Like a Hurricane Page 7

  He slid the sunglasses back over his eyes. “If you need me, I’ll be at the beach. Thanks for the tour.”

  She just stood and watched his broad shoulders and gloriously yucky backside disappear into the sun, melting from its heat and the searing truth of his words.

  Damn him. She did want to be kissed into oblivion.

  Six

  By late afternoon, Quinn was restless. He’d tried to relax on his patio, but ended up fiddling with the broken slider, just out of habit and boredom. He took a long swim in the Gulf, but kept one eye on Nicole’s empty villa. He considered checking out of Mar Brisas altogether, as he’d threatened to do, but something—someone—stopped him from taking that last drastic step.

  Instead, he jumped in the Mustang and decided to explore St. Joseph’s Island.

  At the far north end, where the little cluster of shops and restaurants told him he’d reached “town,” he found an old one-story building on the beach with an inviting screen door and a rickety sign that said Buddy’s. It looked like the real deal, with ice-cold drafts on tap and not a tourist in sight.

  Quinn sat at the bar and ordered a beer, which was served with a generous head in a frosty glass.

  “We got peel-’n’-eat shrimp and oysters on the half.” The bartender, who Quinn deduced was Buddy himself, had a face as weathered as the building, with a shock of white hair and two days’ worth of matching stubble.

  “No, thanks,” Quinn replied.

  He gave Quinn a quick once-over. “Where ya stayin’?”

  “Mar Brisas,” Quinn replied as he took a long swig of the draft.

  Both fuzzy white eyebrows shot up. “Little Nicole’s place, huh?”

  Little Nicole? Somehow that was the last choice of descriptors he’d use for a woman who laid her own roofing paper, ate nails and filled a D cup with a decent spillover. “Yep. Little Nicole. You know her?”

  “’Course I know her,” he said, wiping the bar with a rag. “I know her aunt and knew her father and grandparents and, hell, I met old man Whitaker when I was a boy, back when he owned Mar Brisas.”

  Quinn held his mug in midair. “Excuse me? Her grandfather owned the place?”

  Buddy frowned and bit a chapped lip. “Her great-grandfather. He didn’t just own it, he built it in the thirties. He practically discovered St. Joe’s. And her grandfather did run the place for a while, but he sold it sometime in the sixties, I think, when Freddie and Frank were in high school.”

  “Freddie and Frank?”

  “Nicole’s father, Frank, and her aunt, Freddie Whitaker.”

  Intrigued, Quinn leaned forward. He had no idea Mar Brisas had been in her family. “Then what happened to it?”

  The bartender shrugged. “That old building changed hands a few times, I think, but it always stayed sort of the heart of that end of St. Joe’s. Freddie even worked there before she started her artsy-fartsy dressmakin’ stuff, but Frank, of course, he went off to Chicago and then, well.”

  “Well, what?” Suddenly, Quinn cared very much about what happened to Frank Whitaker, Nicole’s father, who this man spoke about in past tense.

  “Well, it was real sad, that’s what. He and his wife were killed in a nasty car wreck on an icy road when little Nicole was just a mite of a girl. Maybe eight, nine years old. That’s when she came to St. Joe’s.” He shook his head, leaning both hands on the bar. “Freddie used to bring that waif in here once in a while, and she was nothin’ but a coupla saucers for eyes and a scrawny body, just as scared and shell-shocked as a child could be.”

  Something happened to Quinn’s heart when he imagined Nicole, orphaned and sent off to live with a relative who had the un-auntly name of Freddie.

  The bartender’s focus returned to the present. “It was no wonder she bought that old property, it bein’ part of her family and all. But, now, well.”

  Well again. “Well, what?”

  “Oh, she got screwed by the insurance company after the hurricane last year and, hey, you’re stayin’ at the place. Look at it. She’s gonna lose it for sure, poor thing.” He suddenly smiled. “But she’s as smart as her dad and as pretty as her Aunt Freddie. Nicole’ll land on her feet, somehow. Everyone in St. Joe’s loves her, too. It’s a damn shame most of the old guard has been driven out by these big-time developers. There just isn’t much of a town to rally ’round her anymore. I’m hangin’ on to this old place, but the offers are getting pretty damn tempting, I’ll tell you.”

