Stranded With a Billionaire Page 10

  He gave her an odd look. “Something like that. Should I bring out the next course?”

  She gestured grandly. “Please do.”

  To her surprise, he pulled out a covered silver dish and placed it in the center of the table, then lifted the lid with a flourish.

  A basket of fruit—fruit that looked reasonably fresh, too. She gasped, pleased. “Where did you get this? I thought we picked through everything!”

  “I found it in the concierge room while looking for batteries for the flashlights. I thought it’d make a nice breakfast.”

  It did. Brontë hadn’t realized how pleasurable plain, simple fruit could be. They ate their fill of apples, oranges, and bananas, and split a pineapple and a mango. They licked juice from their fingers, sipped water from crystal wineglasses, and had a great time. Brontë couldn’t help but grin at Logan from across the table. This entire setup was just . . . perfect. He was perfect.

  And she suddenly wanted to reward him.

  With a devilish grin on her face, Brontë set down her wineglass full of water and tossed her napkin on the table. One of Logan’s dark brows went up, as if he were questioning her.

  “Interested in dessert?” she asked in a low, purring voice. “I know just the thing.”

  “How can I resist when it’s proposed to me like that?”

  “You can’t,” she said lightly, and then slid out of her chair and under the table.

  He stilled. She watched his legs shift in his chair as she crawled under the table toward him. “Brontë?”

  When she got to him, she sat back on her heels and put her hands on his trousers. He was wearing them again today, which was a pity. He even had on his belt, though it was waterlogged and the leather ruined. She pulled at the buckle and began to tug it slowly free. “Just my way of saying thank you,” she said. “Thought I’d help myself to a little treat is all.”

  He groaned, and she felt his knees shift, spreading a bit wider. His hand reached under the table, and he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb across her cheek.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured from above her.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” she pointed out. “However, I want to do this. Now sit back and relax.”

  He did, his hands moving to the arms of his chair and clenching them. Good.

  “Aristotle once said, ‘Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’” She leaned in and finished unbuttoning his pants, then lowered his zipper slowly. No boxers underneath, just flesh. That was nice. Brontë grasped his already-hard cock and tugged him free of the clothing, enjoying the feel of his hot flesh against her skin. She hadn’t had a chance to really play with him when they were in bed the night before, and this was her time to explore him at her leisure. “Mmm. I see perfection right now.”

  He was thick and hard, and the crown of his cock was large, the tip already wet with fluid. He felt good in her hands, too. Firm and heavy, his skin hot against her own. She measured her fingers around his girth and found that they just barely met on the other side. Nice.

  “I like this,” she said in a low voice, running a finger along the length of his cock. He jerked under her touch, and she couldn’t contain the chuckle in her throat. It was fun to affect him so much. She leaned in and lightly swept her tongue over the head of his cock, tasting the salty beads of wetness on his skin. So delicious. So hot.

  Above her, he groaned, and she felt him grip the edges of the table. “Brontë.”

  It sounded like he was gritting her name out between his teeth. She smiled and grasped his cock in her hand, circling the base with her fingers before leaning forward and taking him deeper into her mouth. Again, he groaned, and she began to work his thick length with her mouth, rubbing her tongue along the underside as she sucked him deep, pumping with her fist at the base to increase the sensation.

  Sucking on his cock was getting her excited, too. She could feel the slickness between her legs, felt the heat of her pulse throbbing through her body, centered low in her hips. She wanted to rock them with every motion she made. More than anything, she wanted to please him, to make him lose control and come.

  “Your mouth is amazing,” he ground out. She felt one hand slide under the table, felt it tangle into her hair, and then he began to work her head. He was fucking her face, she realized, a little scandalized by that—and a lot turned on. Moaning around his cock, she moved with the force of his thrusts, whimpering when he’d butt up against the back of her throat. He was in so deep, filling her mouth up. His motions were abandoned, as if he weren’t quite able to control himself, and she curled her fingers into his pants with excitement, feeling her own sex tingling with need.

  “I’m going to come,” he warned her. “If you don’t—”

  She leaned in, sucking harder, letting him know it was okay.

  That was all it took. He breathed her name, and his fist tightened in her hair, his hand thumping on the table as he came in her mouth, his hot come wetting the back of her throat. She jerked involuntarily, swallowing and pulling back when he was done. She’d hit her head on the underside of the table, she was pretty sure. She was also pretty sure that neither of them had noticed.

  “Brontë,” he groaned. “God, your mouth.” And he was still hitting the table with that light, rhythmic slap that sounded like a beat. Music?

  She smiled to herself, pleased at his reaction.

  His hands pulled her up from under the tablecloth, and she realized that the rhythmic sound was continuing. Puzzled, she looked up at him—he had a slightly dazed expression, his hair was mussed and tousled over his tanned forehead, and he was still a bit hazy from his passion. “What’s that noise?”

  Logan focused, and then his eyes narrowed. A grin spread across his face. “Helicopter.”

  “Rescue?” She stood, wobbly and leaning against him, her body still humming with need. Lousy timing, that rescue.

  He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff and see who’s here.”

