Like a Hurricane Page 6

  She felt his hand holding her legs in place, his long fingers encompassing her whole thigh. This wasn’t happening. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure you don’t fall.”

  She leaned to get the wayward cable that always dislodged. He glided his hand around her leg.

  “Quinn,” she demanded, although her voice was so tight from anxiety that it sounded more like a plea than a demand, “why are you doing that?”

  She heard his soft chuckle. “I really don’t want you to get hurt.”

  He was such a liar. He wanted her to fall. Right into his hands. Right into his…mouth.

  Desire twisted through her at the thought. Could he tell? She thanked God women weren’t as obvious as men when lust overtook them. His hands were so hot through the denim, so powerful. She imagined how easily she could slip and her legs would be wrapped around his neck.

  At the thought, she forced herself to reach for the cable with a little grunt. The twisted black rubber was still a foot from her outstretched hands. “I’ve almost got it.” Now who was the liar?

  He inched his fingers, treacherously high on her thigh. He cleared a husky catch in his throat. “Me, too.”

  Nicole closed her eyes and held her breath and thrust her arm toward the wire, nearly scraping it with a fingernail.

  What was the teeth-and-zipper trick, anyway?

  Oh, God. It was going to be one excruciating property tour.

  Five

  There went Quinn’s blood again. South. Didn’t he have any control over his body? Evidently not when Nicole Whitaker was in elevator-repair mode.

  “Got it,” she declared.

  Whatever she “got” caused the elevator to jerk and rumble into action. Quinn held tight to her hips, guiding her to the ground with a firm hand and a certain reluctance to let go.

  When her feet touched, she brushed her hands on her jeans, avoiding eye contact and taking her time slipping on the sandals.

  She looked flushed and moved with quick, nervous tension. Before he could say anything, the doors rolled open to the third floor hallway.

  “You might as well start at the top. Literally,” she said. “We can get to the roof from one of the empty suites on this floor. Once you’ve seen the mess I have up there, you might not want to bother with the rest.”

  “You’re supposed to make me want to buy it,” he reminded her, keeping pace as she strode down the hall. “Is it all storm damage or just old age?”

  “The roof was about fifteen years old when Hurricane Dante hit. It was due for some work, but the storm really exacerbated the problems. I was able to make some temporary repairs, but I had to close the rooms that tend to leak during a strong rain. Quite honestly, all it needs is new tiles. Although, a lot of tar paper is torn or missing and the wood is exposed in some spots.”

  They reached the last room in the hall and Nicole pulled out a key chain and unlocked the door.

  Quinn smelled the mustiness immediately. Dark and cool, the room was crowded with several dressers and night tables. A small tower of buckets nested in a corner, obviously ready for the next rainfall, and a stepladder stood next to a plastic-covered mattress that leaned against on one wall.

  With obvious familiarity, she unlocked and opened a sliding door to the balcony and lifted the stepladder with two hands. She began to drag it through the open doors. “This is my sophisticated roof access.”

  “Here.” He took the ladder. “Let me do that.” Inadvertently, he placed both hands on top of hers and she sucked in a tiny breath as though he’d burned her. For an instant, their gazes locked, surprising him again at the depth of her smoky blue eyes. He didn’t look away. Neither did she. One second, two…an eternity.

  A now-familiar sensation rocked him. It was the same one that jolted him on Route One the night before and, again, that morning, at the sight of her on the beach. A gut-twisting mix of desire and hunger and pleasure. Aw, hell. He was not going to let her pull him into this. See the place, make the offer and get home. That was what his gut told him he had to do.

  He slid his hands off hers and grasped the metal ladder. “Where do you want this?”

  She walked to the railing of the balcony. “Right here, if you’re not afraid of heights. I usually hoist myself up to that overhang and can get to most of the roof from that windowsill on the other side of the window.”

  His gaze followed hers to a dangerous ledge. “You climb on that to get to the roof?”

