[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 “**** 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 poker 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...

Stranded With a Billionaire
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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 “**** 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 poker 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 ****tiest 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 cre*** 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 ***—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 ****ed 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. “****. 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 *****ck, 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 ****ing 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.” ****.

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 humi***y, 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 humi***y 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, ****.” Panic began *****rge 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 ****ing 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 ***y 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 ****. 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 ****d 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?”

Stranded With a Billionaire
Stranded With a Billionaire Page 9



“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 *****pport 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.