The new man was giving her a confused look, though, as he sat back down in the cockpit again. Next to . . . a pilot. Strange. “Does this dump of a resort have a helicopter, Logan?” the new guy asked.
Logan’s response was crisp over the headphones. “It does not.”
“Huh.” The newcomer grinned, then turned back to Brontë. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”
Something wasn’t adding up. “You don’t work for the hotel, Jonathan?” she asked.
He laughed as if she’d said something hilarious. “Hell, no. And if anybody asked, this is a Red Cross helicopter. Or Coast Guard. Or something.”
“It’s not?”
Logan fixed her with a meaningful look. “We’ll talk about this later, Brontë.”
That sounded like he was trying to quiet her down. She narrowed her eyes at him, her jaw set. “What’s going on?” She turned back to Jonathan. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Just an old friend,” he said, flashing her a white smile. “And somehow I’m thinking Logan’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
That depended on what exactly was going on. She studied Logan’s clenched jaw, his slacks. The shirt he’d casually pulled on, hiding his tattoo. The luxury helicopter they were currently sitting in that wasn’t Red Cross or Coast Guard. The laughing man who looked as if he were enjoying her confusion way too much.
It wasn’t adding up.
She gave Logan a curious look. “You’re not the manager of this place, are you?”
“I’m not.” His words were clipped and displeased.
“Then who are you?”
He said nothing.
Over his shoulder, Jonathan grinned. “He’s the owner, baby.”
He what? Brontë stared at Logan, betrayed. It didn’t make sense. And yet . . . it all made sense. The expensive necklace he’d offered her. His lack of knowledge of how the hotel worked. All of it. Logan wasn’t a manager. He was some rich a**hole who’d decided to have a good laugh at her while lying about who he was.
And to think that she’d slept with him!
The entire thing was a lie. Just like her mother, she’d stupidly fallen for a man’s smooth words and let her heart get carried away. Just like her father, he’d turned around and betrayed her.
Chapter Six
Brontë didn’t speak during the entire helicopter ride back to the mainland. Instead, she seethed quietly.
She felt like an idiot. A huge one. How could he not tell her the truth? Did she matter so very little to him that he’d hide his identity from her? Was his name even Logan Hawkings? She couldn’t trust a single word that had come out of his mouth over the past few days.
And she’d slept with him! Oh, God. She wanted to hide her face in her hands, but that would give away too much of what she was feeling at the moment. Instead, she pasted on her best friendly-waitress smile and tried not to think about how she’d cuddled with the man the night before, or had gone down on him under a table that morning because she was goofy for him.
She’d thought she’d been so lucky to be stranded with someone like Logan. Handsome, take-charge, intelligent, sexy, and strong. Well, she could add a few more adjectives to that list. Words like “liar” and “jerk” and “untrustworthy.”
How he must have laughed at her, Brontë thought bitterly. Every time she’d mentioned how he ran the hotel, he’d been silently laughing at her. A waitress. Had he let her assume he was the manager so she wouldn’t be so intimidated by his job, thus ensuring that she’d sleep with him? Ugh.
Well, she’d wanted this to be a weekend fling, hadn’t she? Mission accomplished. If she never saw the man again, it would suit her just fine.
They landed some time later on an unfamiliar roof, and everyone began to unbuckle their seatbelts as the helicopter blades slowed to a stop. Brontë removed her headset when the others did, and she couldn’t help but ask as Logan hopped out of the helicopter, “Where are we?”
He didn’t answer her but simply extended a hand to help her out of the helicopter. She took it and waited for him to reply as she stepped down. When he didn’t, she turned to Jonathan and repeated the question.
He grinned over at her. “One of my summer homes in Miami. You can stay here until we get things sorted out.”
One of his summer homes? One of? She glanced around at the massive roof she stood on. It was probably bigger than her apartment building. Exactly how much money did Logan and his buddy have? She narrowed her eyes at their backs, following them down the stairs and into the house.
Inside, her suspicions were confirmed. The house was an enormous mansion. White walls that had never seen a speck of dirt were artfully decorated with expensive light fixtures and framed art. Her dirty sandals flapped on marble tiles, and she had to fight to keep her mouth from going slack at the sight of the expensive carpets and furniture. It looked like a showroom of some kind. Except this was someone’s house, which was bizarre.
Jonathan led them down a long hall and then gestured at one of the doors. “You can stay here, Brontë. I only have a few guest rooms in this house, so if you don’t like it, we can switch your room.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she told him with her polite waitress smile. She didn’t plan on staying here any longer than she had to. Of course, he didn’t have to know that.
“She stays with me,” Logan said in a firm voice.
Her eyes narrowed at his confident tone. “I want my own room.”
