Brontë studied her nails, positive that her cheeks were lit up like a string of Christmas lights. She peered at Marj’s face, but Marj seemed relieved that she wouldn’t be meeting with Logan after all.
Sharon was still staring at Brontë, though.
“Everything’s under control, Mr. Hawkings,” the consultant said. “I’ll send you my full report in the morning.”
“Excellent,” Logan said, adjusting a cuff link as he turned toward the door. He paused, glanced at Brontë, and turned back to the watching group. “I’ll be taking Miss Dawson with me.”
And there it was. The looks of the other waitresses turned from confused to knowing. Brontë gave them all a hesitant wave and then bolted for the door as soon as Logan opened it. Everyone knew she’d just made a ‘special’ arrangement with the boss. Everyone. Her cheeks stung with embarrassment. Her earlier bravado about not caring what they thought vanished instantly.
“Well,” she told him as soon as they stepped out on the street. “That’s going to make things awkward when I have to go back to work.”
He frowned down at her, as if just now realizing what she meant. “Should I have the consultant speak to them?”
“What? No!” God, she could just imagine how that conversation would go. “Let’s just forget about it. I’ll give it a few days to die down before I come back. I’ll talk with the manager about clearing my schedule.”
“I’m clearing it.” He put a hand on the small of her back, directing her to a waiting black sedan.
She stopped, looking up at him. “For how long?”
“Indefinitely. I want you with me.”
Her mouth opened, and then she snapped it shut again. Hadn’t she been so excited to take a vacation? To get away for a few days? This was just an extended one, really. “And I’ll have my job when I get back?”
“You will,” he agreed.
Of course, if she and Logan didn’t work out, that would make returning to work doubly awkward. She tried not to think about that. “A happy life consists in tranquillity of mind,” she reminded herself. If that philosophy worked for Cicero, it would work for her.
Logan moved to the door of the sedan and opened it for her, gesturing for her to enter. Brontë eyed it. Black, shiny, and brand-new. It screamed money. Totally not her kind of ride. She pulled her keys out of her purse and jingled them. “I drove myself here.”
Logan extended his hand, palm up.
She gave him a curious look. “You want to drive to my apartment?”
“No.” He grimaced and looked at his watch, clearly torn. “I wasn’t lying, Brontë. I do have a meeting I have to get to back in the city. We don’t have time to go back to your apartment. I can have someone drive your car back safely.”
Her jaw dropped. “You want me to go with you? Right now? I don’t have any of my stuff.”
A hint of a smile curved his mouth, and he slid on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “I need to go, but I’m not letting you out of my sight again. So, yes, I want you to come with me.”
“I’ll need clothes,” she warned him.
“I have credit cards.”
Yeah, so did she, but they were pretty much maxed at the moment. Brontë crossed her arms and studied him. “So you’re going to buy me a plane ticket, put me up in a hotel, buy me clothes, and pay me a salary, all so I can spend time with you?”
“That’s right.”
“That puts all the power in your hands, don’t you think?”
The smile he gave her was feral. “I didn’t get where I am by letting others have control.”
Yes, but what did that mean for a relationship, exactly? “I don’t like being a kept woman.”
“Think of them as necessary expenses for my new . . . philosophy consultant.”
She snorted.
He grinned, and for a minute, he didn’t look like the confident, aloof billionaire. He looked like a mischievous little boy. Her heart melted, just a little.
“All right,” she grumbled and stepped forward, handing him the keys. “But if you start picking out my clothes, I’m leaving.”
“I don’t know a thing about women’s sizes,” Logan told her, pocketing the keys. “You’re safe on that count.”
Brontë slid into the sedan, noticing the plush black leather seats. The windows were heavily tinted, the interior immaculate. A man in a black suit and sunglasses nodded at her from the driver’s seat.
Logan slid in beside her and shut the door.
“Where to?” The driver glanced at the mirror, his gaze on Logan.
“Airport.” Logan rested a hand on Brontë’s knee, the gesture intimate and possessive. He looked over at her and that arch smile returned to his mouth. “Ever ridden on a private plane?”
“Never. You have one?”
“Two, actually.”
“Naturally,” she said. “Let me guess. Two, just in case the other needs an oil change?”
He chuckled.
That wasn’t a no. Brontë laughed and shook her head. He was impossible.
Soon enough, they were at the airport and crossing the runway to a large plane. She’d thought he’d have a tiny plane, but this seemed like a regular-sized one. Just for one person?