  “Of course. You think Santa Claus shows up and patches it up after a heavy rainfall?” She squinted past him, over the arched window frame. “Oh, no. Is that another tear?”

  Without explanation, she strode back into the room and came out a second later with a beat-up metal tool carrier in one hand and a half-used roll of tar paper under her other arm. “We can fix it now.”

  She shoved the tar paper at his stomach, a little—no a lot—harder than necessary. He swallowed a grunt in response.

  “What’s the matter, Mac? You real estate moguls afraid to get dirty?”

  He grabbed the roll of tar paper and narrowed his eyes at her. “Give me that toolbox and I’ll look around myself. You’re not going up there.”

  “Excuse me?” She dropped the toolbox with a clunk and for a minute he thought she might take a swing at him for insulting her masculinity. “This is still my property and I’ll go wherever I damn well please.”

  She yanked open the stepladder with one easy movement, snapped the safety hinges into place and shimmied it to the edge of the balcony. With a determined swoop, she scooped up the tools and put her foot on the first rung, pausing to look over her shoulder at him. His gaze traveled over the rounded back of her jeans where the white shirt had been hastily tucked in sometime between their meeting and the tour.

  “Follow me.”

  Anywhere, his other brain screamed. He shrugged. “All right. As you say, it’s your property.”

  She paused again at the top step and sent him a sidelong glance, making him wonder if she fell for his practiced indifference.

  He literally did have to follow her tricky footwork—all the more impressive in a pair of flimsy, flat sandals—to reach the roof. She’d obviously done the drill many times. Her fearlessness impressed him, but something about her sheer determination surprised him.

  She certainly wasn’t what he expected from Nick Whitaker.

  When she whipped out a hammer and stuck three flat-head tar paper nails in her mouth, he knew he’d misjudged her entirely.

  “Gimme about a foot of paper,” she mumbled, gripping a shaky roof tile with one hand and pointing to the roll with her hammer.

  He unrolled the tar paper and grabbed a box cutter from the toolbox. The smell of the blackened paper, the heat emanating from the roof and the precarious angle of his body brought a rush of memories back. Long, hot summers, working with Colin and Cameron, their dad shouting orders to the construction crew as they hammered and sweated their way through to the completion of another mini-mansion in the wealthy suburbs of western Pennsylvania. God, he loved those days. Loved the labor, the pain, the pleasure of his brothers’ company.

  With a start, he realized how much he missed it.

  “Any day now, Mac,” she mumbled impatiently, without losing a nail from between her lips.

  He almost laughed. She was a damn construction worker.

  Wordlessly, they worked together to repair the tear she’d found. He swallowed his male pride and didn’t suggest that he handle the hammer, but held the paper in place and let her pound the roofing nails all around it, biting back laughter at her more creative curses when she missed a stroke.

  From his angle, he could see the muscles of her neck tighten as she worked, a sheen of perspiration curling the dark-brown wisps that had fallen from her hair clip. No pencil today. She must have wanted to look very professional for her meeting with the thoughtless, rude and arrogant bonehead of a tycoon.

  He hated that she was right. He’d been
strategically late, wanting the owner to worry that he wasn’t that interested in the property. And all the while he dallied over a cup of coffee and enjoyed the morning view of the Gulf, he’d thought about the woman who’d blown him a kiss from the top of her stairs. The angel with a heart-stopping smile and a blood-stopping sheer white bathing suit.

  His gaze lingered on the V-neck of her blouse; it fell open enough for him to enjoy the first inch of her luscious cleavage and the swell of her unbelievable breasts.

  She suddenly stopped hammering and looked up to catch him staring. Without a word, she straightened and self-consciously tugged at the white cotton. “Do you need to roam the roof and count broken tiles, Mac, or have you seen enough?”

  He had not seen enough. Not nearly enough. “I don’t have to see anymore. I get the idea. You need a new roof.” He rolled up the tar paper and let his gaze travel over the expanse of broken tiles and patched tar paper. “Seventy-five thousand, at least.”

