[english] Stranded With A Billionaire

Author: Jessica Clare

Even though the bar was thumping with loud music and the crowd was shoulder to shoulder, no one approached Logan Hawkings. He stood alone, an island of calm in a roiling sea of bodies. It might have been the “fuck off” expression on his face, or the crisp cut of his expensive tailored clothing that told people he didn’t belong in this neighborhood. It could have been because he walked with an arrogant swagger that made men get out of the way and women nudge their girlfriends with interest.
None of that mattered. He wasn’t here to socialize.
He moved past the bar, down a narrow hall to a back room. A man—tall, head shaven—stood in front of the door there. The guard wore sunglasses despite being indoors, a suit, and an earpiece with a black cord that wound behind his ear and around the back of his neck. His posture bing alert, the bodyguard watched Logan as he approached.
With a practiced ease, Logan swept the second and third fingers of his right hand over his shoulder and then rested them on his biceps in the exact spot where his tattoo lay under his clothing.
The man nodded and stepped aside.
Logan pushed the door open and strode down the stairs into the basement. Already there was a thick haze of cigar smoke above the large green octagon table set up in the center of the room. A buffet had been set up off to one side and was being ignored. Beer bottles and *** chips littered the table. Ah, Brotherhood night. His favorite night of the week. Logan gave the room a quick once-over. Everyone was here already; he was...

 

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Chapter One

Even though the bar was thumping with loud music and the crowd was shoulder to shoulder, no one approached Logan Hawkings. He stood alone, an island of calm in a roiling sea of bodies. It might have been the “fuck off” expression on his face, or the crisp cut of his expensive tailored clothing that told people he didn’t belong in this neighborhood. It could have been because he walked with an arrogant swagger that made men get out of the way and women nudge their girlfriends with interest.

None of that mattered. He wasn’t here to socialize.

He moved past the bar, down a narrow hall to a back room. A man—tall, head shaven—stood in front of the door there. The guard wore sunglasses despite being indoors, a suit, and an earpiece with a black cord that wound behind his ear and around the back of his neck. His posture becoming alert, the bodyguard watched Logan as he approached.

With a practiced ease, Logan swept the second and third fingers of his right hand over his shoulder and then rested them on his biceps in the exact spot where his tattoo lay under his clothing.

The man nodded and stepped aside.

Logan pushed the door open and strode down the stairs into the basement. Already there was a thick haze of cigar smoke above the large green octagon table set up in the center of the room. A buffet had been set up off to one side and was being ignored. Beer bottles and *** chips littered the table. Ah, Brotherhood night. His favorite night of the week. Logan gave the room a quick once-over. Everyone was here already; he was the last one to arrive. No surprise there.

The men seated at the table were roughly the same age. All were clean-cut, fit and wore clothes that spoke of money. They all carried themselves with the confidence that success brought, though in some, the confidence was more swagger than anything.

Beside the empty chair held for him sat Hunter Buchanan, the scarred, silent real-estate tycoon, and Logan’s most trusted friend. Next to him sat Reese Durham, a young, brash man on the cusp of hitting his billion-dollar fortune. Beside him sat Griffin Verdi, English aristocracy and the ‘professor’ of their small group. Then was Jonathan Lyons, owner of Lyon Automotives and notorious adventurer and thrill seeker. At his side was Cade Archer, the philanthropist of their group.

The five men barely glanced up from their cards as he entered.

“You’re late,” Reese Durham told him, a cigar hanging from his mouth. He examined his cards, face impassive.

Logan slipped his jacket off and tossed it into a corner, then moved to the only empty seat at the table. Cade raised a hand in greeting. Logan grasped it and then turned to clap Hunter Buchanan on the back. The man’s scars looked hideous in the dim light of the room.

“About time you got here,” Cade said in a pleasant voice. “Reese was just asking about Gloria.”

Logan frowned, shaking his head as he sat down between the two men. “Gloria who?”

Reese grinned at him across the table. “You know. Stacked Gloria with the big blond hair. I guess you’re not seeing her anymore? You brought her to the Stewart fund-raiser a few months ago.”

Had he? Logan couldn’t recall. He hadn’t had a second date with anyone since . . . well, since Danica. Hadn’t been interested enough and hadn’t made the time. “I don’t recall a Gloria.”

“So you wouldn’t care if I dated her? I met her at a party the other night and wouldn’t mind seeing her again.”

“Care?” Logan snorted. “I can’t even recall her face. She’s all yours.”

“Did you know she’s a friend of Danica’s?” Reese asked.

“Then you’re more than welcome to her,” Logan said, his voice cool. “If she’s a friend of Danica’s, she can burn in hell for all I care.”

“Thought you’d say that,” Reese said cheerfully.

“Just do me a favor and don’t bring up Danica again,” Logan said, his tone friendly but with a touch of warning.

The last thing he wanted to do was discuss a money-grubbing gold digger. She was in his past, and he had no intention of dwelling on her. His father had mocked him for falling for Danica. He’d said that Logan was being a stupid fool. Turned out the old buzzard had been right all along.

And that grated more than anything.

“So what took you so long?” Hunter pulled out a stack of chips, glancing over at Logan.

A smooth, effortless change of subject. Logan turned to Hunter and gave the scarred man a check for his share that evening. Hunter added it to the bank and shoved the pile of chips in his direction.

“I have a new driver,” Logan said. “He got lost.” His tone implied that it wouldn’t happen again.

Reese snorted and shook his head. “Excuses, excuses.” He gestured at the pile of chips in the center of the table. “Everyone in?”

The six men consulted cards as they were dealt. As cards were laid face up, Cade immediately tossed a bid into the pile. Four of the men folded. “The paladin there’s got three of a kind showing,” Jonathan said with a disgusted glance at Cade. “You know he can’t lie to save his ass.”

Reese sighed and put his cards down as well, the last in besides Cade. “Hell, you’re right. I fold, too.”

Cade grinned and raked the money toward him. “I might have been bluffing.”

“You weren’t,” Jonathan said, and took another swig of his beer, then leaned back to the catering table and snagged one for Logan. “You don’t know how.”

“All right,” Logan said, taking the bottle and twisting off the cap. He took a quick drink. “Now that we’re all here . . . This month’s meeting of the brotherhood is called to order.”

The men raised their drinks, clinking bottles together. “Fratres in prosperitatem,” they all said in unison, as they did every month. It was the motto of their clandestine society—“Brothers in Success.”

“First order of business is the round table,” Logan said. “We’ll start with Jonathan.”

“Lyons Automobiles continues to sell strongly in all quarters. We’re looking at adding a line of high-end convertibles that will have an electric engine but with enough horsepower to compete at Daytona.” He grinned. “I’m thinking about driving one myself. I’ll spare you the technical details.”

“Please do,” said Griffin in his cultured, bored voice.

Jonathan was undeterred. He picked up his cards, beginning to deal the next hand. “Prototype won’t be ready until next quarter at the earliest, but when we roll them out for mass production, you’ll each get one, compliments of the brotherhood.”

He discussed his car business a bit longer as the hand went on and then turned to Griffin. “You’re up.”

Griffin shrugged, examining his hand. “It’s money. It accumulates on its own.”

“Says a man that grew up with wealth,” Reese pointed out. “Not all of us were so lucky.”

“It’s not my fault I was born rich. Besides, I invested in Cade’s medical research facility,” Griffin pointed out, waving an idle hand. “I’m doing something with my money, at least.”

“Reese?” Logan asked.

“My newest acquisition, the Vegas Flush, seems poised to take the Stanley Cup this year. You’re all welcome to tickets, of course. Just contact my secretary. I’m also looking at acquiring a football team.” He grinned. “Maybe soccer. It’s a sport that can grow here in the States. Might be a solid investment worth looking at if I can get a superstar player to get people into the stands. Still debating.”

They discussed sports teams for a bit and then went on to Cade Archer, who talked about medical breakthroughs at his research facility and some upcoming charity events. Cade was their white knight. He made money, but he insisted on it having some sort of higher purpose or focus on the good of mankind.

The rest of them? They just liked to make money.

Reese, Logan, and Griffin all took their turns, sharing any news of the week, and then the conversation moved on. Hunter was last, and he kept things brief, as he always did. The real estate tycoon man was never one for talking much. He just sat back and enjoyed the company of his brothers most meetings. Tonight, though, he had something to share, and his dark gaze moved to Logan as he spoke. “Got wind of an investment property if you’re interested. There’s a large resort on an island in the Bahamas that’s in need of a cash influx. Exuma District. I have a friend that’s willing to sell to an interested investor, and I think it could be a solid deal.”

Logan nodded, only half paying attention to his cards. It did sound like something up his alley. Hawkings Conglomerate was all about buying failing businesses on the cheap, turning them into profitable organizations, and then reaping the benefits from that. “Prime location?”

“So I’ve been told. Worth taking a look. There’s a French billionaire interested, but I thought I’d bring it to the brotherhood first.”

 

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Logan grunted, considering. For Hunter to have brought it up, it must have been an excellent deal. Normally Hunter was silent. He contributed funds if one of the others needed cash flow to ensure that his business did well, but other than that he kept to himself. Logan admired that. The man was an island. Logan suspected that he didn’t have many—if any—friends outside of the brotherhood.

“I’m busy right now, but I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule,” Logan said with a nod.

“Maybe you should check it out and take a vacation at the same time,” Reese told him. “Get away from the office for a few days. Forget your troubles.”

Logan scowled at Reese, throwing his ante for that hand onto the table. “My troubles are long gone.” After all, he’d shaken off Danica before they’d ever made it to the altar—a bullet dodged. And his bastard of a father had passed away at about the same time. That was two millstones no longer around his neck.

Reese looked amused at Logan’s response, as if he didn’t believe him. “Oh, really? Because that’s not what—”

“Stay out of it,” Logan said in a warning tone.

Reese simply grinned and shrugged, turned his attention back to his cards. “Suit yourself.”

Logan did keep thinking about Reese’s words, though, and was distracted enough that he stayed in despite having a garbage hand. He ended up losing two grand to Jonathan without even realizing it.

Reese thought he should take a “vacation.”

He wanted to laugh at the thought. Successful men didn’t get vacations. They just got more opportunities. Still, it sounded like an interesting investment, and he liked to keep Hawkings Conglomerate diverse. An island resort was definitely diverse.

He noticed Hunter watching him out of the corner of his eye. Had the real estate mogul decided that he’d toss the gem Logan’s way because he thought Logan could do an admirable job of flipping it? Or did he, too, think Logan needed a distraction?

That thought made his mood sour. First Reese was needling him, and now Hunter was in on it? He wouldn’t have thought that of Hunter. He was the quietest of their small, successful group, but sometimes he saw straight into the heart of the matter.

His father would have sneered at the thought of a vacation. To stay strong and on top of business, you kept a close eye on things and one hand on the rudder at all times. Vacation made you weak. Soft. And Hawkings men weren’t soft. They had poor taste in women, though. His father had married his mother, and that had been a mistake for all parties. And Logan had almost been fooled enough by Danica’s sweet face to go to the altar with her.

Logan stared at his cards, frowning, and tried to conjure up the face of someone named Gloria. Nothing. His memory was full of business meetings and contracts. No women.

Maybe a vacation/business trip was just what he needed at the moment.

“I’ll take a look at it,” he told Hunter.

***

Two Months Later

“Hate to say it, girl,” Sharon told Brontë and flopped down on her queen-sized bed. “But this is the shittiest resort I’ve ever stayed in.”

“It was free,” Brontë replied, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “You can’t really complain about free. Epicurus said, ‘Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance.’”

“Uh-huh,” Sharon said in a tone of voice that told Brontë that she wasn’t listening. Instead, she’d picked up the remote and, pointing it at the TV, began to hammer on the buttons. “They water down the drinks at the pool. Did you notice that?”

For the ninth time in two days, Brontë regretted bringing Sharon. When she’d won the trip through her local radio station, 99.9 Pop Fever, she’d been just thrilled to go. Her friends in Kansas City hadn’t been able to come, though—none of them could get off work. Her old roomies from college had “real” jobs with responsibility, and they couldn’t get away from work for a last-minute getaway vacation, no matter how free it was.

Seeing as how Brontë was a waitress at a diner, she had no problem getting the time off. She’d simply asked for someone else to cover her shifts. Sharon had overheard Brontë’s conversation, though, and just happened to have a passport and enough vacation time to be able to make the trip. She’d broken up with her boyfriend, and she could really use a few days away, and wouldn’t Brontë want company on the trip?

Sharon wasn’t Brontë’s favorite coworker, but they got along well enough. And Sharon had given her sad eyes and mentioned the trip so often that Brontë had felt guilty about letting a second ticket go to waste. So she’d relented and brought Sharon along.

Big mistake.

After a rocky flight, during which Sharon had whined the whole time, a horrible ferry ride out to the island (Sharon had whined all the way through that, too), and now sharing the world’s smallest hotel room? Brontë was starting to think that next time she’d just go alone. Forty-eight hours with Sharon was about forty-seven too many.

Even though Brontë was determined to enjoy the vacation, Sharon was making it difficult. She was a slob. Her clothing and shoes were strewn all over the small room. She hogged the bathroom and used all the hot water and took all the towels. She’d stayed out all night the previous night partying without Brontë. And she’d nearly cleaned out the minibar already, despite the fact that Brontë had pointed out that it would be charged to Brontë’s credit card since the room was in her name.

“This place is a total roach motel,” Sharon said, tossing her suitcase onto the bed and throwing clothing onto the floor until she uncovered her pink bikini. “You should have asked them to upgrade you to the penthouse.”

“The radio station gave me the vacation. I couldn’t exactly demand anything.”

“I would have demanded a room larger than a closet!” Sharon stripped off her sundress and began to change.

Brontë went back to her guidebook, ignoring Sharon’s incessant complaining. So the resort was a little on the . . . rundown side. Seaturtle Cay in the Bahamas was still a win in Brontë’s eyes. It was free, for starters. She hadn’t spent a dime on travel or the hotel, thanks to the radio station. Which was a good thing, seeing as how she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Mostly, it was just nice to get away from work. The beaches were gorgeous, and she’d seen a few advertisements for fun excursions like parasailing and snorkeling.

It just had to stop raining.

Brontë glanced out the window at the gray, gloomy skies and pouring rain. She sighed and flipped to the back of the guidebook, wondering if it included a list of rainy weather events.

Sharon finished adjusting her bikini and then glared out the window. “We’re not going to get one day of sunshine, are we?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a weatherman,” Brontë said without looking up, her voice as cheerful as possible. “Maybe you should go to the bar and see if anyone there has a weather report.”

“Now that sounds like a great idea.” Sharon put on a pair of enormous hoop earrings, slid into her sandals, and waved at Brontë. “I’ll be back soon. You want anything?”

Some peace and quiet? “I’m good.”

As soon as she was gone, Brontë exhaled in relief and stretched out on the bed. She grabbed a pair of earbuds and turned her music up to blot out the sound of her neighbors having sex—again. Brontë picked up her guidebook and flipped back to the beginning. A vacation was a vacation was a vacation, and she was going to enjoy this one, damn it. She turned a page. Swimming with stingrays. Huh. Maybe she’d try that. She glanced at the angry, cloudy sky again.

Just as soon as it was sunny.

***

A hand roughly jarred her awake from her nap. “Brontë! Ohmigod. Brontë! Wake up!”

She jerked up, tugging out the earbuds, only to see Sharon looming over her bed.

The other woman looked frazzled. “Did you not hear the loudspeakers?”

“Mmm? Loudspeakers?” Sure enough, there was a low tone echoing over and over. As she cocked her head to try to distinguish the sound, Brontë heard a voice chime in over the loudspeaker.

“Please make your way to the bus loading area,” it said, calm and smooth. “All guests will be transported to the evacuation site as soon as possible. Please remain calm and do not panic. There is plenty of time to evacuate the area prior to the hurricane. Refunds will not be issued. Guests will be given a voucher for a future visit.”

“Hurricane?” Brontë repeated slowly, as if trying to make the word register in her mind. “Are you serious?”

“Hurricane Latonya,” Sharon said, moving to her bed and throwing her suitcase onto the mattress. “Category three currently and heading toward category four or five. They’re evacuating this entire stupid island.”

 

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A hurricane? It seemed ridiculous. Brontë had seen something about it on the news. Something like “not heading anywhere near the Bahamas.” The news was apparently a big fat liar.

She sat up in bed, alert. “Where do we go?”

“We’re all going to be shuttled over to a nearby cruise ship and taken back to the mainland.” Looking stressed, Sharon pulled a pair of jean shorts on over her bikini. “This whole vacation has been doomed.”

Brontë believed in making lemonade out of lemons as much as the next person, but she was starting to agree with Sharon. “I can’t believe the hurricane’s heading this way.”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be a big one, too. Pack your stuff. We have to go.”

They packed quickly, Brontë far more than Sharon, who had crammed her suitcase full of clothing and shoes and now found it wouldn’t all fit back in since she’d purchased some things in the gift shop. Sharon spent a good twenty minutes deciding which outfits to take with her and which to leave behind, and wailing about all of it. Just when Brontë was about to leap over the bed and take over, Sharon said she was ready. Suitcases in hand, they made their way out of the room.

