Stranded with a Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #1)(84)

It was not a pretty sight. Not in the slightest. Bront? swallowed hard, her stomach churning from the alcohol.

“Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests,” Hunter gritted out. “I simply wish to learn more about her.”

“Oh,” Bront? said, forcing herself to turn away from the hideous webbing of scars. She stared down at her glass, which seemed a little too empty at the moment. “Penway,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”

“What kinds of books?”

“Books with other people’s names on them.”

His gaze seemed to pin her to Logan’s chair, and she wished she had a bit more to drink. “A ghostwriter?”

Bront? nodded, then stopped because it made the room wobble. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”

“Cooper?” He rasped the word out harshly.

“It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. She wants adventure or a fairy tale or something.”

The scarred man snorted and lifted his own drink, and Bront? peeked over at him. Nope, the scars didn’t look any better on the second glance.

“Is Logan coming back?” she asked, feeling a little faint. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Hunter smiled grimly over at her. “Depends on whether Jonathan and Reese have given him a few black eyes yet.”

She stared at him in surprise, then bolted to her feet. The room shifted woozily, and she grasped at the chair. “But . . . they . . . I don’t want them to hurt Logan! I said I’d sign the nondisclosure agreement.”

“The agreement takes care of the future. Fists take care of right now,” Hunter said. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

Bront? flopped back to her seat, holding her stomach. Suddenly, being drunk in a dark, smoky room didn’t seem like such a good idea. “I need a drink of water, I think. And Logan. I want Logan.”

Hunter set a tumbler in front of her and filled it with water. When she reached for it, he laid a hand over it, blocking her. “Tell me more about Gretchen.”

Bront? glared at him and brushed his hand aside. She took the glass anyhow and started sipping it. When her stomach stopped doing flips, she began, “Well, she has a cat . . .”

Chapter Fourteen

When Bront? woke up the next morning, her head was pounding and her mouth felt like a dirty, old sock. She groaned, rolling over in the bed and smacking into Logan’s broad chest.

His arms went around her, and he pulled her close, nuzzling her ear. “Morning.”

Even that small word made her head hurt insanely. She groaned and closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. “I hurt.”

“Do you need aspirin?”

Just the thought of dry, medicinal-tasting aspirin sticking to the roof of her mouth made her want to vomit. “Dry toast, please?”

He kissed her cheek. “Coming right up.”

The bed shifted as he climbed out of it, and Bront? spent the next five minutes trying not to throw up from the quaking that small movement had produced. There was something not quite . . . normal about where she lay. There was a roaring in her ears.

God, had she ever been so drunk in her life?

She had vague memories of a smoky room and a man with scars, and lots of poker chips being passed back and forth. That was it, really.

Logan returned, his hand smoothing the messy hair off of her brow. “You okay?”

She forced herself to sit up in bed slowly, her eyes squeezed into slits, and she reached for the glass of water her put in her hand and began to drink. After a moment, she said, “My head’s so fuzzy, it feels like the ground is moving.”

“Huh.”

Logan’s innocent syllable made her frown. Unfortunately, the bright light in the room was killing her, so she couldn’t glare at him. She lay back down in the bed and reached for a pillow to pull over her head, ignoring Logan’s chuckle of amusement. The bed shook again, and her stomach gurgled in response.

That shaking . . . was not her imagination.

Bront?’s eyes flew open as the jet’s thrusters started roaring. Pressure made her ears pop and pushed her down on the bed, and she tried to struggle to her elbows. “Are we . . . are we flying?”

“Don’t get up,” Logan said, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “Lie down and relax. You’re hungover.”

Her gaze moved to his face, and she gasped. Her handsome, contained, so-in-control billionaire boyfriend had a hell of a shiner. A dark purplish-green ring lined his eye, and it was puffy and swollen.

“Your face!”

He grinned and touched his fingers just below his eye, wincing. “Yeah. The guys and I had a little talk. When we land, the nondisclosure agreement will be waiting at my office for you to sign. The others insist.”

“That’s fine,” Bront? said, eyeing him for other bruises. “Whatever gets them off your back.”

“I’m sorry if you feel I’m pushing you into it,” he told her in a guarded voice. “I know you’re probably not happy about it.”

She shrugged, holding the pillow close to her throbbing head. “I actually don’t care,” she told him, closing her eyes and trying to relax to ease her throbbing head. “It’s not a big deal. I wouldn’t go telling all your secrets anyhow, but if the paperwork makes them feel better . . .” When he said nothing, she opened one eye. “Why?”