  “Sixty-eight if you use standard Spanish barrel tiles and don’t get too fancy with imported clay. I have three estimates in my office.” He watched her store the tools, maintaining her footing and occasionally wiping her temples with the back of her hand. “But, I have about two hundred barrel tiles that were donated to me after the storm in one of my storerooms. A quick fix and not too expensive if you don’t pay for labor.” She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at him. “Would that qualify me for your higher offer?”

  It might. “Would you explain to me what you meant when you said you didn’t get the insurance money?”

  She shot him a sharp look. “When we’re on solid ground.” She crouched to her knees, and started a careful descent. Once they’d landed on the balcony, he stored the stepladder for her and she stashed the tools, wiping dirt on her jeans and tucking stray hairs behind her ears. The last move left a little tar streak on her face. His fingers itched to wipe it away for her.

  “I was the victim of a poorly worded coverage clause,” she finally said, locking the sliding glass door and picking up her key ring from an antique dresser in the middle of the room. “Come on, let’s go see the pool area.”

  “What was the wording?”

  “Basically, my insurance policy covered flood and water damage, but our hurricane was what they call a ‘dry storm’ and did its dirty work with wind. There was plenty of rain, but no real flooding. I found out, three weeks after the storm, that I wasn’t covered for wind damage and the bastard of an insurance inspector wouldn’t give an inch.”

  He noticed she opted for the stairs this time. “Did you get anything at all?” he asked.

  She shrugged, rounding the second-floor landing and managing to stay three steps in front of him. “Ten percent of what I needed. Of course, I lost thousands in bookings last season and the word is out to travel agents that the building is subpar, so this season hasn’t been much better…”

  “Until you launched your clever little ad campaign.”

  Her determined step slowed and she closed her eyes with a sigh. “I was given free billboard space,” she said quietly. “I had no money for artwork or photography or professional advertising assistance.” She opened her eyes and looked directly at him, no apology in the blue depths. “I took a chance.”

  “Did you even think about how I might feel when I saw it?”

  She shook her head. “You said you were leaving in the morning. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” he said, holding open the door to the pool for her. “I had every intention of finding you.”

  I thought you were the one.

  The words burned Nicole’s heart more than the intense Florida sunshine as they stepped outside.

  I had every intention of finding you.

  Was he serious? Did Quinn McGrath have a heart…or just a body that needed attention? From the way he looked at her, she was certain of the latter, but had the personal ad really bothered him that much?

  Well, she’d never know, because she refused to have another intimate conversation with the man. For one thing, it would only lead to trouble. She may have hated him for being the buyer of Mar Brisas, but some very womanly part of her kept betraying her and forgetting that. That same womanly part could only think about the waves of solid male heat that rolled off him, the way his dark brown eyes captured hers when their gazes met, the way his lips curled slightly when he watched her work. That womanly part kept stealing glimpses of the place where his jeans had worn to pale blue and the inviting masculine bulge nested between sexy, narrow hips.

  She couldn’t stop noticing that one wayward lock of almost-black hair that fell just above a rather magnificent eyebrow. She practically nailed her own fingers to the roof trying to keep her gaze off his large hands, powerful hands. She remembered the feel of them on her all too well. His nails were clean and clipped, befitting the successful executive he obviously was, but those hands represented sheer strength and had been surprisingly comfortable with the roofing tasks she’d thrown at him.

  Quinn McGrath was mouthwateringly gorgeous. A son of a bitch who planned to rob her of her happiness, but one of the sexiest men she’d ever met. She avoided men like him. She had no interest in casual, no-strings sex…and she had no interest in “strings,” either. They just strangled.

  “Did you have a lawyer look at that policy?”

  His question jarred her from her fantasies. She paused at the side of the pool, happy that Sally’s brother had offered his pool-cleaning services for free. At least the whole place looked pristine, although in need of reconstructive surgery.