A sea of people wandered the hallways, tourists with suitcases and small children. People were crying and arguing, and everyone was shoving to get ahead. The line for the elevator stretched down the hall and the bland, too-calm evacuation message played over the loudspeaker over and over again.

“Stairs?” Brontë asked Sharon.

“In heels? Down twenty floors? Are you kidding me? We can wait for the elevator.”

Brontë bit back her retort. “Fine. We’ll wait for the elevator.”

They did, and had to wait nearly half an hour just to get on the stupid thing. They made it down to the lobby only to find that it was packed shoulder to shoulder with guests. It was a complete and utter mess, and Brontë’s stomach sank at the sight of it.

Sharon pushed her way forward, and Brontë followed her. There was a line of buses in the parking lot, barely visible through the relentless rain and the crowd of bodies waiting to get out of the hotel. One harried looking man with a clipboard was trying to keep order—and failing miserably.

As they stood waiting, a man with a Red Cross symbol on his rain slicker headed inside. “All right,” he yelled, and the room quieted. “We’re going to need you to form an orderly line. Have your identification and your passport out and available. We’ll be taking you all to a nearby cruise ship that has agreed to sail back to the mainland and out of the storm’s way. Again, please have your passport and identification ready.”

The crowd murmured, digging into pockets and pulling out wallets. Brontë pulled out her small purse and removed her passport and license.

Sharon got a panicked look on her face and started digging through her purse.

“Sharon?” Brontë said nervously. “What is it?”

“I can’t find my passport,” Sharon said, moving aside as the line of people surged forward to get onto the bus.

Brontë pushed her way to Sharon’s side, trying not to be annoyed. “Is it in your suitcase?”

“I don’t know! It should be in my purse.” Sharon opened her purse and began to dig out a random assortment of makeup and brushes. She dropped a lipstick, and it rolled away under a sea of feet. Sharon stared after it, her gaze full of longing. “Shit. I loved that color.”

“You can buy a new one,” Brontë told her, her patience nearly gone. “Find your passport.”

Sharon’s eyes widened. “Do you think it’s at the bar?”

“Either the bar or the room.” Seeing as how those were the only two places Sharon had been since they’d gotten to the resort.

“Bus number two is loading,” the man called. “Please form an orderly line for the evacuation!”

They ignored him. Sharon clutched a double handful of makeup and was still digging in her purse. “It’s not in here. Can you go back to the room and check?”

Brontë stared at Sharon. “Seriously?”

“Yes!” Sharon snapped, no longer bothering to be friendly. She stuffed the makeup back in and sat down on the floor, unzipping her luggage and ignoring the mob glaring at her. “I’ll check my suitcase here and then go to the bar and see if it’s there. We can save some time if you go double-check the room for me.”

“Line up for bus number three!” the man yelled.

“How many buses do they have?” Brontë asked nervously. “I don’t want to be left behind.”

“I’ll call your cell if I find it,” Sharon said. “Leave your suitcase here, and I’ll watch it for you.”

Brontë hesitated. She really didn’t want go hunting for the missing passport. Sharon had been awful to room with, and it had only been two days. Two very, very long days. She was almost at the point where she didn’t care if Sharon stayed or not. And now there was a freaking hurricane on the way, which just made things go from bad to worse. “There’s a hurricane, Sharon. I’m sure they’re not going to bother to check everyone’s passports. They’ll let you on without it.”

“Please, Brontë,” Sharon said, and her voice sounded tearful even as she began to rip her suitcases open and frantically dig into messy piles of clothing. “Help me, Brontë. It won’t take five minutes! I promise I won’t let them leave without you. Look at all these people standing here. It’s going to take them an hour to evacuate everyone.”

There were a lot of people, Brontë had to admit. And there had been a line at the elevator upstairs. It would take a while for the resort to clear out. She thought of the upset wobble in Sharon’s voice. Damn it. With a sigh, she pulled out her cellphone and waved it in front of Sharon’s face. “Call me the moment you find it,” she said in a firm voice. “Hurry,” Sharon told her.

No “Thank you.” No “I appreciate it.” No “You’re the best.” Just a “Hurry.” Figured. Parking her suitcase next to Sharon, she turned and ran for the elevator.

She was definitely going on the next trip alone.

***

The passport wasn’t in the room. At least, Brontë was pretty sure it wasn’t. It was hard to tell with the mess Sharon had made of things. But Brontë had dutifully upended the garbage can, searched through the assortment of half-used bottles in the small bathroom, shaken out every towel, and even looked between the mattresses.

And then, because she hadn’t gotten a call from Sharon and because she felt like she couldn’t go back without Sharon’s passport, she checked one more time. Anxiety made her stomach feel as if it were tied in knots. Were the buses still downstairs? They wouldn’t leave anyone behind, would they?

Brontë moved to the window and peered out, but it was raining even harder, the skies gray and dark. It was impossible to see anything out there except more rain.

She checked under the bed one last time and then couldn’t stand it any longer. She was just going to have to admit defeat. With a final glance at the empty room, Brontë closed the door behind her.

The hall was empty this time, but that annoying tone was still going off over the loudspeakers. Crossing her arms over her chest, she headed to the elevator and hit the button. She drummed her fingers as she waited, every second seeming like a million years. She checked the screen of her phone for a message from Sharon. Nothing.

The elevator door chimed. It opened slowly, revealing a lone occupant. A man in a double-breasted gray suit stood at the back of the elevator. There was a white name badge over one breast of his jacket, indicating that he worked at the hotel. He frowned at the sight of Brontë, looking as if he was incredibly annoyed that the elevator had bothered to stop on her floor.

Yeah, well, she was annoyed, too. Brontë stepped inside and smacked the lobby button, even though it was already lit up. She punched it a few more times for good measure. Great. She was probably in the elevator with the manager or something. She supposed it was lucky that she’d gone back to the room and not Sharon. If Sharon had seen the manager, she’d have filled his ears with complaints about how horrible the hotel was. The free hotel.

She stared at the buttons, watching them light up as the elevator moved down. Twenty floors, and she’d been on the nineteenth. The man on the elevator must have been in the floor above her. The penthouse. If she had to guess, Brontë would have assumed those guests had been evacuated first. Maybe the manager had gone up to count the bathrobes or something.

They were evacuating the entire island. Good lord. So much for her fun, relaxing vacation. She’d been trying so hard to make this vacation enjoyable, and it had fought her at every turn, as if determined to suck, and hard. So much for “fun” or even “relaxing.” Brontë’d never felt so stressed out in her entire life.

 

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A freaking hurricane. The perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.

The elevator panel lit up on two. Brontë drummed her fingers on her arm, waiting for it to roll over to one. And waited . . .

And waited . . .

The elevator shuddered just as the power went out. The elevator car was plunged into darkness, and Brontë lost her breath, terror gripping her.

“Great,” the manager said behind her. “Just fucking great.”

A hysterical giggle rose in Brontë’s throat. Nope. That was the perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.

Chapter Two

Brontë’s wild laughter echoed in the small elevator, the only sound breaking the silence. She couldn’t seem to stop. It was just so ridiculous. She’d been stuck in what was supposed to be paradise with a horrible roomie and a hurricane. Now? Now she was trapped in an elevator with a stranger. Truly, she must have racked up some sort of hellish karma to have this happen to her.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” the man behind her said in a cold, biting tone. “I assure you that I do not.”

“It’s funny because it’s so awful,” Brontë said between giggles. “This is the worst day ever.”

“I don’t laugh when I’m in a life-threatening situation.”

“I do,” she said, and burst into more giggles. They were part hysteria, of course, and part anxiety. Not exactly endearing her to the manager she was currently stuck with. “Sorry,” she apologized, but it came out wobbly, as if she were suppressing more laughter. “I’m what you would call a nervous laugher. I’ll try to stop.”

“Good.”

She giggled again and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

He said nothing. She wished they had the lights at least, so she could look over at him and judge his expression. Probably just as well that she couldn’t. He was probably glaring hatefully at her. She couldn’t really blame him for that. She was kind of being an ass. A hysterical ass.

Silence fell, almost oppressive in the darkness. Neither said anything, and Brontë found herself silently wishing that the blaring monotone of the loudspeaker with the hurricane warning chimes could be heard. Just to break up the silence. Something. Anything.

Her phone. Of course. She felt stupid for forgetting about it. She could call Sharon and tell her that she was stuck in the elevator. Fishing around in her purse, Brontë located it with her fingertips and pulled it out, clicking it on. Bluish light flooded her end of the elevator, nearly blinding her with its brilliance. One bar left—that was what she got for reading books on her phone, she supposed. Not that it mattered. The screen was lit up with a message—“Area out of service.” Shit.

Across the elevator, another light flared to life, and she glanced over at the man in the suit, his features illuminated by the phone’s light. Good-looking. A few years older than her, with a strong jaw and nose. He immediately clicked his phone off again. “No service.” He sounded disgusted.

Thrown back into darkness again, Brontë blinked at the red spots in her vision. She reached out into the darkness, trying to recall exactly how big the elevator was. Fifteen feet across? Less? More? She hadn’t paid attention. Brontë suspected that if she took a step forward, her outstretched arm would smack into the stranger, though.

Cozy. A little too cozy, considering they were trapped.

Exactly how long could they be trapped here before someone would notice? What if the ferry had already left the island for the mainland? Brontë tried not to think about that, or the hurricane heading their way. Someone would be coming to get them. She waited for the inevitable sound of voices, of rescuers.

And waited . . .

And waited . . . The darkness was stifling, the only sounds in the elevator that of her accelerated breathing. Hers and the manager’s.

When the power didn’t appear to be coming back on, she slid down to the floor of the elevator. It felt cool against her legs, a welcome change considering that the air in the elevator was becoming a little stuffy. How long had they been sitting here in the darkness? Ten minutes? Twenty? How long did they have before the hurricane hit? She clutched her purse close.

Air brushed past her as if he was moving forward, and she clung to the wall. “What are you doing?”

Buttons clicked. He seemed to be ignoring her.

“What are you doing?” she asked again.

A buzzer rang out, startling her so much that her heart jumped into her throat and she jolted in her seat.

“Emergency buzzer,” he said in a low voice. “Someone should hear it and come looking for us.”

“If they’re still here,” she pointed out.

“Well, aren’t you Miss Suzy Sunshine?” he said. “At least I’m doing something instead of sitting around and giggling.”

“‘Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge,’” she quoted.

“What?”

“Plato,” Brontë told him, lifting her chin in the darkness.

There was a long pause. Then: “I don’t think Plato had ‘giggling’ in mind when he wrote that.”

“Hey,” she said, her nostrils flaring with anger. “It’s called nervous laughter, you jackass. I laugh when I’m uncomfortable. So sue me. And here’s a thought: Since we’re stuck in here together, how about you try not being such a jerk for five minutes?”

He said nothing, just continued to hammer on the buzzer.

After about twenty minutes of his endless pushing on the buzzer, she wanted to cover her ears and tell him to knock it off. But that would be stupid, of course. If someone heard the buzzer, they could get out of here. And yet . . . no one was coming. The power was still off. She clicked on her phone, looking at the time and trying to ignore the fact that her battery was almost dead.

They’d been in here an hour. The buses would still be outside, surely. With all that rain, it would take a while to pull off any kind of evacuation. The elevator was becoming stuffy, too. Either that or she was just in the early stages of hyperventilation. She put a hand to her damp forehead and willed herself to breathe slowly. This would be a lot easier if she wasn’t trapped with the unpleasant manager. No wonder the hotel was such a dump if he was in charge.

“Shouldn’t someone come looking for you soon?” she asked. Surely they’d need the manager to help coordinate the evacuation.

“You would think so.”

No sarcasm that time. Well, goody. They were making progress. Brontë dug through her purse and pulled out a piece of gum, popping it into her mouth and nervously chewing it. Every action in the oppressive darkness seemed of monumental importance. She picked through the contents of her purse with her hand, looking for anything useful. A pen. Her checkbook. Passport. Wallet. Loose change. Birth control. When her hand touched upon that, she smothered another hysterical laugh.

She heard him sigh at her laughter. He sounded frustrated. Too bad for him—she was at her wit’s end herself. But she needed to talk, so she asked, “Think the buses are still outside?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

Jeez. Could he be any ruder? “Aren’t you supposed to be good with customer service or something? You seem to be failing on that front.”

He seemed amused. “Am I?”

“Yeah, as a manager, you might want to work on your people skills. I’m just saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the dry voice said.

She yawned. Now that the initial terror had worn off, she was busy being annoyed at him and not frightened. Combine that with the rising humidity, and she was getting sleepy. “I think we’re stuck here.”

“Theoretically.”

“I assume the buses left by now.”

“You also assume I was going to leave by bus.”

“Oh? I guess you have special transportation to take you away before the hurricane gets here?”

Silence for a moment. Then: “A helicopter.”

Well, wasn’t he high-class management? “Okay, let’s try this again. Do you think your helicopter is still there?”

A long pause. Then he grudgingly admitted, “Not if the weather is getting worse.”

“You might have to ride the bus with us plebes, then.” She lay down on the floor, using her purse as a pillow. “‘As the builders say, the larger stones do not lie well without the lesser.’”

“More philosophy?”

“Just a little something to think about,” she said tartly.

“Indeed,” he said slowly, and she noticed he had let off on the infernal buzzer. Maybe he was giving up. She sure was. After a moment, he asked, “Will anyone be looking for you?”

Her sigh in response seemed overloud in the darkness. “I don’t know. I came here with a friend, but she’s a bit . . . flighty. I don’t know if she’ll realize I’m missing or just assume I got on another bus.” Brontë hated to think about it, but if it came down to Sharon staying behind to make sure Brontë was safe...

 

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“Mmm.” His tone was noncommittal. As if he wasn’t sure that was the case at all but wanted to humor her.

Yeah, she wasn’t sure about that either. But it sounded good, so she adjusted her purse and rested her cheek on it, waiting for rescue.

***

Brontë woke up some time later, her mouth dry, her body aching. The silence was deafening, the blackness almost overwhelming in its depth.

Still no power. Still in the elevator. She rubbed at her eyes and sat up, wincing. “Hello?”

“Still here.” The man trapped with her sounded more weary than annoyed. “You haven’t missed anything.”

“I must have slept. How . . . how long have I been out?”

“About six hours.”

Six hours? Dear God. Panic made her heart flutter in her chest. “They’re not coming for us?”

“My guess is no.”

She sucked in a deep breath, willing herself not to panic. Stuck in an elevator on an evacuated island. Stuck. It felt oppressively hot in the elevator now, as the power had been out for several hours and the tropical humidity was taking its toll. “How could they leave us behind?”

“Again, just a guess, but I would say that in the chaos of the evacuation, someone dropped the ball.” His tone was analytical. Bored.

Was he still pissed at her, or pissed at their situation? It didn’t matter, she supposed. Neither of them was going anywhere anytime soon.

She sat up, wincing at how stiff her body felt, and how sticky with sweat. Ugh. She was thirsty as hell, too, and there was no relief from the heat. The jeans and T-shirt she’d put on for the evacuation felt stifling. She kicked off her sandals and then glanced over to his corner of the elevator, not that she could see anything. If she undressed, would he notice? Would he mind? Was it dangerous? He didn’t seem like the type to leap over here and rape her, and she was miserable in the heat.

After a moment more of hesitation, she began to slowly shimmy out of her jeans, frowning at the loud noise her zipper made.

“What are you doing?”

Naturally he’d caught that small sound. Figured.

“I’m getting undressed. It’s hot in here. Just stay over on your side of the elevator, and I won’t bother you.”

She heard the rustle of clothing from his side of the elevator as well. “Good idea.”

“Was that a compliment? My. Am I forgiven for my insane giggling?” she teased.

“Not yet.” His terseness threatened to shut down the conversation.

“‘Forgive many things in others; nothing in yourself.’”

“Are you going to sit here and quote Plato all afternoon?” He sounded almost amused.

“That was Ausonius, actually. And yes. My philosophy degree has to be of some use.” Stripping off her shirt, she sighed with pleasure when the air hit her flushed skin. Clad in nothing but her bra and panties, she immediately felt cooler, much to her relief, and she folded her discarded clothes and tucked them against her purse.

“You can get down to your boxers, you know,” she told him. “I can’t see you, and it feels much better.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Briefs, then?” she couldn’t resist asking. “You struck me as a boxer man.”

Actually, he hadn’t struck her as much of anything. She’d only had a quick glimpse of him before the power had gone out. But she liked teasing him. It somehow made this hellish ordeal slightly less suffocating.

“Why are you asking about my clothing?” His tone was stiff, unpleasant.

She sighed. “It’s called making conversation. You should learn how to do it.” Curling up with her phone in her hand—though she didn’t dare open it and run the battery down—she thought for a minute and then offered, “My name’s Brontë.”

“Brontë? After Charlotte or Emily?”

Her esteem of him grudgingly went up a notch. Normally people cracked jokes about dinosaurs rather than realizing where her name was from. “Either. Both, I suppose. My mother had a fascination for classic literature, not that it got her anywhere.”

