She put her hand out in greeting. “I’m Brontë.”
“Of course you are,” Griffin murmured, his voice cultured and smooth. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing the back of it. “Anne, Charlotte, or Emily?”
“Take your pick,” she said lightly, feeling a bit more comfortable. If he could name all three Brontë sisters, he was probably well educated and would be interesting to talk to.
“I’m chaperoning while Logan has to do the rounds,” Cade said. “Brontë didn’t look as if she was enjoying the stock market conversation, so I was put in charge of her rescue.”
“Wise choice,” Griffin agreed. “So you quoted Plutarch. Are you a big fan of his work?”
“Actually, I don’t know that I am. While I enjoyed his Parallel Lives,” she said, tilting her head to study Griffin’s expression, “I find them rather biased toward his own particular philosophy, which is ironic considering that he castigated Herodotus for doing the same in his works.”
Cade chuckled. “And this is the part where both of you lose me. I think I’m off to get a refill while you two discuss dead Greek guys. Would you like more wine, Brontë?”
“Please,” she told him with a smile. “That would be lovely.”
Griffin stepped closer to her as Cade moved away. “So how did Logan end up with a woman who quotes philosophy? You’ll forgive me if I say that most women he dates don’t seem the type to be able to read anything beyond a fashion magazine, much less ancient history.”
“Well,” she began, smiling at Griffin. “We got stuck in an elevator together in a hurricane.”
***
The party continued on throughout the night, and Brontë caught occasional glimpses of Logan, but every time he paused to speak to her or pull her close for a stolen moment, someone else would appear and steal him away from her. Brontë took it all with good humor. It was fascinating to see just how many people wanted to talk to Logan and seemed to hang on his every word. It wasn’t his party, but he was the star of it.
Cade had courteously remained at her side throughout the night, chatting with her and making her comfortable, introducing her to people. She suspected that Logan had had a conversation with him in advance of the party itself to ensure that she was taken care of when he couldn’t be at her side, but she didn’t mind. Cade was charming, and he shielded her from uncomfortable questions. Griffin had turned out to be extremely pleasant and knowledgeable, too, and she had a standing invite to attend a philosophy salon he was holding at a local college.
She’d even met playboy Reese for a brief moment. He’d approached with a seductive look on his face, kissed her hand, and then backed off when Cade introduced her as Logan’s date. He’d given her a reluctant grin, as if to say “next time,” and moved on to a group of supermodels.
Cade excused himself to meet up with an old friend, and Brontë took the opportunity to escape out onto the balcony. Her head was swimming from all the wine she’d drunk, and she’d eaten very little due to nerves. Fresh air helped, though, and she leaned against the railing of the near-empty balcony breathing in the night air. At the far end of the balcony, a smoker finished his cigarette and returned to the party. Brontë remained, though, staring down at the view with something akin to wonder. Definitely not Kansas City. New York seemed to be a magical place. There was something about it that thrilled her. It was a place where things happened, and she liked that.
“Well, hello there,” a sweet, almost musical voice said at her shoulder.
Brontë turned and smiled faintly at the woman standing before her. She didn’t look familiar. She was gorgeous, though. Long, pale blond hair rippling in the night breeze, a thick fringe of bangs over her forehead. Her body was sheathed in a tight white bandage dress, and she towered over Brontë in platform sandals. She looked like a beautiful, cold ice queen.
She gave Brontë an assessing up-and-down glance. “I was wondering if I’d get a chance to talk to you. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they?”
Brontë smiled politely. “What do you mean, well guarded?”
The woman waved a hand. “His little friends. The band of billionaires or whatever they call themselves. Logan wants to make sure that you avoid people like me at this party, so he’s assigned his buddies to shadow you.”
Realization hit. Brontë kept the smile on her face with effort. “You must be Danica. I was told you’d be here.”
The woman looked impressed for a moment. “Not told by Logan, I imagine.” Her gaze dropped to Brontë’s diamond-encrusted throat. “Nice necklace. Present?”
Brontë said nothing.
Danica cocked her head. “Did he tell you that we were engaged? My guess is no. He’s very closed off emotionally. I suppose you can blame his father for that. The elder Mr. Hawkings was a real asshole, but at some point, Logan has to take responsibility for himself. Not everything in life is a business transaction. Of course, Logan hasn’t learned that lesson yet. He thinks everything has a price. The old man taught him that.”
That sounded uncomfortably close to Brontë’s experiences with Logan. Hadn’t he bought the diner just so she’d have to talk to him? He used his money like it was power, and by using it, he got what he wanted. She studied Danica for a long moment, not responding. The woman was gorgeous, elegant, everything that Brontë was not. “I take it that you and Logan are not on friendly terms?”
Danica looked sad. “I wanted to be on friendly terms. Our breaking up was not my choice, you know. He dumped me.”
“Why?” As soon as the word escaped her lips, she wanted to bite it back, but the damage was done.
