Stranded With a Billionaire (7 page)

The spell was broken, and they started splashing each other and riding the waves, or simply floating in the water. It was nice to just play and relax, and even when she dunked Logan, it didn’t turn sexual again.

It was as if a question had been answered, and now Logan was content to wait for the right moment. Which made her feel a bit like prey being stalked by a predator. A very masculine, sexy predator that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to escape. She rather liked being his prey, and what did that say about her?

***

For the first time since going on vacation, Brontë spent a day in the sun and enjoyed every moment of it. She played in the waves, lay out on the sand, hunted for seashells, and laughed her ass off when Logan built the sorriest looking sand castle ever. They played like children all afternoon, right down to making sand angels and wrestling in the water.

Once out of the water, Brontë put her bra and boy shorts back on, not quite brave enough to run around stark naked. To her relief, Logan followed her lead, and they walked up and down the beach a few times examining debris floating in the water and talking. They were covered in sand and their underwear was more wet than dry, but they didn’t care.

Eventually, they grew tired of frolicking in the water, and Logan suggested they make the SOS signal.

“I suppose we should,” Brontë said mournfully, looking at the setting sun. She didn’t want the day to end.

He must have noticed her reluctance, because he regarded her for a long moment, then said, “There’s enough driftwood on the beach that we could build a fire and hang out here a few hours more.”

She brightened. “That sounds like a lovely idea.” Her stomach, however, ruined it by growling.

Logan’s lips twitched with amusement. “How about I work on the SOS and building a fire, and you go and get dry clothes and something to eat and drink?”

Brontë snapped her fingers at him. “Now that sounds like a plan. I’ll be right back.”

“Take the flashlight,” he told her, and picked up a heavy piece of driftwood, dragging it forward into the sand.

She did, and raced up the dune, spraying sand as she walked. She’d seen bottles of wine earlier and thought it might be pleasant to enjoy one on the beach. They had sticks of beef jerky taken from the gift shop, and she could probably find some cheese in the restaurant somewhere. Wine, cheese, and a quasi– beef product. Not bad. Of course, if they were going to have a fire, they should have s’mores. With that in mind, she went to the restaurant and raided the kitchen until she found exactly what she was looking for—graham crackers and marshmallows. With the foodstuff and a few bottles of water to round things out, along with a spare blanket that they’d left out to dry earlier, she headed back down to the beach.

While she’d been inside, the sun had set even lower, turning the orange skies into a deep, smoky purple. On the beach, she could see that Logan had spelled out a SOS in driftwood, and set up a pyramid of wood on the far end of the beach. She headed there and made it to his side just as the fire caught.

He glanced up at her with satisfaction as he got to his feet and continued to feed small pieces of wood into the burning pyramid. “You look great.”

She laughed at that, glancing down at her bare, sandy legs, clad only in aqua shoes. She was now wearing a lemon-yellow Bahamas T-shirt that was two sizes too big and went down to her thighs, and she was pretty sure that her hair was one big snarl. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know. But you still look great.” The look he gave her was appreciative. “I’m glad you’re back.”

She hefted the wine bottle. “I brought drinks, food, and dessert.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“And a flirt,” she teased back, but she couldn’t help smiling. “But I think that’s a forgivable offense.”

They spread the blanket on the ground and set up the food, taking bites out of the jerky, crackers, and cheese and drinking straight from the wine bottle.

The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the sky grew dark. Soon, the only light glittering for miles was their small fire. It made Brontë feel very small and alone, and she moved closer to Logan.

He mistook her gesture and passed the wine bottle again, glancing over at her. “Thirsty?”

She took another sip of wine, grimacing at the strong taste of the red. She’d grabbed the most expensive bottle—because hey, why not?—and it was rather strong. She was more of a boxed wine kind of girl anyhow. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about?”

“How there’s no one around for miles.” She stared off into the dark skies and uncrossed her legs, stretching them out on the blanket. “And how that can sometimes be a little frightening.”