“I see we share a commonality in mothers, then.”

“Do we? Was yours a total dreamer, too?”

“Mine was a showgirl,” he said flatly. “I am told she was highly impractical and extremely irresponsible.”

“Oh. Um.” That hadn’t been quite what Brontë had meant. Her mother had been a sweet, caring woman, even if she didn’t have a practical bone in her body. She’d also stubbornly refused to see anything but the best in people, which was why Brontë’s childhood had been so idyllic . . . and so very false. She shoved away the bad memories. “I didn’t mean to sound negative about my mother. She just didn’t have sensible side. That’s all. She was a good woman. Anyhow, she liked books—especially classics.”

“And you have inherited her love, I take it. You seem to have an obsession with ancient philosophers.”

“Everyone has a hobby,” she said cheerfully. “What about you?”

“I do not.”

“You don’t have a hobby? At all?”

“I work. It takes up all my hours. Though I suppose I could spend my time memorizing pithy quotes to zing back at unsuspecting men in elevators.”

Well, now she felt stupid. “I . . . wow. Sorry. I just—”

“I was teasing you,” he said, his voice that same crisp, abrupt sound that she’d mistaken for rudeness. Perhaps that was just his manner and she hadn’t realized it because she couldn’t see his face.

“Oh.” Now she felt silly. “I didn’t realize.” There was a long pause between them, and she rushed to change the subject. “So, what’s your name?”

He hesitated, as if he were weighing the benefits of telling her. “Logan Hawkings.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Indeed.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice now, definitely.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing at all.”

It sure sounded like he was amused by something, but what it was, she didn’t know. A smidge annoyed, Brontë lay back down on the floor, resting her cheek on her folded clothing. “So how long do you think we’ll be here?”

“I suppose it depends on how direct of a hit the hurricane makes on Seaturtle Cay. Then it depends on the organization of rescue efforts.”

She yawned, feeling sleepy again due to the heat. “So far I’m not impressed with them.”

He snorted. “That makes two of us.”

There was another lull in the conversation, and she figured she’d best fill it again before he decided he was fine being silent once more. “Do you have a family, Logan?”

“No.” That syllable was definitely clipped and short. Not a conversation he wanted to have, then.

“Me either. Since I’m supposed to be on vacation, work won’t be missing me for a week at least.” A distressing thought crossed her mind. “God, I hope we’re not stuck in here for a week.”

“I doubt that will happen.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we’ll die from dehydration long before that.”

She felt the sudden urge to fling one of her sandals at him. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“All right then, we’ll die thanks to the hurricane.”

“The glass is definitely half empty for you, isn’t it? Don’t think of things that way. Maybe one of the hotel employees stayed behind and will come looking for you. Did you assign anyone to check the floors?”

“Assign anyone? Why on earth would I do that?”

She frowned into the darkness. “You’re wearing a badge. Aren’t you the manager here?”

“Ah . . . yes. And no, I didn’t assign anyone to check the floors.”

Lovely. Not only was the man kind of abrasive, but it didn’t seem like he was good at handling an emergency. She yawned into her hand again. This heat was making her so sleepy. She hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, thanks to the people in the next room and their acrobatics. Which reminded he . . . “Since you’re the manager, can I make a suggestion?”

“I can’t stop you.”

“Thicker walls.”

“Pardon?”

“You definitely want thicker walls. You can hear everything through some of them. I’m just saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He sounded amused again.

The wind whistled, and she heard a crack in the distance. She bolted upright. “What was that?”

She heard him get to his feet. “Hurricane must be arriving,” he said.

“Oh, shit.” Panic began to surge through her again. “We have to get out of here, Logan.”

 

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“I know.”

Brontë chewed on her fingernails, her mouth dry as she strained to hear more noise from the hurricane. What was happening out there? Had Sharon even noticed that she’d never come back? Doubtful. She’d probably found her passport at the bar and then had started flirting with the nearest guy. Some friend.

Definitely taking the next vacation by herself.

There was an odd scraping sound, and a crack of light appeared then grew larger. She watched in surprise as Logan forced the doors of the elevator apart. They were stuck between floors. She could make out a bit of brick, and then more light flooded in as he pushed the second set of doors open. His body was lit up, and she could see he was down to his slacks, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat.

As soon as he let go of the first set of doors, though, they began to slide shut, so he grabbed them and braced them again, glancing back at her. “I think we can jump down.”

She grabbed her clothes and her purse, then moved forward, peeking over the edge. They had about a foot and a half of clearance, and it looked like a six foot drop to the floor, at the very least. “Is it safe?”

“Safer than staying here.”

He had a point. “So how do we do this?”

Logan continued to hold the doors open, thinking. His face looked angular in the low light. “If you can hold the doors, I’ll slide through and then look for something to brace them apart.”

That sounded . . . nerve-racking. She’d have to trust him to come back for her. “What if I go first?”

“I’m stronger. If I can’t find something to brace the doors, I’ll have to hold them open for you while you climb down. I’m not sure you’ll be able to do the same for me.”

He had a point. Brontë bit her lip, then nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll hold them.”

They traded places, and Brontë held the doors while he grabbed his clothes and put them back on quickly. She tried not to think about the fact that she probably should have gotten dressed, too, and was standing in an elevator wearing nothing but a leopard bra and bright pink boy shorts. It could have been worse, she supposed. “Ready?”

He squatted on the floor and examined the space, then glanced at her. “Would it bother you if I went between your legs?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Be my guest. My legs welcome your invading presence.”

This time he chuckled, and she blushed. “I just don’t want you losing your grip on the door,” he told her. “That’s all. I promise I won’t look up.”

“Just get us out of here,” she said, wincing and spreading her legs wide so he could slide out from between them. This was not a story she was going to repeat if she got home.

When I get home, she told herself. When.

As Logan shimmied out of the elevator, Brontë focused on the weather. She could hear the pounding rain occasionally and wind gusts that sounded dangerous. They’d been isolated from the worst of it inside the elevator, but with the door open, it was all too obvious that the hurricane was upon them and they were trapped.

Suddenly Logan’s body was gone, and then she heard him smack the tile floor below. She was startled and almost let go of the doors. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just off balance. Stay there, and I’ll look for something to brace the door open so you can crawl out.”

“Okay,” she said, licking her dry lips. She tried to peek down and get a good look at his face, but the angle at which she was holding the doors made it impossible. She heard him walk away, and panic surged through her. He was gone. What if he wasn’t coming back? “Hurry!” she squeaked out, hoping he’d heard that last entreaty.

The elevator was feeling a bit oppressive now, and her arms were beginning to ache from holding the doors open. It wasn’t that they were hard to hold apart, but she was exhausted, thirsty, and starving. And a little terrified.

Okay, a lot terrified.

Time creeped past, every minute ticking by in slow motion. It seemed like forever before Logan returned, and she nearly sobbed in relief when she caught sight of him below. He set up a short ladder, then grasped the doors at the bottom, keeping them apart.

“You’re going to have to slide down between my arms,” he told her. “Get on your stomach and lower your legs first.”

She nodded. “Gotcha. Can I let go now?”

“Let go.”

She did, holding her breath for a moment as she released the doors. Then she hesitated. If she shimmied down, she was going to more or less shove her ass in his face. “Maybe I should get dressed first—”

“Just come on!”

“Well, then close your eyes!”

“I’m not going to close my eyes, Brontë. Just come on already. I can’t hold this forever. The hurricane’s almost on us.”

She hesitated for a moment more, but a crash from outside decided her. Biting her lip, she tossed her bag and clothes out of the elevator ahead of her and then slid her legs out of the hole. When she was about halfway out, she began to have visions of the power coming back on and the elevator slicing her in half, and she rushed to slide completely out, not caring that her behind might have brushed against his face or that her wiggling feet couldn’t find a toehold.

“Just drop,” he told her after a moment.

She did, and collapsed to the floor. Her leg scraped along the ladder as she fell, and she smacked onto the ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of her.

But they were out of the elevator. Thank heavens, they were out of the elevator.

“You okay?” Logan moved to her side, his hands running lightly over her naked limbs, checking for breaks. “You’re bleeding.”

“Just a scratch. Something broke the skin when I slid. I’ll be fine.” She sat up, grimacing, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The air was muggy and hot. “What about the hurricane?”

“Sounds like it’s getting worse.”

“Should we go to the basement? Something?”

“Not the basement. The front lobby’s already flooding with water. We need someplace safe.” He glanced around. “Someplace with no windows that is off the ground.”

“A stairwell?” she suggested.

He nodded and grabbed her hand, dragging her with him. “Come on. I think the stairs are this way.”

Surprised that he would grab her hand, Brontë followed him, staring in openmouthed horror at their surroundings as they ran. The hotel looked as if it had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned; papers and pamphlets were strewn everywhere. Doors hung open as if the occupants had simply forgotten to close them in their haste to leave. They raced past the lobby, and Brontë gasped, her steps slowing.

It was flooded. An inch of water had crept across the floor, and more was pouring in by the large glass doors. Large, broken glass doors. A quick glance outside showed that the skies were a sickly gray-green, and the closest tree was nearly sideways in the wind. Fear tightened her throat.

“You can sightsee later,” Logan told her harshly, tugging on her hand. “Come on.”

They ran down one corridor, then another. Every crack she heard from outside made her heart race, and she was in a near panic by the time they got to the stairwell. Logan flung the doors open and pushed her inside, and she raced up the flight of stairs to pause, breathing heavily, at the landing where they twisted to the next level. It was dark and shadowy, the only light coming from the small, square window of the stairwell door.

“Stay there,” Logan said. When she began to protest, he raised a hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to check something out.”

Brontë slumped to the ground, clutching her bag. She was too winded to bother to put her clothes on now, and too freaked out to do more than stare at the door. What if Logan got trapped out there? What if he didn’t come back for her? What if she was going to be stranded in this hurricane alone?

A gust of wind boomed overhead, followed by a crack of a palm tree snapping so loud that she jumped. She didn’t like being in the darkness alone. Not one bit. What if the stairwell collapsed in the storm?

To her relief, Logan returned a few minutes later carrying blankets and pillows and a small trash bag. She must have looked a bit shocked, because he immediately dropped everything and climbed the stairs to kneel next to her.

“You okay?” His voice was soft, protective. His fingers brushed her cheek.

She nodded, managing a trembling smile. “I think the noise is messing with my head. Marcus Aurelius said that ‘It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.’ Except I don’t think he ever went through a hurricane. I almost prefer the elevator.”

“I don’t,” Logan said. “Wait here. I picked up a few things for us.”

He headed back down the stairs to where he’d dropped his haul and then moved it all up to the landing, displaying none of the sheer exhaustion that Brontë was feeling. As she watched in the low light, he offered her a pillow and then a blanket.

 

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“What’s all this for?”

“Just in case it gets cold later. We want to be prepared. It’s going to be a long night with that storm raging. This is probably the only safe place in the building that we can get to at the moment.”

She nodded and examined the pillow, then shoved it behind her back. It provided a bit of relief from the hard wall. “Thank you.”

Logan sat down next to her and did the same with his pillow, both of them ignoring the blanket for the moment. It was too hot, too humid to even think about covering up. She was thankful to be in just her bra and panties, since she was feeling sticky and overwarm.

As she watched, Logan dragged the trash bag to his side and pulled out two bottles of water. Her eyes widened, and her mouth went dry. Thirst hit her like a freight train at the sight of that water, and she licked her lips. “Is one of those for me?”

He gave a brief nod and handed her one. It was room temperature. She didn’t care. She unscrewed the cap and began to drink, the water tasting sweet and delicious on her parched tongue.

She could have downed the entire bottle in an instant, but she forced herself to drink only half, saving the rest for later. At her side, Logan continued to dig through the bag. “I had to raid the closest minibar. It’s not a great selection, but it’ll hold us until the worst of the storm passes overhead.”

And he handed her a candy bar.

Brontë took it with a smile. “I could kiss you for that.”

“You could,” he said easily.

She glanced over at him, the breath catching in her throat. Was he flirting with her? Was this—

The wind howled overhead, so loudly that the walls seemed to shake with the force of it. Brontë whimpered in response, pulling her legs close to her chest and hugging them tight.

“Shhh,” Logan told her softly. His arm went around her shoulders, and he pulled her closer to him and rested a hand over her hair, as if protecting her head. “I’m here. We’re safe.”

She huddled close to him, inhaling the spicy scent of his chest and resisting the urge to crawl into his lap like a scaredy-cat. Oddly enough, things didn’t seem so bad with him soothing her, and after a minute, she relaxed. Just feeling his large body pressed against hers was comforting and made the storm seem a little farther away.

Her stomach growled, loudly.

A low rumble started in his chest, and she realized he was laughing. “Eat your candy bar.”

She unwrapped it with trembling fingers. “Just so you know, in the future, I prefer MM’s. The peanut kind, not the plain.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Philosophy and peanut MM’s.”

“That’s right,” she said, taking a big bite out of her candy bar and moaning with pleasure as the taste hit her tongue. “This is really good. Thank you.”

She heard the wrapper rustling as he unwrapped his. They snacked on candy, huddled in the stairwell, and waited for the storm to end.

“So how is it that you know Marcus Aurelius by heart, Brontë?”

She shrugged. “My mother loved books, but she especially loved the classics—Brontë, Austen, and Gaskell. The romantic ones.” She paused, thinking of her mother. “I graduated from UMKC with a BA in philosophy. Majored in that, minored in history. I like ancient philosophers. I feel like they taught a lot of wisdom that can be applied to modern life.”

“Interesting. So you’re . . . a teacher?”

Brontë grinned. “Hardly. I’m a waitress at a sock hop diner.”

“A . . . waitress.” He said the words as if tasting them. “That’s a bit of a career change.”

“Not really. I started waitressing to pay the bills during school and then kept waitressing while I hunted for jobs after graduating, and, well, two years later, I’m still waitressing.” She grimaced. That sounded so . . . lame.

“So you’re twenty-four?”

“I am. How old are you?”

“I just turned twenty-nine.”

She elbowed him playfully. “Wow, that’s ancient.”

He snorted.

“Seriously, though, you’re doing really good for yourself,” she told him. “Manager of a big place like this at twenty-nine? Your parents must be proud.”

He was silent for so long that she worried she’d offended him. Then he said, very softly, “Thank you.”

She took another bite of her candy bar and wondered at his response.

Chapter Three

What a lucky streak he’d been on the past two years. First Danica’s betrayal, then his father’s death, now this. The icing on the biggest fucking cake of his life. His father would’ve said he’d brought it upon himself.

But then again, his father had always been a huge bastard. He’d disapproved of everything that Logan had ever touched. Not a stretch to think that he’d have disapproved of Logan’s latest acquisition.

It had seemed like a simple task. Now that he’d purchased the resort, he wanted to walk through the property and get a feel for it. He had the architect’s suggestions for improvements, but he liked to check things out on his own. He never made a firm investment without overseeing the operation himself.

His first walk through the resort prior to purchasing it? That had shown him everything he’d expected. The place had promise; the island was beautiful and central. The hotel itself was old and showing wear, and the rooms were only half full when nearby resorts were packed to the gills. But it was mismanagement more than anything else that was causing this resort to fail, and that was where he could put together a team to step in and excel. In five years, he could have this property turned into a real moneymaker. The hurricane was doing him a favor, in a sense, because it was going to tear down a lot of the building, and it needed tearing down regardless.

He looked down at the woman curled against his side, her face barely visible in the dim light. She was sleeping, and his arm was wrapped around her protectively. She was an odd one. He had barely noticed her when she’d stepped on the elevator. Beach resorts were full of sexy women, and she hadn’t registered attention until they’d been stuck and she’d begun to talk. More specifically, he hadn’t noticed her until she’d begun to quote the ancients and lecture him, which he found charming and irritating all at the same time. A philosophy-quoting waitress who giggled when she was nervous. He supposed it could have been worse—she could have been screaming and frightened instead of laughing ridiculously.

Even though he’d barely noticed her when they’d gotten on the elevator, Logan had definitely paid attention when they’d climbed out. He’d seen a hell of a lot of her, especially when she’d slid that pert bottom down in front of his face, her long legs dangling as she’d tried to get out of the elevator gracefully—and failed. Brontë, she’d told him her name was. Like the classics.

Strange that he should feel so protective of her right then, sitting in the stairwell with her. But she’d been brave despite the circumstances, and oddly intriguing. And she had no idea he was rich, which meant that her reactions to him were sincere. She wasn’t giving him coy yet lust-filled gazes that promised things if he’d only buy her presents or shower her with money. She was laughing and joking with him, and tartly demanding peanut MM’s instead of candy bars and lecturing him on his attitude by quoting Plato.

He liked that, too. Whoever Brontë was, she was smart and interesting, even if she was just a waitress.

The rain pounded overhead, though it seemed to be less intense than earlier. For a few hours it had raged outside, so fierce that he became concerned that the stairwell wouldn’t provide enough protection. Throughout the storm they’d heard the sound of several crashes, and Brontë had huddled closer to him, terrified. He’d remained calm and stoic because, well, that was what Hawkings men did under pressure. They shut down and went into silent mode. His father had been great at that.Brontë stirred in her sleep, her arm looping around his waist and pulling her closer to him. She nestled her mouth in the crook of his neck, sighed, and went back to sleep as if he were the perfect pillow. He could have woken her up, and she would have automatically retreated a few feet, embarrassed at her actions.

