Stranded with a Billionaire

chapter Ten




Brontë dashed down the street, ignoring the people around her. The suitcase dragged behind her on tiny wheels, slowing her down, but she didn’t care. Hot tears splashed down her cheeks, and her heart felt like a burning hole in her chest.

Logan wanted her to make something of herself.

The words made her sick. He didn’t like who she was. He thought she was a joke. Worse, someone to be embarrassed of.

Well, screw that, and screw him, she thought, dashing the tears from her cheek with the back of one hand. A subway station appeared down the street, and she headed for it, needing a sense of purpose. Somewhere to go. Anywhere.

Of course, when she got into the station itself, she swiped the MetroCard she’d gotten with Audrey while shopping and then realized that she had nowhere to go. She frowned and took a seat on one of the benches, staring in dismay at a nearby map of subway interchanges. She’d been so content, wrapped up in her little cocoon that Logan had created for her, that she hadn’t even bothered to sightsee in the city she’d been so excited to visit. No Statue of Liberty, no Guggenheim, nothing. All she’d done was go shopping and attend a party.

And spend hours in Logan’s bed, being pleasured out of her mind, she corrected herself.

Except he didn’t want her. Not really. Brontë the waitress was embarrassing. He needed her to be Brontë the small business owner so he could retain his billionaire street cred or something. She sighed in humiliation and hugged the suitcase closer to her as someone sat down on the far end of the bench.

And here she was, stranded all over again. Except this time, there wasn’t an elevator or a hurricane or a handsome man to keep her company. This time she was stuck in New York City with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, her heart broken into a hundred pieces.

She could always go straight to the airport. Call this little vacation quits, admit defeat, and return home. Of course, then she’d have to find another job. Logan was her new boss, after all. She wouldn’t be able to stay at the diner knowing that at any moment he could come through that door and insist that she talk to him again. So. New job. It was a shame. She liked her coworkers.

Despair threatened to overwhelm her. She’d lost the man she loved, lost her job, and was stuck in a strange city. Had she ever been lower? Tears welled in her eyes.

Music began to play at the far end of the station, and she automatically looked up. A man stood by a pillar, his violin case open, his soft song echoing in the tunnel. Someone passed by and dropped a dollar, barely even looking, but Brontë was entranced.

She was sitting in New York City, and she hadn’t even explored the place. “Adventure is worthwhile,” she told herself. Aristotle had it right. Why not visit all the places in New York City that she wanted to see before going home? A thought occurred to her, and she pulled out her phone, flipping through the list of numbers. She dialed a recent one.

“Audrey Petty,” the woman on the line answered promptly.

“Audrey? It’s me, Brontë.”

“Brontë?” The other woman sounded confused for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”

“I need a place to stay,” Brontë said, her eyes on the subway map. “I’ve left Logan.”

Just saying it out loud made her chest ache. They’d had a whirlwind courtship. She’d fallen fast, and she’d fallen hard. Logan Hawkings was going to be a difficult man to get over, she realized. She felt raw, completely shredded on the inside. Part of her wanted to turn around and hear him explain, to have him soothe away her hurt, and to return into his arms. She would’ve done anything just to curl up against him again.

Except he didn’t love her, did he? She’d told him that she loved him, and he’d given her a polite pat on the back. And then he’d tried to fix her, which rankled. Danica had been right. She’d blindly trusted him, and he’d tried to shove her into the mold of what he thought she should be.

“You . . . huh?” Audrey paused. “Wait. You left him, and you’re calling me? His assistant?”

A weepy little laugh escaped her. “You’re the only person I know in this town.”

“Oh.” Audrey got quiet. Then she sighed, as if resigned to her course of action. “Where are you?”

“The subway.”

“Yes, but where?”

Brontë curled up on the bench, feeling a little foolish. The subway map looked like a bunch of scribbly lines to her, and she’d never even taken as much as a bus in her life. “I honestly have no idea. It’s by Logan’s building.”

“Okay. I’m pretty sure I can guess what station that is. Just wait there, and I’ll swing by to get you. We’ll talk.”

