“Please let me spend the night,” she pleaded with puppy dog eyes. “I’ll leave after the storm.”
“No. Go back to Fort Myers while you can. You’ll be safer there.” He opened the door and nudged her outside.
Veronique felt a whoosh of air lift the back of her dress as the door shut behind her. Damn him!
From the doorstep, she glanced at the lush tropical foliage surrounding his plantation style mansion. Wet red bromeliads, soaked birds of paradise plants and damp yellow alamanda flowers glistened with the aftereffects of the heavy rain that had subsided—temporarily. It was typical of those outer rain bands preceding a storm. They came on hard and fast, and then slowed to a fine drizzle until the next one hit.
She pounded on the oak door. “Open up! I need my purse. It’s on the couch.”
A minute passed before Nick opened the door partially and thrust her shoulder bag at her before shutting it again.
Shaking off his boorish dismissal, Veronique took another look around and was glad she’d photographed the tropical foliage surrounding his house before she arrived. If she dared take more pictures, Nick would pitch a fit.
Delighted at being on the tropical island, she breathed in the intoxicating scent of rain and damp earth mingled with fragrant flowers and exotic palms and fruit trees. When she stepped off the veranda, her feet sank into the thick, oozy earth. So much for the flower decorated, dainty sandals she’d splurged on. No matter. She was dying to get out of them anyway—the thin straps were digging into her feet. She took them off and wiggled her toes in the wet, sandy soil as she made her way to the rental car parked beside a coconut palm.
Squish, squish. Her trudge brought back poignant childhood memories of playing barefoot in the beautiful gardens of her parents’ estate on the outskirts of Atlanta. She used to love it when it rained and she’d get wet and sloppy, rolling in the leaves and letting the mud seep between her toes and cover her legs so she could arrive at the front door looking like a little piggy just to outrage her meticulously groomed mother.
Oh, Maman, you never did understand my kinship with nature. Growing up with an exquisitely elegant and beautiful mother hadn’t been easy. Veronique had had trouble relating to her on every level. As a scrappy kid who much preferred sports to dolls, her ultra-feminine, glamorous mother had always been an enigma to her.
It wasn’t until she was an adult that Veronique learned that her mother had met the charismatic TV newsman Brett Whitcomb at a press conference in Paris and allowed him to sweep her off her feet with an impromptu marriage, shocking her pedigreed family in France. Transplanted from Paris to Georgia, Helene tenaciously held on to her cultured upbringing and privileged life.
It was obvious to everyone who saw their mother/daughter dynamic that Helene never dreamt she’d give birth to a daughter who preferred camping to tea parties and jeans to pretty dresses. Veronique had often overheard Maman lamenting that she’d given birth to a scamp instead of a princess. It hadn’t really hurt her feelings because Veronique never wanted to sit on the sidelines like a regal princess. She’d much rather be in the thick of things, relishing life with all its bumps and challenges.
A fat raindrop landed on the tip of her nose, signaling the rain was starting up again. She did a fist pump and leaped in the air. Yes! Mother Nature was on her side this time. A looming hurricane would make Nick’s naturally protective instincts kick in. She’d leave now because he’d mandated it and she didn’t want to antagonize him.
Her toes dug into the soil with renewed energy as she grinned triumphantly. She’d be back—whether Nick liked it or not. He had probably never been in a hurricane if his reaction had been so blasé. His wood-framed, spacious house had a peaked metal roof, horizontal wood siding and side-hinged louvered shutters, with a wide veranda that stretched from one end to the other. The whole structure was surrounded by foliage. The stubborn mule had to realize that electrical power would be the first thing to go after the impact of sixty plus mile winds.
Veronique noticed he hadn’t bolted the shutters down yet. Nick wasn’t prepared to weather a hurricane—or was he? She’d find out tonight. She could only imagine his reaction when she showed up at his doorstep again. This time, he’d have to let her stay, especially when he saw she brought much-needed supplies. She hoped he would realize he needed her more than she needed him.