But he liked her against him. He liked her warm, curving body cupped against his own. He liked the way she fit in his arms.

And he was as hard as a rock at the moment. Nothing he could do about that. He supposed that if he were a cynical bastard, he’d tell her about his fortune and wait for her to fling herself at him. It never took long. But somehow, he suspected, Brontë would be different.

After all, she thought he was the manager of this place. And for a few days? It was a novelty to just be normal.

He hugged her close. Best to let her sleep. The storm wouldn’t be done for a while yet.

***

“Brontë,” a low voice murmured in her ear. “Move your hand.”

 

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She sighed, licked her lips, and ignored the voice.

“Brontë,” it said again. “You’ve got a rather . . . personal grip at the moment.”

Still sleepy, she mentally took stock of where she was. Her butt hurt from sitting on the concrete stairs, and a blanket was pooled around her legs, which were stretched out next to a man’s warm leg. One hand was trapped against the man’s side, and the other was resting on a thick handlebar—

She snatched her hand away, mortified. “Oh, my God.” That was not a handlebar.

“My thoughts exactly,” he said drily. At least he sounded amused. She was horrified. He nudged her with one shoulder. “How are you doing?”

Other than being humiliated that I woke up clutching your crotch? Just peachy. She rubbed at her eyes and squinted into the dimly lit stairwell. It seemed even darker than before. Jeez, she sure was getting tired of the dark. Her stomach rumbled, and her bladder felt like it was ready to pop. “I’m okay. Is it still raining?”

“It sounds quieter. I think the worst of the storm has passed. We should probably get out and have a look around.”

She shifted on the concrete. “Can we find a bathroom?”

“They probably won’t be working.”

“Yeah, but a nonworking toilet beats a stairwell.”

He grunted in acknowledgment and got to his feet. “Come on.”

She followed, ignoring the protest of her muscles as she stood. Her entire body felt stiff and achy. Of course, she couldn’t complain—she’d gotten through the worst of the hurricane in one piece. Now they just had to wait for the rescue team.

Logan extended his hand for Brontë to take, and she did. Strangely, it was comforting to slip her hand into his bigger one. She wasn’t the type who needed a man to make her feel worthwhile. But just having another person here, stranded with her? It somehow made things a little more bearable, made her a little less anxious.

He led her down the stairs in the semidarkness. When they hit the bottom step, their feet splashed into several inches of water.

“Not a good sign,” said Logan. “Stick close to me. If the water’s come in this far, we don’t know what the rest of the building looks like.”

“Or the island,” she agreed, taking a step closer to him. Her shoulder brushed his, and she blushed, remembering how she’d woken up. Her hand had been on his cock. And he’d been hard.

And she . . . hadn’t minded that. He was a stranger, but he was a good-looking, well-built stranger who was easy to talk to, didn’t mock her quote-spouting, and was protective of her. She was attracted to him. She hardly knew him, but she still felt dragged inexplicably to his side, fascinated by him.

That was . . . rare. Most guys she met were immature . . . or married. A rogue thought made her flinch. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I just didn’t want to, you know, fondle a married man.”

“So it’s all right to fondle a man when he’s single?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I was just going to say—”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh.” She exhaled deeply. It shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it did. This little episode had made her feel somewhat close to him, and it would’ve been weird and disturbing to think that she’d been cozying up with a married man. “Thank God.”

“I’m also not looking for a relationship.”

Arrogant ass. She nudged him with her elbow. Okay, more like shoved. “I wasn’t asking because of that. This would just be . . . weird . . . if you had a wife.”

“We’re not sleeping together, Brontë.”

“Well, technically, we just did.” It just wasn’t all that exciting, if you didn’t factor in the hurricane.

He stopped in front of her so abruptly that she bumped into his back and stepped backward with a splash of her feet. She could barely make out his expression in the low light of the stairwell. “Why all the questions?”

“I was just curious. You know. If I’d touched single junk or married junk. I think it’s a reasonable thing to ask.”

His face was tilted as if he were staring down at her, and she could barely feel the hot fan of his breath against her skin. She wished the stairwell were better lit so she could see his expression.

“It only matters if you’re planning on grabbing it again, Brontë.”

Now, there was a mental image she’d never be able to get out of her head. “Ah. Well. No, I wasn’t making plans to do that again.”

His chest rumbled in a low laugh. “Well, now I’m disappointed. Come on. I don’t think it’s safe to see if we can turn the power back on, so let’s look for something that we can get some light with.”

Logan opened the door to the hall, and they left the stairwell. Brontë was silent. Her mind was abuzz with the conversation they’d just had.

It only matters if you’re planning on grabbing it again, Brontë.

Ah. Well. No, I wasn’t making plans to do that again.

Well, now I’m disappointed.

Had he been flirting, and she’d just shut him down? He was normally so controlled that it seemed out of place. And yet she couldn’t interpret his words in any other way. He did say he wasn’t looking for a relationship, though, and she couldn’t think of a worse way to start one. Perhaps she was reading too much into simple banter.

As they walked through the hotel back toward the lobby, it became obvious that the hotel was trashed. There was ankle-deep water in the stairwell, but when they took a step down into the hallway, the water rose to mid-calf. They sloshed down the hall, stepping past doors that had been knocked off of conference rooms. There was low purplish light to see by, and Brontë had wondered where the light was coming from . . . until she saw the ceiling. The lobby was set up like a lofting, several-stories-tall atrium with a glass ceiling, it and it clearly had not survived the hurricane. Portions of the roof looked like Swiss cheese, open to the sky. Rain splattered inside the building, and the water around her feet felt gritty with sand.

“Wow. Your cleanup crew is going to be working some overtime, I think.”

Logan glanced back at her, a hint of a smile on his mouth. “I was planning on renovating the place anyhow. Someone told me I needed thicker walls.”

She laughed at that, feeling warm at his regard. “Good call.”

“I’m starving,” he said. “We should head to the gift shop. We can probably find some supplies there. I’m thinking water bottles, food, and maybe some dry clothes if it wasn’t too badly hit.”

That all sounded good to her. She paused and thought for a moment, then pointed ahead. “Through the lobby and to the left, I think. Near the restaurant.” And then she felt stupid. He worked here—why was she telling him? “But of course, you know that.”

“Of course.” His hand went to the small of her back, and he gestured at the lobby. “After you.”

Brontë felt her body grow warm. He was looking down at her with such an impressed, amused that she . . . well, she didn’t know what to do with herself. So she offered him her hand.

He took it in his, and her skin tingled in response when his fingers curled around hers. Touching Logan made her stomach quiver deep inside.

At least, she told herself that it was her stomach.

They waded forward, and Brontë struggled to keep up with Logan’s bigger strides as they headed into the lobby. It looked as if half of the hotel had been dumped here by the hurricane. There was more water, of course. Furniture was tipped over and scattered, and luggage was everywhere, the contents flung all over the room. Portions of the ceiling had caved in toward the glass doors, and all the glass was gone. She curled her toes, wondering where all that glass had gone. A sodden pillow floated in the water nearby, and a horrible thought occurred to her.

“You don’t think we’re going to see any bodies, do you?”

“I hope not.” He sounded grim. “If we’re lucky, everyone else was evacuated.”

“Should we check the rest of the hotel? Just in case anyone else was stranded?”

“We will,” he told her, and tugged her hand, urging her forward. “After we resupply ourselves. It won’t do us any good if you’re fainting with hunger.”

“Me? You make it sound like I’m some weak flower on my last leg. What about you?”

“I don’t faint.”

She snorted. “‘Nothing has more strength than dire necessity,’ right?”

“Another famous Plato gem?”

“Euripides.”

“Of course. That was going to be my next guess.”

“Naturally. You’re a big fan of Euripides?”

 

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“Who isn’t?”

She laughed, shaking her head at his comeback.

They trudged through the massive lobby of the hotel, the weak streams of moonlight brighter the more destroyed the area was. The lobby was dark, but it seemed bright in comparison to the pitch-black elevator. Logan examined the ceiling as they walked, steering them clear of what seemed to be more dangerous areas. “The entire ceiling could collapse,” he told her. “We have to be careful.”

“Now who’s Suzy Sunshine?” she teased, but stayed close.

In the blue darkness, they spotted the gift shop, and Brontë sucked in a breath of disappointment. The security gate was down over the front of it. The glass behind the gate had been destroyed, but the gate itself was intact, with pieces of broken plants and other bits clinging to the metal. There was a large window to the right with a display of toppled mannequins in swimsuits, and through a miracle, it hadn’t shattered in the storm.

“Just our luck,” she told him. “Do you have the key?”

“No,” he told her crisply, and dropped her hand, walking away. “Stay there.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to be patient and failing. “What are you doing?”

He returned a moment later, carrying a broken lobby chair. “Getting something better than a key.”

“What about the alarm?”

“Either it’s not working or we’re going to need to hope that the gift shop has earplugs,” he told her, and then gestured in her direction. “Stand back.”

She sloshed backward a few feet and waited.

Logan heaved the chair up, and she felt that curious flutter in her belly at the sight of his muscles flexing. He had big, broad shoulders that seemed to ripple with strength in the moonlight. And mercy, she liked looking at him.

He swung the broken chair against the glass like a baseball player up at bat. Part of her expected it to bounce backward, as if maybe the glass were too thick to be broken by a chair if it had withstood the hurricane. But it crashed and tinkled into the water in a shower of glittering pieces.

She shielded her eyes out of instinct, glancing over when the damage was done. Logan stood there looking rather pleased with himself, his body illuminated in moonlight. He looked . . . gorgeous. His hair was tousled, falling over his forehead, and his tall frame seemed all muscles and shadow from this angle. He was definitely easy on the eyes. Too easy. She felt her pulse flutter when he gave her a boyish grin.

“Alarm’s dead. Come on.”

But she hesitated, trying not to smile at his expression of pride. “What about all the glass? We’ll cut our feet.”

He glanced down at the glittering shards. “You’re right. Stay there.”

Again? She did as told, crossing her arms and waiting impatiently as he tossed his broken chair down, then knocked the mannequins into a messy sort of bridge, and disappeared inside. A moment later, he returned and laid a Styrofoam surfboard over the floor of the window front and extended a hand toward her. “Come on.”

Stepping carefully forward in the calf-high water, she placed her hand in his warm one, ignoring that funny little jolt that ran through her at his touch. He was just being courteous, she told herself. Nothing to get excited about. She wobbled precariously on the board as it shifted and moved under her feet. “I think I’m going to—”

Her feet slipped out from under her, and she pitched forward.

Strong arms were there to catch her. Logan held her close, her breasts pressed to his chest.

“—fall,” she finished lamely.

If she tilted her face up, she’d be within kissing distance, and the thought made her feel flushed with heat.

He helped her strand upright. “You okay?”

“Just feel stupid is all.” She pushed away from him, straightening herself and trying to look casual. Brontë glanced around inside the gift shop. “Shoes? We really should have brought ours.”

Logan glanced around, then gestured at a far wall. “I see them. Stay there. Only one of us should risk cut feet.”

He waded forward, and she studied their surroundings. The gift shop was packed to the gills with a motley assortment of items, half of them on the floor. Racks of ugly t-shirts had fallen over and were currently soaking up water near her feet. A short distance away, there were equally sodden racks of beach towels, and destroyed straw hats floated nearby. Lovely.

“I found you some water shoes. What size?”

“Seven.”

“This might be a seven. Hard to tell in the dark.” He plucked a pair off the wall and turned to her.

She held her hands up, and he tossed them in her direction. Using one of the fallen racks to support herself, Brontë snapped the string tying the shoes together and slipped them on. Too big. Didn’t matter, they’d protect her feet for now. She’d get a better size when they had some light. She shuffled forward. “What supplies do we need?”

“Flashlights, if we can find them. If not, something dry to use as a torch. Lighters. Food and water. Anything else you want.” He put on a pair of water shoes and began to move behind the counter.

A change of clothes would have been nice. She glanced at the sodden heap of shirts nearby. Not exactly what she had in mind. Picking through the mess of spilled items on the counters, she was able to locate some plastic-wrapped folded shirts, and she snatched all five of them. Perfect. “I found some dry shirts.”

“Good, bring them. I found some lighters.”

She moved toward him, sidestepping the mess in the aisles. He took one of the shirts from her and ripped it out of the package, then wrapped it around one of the broken chair legs. Next, he tied it with a shoelace and then flicked the lighter on. When it sputtered and went out again, he cursed, cracked open another lighter and poured the fluid on his torch, and lit it again. That did the trick.

In the flare of the torch light, he gave her an almost wicked look. “Now we can get a really good look at each other.”

Her stomach fluttered again.

Logan was handsome, she realized. She’d known that he was clean-cut and well built, and he’d worn a suit when she’d stepped into the elevator with him. She didn’t remembered much more, though, and she’d caught glimpses of him here and there, but not a full-on look. The light flickered, outlining the planes of his face with shadows, but he was gorgeous. He had a perfect, straight nose and a gorgeous pair of full lips framed by dark stubble. His jaw was square and strong, and he had dark, arching brows over equally dark eyes. And those big, broad shoulders. A dark, circular tattoo blotted the skin on one biceps, visible through the wet fabric of a white dress shirt that was untucked from his slacks. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his jacket. Not that it mattered—the disheveled look was working wonders for him.

Logan was handsome, all right. She gave him a weak smile and waved her fingers at him. “Hi there. Long time no see.”

The flickering light made his smile in response seem mysterious. “Hello, Brontë.”

The way he said her name made her shiver, just a little. “You could have looked at me before. It wasn’t totally dark.”

“Yes, but now I get to see everything,” he said, studying her with a long up-and-down look. “Not just shadows and suggestion.”

That very blatant look made her feel fluttery all over again. Frowning, she gestured back at the store shelves behind her, feeling a little flustered and ill at ease. “I’m just going to look for some more stuff.”

They continued to raid the store, rummaging through the mess for supplies. There was a cooler in the window display, so Brontë grabbed it and began to fill it with water bottles and sodas from the broken refrigerated drink case. Some had spilled on the floor, and she fished one out of the water at her feet, grimacing at the grit coating it. “I feel like a looter.”

He was digging behind the counter for something. “You are a looter. You are currently in the act of looting.”

“Gee, thanks. Are we going to get in trouble for this?”

“Brontë, I’m the manager. Just consider the tab on me.”

She picked up a handful of candy bars and tossed them into the cooler. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to get here and save us?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a hurricane before.”

She hadn’t, either. Brontë chewed on her lip, looking down at the water bottles in the cooler. She counted them. Twelve in there and twenty more still in the case. Handfuls of candy bars. What if that wasn’t enough? “What if we’re here for a week? Or longer?”

He tossed several lighters on the counter and turned, hands on his hips, checking the wall behind him for supplies. “Then we get to know each other really well.”

For some reason, that made her blush all over again. Her mind went in an entirely filthy direction with that one single comment.

 

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Part of her hoped they would be rescued very quickly, and part of her hoped that rescuers took their sweet, sweet time so she’d be forced to be around this delicious, half-naked man for quite a little while.

Something sparkled in one of the windows, and Brontë wandered over, her curiosity getting the better of her. One of the glass cases had jewelry in it—she supposed it was for the kind of tourist who wouldn’t be satisfied with a T-shirt or a postcard. The necklaces in the window were pretty enough, but one in particular caught her eye. It was a string of diamonds that, when worn, would spill delicately over the wearer’s neck as if on an invisible chain. It had a dark gemstone in the center that she couldn’t make out and matching earrings.

“Pretty stuff,” Brontë commented as Logan moved to her side with the torch.

“You like that?” he asked.

She grinned up at him. “What woman wouldn’t? It’s really gorgeous, but it probably costs an arm and a leg.”

“Want me to loot it for you?”

Her stomach dropped. She shook her head, taking a step backward. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“It’s expensive, Logan. Don’t be ridiculous.”

He snorted. “The diamonds probably aren’t quality and I doubt that it’s worth the markup, but if you want it, I’ll get it for you.”

“No. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Brontë, there’s no one here. And I’m the . . . manager.” He seemed to pause on the word, as if it were unfamiliar.

“I don’t want it, Logan,” she warned him, feeling anxious. “Looting it is wrong, and you’d be crazy to risk being fired over something like that.”

He laughed. “They can’t fire me, but suit yourself.”

To her relief, he let it drop, and Brontë moved carefully away from the jewelry counter. In her experience, expensive gifts were inevitably the result of lies and betrayal. It made her think of her childhood, and the long weeks during which her father—a traveling salesman—had been gone, and her mother’s anxious waiting for him to return. He’d roll back into town after weeks away, with quickly waved-away excuses and a shower of presents for his wife and daughter. Her dreamy mother had always been flattered by the gifts of jewelry and excited to see her husband return home.