  ***

  Their stairwell went all the way to the roof, and even though there was debris scattered up the stairs and she was pretty sure some of the steps were creaking more than they should, they made it to the top. Once up there, Brontë could see several things at once.

  There was a helipad on the roof of the resort. That was handy. There was a helicopter coming in for a landing, too, close enough that her sundress was whipping around her legs and her tangled mess of hair was turning into a tumbleweed around her face.

  She could see for miles around up here, too, and she gasped at the sight of the island. There were cars washed off the road in the distance, in ditches. Trees were uprooted everywhere. Boats were overturned at a distant marina. On the far side of the hotel’s roof, it looked like the hotel had crumbled away. The east wing hadn’t fared nearly so well as where they’d been staying. She was thankful their elevator hadn’t been there.

  “Come on,” Logan shouted over the deafening chop chop chop of the helicopter. He put an arm around her shoulders possessively, and she put her hands to her sides to keep her dress from flying up. He leaned over and yelled something at her that sounded like, “I think I recognize that chopper.”

  They ran forward, and to her surprise, a man jumped out of the helicopter and ran across the helipad to meet them. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a khaki shirt and shorts, and laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He raised a friendly hand in greeting, and Brontë was surprised when Logan gave it a high five, clasped it, and then brought the man in for a hug.

  That was rather . . . friendly.

  The man in the sunglasses gave her a rather knowing up-and-down look and then turned back to Logan. “I should have guessed,” he shouted over the helicopter’s blades. “You looked entirely too happy for a man who’s been stranded for a few days, but I gu
ess the company was good, right?”

  “This is Brontë,” Logan told him. “She was stuck in the same elevator I was.”

  “You picked a good elevator to get stuck in,” the man agreed amiably and then thrust his hand toward Brontë. “Nice to meet you.”

  She shook his hand, noticing that it was very big and sturdy, and covered in calluses. Small scars crisscrossed his dark tan up and down his arms. The newcomer looked wild and just a bit dangerous. Handsome, she supposed, but Logan was more appealing to her. Still, it was odd that Logan would be such good buddies with the resort’s pilot. Maybe the manager of a resort had to fly around in a helicopter a lot? She had no idea what his job entailed.

  “We’re so glad to see you,” she told the newcomer as they moved toward the helicopter. “I guess I picked the right hotel to be stranded at if it’s the one with the private helicopter.”

  They got into the helicopter, and the men buckled her in. The seats were plush leather and incredibly nice. Not what she’d expected from a rescue copter. It seemed almost luxurious. Someone handed her a headset with a microphone, and she put it on. Thank goodness, no more shouting at each other. The thwack thwack thwack of the helicopter blades was so strong it vibrated in her belly, but at least it wasn’t making her eardrums want to burst anymore.

  The new man was giving her a confused look, though, as he sat back down in the cockpit again. Next to . . . a pilot. Strange. “Does this dump of a resort have a helicopter, Logan?” the new guy asked.

  Logan’s response was crisp over the headphones. “It does not.”

  “Huh.” The newcomer grinned, then turned back to Brontë. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”

  Something wasn’t adding up. “You don’t work for the hotel, Jonathan?” she asked.

  He laughed as if she’d said something hilarious. “Hell, no. And if anybody asked, this is a Red Cross helicopter. Or Coast Guard. Or something.”

  “It’s not?”

  Logan fixed her with a meaningful look. “We’ll talk about this later, Brontë.”

  That sounded like he was trying to quiet her down. She narrowed her eyes at him, her jaw set. “What’s going on?” She turned back to Jonathan. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “Just an old friend,” he said, flashing her a white smile. “And somehow I’m thinking Logan’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

  That depended on what exactly was going on. She studied Logan’s clenched jaw, his slacks. The shirt he’d casually pulled on, hiding his tattoo. The luxury helicopter they were currently sitting in that wasn’t Red Cross or Coast Guard. The laughing man who looked as if he were enjoying her confusion way too much.

  It wasn’t adding up.

  She gave Logan a curious look. “You’re not the manager of this place, are you?”

  “I’m not.” His words were clipped and displeased.

  “Then who are you?”

  He said nothing.

  Over his shoulder, Jonathan grinned. “He’s the owner, baby.”

  He what? Brontë stared at Logan, betrayed. It didn’t make sense. And yet . . . it all made sense. The expensive necklace he’d offered her. His lack of knowledge of how the hotel worked. All of it. Logan wasn’t a manager. He was some rich asshole who’d decided to have a good laugh at her while lying about who he was.

  And to think that she’d slept with him!

  The entire thing was a lie. Just like her mother, she’d stupidly fallen for a man’s smooth words and let her heart get carried away. Just like her father, he’d turned around and betrayed her.

  Chapter Six

  Brontë didn’t speak during the entire helicopter ride back to the mainland. Instead, she seethed quietly.

  She felt like an idiot. A huge one. How could he not tell her the truth? Did she matter so very little to him that he’d hide his identity from her? Was his name even Logan Hawkings? She couldn’t trust a single word that had come out of his mouth over the past few days.

