“Oh, shit.” Panic began to surge through her again. “We have to get out of here, Logan.”
“I know.”
Brontë chewed on her fingernails, her mouth dry as she strained to hear more noise from the hurricane. What was happening out there? Had Sharon even noticed that she’d never come back? Doubtful. She’d probably found her passport at the bar and then had started flirting with the nearest guy. Some friend.
Definitely taking the next vacation by herself.
There was an odd scraping sound, and a crack of light appeared then grew larger. She watched in surprise as Logan forced the doors of the elevator apart. They were stuck between floors. She could make out a bit of brick, and then more light flooded in as he pushed the second set of doors open. His body was lit up, and she could see he was down to his slacks, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat.
As soon as he let go of the first set of doors, though, they began to slide shut, so he grabbed them and braced them again, glancing back at her. “I think we can jump down.”
She grabbed her clothes and her purse, then moved forward, peeking over the edge. They had about a foot and a half of clearance, and it looked like a six foot drop to the floor, at the very least. “Is it safe?”
“Safer than staying here.”
He had a point. “So how do we do this?”
Logan continued to hold the doors open, thinking. His face looked angular in the low light. “If you can hold the doors, I’ll slide through and then look for something to brace them apart.”
That sounded . . . nerve-racking. She’d have to trust him to come back for her. “What if I go first?”
“I’m stronger. If I can’t find something to brace the doors, I’ll have to hold them open for you while you climb down. I’m not sure you’ll be able to do the same for me.”
He had a point. Brontë bit her lip, then nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll hold them.”
They traded places, and Brontë held the doors while he grabbed his clothes and put them back on quickly. She tried not to think about the fact that she probably should have gotten dressed, too, and was standing in an elevator wearing nothing but a leopard bra and bright pink boy shorts. It could have been worse, she supposed. “Ready?”
He squatted on the floor and examined the space, then glanced at her. “Would it bother you if I went between your legs?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Be my guest. My legs welcome your invading presence.”
This time he chuckled, and she blushed. “I just don’t want you losing your grip on the door,” he told her. “That’s all. I promise I won’t look up.”
“Just get us out of here,” she said, wincing and spreading her legs wide so he could slide out from between them. This was not a story she was going to repeat if she got home.
When I get home, she told herself. When.
As Logan shimmied out of the elevator, Brontë focused on the weather. She could hear the pounding rain occasionally and wind gusts that sounded dangerous. They’d been isolated from the worst of it inside the elevator, but with the door open, it was all too obvious that the hurricane was upon them and they were trapped.
Suddenly Logan’s body was gone, and then she heard him smack the tile floor below. She was startled and almost let go of the doors. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just off balance. Stay there, and I’ll look for something to brace the door open so you can crawl out.”
“Okay,” she said, licking her dry lips. She tried to peek down and get a good look at his face, but the angle at which she was holding the doors made it impossible. She heard him walk away, and panic surged through her. He was gone. What if he wasn’t coming back? “Hurry!” she squeaked out, hoping he’d heard that last entreaty.
The elevator was feeling a bit oppressive now, and her arms were beginning to ache from holding the doors open. It wasn’t that they were hard to hold apart, but she was exhausted, thirsty, and starving. And a little terrified.
Okay, a lot terrified.
Time creeped past, every minute ticking by in slow motion. It seemed like forever before Logan returned, and she nearly sobbed in relief when she caught sight of him below. He set up a short ladder, then grasped the doors at the bottom, keeping them apart.
“You’re going to have to slide down between my arms,” he told her. “Get on your stomach and lower your legs first.”
She nodded. “Gotcha. Can I let go now?”
“Let go.”
She did, holding her breath for a moment as she released the doors. Then she hesitated. If she shimmied down, she was going to more or less shove her ass in his face. “Maybe I should get dressed first—”
“Just come on!”
“Well, then close your eyes!”
“I’m not going to close my eyes, Brontë. Just come on already. I can’t hold this forever. The hurricane’s almost on us.”
She hesitated for a moment more, but a crash from outside decided her. Biting her lip, she tossed her bag and clothes out of the elevator ahead of her and then slid her legs out of the hole. When she was about halfway out, she began to have visions of the power coming back on and the elevator slicing her in half, and she rushed to slide completely out, not caring that her behind might have brushed against his face or that her wiggling feet couldn’t find a toehold.
“Just drop,” he told her after a moment.
She did, and collapsed to the floor. Her leg scraped along the ladder as she fell, and she smacked onto the ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of her.
But they were out of the elevator. Thank heavens, they were out of the elevator.