“Thanks, Audrey,” she said softly. “I appreciate it.”

“You bet,” the assistant said, and hung up.

The violinist began to play a sad tune, and Brontë’s heart sank with every sorrowful note.

Logan didn’t love her. She’d given him everything he’d asked for—her time, her attention, her affection—and he’d still thought she wasn’t good enough. A fresh onrush of sadness rippled through her, and she swiped at her eyes again, frustrated with her own emotions.

Crying didn’t do any good. She was sad and hurt—okay, more like devastated—but she was also angry with herself. She’d let Logan control how their relationship had gone, and she’d gotten burned. If she ever dated someone like him again, she wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake twice.

***

Audrey showed up a short time later, a rounded bundle in a stylish gray peacoat. She was always dressed as if about to head into the office, Brontë realized with a sniff. “Hi, Audrey.”

“Hi,” she said, immediately offering a small packet of tissues to Brontë. “You look rough.”

Eyes watering, she nodded. “I don’t seem to be taking this well.”

“No,” Audrey said, a little troubled. “I don’t think you are. I suppose I should be offering you condolences, but I’m mostly just mystified. You broke it off with him? Are you aware he’s a billionaire? A really good-looking one? Was it truly that bad?”

Brontë blew her nose. “He tried to give me a business.” Her face crumpled. “So I could ‘make something’ of myself.”

“Ouch.”

“I told him I loved him, and he ignored it.”

“Double ouch. Okay, I can see why the lure of his money palls a bit in the face of his emotional a*sholeness.” She glanced down at Brontë’s suitcase. “Did you want to go grab a coffee and talk this out or something?”

“I guess so.” She lifted her wet eyes to Audrey. “Then I guess I have to find a hotel.”

“You do know how much most hotels in this area cost?”

Brontë shook her head, her stomach sinking.

Audrey sighed. “Brontë, listen. I really like you and I would love to offer my couch, but if Logan found out, he’d have kittens. So I don’t mind shepherding you somewhere as a Good Samaritan, but I can’t take sides in this. You know whose side I have to take.”

“I know,” Brontë said miserably. “I really appreciate the help, Audrey. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

The assistant brightened. “However . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I know someone who needs a roomie. Were you planning on staying long?”

“I hadn’t really decided,” Brontë said. She looked around the subway station and then back at Audrey. “I wouldn’t mind taking a few days off to clear my head.” Before crawling back home, she thought.

“Well, if you volunteer to pay half of this month’s rent, I imagine you can stay with her a couple of weeks. I guarantee it’ll end up being cheaper than a few nights in a hotel.”

“Who is this person?”

Audrey smiled brightly. “My sister, Gretchen. Want me to call her?”

Brontë thought about her savings account and the tip money she’d tucked away for a rainy day or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She could cover half a month’s rent, she supposed, even if it was crazy-expensive compared to Kansas City. And she could take her time, see New York, and try to forget all about the man that had stormed into her life and taken over her heart so completely.

She nodded at Audrey. “Can you find out if it’s available?”

***

They took the subway to SoHo, a part of town that Audrey rolled her eyes at. “Such a cliché.”

Brontë hugged her suitcase close, staring around her at the subway with wide eyes. It seemed . . . crowded. Maybe she just wasn’t used to it. “I don’t understand. Why is it a cliché?”

“SoHo’s where all the artists used to live.”

Ah. “Is your sister an artist, then?”

“She likes to imagine she is,” Audrey said with a grin. “Artistic temperament, yes. Artist, no. She’s a ghostwriter.”

“Oh, wow. That’s fascinating.”

Audrey shrugged. “Some days she seems to like it. Some days she seems to hate it. I suppose it depends on who she’s working with.” When the subway announced their stop, she grinned and gestured at the door. “This is us.”

They walked a few blocks to an older apartment building. Audrey jogged up the steps and pushed the call button.

“Who is it?”

“It’s your sister. Open up. I got you a roomie.”