The interior was like nothing she’d seen before. Thick, beige carpet covered the floor. On one side of the plane was a wet bar of some sort. On the right, two enormous leather chairs sat across from a table and two additional chairs. A large flat-screen TV was set into the wall, and the entire back of the plane was closed off, with a door barring it. She gawked at the interior, clutching her purse close. This was so not what she was used to.
“Have a seat,” Logan told her, brushing his fingers over her lower back again. “If you’re tired, you can take a nap in the bedroom after we take off.”
“Bedroom?” She looked at him incredulously. “You have a bedroom on this thing?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes I have to take late flights. It makes things easier.”
No kidding. She supposed having your own flying apartment did make things easier. Brontë sat down in one of the chairs, trying not to seem too intimidated.
Chapter Eight
Warm lips brushed her cheek. “We’re here.”
Brontë stirred, embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep in the car. “We are?”
“Yes. We have just enough time to get you situated upstairs, and then I have to head off to my meeting.”
Yawning, Brontë blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to wake up as she followed him out of the car. She stood on a wide sidewalk, the street lined with cars up and down both sides. All around her were tall, elegant buildings. Nearby was an awning and a doorman stood below it, waiting.
Logan leaned over the car and spoke into the window. “Wait here. I won’t be long.” Turning back to her, Logan took her by the arm and began to guide her toward the building with the doorman. “I’ll show you my place, and you can get comfortable.”
“Do you have to go?” She asked, glancing uncomfortably at the doorman as he opened the door for them.
Logan ignored the doorman and headed into the lobby, then toward the elevator. “It’s a meeting I’ve rescheduled twice already. I won’t reschedule it again.” When the elevator dinged, they stepped on, and Logan pushed the button for the forty-fourth floor. “When I get back, we can go out to dinner.”
She nodded, stepping closer to him when the elevator doors opened again and an older woman in a red suit carrying an enormous designer handbag stepped onto the elevator. She smiled at Logan, though her gaze frosted over at the sight of Brontë in jeans and a slobby T-shirt.
Brontë crossed her arms over her chest. Well, now she felt awkward. She smoothed a hand over her sleep-rumpled hair.
The woman got off the elevator ten floors later, and Logan gave her a curious look. “Uncomfortable?”
“Nah,” she lied, drawing the syllable out. “Just thinking that everyone in this building pays more in rent per month than what I make all year. What would make a girl nervous?”
“Don’t worry about what other people think,” he told her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re gorgeous just as you are.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It is, yes.”
How was it that he managed to defuse her anxiety so easily? She shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to for me.”
The doors opened on the fourty-fourth floor, and they stepped out. Brontë glanced down the hall, surprised to see only one set of doors. “Is this your apartment?”
“It’s the only one on this floor.” He moved forward and slid an electronic key out of his wallet, pushing it into the lock.
“You have an entire floor? For one person?”
He chuckled. “Would you prefer I had a studio?”
“Studios are cozy,” she pointed out, uncomfortable. Why did one person need an entire floor?
“I prefer more living space. A studio doesn’t exactly set the right image for a billionaire.” The door opened with a click, and he gestured for her to enter.
She did, a bit stunned at her surroundings. She knew Logan had money. Lots and lots of money. But it was hard to visualize that. Even the jet, as ridiculous as it had been, hadn’t really made things sink in for her. Walking into his apartment, though, she realized just how much of a strange world she was entering. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before.
For one, it was enormous. Wasn’t the joke that apartments in New York City were the size of closets? This man’s living room was three times the size of her Kansas City apartment. Brontë stared around her in awe. His entire apartment was a showplace. He had vaulted ceilings, delicate crown molding accenting a chandelier in the center of the room. Across from where she stood, the entire south side of his apartment was nothing but windows looking out on the city. In between her and the windows, designer couches were strategically placed on plush Persian rugs over the most gorgeous oak floor she’d ever seen. Nearby he had a fireplace with a marble mantel, and over it was a painting she was pretty sure should have been in a museum somewhere.
She turned to look back at Logan, who was casually tossing his keys and wallet onto a small nearby table. “This is where you live?”
That charming half smile that made her insides melt slid across his face again as he turned to look at her. “When I’m in the city, yes.”
Which was a totally vague nonanswer that she could have asked a million more questions about. But she didn’t, since that seemed nosy. “How many rooms is this place?”
He shrugged. “I don’t recall. Four guest bedrooms? Five?”
“Naturally,” she teased. “Every bachelor needs at least five guest bedrooms.”
Logan moved forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her against him. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“I’ll be fine,” she lied. Since he was good at evading, she supposed she could be, too. “How long will you be gone?”