Free Stranded With a Billionaire by Jessica Clare Page A

One had toppled into one of the windows on the second floor. A car lay on its side in the distance, and junk from inside the hotel was strewn across the lawn. A fine layer of sand covered the concrete, gritty under their shoes.
    “Come on,” he told Brontë. “Let’s see what the beach looks like.”
    They crested a dune, and there was the ocean spread out before them. Rippling and blue and endless, the thin white line of the beach the only thing separating them from it. Birds flew overhead. There was driftwood everywhere, floating in the water, lining the edge of the surf, and piled up on the sand, but nothing could ruin the sight of that beautiful blue water.
    At his side, Brontë gasped, her hand going to his upper arm. “It’s gorgeous.”
    It was, though the same could’ve been said for his companion. He enjoyed her unbridled enthusiasm, too. They slid down the dune and moved toward the lapping waves. At his side, Brontë sighed wistfully.
    “What is it?”
    “I was just thinking that it figures that we have nice beach weather after my vacation has already been ruined. I would have loved to spend a few days just enjoying the sun and sand.”
    He waved a hand at the empty beach. “What’s stopping you?”
    Her face lit up, then fell again. “Shouldn’t we be working on making shelter or some other survival sorts of things?”
    “We have food. We have shelter. All we need to do is wait to be rescued. If it’ll make you feel better, we can make an SOS on the sand.”
    She stepped forward into the surf, letting it wash over her ankles, and her eyes closed in pure bliss. She tilted her head back, letting her tangled hair whip in the breeze.
    He didn’t feel the same urge to step into the surf that she did, but his gaze followed her intently as she soaked up the sunshine and enjoyed the water.
    Her eyes opened after a minute. “Should we go back and get swimsuits?”
    “Why?”
    Brontë grinned at him. “To swim?”
    Logan picked up a piece of driftwood heading in her direction and tossed it away. He didn’t see the point in going back to the hotel just for a change of clothing. “There’s no one here but me, Brontë.”
    She bit her lip, studying him for a moment. “You’re right.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for courage, and then pulled off her bra. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”
    Damn. He’d just been suggesting that she could swim in her underwear, not that they should skinny-dip. Of course, now that she was taking the initiative, would he correct her on that?
    Hell, no.
Carpe diem
, he told himself, and then grinned. Brontë would have approved of the thought.
    ***
    This was the bravest, stupidest thing Brontë had ever done. She tossed her bra onto the sand, her heart pounding in her breast, and didn’t look at Logan as she shucked her panties and kicked off her water shoes. Instead, she concentrated on the water, as if standing naked on the beach were something she did every single flipping day.
    The truth was, this was an experiment. And it would either go really well or really badly.
    But she’d seen him looking at her. And he wasn’t giving her the looks that an uninterested man would give her. The looks he gave her were hot, scorching with interest. As if he were waiting for something to happen before making his move. What that would be, she had no idea.
    And she was getting tired of waiting for him. After he’d caressed her lip the night before as they ate, she’d been unable to think about anything but kissing Logan. Sleeping with Logan. Sharing this remote, tropical paradise with Logan and having no one around but the two of them. Granted, a building destroyed by a hurricane wasn’t the most romantic setting, but Logan was gorgeous and attentive, and it had been a while since she’d been seeing anyone seriously, so why not grab the bull by the horns?
    Standing on the beach, totally naked, she put her hands on her hips and tried to look at this in a positive