The door buzzed, and Audrey grabbed the handle, motioning for Brontë to enter. Brontë followed Audrey up four flights, the suitcase getting heavier with each step. One of the apartment doors was open by the time they got to the top of the stairs, and a woman who looked just like Audrey was looking at both of them curiously. She was tall, her form hidden by baggy clothing. Unlike Audrey’s pale orange hair, this woman’s was a fiery dark red, and she had the brows and pale skin to match.

“How’d you find me a roommate?” The other woman crossed her arms over her chest, looking suspicious.

Audrey put her arm around Brontë’s shoulders, tugging her close and beaming. “Brontë, this is my sister, Gretchen. Gretchen, Brontë.”

Gretchen studied Brontë with one raised eyebrow. “Bronty like . . . brontosaurus?”

“Like Charlotte Brontë,” she replied.

“I knew that. I was just f*cking with you.” Gretchen adjusted square, thick-rimmed nerd glasses on her nose. She was the epitome of a writer on a deadline: Her red hair was pulled into a disheveled bun, her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore a pair of dark yoga pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that seemed a size too big for her. “So you want to be my roomie? You haven’t even seen the place.”

“Brontë here just broke up with her boyfriend and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.”

Gretchen flashed an annoyed look at her sister. “I need a permanent roommate, not a temporary one.”

“Yes, but Brontë’s willing to pay half of the rent this month, and she can’t stay with me because the boyfriend she broke up with happens to be my boss.”

Gretchen’s eyes widened, and she looked at Brontë like she was crazy. “Isn’t he rich?”

“Too rich,” Brontë said defensively. “He’s let it go to his head.”

The writer blinked behind her glasses. “Huh. Well, come take a look at the place.”

The apartment was small but cheerful, with plants on the windowsill and bookshelves lining the living room. A computer desk covered in paper and books sat at the far end of the apartment, and more books covered the countertops in the kitchen. Brontë immediately liked it, of course. “How many bedrooms?”

“Two,” Gretchen said, brushing past and opening the door to the bedroom down the hall. “It’s not very big.”

That was an understatement. The room was the size of her closet back home, but there was a narrow bed against the wall and a small dresser, which was really all she needed. “Looks good to me,” she said. “I probably will only be staying until the end of the month, though. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City.”

Gretchen shrugged. “I won’t take down my want ads, then. I do have to warn you about one thing.”

“Oh?”

“I have a pet. His name is Igor.”

“He’s hideous,” Audrey said flatly.

“He is not!” Gretchen opened her bedroom door and picked a small lump up off of the corner of the bed and held it out to Brontë. “He’s just a cat.”

Igor blinked enormous eyes at Brontë. Gretchen’s cat was hairless, apparently. It looked like a naked rat, if she was honest with herself. The thing had long, spindly legs and wrinkly gray skin. Enormous triangle ears jutted from the tiny, pointy face, and it stared up at her with wide golden eyes and then meowed.

Brontë laughed at the sight of him.

“Well, that’s a better reaction than the last potential roomie,” Gretchen said. “Welcome aboard.”

***

Brontë curled under the blankets of her new temporary apartment. The bed was narrow and uncomfortable, with a spring sticking into her lower back, and she was pretty sure she could hear someone talking on the other side of the wall.

She got out of bed and padded over to the small window of her room, pushing it open a crack. It eased open only about two inches, just enough to let the sounds of the street below carry into the room.

The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but Gretchen seemed nice, and Brontë still had a curious fascination for New York. Being here in the apartment felt a bit like hiding from reality. Back home, she’d have to deal with the fact that she’d slept with the boss and then broken up with him. But for now? She could hide away in this tiny room with a bunch of expensive clothes that would do her no good, a jillion books, a hairless cat, and a writer who was, even at two in the morning, seated at her computer and working frantically on her manuscript. It still felt a bit like an escape.

She’d left the diamond necklace behind, too. She supposed she could have sold it for rent money, but that would have been . . . painful. And unfair. And somehow wrong. It seemed to symbolize their relationship, and she couldn’t have sold it. She just couldn’t have.