His hand went to her ankle, and he gave her a gentle squeeze before caressing her skin. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, and Brontë sucked in a breath. After a moment, Logan said, “Don’t be frightened. I’m right here next to you.”

“I’m glad,” she told him softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

“You’d probably still be in the elevator.”

She frowned. She didn’t like to think about that. If he hadn’t been here . . . she shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His hand remained on her ankle, his thumb lightly gliding over the skin in a way that made her feel nervous and restless and aroused all at once. He wasn’t doing anything else, though, just touching her. She stared down at that hand and then blurted, “Do you want s’mores? You know, chocolate and graham crackers and marshmallows? They’re the perfect camping treat.”

He glanced at the fire, then at her on the blanket. “I suppose this is a lot like camping, isn’t it?”

“Right down to the campfire,” she said with a grin. “Do you have a stick for my marshmallow?”

As he turned away, she blushed hard, because that sounded incredibly dirty to her own ears.
Do you have a stick for my marshmallow? My God, why don’t I just ask him to throw me down on the beach and harpoon me like he’s Ahab and I’m a sexy, sexy whale?

They speared two marshmallows on the same stick, and Logan thrust them into the flames of the fire. “So you’re one of those men, are you?” Brontë teased.

He glanced back at her. “One of what men?”

She gestured at the now-flaming marshmallows. “You’re willing to eat a little charcoal as long as it gets done faster.”

“Collateral damage,” he told her. “One expects that sort of thing when making a bold decision.”

“Very bold,” she said with a nod. “Could you blow out one of those bold decisions and put it on my cracker so I can eat?”

He did, and she smooshed it with the chocolate, licking her fingers as she nibbled at the treat. He pushed his together and then popped the entire thing in his mouth, eating it in one large bite. The man didn’t do anything by halves, did he? She shook her head at him, grinning, and continued to nibble away at hers.

A large dollop of melted chocolate landed on her thumb. She regarded it for a moment and then lifted her hand, intent on licking it clean.

Logan’s hand caught hers before she could, and he moved her hand to his mouth and very gently sucked the chocolate off of her thumb. A low flutter started in her belly, and her pulse began to pound as his dark gaze shifted to her face.

“Speaking of bold decisions,” he murmured, and then ran his tongue along the pad of her thumb again. “Have you decided?”

“Decided?” she echoed, hating the quaver in her voice.

“You and I keep dancing around our attraction without ever really coming out and saying exactly what we’re thinking. I’m not like that, Brontë. I’m the kind of guy that wants to let you know exactly how I feel, but you keep running away.”

“I’m not running,” she protested, feeling breathless. “Tell me.”

“I’ll show you, then.” His gaze was intense as he watched her, and then it slid to her mouth, and she knew he was thinking about their kiss.

And now she was thinking about that kiss, too.

He leaned in and ever-so-lightly brushed his lips against hers. The movement was delicate but intense, a mere hint at what she could expect from him. And she wanted more, but he moved away and looked down at her, studying her face.

Logan spoke again. “It’s your move, Brontë.”

She stared at her hand captured in his. Shadows caressed his face, the breeze causing his hair to ruffle over his forehead, and she noticed the heavy beard stubble along his jaw. It had rasped against her skin as they’d kissed, but not hard enough to make her pull away. She could reach out and touch him right now if she wanted. Claim him. Or she could walk away from all of this and they’d just be friends. Camping companions. He was leaving it up to her.

She had no illusions as to what this was—they were alone on the beach. They were spending copious amounts of naked time together. He was handsome, and he must have thought her attractive. They could have wild, passionate sex for a night or two, or however long it took for them to be rescued. Then they’d part ways and she’d go back to work in Kansas City and he’d go back to work managing the hotel and their paths would never cross again.

It was the perfect situation for a no-strings fling. Except Brontë wasn’t good at the no-strings thing. That was for strangers, for people she would run into and never see after that night. Logan was different. She already knew a lot more about him than she did a lot of people. She
liked
him. Not that she normally didn’t like guys, but most of her relationships seemed to end on an ugly note, and she didn’t want that to happen with Logan. But if she turned him down, she’d never get the chance to experience just how wonderful making love to Logan might be.

