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Like a Hurricane
Roxanne St. Claire


Quinn McGrath's Irish grandmother always said he'd know "the one." Only, the well-meaning matriarch hadn't cautioned that the perfect woman would literally fall from overhead into his arms–or hate him desperately the moment she learned who he was.Resort owner Nicole Whitaker was as wild and unpredictable as the storm that destined their meeting. But whereas Quinn saw the beach beauty as a fated lover, she viewed him as the six-figure-earning enemy who'd come to destroy her dream.She was right.But that was before he discovered the meaning of paradise…and something worth fighting for in Nicole.









How Could She Forget That Quinn McGrath Was All About Money, And Hope For A Tender Heart Inside That Rock-Hard Chest?


“Good for you,” she said, not backing away. “I hope you make a lot of money on this deal.”

Surprising her, he gently rubbed her cheekbone.

“I intend to. That’s why I came back.”

She tried to remember that he was a smooth operator. Not a potential lover who caressed her face and dissolved her heart. “Really? This morning you said you came back to find me.”

“And I found you.” Slowly he leaned closer to her face. “Now stop looking at me like you need to be kissed into oblivion.”

“I was not—”

“You were. And you better watch out, sweetheart, cause next time I might just do it.”

She watched as he disappeared into the sun, melting from the searing truth of his words.

She did want to be kissed into oblivion.


Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for choosing Silhouette Desire—the destination for powerful, passionate and provocative love stories. Things start heating up this month with Katherine Garbera’s Sin City Wedding, the next installment of our DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS series. An affair, a secret child, a quickie Las Vegas wedding…and that’s just the beginning of this romantic tale.

Also this month we have the marvelous Dixie Browning with her steamy Driven to Distraction. Cathleen Galitz brings us another book in the TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE STOLEN BABY series with Pretending with the Playboy. Susan Crosby’s BEHIND CLOSED DOORS miniseries continues with the superhot Private Indiscretions. And Bronwyn Jameson takes us to Australia in A Tempting Engagement.

Finally, welcome the fabulous Roxanne St. Claire to the Silhouette Desire family. We’re positive you’ll enjoy Like a Hurricane and will be wanting the other McGrath brothers’ stories. We’ll be bringing them to you in the months to come as well as stories from Beverly Barton, Ann Major and New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson. So keep coming back for more from Silhouette Desire.

More passion to you!






Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor

Silhouette Desire




Like a Hurricane

Roxanne St. Claire







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE


began writing romance fiction in 1999 after nearly two decades as a public relations and marketing executive. Retiring from business to pursue a lifelong dream of writing romance is one of the most rewarding accomplishments in her life. The others are her happy marriage to a real-life hero and the daily joys of raising two young children. Roxanne writes mainstream romantic suspense, contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her work has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Heart to Heart Award, the Golden Opportunity Award and the Gateway Award. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, Roxanne lives in Florida and currently writes—and raises children—full-time. She loves to hear from readers through e-mail at roxannestc@aol.com and snail mail at P.O. Box 372909, Satellite Beach, FL 32937. Visit her Web site at www.roxannestclaire.com.


To my mother, who introduced me to romance

(in black and white and on a small screen),

nurtured my calling with a well-stocked library and

refused to let me settle for “interesting” in a book report.


And a very special thank-you to my friend

Roberta Brown, who loved this story from page one,

and brought her inimitable brand of enthusiasm

to the task of getting it published.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen




One


Leaning against the trunk of a graceful palm tree, Quinn McGrath took a breath of salty air and studied the shallow sapphire waves of the Gulf of Mexico. The fireball that had baked the tourists on the beach all day was about to kiss an indigo horizon. Wispy clouds had turned peachy pink, and the humidity hung as the world anticipated the sun’s touchdown.

But Quinn wasn’t the least bit interested in the postcard view. It was the mess behind him that brought him to St. Joseph’s Island in Florida.

Rolling up his shirtsleeves and blessing his decision to leave his suit jacket and tie in the rental car, he turned his experienced gaze on the ramshackle tile roof, the precarious third-floor balconies and the circa 1950 jalousie windows of Mar Brisas Resort.

No wonder the owner had canceled their late afternoon meeting via a curt e-mail. Although Quinn hadn’t met the guy, he knew all he needed to know about Nick Whitaker from the broken banisters, chipped tiles and cracked soffits that hung from elegantly arched windows. Mar Brisas’s owner was obviously spending his insurance money on something other than storm-damage repairs.

The change in schedule didn’t bother Quinn. He saw it as an opportunity to take an anonymous tour, without Nick Whitaker to sidestep and sugarcoat the real problem areas.

Jorgensen Development Corporation could get this place for a song, he thought as he passed through the deserted pool area. All he had to do was prove to Dan Jorgensen that he knew the tune. His boss had made it plenty clear that full partnership in the development firm was the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.

The air was no cooler in the lobby. No doubt Whitaker was saving every dime by not using the air conditioner. His footsteps echoed on the Spanish tile floor, the once-cozy lobby devoid of guests and, evidently, staff. The place was spotless, he’d give it that. But he’d find the flaws.

He slipped into a stairwell and took the steps two at a time to the third floor. As soon as the door closed behind him, he heard it lock and he cursed under his breath.

At one end of the darkened hall, a stepladder leaned precariously against the wall, surrounded by a white canvas tarp and what looked like roofing paper. This must be where the workmen hung out…because they certainly weren’t working.

Quinn walked in the opposite direction, toward an ancient elevator barely big enough to hold two people and their suitcases. The wooden doors weren’t completely closed, he realized and stuck his hand in the inch-wide crack between them. When he gave them a quick shove, they opened with a soft thunk.

At least he thought it was a soft thunk, because at that instant, any blood intended for brain functions such as hearing or speaking or thinking went rushing off to another place.

Holy… He could only stare. Up. At the sight of two amazing female legs hanging out of an open access panel in the ceiling, dangling a good four feet off the ground. Long, lean, tan and bare, they emerged from a blue skirt, he saw as he slowly leaned in and peered up. A skirt that had ridden just high enough to show the tops of deliciously taut thighs and an edge of similarly colored lace.

“Son of a bitch!”

Quinn jumped back to avoid a screwdriver that sailed from the hole and clattered onto the floor. The tool landed next to a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals, a blue jacket and a briefcase standing on its side.

So the skirt and matching panties had a voice. And, evidently, a toolbox.

He cleared his throat noisily. “Excuse me?”

A loud shriek followed as the skirt wiggled. Quinn’s throat constricted against the pounding pulse in his neck. That blood was moving fast. South. This was not your average elevator repairman.

“Would you like some help up there?”

A hand with pink fingernails reached down and frantically pulled at the skirt, hiding the blue-lace trim, but not the thighs. The decidedly feminine backside squirmed, accompanied by another little mewing sound as the skirt—bless the tiny thing—crept higher up in response.

“Oh—oh! I’m stuck!”

He dodged a sudden swing of one long, shapely leg, then watched as the blue material shimmied left and right in a vain attempt to descend and dainty bare feet pointed to the ground. His instinct was to reach out and help her, but he was momentarily paralyzed. Surely his hand would accidentally land on a soft, feminine piece of flesh.