Brontë wondered if Logan would be looking for her. She hugged her knees close, a stab of pain in her heart. The night before she’d been curled in his arms, deliciously sated after a round of incredible, blissful sex. He’d pulled her close and hugged her against him, his fingers playing over her skin as she drifted off to sleep, and she’d thought that she’d never been held so tenderly.

Funny how a day could put things into perspective. Fresh tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked them back. He hadn’t wanted her. Not really. He liked her in bed. It was just out of it that she was . . . lacking.

Oh, Logan, she thought sadly. Why did I have to fall for you? You’re going to be a hard one to get over.

But even as she said the words to herself, she knew. There were just some men you never got over, and she suspected that Logan Hawkings might be one of them.

***

Brontë woke up the next morning reaching for Logan. Her heart sank when the realization struck her—he wasn’t there.

Not the best way to wake up in the morning. She pushed the sadness away and got out of bed, heading to the kitchen. Maybe today she’d get out and explore the city. She needed a new focus to keep her mind off of Logan. Exploring would do the job just as well as anything else. Of course, she’d be alone, which was a little depressing, but there was nothing to do about that.

Gretchen sat eating a bowl of cereal in the tiny portion of the apartment designated as the kitchen. She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black pants. Unlike the night before, she now wore makeup and her hair was up in a ponytail. The oddly naked cat rubbed against the leg of her pants, begging for attention.

“Headed out this morning?” Brontë asked in a friendly voice.

“Yup.” Gretchen picked up her bowl and went to the sink. “Off to work.”

Brontë sat down at the small kitchen table. “Work? But I thought you were a ghostwriter.”

“I am. I have a friend who owns a coffee shop. I barista to supplement my income and help him out.”

Brontë smiled. “I wish your friend was hiring. I wouldn’t mind supplementing my own income.”

Gretchen snorted, dropping her spoon into the sink and placing her bowl on the floor. Igor ran over at it immediately and began to lap up the milk. “He’s always hiring. I have to warn you, though, he pays me off the books. He’d probably do the same for you.”

“I don’t mind. I need something to do.”

The other woman gave her a sympathetic look. “Trying to get your mind off your ex, huh?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“No, of course not,” Gretchen said. “I’m pretty good at figuring people out. Like I figured that since your eyes were all red and puffy from crying, you probably missed him.”

Brontë touched her face, blushing. “Gotcha. At any rate, if you’d like the company, I could use the money and the distraction.”

“Of course. Cooper’d love to have you. Do you have a white shirt to work in?”

“I think so.” It probably was Gucci or something equally expensive and ridiculous. She thought of Logan briefly. Wouldn’t he just hate that she was wearing the designer clothes he’d bought for her and serving drinks? “Give me ten minutes and I’ll get dressed.”

***

For a week straight, Logan had called the consultant that he’d left at the Kansas City diner. Every day, the answer was the same. Brontë hadn’t come back to work. She hadn’t called.

She certainly hadn’t called Logan. It was driving him crazy, too.

Logan rubbed a hand over his face wearily. He hadn’t slept as well without Brontë there. His empty bed just felt wrong, as if it were missing something vital. His apartment, too. He’d run across a stack of books she’d left in the library for him. Real books, not the fakes he’d had lining the shelves because he’d been too busy to bother. She’d cleared the false fronts out of one of his shelves and had begun to fill it with her favorites. He’d found a book on top of the stack with a yellow Post-it stuck to the dust jacket.

The Post-it had a smiley face on it. The book? Plato’s Collected Works.

Seeing that had made his chest ache. She’d clearly been thinking of him when she’d gone shopping. Thinking of him with love.

And he’d been the a*shole who doubted her. Even after everything they’d been through together on the island, he’d still not quite believed she liked him for him, not his money. When she’d gone, she’d left behind the necklace he’d bought her and taken only her clothes. He suspected that if she could have left those behind without going naked, she would have done that, too.

She truly didn’t want his money. Just him. Except now she didn’t want him at all. He felt like an ass. And he wanted her back, because he wanted to explain himself. To try to explain why he’d done something that was clearly so hurtful to her.

But she wasn’t anywhere.