Now, as an adult, Brontë knew better. She knew that her father’s absences hadn’t been due to business as much as they’d been to see another woman, a girlfriend on the side. The presents he’d brought home were apologies more than gifts. She’d learned not to trust impulsive presents, because in Brontë’s eyes they were a way of hiding the truth, a distraction. And for some reason she didn’t want to put Logan into the same category as her smiling, lying father.

They hauled a bag of candy, the cooler of water, and a few other bags of miscellaneous supplies back to the stairwell that they’d established as their base of operations, since it was currently the only place they’d found that was above water. Once back at the stairwell, Brontë grabbed a water bottle, climbed a few steps, and sat drinking her fill. When Logan sat next to her, she passed the water bottle to him, holding the torch while he drank.

It sputtered and dropped sparks as she watched it. “How long do you think this will last?”

“Not long. We need to find something better.”

“We should check the rest of the resort, too. I’d hate to think of someone else trapped in the elevators, waiting for rescue.” She chewed her lip, thinking. She felt weak and tired, but someone still stuck in an elevator would feel much, much worse, and she didn’t want anyone dying while she sat a short distance away.

He nodded, finishing off the water bottle.

“Should we check the upper floors?”

“I’m not sure it’s wise,” Logan told her. “You saw how badly the roof was destroyed in the lobby. We don’t know that the other floors aren’t on the verge of collapse. We can take a look from outside tomorrow and decide then.”

“All right,” she agreed, then winced as her stomach growled. “I guess we should crack open those chocolate bars?”

“Or we could head to the kitchens,” he told her with a sideways glance. “See if there’s anything worth saving now that the power’s been off for a while.”

“Real food? Sign me up.” She got to her feet, feeling a burst of energy at the thought.

There were two kitchens in the hotel, one attached to each restaurant. The first one smelled strongly of dead fish and the roof looked as if it had fallen in, so they went to check the other instead. The second restaurant wasn’t nearly as destroyed, but the kitchen had slim pickings. The enormous refrigerators were full of marinating meat that would probably spoil fast. There was a walk-in freezer, and they opened it, both groaning with pleasure as the cool air puffed out and brushed over their heated skin.

“Still cold,” Logan told her, and gestured for Brontë to follow him in. “Might be cold for a bit longer if we keep the door closed.”

The freezer was full of dinner items—frozen chicken, frozen fish, and myriad packages of sides and desserts waiting to be prepared.

“We should eat some of this,” she told him. “Can we build a fire somewhere and cook some?”

“If the stove doesn’t work, yeah. Pick what you want to eat.”

They grabbed a few packages of chicken from the freezer and a large can of peaches from the pantry, and set about making dinner. Logan tested the stoves, and one of the gas ranges was working. They grabbed a skillet and began to cook the chicken, not talking. While they waited, Brontë found a can opener, opened the peaches, and offered Logan a fork.

He took it from her and speared a peach, and then quickly lifted it to his mouth and popped the dripping slice in.

Her stomach growled at the sight, and she quickly stuck her fork into a peach slice, lifting it to her mouth, her hand cupped underneath to catch the juices. The first bite was heaven—a sweet, sugary rush flooded her mouth, and the taste of peaches was overwhelming to her starved senses. She licked her fingers and leaned back against the counter. “I think that was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”

“We’ve had our minds on other things.”

They savored the can of peaches while waiting on the chicken. Though Logan’s movements were precise, Brontë found herself ravenously wolfing them down. She didn’t care that her hands were sticky or that they were a little too sugary-sweet. It was food, and it was delicious.

Once they got to the bottom of the can, she sighed sadly. “I guess it’d be bad manners to lick it, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m sure there are other cans.”

“Yes, but this one is right here,” she pointed out with a grin.

He watched her for a moment and then leaned forward. His fingers reached for her cheek. “You have some juice in the corner of your mouth.”

Automatically, she leaned forward.

Logan’s fingers brushed against the corner of her lips. At the light contact, Brontë immediately froze. Her gaze went to his face, and she watched him with a vibrating tension that had suddenly filled her body. She was intensely aware of him all of a sudden, his large presence next to her on the floor, their shoulders barely touching, their legs only inches apart. She was still in her bra and panties.

And he was leaning in.

As she sat there, frozen, his thumb caressed her lower lip. His gaze was on her mouth, and she sucked in a breath at the electric tension that filled the room. He seemed . . . fascinated by her.

Too soon, Logan pulled his thumb away and then licked it, as if tasting her . . . or the peaches.

She could feel the flush cross her face even as her heart sped up. Brontë wasn’t quite sure what to make of that tender, intimate action. He’d tasted her.

***

While she watched the cooking food, Logan searched the other elevators and floors for people. No dice – they were the only two that had been trapped.

He’d also found flashlights in a storage closet, which helped immensely in exploring the dark hotel.

Soon enough, they were seated back in the small kitchen. Dinner was ready, and the sexual tension over the peaches was forgotten as they devoured the chicken. Silence fell over the kitchen as they ate their fill. Logan glanced at Brontë from time to time as he ate. There was something so open and trusting about her wide eyes that he found himself instantly responding every time she turned to him with that trusting look. Most women who ran in his circles seemed to be sly and conniving, quietly pricing jewelry in their heads or commenting on the designer labels another woman was wearing. Everything seemed to be a competition, right down to who could snare the richest man.

It was that sort of attitude that turned his stomach, especially after he’d been burned by it. He’d trusted Danica, and she had tried to play him for a fool. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since. No woman could be trusted not to be coldly calculating when it came to his bank account. They...

 

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And yet he found himself responding to Brontë’s cheerful smiles. To the way her hand seemed to automatically reach for his now. The way she’d curled up against him. Her outrageous—yet apropos—quotes she seemed to pull from out of nowhere.

And she thought he was a manager. A white-collar worker making a menial salary—well, menial to him. She hadn’t cared. Her demeanor hadn’t changed when he’d told her what he did for a living, and she trusted him. Liked him, even. He’d noticed the slight tremble of her body when he’d been unable to resist reaching out and brushing his thumb over her soft lower lip.

Her eyes had gone soft; her breathing had sped up. She hadn’t turned away, either.

She liked Logan the manager. She couldn’t be grubbing for his fortune, because she didn’t realize he had one. He could flirt with her like any normal man.

Except he wasn’t much of a flirt. When your bank account was as big as his, you didn’t have to try. All you had to do was look at a woman and suggest she take her clothes off, and she’d be naked at your feet.

It wasn’t in his nature to be coy and teasing. Lean over and kiss the hell out of her? Yes. Stage a ruthless takeover? Absolutely. But flirt and tease? Not in his repertoire.

Logan frowned to himself, considering this as he finished off the last bite of chicken. He hadn’t come to the island to find a woman. If it hadn’t been for the hurricane, this would have been the last thought on his mind. But with Brontë here, warm and pleasant next to him, the two of them completely isolated from the rest of mankind? He wanted to touch her. To feel her melt beneath his touch.

Brontë was definitely attractive. Not his normal type—he went for the more polished, poised sort. Models, ballerinas, and the occasional actress. Women who were aggressive and knew what they wanted. Brontë was a waitress who hadn’t found a permanent job since college. But her cheerful demeanor and openness had won him over at once.

The way she filled out those panties helped, too.

He’d have to proceed carefully. Not too aggressively, or she might be frightened away by his interest. But strongly and surely enough that she could not mistake his intent.

“You’re frowning,” she said quietly. “Everything okay?”

“Just thinking.”

When he offered no more than that, she delicately licked her thumb in a movement that fascinated him and made his cock hard. “Thinking that we need more chicken?”

Logan shook his head. “Thinking about rescue,” he lied. They had food, they had shelter, and he had an ironclad insurance policy on this place that would cover repairs. Rescue could wait a bit longer. “It might be days before anyone finds us.”

She nodded and gave him a small shrug before reaching for a water bottle, not distressed by this news. “I’m thinking we’ll just be really close friends by the end of this.”

Friends, or more if he had his way. But he gave a quick nod of agreement. “We don’t know enough about each other to be friends,” he said, letting the statement hang in the air to see if she’d take the bait.

Brontë pulled her knees up, exposing the backs of her creamy thighs to his gaze. “I guess we could learn, then, couldn’t we?”

“We could.”

She tilted her head and regarded him. “So how long have you lived here on the island?”

Ah. Damn. One of many lies. “A year,” he told her tersely.

“What made you decide to take a job here? Did you live on the island?”

“No. A friend . . . referred me to the owner.” Not a lie, not really. “I came here when I got the job.”

“Where did you move from?”

“New York City.” Seemed a harmless enough truth. Even though he was a billionaire, it wasn’t as if his name was splashed all over entertainment magazines, and he was in the news only when he made a sizable charity donation. She’d have no idea who he was. “Where are you from?”

“The Midwest. Kansas City. Have you ever been there?”

“Once or twice. For business.”

“You’ve got one up on me, then. I’ve never been to New York City.”

“You should go sometime. I’ll show you around.” Direct and to the point, and there would be no mistaking his interest.

She smiled softly. “I’d like that. Have you been to many shows? Visited the Statue of Liberty?”

“No and no.” He avoided the shows because he didn’t like singing. And he saw the Statue when he looked out the window every day. No need to go visit it.

“That’s a shame,” she told him, hugging her legs and rocking a little. “If I went to New York, I’d want to visit it. Go get my picture taken and do all the touristy things.”

“You and a million other tourists.”

“True. I guess it’s different when you’re there. In Kansas City, those tourists just end up here at Seaturtle Cay,” she joked. “Courtesy of 99.9 Pop Fever.”

“Pop Fever?”

“Radio station. I won a trip. It’s a little out of my price range to go anywhere normally. Too busy making ends meet and all that.”

For this trip? He’d thought Seaturtle Cay was a budget hotel. That was one reason he’d taken over the place—to turn it into a luxury Bahamian resort. “Out of your price range?”

She sighed in disappointment, as if she were disgusted with herself. “Remember that I’m a waitress. Pretty much everything is out of my price range.”

“You’re smart. You can do something other than waitressing.”

She laughed. “Actually, I like the waitressing. I like working with people. But the pay stinks. It covers the bills, but just barely. That’s why I’d been really hoping to enjoy this trip. It’s the first vacation I’ve had in two years, since I graduated.”

“I don’t get away for vacation much, either,” he told her, trying to level the playing field. “Isn’t every day here like a vacation, though? Sun and sand and palm trees—”

“And hurricanes.”

She laughed again. “True. Is this your first one?”

He blanked out. Was it the first one Seaturtle Cay had been hit by? Or simply the latest in a long string of storms? “Every one of them feels like the first one,” he said, avoiding the question.

“I suppose that’s true enough.” She grimaced. “I still can’t believe Sharon left without me. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”

“Your roommate?”

She nodded. “She sent me up to her room to go look for her passport that she’d lost. That was how I got stuck in the elevator. I never found it, so I assume she still had it and was able to get off the island.” Brontë looked a bit glum at the thought. “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“Then I’ll have to thank her,” he said, laying his cards on the table. “If I had to be stranded in a hurricane, I’m glad it’s with you.”

Her lips parted in surprise at his bold statement, and she flushed in the firelight, ducking her head a little. “I . . . thank you. That’s very sweet.”

“I’m not a sweet man.” Most people referred to him as a cold bastard, especially when it came to business dealings. Danica had called him a ruthless jerk the last time she’d seen him, and he hadn’t disagreed with her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brontë said in a soft voice. “You’ve been nice to me.”

“That’s because I like you. Most aren’t so lucky. I barely tolerate almost everyone.”

She laughed as if he’d said something truly funny. “Then I’m glad you like me.” She nudged him with her shoulder again in that friendly way. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck here with me.”

“No, I’m saying it because you’re smart, and funny, and beautiful. Being stranded with you has nothing to do with it.”

She laughed again, but the sound was nervous, and she glanced away. “I imagine work keeps you busy,” she said after a moment. “This place is enormous.”

He nodded, not adding anything to that.

She yawned, hiding it behind her hand, and then pulled her legs close again. “Do you have a big family, Logan?”

“No,” he said in a curt voice. He most definitely did not want to talk about family. “Are you tired?”

“Drained, really.” She stifled another yawn and then grinned. “Okay, maybe a bit tired. Not looking forward to getting back to that stairwell, though. It’s not exactly the height of comfort.”

“I have some ideas of how we can fix that,” he told her, and got to his feet. He extended a hand toward her again.

She placed hers in his and then glanced at the stack of dirty dishes and garbage. “Shouldn’t we do something about that?”

 

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He reached over and raked the mess into a nearby sink with one arm. “Taken care of.”

She laughed, and he felt the sudden urge to kiss her. Her joyfulness was so pleasant. She was the happiest person he’d ever met, which both disturbed and captivated him.

But he didn’t give in to his urge to kiss her. He didn’t know whether she’d misinterpret his actions if he kissed her right before they went to bed. Though, hell, it wouldn’t be misinterpretation: He planned on getting Brontë into his bed. But he wanted her to join him there because she wanted to be with him, not because he was pressuring her. He’d made his interest clear at this point—it was time for her to take the lead.

They headed back to the stairwell, Brontë’s steps dragging with fatigue. He was tired, too, but not as much as she seemed to be. He made her wait while he climbed the stairs to the second floor and darted into the first room. It seemed to be untouched, though the room next to it had been hit hard. He didn’t trust the stability of the second floor, though, so this would be his first and last venture there. But he was able to haul a mattress and two pillows down to the stairway and slide them down to the landing that he and Brontë called home.

With a bed and more pillows, she sighed happily and curled up in the bed, fast asleep before he’d even sat down. He lay down on the mattress and was pleased when she immediately rolled over and nestled against him, making a content sound in her throat as she rested her hand on his chest.

Chapter Four

Logan awoke with a raging hard-on and with Brontë’s tangled hair across his chest. Her legs were twined with his, and she made soft little noises in her throat as she slept. It would have been so easy to roll her over and show her just how sexy and desirable he found her. To kiss her and persuade her into doing what he wanted.

But he remembered her nervous laugh when he’d told her she was beautiful, and he paused. Was she just humoring him? Maybe Brontë didn’t appreciate the attentions of a manager after all. Damn it. His cock was just going to have to wait.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, willing his body to relax. It took a few minutes before he was back under control. It was time for them to get up and face the day. They’d slept long enough, and lying in bed next to her made him want to do things that didn’t involve sleeping. He gently shook Brontë. “Wake up.”

She jerked away, her hair falling in her face as she bolted upright. “Huh? What?”

“Calm down,” he told her. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Brontë rubbed a hand over her eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”

“My phone’s dead. Water must have gotten into it.”

She folded her legs under her and pulled out her phone. It lit up for a minute, highlighting her face in the darkness, and then winked out. “Damn it. There goes my battery. It said it’s eleven a.m., though.”

“We should head down to the kitchens and grab lunch, then.”

They headed down to a quick meal of fresh fruit left on the countertop and some wrapped crackers. It wasn’t glamorous, but the fridge was starting to smell and even the interior of the freezer was getting too close to room temperature for comfort. Neither of them wanted to risk getting sick from bad food.

Brontë suggested they check the store for any other food items, and then they headed back in that direction since there was nothing else to do with the day. As they walked,though, Brontë stopped in her tracks and stared out through the broken glass of the lobby windows.

Logan followed her gaze. The sun was shining; the sky was blue. A breeze rippled into the building.

“This is the first day it hasn’t rained since I got here,” Brontë exclaimed, moving forward. Her aqua shoes crunched on the broken glass at their feet, and he noticed that the standing water in the lobby had receded, too. She peered outside and then looked back at him. “Should we check out the beach?”

He shrugged. He’d just as soon go back to the stairwell and wait for rescue, but she seemed to want to explore. “If you like.”

Her face brightened. “I would. Do you think the beach is trashed, too?”

“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?” And he stepped forward through the broken glass, gesturing for her to follow him.

She did, and they made their way out into the front of the resort, squinting at the bright sun after days of low light. He studied Brontë as she picked her way across the sand-covered sidewalk toward him. In daylight, she was even more beautiful—not in a traditional way. Her hair was wild with tangles and blew around her head like a messy halo, and her face was round, without the well-defined cheekbones of the models he normally dated. But her eyes were sparkling and her skin was lovely and she smiled up at the sunlight as if it were the best thing ever, and he thought she was stunning.

“It really did a number on this place, didn’t it?” She raised a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun and glanced back at the resort. More than half of the windows were blown out, and it looked like one wing of the building had collapsed. He didn’t want to think about how much that would cost in repairs. Palm trees that had lined the driveway had been uprooted and fallen over. One had toppled into one of the windows on the second floor. A car lay on its side in the distance, and junk from inside the hotel was strewn across the lawn. A fine layer of sand covered the concrete, gritty under their shoes.

“Come on,” he told Brontë. “Let’s see what the beach looks like.”

They crested a dune, and there was the ocean spread out before them. Rippling and blue and endless, the thin white line of the beach the only thing separating them from it. Birds flew overhead. There was driftwood everywhere, floating in the water, lining the edge of the surf, and piled up on the sand, but nothing could ruin the sight of that beautiful blue water.

At his side, Brontë gasped, her hand going to his upper arm. “It’s gorgeous.”