If he didn’t budge, she’d find a way to make him. Hell, she had survived boot camp for journalists at Camp Fort Benning and had spent two weeks embedded in Afghanistan with U.S. troops.
She danced a little jig and did a high five to the sky. Glancing at the house, she snorted when she caught sight of Nick’s looming silhouette as he watched her from the living room window. She had probably confirmed his suspicion that she was still a wild child, but she didn’t care, especially after the rude way he’d dismissed her. Nick had sorely underestimated her if he thought he’d seen the last of her.
She intended to ride out the hurricane with him. The tempting thought sent tremors of excitement sprinting through her. A mere hurricane couldn’t stop her—and neither could irascible Nick Cameron. She had never backed down from a challenge, and he was a formidable one. But she wouldn’t let his bad temper or dismissal of her get in the way. She’d restore his name to its golden luster come hell or high water.
Veronique hadn’t earned her childhood nickname “Fearless Ronnie” for nothing.
Chapter Three
Good riddance, Nick thought as he watched Ronnie from his living room window. The bewitching stunner was raising her arms and doing a happy dance in the rain. Unlike any lady he knew, she seemed to enjoy her traipse through the mud. At twenty-eight she was still a free-spirited tomboy, though a striking one now underneath the pretty sundress, perfectly pedicured toes, and polished diction. She might have shed her southern drawl for TV work, but she hadn’t shed her reckless, impetuous ways.
She couldn’t have left soon enough as far as he was concerned. He had only answered the door because he’d recognized her through the peephole as Fred’s stepdaughter. The girl had guts, he’d give her that much. She’d met his antagonism with a plucky attitude that hadn’t diminished in the past years. As a kid, Ronnie Whitcomb had never seemed to understand rules and limitations, or the meaning of “No.” She still didn’t. Fiery, sexy and too damned intrusive, she’d managed to get under his thick skin already. The skinny angles of a little girl had blossomed into heart-stopping curves.
Tempting as she was, he just wanted to be left alone. He was tired of corporate corruption and tired of lies—from his colleagues and especially his loved ones. Make that his ex-wife. His emotions had run a gamut of disbelief, rage and contempt as the events of the last year had unfolded. When he realized nothing mattered to him anymore after the trial, he retreated to Starfish Island on Turquoise Bay, a remote inlet that isolated it from the Gulf.
He’d arrived in mid-March when the air was cooler and a bit drier. Whenever he ventured out for walks or swims in the ocean, it was early in the morning or at sundown to avoid the lingering snowbirds and visiting spring break revelers. By April, most of them were gone leaving behind the few local families who lived there year round. He didn’t mind the steamy heat and mosquitos that summer brought. The fresh salt air in his lungs and the hot sun beating on his skin felt good. He was here to heal, to bring back meaning to his life—if that was possible.
Each day he spent hiking, fishing or swimming in the gulf brought him closer to some sort of harmony. He knew every inch of the island and often marveled that he had landed in paradise. The ocean’s many moods, sometimes placid with still turquoise waters and other times turbulent with white frothy waves, never failed to fascinate him. When he swam in the gulf like a fish, he wouldn’t go back to land until his lungs were spent from the vigorous exercise.
He mostly kept to himself, only interacting with others when necessary. In his past corporate life, he used to be friendly and enjoyed meeting people. Now he treasured the quiet
solitude so much he couldn’t imagine going back to Manhattan. He didn’t want to either. He had little human interaction and he planned to keep it that way. For how long he didn’t know, but for now it suited him just fine.
He’d paid cash for the sprawling mansion burrowed in deep vegetation. It was a solid structure, built to withstand high winds and rain and surrounded by enough land to be insulated from the public eye. When the garden became a jungle overcome with long grass and weeds, he hired a local gardener and paid him handsomely so he’d respect Nick’s privacy. Later, he hired the gardener’s daughter as his housekeeper to clean the house and do the marketing.