Danica’s beautiful smile turned hard. “Logan likes for everyone to stay in the neat little box he’s created for them. If you try to escape the box, he’ll try to push you back into it. And if that doesn’t work, he’s done with you. He’s ruthless.” She stared out into the night sky, then glanced over at Brontë again. “He wanted me to be the perfect little stay-at-home wifey. My schedule didn’t matter as long as I was available for him. And when I tried to have a life outside of him, or to assert my freedom, he cut me off at the knees.” She shrugged. “The next thing I knew, I was being removed from the apartment we shared and all of my belongings were put into storage. He didn’t even give me a warning before tossing me into the trash.”
Brontë’s stomach clenched painfully. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Logan wasn’t like that. Danica was just trying to crawl under her skin. “Why are you telling me this?”
Danica touched her arm, a pitying look on her face. “Because you look like a nice girl. And you’re out of your depth with Logan. You’re just his type.”
“I am?”
“Of course. You look soft and just a little bit shy. Intimidated. That’s the kind Logan likes, you know. He plucks a girl out of nowhere and molds her into the woman he wants at his side. If you don’t have a life, that makes it perfect for him, because he needs you available at his beck and call. He’s a great guy . . . for a time. He’ll make you the happiest woman on earth until you cross him. And if you try to be independent, be ready for him to send you packing. I don’t want you to be caught off guard like I was. I thought I loved him and he loved me. It turns out that he doesn’t know how to love. He just knows how to succeed at business.”
Brontë stared at the other woman, saying nothing. What could she say? Could this possibly be true? It didn’t sound like Logan—cold, emotionless. And yet . . .
He was ruthless.
Not everything in life is a business transaction. Of course, Logan hasn’t learned that lesson yet.
“Logan’s not like that,” Brontë protested.
“Isn’t he? Have you told him you love him?”
Brontë said nothing.
“Try it. See how he responds. That’ll tell you everything you need to know.” She nodded as if agreeing with her own
words. “I did, and he totally ignored me. Logan doesn’t know how to love. All he knows is how to make money.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said softly.
“I’m sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news. But it’s best if you’re prepared for the eventual heartbreak.” Danica glanced at the door of the balcony. “And if anyone asks, we didn’t have this conversation, understand?” She gave Brontë’s hand a little pat and returned to the party.
Her head swimming with Danica’s bitter words, Brontë turned back stared at the skyline before her. Millions of lights dotted the nearby buildings and crawled through the streets below. Yet it was surprisingly quiet out here compared to the party inside, and she found it peaceful.
Perfect for gathering her thoughts.
Danica had to be lying. She’d been so incredibly vague about why she and Logan had broken up that her word couldn’t be trusted. And yet some of what she’d said had a ring of truth to it. When Brontë’d left Logan, he’d followed her and taken ownership of the diner simply because he’d wanted to talk to her. That wasn’t a man who was used to being told no.
And yet . . . Brontë liked him. She tried to picture him as the brutal tyrant that Danica had painted, as a man determined to push her into a box and mold her into what he wanted. Instead, all she could think about was Logan bringing her flowers when he’d come home late. Logan curled up against her, spooning in bed. Logan naked on the beach with her.
She didn’t want to believe it. She was already in love with the man, and she didn’t want to think that he wasn’t who she’d made him out him to be. Sick at the thought, Brontë clung to the railing and stared up at the black sky overhead.
That’s the kind Logan likes, you know. He plucks a girl out of nowhere and molds her into the woman he wants at his side.
Is that what he was doing with her? Had he done the same with Danica? Made her into the woman he wanted, and when Danica had tired of being his plaything, he’d gotten rid of her?
Logan doesn’t know how to love.
If that was the case, Brontë had fallen in love with the wrong man.
Big, warm hands cupped her shoulders, and she smelled Logan’s aftershave a moment before he pressed against her back. “It’s cold out here.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said softly.
He rubbed her arms, sending shivers of pleasure through her. “Is everything all right?”
She smiled up at him. “Yes. It just got to be a bit too much, and I drank more than I should have. I thought this would help clear my head.”
Logan pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and she felt her nipples harden in response. “Would you like to go home? I’d love to peel this dress off of you.”
She pressed back against him, molding her body to his. “That sounds good to me.”
“If there weren’t two hundred people in the other room, I’d bend you over the balcony and make you mine right now.”
She shivered at the intensity of the mental image. A wave of heat pulsed through her, centering on her sex. A whimper escaped her throat. “Logan.”
“You’re lovely in that dress, Brontë, but I can’t wait to see you out of it. Every man here is jealous that you’re going home with me tonight. Your smile and your laugh are so charming that half the room turned around every time they heard you.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I think that’s your imagination.”
“It’s true. Why do you think I asked Cade to keep you company?”
Her smile faltered. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they? “I suppose. Let’s go home. I’m tired.”
They extracted themselves from the party and soon enough were in the limo, the driver steering them through the streets of New York. She grew sleepy, laying her head on Logan’s shoulder, and made a soft sound of pleasure when he pulled her close, his hand around her waist.