  Quinn’s beer suddenly tasted bitter and he set down the glass mug with a thud.

  The older man laughed gently. “I sure am sorry, son, boring you with ol’ St. Joe’s stories. I’m just glad she’s got a customer or two down there. You sure you don’t want some raw oysters? I got the best on the island.”

  Somewhere, Quinn remembered reading raw oysters were an aphrodisiac. “I don’t need any, thanks.” He dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter and impulsively reached out to shake the bartender’s hand. “Good talking to you,” he said, getting a solid shake and a genuine smile in response.

  “Don’t want another cold one, son?” he asked hopefully.

  Quinn stood and checked his watch. “Nope. It’s almost seven.” He suddenly grinned at the bartender. “I’ve got a date.”

  Nicole woke with a start, not sure if she’d heard a noise or the migraine that had sent her to her bed at four in the afternoon had yanked her from a restless sleep. She could see violet-blue slivers of light between the plantation shutters, telling her that the sun must have dipped into the water a while ago. Carefully, she lifted her head, relieved that the butcher knife that had sliced her brain since she watched Quinn McGrath walk away had finally dissipated.

  She gasped at the sound of three sharp taps at her front door.

  “Nicole? Are you home?”

  Mac. She jerked up and stared in the direction of her living room. What was he doing here? She squinted at the digital readout of her bedside clock. Seven o’clock. Exactly.

  Dear God, he wasn’t here for the pick-you-up-at-seven, wear-a-nice-dress date, was he?

  This time he rang the bell.

  She put a hand over her mouth and tried to think. The entire villa was dark, not a single light burned. If she didn’t make a sound, he’d have to give up and go away. She had nothing on but a bra and underpants, having shed her clothes and climbed under the sheets with a cold washcloth on her head three hours earlier. She made a quick decision. She could outlast him.

  She’d seen Run Silent, Run Deep. She’d sit in the dark all night and not make a sound before she faced Quinn McGrath. Slowly tucking her legs into her tummy, she pulled a sheet under her chin and waited for him to go, trying not to think how excited she’d been, just that morning, at the prospect of a date with Mac.

  A walk-on-the-beach and make-out-for-hours date. She ignored the immediate tingling that started in the general vicinity of her underwear and electrified most of her nerve endings. And that was just at the thought of making out for hours with him. The actual event would have fried her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and listened for the sound of his footsteps descending her stairs. She heard some movement, the squeak of her gate, a footfall on wood. Good, he’d retreated. She’d won.

  But she’d have to stay “dark” all night. He could see her villa from his. As soon as a light came on, he might be drawn to it like a moth. Or a mosquito. Or some kind of pest.

  She slipped out of her bed and squinted into the darkness. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She’d been too excited about Mac to eat breakfast and too devastated about Quinn to eat lunch.

  Holding her breath to avoid making the slightest sound, she grabbed the first article of clothing on top of her hamper, the blue tank top from yesterday. It made her think of Mac. Of his hands on that top. An achy sadness filled her, but she pulled the skimpy silk over her head anyway.

  She had to find something to eat. In the dark.

  Feeling her
way toward the galley kitchen, she opened the refrigerator a crack and peered in. Three bottles of Corona from when Sally and her brother had come over the week before to commiserate. She certainly didn’t want a beer. She lifted a carton of milk and checked the date. Yesterday. The lettuce looked a little brown and the thought of cottage cheese made her stomach turn.

  She closed the door with a disgusted shove and tried the freezer.

  Bingo. Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. She grabbed the pint of ice cream, popped the lid with a fingernail and held it toward the dim freezer light for inspection. No frost and at least three-quarters full.

