Stranded with a Billionaire

Her hands went to his thick hair, and she ran her nails over his scalp, sighing with pleasure when he licked at the sensitive dip in her throat. “Logan, I want to talk to you.”

His teeth grazed her collarbone. “Talk, love. I’m listening.”

“You’re being very distracting.”

“I’ve only started to be distracting,” he told her in a husky voice. His hand slipped inside her robe and cupped her bare breast, thumb playing over her nipple.

Heat and longing shot through her body, and she moaned, her hips moving reflexively. “That’s not fair,” she gasped, her words rising an octave when he continued to circle her nipple with the pad of his thumb, making the sensitive peak stiff. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

“I’m very serious right now,” Logan told her, tugging open the belt of her robe and exposing her breasts. His head moved down, and he kissed the other nipple. “I’ve wanted to touch you all day, and I’m very serious about getting to do so right now.”

“Logan,” she breathed, her fingers gripping his hair tightly. “I wanted to talk about you and me.”

His teeth gently bit her nipple. “How good we are together?”

She moaned as he raked his teeth lightly over her nipple again, then tongued the sensitive flesh. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

Grinding to a screeching halt, Logan jerked up, his gaze meeting hers. Those warm, delicious eyes were now staring back at her warily, and his voice was cold. “What were you thinking?”

Oh. Brontë felt a twinge of shame at his immediate wariness. His reaction was so strong as a result of her constant running away. He was expecting her to bail on him again. She reached up and stroked his strong, tense jaw. “I was thinking that . . . I’ve been unfair to you.”

He stared down at her, no emotion showing. Those hard eyes glittered. “You have been unfair . . . to me? Explain.”

“Yes,” she said, and skimmed her thumb over his lower lip. It was really unfair that he was so sensual and masculine. “Whenever things got a little frightening for me, I ran away. I should have stayed and talked to you. And . . . I’m sorry. I want this to work between us. I want you. I want to be with you.”

Logan’s cold expression finally cracked. He exhaled loudly, and then buried his face against her.

“Logan?” She touched his hair.

“I thought you were going to leave me again.” The relief in his voice was evident, and he began to press kisses on her stomach. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” she said, the nervous giggle escaping her throat. Damn stupid giggle. “I’m . . . I won’t run again. Not without talking to you first. I just . . . it’s hard to know where I fit in your world when I’ve always had trouble even fitting in to my own.”

“I know where you fit,” Logan said, sitting up suddenly. He pressed a fist to his heart. “Right here, Brontë.”

Sudden tears pricked her eyes. “I love you, Logan.”

“I love you, too,” he told her, leaning down and kissing her mouth lightly. “And I want you to be comfortable with me. If something bothers you, tell me so I can fix it or change it.”

“I think it’s me more than you, Logan. I thought that if I came to you and did nothing but sit around your house, I’d turn into one of those women that you hate. I’d do nothing but spend your money on shoes and purses all day long, like Danica.”

“It wasn’t that Danica spent my money, love. If you dedicated your life to shopping, you wouldn’t be able to spend all my money. It was that she valued the money more than she valued our relationship. You’ve never been like that. You never will be. It’s not in your nature.” He picked up her hand and kissed the palm of it tenderly. “That’s one reason why I fell for you so hard.”

“I might spend some of your money,” Brontë blurted, waiting for him to react. But he didn’t; he only continued to smile at her. “I’ve realized that I was resenting you for my being a waitress, which is stupid. It isn’t your fault I picked a major that wouldn’t get me anywhere except waiting tables. It wasn’t that you wanted me to make something of myself. It’s that I wasn’t happy with who I was. That doesn’t change with or without money, really. But Gretchen woke me up, and I realized that only I can make myself satisfied with my career path. All I know is I that being without you made me unhappy even when I was waiting tables again. So . . .” She breathed deep and blurted, “I want to go back to college and get a graduate degree. Or start a charity to donate books to schools and retirement homes like Gretchen does, but on a bigger scale. Or do both. Or all of it. I’m not sure. But I want to do something with myself. I’ll get bored sitting around your apartment all day.”

