Like a Hurricane. Roxanne St. Claire

      “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.”

      Sally grabbed a yellow notepad and stuck a pencil in Nicole’s hand. “Come on. You’re creative. Let’s come up with an ad campaign.”

      “I don’t know anything about advertising, Sal.”

      “Sure you do.” Sally pushed the pencil as though she could force it to create. “Everybody knows what sells. Sex sells.”

      Nicole’s eyes popped open. Could Sally read what was on her mind? To cover, she snapped her fingers and pointed. “Yeah. I could hang naked from the billboard.”

      Without a smile, Sally raised a dubious eyebrow. “As if you’d let the world see what you’re hiding under all those loose flowing tops.”

      Nicole remembered the look on Mac’s face when he’d first dropped his gaze. Why had she taken her damn jacket off? She always hid her generous bosom behind something like it. She hadn’t expected some gorgeous stranger to walk in the elevator, to lure her with deep brown eyes, to kiss her until she couldn’t think—

      “Hey, earth to Whitaker.” Standing, Sally waved a hand in front of Nicole. “See? You’re already in a fog of creativity.”

      Nicole laughed. A fog—but not of creativity. What had Sally said? Sex sells. “Sex sells beer and perfume,” she murmured. “Can it sell a resort?”

      “Why not?”

      Why not, indeed? If she could promise a few minutes of the experience she had in the elevator and hall last night, she could fill the place to capacity.

      “Maybe you’re right, Sal.” An unfamiliar tingle started in her stomach. She leaned back and twisted her hair up and closed her eyes. “What if we got people to believe there was something…in the air at Mar Brisas? Romance. Attraction. Heat.”

      “Yeah, yeah!” Sally tapped the desk excitedly. “Our resort is intimate, it’s personal—”

      “That’s it!” Nicole pointed the pencil at Sally. “A personal ad! No, no. Not just one…” She stood up, snapping her fingers as fast as her thoughts. “A series of them.”

      “A series?”

      “Yes,” Nicole insisted, looking at Sally, but seeing the ad in her mind’s eye. “They’d look like personal ads from one lover to another, but really they’d be subtle messages about the romance and pleasures of Mar Brisas. We could change them once a week and tell a little story. All—” She held up her hands and grinned. “—in text and one color.”

      Sally perched on the corner of the desk, her eyes bright. “Oh, I get it, Nic. I really do. All that commuter traffic on Route One—people would actually be looking for the next installment of the Mar Brisas love affair.”

      Nicole turned the yellow pad sideways, to simulate a billboard, sketching the outline of a rectangle from end to end. “We can play up the surf, the evening air, always reinforcing the message that it was the historic, authentic resort at the root of the relationship.”

      Sally’s phone rang and she backed toward the door. “Write. I’ll be right back.”

      When she left, Nicole studied the blank pad and waited for inspiration. None arrived. She turned to the window and cranked the jalousies open, taking a deep breath of pungent salt air, enjoying the familiar mix of coconut and hibiscus.

      God she loved this place. St. Joseph’s Island, her Aunt Freddie and a host of real, wonderful people had saved her as a child. Now she had to save Mar Brisas.

      She needed inspiration. She tapped the pencil on the pad and stared at it. What inspired her?

      Soul kisses and anxious caresses.

      She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to write, not remember the night before. What really inspired her?

      That astounding flicky thing he did with his tongue.

      “Come on, Nic,” she chided herself. “Get creative.”

      But didn’t writers get their inspiration from real life? Okay, this was a fictional personal ad. She wasn’t looking for the man of her dreams because she didn’t believe in fairy tales, never had.

      But if she did, it would be Mac. She just knew it.

      And that, she heard a little voice whisper in her head, was exactly why she’d run away from him like a scared rabbit.

      She nibbled on the rubber eraser. Forget Mac.

      But this was advertising and Sally was right: sex sells. So Mac had to be her inspiration. Plus, he was long gone from St. Joseph’s Island. He’d never see the ad.

      She started to write.

      Looking for the mystery man at Mar Brisas Resort for another trip to heaven. Let’s meet on the endless white sand for more pleasure in paradise. You can find it at Mar Brisas…

      Her pencil froze. How should she sign her little message? With a smile and a quick flourish, she scratched the closing words. Of course. She knew all along how she’d sign it.

      The Lady in Blue.

      Three

      It was nearly midnight on Sunday when Quinn zipped his rented Mustang convertible down Route One. He’d expected to be there much earlier, but the flight had been delayed. About a mile before the causeway, he hit eighty and tightened his grip on the wheel. He had to get to St. Joseph’s Island.

      How would she respond to him?

      He’d asked himself that question for a solid week while he waited none too patiently for Nick Whitaker to confirm another meeting date.

      He didn’t know the answer to the question, but he knew one thing. She was the one.

      Quinn McGrath, a confirmed bachelor, an admitted womanizer, a confessed workaholic and the quintessential guy’s guy, had a dark secret that he might have revealed if he’d been alone for another hour with that woman. He was a hopeless romantic. He firmly believed that somewhere out there, his soul mate existed. His one and only.

      His feisty Irish grandmother promised him that “there’s someone for everyone.” And Quinn believed her. He had no problem sampling the others…but he was waiting for her.

      And he’d found her. Hanging out of a ceiling of an