Stranded With a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  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?”

  S
he 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.

  Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What is it?”

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

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

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