That did it.

The blood reached its destination and Quinn sucked in a breath as arousal sucker punched him. Without thinking, he grabbed the hips, careful to touch only the fabric of her skirt.

She shrieked again. “Hey! What are you doing?”

He held tight. “Trying to get a round peg out of a square hole.” He gripped the curve of her hips, inadvertently bunching the material and leaving him with a handful of pure, silky thigh. Oh, man. “If you, uh, just relax, ma’am, I can bring you down.”

“Relax?” The muscles under his fingers tightened in sheer defiance of the order.

“Relax,” he urged, sliding his hand to a covered area.

He heard a moan, then, “Okay.”

“All right, I’ve got you.” It didn’t take much strength, but he was thankful for his six-foot-plus height and the hours he’d spent at the gym as he eased her body down. Every one of his senses slammed into full alert while he drowned in the intoxicating feminine scent of her and studied the perfect curves of her backside under the silky material of her skirt as she descended.

Inch by scrumptious inch, he brought her closer to the ground. She let out tiny whimpers of discomfort that made him want to cradle her closer. A narrow waist emerged from the opening, followed by a sleek, toned back, covered only in a thin blue tank top, the same color as the skirt and…coordinated undergarments.

As her head dipped into the elevator, he saw a twisted mass of thick, dark hair stabbed with a yellow pencil—a pencil?

Once her bare feet were firmly planted on the floor, she kept her back to him as she reached up and yanked her skirt furiously over her thighs. Too bad. He’d miss them.

“Thank you.” The tremble in her voice touched him.

“No problem.” None. At all. He’d do it again in an instant.

She still didn’t turn and he fought the urge to gently twirl her around. He wanted to see her. He needed to see what kind of face went with a body like that.

She stood perfectly still, square shoulders topped by the ridiculous pencil ’do.

He cleared his throat again. “Well. Okay, then.” He tapped the wall of ancient-looking elevator buttons. “First floor? Ladies’ lingerie?”

The proud shoulders shook in a sudden laugh. Good. It would be a crime if hips and thighs and legs like that didn’t have a sense of humor.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “I didn’t see anything I haven’t seen before.” He paused, that single flash of blue lace burning in his brain. “Just at a new and different angle.”

She chuckled again.

“Kinda makes me want to move into this place permanently.”

In an instant, she whipped around. “Really?”

Then Quinn McGrath got sucker punched again.

This time by blue. It was all he could see, all he could absorb. Her eyes were the most beautiful shades of blue and green, precisely the deep, inviting, mesmerizing color of the Gulf of Mexico. They were set wide apart, adorned with thick black lashes. His gaze traveled over her creamy complexion and paused at the little killer cleft in her chin.

“Really,” he said huskily. At least he thought that’s what he said. But the way she blinded him with a glorious smile, he wondered if he’d actually said the words screaming in his brain. Something along the lines of: Let’s have sex. Now.

Great. One nanosecond view of underpants and a perfectly mature thirty-three-year-old man was reduced to thinking like a teenager.

The maddeningly blue eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you doing on this floor?”

He took a step back, afraid if he got any closer he’d pull her into his arms and act like a teenager, too. “I—I was just looking around.” He pointed to the open access panel. “And up.”

She smoothed her skirt self-consciously. “It was stuck.”

“I noticed.” He almost couldn’t look into the depths of her eyes, they were so distracting.

She fought a smile. Adorable. “I mean the elevator.”

He forced his gaze away from her face, down over the azure-colored tank top and onto the most impressive set of—

With a jerk, the elevator plummeted into a sudden fall that tumbled her into him.

“Oh—”

The force pushed Quinn into the panel of buttons just as the elevator thudded to a halt. With a low rumble, the doors started to close.

“No!” She lunged toward the noise. “We’ll be stuck!”

He jammed his hand between the doors, his wrist chomped by wood and a rubber strip just as she fell against him, her heavenly body molded to his in the tiny confines of the elevator.

This was the definition of agony and ecstasy. He muttered a soft curse. She spat out a hard one.

In one more second, she’d surely realize what a positive impression she was making.

“I can open them,” she said, sticking her hand through the opening his arm made between the doors.

Her jaw clenched, her eyes crinkled and a tiny pulse in her slender necked thumped. He let his gaze drop again, this time the angle giving him a direct shot down into her incredible cleavage. Good God, was nothing about this woman ordinary?

She swore again and grunted, inadvertently pressing her thigh between his legs and mumbling something about a cable.

Unfortunately, his body responded for him. Instantly, she jumped up and did that little bird-squawk thing again.

Quinn managed to stand. He twisted his arm and forced the doors open until they locked into place. The elevator had fallen about two feet. “I can climb up there and then help you up,” he said. Not that he wouldn’t like to stay trapped in a four-by-four-foot space with her, but they’d probably run out of air. Or self-control.

“I think you’ve helped me enough today.” Her voice was tight, but there was a glimmer in her eye. A very pretty glimmer. “You go and I’ll work on the broken cable.”

“No way,” he said hoisting himself up in one move. He turned and reached for her arm. “It’s not safe in there.”

“You’re probably right.” With a resigned sigh, she scooped up her shoes, then reached toward him. She locked her slender arms around his much stronger ones and he lifted her over the step and into the hallway with ease.

She looked up at him and beamed. “Thanks.” Her smile was absolutely deadly. “The elevator is a little unpredictable in this place. But really that’s part of the charm.”

The only charm he could see was a five-foot-six-inch blue angel with a writing utensil in her hair and a body that could bring a man to his knees. Just the thought of being on his knees in front of her made his blood go rushing off to that same place again.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and looked into those magic eyes. “So, did they bring you in for the night shift or are you the regular repair person in this dump?”

An endearing flush spread across her cheeks. She reached up and tucked a stray espresso-colored strand into the pencil, then dropped her shoes on the floor and straightened them with her bare foot. “It’s not a dump.”

“It ain’t exactly the Taj Mahal.”

His wit seemed to have lost its luster with her. No smile brightened her face and she kept her eyes averted. “It has its strong points, believe me.”

He stifled a laugh. “Name one.”

“I could name several. It’s authentic and…and historic.”

Instead of laughing, he shot a pointed glance at the elevator. “More like awful and ancient.”

“The rooms are delightful.”

“The building is dilapidated.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, a move that had to be illegal in some states. “There are claw-foot bathtubs.”

“With the original plumbing,” he added with a wink.

“Windows that open to the sea.”

“Which is a good thing.” This time, he did laugh, fighting the urge to tap the irresistible cleft in her chin. “Because there’s no air-conditioning.”

She scowled at him, the loss of her smile like the sun dipping behind a cloud.

“You obviously like the place,” he said hastily. “Or you work here.”

“Both.”

Ah, so that was why all the loyalty. An employee might be just the ticket to give him the inside dirt on the property…and the owner. Maybe he could soften her up and get the real scoop on Nick Whitaker’s insurance scam over dinner. And breakfast.

“But you didn’t answer my question.” The note of accusation was back in her voice. “What are you doing up here? This floor is unoccupied and for service personnel only.”

He didn’t want to lie, but if she worked here, she’d figure out immediately that he was with the company looking to purchase the property. That would surely color her information.

