Page 9 of Lost At Sea With A Billionaire

Cold water lappedat my legs, dragging me back to consciousness.My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and each breath sent shards of pain through my ribs.

“Janet, wake up.”

A large hand patted my cheek with gentleness.I forced my eyes open, squinting against the brightness.

Jonathan’s face hovered above mine, his dark eyes wide with concern.A cut ran along his left cheekbone, and dried blood tracked down to his jawline.

“There you are...”Relief washed over his features.“Don’t move too quickly.You took a nasty hit.”

I ignored his advice and tried to sit up.The world spun violently, forcing me back down with a groan.“Where are we?”

“An island.We washed ashore after the yacht hit the rocks.”

Memory flooded back—the storm, the alarm, the horrible grinding sound as the hull connected with stone.I tried again to sit up, more slowly this time as my hand pressed into the warm sand.

“Where are the others?”I asked, wincing as my fingers probed a tender spot on my forehead.

Jonathan’s expression tightened.“I don’t know.We got separated when the yacht capsized.”He helped me to a sitting position.“I saw the life raft deploy, but in that storm...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.He didn’t need to.

I took stock of our surroundings.We sat on a small beach, curved like a crescent moon between rocky outcroppings.Behind us, dense tropical vegetation created a wall of green.And in the water, perhaps fifty yards offshore, the yacht lay partially submerged, its bow thrust upward at an unnatural angle.

“How long was I out?”

“A few hours.The sun’s been up about three hours.”

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the protests from my battered body.“We need to search for the others.”

“I did.I walked the beach in both directions.There’s no sign of anyone.”Jonathan stood, towering beside me.“But the yacht’s accessible at low tide.We should salvage what we can.”

“You went out there already?”

He nodded toward a pile of items neatly stacked above the tide line—a metal box I recognized as a first aid kit, several bottles of water, a coil of rope, and various other supplies.

“I made two trips while you were unconscious.I’d like to use your expertise for the kitchen and see what food we can recover.”

I brushed sand from my jeans, and my chef’s instincts kicked in.“Let’s go now.Who knows how long that yacht will hold its position.”

Jonathan studied me, his eyes lingering on the injury on my head.“Are you sure you’re up for it?That gash?—”

“I’ll be fine.”The throb intensified as I spoke.“We need supplies more than I need rest.”

A smirk crossed his face.“Extreme Chef’s instincts kicking in?”

“Something like that.”I scanned the beach again, looking for any sign of the others.Nothing but empty sand stretched in both directions.“How do we get out there?”

“Wade at low tide, swim at high.It’s low now.The water’s only chest-deep at the deepest point.”

I nodded, then immediately regretted the movement as pain scurried through my skull.“Let’s go.”

The water felt shockingly cold after the warmth of the sand.I gasped as it reached my waist, my clothes growing heavy as they soaked through.

“Careful here,” Jonathan extended his hand.“The footing gets tricky.”

I took his offered hand, noticing how small mine looked engulfed in his.We picked our way through the water, navigating around jagged rocks and slippery patches of seaweed.

The yacht loomed closer, its sleek lines now broken and battered.The once-gleaming white hull was scraped and dented, streaked with seaweed and sand.

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