“You okay?” Logan moved to her side, his hands running lightly over her naked limbs, checking for breaks. “You’re bleeding.”
“Just a scratch. Something broke the skin when I slid. I’ll be fine.” She sat up, grimacing, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The air was muggy and hot. “What about the hurricane?”
“Sounds like it’s getting worse.”
“Should we go to the basement? Something?”
“Not the basement. The front lobby’s already flooding with water. We need someplace safe.” He glanced around. “Someplace with no windows that is off the ground.”
“A stairwell?” she suggested.
He nodded and grabbed her hand, dragging her with him. “Come on. I think the stairs are this way.”
Surprised that he would grab her hand, Brontë followed him, staring in openmouthed horror at their surroundings as they ran. The hotel looked as if it had been ransacked. Furniture was overturned; papers and pamphlets were strewn everywhere. Doors hung open as if the occupants had simply forgotten to close them in their haste to leave. They raced past the lobby, and Brontë gasped, her steps slowing.
It was flooded. An inch of water had crept across the floor, and more was pouring in by the large glass doors. Large, broken glass doors. A quick glance outside showed that the skies were a sickly gray-green, and the closest tree was nearly sideways in the wind. Fear tightened her throat.
“You can sightsee later,” Logan told her harshly, tugging on her hand. “Come on.”
They ran down one corridor, then another. Every crack she heard from outside made her heart race, and she was in a near panic by the time they got to the stairwell. Logan flung the doors open and pushed her inside, and she raced up the flight of stairs to pause, breathing heavily, at the landing where they twisted to the next level. It was dark and shadowy, the only light coming from the small, square window of the stairwell door.
“Stay there,” Logan said. When she began to protest, he raised a hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to check something out.”
Brontë slumped to the ground, clutching her bag. She was too winded to bother to put her clothes on now, and too freaked out to do more than stare at the door. What if Logan got trapped out there? What if he didn’t come back for her? What if she was going to be stranded in this hurricane alone?
A gust of wind boomed overhead, followed by a crack of a palm tree snapping so loud that she jumped. She didn’t like being in the darkness alone. Not one bit. What if the stairwell collapsed in the storm?
To her relief, Logan returned a few minutes later carrying blankets and pillows and a small trash bag. She must have looked a bit shocked, because he immediately dropped everything and climbed the stairs to kneel next to her.
“You okay?” His voice was soft, protective. His fingers brushed her cheek.
She nodded, managing a trembling smile. “I think the noise is messing with my head. Marcus Aurelius said that ‘It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.’ Except I don’t think he ever went through a hurricane. I almost prefer the elevator.”
“I don’t,” Logan said. “Wait here. I picked up a few things for us.”
He headed back down the stairs to where he’d dropped his haul and then moved it all up to the landing, displaying none of the sheer exhaustion that Brontë was feeling. As she watched in the low light, he offered her a pillow and then a blanket.
“What’s all this for?”
“Just in case it gets cold later. We want to be prepared. It’s going to be a long night with that storm raging. This is probably the only safe place in the building that we can get to at the moment.”
She nodded and examined the pillow, then shoved it behind her back. It provided a bit of relief from the hard wall. “Thank you.”
Logan sat down next to her and did the same with his pillow, both of them ignoring the blanket for the moment. It was too hot, too humid to even think about covering up. She was thankful to be in just her bra and panties, since she was feeling sticky and overwarm.
As she watched, Logan dragged the trash bag to his side and pulled out two bottles of water. Her eyes widened, and her mouth went dry. Thirst hit her like a freight train at the sight of that water, and she licked her lips. “Is one of those for me?”
He gave a brief nod and handed her one. It was room temperature. She didn’t care. She unscrewed the cap and began to drink, the water tasting sweet and delicious on her parched tongue.
She could have downed the entire bottle in an instant, but she forced herself to drink only half, saving the rest for later. At her side, Logan continued to dig through the bag. “I had to raid the closest minibar. It’s not a great selection, but it’ll hold us until the worst of the storm passes overhead.”
And he handed her a candy bar.
Brontë took it with a smile. “I could kiss you for that.”
“You could,” he said easily.
She glanced over at him, the breath catching in her throat. Was he flirting with her? Was this—
The wind howled overhead, so loudly that the walls seemed to shake with the force of it. Brontë whimpered in response, pulling her legs close to her chest and hugging them tight.
“Shhh,” Logan told her softly. His arm went around her shoulders, and he pulled her closer to him and rested a hand over her hair, as if protecting her head. “I’m here. We’re safe.”