“Line up for bus number three!” the man yelled.
“How many buses do they have?” Brontë asked nervously. “I don’t want to be left behind.”
“I’ll call your cell if I find it,” Sharon said. “Leave your suitcase here, and I’ll watch it for you.”
Brontë hesitated. She really didn’t want go hunting for the missing passport. Sharon had been awful to room with, and it had only been two days. Two very, very long days. She was almost at the point where she didn’t care if Sharon stayed or not. And now there was a freaking hurricane on the way, which just made things go from bad to worse. “There’s a hurricane, Sharon. I’m sure they’re not going to bother to check everyone’s passports. They’ll let you on without it.”
“Please, Brontë,” Sharon said, and her voice sounded tearful even as she began to rip her suitcases open and frantically dig into messy piles of clothing. “Help me, Brontë. It won’t take five minutes! I promise I won’t let them leave without you. Look at all these people standing here. It’s going to take them an hour to evacuate everyone.”
There were a lot of people, Brontë had to admit. And there had been a line at the elevator upstairs. It would take a while for the resort to clear out. She thought of the upset wobble in Sharon’s voice. Damn it. With a sigh, she pulled out her cellphone and waved it in front of Sharon’s face. “Call me the moment you find it,” she said in a firm voice. “Hurry,” Sharon told her.
No “Thank you.” No “I appreciate it.” No “You’re the best.” Just a “Hurry.” Figured. Parking her suitcase next to Sharon, she turned and ran for the elevator.
She was definitely going on the next trip alone.
***
The passport wasn’t in the room. At least, Brontë was pretty sure it wasn’t. It was hard to tell with the mess Sharon had made of things. But Brontë had dutifully upended the garbage can, searched through the assortment of half-used bottles in the small bathroom, shaken out every towel, and even looked between the mattresses.
And then, because she hadn’t gotten a call from Sharon and because she felt like she couldn’t go back without Sharon’s passport, she checked one more time. Anxiety made her stomach feel as if it were tied in knots. Were the buses still downstairs? They wouldn’t leave anyone behind, would they?
Brontë moved to the window and peered out, but it was raining even harder, the skies gray and dark. It was impossible to see anything out there except more rain.
She checked under the bed one last time and then couldn’t stand it any longer. She was just going to have to admit defeat. With a final glance at the empty room, Brontë closed the door behind her.
The hall was empty this time, but that annoying tone was still going off over the loudspeakers. Crossing her arms over her chest, she headed to the elevator and hit the button. She drummed her fingers as she waited, every second seeming like a million years. She checked the screen of her phone for a message from Sharon. Nothing.
The elevator door chimed. It opened slowly, revealing a lone occupant. A man in a double-breasted gray suit stood at the back of the elevator. There was a white name badge over one breast of his jacket, indicating that he worked at the hotel. He frowned at the sight of Brontë, looking as if he was incredibly annoyed that the elevator had bothered to stop on her floor.
Yeah, well, she was annoyed, too. Brontë stepped inside and smacked the lobby button, even though it was already lit up. She punched it a few more times for good measure. Great. She was probably in the elevator with the manager or something. She supposed it was lucky that she’d gone back to the room and not Sharon. If Sharon had seen the manager, she’d have filled his ears with complaints about how horrible the hotel was. The free hotel.
She stared at the buttons, watching them light up as the elevator moved down. Twenty floors, and she’d been on the nineteenth. The man on the elevator must have been in the floor above her. The penthouse. If she had to guess, Brontë would have assumed those guests had been evacuated first. Maybe the manager had gone up to count the bathrobes or something.
They were evacuating the entire island. Good lord. So much for her fun, relaxing vacation. She’d been trying so hard to make this vacation enjoyable, and it had fought her at every turn, as if determined to suck, and hard. So much for “fun” or even “relaxing.” Brontë’d never felt so stressed out in her entire life.
A freaking hurricane. The perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.
The elevator panel lit up on two. Brontë drummed her fingers on her arm, waiting for it to roll over to one. And waited . . .
And waited . . .
The elevator shuddered just as the power went out. The elevator car was plunged into darkness, and Brontë lost her breath, terror gripping her.
“Great,” the manager said behind her. “Just fucking great.”
A hysterical giggle rose in Brontë’s throat. Nope. That was the perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.
Chapter Two
Brontë’s wild laughter echoed in the small elevator, the only sound breaking the silence. She couldn’t seem to stop. It was just so ridiculous. She’d been stuck in what was supposed to be paradise with a horrible roomie and a hurricane. Now? Now she was trapped in an elevator with a stranger. Truly, she must have racked up some sort of hellish karma to have this happen to her.
“I’m glad you find this funny,” the man behind her said in a cold, biting tone. “I assure you that I do not.”
“It’s funny because it’s so awful,” Brontë said between giggles. “This is the worst day ever.”
