Page 7 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire (Billionaire Row #5)

Jonathan

T he yacht’s radio equipment lay submerged under two feet of water, its once-blinking lights now dark and lifeless. I waited for low tide, hoping some part of the bridge would be accessible, but the hull had shifted during last night’s storm, sinking deeper into the sandbar.

“There has to be something salvageable,” I muttered, wading carefully through the tilted cabin.

Salt water stung a fresh cut on my arm as I reached for the communication panel. The sharp edge of broken equipment had sliced me earlier when a sudden wave rocked the yacht, throwing me off balance. I ignored the pain, focusing instead on extracting the radio components.

Ten days on this island, and I still hadn’t given up hope of contacting the outside world.

While Janet focused on immediate survival needs, I remained obsessed with rescue.

Not that her approach wasn’t practical—it was.

Without her skills, we’d eat raw fish and sleep exposed to the elements.

But someone needed to think long-term, and that someone was me.

I pulled at the radio panel, the metal edges cutting into my palms. With a groan, it broke free, sending me stumbling backward into the rising water.

“Damn it!” The salt water hit my wound like fire. Blood mixed with seawater created crimson swirls around my arm.

Clutching my prize, I returned to the broken window we used as an entrance. The tide was rising faster than I’d anticipated. Time to go.

I swam awkwardly back to shore, with one arm keeping the radio components above water and the other propelling me forward. Exertion burned my muscles when my feet touched the sand, and my arm throbbed with each heartbeat.

Janet spotted me from our campsite and jogged down to meet me.

“What happened?” She took the equipment from my arms, examining it critically. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” I tried to sound dismissive, but the pain had intensified. “Just a scratch.”

She set the radio parts down and grabbed my arm, turning it to inspect the wound. “This isn’t a scratch. It’s a deep cut.” Her eyes narrowed. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Maybe twenty minutes. I was focused on?—”

“On salvaging useless electronics while sitting in bacteria-filled water with an open wound.” She tugged me toward camp with surprising strength. “Sit down. Now.”

I knew better than to argue when Janet used that tone. I followed her to our shelter, where she pushed me onto a makeshift seat and retrieved our first aid kit.

“You’re lucky we have antiseptic left.” She poured water over the wound, washing away sand and blood. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about getting us rescued.” I winced as she dabbed antiseptic onto the cut. “That radio might still have usable parts.”

“Not if you die of infection first.” She worked quickly, cleaning the wound with efficiency. “The radio was underwater for days. It’s corroded beyond repair.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know when to quit.” Her fingers pressed a clean bandage over the cut, her touch gentler than her words. “There’s persistence, and then there’s pigheadedness.”

I watched her work, noting the furrow between her brows that appeared whenever she concentrated. After ten days together, I’d memorized her expressions, habits, and small movements that revealed her moods.

“I can’t just sit here waiting for someone to find us,” I said as she secured the bandage. “That’s not who I am.”

Janet sat back on her heels, studying me. “And who exactly are you, Jonathan Black? Because from where I’m standing, you’re a man who can’t accept when something’s beyond his control.”

Her words hit harder than they should have. “Is that so wrong? To fight instead of surrender?”

“It is when fighting could get you killed.” She packed up the first aid supplies with quick, angry movements. “What do you think happens to me if you die out here?”

I stared at her for a long moment. I hadn’t considered that angle—that my recklessness might impact her survival.

“I didn’t think?—”

“No, you didn’t.” She stood abruptly. “You were so focused on your goal that you didn’t consider the consequences.” She walked a few steps away, then turned back. “Sound familiar? Like ignoring the captain’s warning about the storm?”

I grimace as the truth gut punched me.

“You make decisions based on what you want, not what’s best for everyone involved. That’s why we’re here in the first place!”

The accusation sliced deeper than the metal that had cut my arm. And I couldn’t deny it. We wouldn’t be stranded if I’d listened about the storm and changed course when advised.

“You’re right,” I admitted quietly.

She blinked, clearly expecting more resistance. “What?”

“You’re right,” I repeated. “About all of it. The storm, the radio, my...” I hesitated, the word sticking in my throat. “My arrogance.”

