Stranded with a Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #1)(36)

Bront? tucked a pencil and pad in her apron with extra care, determined to ignore Sharon. She was just trying to bug her, Bront? 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 Bront? 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.

Bront? 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 Bront?. 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.

Someone raised an empty glass of water, and Bront? 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 Bront?.

“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 Bront? 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 Bront? 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 Bront?’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 Bront?. 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 Bront?’s personal documents. Her driver’s license showed a woman with smooth, silky brown hair, but the wide face and beaming smile were his Bront?. Bront? 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 Bront? 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.

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 Bront? 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?”