Like a Hurricane

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

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 [e-mail] 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.