There were a lot of people, Brontë had to admit. And there had been a line at the elevator upstairs. It would take a while for the resort to clear out. She thought of the upset wobble in Sharon’s voice. Damn it. With a sigh, she pulled out her cellphone and waved it in front of Sharon’s face. “Call me the moment you find it,” she said in a firm voice. “Hurry,” Sharon told her.
No “Thank you.” No “I appreciate it.” No “You’re the best.” Just a “Hurry.” Figured. Parking her suitcase next to Sharon, she turned and ran for the elevator.
She was definitely going on the next trip alone.
***
The passport wasn’t in the room. At least, Brontë was pretty sure it wasn’t. It was hard to tell with the mess Sharon had made of things. But Brontë had dutifully upended the garbage can, searched through the assortment of half-used bottles in the small bathroom, shaken out every towel, and even looked between the mattresses.
And then, because she hadn’t gotten a call from Sharon and because she felt like she couldn’t go back without Sharon’s passport, she checked one more time. Anxiety made her stomach feel as if it were tied in knots. Were the buses still downstairs? They wouldn’t leave anyone behind, would they?
Brontë moved to the window and peered out, but it was raining even harder, the skies gray and dark. It was impossible to see anything out there except more rain.
She checked under the bed one last time and then couldn’t stand it any longer. She was just going to have to admit defeat. With a final glance at the empty room, Brontë closed the door behind her.
The hall was empty this time, but that annoying tone was still going off over the loudspeakers. Crossing her arms over her chest, she headed to the elevator and hit the button. She drummed her fingers as she waited, every second seeming like a million years. She checked the screen of her phone for a message from Sharon. Nothing.
The elevator door chimed. It opened slowly, revealing a lone occupant. A man in a double-breasted gray suit stood at the back of the elevator. There was a white name badge over one breast of his jacket, indicating that he worked at the hotel. He frowned at the sight of Brontë, looking as if he was incredibly annoyed that the elevator had bothered to stop on her floor.
Yeah, well, she was annoyed, too. Brontë stepped inside and smacked the lobby button, even though it was already lit up. She punched it a few more times for good measure. Great. She was probably in the elevator with the manager or something. She supposed it was lucky that she’d gone back to the room and not Sharon. If Sharon had seen the manager, she’d have filled his ears with complaints about how horrible the hotel was. The free hotel.
She stared at the buttons, watching them light up as the elevator moved down. Twenty floors, and she’d been on the nineteenth. The man on the elevator must have been in the floor above her. The penthouse. If she had to guess, Brontë would have assumed those guests had been evacuated first. Maybe the manager had gone up to count the bathrobes or something.
They were evacuating the entire island. Good lord. So much for her fun, relaxing vacation. She’d been trying so hard to make this vacation enjoyable, and it had fought her at every turn, as if determined to suck, and hard. So much for “fun” or even “relaxing.” Brontë’d never felt so stressed out in her entire life.
A freaking hurricane. The perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.
The elevator panel lit up on two. Brontë drummed her fingers on her arm, waiting for it to roll over to one. And waited . . .
And waited . . .
The elevator shuddered just as the power went out. The elevator car was plunged into darkness, and Brontë lost her breath, terror gripping her.
“Great,” the manager said behind her. “Just fucking great.”
A hysterical giggle rose in Brontë’s throat. Nope. That was the perfect way to cap off the world’s most horrible vacation.
Keep reading for a preview of the second book in the Billionaire Boys Club series
BEAUTY AND THE BILLIONAIRE
Available now from InterMix
Hunter Buchanan didn’t believe in love at first sight. Hell, he didn’t much believe in love at all.
But the moment he’d seen the tall redhead standing in the foyer of one of his empty houses, a box of books in her arms and a skeptical look on her face, he’d felt . . . something. She’d been bold and fearless with her words, something that attracted him as a man that clung to the shadows.
And when she’d admitted to her quiet friend that most men bored her and she wanted something different in a relationship than just a pretty face?
Hunter knew she was meant for him.
She was pretty, young, and single. She had a smart mind and a sharp tongue. He liked that about her. She was unafraid and laughed easily. Days had passed since he’d glimpsed her and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. She haunted his dreams.
Hunter was smart as well, and rich, and only a few years older than her. It shouldn’t have been unattainable.
Unconsciously, he touched the deeply gouged scars on his face, fingers tracing the thick line of the scar at the corner of his mouth where damaged tissue had been reconstructed.
There was one thing preventing Hunter from pursuing a woman like that. His face. His hideous, scarred face. He could hide the scars on his chest and arm with clothing. He could clench his hand and no one would notice that he was missing a finger. But he couldn’t hide his face. When he chose to leave his house, people crossed the street to avoid him. Men frowned as if there were something unnerving about him. Women flinched away from the sight of it.