Nick had felt safe letting only one person know his whereabouts—Fred Golden, his trusted lawyer. Fred was the best. He specialized in handling the wealthiest of clients and one of them had been Brett Whitcomb, Veronique’s celebrity father and heir to Whitcomb beauty cosmetics. Fred had watched over Helene like a hawk after Brett’s death and eventually married her while Veronique was away at boarding school. She never knew of her mother’s pill overdose after her dad’s death, and Fred had sheltered her from Helene’s demons as best he could.
He had also been Nick’s attorney for five years before Nick’s public and nasty divorce, and the fall of his financial empire. For the past six months, Fred had provided Nick with the strictest confidentiality and had afforded him with the privacy necessary to dodge the media. He put a plan in motion to fool everyone into thinking that Nick was jet setting around the globe by feeding the media misleading information. He’d also sent postcards written and signed by Nick from key locations to comfort his mom, who worried about her demoralized son.
Demoralized was too weak a word to describe how he felt after being trounced by the events of the past year. Enraged was more like it. After a salacious trial in which his ex-partner and best friend, Zack, was sent to jail for insider trading and Nick narrowly escaped being framed, he found out that his ex-wife Elizabeth had been having a long-term affair with Zack.
He felt like throwing up every time he recalled Elizabeth’s last words to him. “See this bump?” she’d sneered, pointing to her barely rounded belly. “I’m having Zack’s baby and I want a divorce.”
When the tabloids leaked the demise of New York City’s beautiful power couple, Nick distanced himself from the public eye, which led to more juicy speculation. Revolted that he’d always expected the best of others and had blindly trusted Elizabeth and Zack, Nick left town.
Otherwise, he would have killed Zack.
The wisest thing he’d done was to install a punching bag in the gym upstairs and pound it every morning while visualizing Zack’s treacherous face. After the first month of boozing, Nick quit cold turkey one alarming morning when he couldn’t remember what day it was. Disgusted that he’d almost finished off the destruction that Zack had begun, he dumped the booze out. He’d since gone back to drinking wine once in a while, but not to that kind of excess.
Grueling morning workouts helped him get through the long days, but he still had no desire to be with people again. Not yet and definitely not with someone as tempting as Ronnie. It wouldn’t be long before the little pain-in-the-ass snoop began pestering him for an interview. Problem was, Ronnie wasn’t little anymore. She was all grown up and affecting his body in ways he didn’t care to admit.
She still had a piquant face with mischievous green eyes and a generous mouth prone to wisecracks. Her glossy hair fell in lush layers to her shoulders in vibrant shades of honey, copper, red and chestnut. With a creamy complexion that flushed pink at the slightest provocation, she had a sprinkling of freckles on her snub nose that only added to her wayward appeal.
She sure had filled out nicely too. He’d noted the way her round breasts had pressed against the damp fabric when she’d swayed her arms above her head in that impromptu dance she’d just done. When she’d finally turned to clamber into her car, her wet dress had clung to a slim waist above the saucy swell of her bottom. The corners of Nick’s mouth quirked up as he entertained the thought of taking a bite of that luscious Georgia peach.
Heat infused his loins at the thought of making love to her. He clamped his jaw to dispel the image of her pale, slender legs entwined around his hips, welcoming his thrusts with reckless abandon. Ronnie’s insatiable thirst for adventure was sure to make her wild in bed.
Nick expelled a deep-throated groan and stepped back from the window when she drove away, determined to put temptation firmly out of sight, out of mind.
* * *
Veronique checked her provisions before slamming the back door of her rental car and climbing in again. She never went back to town as Nick had ordered. Instead, she drove to a secluded area near the beach and watched the ocean’s waves build as the rain fell. The car windows were opened a crack so water wouldn’t come in and she could breathe. Through the narrow opening between the top of the window and the car frame, she relished the smell of salty sea air. Pinpricks of excitement revved her up as she imagined the ocean’s magnificence during a hurricane. It would be a sight to behold.
Good thing she’d brought all the necessary hurricane supplies from Miami. She planned to stay at least a few days, hopefully with Nick. When an hour passed, she decided it was time for round two with Mr. Private.
She started the ignition, shifted gears and headed toward the dirt road that led to Nick’s place. Holding her cell phone in one hand, she dialed her boss.
