Romancing the Billionaire (30 page)

“Did you? How nice,” he said flatly. He didn't even know who Tiffany West was, and he sure as shit didn't do drugs. Alcohol was easy. Drugs just made you end up as someone's prison bitch.

“Wanna do lines off of my stomach?”

“I'm busy.” Another call was due to come in any minute now.

He tossed down the rest of his drink and handed it off to one of the girls who watched him expectantly. When they didn't go away, he looked back over at them. “How about you and you,” he said, pointing at both of them, “go do lines together and leave me the fuck alone?”

One of the blondes gave him a furious look and stormed away. The other wasn't quite so nice. She huffed up, her fake breasts rising, and then gave his raft a vicious shove.

Rob flipped over and landed in the water, head going under.

Fucking perfect. His head swam and he pushed his head above the water, glaring at the women that left. One of those two was going to buy him a new Bluetooth headset, so help him—

One of his legs cramped up, shooting pain through his muscles. Rob went back under the water, thrashing. It was like his leg had locked up. Combine that with his spinning head, and he couldn't quite get his bearings. The current ripped at him, dragging him further away from the shore. Huh. Riptide. He thought you had to be further out for those sorts of things. His lungs were aching, and he tried to push his head back above the water, but it seemed further and further out of reach.

Goddamn it, was he going to drown on the beach of someplace named Seaturtle Cay? Really?

But he couldn't find air. Reflexively, his throat worked and salt water filled his lungs, his mouth, his nose. He choked, and the world started to go black. He was really, truly dying. His last thought was that he'd be in the tabloids for forever now—legendary for drowning in a few feet of water at the beach.

More blackness filled his vision, then red . . . and polka dots.

Polka dots?

A strong arm grabbed him, and suddenly Rob's face was hauled against a pair of breasts. Real breasts. He barely had time to process this before more darkness swam through his mind, and he followed it under.

“Breathe,” a voice shouted in his ear, and then lips pressed against his mouth. Air pushed into his lungs—and fuck, that hurt like hell—and suddenly water was coming up out of his throat and his nose and he turned his head to the side, vomiting salt water. His head ached in the most blisteringly awful fashion, and those red polka dots were swimming in his vision again. But there was sand under his back, and slowly, blearily, he focused his eyes.

An angel bent over him on the beach. An angel with a faint peppering of freckles across her nose, a strong jaw and messy, wet blond hair, and dressed in the ugliest polka-dotted swimsuit he'd ever seen. And she was smiling down at him.

She'd saved him. And the look she gave him was so shy and proud all at once, that he felt his heart swell.

Well, damn. Rob was in love.