It was, though the same could’ve been said for his companion. He enjoyed her unbridled enthusiasm, too. They slid down the dune and moved toward the lapping waves. At his side, Brontë sighed wistfully.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking that it figures that we have nice beach weather after my vacation has already been ruined. I would have loved to spend a few days just enjoying the sun and sand.”

He waved a hand at the empty beach. “What’s stopping you?”

Her face lit up, then fell again. “Shouldn’t we be working on making shelter or some other survival sorts of things?”

“We have food. We have shelter. All we need to do is wait to be rescued. If it’ll make you feel better, we can make an SOS on the sand.”

She stepped forward into the surf, letting it wash over her ankles, and her eyes closed in pure bliss. She tilted her head back, letting her tangled hair whip in the breeze.

He didn’t feel the same urge to step into the surf that she did, but his gaze followed her intently as she soaked up the sunshine and enjoyed the water.

Her eyes opened after a minute. “Should we go back and get swimsuits?”

“Why?”

Brontë grinned at him. “To swim?”

Logan picked up a piece of driftwood heading in her direction and tossed it away. He didn’t see the point in going back to the hotel just for a change of clothing. “There’s no one here but me, Brontë.”

She bit her lip, studying him for a moment. “You’re right.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for courage, and then pulled off her bra. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

Damn. He’d just been suggesting that she could swim in her underwear, not that they should skinny-dip. Of course, now that she was taking the initiative, would he correct her on that?

Hell, no. Carpe diem, he told himself, and then grinned. Brontë would have approved of the thought.

***

This was the bravest, stupidest thing Brontë had ever done. She tossed her bra onto the sand, her heart pounding in her breast, and didn’t look at Logan as she shucked her panties and kicked off her water shoes. Instead, she concentrated on the water, as if standing naked on the beach were something she did every single flipping day.

The truth was, this was an experiment. And it would either go really well or really badly.

But she’d seen him looking at her. And he wasn’t giving her the looks that an uninterested man would give her. The looks he gave her were hot, scorching with interest. As if he were waiting for something to happen before making his move. What that would be, she had no idea.

And she was getting tired of waiting for him. After he’d caressed her lip the night before as they ate, she’d been unable to think about anything but kissing Logan. Sleeping with Logan. Sharing this remote, tropical paradise with Logan and having no one around but the two of them. Granted, a building destroyed by a hurricane wasn’t the most romantic setting, but Logan was gorgeous and attentive, and it had been a while since she’d been seeing anyone seriously, so why not grab the bull by the horns?

 

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Standing on the beach, totally naked, she put her hands on her hips and tried to look at this in a positive way. Even if he thought she was a crazy woman, the sun felt warm on her skin, and she was going to enjoy the ocean for today at least. She headed into the surf up to her knees and reached down for a handful of water. It felt colder than she’d thought it would be, and she shivered a little, rubbing her arms.

Something splashed past her. Brontë froze in place, then glanced over just in time to see a pair of white buttocks disappear into the water as Logan made a shallow dive into the surf in a short distance away.

Damn it! He’d been naked, and she’d missed it? She resisted the urge to slap the water in frustration, moving deeper and then sinking into the water to cover her own nudity. He’d accepted her challenge, though. That was a good thing, though she had no idea what to do now that he had. Flirting really should not be this hard, Brontë, she told herself.

Logan surfaced a short distance away, flung his wet hair back, and then stood in the water. She noticed the surf went only to his waist. Correction—more like his hips. Low, low on his hips, his privates barely covered by the ripples of the waves.

Her cheeks heated as she couldn’t help but look over at him. Okay, the man definitely had a good body. He was toned and fit all over, his body slightly tanned as if he enjoyed the sun, but not too much. There was a tattoo of something on his biceps that she couldn’t make out from this distance. He didn’t seem like the type to get inked. He was a serious, almost stern sort of man, not a party boy who would get a tat when he was out with his buddies.

Intriguing. That didn’t fit the picture she had in her mind of Logan Hawkings, responsible manager. He’d seemed a little stuffier in her mind, but that tattoo added a new angle. She wasn’t quite sure who he was, and she liked that.

Brontë moved out a bit farther in the water, feeling extremely exposed without even a swimsuit on. The water brushed against her skin with gentle, silky caresses, and the sunlight touched her everywhere. It was a unique experience, this skinny-dipping thing. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it, though she’d gotten to see Logan’s ass, so that was a plus.

His gaze swung to her, and he began to move slowly toward her through the water. Brontë forced herself to hold her ground, instead of shying away like a nervous virgin. “Well, you’re definitely not a man who can resist a challenge,” she told him.

Logan grinned in her direction, and she sucked in a breath. The man was sexy when he was stern, but when he smiled? God. She could have sworn her girl parts had just given a squeal of delight in response.

He didn’t stop until he was right next to her. It was still only waist-deep, and if she stayed crouched down, she’d be more or less at eye level with his cock. Not exactly a power position. Of course, standing meant she’d show him her breasts, but hadn’t he already seen them when she’d stripped down on the beach?

Brontë steeled her courage and got to her feet, water cascading off of her body. She gave him a challenging look as if daring him to say something.

But he didn’t. He only stepped closer, his somber gaze intent on her face. He reached out to her, cupped the side of her neck, and she felt him subtly draw her toward him. She was helpless to pull away, fascinated by those dark eyes, and when the tips of her breasts brushed against his bare, wet chest, she gasped.

“For what it’s worth,” he said in a low, husky voice, “My suggestion was going to be that we swim in our underwear.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, her gaze dropping to the mouth that was mere inches away from her own. “I wasn’t sure—”

His mouth lowered on hers. She hadn’t expected to be kissed with such blatant intensity. He pulled her against him, his wet flesh brushing against hers, and she felt the long heat of his cock against her belly even as they kissed, letting her know exactly what he thought of the situation. Logan’s mouth was firm against her own, and he tasted sweet, like fruit. His tongue flicked against the seam of her mouth, urging her to open for him, and she was helpless to resist.

A low mew escaped her when his tongue plunged into her mouth, turning the kiss from an exploration into decadent conquering. It stroked against her own, confident, assertive, and bold.

Each thrust of his tongue told her what he’d be like in a relationship, in bed. He’d take control of her body and make her hum with desire. If she encouraged him even a little, he’d rise to the occasion. He wasn’t the type that would take no for an answer.

And she really didn’t want to say no at the moment.

He tasted so good. Even more than that, he felt good against her, sun-warmed and wet and hard. The waves caressed at their waists while Logan continued to kiss her as if nothing else in the world mattered, and her toes curled in response, desire surging deep inside her.

All he’d done was kiss her, but she felt keenly aware of every bit of his skin pressing against her own: her nipples brushing against the fine hairs of his chest, the press of his cock at her belly, his fingers on her neck as he held her close, his thumb stroking her jaw. His lips caressing her own. His tongue thrusting wickedly, as if suggesting much more than just a kiss.

After what seemed like an eternity, Logan pulled away, and Brontë staggered, her knees suddenly weak and useless. His hand went to her elbow to steady her, and he pulled her body against his.

She gazed down at his biceps, at the mysterious tattoo. It was . . . well, it was rather hideous. The circular blob turned out to be a skull with a twisted two-dollar bill sticking out of the eye sockets. That was not what she’d expected to see on someone like Logan.

He leaned in for one more soft kiss, his tongue grazing her lips and distracting her from her study of his tattoo. “Was that what you wanted?”

That was a rather arrogant question. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her mind. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted until just now, actually.”

“And now?”

“Now I think I’m rather glad we’re alone on the beach,” she told him breathlessly.

He grinned, his expression confident and self-assured, and leaned in for another kiss.

Just then, a wave rose up. It slapped the two of them sideways, splashing them in the face and covering them with tendrils of seaweed.

They sputtered, breaking apart, and Brontë was hit with a fit of giggles as Logan pulled a handful of seaweed off his shoulder and flung it away from him in disgust. Logan looked over at her with a sour expression. “More nervous laughter?”

“No, this time I’m totally laughing at you,” she said, and yelped when he leapt to dunk her.

The spell was broken, and they started splashing each other and riding the waves, or simply floating in the water. It was nice to just play and relax, and even when she dunked Logan, it didn’t turn sexual again.

It was as if a question had been answered, and now Logan was content to wait for the right moment. Which made her feel a bit like prey being stalked by a predator. A very masculine, sexy predator that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to escape. She rather liked being his prey, and what did that say about her?

***

For the first time since going on vacation, Brontë spent a day in the sun and enjoyed every moment of it. She played in the waves, lay out on the sand, hunted for seashells, and laughed her ass off when Logan built the sorriest looking sand castle ever. They played like children all afternoon, right down to making sand angels and wrestling in the water.

Once out of the water, Brontë put her bra and boy shorts back on, not quite brave enough to run around stark naked. To her relief, Logan followed her lead, and they walked up and down the beach a few times examining debris floating in the water and talking. They were covered in sand and their underwear was more wet than dry, but they didn’t care.

Eventually, they grew tired of frolicking in the water, and Logan suggested they make the SOS signal.

“I suppose we should,” Brontë said mournfully, looking at the setting sun. She didn’t want the day to end.

He must have noticed her reluctance, because he regarded her for a long moment, then said, “There’s enough driftwood on the beach that we could build a fire and hang out here a few hours more.”

She brightened. “That sounds like a lovely idea.” Her stomach, however, ruined it by growling.

Logan’s lips twitched with amusement. “How about I work on the SOS and building a fire, and you go and get dry clothes and something to eat and drink?”

Brontë snapped her fingers at him. “Now that sounds like a plan. I’ll be right back.”

“Take the flashlight,” he told her, and picked up a heavy piece of driftwood, dragging it forward into the sand.

She did, and raced up the dune, spraying sand as she walked. She’d seen bottles of wine earlier and thought it might be pleasant to enjoy one on the beach. They had sticks of beef jerky taken from the gift shop, and she could probably find some cheese in the restaurant somewhere. Wine, cheese, and a quasi– beef product. Not bad. Of course, if they were going to have a fire, they should have...

 

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While she’d been inside, the sun had set even lower, turning the orange skies into a deep, smoky purple. On the beach, she could see that Logan had spelled out a SOS in driftwood, and set up a pyramid of wood on the far end of the beach. She headed there and made it to his side just as the fire caught.

He glanced up at her with satisfaction as he got to his feet and continued to feed small pieces of wood into the burning pyramid. “You look great.”

She laughed at that, glancing down at her bare, sandy legs, clad only in aqua shoes. She was now wearing a lemon-yellow Bahamas T-shirt that was two sizes too big and went down to her thighs, and she was pretty sure that her hair was one big snarl. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know. But you still look great.” The look he gave her was appreciative. “I’m glad you’re back.”

She hefted the wine bottle. “I brought drinks, food, and dessert.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“And a flirt,” she teased back, but she couldn’t help smiling. “But I think that’s a forgivable offense.”

They spread the blanket on the ground and set up the food, taking bites out of the jerky, crackers, and cheese and drinking straight from the wine bottle.

The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the sky grew dark. Soon, the only light glittering for miles was their small fire. It made Brontë feel very small and alone, and she moved closer to Logan.

He mistook her gesture and passed the wine bottle again, glancing over at her. “Thirsty?”

She took another sip of wine, grimacing at the strong taste of the red. She’d grabbed the most expensive bottle—because hey, why not?—and it was rather strong. She was more of a boxed wine kind of girl anyhow. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about?”

“How there’s no one around for miles.” She stared off into the dark skies and uncrossed her legs, stretching them out on the blanket. “And how that can sometimes be a little frightening.”

His hand went to her ankle, and he gave her a gentle squeeze before caressing her skin. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, and Brontë sucked in a breath. After a moment, Logan said, “Don’t be frightened. I’m right here next to you.”

“I’m glad,” she told him softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

“You’d probably still be in the elevator.”

She frowned. She didn’t like to think about that. If he hadn’t been here . . . she shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His hand remained on her ankle, his thumb lightly gliding over the skin in a way that made her feel nervous and restless and aroused all at once. He wasn’t doing anything else, though, just touching her. She stared down at that hand and then blurted, “Do you want s’mores? You know, chocolate and graham crackers and marshmallows? They’re the perfect camping treat.”

He glanced at the fire, then at her on the blanket. “I suppose this is a lot like camping, isn’t it?”

“Right down to the campfire,” she said with a grin. “Do you have a stick for my marshmallow?”

As he turned away, she blushed hard, because that sounded incredibly dirty to her own ears. Do you have a stick for my marshmallow? My God, why don’t I just ask him to throw me down on the beach and harpoon me like he’s Ahab and I’m a sexy, sexy whale?

They speared two marshmallows on the same stick, and Logan thrust them into the flames of the fire. “So you’re one of those men, are you?” Brontë teased.

He glanced back at her. “One of what men?”

She gestured at the now-flaming marshmallows. “You’re willing to eat a little charcoal as long as it gets done faster.”

“Collateral damage,” he told her. “One expects that sort of thing when making a bold decision.”

“Very bold,” she said with a nod. “Could you blow out one of those bold decisions and put it on my cracker so I can eat?”

He did, and she smooshed it with the chocolate, licking her fingers as she nibbled at the treat. He pushed his together and then popped the entire thing in his mouth, eating it in one large bite. The man didn’t do anything by halves, did he? She shook her head at him, grinning, and continued to nibble away at hers.

A large dollop of melted chocolate landed on her thumb. She regarded it for a moment and then lifted her hand, intent on licking it clean.

Logan’s hand caught hers before she could, and he moved her hand to his mouth and very gently sucked the chocolate off of her thumb. A low flutter started in her belly, and her pulse began to pound as his dark gaze shifted to her face.

“Speaking of bold decisions,” he murmured, and then ran his tongue along the pad of her thumb again. “Have you decided?”

“Decided?” she echoed, hating the quaver in her voice.

“You and I keep dancing around our attraction without ever really coming out and saying exactly what we’re thinking. I’m not like that, Brontë. I’m the kind of guy that wants to let you know exactly how I feel, but you keep running away.”

“I’m not running,” she protested, feeling breathless. “Tell me.”

“I’ll show you, then.” His gaze was intense as he watched her, and then it slid to her mouth, and she knew he was thinking about their kiss.

And now she was thinking about that kiss, too.

He leaned in and ever-so-lightly brushed his lips against hers. The movement was delicate but intense, a mere hint at what she could expect from him. And she wanted more, but he moved away and looked down at her, studying her face.

Logan spoke again. “It’s your move, Brontë.”

She stared at her hand captured in his. Shadows caressed his face, the breeze causing his hair to ruffle over his forehead, and she noticed the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. It had rasped against her skin as they’d kissed, but not hard enough to make her pull away. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted. Claim him. Or she could walk away from all of this and they’d just be friends. Camping companions. He was leaving it up to her.

She had no illusions as to what this was—they were alone on the beach. They were spending copious amounts of naked time together. He was handsome, and he must have thought her attractive. They could have wild, passionate sex for a night or two, or however long it took for them to be rescued. Then they’d part ways and she’d go back to work in Kansas City and he’d go back to work managing the hotel and their paths would never cross again.

It was the perfect situation for a no-strings fling. Except Brontë wasn’t good at the no-strings thing. That was for strangers, for people she would run into and never see after that night. Logan was different. She already knew a lot more about him than she did a lot of people. She liked him. Not that she normally didn’t like guys, but most of her relationships seemed to end on an ugly note, and she didn’t want that to happen with Logan. But if she turned him down, she’d never get the chance to experience just how wonderful making love to Logan might be.

“I want this,” she admitted in a soft voice, “but I don’t know how good I am at casual relationships.”

“We can worry about that once we’re rescued,” he told her, and leaned in to close the distance between them.

***

She was going to do this. They were going to do this. She was going to have a ridiculous, exciting, passionate fling with a man. Not just any man. Gorgeous, serious, totally alpha Logan Hawkings, who made her toes curl every time she looked at him. Who kissed like he’d invented it.

And here she was, in an ugly tourist T-shirt, with wild beach hair and not a touch of makeup. Maybe it wasn’t Brontë as much as it was that she was the only woman on the island? That was a sobering thought.

He touched his fingertips to her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Should I not have asked?”

“No, asking is good,” she said, and gave him a shy smile. “I’m just not exactly at my hottest at the moment.”

“Quote me something.”

She gave him an odd look and then laughed, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “‘Happiness depends upon ourselves.’ Aristotle.”

“See?” He whispered, leaning in to kiss at her neck. “Hearing you say that is so incredibly hot.”

She laughed again. “You’re a strange man.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all day.”

And that was enough to bolster her deflated ego. She leaned close to him, her gaze moving to his mouth. “Then kiss me?”

“You have to ask?” He leaned in closer.

“Asking’s good,” she murmured again, just as his lips met hers.

 

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For the second time that day, she was swept away by his kiss. He had such an amazing mouth. She’d kissed plenty of men, but none of them had ever kissed her with such . . . blatant ownership. Logan’s mouth slanted over her own, his lips taking control first, followed by his tongue. She was helpless to resist, and parted her lips when his tongue brushed against her mouth. Then she was lost as his tongue thrust and rubbed against her own, the kiss moving from one of simple pleasure to something deeper. His fingertips played along her jawline as he kissed her, as if ready to hold her steady if they needed to.

