Roxanne St. Claire - Like a Hurricane

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.”