“I got lost. My room’s on the second floor and I took the stairs too far.”

She frowned and regarded him. “You’re a guest?”

He would register as soon as they got downstairs. Then he wouldn’t be lying. He’d been planning to stay on another Jorgensen property anyway, and had to be up before dawn to get to another job site in Minneapolis. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Well, I hope you have a nice stay.” She bent over to slip her feet into the sandals, denying him the chance to see if that information elicited even a hint of disappointment. “Be sure to catch the beach,” she said, still working the strap of her shoe. “It’s one of the most beautiful views you’ll see while you’re here.”

The image of her gorgeous legs hanging from the ceiling flashed in his mind. “Oh, I’ve seen some incredible sights already.”

She stared up at him, those blue-green eyes questioning and daring and laughing all at the same time. Time stopped. Atoms froze. A weird tingling sensation went zinging through his gut. The gut that he always trusted. The gut that he knew would tell him the instant he finally met…

The one.

Quinn McGrath never ignored his gut.

“But maybe you could show me the beach,” he said softly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Are you free for dinner?”

Then she treated him to a sly smile that did really dangerous things to his heart and the other part that hadn’t yet settled down. Before she could answer, the elevator clunked and the doors rumbled closed behind her.

“My bag!” She spun around and made a quick pass at the doors, but they closed too fast. “Oh—” She swallowed what was surely another creative curse, then hit the wood with one ineffective punch before turning to him. “You didn’t happen to leave the stairwell door open, did you?”

He shook his head. “Don’t tell me. The key is in your bag.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “All right. I won’t tell you the key is in my bag.”

“Isn’t there another way down?”

“Can you scale the balconies of a three-story building?”

Actually, he could, but the possibility of being stuck with a barefoot contessa on the abandoned floor of a hotel seemed far more enticing.

“Won’t anyone come looking for you?” he asked.

She sighed. “There aren’t many people working tonight. But we can hope someone will catch the elevator and send it back.”

“But how will anyone know we’re up here?”

“Do you have a cell phone?” she asked, hope brightening her face.

He pictured it resting on the passenger seat of his rental car. “Sorry, I don’t.”

“Then come here.” His heart tightened at the invitation, which he accepted by stepping next to her, teased by a whiff of her rose-scented fragrance. “We’re stuck with the low-tech method,” she said. “The sound might carry down the elevator shaft.”

With balled fists, she raised her hands to the wooden elevator doors and shot him a long and meaningful glance. “What are you waiting for? Let’s bang.”

He almost choked. “Precisely what I had in mind.”




Two


“Help! We’re stuck!”

Nicole Whitaker rammed her entire body weight against the wooden doors with way more force than required. Not only was the body-slam their only chance of being heard—it had worked about three weeks ago when she was stuck on the first floor—but the movement had the added benefit of relieving some of the tension that had coiled her entire being into a knot of raw desire. The sheer presence of the man wound her so tight that any second she could just snap. One more sexy smile and quick one-liner and she might literally come undone. Right into his solid mass of heart-stopping male muscle.

“Help!” She shouldered the door and the pencil tumbled out of her hair.

At his laugh, she froze, mid-slam. “Do you think this is funny?”

She tried to glare at him, if only to hide the fact that she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. How mortifying that this guest—one that somehow had gotten by her that day—would think her resort was a dump.

“I can’t help it.” He shrugged, his bottomless brown eyes sparkling. “You’re really amusing.”

Amusing. Oh yeah. A veritable comedy act swinging half-naked from the ceiling. The thought of how far up her skirt had risen coiled her up inside again. What a way to greet a guest.

Thank God she’d cancelled the meeting that the bank was forcing her to have with some real estate mogul from New York. That’s all the great-and-powerful Quinn McGrath of Jorgensen Development Corporation would need to see. The elevator dead as a doornail and one of her two—no, make that three—paying guests walking around calling the place awful and dilapidated.

And just how did this guy manage to register and not send Sally Chambers flying into Nicole’s office with a report that a six-foot-two god had checked in for a night?

She bit her lip and rested her head against the warm wood of the door, trying to regain the equilibrium that vanished every time she looked at him. She couldn’t let him know she was the owner of the dump. It was just too embarrassing.

Oh, God, what a day. A day? What a year. Life had spun completely out of control well over fourteen months earlier when Hurricane Dante spent six destructive hours as a guest on St. Joseph’s Island. The storm’s category-three winds weren’t deadly, but just potent enough to rip the charm right out of Mar Brisas. Eighty-mile-an-hour winds, and one grossly worded insurance policy had left the resort her great-grandfather had designed and built on its last gasping breath after a glorious sixty-year life.

“Surely someone will come up here tonight,” he said as he gave the door far too light a tap and tilted his head toward the other end of the hall. A gorgeous, sexy, come-hither tilt. “The workers left their stuff out.”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Workers? Hah. He was looking at the workers. With only a tiny percentage of the insurance money ever paid after the storm, the task of repairing Mar Brisas fell on the owner’s proud, but poor, shoulders. So poor, in fact, that she’d agreed to meet with a potential buyer. But so proud that she’d chickened out before he could show up. “Trust me, Mac, not a lot of people frequent the third floor. We could be here awhile.”

A curious frown deepened a crease between his eyebrows. “How did you know my name?”

His name? “Mac?” She rolled her eyes. “That’s what I call everybody who meets my backside first.”

He laughed again. A low, erotic sound that plucked at her heart and sent electrical charges darting into her stomach. His laugh was almost as smooth as his voice, which was like buttah.

“You’re not still thinking about that, are you?” he asked. “Forget about it. I have.”

Liar. “I’ll be thinking about you for the rest of my life.”

“Wow.” He grinned at her. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It’ll only happen when I play one of those ‘reveal-your-most-embarrassing-moments’ party games.”

He leaned his shoulder against the door, his arms crossed. He was definitely not banging, but his wide, muscular chest and the few dark hairs that sneaked out of his unbuttoned collar distracted her so much she didn’t complain.

“So what are your other embarrassing moments?”

She heard the question, but only listened to the cadence of his mesmerizing voice.

Watching and listening to this guy was a heady experience. She was definitely light-headed. “Tell me yours first.”

He leaned closer. “It’ll cost you.”

She sucked in a little breath at his proximity, catching a whiff of peppermint and maybe the very first drops of heated male sweat that dampened the strands of black hair that fell on his forehead. That reminded her of the nasty no air-conditioning comment.

“I’ve paid my dues,” she managed to respond. “You’ve seen my underwear.”

“Not really.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow.

“Just one little tiny scrap of lace,” he admitted.

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Mac wasn’t going to cut her an inch of slack.

He moved closer, invading the last vestige of her personal space. He wasn’t smiling, but his dark-chocolate eyes burned as his gaze traveled over her, lingering on her revealing tank top before returning to her eyes. He parted his lips and she caught a momentary glimpse of his tongue.

Light-headed intensified to bona fide dizziness.

“Blue is definitely your color.”

He had to have heard the little sound that tumbled from her mouth. Because he lowered his face even closer to hers, eliminating all the space and all the air. “Lingerie that matches your eyes. You could start a whole new fashion trend.”