“Did you enjoy the party?” he asked in a soft voice, his mouth a breath away from her ear.
She thought about her response for a moment, then said, “I met Danica.”
He stiffened against her. “Oh?”
“She wanted to warn me about you. And how you treat everything like business.”
He cursed under his breath.
Brontë glanced up at him. “When were you going to tell me you had been engaged?”
“I didn’t think it was important. We were only engaged for a day or two. Never set a date. It was over two years ago.” He laughed, the sound mirthless. “Apparently she’s still quite upset over it.”
“She tried to warn me off of you. Said you’d dump me like so much trash the moment you got tired of me.”
He pulled her closer against him, then tugged her leg over his lap and turned her until she was straddling him in the backseat of the limo, her hips riding his. “You know that’s not true, Brontë.”
“I suspect she told me a lot of things that weren’t true,” she admitted. Danica didn’t have a motive other than to fuck with Brontë. Still, there was nothing that hurt like the truth, so she suspected she’d been told just enough truth mixed with the lies to make her mind work in circles. “Why did you two break up?”
“I had my suspicions that Danica was with me for my money and not for me. I asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement. She refused, and that told me everything I needed to know.”
Brontë thought for a moment, then leaned in and wrapped her arms around Logan’s neck, her mouth a breath away from his. “She told me that she was trying to be independent and you didn’t like that.”
He gave her another humorless grin. “Danica’s version of independent was going on vacation with her friends without me. Repeatedly, and on my dime. When I suggested we take a trip together, she accused me of trying to smother her.”
“Boy, she sounds like a real winner,” she muttered.
Logan leaned in and kissed her softly. “She’s nothing like you, if that’s what you’re worried about. And our relationship is nothing like the one I had with her. Don’t let her lies get to you.”
“I won’t,” she said, and moved her hips on top of him, pressing against his erection as she straddled him. “But you should have told me.”
He groaned and reached over to the door to push a button. Behind her, the barrier between the driver’s seat and the backseat went up, shielding them from the driver’s eyes. “Trust me when I say she is not in my life anymore. Hasn’t been for some time. There’s only you.” His hand slid up to her hair, grasped the loose knot that threatened to fall apart. “Only you.”
Warmth curled through her, and she leaned in to brush her mouth over his skin, to run her tongue across his parted lips. “I want you, Logan.”
He groaned low against her mouth. “As soon as we get home, I’m making you mine, Brontë.”
That seemed like forever to wait. She flexed her thighs, clenching over the seat of his pants and feeling his erection press up against her. Her slinky dress had ridden up high on her thighs, and an inch or two more and she’d be exposed to him. She hadn’t been lying about her lack of undergarments, either, and right now she was feeling rather thankful for it.
Her hand slid between them, and she rubbed against his cock. “I don’t want to wait until we get home, Logan. I want you now.” Maybe it was the wine talking, or Danica’s bitter words that had dug into her skin . . . or her own desperate need for this man, but she needed him like a drowning woman needed air. “I don’t want to wait.”
Logan thrust up against her hand, his mouth sliding over hers desperately. “I don’t have a condom, Brontë.”
“I’m on the pill,” she said between frantic kisses, and then rubbed her hand over his cock again, stroking his length. “Please, Logan. Take me now.”
His hand slid between them, and she stilled, expecting him to unbutton his pants. Instead, she felt his hand slide over her sex, alrea
dy wet with need. “Ah, Brontë,” he murmured. “Your skin feels like silk. Wet and ready for me already?”
She bit her lip and nodded, pressing her forehead to his, lost in sensation as his fingers danced over her needy flesh.
When his fingers grazed her clit, she cried out, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed her, his tongue thrusting slow and deep into her mouth in a steady, maddening motion. Her hips rose and fell, echoing the stroke of his tongue, and his fingers continued to work her clit. She spiraled higher, reaching for her orgasm, only to whimper when he slid his hand away and began to undo his pants. Her fingers moved to help, frantically working to free him from his clothing and get him inside her.
Then he was lifting her hips, just a little, and she felt his cock against the hot well of her sex. He sank deep inside her, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening at how fully he fill her. Another whimper escaped, and she began to rock furiously over him, her movements just as jerky as his. Hard, fast, and frantic, he pumped into her, wild with need. Her moans were swallowed by his mouth as she rode him with abandon, her hips slamming down over his.
The orgasm that ripped through her was almost violent in its intensity, and she cried out at the feeling of it, her entire body shuddering. He slammed into her again, and his mouth took hers roughly, and then she felt him coming inside her, too.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she clung to him, still astride his lap, her breathing rough. He was hers. Danica was wrong. Bitter, envious, and wrong. “I love you,” she blurted out, the words escaping before she could stop them.
Logan’s arms wrapped around her waist and held her tight in his lap.
But he didn’t say anything back.
And a little part of Brontë died.
Chapter Nine
“This meeting of the brotherhood is called to order,” Logan said around the cigar in his mouth. He handed the deck of cards to Hunter at his right. “Deal.”