When he rode the elevator to his office, he automatically thought of Brontë curled up on the floor in the darkness in her bra and panties, and the way she’d slid her ass into his face as she’d escaped. When someone laughed, he thought of Brontë’s nervous giggle.
He . . . missed her.
It was pointless and a bit stupid, of course. He’d only known her for a few days. He’d spent more time with other women. But there had been something so easy and likable about Brontë. She hadn’t required anything of him but his attention. She hadn’t asked not-so-innocent questions about investments or properties. She’d been relaxing. Adorable. Charming. Sexy.
And she’d run away from him.
The e-mail dinged, and Logan swiveled in his chair. He ignored the meeting invite that popped up on his calendar and opened the e-mail attachments instead, pleased to see the info he’d requested.
His private investigator was thorough, he’d give him that. Enclosed were several scans of Brontë’s personal documents. Her driver’s license showed a woman with smooth, silky brown hair, but the wide face and beaming smile were his Brontë. Brontë Dawson, it read, and it had her home address. Age twenty-four. Kansas City, Missouri. He studied the picture of her, then moved on to the credit report. Some credit card debt, a few late payments, but nothing egregious. Very normal middle-class American. He moved to her employment history next. She currently worked at Josie’s Diner. The private detective had even taken a few photos from afar and attached them to the e-mail, and Logan’s breath caught at a picture of Brontë in a short pink waitress costume with a frilly apron. Her head was tilted, and she looked like she was laughing at something someone had said. A man? His gut churned with jealousy.
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