She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. He was close enough to kiss. Her heart thumped, blood rushing melodiously through her ears. Kiss, kiss, kiss it sang to her.

“Kiss.”

Before she realized what she’d said, he did.

His mouth came down on hers gently at first, but the instant their lips met, he increased the pressure. He put his hands on her hips and turned her body toward him. Deepening the kiss, he pulled her into him, pressing her into his rock-hard chest and rock-hard…

She broke the contact, but he kept a firm grip on her hips, then nuzzled his mouth at her ear.

“You said ‘kiss.’” His breath skimmed the hairs on the back of her neck.

She shivered. “I said miss.” She gently pushed at the impressive shoulders to look at him. “I meant…maybe someone will miss you and call the front desk—”

He shook his head. “I’m here all alone.”

“What about…back home? Your…wife?” She had to be sure this was safe and legal. Because it felt anything but.

He shook his head again, his lips curling in a wistful smile. “No wife.”

It was too good to be true.

He was too good to be true.

“What about you?” he asked, his thumbs circling each of her hip bones in a maddening, mesmerizing rhythm.

Obviously, he was asking if she were attached, married or otherwise unable to continue what they’d just started. With the exception of two feeble attempts in her early twenties, she basically defined unattached. Should she let him know that? Or just back away?

This was her chance for common sense to outweigh what he was doing to the other five. This was her chance to prove that humans really do reason, when animals only act on instinct. This was her chance to end this insanity. Should she take it?

Not a chance.

“No one is missing me,” she told him truthfully.

“Then please let me kiss you again.” That silken voice caressed her with the same power of his hands. “That elevator door might open any minute and I hate missed opportunities.”

Her gaze dropped from his eyes, over his classic Roman nose, his handsome, hollow cheeks, pausing at the lips that she’d just tasted.

She wasn’t going to miss this one. She stood on her toes to meet him and this time, his tongue darted directly into her mouth. And out again. And in. And out.

His not-so-subtle message turned her legs to water. In fact, her entire lower body had liquefied and she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from melting onto the ground.

She refused to think about what she was doing. Kissing a stranger named Mac, locked on the empty third floor of her resort, when she should be downstairs facing the biggest professional and personal dilemma in her twenty-eight years on earth.

This was sheer madness.

This was sheer delight.

He eased her against the elevator door and she could feel the seam of the two wooden panels against her back. In one smooth movement, his hands traveled up her rib cage and rested on the outside of her breasts. Waiting for permission. The woman in her knew exactly how to give the signal. All she had to do was breathe deeply, press her chest closer and he’d accept the invitation to touch her. He wanted her—there was no doubt about his response, against her stomach. And his heart thumped in the same staccato as hers, against her chest.

She was long past dizzy now and on her way to full-fledged swooning. She couldn’t possibly open her eyes. She couldn’t possibly stop this feeling of falling. Falling into Mac.

She felt a vibration, heard a groan.

As the elevator doors clunked, he swooped her away, saving them both from tumbling into the car as it jerked open.

“Damn.” He nipped her lower lip with his teeth as he tightened his embrace. “We’ve been rescued.”

Nicole alternately blessed and cursed the ancient Otis. Why did it never work when she wanted it to, and now…

She forced herself to slide out of his arms and step into the elevator. With a steadying breath, she reached down for her jacket and briefcase. “Going down?” She tried to sound casual, but his eyes twinkled in response.

She hit Two and the doors rumbled closed. The car lurched. Kind of like her heart did every time she looked at him.

“I have a better idea.” He leaned very close to her ear, his husky voice vibrating as much as the machinery around them. “Why don’t we bring this sucker to a crashing halt somewhere between the second floor and…heaven?”

She actually considered it. Then blinked the thought away. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “My brain isn’t working any better than the elevator.”

He stepped back and gave her a reassuring smile. Then he took her chin in his fingertips and lifted her face to his.

“Mine stopped functioning with my first glimpse of the lady in blue.”

The elevator thudded to a halt on the second floor. If she didn’t stop, she was going to do something she might really regret. Never forget, but really regret.

“This is your floor,” she said as the doors rumbled open.

“Not exactly.” He traced her chin with his thumb. “I haven’t checked in yet.”

He hadn’t—? She stiffened and took a step back, closer to the button panel. “Too much of a dump for you?”

“Well, you gotta admit, it’s third-rate at best.” He winked at her as he hit Close Door. “The help is nice, though.”

Oh, God. The help is stupid. She stabbed Open Door and glared at him. “Here’s your stop, Mac.” She put her hand on his back, smiled, and gave him a push toward the open door. He stepped into the hall, a look of humor and surprise…and expectation on his face. Did he think she was coming with him? After he lied and called her resort a dump?

She pressed the Close Door button and for once, her elevator cooperated, leaving the most incredible man she’d ever met and kissed—both in the space of five minutes—looking stunned as the doors closed between them.

Nicole rushed into the empty lobby and headed for the front desk, which stood unattended because she couldn’t afford a night crew. She yanked open a drawer and rummaged for something she hadn’t needed in a long, long time.

With a flourish, she slammed the No Vacancy sign on the desk. On her way to her villa, she sent the elevator up to two, but ran like the wind before it could return.



The last of the glittering moonbeams had faded from the silver waves of the Gulf. In their place, the first few rays of sunlight warmed the lazy surf that lapped in a nonstop rhythm just about fifty feet from Nicole’s patio. She’d passed the entire night curled into one of her rattan chairs, staring at the water and second-guessing her overdramatic exit.

It certainly wasn’t the first sleepless night she’d spent counting stars and pondering her life. Before the hurricane, she’d often sit outside and think about her parents. About the dark days when she’d arrived in St. Joseph’s Island, eight years old and scared as a lost kitten. When all she had in the whole world were some memories of two wonderful people, and a strange and colorful new “mother” named Freddie.

But after Hurricane Dante made its unwelcome visit to her world, nearly every night was devoted to the climb out of financial ruin. She’d spent hours just accepting the fact that while the rest of St. Joseph’s Island got an insurance-induced face-lift, Mar Brisas got a Band-Aid.

Not that she wanted her little Spanish gem to be transformed into one of the palatial towers of stucco and glass that were rising daily along the ten-mile stretch of one of Florida’s prettiest beaches. That was precisely what she did not want. But the fact remained that the Mar Brisas insurance policy had a loophole in it the size of the Gulf of Mexico. She’d ended up with virtually no money to restore the beachfront suites and villas she’d spent her life savings and inheritance to buy five years ago.

Now it was darn near foreclosure time and the bank was no longer fending off the buyers who’d shown interest in her prime real estate.

But money was the last thing on her mind last night, she admitted as she crossed the sand and headed to her office, dressed once again in her usual jeans and baggy top. Yesterday’s suit had been for a meeting that, thank God, she’d had the good sense to cancel.

Instead of traipsing around her property with some heartless Donald Trump wanna-be from New Yawk City, she’d found herself in the arms of the most desirable man she’d ever met.

Who lied about staying there and spoke the truth about the resort. That was why she sent him packing, right?

