Roxanne St. Claire - Like a Hurricane

“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.”

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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