Logan called his private investigator again. “Any leads?”

“Nothing. No tickets purchased at the airport. If she’s gone back to Kansas City, she hasn’t flown. Maybe she hitched a ride with a friend.”

But Brontë didn’t know anyone in the city other than him and his friends. Worry made him grit his teeth. If anything happened to her, he’d go mad.

He needed her back. She was the only thing that felt right in his life anymore.

***

One Week Later

“I am ready for the day to be over,” Brontë said with a smile at Cooper and Gretchen as she finished the whip on a soy mocha latte. “How’s our tip jar looking?”

Gretchen leaned over the counter and peered at the tip jar. “Fat enough to order a pizza tonight. We could watch some total chick movies. You in the mood?”

“I am,” Brontë said with a nod. “As long as it’s not Pretty Woman. Something New Yorky.”

“Maid in Manhattan?” Gretchen teased.

Brontë shot her a look. “Very funny.”

“Cloverfield?” suggested Cooper. “I have it on DVD. I could bring it over.”

“Not exactly a chick flick, Cooper,” Gretchen said, tossing a hand towel over her shoulder. “And you’re not exactly a chick.”

Cooper flushed at her tease, heading back to the counter when a new customer lined up. Brontë winced at the adoring look that Cooper cast at Gretchen before smiling at the customers. After a week of working at Cooper’s Cuppa, two things had become extremely obvious to her: one, that Cooper was one of the nicest guys she had ever met anywhere, and two, that he was carrying a major torch for Gretchen.

A torch that Gretchen seemed determined to ignore.

“How about 300?” Gretchen asked, pulling out a mug and drying it with her towel. “That’s practically a chick flick, considering it’s filled with oiled-up beefcake. It’s not New Yorky, but with all that man-meat, does it matter?”

“Works for me,” Brontë said. “Want to invite Audrey?”

Gretchen shook her head. “She can’t. A certain someone is keeping her busy on a secret project.”

“Oh?” Brontë feigned casualness, even though her heart sped up at the thought. “What sort of project?”

The redhead said nothing, just continued to wipe mugs dry.

“Gretchen?”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s just business reports. Apparently her boss is skipping a lot of meetings lately, so she has to listen to recordings and recap them for him so he doesn’t miss out on anything.” She gave Brontë a pointed look. “Don’t read too much into that.”

“I won’t,” Brontë promised, but her mind was already racing. Why was Logan missing meetings? Was he all right? She squelched the rising worry and forced herself to focus. “So, a movie tonight?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Gretchen said. “I want to stop somewhere first and pick up a donation.”

“Donation?”

“Yeah. I pick up used books and take them in to a local retirement home.”

“Oh, Gretchen, that’s so sweet.”

Gretchen waved a hand, dismissing Brontë’s compliment. “Not so sweet. I started doing it when I kept getting so many author copies of my ghostwritten books. I didn’t want them, so I donated them to my nana’s nursing home. I didn’t realize when I first went that so few of the elderly get out, so I bring them books. I can’t imagine sitting around all day staring at the wall.”

Brontë smiled. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I love the idea and I want to help.”

“Good, because Audrey bailed on me. She’s working late, which means you and I get to go and pick up a few boxes from an estate sale. Someone told her there were two boxes to pick up and she volunteered us to go in her place.”

An order popped up on the screen, and Brontë moved to the blender to prepare the drink. “Your sister’s very dedicated to her job.”

“Eh. She likes working for that soulless bastard.”

Brontë bristled a little at Gretchen’s dismissive tone. “He’s not a soulless bastard.”

“Says the now proud owner of a diner,” Gretchen teased.

Brontë flushed, turning the blender on so she wouldn’t have to hear more about it. Perhaps she shouldn’t have shared so much of her story with Gretchen. The woman was fun to live with, and funny, but she had a caustic sense of humor and absolutely zero patience for anything related to Logan Hawkings. He kept Audrey hopping, apparently, and Gretchen resented it.