Oh, yeah. Right. She’d pushed him out that elevator door for the same reason she’d walked away from any other man who ever appealed to her—not that many had. Oh, maybe a few. There was one in college, and another just before she bought Mar Brisas. Although she’d been intimate with both of them, she hadn’t been close. Close meant permanence. And permanence meant losing. Isn’t that the lesson life taught her twenty years ago when her parents went out to dinner one night and never came home?

She shook her head and yanked the lobby door. Not now, Nic. She had immediate problems to face. Like Tom Northcott. He’d been patient so far, but he was still a bank vice president and his loyalty was to Marine Federal. He’d be furious when he found out she’d cancelled the meeting he’d arranged with Jorgensen Development’s golden boy.

She squared her shoulders and purposely passed the offending elevator without so much as a wistful glance. It was probably stuck anyway. Somewhere between the second floor…and heaven.

Nicole’s sole remaining full-timer was already at her desk. Sally Chambers’ quick smile and dancing green eyes were always a welcome sight, but this morning they seemed a little brighter than normal.

“Some idiot put a No Vacancy sign on the front desk last night,” Sally said, standing up to follow her boss into the office.

“Really.” She threw her bag under her desk and gave Sally a non-committal look. “Imagine that.”

Sally shrugged. “’Sokay. I’m glad we found it. We’re going to need it soon.”

“Hah!” Nicole’s laugh was purposely wry as she fell into her seat. “Got a couple hundred grand in your back pocket, Sal?”

Sally dropped into one of the guest chairs and crossed her arms. “Got the next best thing, Nic.”

Nicole paused in the act of turning on her computer and looked hard at her friend. “Hit me.”

“Free advertising, that’s what.”

“Nothing’s free in life, sweetie.” She clicked the mouse, then settled into her chair, tucking her legs under her. “But don’t let that stop you. What gives?”

“My dad has reserved a billboard on Route One to advertise his mattress outlet store, but he doesn’t want to put up an ad for a month, when he kicks off his big sale on kings and queens. It was worth it to him to get the special rate. It’s going to sit blank for a whole month.”

“And…?”

“We can have the space.” She looked positively victorious. “To advertise Mar Brisas.”

Nicole shook her head slowly, not wanting to douse Sally’s wonderful enthusiasm, but her young office manager didn’t know all aspects of advertising. “Sally, there are hidden costs to design and produce an ad. Artwork, graphics, copy writing.”

“I talked to my dad about that,” Sally said, bouncing her red, cropped curls as she nodded. “If you write the copy, his in-house ad guy will arrange for the production. If it’s just words, no pictures. In one color.”

“That ought to be an award-winning ad.”

“It doesn’t have to win awards,” Sally insisted. “It has to win guests. Just hit ’em over the head with your message.”

Nicole’s lips curled into a smile. “And that would be?”

“All the great things about Mar Brisas.” Sally’s green eyes sparkled. “Authentic Spanish tile, genuine rosewood trim—”

“A fifty-year-old electrical system and an elevator that predates World War II.” Nicole hated to be the voice of reality, but she was tired of fighting this. “Come on, Sal, it’s awful, ancient and dilapidated.”

Isn’t that what he had said?

Sally frowned and leaned forward. “What the heck is the matter with you today?”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I had another sleepless night.”

Sally reached across the desk and took Nicole’s hand. “I know how hard this has been on you, Nic. Don’t give up now. We have this one chance. It’s practically free.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “Just call Tom Northcott at the bank. Admit that I chickened out yesterday and ask him to reschedule a meeting with that McGrath guy.”

“Okay,” Sally said, barely hiding the defeat in her voice. “But let’s see if he’ll hold off for a week.”

Hopelessness pinched her heart. “What good is another week going to do us?”

“Just a couple of bookings and we’d be able to cover this month’s payment. You told me that last week, Nic.”

A whisper of hope blew against her heart. Maybe Sally was right. “We haven’t spent a dime on advertising,” she said, more to convince herself than Sally. “It couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

Sally grabbed a yellow notepad and stuck a pencil in Nicole’s hand. “Come on. You’re creative. Let’s come up with an ad campaign.”

“I don’t know anything about advertising, Sal.”

“Sure you do.” Sally pushed the pencil as though she could force it to create. “Everybody knows what sells. Sex sells.”

Nicole’s eyes popped open. Could Sally read what was on her mind? To cover, she snapped her fingers and pointed. “Yeah. I could hang naked from the billboard.”

Without a smile, Sally raised a dubious eyebrow. “As if you’d let the world see what you’re hiding under all those loose flowing tops.”

Nicole remembered the look on Mac’s face when he’d first dropped his gaze. Why had she taken her damn jacket off? She always hid her generous bosom behind something like it. She hadn’t expected some gorgeous stranger to walk in the elevator, to lure her with deep brown eyes, to kiss her until she couldn’t think—

“Hey, earth to Whitaker.” Standing, Sally waved a hand in front of Nicole. “See? You’re already in a fog of creativity.”

Nicole laughed. A fog—but not of creativity. What had Sally said? Sex sells. “Sex sells beer and perfume,” she murmured. “Can it sell a resort?”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed? If she could promise a few minutes of the experience she had in the elevator and hall last night, she could fill the place to capacity.

“Maybe you’re right, Sal.” An unfamiliar tingle started in her stomach. She leaned back and twisted her hair up and closed her eyes. “What if we got people to believe there was something…in the air at Mar Brisas? Romance. Attraction. Heat.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Sally tapped the desk excitedly. “Our resort is intimate, it’s personal—”

“That’s it!” Nicole pointed the pencil at Sally. “A personal ad! No, no. Not just one…” She stood up, snapping her fingers as fast as her thoughts. “A series of them.”

“A series?”

“Yes,” Nicole insisted, looking at Sally, but seeing the ad in her mind’s eye. “They’d look like personal ads from one lover to another, but really they’d be subtle messages about the romance and pleasures of Mar Brisas. We could change them once a week and tell a little story. All—” She held up her hands and grinned. “—in text and one color.”

Sally perched on the corner of the desk, her eyes bright. “Oh, I get it, Nic. I really do. All that commuter traffic on Route One—people would actually be looking for the next installment of the Mar Brisas love affair.”

Nicole turned the yellow pad sideways, to simulate a billboard, sketching the outline of a rectangle from end to end. “We can play up the surf, the evening air, always reinforcing the message that it was the historic, authentic resort at the root of the relationship.”

Sally’s phone rang and she backed toward the door. “Write. I’ll be right back.”

When she left, Nicole studied the blank pad and waited for inspiration. None arrived. She turned to the window and cranked the jalousies open, taking a deep breath of pungent salt air, enjoying the familiar mix of coconut and hibiscus.

God she loved this place. St. Joseph’s Island, her Aunt Freddie and a host of real, wonderful people had saved her as a child. Now she had to save Mar Brisas.

She needed inspiration. She tapped the pencil on the pad and stared at it. What inspired her?

Soul kisses and anxious caresses.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to write, not remember the night before. What really inspired her?

That astounding flicky thing he did with his tongue.

“Come on, Nic,” she chided herself. “Get creative.”

But didn’t writers get their inspiration from real life? Okay, this was a fictional personal ad. She wasn’t looking for the man of her dreams because she didn’t believe in fairy tales, never had.

