Stranded with a Billionaire

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 f*cking 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 M&M’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.”

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?”

“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.

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 all seemed to want the same thing, to the point that their faces blurred together in his mind.

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?”

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.