“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.
“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 M&M’s. The peanut kind, not the plain.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Philosophy and peanut M&M’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 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 l
atest 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 fe
et. 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.
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