“I want this,” she admitted in a soft voice, “but I don’t know how good I am at casual relationships.”

“We can worry about that once we’re rescued,” he told her, and leaned in to close the distance between them.

***

She was going to do this.
They
were goi
ng to do this. She was going to have a ridiculous, exciting, passionate fling with a man. Not just any man. Gorgeous, serious, totally alpha Logan Hawkings, who made her toes curl every time she looked at him. Who kissed like he’d invented it.

And here she was, in an ugly tourist T-shirt, with wild beach hair and not a touch of makeup. Maybe it wasn’t Brontë as much as it was that she was the only woman on the island? That was a sobering thought.

He touched his fingertips to her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Should I not have asked?”

“No, asking is good,” she said, and gave him a shy smile. “I’m just not exactly at my hottest at the moment.”

“Quote me something.”

She gave him an odd look and then laughed, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “‘Happiness depends upon ourselves.’ Aristotle.”

“See?” He whispered, leaning in to kiss at her neck. “Hearing you say that is so incredibly hot.”

She laughed again. “You’re a strange man.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you all day.”

And that was enough to bolster her deflated ego. She leaned close to him, her gaze moving to his mouth. “Then kiss me?”

“You have to ask?” He leaned in closer.

“Asking’s good,” she murmured again, just as his lips met hers.

For the second time that day, she was swept away by his kiss. He had such an amazing mouth. She’d kissed plenty of men, but none of them had ever kissed her with such . . . blatant ownership. Logan’s mouth slanted over her own, his lips taking control first, followed by his tongue. She was helpless to resist, and parted her lips when his tongue brushed against her mouth. Then she was lost as his tongue thrust and rubbed against her own, the kiss moving from one of simple pleasure to something deeper. His fingertips played along her jawline as he kissed her, as if ready to hold her steady if they needed to.

His mouth continued to slant over hers, his tongue stroking deep until the world narrowed to Logan’s mouth on hers and Brontë was lost in the sensation. She’d barely noticed that she was now leaning heavily against him, his body supporting her weight. When he shifted, she nearly toppled and began to giggle.

“Careful,” he warned her. His voice was stern, but there was a crinkling around his eyes that told her he was amused. “It seems my kiss is rather dangerous.”

“Extremely,” she said breathlessly, resisting the urge to reach up and touch her lips. They felt swollen and soft and wet from his kiss. With her eyes on him, Brontë leaned back on their beach blanket. “In fact, I might need to lie down to get my bearings.”

Logan’s big body loomed over hers for a long moment, and then he lay down beside her, turning and propping up on one elbow to face her. “Better?”

She glanced over at him. His face was cast in shadow at this angle, but he was still delicious. From the big shoulders to the large hand that lay on the blanket, she loved the look of him. The beach itself made her feel a bit exposed, though. She stared up at the night sky and then turned her head, listening to the gentle sound of the waves as they hit the beach. “Should we go inside?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Part of her wanted to stay out here in the open, by the beach. And part of her was totally panicked at the thought of making love out in the open. “I want to stay out here but it feels . . .”

“Wrong?”

“I was going to say naughty.”

One corner of his mouth curved up into a half smile. “And naughty is bad?”

She reached over to him and trailed a hand down his chest, feeling the light sprinkling of chest hair across his pectorals. “Actually, no. Now that I think about it, I rather like naughty. What about you?”

“I don’t have condoms out here. Unless you brought them.”

She was an idiot. A total, freaking idiot. She should have grabbed them when she was inside. She had her birth control pills . . . somewhere. But she was pretty sure she’d missed a few days and didn’t want to chance it. Condoms it was. “No, I didn’t bring any.”

“Then I can pull out.” He lifted her hand from his chest and began to nibble on her fingertips. “If you’re okay with that.”