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blanked out. Was it the first one Seaturtle Cay had been hit by? Or simply the latest in a long string of storms? “Every one of them feels like the first one,” he said, avoiding the question.
    “I suppose that’s true enough.” She grimaced. “I still can’t believe Sharon left without me. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”
    “Your roommate?”
    She nodded. “She sent me up to her room to go look for her passport that she’d lost. That was how I got stuck in the elevator. I never found it, so I assume she still had it and was able to get off the island.” Brontë looked a bit glum at the thought. “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be stuck here.”
    “Then I’ll have to thank her,” he said, laying his cards on the table. “If I had to be stranded in a hurricane, I’m glad it’s with you.”
    Her lips parted in surprise at his bold statement, and she flushed in the firelight, ducking her head a little. “I . . . thank you. That’s very sweet.”
    “I’m not a sweet man.” Most people referred to him as a cold bastard, especially when it came to business dealings. Danica had called him a ruthless jerk the last time she’d seen him, and he hadn’t disagreed with her.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Brontë said in a soft voice. “You’ve been nice to me.”
    “That’s because I like you. Most aren’t so lucky. I barely tolerate almost everyone.”
    She laughed as if he’d said something truly funny. “Then I’m glad you like me.” She nudged him with her shoulder again in that friendly way. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck here with me.”
    “No, I’m saying it because you’re smart, and funny, and beautiful. Being stranded with you has nothing to do with it.”
    She laughed again, but the sound was nervous, and she glanced away. “I imagine work keeps you busy,” she said after a moment. “This place is enormous.”
    He nodded, not adding anything to that.
    She yawned, hiding it behind her hand, and then pulled her legs close again. “Do you have a big family, Logan?”
    “No,” he said in a curt voice. He most definitely did not want to talk about family. “Are you tired?”
    “Drained, really.” She stifled another yawn and then grinned. “Okay, maybe a bit tired. Not looking forward to getting back to that stairwell, though. It’s not exactly the height of comfort.”
    “I have some ideas of how we can fix that,” he told her, and got to his feet. He extended a hand toward her again.
    She placed hers in his and then glanced at the stack of dirty dishes and garbage. “Shouldn’t we do something about that?”
    He reached over and raked the mess into a nearby sink with one arm. “Taken care of.”
    She laughed, and he felt the sudden urge to kiss her. Her joyfulness was so pleasant. She was the happiest person he’d ever met, which both disturbed and captivated him.
    But he didn’t give in to his urge to kiss her. He didn’t know whether she’d misinterpret his actions if he kissed her right before they went to bed. Though, hell, it wouldn’t be misinterpretation: He planned on getting Brontë into his bed. But he wanted her to join him there because she wanted to be with him, not because he was pressuring her. He’d made his interest clear at this point—it was time for her to take the lead.
    They headed back to the stairwell, Brontë’s steps dragging with fatigue. He was tired, too, but not as much as she seemed to be. He made her wait while he climbed the stairs to the second floor and darted into the first room. It seemed to be untouched, though the room next to it had been hit hard. He didn’t trust the stability of the second floor, though, so this would be his first and last venture there. But he was able to haul a mattress and two pillows down to the stairway and slide them down to the landing that he and Brontë called home.
    With a bed and more pillows, she sighed happily and curled up in the bed, fast asleep before he’d