Janet’s expression softened fractionally. She returned to sit beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.

“It’s not arrogance,” she said, her voice gentler now. “It’s how you’ve survived in your world. Making decisions, taking control, pushing through obstacles.” She gestured around us. “But this isn’t your world anymore.”

I looked at her, really looked at her. Island life had tanned her brown skin and lightened her hair. Her clothes, my salvaged shirt, and her cut-off jeans hung from her frame, yet she carried herself with a quiet dignity I admired. She’d adapted while I was still fighting against our reality.

“I don’t know how to live in this world,” I admitted.

“Yes, you do.” She touched my bandaged arm lightly. “You’ve learned more than you realize. That shelter you built, the fish traps, finding fresh water—those weren’t skills you had two weeks ago.”

She was right again. I’d been so focused on what I couldn’t do—fix our situation, call for rescue, return to civilization—that I’d overlooked what I had accomplished.

“We should check those fish traps,” I said, standing.

Janet rose with me, her hand still on my arm. “After you rest. That cut needs time.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn,” she countered, but a smile pulled at her lips. “At least sit while I redress this. The bandage is already soaking through.”

I relented, lowering myself back to the seat while she gathered fresh supplies. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising another evening storm. Our shelter would hold—we’d reinforced it after the last downpour—but we’d be confined to close quarters once the rain began.

Janet returned, kneeling before me to change the bandage. Her fingers worked carefully, never causing additional pain.

“Where did you learn first aid?” I asked, watching her work.

“My father taught me the basics. Then I took a course in college.” She removed the soaked bandage, frowning at the wound beneath. “It’s still bleeding. Press here.” She guided my fingers to hold a clean cloth against the cut.

Our hands touched, and a charging current passed between us. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

My gaze dropped to her mouth—pouty, full, and surprisingly glossed given the lack of supplies.

Once again, she broke contact first, clearing her throat. “Keep pressure on that while I get more antiseptic.”

I did as instructed, watching as she rummaged through our materials. The air between us was still brimming, igniting even with every moment we remained together.

It had been building gradually from the moment we met—lingering glances, casual touches that weren’t entirely casual. Lately, our conversations stretched into the night, long after we should have slept. But we maintained boundaries, keeping the small distance dictated by our circumstances.

And even though our connection seemed to get stronger, once rescue came, what future could there be for a billionaire pharmaceutical executive and a chef? We lived in different worlds and moved in different circles. This island was an aberration, not reality.

Except it had become our reality. And in this reality, Janet was the only person who mattered to me.

“This might sting,” she warned, returning with the antiseptic.

The solution burned, but I didn’t wince. “It’s fine.”

“Stop saying you’re fine when you’re not.” She dabbed at the wound carefully. “It’s okay to admit pain, you know.”

“Not where I come from.”

“Well, you’re not there anymore.” She finished cleaning the cut and began applying a fresh bandage. “Out here, hiding weaknesses just makes you vulnerable.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding weakness?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Aren’t you?”

The question deserved consideration. Was my drive to fix our situation, to find a way off this island, really about survival? Or was it about maintaining the illusion of control in a situation where I had none?

A crack of thunder split the air, followed immediately by a torrent of rain. The downpour arrived with stunning speed, drenching us within seconds.

“The shelter!” Janet grabbed the first aid kit, and we ran for cover, ducking under the palm frond roof just as lightning illuminated the beach.

Inside, our space felt suddenly smaller and more intimate. Rain drummed against the tarp overhead, creating a cocoon of sound that isolated us from the world outside. We were dry, but barely—water had soaked through our clothes during our brief dash.

Janet pushed wet hair from her face, laughing. “Well, that was sudden.”

“Island weather.” I smiled, watching droplets trace paths down her neck. “Unpredictable.”

She reached for a salvaged towel. “Here. You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

She handed me the towel and found another for herself. We dried off as best we could in the confined space, awkwardly turning away from each other for the illusion of privacy.

I pulled off my wet shirt, wincing as the movement pulled at my injured arm. The rain had intensified, turning our shelter into a drum of constant sound.