  “Thank you, God, for this dinner,” she whispered. Staying in Run Silent, Run Deep mode, she eased the silverware drawer open, cautiously picked up a spoon and closed the drawer without making a sound.

  Outside her sliding glass doors, the moon had begun its slow journey above the blackened horizon, spilling a band of silver across the Gulf. It called to her. She would sit on the darkened patio, inhale the tropical air and eat her gourmet dinner. Quinn couldn’t see her in the shadows unless he pointed a spotlight at her deck and had a pair of binoculars.

  Not that she’d put that past him.

  “Really,” she whispered as she stealthily slid the glass door open and slipped into her cozy rattan chair. “What a pompous jerk.” She set the ice cream lid down and dug in for a scoop. “As if I’d just forget why he’s here, get all dolled up and go out on Barbie’s dream date with him.” She put her mouth over the spoonful and let the creamy blend of chocolate and banana and walnuts cover her tongue. With a moan, she dropped her head back and closed her eyes, the debate still raging. She popped her head up, the ice cream fueling her indignation. “Does he think he’s so blasted irresistible that I’d just slip into my finery, grab a six-pack of flavored condoms and run off to dinner with him?”

  “Depends. What flavor?”

  With a shriek, she jumped a foot out of her seat and the ice cream went flying across the patio. Adrenaline splashed through her veins as she swung around to the darkened corner to the matching rattan chair. In the moonlight, she saw perfect white teeth grinning at her.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

  He moved just enough for her to see his teasing expression in the dim light. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you’d be home any minute. We have a—”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She pointed the spoon at him. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going on a date with…”

  “A pompous jerk, which may or may not be a step up from an arrogant bonehead. But didn’t I hear you say something about irresistible?”

  She stared at him, her eyes adjusting enough to see that he wore a button-down white shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. A style she found so utterly appealing she nearly melted.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she bent down and picked up the carton of ice cream. His gaze dropped, starting a leisurely journey over her body. Nicole suddenly remembered what she was wearing. A tight, low-cut tank top and a pair of white lace underpants.

  “Is this your idea of dress-up?” he said with a half smile. “Not that I don’t like it. It’s just so…carefree.”

  She straightened, refusing to cower under his gaze. In fact, it gave her a heady sense of power to stand half-naked in front of this man. She would normally cross her arms or tug at her revealing top. Something about Quinn McGrath made her want to stand up straight and let him drool.

  And by the way he was looking at her, she’d need to wipe his chin any minute. She felt her lips lift into a teasing smile as she held up the carton. “I’m having dinner with Ben and Jerry.”

  His gaze finally moved up to her eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she scooped up another spoonful and held it to her mouth. She gave it a long, sensual lick, stealing a glance under her lashes at his reaction. She circled her tongue over the ice cream and slowly inserted the whole spoon into her mouth, closing her eyes with a languorous sigh. She swallowed the mouthful of ice cream and finally opened her eyes. “No.”

  He leaned back into the shadows, denying her the chance to enjoy his response. She sat in her chair and began to work on her next scoop. Chunky Monkey had never been so much fun.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your great-grandfather built Mar Brisas?”

  The spoon froze in the middle of her next scoop. “How did you find that out?”

  “Talking to locals.”

  All the delight of teasing him disappeared. She didn’t want him to know why Mar Brisas meant so much to her. She didn’t want him to have any power over her at all.

  “Yeah, well. It’s history,” she said quietly, trying to get the right-size bite onto the spoon. “Ancient history.”

  “Exactly. Which is why keeping this property is important to you.”

  She faked a casual shrug. “It’s nice to have a connection to the past, Mac, but hey, this is my livelihood.” She finally got a scoop. “Such as it is.”

  She sensed him leaning even closer, but she refused to look up from her ice cream. He might see the need, or—worse—pain, in her eyes.

  “It’s a connection to your father, who died when you were a little girl.”