But if she did, it would be Mac. She just knew it.

And that, she heard a little voice whisper in her head, was exactly why she’d run away from him like a scared rabbit.

She nibbled on the rubber eraser. Forget Mac.

But this was advertising and Sally was right: sex sells. So Mac had to be her inspiration. Plus, he was long gone from St. Joseph’s Island. He’d never see the ad.

She started to write.

Looking for the mystery man at Mar Brisas Resort for another trip to heaven. Let’s meet on the endless white sand for more pleasure in paradise. You can find it at Mar Brisas…

Her pencil froze. How should she sign her little message? With a smile and a quick flourish, she scratched the closing words. Of course. She knew all along how she’d sign it.

The Lady in Blue.




Three


It was nearly midnight on Sunday when Quinn zipped his rented Mustang convertible down Route One. He’d expected to be there much earlier, but the flight had been delayed. About a mile before the causeway, he hit eighty and tightened his grip on the wheel. He had to get to St. Joseph’s Island.

How would she respond to him?

He’d asked himself that question for a solid week while he waited none too patiently for Nick Whitaker to confirm another meeting date.

He didn’t know the answer to the question, but he knew one thing. She was the one.

Quinn McGrath, a confirmed bachelor, an admitted womanizer, a confessed workaholic and the quintessential guy’s guy, had a dark secret that he might have revealed if he’d been alone for another hour with that woman. He was a hopeless romantic. He firmly believed that somewhere out there, his soul mate existed. His one and only.

His feisty Irish grandmother promised him that “there’s someone for everyone.” And Quinn believed her. He had no problem sampling the others…but he was waiting for her.

And he’d found her. Hanging out of a ceiling of an elevator. If only he knew her name.

He smiled at his brilliant plan to tack a week’s vacation on to his trip. It would really help him get to know the place, he’d told Dan. Of course, Dan Jorgensen had balked at the idea of time off. Who would want vacation when you could work?

But Dan finally bought the rationale and Quinn immediately booked one of the beachfront villas under the name of MacDougall. He didn’t want the owner to know he was staying there until after he played hardball in the meeting with him. But he wanted to be sure any staff checking for a “Mac” would be alerted to his presence. He’d optimistically called and confirmed the one-bedroom villa had a king-size bed.

If only he knew her—

Quinn slammed to a stop and the Mustang swerved in traffic. Behind him, brakes screamed and someone laid angrily on a horn. But all he could see were the giant blue letters on a billboard awash with uplighting.

He stared at the words, a breath trapped in his lungs like an animal in a steel cage. He ignored the melee of horns and hollers that responded to his unscheduled stop, reading the message out loud and lingering over the last four words. The Lady in Blue.

Someone in the car behind him opened his window and yelled at Quinn. “You okay, buddy? You need help?”

Quinn waved out his hand in the air. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

Fine. Oh, man. He was more than fine. With a long last look, he jammed the gas pedal and he let out a whoop. As he swung the convertible onto the causeway, he banged the steering wheel and called out to the stars above. “Yes!”

The Lady in Blue was looking for him. For more pleasure in paradise. He’d waited thirty-three years to find his soul mate, kissing a lot of willing candidates in the process. But now he’d found her and she wanted him. He broke every speed limit in St. Joseph’s getting to Mar Brisas.

Of course, the apathetic Whitaker hadn’t staffed the front desk at midnight. He picked up the house phone, but before he dialed, he noticed an envelope next to it marked Mr. and Mrs. MacDougall. In it, the key to 1601, which he dropped in his pocket. He crushed the envelope and tossed it in the trash, smiling at the assumption that the MacDougalls came in pairs.

Well, he certainly hoped they would.

He crossed the lobby and sent a sneaky glance at the elevator. Just waiting for another trip to heaven with a stop in lingerie. He visualized those dangling gorgeous legs, that magical smile, that musical laugh. Oh, it was going to be a good vacation.

With a quiet chuckle, he climbed the stairs to the villa, noticing the first of many nice touches. Someone had left a few lights on, and a basket of snacks, fruit and wine sat perched on the counter. There were fresh flowers in the bedroom and little candies on each of the pillows of the oversize bed. It was clean, but small signs of neglect were still evident. The windows had been repaired, sort of, and one of the sliders to the patio didn’t work.

He was too tired to do a thorough exam. The next day, he’d take a run on the beach before his meeting with Nick Whitaker and then he’d tear Mar Brisas apart until he found what he came to claim.



The bottom of Nicole’s long, gauzy beach cover dipped into the surf, darkening the hem to navy blue. As the sun rose on Monday morning, she walked her usual mile up the beach, turning at the pink monstrosity called Jade Towers and wondering, as always, why the heck didn’t they paint it green if they were going to call it Jade Towers. It used to be Jimmy Miller’s produce stand, she’d thought sadly, and it used to be a nice, unassuming shade of tan that blended into the beachy environment. Just like Mar Brisas.

She tried to let the cool water and soft sand lull her into a state of hopefulness.

She’d spent all of Sunday with Aunt Freddie and that always put her in a good mood. Except that her aunt had insisted on taking a drive to see the billboard that had gone up that week. Nicole had, for the first time since she landed on Freddie Whitaker’s doorstep as an orphan, deceived her beloved aunt.

“How on earth did you come up with such an idea?” Freddie had asked.

“Oh, it just came to me while I was fixing the elevator,” she’d answered innocently, hoping the ever-intuitive woman didn’t simply smell out the lie.

She didn’t want Aunt Freddie to know she was obsessing over a stranger she’d met a week ago. One she’d spent about twenty out of twenty-four hours thinking about. Freddie would know instantly that Nicole didn’t run from the man because he lied or made a disparaging remark about Mar Brisas. She ran because the sheer force of her reaction to him scared the life out of her.

To change the subject, Nicole had told her aunt about the meeting that was finally scheduled for Monday morning and that’s when Freddie had planted the seed of a new idea in Nicole’s head.

Maybe this Quinn McGrath fellow would be amenable to letting her stay and run Mar Brisas. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she could try to maintain the authentic old Florida atmosphere, and keep what had become her home. Although she doubted they’d let her continue to live in 1801, the crown jewel of the property, she might not lose her job. Maybe they’d even consider restoring Mar Brisas to its original glory.

She would give Quinn McGrath a chance today, she decided. He’d be in her office at nine that morning, and she’d do everything possible to make him see the benefits of her plan.

Ready to swim, she stopped in front of her villa to strip off her cover-up when a movement on the wraparound porch of 1601 caught her eye. Good. The MacDougalls made it in after all. She silently congratulated herself. The ad was only up a few days and already they had more bookings. One of her employees told her Mr. MacDougall had called about the size of the bed. She smiled wistfully and stretched. Romance was in the air at Mar Brisas.

Wading out past the sandbar to where the water deepened to about six feet, she dove in and let the gentle swells take her for an easy float. Then she attacked the waves and swam along the beach for a solid twenty minutes.

Panting, but energized, she squeezed the water out of her hair as she emerged back at her villa. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a man standing at the surf, watching her. She rubbed the saltwater from her eyes and looked again, zeroing in on the bare chest and running shorts. He was tall, dark and…way too familiar.