  “The bank’s lawyer scrutinized it,” she told him. “It’s an ironclad clause.”

  He took a pair of sunglasses from his T-shirt pocket and slipped them on, covering his bedroom eyes and looking like a magazine ad at the same time. Nicole wished she’d had a pair, so she could openly devour him without him knowing. Instead, she averted her gaze and studied the pool.

  “I’d like to take a look at that when I get those papers from the bank,” he said, his real estate-mogul voice back in full force.

  She stared up at him, his dark lenses preventing her from reading his expression.

  “Why would you need to see my insurance policy?” she asked warily, remembering the warning in Tom Northcott’s eyes.

  He shrugged. “It makes business sense. And you can’t keep it from me. I’m the buyer and Florida Sunshine Laws entitle me to it. Who knows if that insurance policy is grandfathered into the property somehow? What insurance company is it?”

  She told him the name and bit her lip as she absorbed his words. He was very serious about this purchase. She could feel Mar Brisas slipping away. Feel all her hard work and plans being yanked out from underneath her, leaving her without a past or a future or a clue what to do about it. For a woman oriented to action, as Aunt Freddie raised her to be, it felt scary.

  She looked around the pool, at the scarce foliage and aging poolside furniture, and her heart sank. What could she tell him about this area, about the potential for lovely gatherings and lazy, sunny afternoons?

  “I know it looks a little dilapidated, but can’t you see the potential here?” She hated the crack in her voice that belied the bright question.

  He lowered his sunglasses and peered at her over the rims. “I see plenty of potential.” His dark eyes pierced her with double meaning. “I’m just not interested in mining it. You know what Jorgensen’s plans are for this property.”

  The place would be flattened before she could unpack her bags at Aunt Freddie’s. The thought made her want to push him into the pool. Instead, she just crossed her arms and gave him a harsh look.

  “You should try preserving and creating beauty instead of bulldozing and slapping up glass giants that block the view and hurt the eyes.”

  He took a step past her and climbed right into a flowerless hibiscus hedge alongside the building. Behind it, under the overhang of a first-floor window, hand-carved woodwork
hung lifelessly from a single nail.

  He lifted the wood into place, balancing it upright so it looked like it was supposed to look. “This soffit can easily be fixed with a few nails. Are they all falling like this?”

  “Some of them,” she said softly. “I tried to fix any I could get to. I must have missed that one.”

  He turned to her, pushing his sunglasses on his head. “I actually know a lot about preserving and creating beauty, Nicole. I come from a long line of builders and craftsmen, people who worked with their hands to create things just like this.” He let the woodwork drop and dangle from its single nail. “I just chose a more lucrative aspect of the building business for a career.”

  Lucrative. Of course. He’d be all about money. He was, after all, another Donald Trump. Or at least he worked for one. How could she forget that and hope he had a tender heart inside that sinfully rock-hard chest? One that might care about history and architecture and culture?

  He emerged from the hibiscus bushes and stood in front of her, close enough to touch. Close enough to smell his masculine scent and feel the warmth of him.

  She didn’t back away. “Good for you, Quinn McGrath. I hope you make a lot of money on this deal.”

  Surprising her, he touched her face, gently rubbing a spot on her cheekbone. She didn’t flinch, but her stomach tightened at the contact.

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

  She tried to remember that he was a smooth operator. Not a potential lover who caressed her face and dissolved her heart. An entrepreneur, an opportunist. But all she could feel was the burning brand of his fingertip. “Really? This morning you said you came back here to find me.”

  “And I found you.” Slowly he dropped his hand, but leaned closer to her face. “Now take down that ridiculous ad, get me all the paperwork I asked for and stop looking at me like you need to be kissed into oblivion.”

  She felt a flush of heat where he’d been touching her. “Oh. I was not…”

  He grinned. “Yes, you were. And you better watch out, sweetheart, ’cause next time I might just do it.”