“I don’t laugh when I’m in a life-threatening situation.”
“I do,” she said, and burst into more giggles. They were part hysteria, of course, and part anxiety. Not exactly endearing her to the manager she was currently stuck with. “Sorry,” she apologized, but it came out wobbly, as if she were suppressing more laughter. “I’m what you would call a nervous laugher. I’ll try to stop.”
“Good.”
She giggled again and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
He said nothing. She wished they had the lights at least, so she could look over at him and judge his expression. Probably just as well that she couldn’t. He was probably glaring hatefully at her. She couldn’t really blame him for that. She was kind of being an ass. A hysterical ass.
Silence fell, almost oppressive in the darkness. Neither said anything, and Brontë found herself silently wishing that the blaring monotone of the loudspeaker with the hurricane warning chimes could be heard. Just to break up the silence. Something. Anything.
Her phone. Of course. She felt stupid for forgetting about it. She could call Sharon and tell her that she was stuck in the elevator. Fishing around in her purse, Brontë located it with her fingertips and pulled it out, clicking it on. Bluish light flooded her end of the elevator, nearly blinding her with its brilliance. One bar left—that was what she got for reading books on her phone, she supposed. Not that it mattered. The screen was lit up with a message—“Area out of service.” Shit.
Across the elevator, another light flared to life, and she glanced over at the man in the suit, his features illuminated by the phone’s light. Good-looking. A few years older than her, with a strong jaw and nose. He immediately clicked his phone off again. “No service.” He sounded disgusted.
Thrown back into darkness again, Brontë blinked at the red spots in her vision. She reached out into the darkness, trying to recall exactly how big the elevator was. Fifteen feet across? Less? More? She hadn’t paid attention. Brontë suspected that if she took a step forward, her outstretched arm would smack into the stranger, though.
Cozy. A little too cozy, considering they were trapped.
Exactly how long could they be trapped here before someone would notice? What if the ferry had already left the island for the mainland? Brontë tried not to think about that, or the hurricane heading their way. Someone would be coming to get them. She waited for the inevitable sound of voices, of rescuers.
And waited . . .
And waited . . . The darkness was stifling, the only sounds in the elevator that of her accelerated breathing. Hers and the manager’s.
When the power didn’t appear to be coming back on, she slid down to the floor of the elevator. It felt cool against her legs, a welcome change considering that the air in the elevator was becoming a little stuffy. How long had they been sitting here in the darkness? Ten minutes? Twenty? How long did they have before the hurricane hit? She clutched her purse close.
Air brushed past her as if he was moving forward, and she clung to the wall. “What are you doing?”
Buttons clicked. He seemed to be ignoring her.
“What are you doing?” she asked again.
A buzzer rang out, startling her so much that her heart jumped into her throat and she jolted in her seat.
“Emergency buzzer,” he said in a low voice. “Someone should hear it and come looking for us.”
“If they’re still here,” she pointed out.
“Well, aren’t you Miss Suzy Sunshine?” he said. “At least I’m doing something instead of sitting around and giggling.”
“‘Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge,’” she quoted.
“What?”
“Plato,” Brontë told him, lifting her chin in the darkness.
There was a long pause. Then: “I don’t think Plato had ‘giggling’ in mind when he wrote that.”
“Hey,” she said, her nostrils flaring with anger. “It’s called nervous laughter, you jackass. I laugh when I’m uncomfortable. So sue me. And here’s a thought: Since we’re stuck in here together, how about you try not being such a jerk for five minutes?”
He said nothing, just continued to hammer on the buzzer.
After about twenty minutes of his endless pushing on the buzzer, she wanted to cover her ears and tell him to knock it off. But that would be stupid, of course. If someone heard the buzzer, they could get out of here. And yet . . . no one was coming. The power was still off. She clicked on her phone, looking at the time and trying to ignore the fact that her battery was almost dead.
They’d been in here an hour. The buses would still be outside, surely. With all that rain, it would take a while to pull off any kind of evacuation. The elevator was becoming stuffy, too. Either that or she was just in the early stages of hyperventilation. She put a hand to her damp forehead and willed herself to breathe slowly. This would be a lot easier if she wasn’t trapped with the unpleasant manager. No wonder the hotel was such a dump if he was in charge.
“Shouldn’t someone come looking for you soon?” she asked. Surely they’d need the manager to help coordinate the evacuation.
“You would think so.”
No sarcasm that time. Well, goody. They were making progress. Brontë dug through her purse and pulled out a piece of gum, popping it into her mouth and nervously chewing it. Every action in the oppressive darkness seemed of monumental importance. She picked through the contents of her purse with her hand, looking for anything useful. A pen. Her checkbook. Passport. Wallet. Loose change. Birth control. When her hand touched upon that, she smothered another hysterical laugh.