She took a few steps closer and blinked again. Her legs almost buckled as she stumbled on a sharp shell.

He reached down and picked up her blue cover-up from the sand. “Hey, lady.” He sounded as smooth as melted chocolate as he held the dress in the air. “This looks your color.”

Nicole froze, her jaw open, her mind blank. He let the fabric fall back on the sand and took a few steps closer. The early rays of sunshine backlit him, giving him the unreal quality of an oil painting. A few strands of black hair fell on his forehead and a shadow of morning whiskers darkened the hollows of his face. The planes of his chest moved with each breath, a dusting of dark hair covering the muscles and angles of hard flesh.

He was even more gorgeous than she remembered.

“I got your message,” he said softly as he approached her.

Her message?

A vision of blue on black flashed in her brain, and a shock wave rolled over her heart. The billboard. This couldn’t be happening.

This couldn’t be real.

She still hadn’t moved, but he stood in front of her. The water lapped around their legs, and the rising sun behind him warmed her face. He reached out and touched her cheek, then tunneled his fingers into the wet hair at the nape of her neck.

She parted her lips to speak, but no sound came out.

He took one more step and closed the space between them. Without a word, he guided her face toward his and kissed her. His lips were as warm and tender as she’d remembered, his mouth still hungry for her. Breaking the kiss, he flicked her lower lip with the tip of his tongue and Nicole thought she might drown in the next wave.

“I’ve been thinking about you, lady in blue,” he whispered.

“Mac?”

He glanced over his shoulder at his villa. “I saw you go in the water and I came straight to the endless white sand, exactly as instructed.”

Oh, God. He was MacDougall. She tried to swallow, but her throat closed in shock. “You’re the couple in 1601?”

“I’m the Mac.” He grinned and slid his hands down her bare, wet arms, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. He laced his fingers through hers. “I was hoping we could be the couple.”

It was too much to fathom. He was in 1601. He’d come back. A distinct joy collided in her heart with another, peculiar feeling. Shame. He’d seen the ad and thought she’d placed it to find him.

He studied her expression and frowned. “I really checked in this time, so you can’t be mad at me.”

How could she tell him that anger didn’t propel her away from him? She couldn’t admit how much he’d affected her. “I’m not mad.” It was lame, but so was she at the moment.

“Of course not,” he said with a teasing glint in his eye. “You wouldn’t have bought that ad.”

“Oh.” She tried to sound dismissive and tug her hands out of his grip. “Don’t take that too seriously.”

He just held her hands tighter, pulling her toward him. “I take it very seriously. I like a woman who goes after what she wants.” His face was close enough for her to see the individual whiskers and smell the toothpaste she’d just tasted. “Especially when I want the same thing.”

“You…you do?”

He smiled slyly. “Pleasure in paradise. Like the ad says, only at Mar Brisas.”

“Uh, yes. That’s what it says.” A wave slapped against her thigh, threatening the stability of her shaky legs. He held on to her, but his gaze returned to her wet suit, making Nicole aware of the sheer fabric molded to her body.

“You look as good in white as you do in blue,” he said huskily.

She felt her body tighten under his scrutiny, the Lycra clinging relentlessly to every inch. She wanted to cross her arms and cover up. No one ever saw her in the revealing bathing suit; it was strictly for her morning walk and swim.

His eyes darkened lustily. “And as good wet as dry.”

Oh, he was smooth. Too damn smooth. “Stop it,” she said roughly, pulling away from his firm grip and embracing herself in the protection of her own arms. “Just stop it.”

He took a surprised step backward, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “You put up the billboard.”

“That wasn’t an appeal for sex.”

He dropped his jaw a little, then he broke into a grin. She knew what was coming next. Then what was it? Would she tell him the truth?

But the hard, masculine lines of his face softened. “Good.”

The single word threw her. “Good?”

“Very good.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head, looking down through thick lashes, just the way he had in the elevator before he kissed her. It was a sexy tilt. A cavalier, devil-may-care, I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive-in-a-minute tilt that took her heart for a wild ride.

“Why is that good?” she managed to ask.

“I don’t want sex.”

“You don’t?” A stab of disappointment warred with a rush of relief. “Then what do you want?”

“I want to get to know you.”

Oh no. Too smooth. This wasn’t real. This was more of a fantasy than his bare chest and bedroom eyes. This man could not be trusted. “You’re a liar.”

“Excuse me?” he choked out a laugh.

“You lied about being a guest.”

He shook his head. “I had every intention of registering, but there seemed to be a run on rooms while we were, uh, otherwise occupied.”

“Well, you’re lying now. About not wanting sex.” Of that she was sure.

He shrugged and broke into a deadly smile. “Guilty as charged. But I also want to know you better.”

She peered at him. God, she wanted to believe him. Because she wanted to know him better, too. “You thought if we were locked on the third floor long enough, we would have…”

His dark eyes smoked with lust. “We would have.”

“You don’t know that for sure.” She did, but no need to confirm it. “You don’t know me. And God knows, I don’t know you.”

“That’s the problem,” he said, taking her hand. “I want to know you. And as for me, I can tell you this much. I’m not a liar.” He held up her hand to his chest, laying it over his heart. It thumped in synchronization with hers. “What you see is what you get.”

She took a shaky breath. If what she saw was what she got, she was going to be one satisfied woman. “That whole encounter was really intense,” she finally whispered. “It left me dazed.”

“Me, too,” he said. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you for ten minutes.”

The words poured over her like the sun behind him.

“I almost wrecked when I saw the billboard.” His lips curled in an intimate half smile. Very intimate. “It really made me feel good that you wanted to see me again that much.”

An overdose of guilt surged through her veins. “Mac, please. It’s not what you think. I’m not this desperate single woman seeking—”

He lifted her fingers to his lips and feathered them with a kiss. “Shh. Don’t apologize.”

For one insane minute, Nicole thought maybe she wouldn’t tell him the truth. Was it such a bad thing that he thought she’d run the ad to find him? It worked. She found him.

He looked into her eyes. “I promise you, I’m no more a wolf who attacks women in elevators than you are an exhibitionist who hangs from the ceiling.”

Sanity and common sense started to slowly return to her numb brain. She’d have to explain everything. “I think we need to start over,” she said.

“Absolutely. Let me take you on a date.”

She took a watery step backward. “What kind of date?”

“A bona fide, pick-you-up-at-seven, wear-a-pretty-dress, eat-an-expensive-meal, walk-on-the-beach and make-out-for-hours date.”

“Mmm.” She bit her bottom lip. “I bet you look nice in a pretty dress.”

He laughed and took both her hands, pulling her into his chest. “Not as good as you do,” he whispered, wrapping her arms around him and clasping their hands together to lock her into place. His chest and abdomen were hot and solid and she had to look up to hold his gaze.

He reached down and kissed her nose. “Tell me yes.”

The little bit of sanity and common sense that had just made an appearance dissolved in an instant, replaced by a dizzying, addictive, irrational pleasure. Drunk with the sensation, she nodded.

“Then I will pick you up tonight at seven. What suite are you in or should I just knock on the ceiling of the elevator?”

She looked over his shoulder toward 1801. “I live there.”

“You live there?”