Brontë handed the blended drink to a customer with a smile, struggling to hide her heartache. After a few days, the pain had dulled into an ever-present ache that triggered tears at the slightest thought of Logan. Unfortunately for her, almost everything seemed to inspire thoughts of Logan. She and Gretchen had gone out for drinks the night before, and when someone at the bar had ordered a hurricane, she’d nearly burst into tears.

The girls working the evening shift came in to Cooper’s Cuppa, and Brontë and Gretchen left the counter, heading to the back room to take off their aprons and count out their tips. As Brontë stuffed her apron into her locker, Gretchen pulled out her phone and checked her text messages, then sighed. “I have the address for Audrey’s pickup. You ready to haul some books a few blocks? She says it’s two boxes.”

Brontë pretended to flex her muscles. “Ready.”

“Let’s go, then. The place should be empty. Audrey says the key’s under the mat.”

***

Hunter strolled through the empty, silent town house, regarding it with an eye long-used to appraising at a glance. He mentally sized up the asking price, tallying all the things that would make it a prize—the luxurious décor, the reputation of the prior owner, the fact that it was a historical building, and the number one thing that always made his interest perk: location. The Upper East Side was a great one.

This town house, he knew, would command several million on the market . . . provided he bothered to put it up for sale. It was a lovely gem of a home, and one of the Brotherhood might be interested in it. Griffin, perhaps, he thought, examining the Victorian wainscoting. An elegant townhouse would be something he’d be in the market for. Reese wanted it for a director friend of his, but Brotherhood came first. He’d probably offer to Griffin to see if he was interested, and if not, talk to Reese’s friend.

Hunter stopped and cocked his head, listening. Someone had entered the town house.

At the sound of voices, he paused in the foyer of the enormous home. Out of habit, he moved into a shadowy alcove, lest they catch him unawares and stop to stare at him. Even after years of being a scarred, ugly bastard, he was still bothered by the expressions people made at the sight of his face. It was easier to just blend in with the shadows until they were gone. He waited, his ears straining to determine who was there. The only people he’d expected to stop by were Logan’s assistant, who’d insisted on picking up some of his books for a donation, and the movers who’d come to clean out the rest of what was left in the house.

He’d thought the place would be empty, so it would be a perfect time for him to inspect it. He hadn’t realized someone else would be coming in, much less two women.

There was a shuffle of footsteps, and then the sound of a box thumping onto the ground.

“What is this place?” A soft, pleasant female voice asked. “It’s lovely.”

“Some dead celebrity’s home or something. I don’t care.” The other woman’s voice seemed full of laughter and amusement, but her tone was cutting. “All I care about is how we’re supposed to get these damned boxes back to SoHo. What the heck was Audrey thinking?”

“Could we call a cab?”

The women approached Hunter’s shadowed hiding place, and he stilled, waiting for them to pass without noticing him.

The redhead was standing not ten feet away from him, her head bent. He couldn’t see her face, but she was curvy and tall, her ass a perfect heart from where he was standing, and her hair was a brilliant shade of red. The other girl—a pretty brunette with wide eyes—balanced two boxes and was waiting for instructions from the other woman.

“I don’t know about a cab,” the redhead said. “That’ll clean us out, and I still want to order that pizza.”

“So?” the dark-haired one asked.

“Brontë,” the redhead said in a crisp voice, and Hunter came to attention. That was a familiar name.

But the redhead was still talking. “You have to understand something about my sister. She’s not the most practical creature.”

“She’s not? She seems practical to me.”

“Not when it comes to work. She thinks we’re mules or something, as evidenced by all this. And if I need to call and gripe at her to get her in line, then, by golly, I’m going to do it.” She put the phone to her ear. A few seconds later, she made a frustrated sound. “Voice mail. I can’t believe her. She said there were two boxes. Not five boxes of hardbacks. Does she think we’re bodybuilders?”

“It’s not that bad,” the brunette placated her, adjusting the boxes in her arms. “I’m sure we can manage.”

“I blame Logan Hawkings,” the redhead exclaimed, catching Hunter’s attention. “He thinks the world just belongs to him, doesn’t he?”

