“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 c*ck 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.
Chapter Eleven
“I have good news and bad news,” Cooper said as Brontë and Gretchen came in to work.
Brontë pulled her apron out of her locker, frowning as she tied it behind her back. “Oh?”
“Hit us with the good news first, of course,” Gretchen said. “No sense in bumming us out until you give us a bit of a lift.”
Cooper beamed at them, his gaze resting on Gretchen adoringly. “I can now afford to put you both on the payroll.”
“So what’s the bad news?” Gretchen asked, glancing over at Brontë.
“There’s a new boss. I have someone I’m answering to.”
Gretchen frowned. “I don’t understand.”
A queasy feeling began to stir in Brontë’s stomach. Oh, no.
“I sold the place.”
“Holy cow! I didn’t even know it was for sale.” Gretchen blinked wide eyes at him. “Congrats, I think?”
“It wasn’t up for sale officially, but someone approached me and made me an offer I can’t refuse.”
Oh, no.
Brontë stared at the door to the back room, then pushed it open, entering the main sitting area of the small coffee shop. Her stomach gave an unpleasant twist as she saw a familiar pair of shoulders in a tailored gray sport coat. Logan. He turned, and her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach dropped.
“Brontë.” His eyes moved over her body, as if assessing whether it was really her.
“What are you doing here, Logan?”
His gaze seemed to cool a bit at her response. “I own the place.”
Not again! This man was going to drive her mad. “Are you kidding me?”
“We need to talk.” He stood and moved forward, reaching for her arm.
Brontë quickly sidestepped his grip and began to pull off her apron. If he owned another place where she worked, it was another one she’d have to abandon. God, this was getting ridiculous. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Allow me to rephrase that. I need to talk to you.” His voice lowered and became husky as he moved to stand closer to her. He was so close that her body trembled with his nearness, but she forced herself to hold still. Remain strong.
“Please, Brontë.”
It was that soft, low “please” that made her knees turn weak and her resolve melt away like butter. She looked up at his face, noticed the circles under his eyes, and gave a sharp nod. Brontë turned and glanced back at Cooper and Gretchen. Cooper was watching her curiously, but Gretchen’s arms were crossed and she looked annoyed on Brontë’s behalf.
“Can you give us a minute to talk?” Brontë asked.
“Use my office,” Cooper volunteered, pulling the key out of his pocket and holding it out to Brontë.
She took it and turned toward the back office.
Gretchen stepped forward, concern in her eyes. “Are you sure this is wise, Brontë?”
“I’ll be fine,” she told Gretchen, and squeezed her hand in thanks. She’d only known her for a short period of time, but already Audrey’s sister had been a great and supportive friend to her.
“We’re right outside if you need us,” Gretchen said, casting a scowl in Logan’s direction.
Brontë nodded and went to the door of Cooper’s office, not glancing behind her to see whether Logan was following. If he wanted to talk, well, he’d come after her. Her fingers were shaking as she tried to calmly unlock the door, and it seemed like forever before she could turn the key in the lock and get it open. Once the door was open, though, she stepped inside and flicked on the light. Logan entered close behind her, and Brontë shut the door after him so no one could listen in.
He immediately reached out and touched her cheek in a gentle caress before she could back away. His gaze moved over her, scanning her face and figure. “Is everything okay? You’re doing all right? I’ve been worried about you.”
She stepped aside and out of his grasp, even though every nerve ending in her body screamed for her to go back to his arms. “I’m fine, Logan. I can take care of myself.”