That instant, she remembered the meeting and jumped back with a gasp. Oh, God, she was going to be late to meet with Quinn McGrath. “I have to go,” she told him. “I have to be somewhere.” She couldn’t show up in her white bathing suit with wet hair.

He looked a little skeptical at her sudden change. She’d explain it to him tonight, not now. Her life, her very foundation, was crumbling and she couldn’t get sidetracked, even by this achingly attractive man in her arms. She’d tell him the truth about the ad tonight, she promised herself. She didn’t have time now.

“I really have to go,” she insisted.

“Okay.” With obvious reluctance, he let her go. “I’ll see you tonight. For our date.”

“I can’t wait.” The words brought such a blinding, sexy smile to his face that her throat closed over a tiny gasp of surprise. What an amazing man. She’d been all wrong about him. He was honest. He was the real deal. She shouldn’t be scared. She’d find out everything about him tonight.

She scooped up her gauze dress from the sand and started jogging toward her villa. As she neared the stairs, she stole a glance back, thrilled to see him standing there, watching her. “Bye, Mac,” she called over her shoulder.

“Wait!” he suddenly yelled. “I don’t know your name!”

She giggled and ran to the top stair, pausing at the railing to look at him. She impulsively blew him a two-handed kiss and stretched her arms toward him, feeling like Juliet on the balcony. “Tonight!” she called.

He grinned and touched his fingers to his lips and sent her his kiss in return.

Romance was definitely in the air at Mar Brisas and Nicole Whitaker was going to inhale every breath of it.



“Where the hell is he?”

Nicole tapped her desk and looked at the clock again. All her determination to give the guy a chance was evaporating rapidly. She’d raced through her shower and makeup, dressed in a rush, then jogged to the office, not even taking time to wallow in the thrill of seeing Mac again.

She’d decided to forego the power suit and wear one of her safe, crisply cut blouses to minimize, not accentuate, her assets. For some reason, she felt like saving those for someone more deserving than Quinn McGrath.

Who was more than fifteen minutes late.

“Sally,” she called out, unable to see Sally’s station at the front desk from her office, “please call that thoughtless, rude and arrogant bonehead of a tycoon and tell him my time is valuable, too.”

At that instant, Sally appeared in the doorway, and Nicole watched the color drain from her rosy cheeks at the comment. “Uh, he’s right here. With Mr. Northcott.”

Nicole made a horrified face as she heard a soft laugh from behind the wall.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been called worse.”

It took a moment to register the honeyed tone of her guest. Just long enough for him to step into her doorway and take her breath away.

Mac.

Mac. Standing before her wearing a white shirt, tie, navy jacket and a stunned expression that had to mirror hers.

She stared at him, unable to speak for the second time that day. And he stared back.

Tom Northcott came in behind him. “Nic?” The questioning tone in Tom’s voice had to be due to the dumb-founded look on her face. “Let me introduce you to Quinn McGrath.”

Slowly, she stood, hoping her wobbling knees could support her. She extended a shaky hand and was vaguely aware that he took it. How could he be Quinn McGrath? How?

“Quinn, this is Nicole Whitaker.”

Quinn’s grip tightened at her name and something akin to realization registered on his face.

“Nic is the owner and no doubt you saw her latest handiwork on your way into St. Joseph’s,” Tom continued. “That brilliant ad campaign for Mar Brisas.”

Suddenly, his gaze darkened from chocolate to charcoal as he dropped her hand and burned her with his unwavering stare. “Campaign for Mar Brisas?”

She wanted to look away. She wanted to jump over the desk and slap him. She wanted to scream.

He was Quinn McGrath? He was the man who was going to steal her memories and bulldoze her future?

Tom moved into the room, glancing from one to the other with his own look of confusion. “That ad sure is unconventional, I agree,” he said, sitting in a guest chair. “But reservations are up and that’s what she was trying to accomplish.”

“Well, congratulations on that,” Mac said coolly as he took the other chair, no smile evident on his face. Without looking away from Nicole, he dropped a manila folder on her desk. “But I can’t see how that will solve the problems with Mar Brisas.” He snapped open the file. “Miss Whitaker.”

The honey in his voice was gone, replaced by hard, cold steel as he said her name for the first time. Nicole tried to swallow, but her thumping heart had moved into her throat.

Tom leaned forward and looked at Mac. “Didn’t you think Nic’s campaign is clever, Quinn?”

“It certainly got my attention,” Mac said, finally dropping his gaze to the papers in front of him. “I actually thought it was real.” He looked up and stared directly into her eyes. “For a minute.”




Four


For the first time in his adult life, Quinn’s gut had let him down. Duped him. Taken him for a ride. Ate him up and spit him out.

He wasn’t mad at Nicole Whitaker. He allowed her name to roll around his head and cursed the fact that he’d made the stupid assumption that Nick was man. He’d never seen it in writing—his secretary had talked to Northcott’s secretary and the mistake was made. No, that wasn’t her fault. And as much as he wanted to let her have it for playing him as a fool, he knew who was to blame. This was his fault. His trusted instinct had gotten all fogged up by his hormones. All distorted by her body, her smile, her eyes. Her ad.

Such a grave mistake would never happen to Quinn McGrath again.

She looked guilty as hell, too. Her creamy skin had gone pale, and her luminous blue eyes had dulled to a flat slate gray. Guilty and more than a little ticked off. She was ticked off?

All of his assumptions about Nick Whitaker came crashing back to him. A scam artist, exploiting the system for his—or her—own benefit. It was impossible to associate those characteristics with…the Lady in Blue. They were two distinctly different beings.

Tom Northcott cleared his throat, apparently realizing that some real funky dynamics were going on in the room. Quinn rolled his shoulders, leaned back in the chair and eased into his negotiating mode. Cool and collected. The role came naturally and never failed him.

“Miss Whitaker.” He stopped and raised a dubious eyebrow. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

She pierced him with a glare. “It is McGrath, isn’t it? Not MacDougall?”

He didn’t smile at the jab. He crossed his ankles, glancing at his shoes as though he was more concerned with their shine than the deal at hand. “Miss Whitaker, we’re prepared to make a very attractive offer, to you or the bank. Since you are dangerously close to foreclosure on this property due to your unwillingness to repair storm damage—”

“What?” She shot forward, the color returning to her cheeks with a vengeance. “Unwillingness?” She looked at Tom questioningly. “Haven’t you told him?”

Tom shook his head, and Quinn saw the warning in his eyes. “Your situation is confidential, Nicole. I would never presume to discuss that with a potential buyer.”

She opened her mouth to speak but Tom leaned forward, silencing her. “And I suggest you don’t, either.”

She closed her mouth as ordered. He stole a glance at Northcott, a crisp yuppie-looking type with thinning brown hair and nondescript eyes behind thick glasses. She must trust this guy.

Nicole bit her bottom lip, which yanked Quinn’s attention back to her. He zeroed in on the sight of her pouty mouth, remembering the taste of salt and sea when he’d kissed her in the water that morning. And the way her incredible body looked and felt, soaking wet and warmed by his presence. A familiar tightness threatened his crotch and he shifted in his chair, clenching his jaw to will it away. He would not think with anything but his brain anymore.




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