“Hey, Tom, just checking in before the storm.”
“Where are you?” Tom asked. “There’s an order for mandatory evacuation from Fort Myers up to Tampa.”
“Is Abby a hurricane yet?”
“Yeah, a category one. It’s gaining speed in the Gulf.”
“I interviewed some members of a natural disaster survival group called the ‘preppers’ in Fort Myers. Some interesting characters there,” she said, chuckling. “Should make for a good human interest story.”
“Don’t venture out till it’s safe. Helene would not appreciate you risking your life again so soon. She’d be beside herself with worry!”
Veronique stiffened at the mention of her mother. Crusty Tom Leggett was not only her boss, but also a family friend who felt comfortable lecturing her.
“Leave Maman out of this, you grizzly ole bear.”
“Dammit, Ronnie, if I hear—”
She waved the phone away from her ear while he blustered. When he finished, she said, “Calm down, I’ll be okay. I’ve lived through many hurricanes.”
“Where will you sleep tonight?”
“I’m camping out at a childhood friend’s house. I plan on enjoying the fireworks tonight.”
“Fireworks?” he asked dubiously.
“Yeah, thunder, lightning, raging winds. All that exciting stuff,” she said, not letting on that the real fireworks would be coming from Nick.
“A hurricane is no laughing matter. Be careful,” Tom said, sounding more like a father than a boss.
“When have I ever been anything but careful?”
He groaned. “Don’t get me started. Your last stunt—”
“Never mind. Gotta go. I’ll call you after the storm to check in.”
“Hold on. You still haven’t told me where you are,” he shouted, sounding exasperated.
“Can’t hear you,” she shouted back. “We have a bad connection. Bye, Tom.”
She quickly shut off her cell phone. No sense in wasting a fully charged battery until the phone lines went down, which was bound to happen when Abby hit. Veronique didn’t want Tom to know that she’d rooted elusive billionaire Nick Cameron out of his hidey-hole. She’d tell Tom when she was able to deliver a stellar interview with Nick.
No one knew of the convoluted evidence she had uncovered about Nick’s ex-wife’s dealings that would create a domino effect of destruction if it came to light. She couldn’t divulge that to him—or Tom—until her investigation was complete. She planned on telling Nick before Tom, so he could do damage control first.
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Hurricane Abby was the first hurricane of the season. Before leaving New York, she’d told Tom that she planned to interview the die-hard locals who never left the west coast, even when threatened by a huge hurricane. Turquoise Bay was rarely hit by hurricanes. The last one to come through was in 2004, when Hurricane Charley rolled ashore. The causeway, which connected the island to the mainland just north of Fort Myers, had sustained minor damage and had been subsequently reinforced. It took three years to complete and had cost a bundle. She felt confident the new causeway would withstand the incoming storm.
The rain beat harder against her windshield as the car jostled along the narrow road. She’d already changed in the car from her sundress into jeans and a tank top. She’d only worn the sundress so Nick would appreciate her as a woman. But had he even noticed? She had hoped for a glimmer of male appreciation in his keen eyes, but for some lame reason, he still didn’t see her as a woman, only as the mischievous tomboy at summer camp.
Veronique heard a loud pop and had to use every driving skill she possessed to control the car as it careened to the left side of the road, almost crashing against a palm tree. When it came to a skidding stop, the vehicle sank to one side, hobbled by a flat tire. She got out and kicked the offending tire. Damn. She’d helped her cousin Jeremy change a tire once before, but not in the pouring rain. She felt like screaming with frustration, but didn’t indulge in the weakness.
“Don’t be a ninny. It’s no biggie,” she told herself as she heaved a fortifying breath. She buttoned up her bright yellow rain slicker and got out. Pelting rain and strong winds instantly buffeted her unprotected head as she opened the trunk. The door nearly hit her head as it bobbed up and down in the wind while she pulled out the spare tire along with the necessary tools.
Lucky 7 Bad Boys Contemporary Romance Boxed Set Page 19