  And she’d slept with him! Oh, God. She wanted to hide her face in her hands, but that would give away too much of what she was feeling at the moment. Instead, she pasted on her best friendly-waitress smile and tried not to think about how she’d cuddled with the man the night before, or had gone down on him under a table that morning because she was goofy for him.

  She’d thought she’d been so lucky to be stranded with someone like Logan. Handsome, take-charge, intelligent, sexy, and strong. Well, she could add a few more adjectives to that list. Words like “liar” and “jerk” and “untrustworthy.”

  How he must have laughed at her, Brontë thought bitterly. Every time she’d mentioned how he ran the hotel, he’d been silently laughing at her. A waitress. Had he let her assume he was the manager so she wouldn’t be so intimidated by his job, thus ensuring that she’d sleep with him? Ugh.

  Well, she’d wanted this to be a weekend fling, hadn’t she? Mission accomplished. If she never saw the man again, it would suit her just fine.

  They landed some time later on an unfamiliar roof, and everyone began to unbuckle their seatbelts as the helicopter blades slowed to a stop. Brontë removed her headset when the others did, and she couldn’t help but ask as Logan hopped out of the helicopter, “Where are we?”

  He didn’t answer her but simply extended a hand to help her out of the helicopter. She took it and waited for him to reply as she stepped down. When he didn’t, she turned to Jonathan and repeated the question.

  He grinned over at her. “One of my summer homes in Miami. You can stay here until we get things sorted out.”

  One of his summer homes? One of? She glanced around at the massive roof she stood on. It was probably bigger than her apartment building. Exactly how much money did Logan and his buddy have? She narrowed her eyes at their backs, following them down the stairs and into the house.

  Inside, her suspicions were confirmed. The house was an enormous mansion. White walls that had never seen a speck of dirt were artfully decorated with expensive light fixtures and framed art. Her dirty sandals flapped on marble tiles, and she had to fight to keep her mouth from going slack at the sight of the expensive carpets and furniture. It looked like a showroom of some kind. Except this was someone’s house, which was bizarre.

  Jonathan led them down a long hall and then gestured at one of the doors. “You can stay here, Brontë. I only have a few guest rooms in this house, so if you don’t like it, we can switch your room.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she told him with her polite waitress smile. She didn’t plan on staying here any longer than she had to. Of course, he didn’t have to know that.

  “She stays with me,” Logan said in a firm voice.

  Her eyes narrowed at his confident tone. “I want my own room.”

  He glanced down at her and gave her a small shake of his head. “You’re staying with me.”

  “Is that so?”

  Jonathan gave her an appraising look. “In that case, I guess you can stay with Logan.” He nodded at his friend. “It’s your usual room.”

  Logan grunted in acknowledgment.

  So it was decided? Just like that? She gritted her teeth. “Care to show me which room that is? I think I’d like a shower.”

  Jonathan grinned, as if remarking her barely contained fury. “I’ll let lover boy here do the honors. I need to make a few calls. Feel free to head downstairs when you’re up to it.” He put his hands in his pockets and whistled, heading down the long marble staircase at the end of the hall with a jaunty confidence that bespoke years of familiarity with the place.

  She turned to look at Logan and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

  “I know, and we’ll talk about it later. I promise,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and steering her down the long hall to a different set of doors.

  Brontë waited for him
to explain, but he paused in front of the door and said only, “This is our room.” He pushed it open, and she gaped at the room before her. Thick, plush red carpet covered the floor. A massive wooden four-poster bed dominated the room, along with a bay window that overlooked an enormous swimming pool. A Pre-Raphaelite painting hung over the bed. The entire thing screamed money.

  And Logan had a “usual room.” Ugh again. Everything he’d told her was a lie. What was the point in lying to her about his job, though? It didn’t make sense. It only hurt her feelings that she hadn’t mattered enough for him to tell the truth.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Logan told her. “I need to meet with Jonathan to discuss a few things and then call my assistant. I’ve been out of pocket for too long.”

  She stiffened, then turned to give him an incredulous look. “I thought we were going to talk.”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, it can’t. You lied to me.”

  “The lie ended up being to your benefit.”

  She gasped. “My benefit? Since when is lying to someone to their benefit?”

  “I’m wealthy,” he said. “I’m sure that’ll make up for a lot of things. Take a shower, and you’ll feel better. I need to talk to Jonathan.”

  He leaned in to kiss her, and she turned her face away, still stewing. She didn’t realize that he’d left until she heard the door shut and she was left all alone in the gorgeous room.

  He wasn’t who she’d thought he was. He had money, and he obviously thought that having money made his opinion more important than hers.

  The lie ended up being to your benefit.

  Brontë wanted to punch him for saying that. She kicked off her sandals in a fury and crossed her arms, heading over to the window to stare out at the pool below. After the hurricane, it was odd to see a pool that wasn’t full of broken deck chairs. Jonathan’s pool was, of course, full of sky blue water. A large waterfall cascaded down some rocks on the far end of the pool, and to the side she saw a white linen tent fluttering in the breeze, with cushioned wooden deck furniture underneath.