Logan knew what was happening, of course, but he let it be. When his marketing team presented a report on how these occasional photos resulted into a healthier-than-usual bottom line, that was all that mattered for the self-made billionaire. Having to sacrifice a few moments of privacy was a small price to pay if it meant being able to keep his empire in the black.
It was a long drive back home, and as soon as the limo rolled up the driveway, Logan briefly reminded his chauffeur to get some rest the next day.
“Understood, Mr. Hardwall. Thank you, sir, and good night.” Willy tipped his hat respectfully and waited until his billionaire boss disappeared behind the doors of the main house. He walked away, tired but content. Logan Hardwall might be a slavedriver to some, but one had little room to complain when the man worked twice as hard as everyone, and – more importantly – the billionaire was never stingy when it came to rewarding his employees.
Another good day at work, all in all, Willy thought, and the chauffeur started whistling, his mind already busy thinking of the things he could spend his bonus money on.
The billionaire had just taken his shirt off when someone knocked on his bedroom door. “Come in.” Exhaustion made his voice irritable, and he wondered impatiently who in God’s name would be idiotic enough to bother him at this time.
The voice was soft and feminine, and Logan instantly spun around.
Who the fuck—
“I, um, heard your car coming up the driveway.”
Petite, raven-haired, and big-breasted, with the kind of face that would have casino security ask for ID even when she was in her thirties. She was exactly like her pictures, except for those eyes. They were too vividly bright, like she was brimming with life, her cup runneth full.
A feat in itself, Logan thought, considering what he knew of her past.
The silence inside his bedroom seemed to pulsate with tension, and that the billionaire also happened to be half-naked wasn’t helping. It was extremely hard not to stare, and the more she saw, the harder it was to think straight. He was beautiful in a way that was both potently virile and sinfully sensual, with hair and eyes the shade of midnight, and sleek hard muscles that sinuously flexed under a layer of bronze.
Temptation incarnate, in other words, a man who was born to seduce and enslave women into surrendering to their most immoral desires…and she herself was proof of that, Tilly realized in jittery mortification.
Just looking at him made her ache all over, and her libido had never gotten out of control like this before. Her sex life might be a big fat zero and her V-card gathering dust for over a decade, but it didn’t mean she was completely clueless. She had started touching herself since she was nineteen, and it had always been enough for her. Or at least it had been enough…until now.
He seemed to find her tolerable at least, Tilly tried to comfort herself by thinking. The billionaire had been looking his fill of her from the start and—
“You must be Tilly. ”
The unexpectedness of his speech almost had her jumping, but she managed to keep herself still, daunted as she was by the stiffness of his tone and the taut outline of his tall, powerful figure. Intimidating as all of this was, none of it was able to make her immune to the inherent allure of the billionaire’s darkly musical voice.
This was probably how Prince Charming’s wicked twin would have sounded like, Tilly couldn’t help thinking, with every syllable uttered rolling down into a deep, rugged symphony. Just one word from Logan Hardwall, and any princess would be putty in his hands, beguiled by the promise of cruel pleasure.
This man could hurt a woman so, so good. Really, really good, to the point that Tilly had half a mind to beg him for the same treatment. Oh, please, hurt me so, fuck me really hard—
Tilly gave herself a hard mental shake. Dirty thoughts had rarely ever crossed her mind, and she could only think of Logan’s bare abs to blame. Just seeing all those inches of hard, golden expanse of skin…oh dear.
She was beginning to understand why a woman could take one look at a man and just have her heart go ooh la la.
Because shirtless Logan Hardwall?
OOH. LA. LAAAAAAA.
And then she noticed the billionaire staring at her pointedly, eyebrow arched in seeming askance. Are you just going to stand there and stare?
“Sorry,” she hastily apologized even as she valiantly staved off a telltale blush. “And yes I’m, um, Tilly, sir—”
“Logan.” The billionaire’s tone was curt. “In private, you should call me Logan.”
Because, with the exclusion of a handful of people, the rest of the world remained unaware that she, Mathilda Wakefield, a nobody, was already married to Logan Hardwall, last billionaire bachelor standing of San Antonio’s Finest Eligibles.