  She slammed the ice cream container on the table next to her and fired her most-heated glare at him. “What the hell difference does that make to you, Donald Trump? It’s just a piece of beachfront property that you can turn into a gold mine of condos. This is business, remember? My past and my family are not the issues here.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” His voice had softened. She heard his chair scrape as he inched it toward her, right into a direct ray of moonlight, spotlighting his face. Which was as handsome and heartbreaking in the evening shadows as in the harsh sunlight. “I have to take into consideration every aspect of the deal.”

  She curled up into the chair, tucking her bare legs under her. “What’s to consider, Mac? What do you want to know? What could change your mind?”

  Surprising her, he reached over and touched her arm. His hand was warm, his fingertips sending electrical signals straight through her. “Did you buy this resort because your great-grandfather built it?”

  She took a deep breath, trying not to get lost in the sincere question in his eyes. “I bought it because it represented something to me. The heart of St. Joseph’s. The soul of a small town that, yes, took me in as an orphaned child and brought me up to be a reasonably well-adjusted adult. The fact that my great-grandfather built it is, well, dear to me. But it’s the package. It’s the history and the location and the color and…” She shook her head, thinking of the eyesore that replaced Jimmy Miller’s produce shop. She stood up to escape his proximity and the dizzying effect it was having on her. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said, stepping back into the shadows on the opposite side of the patio.

  In less than a second, he was right in front of her, smelling of aftershave mixed with the sweet scent of humid sea air. “I most certainly do understand.”

  She stared at him, unable to think of a response, because she couldn’t really get past the reflection of the moon in his dark, dark eyes. She could only see the invitation, the desire. He parted his lips and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. She backed into the railing.

  “My father was a builder,” he said softly instead, taking a lock of her hair in between two fingers and absently toying with it. “He designed and built beautiful homes. My brothers and I worked for him every summer from the time we could wear a tool belt. We sweated and hammered and carried drywall and poured concrete and laid pavers. The result was always a knock-your-socks-off million-dollar house that you could look at and say, wow, I built that.”

  Nicole stared at him, stunned by his speech.

  He dropped the strand of hair and picked up another, moving one inch closer to her bare legs and practically bare top. She held a breath as he continued.

 
“I loved that so much. But my dad thought building houses for rich people to live in, well, that was not his definition of success. That was not important. He wanted us all to be the people who lived in those houses, to have white-collar, executive jobs that taxed our brains and not our biceps. He pushed my brothers, Cam and Colin, and me to careers that ensured clean fingernails and pressed business suits.”

  She still held the breath. He was close and warm and sincere. “So, you’re successful,” she managed to say.

  “By my dad’s standards, yes.” He studied her face, her mouth, her chin, then looked into her eyes. “But I respect what your great-grandfather did and…” he said, caressing her cheek with his thumb, “what you’re trying to do.”

  A spark of hope ignited in her heart, but Nicole couldn’t pause to appreciate it. The heat and power of Mac nearly suffocated her. He moved his other hand to hold her waist with a sure grip. His mouth was inches from her and a single breath separated his powerful chest from her thinly covered one.

  An achy rush pulled at her breasts. Her stomach started to flutter. A tight, sexy knot twisted between her legs. She looked into his eyes and down to his beautiful, hungry mouth.

  “I really want to kiss you.” His face came a millimeter closer, his breath warming her mouth. “Now.”

  Couldn’t she say no? Couldn’t she? Her lips parted in response, a rush of blood deafening and weakening her. She closed her eyes and his lips were on hers before she could think. His mouth was hot, searing and she opened hers immediately for more. He licked her teeth, found her tongue and rolled his around and around her mouth.

  “Mmm. Walnuts,” he murmured huskily into her lips. “And banana.”

  She wanted to laugh, but it came out as a moan and he pressed her harder into the railing, running his hands over her bare hips and grazing the tops of her legs.

  Instinctively, she arched against him, feeling him grow harder against her stomach.

  Why was she kissing Quinn McGrath again? Some desperate voice of reason whined in her head, only to be drowned out by the pump of her rushing blood. Why was she nearly naked in the moonlight and loving the feel of it?