His mouth continued to slant over hers, his tongue stroking deep until the world narrowed to Logan’s mouth on hers and Brontë was lost in the sensation. She’d barely noticed that she was now leaning heavily against him, his body supporting her weight. When he shifted, she nearly toppled and began to giggle.

“Careful,” he warned her. His voice was stern, but there was a crinkling around his eyes that told her he was amused. “It seems my kiss is rather dangerous.”

“Extremely,” she said breathlessly, resisting the urge to reach up and touch her lips. They felt swollen and soft and wet from his kiss. With her eyes on him, Brontë leaned back on their beach blanket. “In fact, I might need to lie down to get my bearings.”

Logan’s big body loomed over hers for a long moment, and then he lay down beside her, turning and propping up on one elbow to face her. “Better?”

She glanced over at him. His face was cast in shadow at this angle, but he was still delicious. From the big shoulders to the large hand that lay on the blanket, she loved the look of him. The beach itself made her feel a bit exposed, though. She stared up at the night sky and then turned her head, listening to the gentle sound of the waves as they hit the beach. “Should we go inside?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Part of her wanted to stay out here in the open, by the beach. And part of her was totally panicked at the thought of making love out in the open. “I want to stay out here but it feels . . .”

“Wrong?”

“I was going to say naughty.”

One corner of his mouth curved up into a half smile. “And naughty is bad?”

She reached over to him and trailed a hand down his chest, feeling the light sprinkling of chest hair across his pectorals. “Actually, no. Now that I think about it, I rather like naughty. What about you?”

“I don’t have condoms out here. Unless you brought them.”

She was an idiot. A total, freaking idiot. She should have grabbed them when she was inside. She had her birth control pills . . . somewhere. But she was pretty sure she’d missed a few days and didn’t want to chance it. Condoms it was. “No, I didn’t bring any.”

“Then I can pull out.” He lifted her hand from his chest and began to nibble on her fingertips. “If you’re okay with that.”

His lips danced along her thumb and sent shivers up and down her spine. “I’m good with that. I’m clean, by the way.”

“So am I,” he said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go inside?”

“No, I like it out here.”

“Where it’s naughty?”

She grinned. “Precisely.”

Well, they’d gotten everything out of the way except the actual act itself. He was simply watching her, lightly kissing her fingertips. What had she expected? For him to maul her as soon as she gave the okay? She suspected he was holding back, making sure she was just as interested in this as he was. She had to show him that she wanted him, too, and that she wasn’t just saying yes for the hell of it.

So she wiggled a bit closer to him on the blanket and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. His tongue flicked against hers encouragingly, and so she grew a bit bolder, taking more liberties with the kiss and twirling her tongue around his. Her hand slid down his chest, and she twined her fingers into his chest hair, tugging at it.

“Touch me,” Brontë told him softly. “Please.”

Logan’s hand went to her side, and he gently pushed until she rolled onto her back. He immediately followed, flipping over to cover her, his weight braced on his elbows. She could feel his long body settle between her slightly parted legs, and then she was suddenly wide-open to him in a move that felt both shocking and right. She was wearing just her panties under the long t-shirt, and Logan’s boxers felt scorching—and far too thin—against her thighs.

Logan leaned in a little closer. “Maybe I want to keep kissing you for a bit longer.”

“That’s okay, too,” she said breathlessly, acutely aware of him.

He lightly ran his fingers over her face, as if memorizing her features by touch. Then he leaned in and kissed her mouth, his lips featherlight against her own. He then kissed her cheek, his lips skimming her skin until he reached her jaw, where he pressed another kiss. Her chin was next, then her nose, and Brontë closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of his mouth on her skin, his weight over her. She could feel the heavy heat of him cradled against her pussy, and was half tempted to wrap her legs around him. Would that be too much too fast? She wanted to keep enjoying him and his touch. If he wanted to go slow, that was fine with her.

Logan’s mouth moved along her jaw, and then she felt him take her earlobe in his teeth and gently tongue it. A gasp escaped her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Like that?” he asked softly, and repeated the motion.

She bit back the moan rising in her throat and gave a small, jerky nod.

He nibbled on it for a moment longer and then slid his tongue down into the hollow underneath her ear and down her neck, causing shivers to move over her skin. His weight shifted, and she felt his cock press hard against her pussy, then rub up and down against it through her boy shorts. A whimper escaped her throat and she automatically lifted her hips, slipping her panties down and locking her legs around him.

“Like that?” he asked again.

“Just like that,” she breathed, rocking her hips against him. He felt so good, and she hadn’t had sex in so long. Dear God, if casual sex felt this nice, why wasn’t she having it more often?

His hand slid between their bodies, and she felt him tug at her Bahamas T-shirt. “Let’s take this off.”

She nodded, and he pulled it up to her neck. Then she began some creative wiggling to tug it over her head while still lying on the ground. All the while, she felt him slide farther down her body, and then his mouth latched on to her nipple, tonguing it.

Brontë moaned, a jolt of pleasure moving through her at the touch. Her hands went to his shoulders, rubbing, then digging her nails in as he flicked at her nipple with his tongue before moving over to her other breast and beginning to nuzzle it. A hot ache bloomed between her legs, and she moaned again, unable to bite back her pleasure. His mouth was so skilled. She raked her nails across his shoulders, encouraging him.

He sucked hard on her other nipple and then released it with an audible pop. Dazed, she stared down at him in time to see him lightly flick his tongue over the wet tip, then look up at her. “Your breasts are beautiful. I’ve been wanting to play with them all afternoon.” His hand gripped her breast, thumb grazing her nipple even as he leaned over the other one again. “Watching them naked and glistening with water was driving me mad.”

She drove him crazy? He was driving her mad. At his words, she arched underneath him, thrusting her breasts in the air so he could have full access to them, and was not disappointed when he pinched the tip of one at the same time that he licked the other. A bolt of pleasure shot straight to her sex, and her legs tightened around his torso. Her voice was breathy. “Logan.”

“Love it when you say my name,” he murmured, his lips moving against her nipple.

“Oh, Logan,” she moaned when he nibbled at the tip again. “God, you feel so incredibly good.”

“Let’s see,” he murmured, pressing a kiss between her breasts. His hand left her breast and skated down her belly, then lower, to her mound. A hot, thick finger slid between her folds. “Definitely wet.”

She was. She was wetter than she ever remembered being with a man. And she was so turned on that she ached inside, her sex clenching as if she needed something—or someone—buried deep within her. “Oh, God.”

“Logan,” he murmured, and nipped her breast even as he slid that finger in and out of her pussy. “I want you to say my name again while I’m touching you.”

“Logan,” she breathed, the word turning into a whimper when his slick finger moved to her clit and began to rub it. Her hips rocked involuntarily, and she clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into the tattoo on his biceps. His touch felt so amazing that her entire body seemed one big bundle of nerve endings, and they were all connected to the clitoris that he was rubbing and rolling under his fingers. Hot tension began to climb through her body, and she moaned low in her throat, her legs tightening around him. “I—I’m going...

 

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“Come.” He made it sound like a command more than a question, and as he spoke, his fingers worked over her clit even faster, circling quickly.

She cried out as her entire body stiffened in her orgasm, then bit her lip to hold back as he continued to rub at her clit in slow, teasing circles that made her orgasm seem to last forever. Her entire body was quivering when she finally came down, and she noticed her nails had made half-moons into his shoulder. “Oh,” she breathed, removing her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

He leaned in and kissed her, hard and possessive. “About what?”

“Y-your shoulder,” she said, bewildered. “I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not hurting me, Brontë,” he said, and kissed her hungrily again, making the flames lick through her belly once more. With his hand, he dragged her arms back around his neck and then flexed his hips, surging forward until his cock rested against her naked pussy, and rubbed there. He was incredibly hard and thick, and she made a low whimper at the feel of him through his boxers. “I want you to keep touching me. I don’t care if you claw up my back.” He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth and then whispered against her mouth, “I like your reactions. They feel real to me.”

Another laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck again. “I’m not very good at faking these things. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not disappointed,” he said, rocking his hips against hers in a slow, circular motion that made her entire body follow the movement, her legs sliding back around his hips again. “And I know you weren’t faking.”

That masculine smugness in his voice made her curious. “Exactly how do you know that?”

He pressed a thumb to her clit, and she cried out, her nails cutting in to his shoulders again. “Because of that.” He slid a finger lower and circled around her opening, then ever so slowly pushed into her, causing her to gasp in reaction. “And that,” he murmured. “If I had a finger sunk deep inside you when you came, you’d clenched all around me, wouldn’t you? Milk my finger like you would my cock.”

She bit her lip and wiggled her hips a bit, too shy to answer.

“You’re sweet, and you’re smart, and sexy, and so very real, Brontë. That’s what I like about you.” He leaned in and gave her another light kiss, his fingers leaving her pussy, and she nearly cried out with disappointment.

“I like you too, Logan,” she said softly, her hands moving over his arms and chest, caressing his skin. “I want to touch you.”

“I want to fuck you,” he murmured against her mouth, and she gasped at his directness. “I promise I’ll pull out.”

She nodded, and gasped with surprise when his tongue thrust into her mouth, even as he shifted and she felt the head of his cock fit up against the slick opening of her sex.

Logan Hawkings definitely wasn’t one to mince words. He told her what he wanted and went after it. Brontë realized this an instant before he thrust deep, and she whimpered at the sting of unused muscles as he seated himself deep inside her.

He tensed over her. “Virgin?”

She shook her head. “Just been a while, that’s all. Give me a moment.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, his tongue dancing over hers in a way that felt incredibly decadent with his sex buried in her own. When she nudged her hips slightly, he swung his, rocking the two of them in a slow, circular motion that made Brontë instantly aware of every muscle in his body—and hers.

“Oh . . . do that again,” she breathed, holding on to him tightly.

Logan did, repeating the motion and exaggerating it for her benefit. It was a subtle roll of his hips, but he pressed forward and pushed enough that it rocked her body with his, and the slow roll of their hips brushed him against her clit, sending sensations pinging through her. She moaned again, her heels digging into his buttocks, encouraging him.

He was not a man who needed much encouragement. This time, when he thrust, he surged deep inside her, rocking her entire body on the blanket and causing her to cry out with pleasure. She clung to him as he began a hard, steady thrusting, pushing deep and hard inside her with every muscle, every sinew in his body. Her world narrowed down to his hips, pushing against hers, the grit of sand on the blanket at her back, the smack of his flesh against hers as he thrust deep again, the bounce of her breasts with every jolt of their bodies. She lost herself in the sensations, her eyes closed, her head thrown back. He was breathing hard over her, every breath a satisfied rasp, as she began to make soft, pleased noises in her throat with each thrust he made.

The elusive orgasmic feeling was rising again, and she focused in on it, moving her hips in time with his to ensure that each thrust was deeper, harder, stronger, and with each push of his cock into her, she got a little closer to coming.

He shifted his weight, adjusting her hips, and with his next thrust, her eyes flew open. That had been . . . different. The almost-but-not-quite orgasm feeling hovering at the edges of her consciousness flared to the forefront, and when his next thrust pushed forward, it happened again. Her pussy clenched around him in response, and he groaned even as he sucked in a breath.

“Wh-what was that?”

Logan’s hands moved to her hips, angling her just so, and then he thrust again. When she keened in response, he grinned down at her, the look wicked and triumphant all at once. “G-spot.”

Oh, God. She didn’t think anyone had ever hit it before. And oh, God, she really liked it. Her nails clawed his back again. “I need more.”

He gave another brutal surge, shoving their bodies across the blankets with his next push, and she cried out as the orgasm danced so close. Her feet left his hips, and she planted them on the ground so she could better lift her hips when he pushed in again, and thrust just as hard against him, her hips working furiously in time with his. That spot was back, and his short, quick pumps were rubbing up against it in the most incredible way that made her entire body arch with pleasure. She was so close and then—

She cried out as the orgasm rushed through her with force. Her sex clenched tight around him, and she heard him utter a muffled curse before he pulled out. She dropped her hips back to the ground as he stroked his cock with his hand, once, twice, and then he was coming on her belly, hot jets of come splashing over her skin.

Once done, he exhaled heavily and lay down on the blanket next to her, where she was staring up at the sky, dazed and dreamy.

That was incredible. Mind-blowing. She’d totally forgot about being on the beach, though she suspected the sand that had gotten on the blanket would remind her soon enough. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank you?” He was still panting. “For pulling out?”

“No,” she said dreamily, though that was nice of him, too. “For showing me where the G-spot was. I had no idea. I think I’m ruined for non-G-spot sex now.”

He laughed, the sound short and forceful. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Well, okay, it’d have to be really great sex to make up for the lack of the G-spot attention.” She sat up and grimaced at her sticky belly, still covered with his seed. “I think I’m going to go take a quick dunk.”

“It’s probably cold.”

“‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” she quoted at him.

“Is that a challenge?” He asked, grinning. He got to his feet and curled his hands into mock claws, looking as if he were a predator about to pounce on his prey. “Are you saying I’m not brave enough for cold water?”

“Not at all,” she said, turning toward the ocean.

When he took a step forward, she ran for it, a high-pitched squeal of alarm escaping her. Moments later, he had an arm around her stomach and was dunking her in the chilly surf. Brontë screamed and clung to him, dragging him under with her until they were both sputtering and laughing.

“There’s your courage,” Logan told her between chuckles.

She laughed too, delighted by his mood.

They rinsed off quickly, dumped sand on the fire, and then headed back to the hotel in the darkness. Their stairwell was just as they’d left it, complete with mattress, pillows, and blankets. Before when they’d crawled into the bed, they’d been clothed. When Brontë crawled into bed this time, she was naked and slightly damp, and so was the man who crawled in after her. As soon as she pulled the blanket over her body, he tugged her close and spooned her, his hand sliding possessively over her waist and resting on her breast.

As if he cherished her.

And she thought that maybe, just maybe, Logan was going to ruin after-sex cuddling for her, too. Because being pressed up against his big, strong body as she drifted off to sleep, his hand possessively cupping her breast, felt a little too good to be true.

Chapter Five

 

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Logan awoke before Brontë did. His body’s internal clock was set to 6 a.m. New York time, no matter where he was. He’d also awoken with a stiff cock and pleasant memories of the previous night’s sex on the beach with Brontë. Tousled, sweet Brontë, who’d been so responsive in his arms, and absolutely startled when he’d found her G-spot. That look of pleased surprise on her face? That had made him feel like a king in bed.

She hadn’t been the most skilled of his lovers—he suspected the Ukrainian ballet dancer would forever hold that spot—but she’d been the most open and honest one. Her expression, totally unable to hide anything, had pointed him to exactly where to please her, and her wide-eyed responses and gasping moans had been an incredible turn-on. She’d been enthusiastic and genuine and pleased to be with him.

Him. Logan the “manager.” She didn’t know if he had two nickels to rub together, and hadn’t cared. She’d just wanted to have sex with him. And he couldn’t say that with certainty about any of his former lovers. Had they wanted him? The man? Or just been attracted to the power of his bank account and what he could do for them? It was never easy to tell, and it ruined pretty much every relationship.

And the one woman he’d thought he loved in the past—Danica—had proven herself to be shallow and interested in nothing but money.

A line of sunlight streamed in under the stairwell door below them, giving him just enough light to make out Brontë’s sleeping form next to him. She shifted in bed, rolling over and tucking her cheek close to his shoulder. Her hand automatically went to his cock, and his morning wood had turned painful fast. Did she realize how often she reached for him in her sleep? Or was this a calculated move? He remained utterly still, listening to Brontë’s evenly spaced breaths.

A light snore escaped her.

He exhaled in relief. That was real. She was real. He was a fucking paranoid son of a bitch, wasn’t he? A sleeping girl reaches for his cock, and he automatically thought she had an ulterior motive. It was a good thing she couldn’t read minds. Someone as guileless as Brontë would have probably been disgusted. His father and the way he’d treated Logan’s mother had polluted his brain.

Logan pulled the blanket off of her inch by inch. She slept on, though she moved a little closer to him as if seeking heat. Carefully, he traced his fingers over her shoulder and down her side, resting his hand on her hip. Her skin was soft and smooth, her hips plump, and her full backside made his mouth water.

She made a soft, breathy moan in the back of her throat and shifted onto her back. Perfect. He could part her legs, slide deep inside of her before she even woke up, and rid his cock of this ache—

Fuck. And then what? Pull out again? That had been sheer torture the night before. They needed condoms. Logan edged out of the bed and down the stairs, slipping on his water shoes and then quietly opening the door. He headed into the lobby, ignoring his nudity. He doubted any rescuer would be here this early. The water on the floor of the hotel had receded, leaving muddy trails on the tile and leftover debris. Rescue would be here soon, he guessed. He and Brontë likely had been lost in the shuffle for a day or two, but it wouldn’t be much longer. Someone would notice a missing billionaire, if not a missing waitress.

Logan got a package of condoms from the store, drank a bottle of water and downed a candy bar, and returned to the stairwell. Brontë was still asleep, so he abandoned his shoes at the base of the stairs, kept a condom in hand, and slid back into bed with her.