A smile curved his hard mouth. “Love, I want you to do whatever makes you happy. And if going back to school helps you—or starting a charity—then we’ll do both. As long as we do it together.”

“Together.” She blinked rapidly, overcome. “I’m sorry I’ve made this so difficult. I—”

“Shhh,” he told her. “You didn’t. You were just frightened, and I tend to be overbearing and controlling. It’s part of my nature.”

“It is,” she agreed with a small smile. “You’re used to handling the situation. But a girl likes to be asked every now and then.”

“I promise to ask more,” he said, and his eyes grew serious again. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small box. Logan held it out to her. “Starting now.”

She sucked in a breath, staring at the small, dark blue box. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, and slowly snapped the case open.

An oval diamond the size of a pebble was set into a thick gold band. She stared at the ring in surprise, then at Logan.

“I picked the inscription for you,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “Do you like it?”

“Inscription?” She pulled the ring out of the box and peered at the inside of the band, turning the ring to read the tiny lettering printed there. “‘Every heart hears a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.’” Her eyes filled with the tears she’d been unable to hold back. “It’s beautiful. Ovid?”

“Plato, actually,” he told her with a grin. A laugh escaped her, wild and free. Plato. Of course it was. How very perfect.

“You’re my heart, Brontë. I know it feels like such a short time together, but I want to wake up every day with you at my side and in my life.” He took the ring from her trembling fingers and held it out to her. “Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Logan told her. “Waitress, philosopher, or charitable organizer, I’ll love you all the same as long as you’ll be mine.”

Slipping the ring on her finger, she kissed him with all the love in her heart.

Epilogue

It didn’t take long for Brontë to decide what she wanted to do with her life. Gretchen’s book donation charity had inspired her, and after signing up for continuing education classes at NYU, she worked with Logan’s financial advisors to set up a charity. Philosophy Reads was soon born, complete with a fancy website and nonprofit status. Her goal? To bring her love of reading and knowledge to those who couldn’t afford it or couldn’t get out. Brontë selected two books—one classic and one modern—and then purchased hundreds of copies. These she had delivered to local libraries, retirement homes, and hospitals, and she set up weekly meetings for people to meet and discuss them.

She nearly danced with delight when her first meeting—at the retirement home where Gretchen had dropped off books before—had an attendance of nearly fifty people, all of them brimming with enthusiasm to discuss that month’s reads, The Iliad and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. She wanted to eventually introduce them to heavier reads, but she’d start them out slow. The discussions were a success in some venues, and in others, not as much—she had a few that were sparsely attended. But it was a work in progress, and she was determined to fine-tune her charity and turn it into a well-oiled machine that would help bring the joy of reading to those who might otherwise overlook it.

That part of her life had become incredibly satisfying—almost as much as living with Logan. As soon as she’d moved back in, she’d quietly begun to refill his library with new reads—some classics, which Logan read out a sense of obligation to her, but when she caught him quietly reading a Tom Clancy paperback, she also added men’s action thrillers to his section and even read some of them herself so they could discuss the books over dinner.

Logan was proud of her charity, and never objected to the amount of money she spent. At night they twined around each other, locked in bliss.

She’d signed the nondisclosure agreement without a word of complaint and had offered to sign a prenup. Logan turned down her offer vehemently and then spent the evening kissing her back into submission. The fact that she was willing, he told her, was more than enough for him.

Life was just about perfect for Brontë, and she grew to love Logan more each day. Every morning, she woke up eager for what the day would bring and excited about how much she enjoyed being with Logan. And every day she held her engagement ring—that big, audacious diamond she would have run from a few months prior—and read the heart-melting inscription to herself again.

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.

And Brontë’s heart was complete now that Logan’s was whispering back.