He glanced down at her and gave her a small shake of his head. “You’re staying with me.”
“Is that so?”
Jonathan gave her an appraising look. “In that case, I guess you can stay with Logan.” He nodded at his friend. “It’s your usual room.”
Logan grunted in acknowledgment.
So it was decided? Just like that? She gritted her teeth. “Care to show me which room that is? I think I’d like a shower.”
Jonathan grinned, as if remarking her barely contained fury. “I’ll let lover boy here do the honors. I need to make a few calls. Feel free to head downstairs when you’re up to it.” He put his hands in his pockets and whistled, heading down the long marble staircase at the end of the hall with a jaunty confidence that bespoke years of familiarity with the place.
She turned to look at Logan and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have some serious explaining to do.”
“I know, and we’ll talk about it later. I promise,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and steering her down the long hall to a different set of doors.
Brontë waited for him to explain, but he paused in front of the door and said only, “This is our room.” He pushed it open, and she gaped at the room before her. Thick, plush red carpet covered the floor. A massive wooden four-poster bed dominated the room, along with a bay window that overlooked an enormous swimming pool. A Pre-Raphaelite painting hung over the bed. The entire thing screamed money.
And Logan had a “usual room.” Ugh again. Everything he’d told her was a lie. What was the point in lying to her about his job, though? It didn’t make sense. It only hurt her feelings that she hadn’t mattered enough for him to tell the truth.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Logan told her. “I need to meet with Jonathan to discuss a few things and then call my assistant. I’ve been out of pocket for too long.”
She stiffened, then turned to give him an incredulous look. “I thought we were going to talk.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t. You lied to me.”
“The lie ended up being to your benefit.”
She gasped. “My benefit? Since when is lying to someone to their benefit?”
“I’m wealthy,” he said. “I’m sure that’ll make up for a lot of things. Take a shower, and you’ll feel better. I need to talk to Jonathan.”
He leaned in to kiss her, and she turned her face away, still stewing. She didn’t realize that he’d left until she heard the door shut and she was left all alone in the gorgeous room.
He wasn’t who she’d thought he was. He had money, and he obviously thought that having money made his opinion more important than hers.
The lie ended up being to your benefit.
Brontë wanted to punch him for saying that. She kicked off her sandals in a fury and crossed her arms, heading over to the window to stare out at the pool below. After the hurricane, it was odd to see a pool that wasn’t full of broken deck chairs. Jonathan’s pool was, of course, full of sky blue water. A large waterfall cascaded down some rocks on the far end of the pool, and to the side she saw a white linen tent fluttering in the breeze, with cushioned wooden deck furniture underneath.
Wooden deck furniture. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it and that white linen tent. Of having a pool with a freaking waterfall. She glanced around the room she was standing in. The carpet must have been two inches thick. She eyed the massive bed and expensive-looking coverlet, the painting with the plaque underneath that told her it was legit and not a copy. She went to the bathroom and flicked the light on.
The bathroom was bigger than her apartment. There was a sunken marble tub, a glass box shower, and three sinks. A wall full of mirrors on one side. A toilet and a bidet. Naturally.
This wasn’t just big money. This was ridiculous, stupid money.
And here she was, just a diner waitress who had gotten stuck in the elevator with a rich guy on an island.
No, she amended, a rich guy who owned the island.
She frowned, glancing back over at the bed. A telephone sat on an antique nightstand next to it. She went and picked it up, thinking hard. Brontë pulled out her wallet. Her credit card was intact, the few dollar bills she had in there a bit soggy but serviceable.
So she dialed information and got the number of a local taxi service. “I need a car to take me to the airport, please.”
“No problem. What’s your current address?”
“I have no idea. Can you do a reverse lookup on the number?”
The woman on the other end of the line agreed, then a moment later, said, “I’ve got the address. Someone will be there to pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
Brontë hung up and crossed the room, sliding her shoes back on. She’d wanted a harmless weekend fling that she could leave behind, no strings attached. She’d gotten one. Logan might have wanted to continue their little island affair now that they were on the mainland, but he should have thought of that before he’d lied to her and then dismissed her concerns.
In her mind, she’d left Logan behind on the island. She’d liked the playful, fun Logan. Manager Logan. She had no interest in the rich a**hole Logan, she thought sadly. The real Logan.
The one she’d fallen for was a fake.
***
Logan appropriated Jonathan’s study and made a few important phone calls that couldn’t wait another day. He called his assistant and asked her to order a new phone to be shipped to him overnight as well as to cancel his credit cards since he’d left his wallet somewhere at the resort. Then he called a few business partners to let them know he was indeed alive and that meetings should be rescheduled.