Just like the woman next to him currently was doing.
Brontë, Logan’s big-eyed girlfriend, sat next to him at the Brotherhood’s poker table. The dark basement was filled with a haze of cigar smoke and the scent of liquor. Normally the room was filled with his five best friends, but they’d gone upstairs to ‘talk’ to Logan about the fact that he’d brought his new girlfriend with him to a secret society meeting. Brontë had stayed behind . . . with him. It was clearly not by her choice, either. She sat at the table quietly, nursing her wine glass and trying not to look as if she’d wanted to bolt from the table once she’d gotten a good look at his face. Her gaze slid to his damaged hand, and then back to his face again.
He was used to that sort of thing. And he wondered if the redhead who was her friend would react the same way to his face.
Experience told him that she would. But he remembered the redhead’s sarcastic little smile and that shake of her head. The words she’d said.
“Save me from rich, attractive alpha males. They think they’re the heroes from a fairy tale. Little do they know, they’re more like the villains.”
And he found he had to know more.
“Your friend,” he said to Brontë. “The redhead. Tell me about her.”
She looked over at him again, those dark eyes wide and surprised, pupils dilated from alcohol. “You mean Gretchen?”
“Yes.” He knew her first name, but he wanted to know more about her. “What is her last name?”
“Why? How do you know about Gretchen?”
“I saw her with you the other day. Tell me more about Gretchen.”
She frowned at him. “Why should I tell you about Gretchen? So you can stalk her?”
Hunter glanced down at his cards and tried not to suppress the annoyance he felt at her caginess. Couldn’t a man ask a simple question? “I am an admirer of hers . . . from afar.”
“Like a stalker.”
“Not a stalker. I simply wish to know more about her.”
“That’s what a stalker would say.”
Hunter gritted his teeth, glancing over at her. She automatically shied back, her expression a little alarmed as she studied his scars. He ignored that. “Your friend is quite safe from my romantic interests. I simply wish to learn more about her.”
After all, what woman would want to date a man with a grotesque face? Only on
es that wanted his money, and he wasn’t interested in those. He wanted a companion, not a whore.
“Oh,” Brontë said, and studied her wineglass as if it were fascinating to her. “Petty,” she said. “Her last name is Petty. She writes books.”
Now they were getting somewhere. He mentally filed the information away. Gretchen Petty, author. He could see that. She had a sharp mind. “What kinds of books?”
“Books with other people’s names on them.”
He gave her an impatient stare, hating the way she shrank back in her chair just a bit. “A ghost writer?”
Brontë nodded. “That’s right. And Cooper’s in love with her.”
“Cooper? Who is Cooper?” Whoever it was, Hunter fucking hated him. Probably good looking, smug, and not nearly good enough for her. Damn it.
“Cooper’s her friend. It’s okay, though. He won’t make a move. He knows Gretchen isn’t interested in him that way. Gretchen likes guys that are different. She likes to be challenged.”
He snorted. Well, she’d definitely get a challenge with him.
They chatted for a bit longer, the conversation awkward. Brontë kept turning her face to the door, no doubt anxiously awaiting Logan’s return. Logan was a good looking man, tall, strong, and unscarred. Brontë was a soft, sweet creature, but he doubted she’d ever look at someone like him with anything more than revulsion or pity.
He’d had his share of pity already, thanks.
Gretchen Petty, he repeated to himself. A ghostwriter. Someone that wrote books for others and hid behind their names. Why, he wondered. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind a moniker. She didn’t seem like the type to hide behind anything. And that fascinated him. What would draw a woman like her to him? Did he even want to try? Did he want to see if she looked at him with a horror that she was trying desperately to hide for the sake of politeness, just like Logan’s woman? Or would she see the person behind the scars and determine that he was just as interesting as any other man?
“I’d rather have a man not in love with his own reflection than one that needs hair product or designer labels.”
A plan began to form in his mind.
It wasn’t a nice plan, or a very honest one. The good thing about money, though, was that it allowed you to take control of almost any situation, and Hunter definitely planned on using what he had to his advantage.
***
The Brotherhood played poker on into the night while his bodyguard stood at the door, keeping out anyone that would disturb them. They drank, they smoked cigars, and they played cards. It was one of their usual meetings, if one could ignore the quietly sleeping woman curled up on the couch in the corner of the room, Logan’s jacket a blanket over her shoulders. Business was discussed, alcohol drank in quantity, and notes taken for analyzing in the morning. Tips were shared back and forth, investment opportunities and the like.