The look on the other woman’s face was sad. “I suppose.”

“Ugh. Look at that hang-dog expression. You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

The brunette turned sad eyes on her friend. “‘I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so. I do not know, but I feel it, and am in agony.’”

“Oh, quit quoting that crap at me. You’re being dramatic. He’s a jerk. You’ll get over him.”

The redhead turned, and Hunter got a good look at her face for the first time. She was unusual-looking, with round cheeks smattered in freckles. Her expressive eyes dominated her face despite being hidden behind square, scholarly glasses. Her chin ended in a small point, and she looked fascinating. Smart. Annoyed. “Save me from rich, attractive alpha males. They think they’re the heroes from a fairy tale. Little do they know, they’re more like the villains.”

“That’s not fair, Gretchen,” the one called Brontë protested.

“Life’s not fair,” Gretchen said in a cheerfully acerbic voice. “I’d rather have a man who isn’t in love with his own reflection than one who needs hair product or designer labels.” She bent over, and that heart-shaped ass was thrust into his vision again, and his cock stirred with need.

“So you’d rather have a pizza guy with a weak chin and a knight-in-shining-armor complex?”

“Yes,” Gretchen said emphatically, and a dimple flashed in her pointed little face. “His looks aren’t half as important as his brain.”

So she said. Hunter knew from experience that what women said they wanted in a man was soon forgetten if his physical appearance was unappealing. Still, he was fascinated with her. She was brash and clever, and a little sardonic, as if she were as weary of the world as he was. He watched as the two women, arguing and laughing, stepped out of the foyer of the empty home with the boxes of donations that he’d left for Logan’s assistant.

Her name was Gretchen. Gretchen. He racked his brain, trying to think of anyone who knew a Gretchen. A lovely redhead with a charmingly unusual face and a cutting tongue. He wanted to know more about her . . .

Hunter touched the jagged scars running down the left side of his face and frowned. Would she find him as hideous as the rest of the world did? Probably. But she’d also said she could look past that. That she wasn’t interested in a face as much as the brain behind it.

He was curious whether she’d been telling the truth.

Not that it mattered, since she’d just walked out the door and he’d likely never see her again.

A half-buried memory stirred in the back of his mind as he stared at the now-shut door. The other woman had an unusual name. Brontë. He knew that name, and where he’d heard it before.

He dialed Logan’s number, still thinking about the unusual redhead.

“What is it?” Logan said. “I’m about to head into a meeting.”

“There can’t be more than one ‘Brontë’ running around New York, can there?” Hunter asked.

The voice on the other end of the line got very still. “Brontë?” Logan asked after a moment. “You saw her? Where is she?”

Hunter stared at the door, half wishing the women would come back through it again, and half relieved they wouldn’t. “She just left with a redhead named Gretchen. I want to know more about her.”

“About my Brontë?” Logan’s voice was a growl.

“No. Gretchen. The one with red hair. I want her.”

“Oh.” A long sigh. “Sorry, man. Haven’t been myself lately. She left me, and I’ve been going crazy trying to find her.” Logan’s voice sounded strained, tense. “I can’t believe she’s still in New York. Where are you?”

“At the townhouse on the Upper East Side.” Hunter had been overseeing it to ensure that nothing was out of place. Plus, he’d been bored and restless. And more than a little lonely.

He wasn’t lonely any more, though. He couldn’t stop thinking about that redhead. Gretchen, with her big glasses and pert comebacks and red hair.

“Your assistant didn’t come by to pick up the boxes,” Hunter said after a moment. “This Gretchen did, and your Brontë was with her.”

“I have to go,” Logan said. “I’ll call Audrey and see who she sent over.”

“Send me information about this Gretchen woman,” Hunter reminded me. I want her.

“I will. And thanks.” Logan’s tone had changed from dejected to triumphant. “I owe you one.”

“You do,” Hunter agreed. “Just get me information on her friend, and we’ll call it even.”

Things had suddenly gotten a bit more . . . interesting. Hunter glanced at the empty townhouse and smiled to himself, his mind full of the unusual woman who had been there minutes before.