Stranded with a Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #1)(83)

“There are no extra chairs,” Griffin pointed out succinctly. “There’s never anyone else down here but us.”

“We need to get another chair for in the future, then,” Logan said.

It got very quiet. Cade began to push some chips toward her, but Bront? shook her head. “I don’t know how to play poker,” she lied, sensing that her playing would push a few of the men past their comfort zone. “And I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” She smiled at Logan reassuringly. “Just because we’re a couple doesn’t mean we have to be together every moment. This is your time with your friends.”

“Marry this one,” Reese proclaimed, picking up his cigar again.

“I plan on it,” Logan said.

Bront? blushed, getting up from the chair so Logan could sit down. Was that just more guy talk? It was far too early to be thinking about marriage. But their banter and her backing off from the table had the desired effect. She immediately sensed a bit of the tension easing off the table and knew she’d made the right decision. These were Logan’s friends, and Logan’s club. He was welcome to it, and she wouldn’t share the secret.

As if he could tell what she was thinking, Logan sat down in the chair and dragged her into his lap. Two drinks were set in front of them—whiskey or brandy from the looks of it.

“Drink up,” Jonathan said.

They did, and Bront? coughed at the burning taste of the drink, which made the men laugh. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but Logan only pulled her closer, settling her on his lap. “This meeting of the brotherhood is called into session,” he said, grinning up at her.

***

As the evening wore on, drinks, cards—and business advice—flew freely around the table. Bront? lost track of most of the conversation due to the drinks that the men kept sending her way—deliberately, she suspected, to distract her. That was fine. She ended up spending half the night discussing the exaggerations of the account of Atlantis in Plato’s Timaeus. Griffin was funding an archaeological dig in Spain for a theoretical site near Cadiz, and they chatted about it while the men played cards. It seemed that while Plato thought Atlantis was an island in the ocean, recent theory was that Atlantis was on the Spanish coast, and it intrigued him to investigate it. He even offered to take her and Logan to see the site sometime, which made her brighten and Logan scowl.

“Quit flirting with my woman, Griffin.”

“I’m not flirting with her, you Neanderthal. We can discuss mutual interests without it being flirting,” Griffin said, but he winked at her as if sharing a joke.

Logan snorted. “I’d believe it if I thought that talking archaeology didn’t give you a hard-on.”

Griffin just shook his head, but Bront? noticed he didn’t meet her gaze again, which told her that Logan had hit pretty close to the mark.

At some point, Logan kissed her ear and stood up, sliding her out of his lap. “I’m heading upstairs to chat with Reese and Jonathan, love. We’ll be back in a moment.”

“All right,” she said, clutching her newly refilled glass to her breast, her head buzzing. “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t. We’re just going to discuss . . . your nondisclosure agreement.”

She nodded, her brain fuzzy, and sat back down in Logan’s chair.

Cade frowned as the three men left and then stood himself. “I’d better go and see what they’re up to.”

He left, and Griffin followed him out. That left Bront? holding her glass and the man seated next to her, who had been quiet all night. He’d been careful not to look over at her, and she was curious about him.

Hunter. Did he not like her? Bront? frowned and took another swig of her whiskey, watching him over the rim of her snifter.

“Your friend,” Hunter said after a long moment. His voice was deep and gravelly. He spoke as if the words were a chore. He was an odd man. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”

“You mean Gretchen?”

“Gretchen.” He repeated the name, as if tasting it. “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.”

Bront? frowned, her thoughts slow and diffuse from alcohol. Something about giving her friend’s information to a stranger seemed . . . not right, but she was having a hard time reasoning as to why. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”

Hunter stared down at his cards, and she realized he was carefully hiding one hand behind the other. Interesting.

“I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”

“Like a stalker,” Bront? repeated drunkenly.

“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”

“That’s what a stalker would say,” she pointed out, taking another sip of her drink.

He ground his teeth and glared over at her. Bront? got her first good look at his face . . . and she suddenly understood why he’d been so careful to turn away from her, and why he hid his hand. Thick white scars stood out in relief against his tanned skin. They crossed his face in an irregular, scattered pattern that indicated massive trauma. One corner of his eye was tilted down, as if the repairs had altered its shape, and the side of his mouth had a jagged white line curving from it—a seam that had been torn open and repaired. Even the hand he’d covered showed the white, gouging lines of scarring.