“You will,” he agreed.
Of course, if she and Logan didn’t work out, that would make returning to work doubly awkward. She tried not to think about that. “A happy life consists in tranquillity of mind,” she reminded herself. If that philosophy worked for Cicero, it would work for her.
Logan moved to the door of the sedan and opened it for her, gesturing for her to enter. Brontë eyed it. Black, shiny, and brand-new. It screamed money. Totally not her kind of ride. She pulled her keys out of her purse and jingled them. “I drove myself here.”
Logan extended his hand, palm up.
She gave him a curious look. “You want to drive to my apartment?”
“No.” He grimaced and looked at his watch, clearly torn. “I wasn’t lying, Brontë. I do have a meeting I have to get to back in the city. We don’t have time to go back to your apartment. I can have someone drive your car back safely.”
Her jaw dropped. “You want me to go with you? Right now? I don’t have any of my stuff.”
A hint of a smile curved his mouth, and he slid on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “I need to go, but I’m not letting you out of my sight again. So, yes, I want you to come with me.”
“I’ll need clothes,” she warned him.
“I have credit cards.”
Yeah, so did she, but they were pretty much maxed at the moment. Brontë crossed her arms and studied him. “So you’re going to buy me a plane ticket, put me up in a hotel, buy me clothes, and pay me a salary, all so I can spend time with you?”
“That’s right.”
“That puts all the power in your hands, don’t you think?”
The smile he gave her was feral. “I didn’t get where I am by letting others have control.”
Yes, but what did that mean for a relationship, exactly? “I don’t like being a kept woman.”
“Think of them as necessary expenses for my new . . . philosophy consultant.”
She snorted.
He grinned, and for a minute, he didn’t look like the confident, aloof billionaire. He looked like a mischievous little boy. Her heart melted, just a little.
“All right,” she grumbled and stepped forward, handing him the keys. “But if you start picking out my clothes, I’m leaving.”
“I don’t know a thing about women’s sizes,” Logan told her, pocketing the keys. “You’re safe on that count.”
Brontë slid into the sedan, noticing the plush black leather seats. The windows were heavily tinted, the interior immaculate. A man in a black suit and sunglasses nodded at her from the driver’s seat.
Logan slid in beside her and shut the door.
“Where to?” The driver glanced at the mirror, his gaze on Logan.
“Airport.” Logan rested a hand on Brontë’s knee, the gesture intimate and possessive. He looked over at her and that arch smile returned to his mouth. “Ever ridden on a private plane?”
“Never. You have one?”
“Two, actually.”
“Naturally,” she said. “Let me guess. Two, just in case the other needs an oil change?”
He chuckled.
That wasn’t a no. Brontë laughed and shook her head. He was impossible.
Soon enough, they were at the airport and crossing the runway to a large plane. She’d thought he’d have a tiny plane, but this seemed like a regular-sized one. Just for one person?
The interior was like nothing she’d seen before. Thick, beige carpet covered the floor. On one side of the plane was a wet bar of some sort. On the right, two enormous leather chairs sat across from a table and two additional chairs. A large flat-screen TV was set into the wall, and the entire back of the plane was closed off, with a door barring it. She gawked at the interior, clutching her purse close. This was so not what she was used to.
“Have a seat,” Logan told her, brushing his fingers over her lower back again. “If you’re tired, you can take a nap in the bedroom after we take off.”
“Bedroom?” She looked at him incredulously. “You have a bedroom on this thing?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes I have to take late flights. It makes things easier.”
No kidding. She supposed having your own flying apartment did make things easier. Brontë sat down in one of the chairs, trying not to seem too intimidated.
Chapter Eight
Warm lips brushed her cheek. “We’re here.”
Brontë stirred, embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep in the car. “We are?”
“Yes. We have just enough time to get you situated upstairs, and then I have to head off to my meeting.”
Yawning, Brontë blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to wake up as she followed him out of the car. She stood on a wide sidewalk, the street lined with cars up and down both sides. All around her were tall, elegant buildings. Nearby was an awning and a doorman stood below it, waiting.
Logan leaned over the car and spoke into the window. “Wait here. I won’t be long.” Turning back to her, Logan took her by the arm and began to guide her toward the building with the doorman. “I’ll show you my place, and you can get comfortable.”
“Do you have to go?” She asked, glancing uncomfortably at the doorman as he opened the door for them.
Logan ignored the doorman and headed into the lobby, then toward the elevator. “It’s a meeting I’ve rescheduled twice already. I won’t reschedule it again.” When the elevator dinged, they stepped on, and Logan pushed the button for the forty-fourth floor. “When I get back, we can go out to dinner.”
She nodded, stepping closer to him when the elevator doors opened again and an older woman in a red suit carrying an enormous designer handbag stepped onto the elevator. She smiled at Logan, though her gaze frosted over at the sight of Brontë in jeans and a slobby T-shirt.
Brontë crossed her arms over her chest. Well, now she felt awkward. She smoothed a hand over her sleep-rumpled hair.
The woman got off the elevator ten floors later, and Logan gave her a curious look. “Uncomfortable?”
“Nah,” she lied, drawing the syllable out. “Just thinking that everyone in this building pays more in rent per month than what I make all year. What would make a girl nervous?”
“Don’t worry about what other people think,” he told her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re gorgeous just as you are.”