Logan was handsome, all right. She gave him a weak smile and waved her fingers at him. “Hi there. Long time no see.”
The flickering light made his smile in response seem mysterious. “Hello, Brontë.”
The way he said her name made her shiver, just a little. “You could have looked at me before. It wasn’t totally dark.”
“Yes, but now I get to see everything,” he said, studying her with a long up-and-down look. “Not just shadows and suggestion.”
That very blatant look made her feel fluttery all over again. Frowning, she gestured back at the store shelves behind her, feeling a little flustered and ill at ease. “I’m just going to look for some more stuff.”
They continued to raid the store, rummaging through the mess for supplies. There was a cooler in the window display, so Brontë grabbed it and began to fill it with water bottles and sodas from the broken refrigerated drink case. Some had spilled on the floor, and she fished one out of the water at her feet, grimacing at the grit coating it. “I feel like a looter.”
He was digging behind the counter for something. “You are a looter. You are currently in the act of looting.”
“Gee, thanks. Are we going to get in trouble for this?”
“Brontë, I’m the manager. Just consider the tab on me.”
She picked up a handful of candy bars and tossed them into the cooler. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to get here and save us?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a hurricane before.”
She hadn’t, either. Brontë chewed on her lip, looking down at the water bottles in the cooler. She counted them. Twelve in there and twenty more still in the case. Handfuls of candy bars. What if that wasn’t enough? “What if we’re here for a week? Or longer?”
He tossed several lighters on the counter and turned, hands on his hips, checking the wall behind him for supplies. “Then we get to know each other really well.”
For some reason, that made her blush all over again. Her mind went in an entirely filthy direction with that one single comment.
Part of her hoped they would be rescued very quickly, and part of her hoped that rescuers took their sweet, sweet time so she’d be forced to be around this delicious, half-naked man for quite a little while.
Something sparkled in one of the windows, and Brontë wandered over, her curiosity getting the better of her. One of the glass cases had jewelry in it—she supposed it was for the kind of tourist who wouldn’t be satisfied with a T-shirt or a postcard. The necklaces in the window were pretty enough, but one in particular caught her eye. It was a string of diamonds that, when worn, would spill delicately over the wearer’s neck as if on an invisible chain. It had a dark gemstone in the center that she couldn’t make out and matching earrings.
“Pretty stuff,” Brontë commented as Logan moved to her side with the torch.
“You like that?” he asked.
She grinned up at him. “What woman wouldn’t? It’s really gorgeous, but it probably costs an arm and a leg.”
“Want me to loot it for you?”
Her stomach dropped. She shook her head, taking a step backward. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“It’s expensive, Logan. Don’t be ridiculous.”
He snorted. “The diamonds probably aren’t quality and I doubt that it’s worth the markup, but if you want it, I’ll get it for you.”
“No. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Brontë, there’s no one here. And I’m the . . . manager.” He seemed to pause on the word, as if it were unfamiliar.
“I don’t want it, Logan,” she warned him, feeling anxious. “Looting it is wrong, and you’d be crazy to risk being fired over something like that.”
He laughed. “They can’t fire me, but suit yourself.”
To her relief, he let it drop, and Brontë moved carefully away from the jewelry counter. In her experience, expensive gifts were inevitably the result of lies and betrayal. It made her think of her childhood, and the long weeks during which her father—a traveling salesman—had been gone, and her mother’s anxious waiting for him to return. He’d roll back into town after weeks away, with quickly waved-away excuses and a shower of presents for his wife and daughter. Her dreamy mother had always been flattered by the gifts of jewelry and excited to see her husband return home.
Now, as an adult, Brontë knew better. She knew that her father’s absences hadn’t been due to business as much as they’d been to see another woman, a girlfriend on the side. The presents he’d brought home were apologies more than gifts. She’d learned not to trust impulsive presents, because in Brontë’s eyes they were a way of hiding the truth, a distraction. And for some reason she didn’t want to put Logan into the same category as her smiling, lying father.
They hauled a bag of candy, the cooler of water, and a few other bags of miscellaneous supplies back to the stairwell that they’d established as their base of operations, since it was currently the only place they’d found that was above water. Once back at the stairwell, Brontë grabbed a water bottle, climbed a few steps, and sat drinking her fill. When Logan sat next to her, she passed the water bottle to him, holding the torch while he drank.
It sputtered and dropped sparks as she watched it. “How long do you think this will last?”
“Not long. We need to find something better.”
“We should check the rest of the resort, too. I’d hate to think of someone else trapped in the elevators, waiting for rescue.” She chewed her lip, thinking. She felt weak and tired, but someone still stuck in an elevator would feel much, much worse, and she didn’t want anyone dying while she sat a short distance away.
He nodded, finishing off the water bottle.
“Should we check the upper floors?”
“I’m not sure it’s wise,” Logan told her. “You saw how badly the roof was destroyed in the lobby. We don’t know that the other floors aren’t on the verge of collapse. We can take a look from outside tomorrow and decide then.”
“All right,” she agreed, then winced as her stomach growled. “I guess we should crack open those chocolate bars?”
“Or we could head to the kitchens,” he told her with a sideways glance. “See if there’s anything worth saving now that the power’s been off for a while.”
“Real food? Sign me up.” She got to her feet, feeling a burst of energy at the thought.
There were two kitchens in the hotel, one attached to each restaurant. The first one smelled strongly of dead fish and the roof looked as if it had fallen in, so they went to check the other instead. The second restaurant wasn’t nearly as destroyed, but the kitchen had slim pickings. The enormous refrigerators were full of marinating meat that would probably spoil fast. There was a walk-in freezer, and they opened it, both groaning with pleasure as the cool air puffed out and brushed over their heated skin.
“Still cold,” Logan told her, and gestured for Brontë to follow him in. “Might be cold for a bit longer if we keep the door closed.”
The freezer was full of dinner items—frozen chicken, frozen fish, and myriad packages of sides and desserts waiting to be prepared.
“We should eat some of this,” she told him. “Can we build a fire somewhere and cook some?”
“If the stove doesn’t work, yeah. Pick what you want to eat.”
They grabbed a few packages of chicken from the freezer and a large can of peaches from the pantry, and set about making dinner. Logan tested the stoves, and one of the gas ranges was working. They grabbed a skillet and began to cook the chicken, not talking. While they waited, Brontë found a can opener, opened the peaches, and offered Logan a fork.
He took it from her and speared a peach, and then quickly lifted it to his mouth and popped the dripping slice in.
Her stomach growled at the sight, and she quickly stuck her fork into a peach slice, lifting it to her mouth, her hand cupped underneath to catch the juices. The first bite was heaven—a sweet, sugary rush flooded her mouth, and the taste of peaches was overwhelming to her starved senses. She licked her fingers and leaned back against the counter. “I think that was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”
“We’ve had our minds on other things.”
They savored the can of peaches while waiting on the chicken. Though Logan’s movements were precise, Brontë found herself ravenously wolfing them down. She didn’t care that her hands were sticky or that they were a little too sugary-sweet. It was food, and it was delicious.
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.