She was soft and warm against his side, giving a little absent sound of pleasure when he returned as if she’d missed him. He liked that. Logan leaned in and kissed her neck and then her shoulder. They were light, trailing nibbles that teased the skin. A soft giggle escaped her throat, the sound still too sleepy for his taste. Kissing along her arm, he reached over her and cupped her breast, thumbing over the tip and with a touch causing the peak to harden.

The sound she made in response was a low moan.

His cock felt as hard as granite, and it rubbed against her limbs when she shifted in the bed. He wanted to pull her full against him, feel the press of her flesh against his cock, but he was enjoying her unconscious reactions a bit too much at the moment. His thumb skimmed over the hard nub of her breast again, rolling it back and forth as he continued to kiss Brontë’s neck.

The woman was definitely a heavy sleeper, Logan thought with amusement. He nipped lightly at her shoulder, and when she rolled onto her back, he leaned down to take the stiff tip of her breast into his mouth.

Brontë moaned again, and her hands went to his hair, digging into his scalp. “Mmm, Logan.”

He flicked her nipple with his tongue. “I was wondering what it’d take to wake you up.”

“That’s a good way,” she said dreamily. Her fingers played with his hair.

“It’s a shame you woke up before I had to resort to more insistent tactics.”

“Oh?” She slid a hand down his stomach and played her fingers over his cock. It twitched in response to the light touch. “What did you have in mind?”

“Burying my face between your legs and licking your pussy until you came.”

The breath shuddered from her lungs.

He nipped at her breast again. Too quiet. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I should have slept a bit longer,” she said, and then laughed at herself. “I miss all the good stuff.”

Logan kissed down her belly, licking at her belly button. “I can be persuaded.”

“Oh?”

He dropped his mouth lower, to the curve of her hips, and placed a hand on her inner thigh. He felt her quiver of response, as if his touch simply drove her wild with anticipation. “You could . . . ask.”

“Is that all it takes?” She gave another breathy laugh, and then her fingers dug in his hair again. “Please, Logan. I’ll be so good to you.”

Her breathy, sexy voice made his balls tighten and his cock throb with need. Damn. She was good at that. He lowered his head and, as promised, buried his face in her soft flesh. He felt her entire body stiffen in surprise, and she gave a startled cry when his tongue swiped between her plump labia.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” she said, and her voice sounded nervous.

Too intimate for her, perhaps? He wanted to please her, though. Logan nuzzled her softly. “You taste amazing.” She did, too. Like sex and Brontë and a hint of sea salt. He wanted more of her on his tongue, so he parted her pussy lips with one finger and lowered his mouth to lap at her clit.

“Oh.” Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling a little. “Logan, I don’t know. I . . .” Her protests trailed off as he continued to lick her clit, hardening the tip of his tongue into a point and circling it around the little bud.

“Do you want me to stop?” He let the words play over her skin. “Are you uncomfortable?” At the end of the last word, he let his hot breath fan over her flesh.

She moaned in response, and he felt her thighs quiver. “Never mind,” she told him breathlessly. “Keep going.”

Good. She was letting herself relax and enjoy this. It was a shame it wasn’t brighter in the stairwell—he wanted to see her expression. He’d just have to go by the sounds she made, and the feel of her body against his.

He continued tonguing at her clit and brushed a finger over the opening of her sex. It was slick and wet, a sign that she was enjoying his attentions. Logan slid a finger in deep and thrust it in time with his tongue strokes.

He could feel her squeeze around his finger, heard the half-sobbed whimper that escaped her throat. His cock throbbed in response, painfully hard and acutely in need. But he wanted her to be ready.

Logan thrust a second finger in with his first, circling them inside her. She was tight, and he remembered that she’d needed a moment the night before. Today, he wasn’t going to pull out of her. He’d sink in deep and let her clench around him as she came, because nothing felt better than that.

He tongued her again, faster, and she stiffened. “Logan,” she cried out. “I’m so close.”

He pulled away, then, ignoring her cry of protest, and tore open the condom. Her hands reached for him, caressing his cock and his chest, stroking him with greedy, desperate motions.

And then it was on, and he adjusted himself between her widespread legs and thrust home.

Brontë gave a keening cry in response, her nails digging into his shoulders in that mix of pleasure and pain he was starting to associate with her. She felt so much that she had to take it out on him, and he’d gladly receive the punishment she doled out.

He began to drive into her, not caring that he was being rough or that his motions weren’t fluid. They were brutal and primal, and she clung to him with each forceful push, crying out his name. He concentrated on her responses, waiting for the right moment for his release, because he was so damn close that he ached.

 

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And there it was. Brontë’s pussy clenched, and her voice broke on a wild gasp, and then her muscles tightened around him even more. It felt amazing, and he surged again, feeling his own body respond. He came inside her, thrusting hard until he felt drained from his response, and then collapsed onto the bed next to her.

She immediately rolled over and clung to him, her own breathing shallow and ragged. To his surprise, she leaned over and kissed his mouth. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said back.

“Do you wake up all your lovers like that?”

He didn’t, but he also didn’t feel like sharing that. “Do you always sleep through foreplay?”

“Only if it’s not any good,” she said, and then broke off into a fit of laughter when he reached out and tickled her sides. “Okay, okay, you win. It was pretty decent.”

“Do I need to prove my skills to you?” He found himself teasing back and smiling.

“I might need a little convincing,” she said, and trailed a finger down his chest.

“I should get to work, then,” he said, moving in to kiss her again.

***

Stark naked, Brontë flipped through the sundresses in the gift shop, looking for one that hadn’t been totally ruined in the hurricane. There were a few that had gotten wet and dried into wrinkled messes but that looked clean otherwise, and she picked through searching for something in her size.

Her gaze strayed to the glittering diamond necklace, and she shook her head. Logan was crazy to think about giving it to her. Thoughtful, sweet, but crazy. It was way too much money to spend on someone who was more or less a one-night stand. That’s what this was, after all, wasn’t it?

On the flight to the Bahamas, Sharon had talked nonstop about sexy island flings and how she couldn’t wait to have one. And it had made Brontë think, however briefly, that maybe she wouldn’t mind having one, too. Just a little fun to spice up her life before heading back to Kansas City. She hadn’t expected anything to happen, though.

She sure hadn’t expected to meet anyone like Logan. Much less have the whole resort left to the two of them, alone. Logan was different from the guys she was normally attracted to. For one, he seemed to have a stable job. Brontë always seemed to find herself with men who were “between careers” or “making a transition,” which was code for “unemployed.” Logan was also a bit more . . . dominant, if she had to put a word on it. She was used to laid-back guys who let things run their course. And she was pretty sure “laid-back” wasn’t a word that appeared in Logan’s dictionary.

But she had to admit, that was part of his appeal. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it. He didn’t sit around and wait for someone else to take action—he made things happen. It had been he who got them out of the elevator, he who had gotten them supplies, and he who’d made the SOS.

Brontë picked a dress and tossed the others aside, glancing into the lobby. Logan had gone to see if he could find breakfast, and he’d left her in the gift shop. For some reason, she was anxious to see his broad shoulders again. She felt safe with him around. If she had to be stranded with anyone, she’d take a protective alpha male like Logan any day.

Of course, she hadn’t really expected to sleep with her protector. But now that they had? She didn’t regret it in the slightest. The sex was incredible.

No, she amended as she put on one of the floral sundresses and ripped the tags off. Better than incredible. Ruined her for other men was more like it. She’d orgasmed more with him than any man she’d dated. Normally they’d be pushing on her head, demanding a blow job before they’d reciprocate, but he’d already gone down on her . . . and had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed pleasuring her.

Not that she wouldn’t enjoy going down on him. She paused at the mental image of taking Logan by surprise and knocking him backward into a chair, unzipping his pants . . . then grinned as she slipped on a pair of mismatched flip-flops. Going down on Logan seemed rather appealing at the moment. And turnabout was fair play. Stretching sensuously, she headed out of the broken window and back to the main lobby of the hotel, glancing around.

“Logan?”

No sign of him. That was odd. Maybe he’d gone exploring without her. She wandered through the destroyed lobby.

“Logan?”

Anxiety began to twinge in her stomach . . . and then it rumbled. She was starving. She glanced back at the gift shop, but the thought of eating more candy bars made her sick. It was a bit sad that she was getting tired of chocolate—even MM’s. She headed toward the far end of the first floor, near one of the restaurants, and called Logan’s name again.

“In here.” Logan’s voice sounded distant.

She headed into the restaurant, and paused in surprise. One of the tables in the center of the room had been righted and a water-stained tablecloth spread over it. Place settings had been set down and two chairs slid under the table. As she watched, Logan leaned over a pair of candles and lit them with his lighter.

A slow smile spread over her face as she approached, and a silly, nervous giggle escaped her throat. “What’s this?”

Besides the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, of course.

Logan looked back at her and smiled, his expression confident. “I thought I’d like to take my date out to dinner. Or breakfast, as the case may be.” He reached for her hand and led her to one of the chairs, pulling it out for her with a flourish.

She sat, unable to stop grinning like a fool, especially when he leaned in and kissed the back of her hand. “I hope it’s not chocolate.”

“It’s not. First, we have a fine vintage that I think you’ll appreciate.” He laid a bottle over his arm and held it out to her as if it were wine.

It was a bottle of water.

She laughed, clapping her hands. “It looks delicious.”

“Indeed.” He set down a wineglass and began to pour with effortless grace. “The flavor is peerless. I think you’ll enjoy the bouquet.”

Brontë lifted her glass when he finished pouring and pretended to sniff it. “Very nice.” She gave him an appraising look. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“Waiting tables? Should I be insulted?”

She snorted, ignoring that jab at her job. “I meant with the wine thing.” She wiggled her fingers at it. “They teach you how to be classy at manager school?”

He gave her an odd look. “Something like that. Should I bring out the next course?”

She gestured grandly. “Please do.”

To her surprise, he pulled out a covered silver dish and placed it in the center of the table, then lifted the lid with a flourish.

A basket of fruit—fruit that looked reasonably fresh, too. She gasped, pleased. “Where did you get this? I thought we picked through everything!”

“I found it in the concierge room while looking for batteries for the flashlights. I thought it’d make a nice breakfast.”

It did. Brontë hadn’t realized how pleasurable plain, simple fruit could be. They ate their fill of apples, oranges, and bananas, and split a pineapple and a mango. They licked juice from their fingers, sipped water from crystal wineglasses, and had a great time. Brontë couldn’t help but grin at Logan from across the table. This entire setup was just . . . perfect. He was perfect.

And she suddenly wanted to reward him.

With a devilish grin on her face, Brontë set down her wineglass full of water and tossed her napkin on the table. One of Logan’s dark brows went up, as if he were questioning her.

“Interested in dessert?” she asked in a low, purring voice. “I know just the thing.”

“How can I resist when it’s proposed to me like that?”

“You can’t,” she said lightly, and then slid out of her chair and under the table.

He stilled. She watched his legs shift in his chair as she crawled under the table toward him. “Brontë?”

When she got to him, she sat back on her heels and put her hands on his trousers. He was wearing them again today, which was a pity. He even had on his belt, though it was waterlogged and the leather ruined. She pulled at the buckle and began to tug it slowly free. “Just my way of saying thank you,” she said. “Thought I’d help myself to a little treat is all.”

He groaned, and she felt his knees shift, spreading a bit wider. His hand reached under the table, and he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb across her cheek.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured from above her.

“I don’t have to do anything,” she pointed out. “However, I want to do this. Now sit back and relax.”

He did, his hands moving to the arms of his chair and clenching them. Good.

“Aristotle once said, ‘Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’” She leaned in and finished unbuttoning his pants, then lowered his zipper slowly. No boxers underneath, just flesh. That was nice. Brontë grasped his already-hard cock and tugged him free of the clothing, enjoying...

 

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 19



He was thick and hard, and the crown of his cock was large, the tip already wet with fluid. He felt good in her hands, too. Firm and heavy, his skin hot against her own. She measured her fingers around his girth and found that they just barely met on the other side. Nice.

“I like this,” she said in a low voice, running a finger along the length of his cock. He jerked under her touch, and she couldn’t contain the chuckle in her throat. It was fun to affect him so much. She leaned in and lightly swept her tongue over the head of his cock, tasting the salty beads of wetness on his skin. So delicious. So hot.

Above her, he groaned, and she felt him grip the edges of the table. “Brontë.”

It sounded like he was gritting her name out between his teeth. She smiled and grasped his cock in her hand, circling the base with her fingers before leaning forward and taking him deeper into her mouth. Again, he groaned, and she began to work his thick length with her mouth, rubbing her tongue along the underside as she sucked him deep, pumping with her fist at the base to increase the sensation.

Sucking on his cock was getting her excited, too. She could feel the slickness between her legs, felt the heat of her pulse throbbing through her body, centered low in her hips. She wanted to rock them with every motion she made. More than anything, she wanted to please him, to make him lose control and come.

“Your mouth is amazing,” he ground out. She felt one hand slide under the table, felt it tangle into her hair, and then he began to work her head. He was fucking her face, she realized, a little scandalized by that—and a lot turned on. Moaning around his cock, she moved with the force of his thrusts, whimpering when he’d butt up against the back of her throat. He was in so deep, filling her mouth up. His motions were abandoned, as if he weren’t quite able to control himself, and she curled her fingers into his pants with excitement, feeling her own sex tingling with need.

“I’m going to come,” he warned her. “If you don’t—”

She leaned in, sucking harder, letting him know it was okay.

That was all it took. He breathed her name, and his fist tightened in her hair, his hand thumping on the table as he came in her mouth, his hot come wetting the back of her throat. She jerked involuntarily, swallowing and pulling back when he was done. She’d hit her head on the underside of the table, she was pretty sure. She was also pretty sure that neither of them had noticed.

“Brontë,” he groaned. “God, your mouth.” And he was still hitting the table with that light, rhythmic slap that sounded like a beat. Music?

She smiled to herself, pleased at his reaction.

His hands pulled her up from under the tablecloth, and she realized that the rhythmic sound was continuing. Puzzled, she looked up at him—he had a slightly dazed expression, his hair was mussed and tousled over his tanned forehead, and he was still a bit hazy from his passion. “What’s that noise?”

Logan focused, and then his eyes narrowed. A grin spread across his face. “Helicopter.”

“Rescue?” She stood, wobbly and leaning against him, her body still humming with need. Lousy timing, that rescue.

He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff and see who’s here.”

***

Their stairwell went all the way to the roof, and even though there was debris scattered up the stairs and she was pretty sure some of the steps were creaking more than they should, they made it to the top. Once up there, Brontë could see several things at once.

There was a helipad on the roof of the resort. That was handy. There was a helicopter coming in for a landing, too, close enough that her sundress was whipping around her legs and her tangled mess of hair was turning into a tumbleweed around her face.

She could see for miles around up here, too, and she gasped at the sight of the island. There were cars washed off the road in the distance, in ditches. Trees were uprooted everywhere. Boats were overturned at a distant marina. On the far side of the hotel’s roof, it looked like the hotel had crumbled away. The east wing hadn’t fared nearly so well as where they’d been staying. She was thankful their elevator hadn’t been there.

“Come on,” Logan shouted over the deafening chop chop chop of the helicopter. He put an arm around her shoulders possessively, and she put her hands to her sides to keep her dress from flying up. He leaned over and yelled something at her that sounded like, “I think I recognize that chopper.”

They ran forward, and to her surprise, a man jumped out of the helicopter and ran across the helipad to meet them. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a khaki shirt and shorts, and laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He raised a friendly hand in greeting, and Brontë was surprised when Logan gave it a high five, clasped it, and then brought the man in for a hug.

That was rather . . . friendly.

The man in the sunglasses gave her a rather knowing up-and-down look and then turned back to Logan. “I should have guessed,” he shouted over the helicopter’s blades. “You looked entirely too happy for a man who’s been stranded for a few days, but I guess the company was good, right?”

“This is Brontë,” Logan told him. “She was stuck in the same elevator I was.”

“You picked a good elevator to get stuck in,” the man agreed amiably and then thrust his hand toward Brontë. “Nice to meet you.”

She shook his hand, noticing that it was very big and sturdy, and covered in calluses. Small scars crisscrossed his dark tan up and down his arms. The newcomer looked wild and just a bit dangerous. Handsome, she supposed, but Logan was more appealing to her. Still, it was odd that Logan would be such good buddies with the resort’s pilot. Maybe the manager of a resort had to fly around in a helicopter a lot? She had no idea what his job entailed.

“We’re so glad to see you,” she told the newcomer as they moved toward the helicopter. “I guess I picked the right hotel to be stranded at if it’s the one with the private helicopter.”

They got into the helicopter, and the men buckled her in. The seats were plush leather and incredibly nice. Not what she’d expected from a rescue copter. It seemed almost luxurious. Someone handed her a headset with a microphone, and she put it on. Thank goodness, no more shouting at each other. The thwack thwack thwack of the helicopter blades was so strong it vibrated in her belly, but at least it wasn’t making her eardrums want to burst anymore.

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 asshole 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.