The Brotherhood had met like this once a week since their college days, vowing to help one another. At the time, it had seemed like an idealistic pledge—that those born with money would help the others succeed, and as a result, they would all rise to the top of the ladder of success.
It had been an easy vow to make for Hunter. When Logan had befriended him in an Economics class, he’d been oddly relieved to have a friend. After being home schooled for the majority of his education, Dartmouth seemed like a nightmare landscape to him. People were everywhere, and they stared at his hideous face and scarred arm like he was a freak. He had no roommate or companions to introduce him to others on campus, and so he’d lurked in the background of the bustling campus society, avoiding eye contact and silent.
Logan had been popular—wealthy, handsome, and outgoing, he knew what he wanted and pursued it. Women flocked to him and other guys liked him. It had surprised Hunter when Logan had struck up a conversation with him one day. No one talked to the scarred outcast. But Logan had stared at Hunter’s scars for a long moment, and then gone right back to their Economics homework, discussing the syllabus and how he felt the class was missing some of the vital concepts they would need to succeed. Hunter had privately agreed, having learned quite a bit of his father’s business on his own, and they’d shared ideas. After a week or two of casual conversation, Logan had taken him aside and suggested that Hunter attend a meeting he was putting together.
It was a secret meeting, the kind legendary on the older Ivy League campuses and spoke about in hushed whispers. Hunter was immediately suspicious. As a Buchanan, his father was one of the wealthiest men in the nation, a legend among business owners for the sheer amount of property he owned. Their family name was instantly recognizable, and several of their houses landmarks. His father’s real estate investments had made him a billionaire, and Hunter was his only heir. He’d learned long ago to suspect others of ulterior motives.
But Logan was incredibly wealthy in his own right. He had no need for Hunter’s money. And Hunter was . . . lonely, though he would never admit such things to anyone that asked. So he’d gone to the meeting, expecting it to be a scam or a joke—or worse, a shakedown.
Instead, he’d been surprised. The six men attending had come from all walks of life and had a variety of majors. Reese Duncan was attending college on a scholarship, and his clothes were worn and ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He’d been ribbed about being a charity case by the other wealthy students, and had gotten into a few fist fights. Ditto Cade Archer, though he was a favorite on campus with his easy, open demeanor and friendly attitude. His family did not come from money, and rumor had it that they were up to their necks in debt to send Cade to college. He did recognize Griffin Verdi, the only foreigner. British and titled, the Verdi family was well connected with the throne and still owned ancestral lands. And there was Jonathan Lynde, whose family had some wealth, but had lost it all in a business scandal.
It was an eclectic group to say the least, and Hunter had been immediately wary. But once Logan had begun to speak, the reality of their gathering came to light: Logan Hawkings wanted to start a secret society. A brotherhood of business-oriented men that would help each other rise to the top of their selective fields and assist one another. He believed that the ones that had power could use that power to elevate their friends, and in doing so, could expand upon their empire. And he’d selected like-minded individuals that he hoped would have the same goals as him.
Hunter had been reluctant at first, since his family had the most money of all of the attendees. The others had been equally skeptical, of course. But once they began to talk, ideas were shared and concepts and strategies born. And Hunter realized that these men might not be after his family’s wealth after all, but to make some of their own.
He’d joined Logan’s secret society. The Brotherhood was formed, and over the years, he’d gone from no friends to having five men that were closer to him than brothers.
And even though years had passed, they still met weekly (unless business travel prevented it) and still caught up with each other and shared leads.
Until tonight, a woman had never been invited. The others had been unhappy at Logan’s invitation to Brontë, but Hunter didn’t mind. He was actually inwardly pleased, though he’d shown no outward reaction.
Brontë’s inclusion into their secret meant that she would be around a lot more. And Brontë was good friends with his mysterious redhead—Gretchen.
This was information that Hunter could use. And so he didn’t protest when Logan had brought her in. She’d given him plenty of information, too. His Gretchen was a writer. A ghost writer. There had to be a way to get in contact with her. Spend time with her without arousing her suspicions. He simply wanted to be around her. To have a conversation with her. To enjoy her presence.
Of course he wanted more, but a man like him knew his limits. He knew his face was unpleasant. He’d seen women clutch their mouths at the sight of him. He’d never have someone like Gretchen—smart, beautiful, funny—unless she was interested in his money. And the thought of that repuls
ed him.
He’d take friendship with a beautiful woman, if friendship was all he could have.
Jessica Clare also writes as Jill Myles and Jessica Sims. As Jessica Clare, she writes sexy contemporary romance.
Jessica Clare, The Wrong Billionaire's Bed
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