Stranded With a Billionaire (4 page)

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re twenty-four?”

“I am. How old are you?”

“I just turned twenty-nine.”

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

He snorted.

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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