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  Secret Billionaire’s Stormy Lover

  By Leslie North

  The Secret Billionaires Series

  Book 2

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  Dedications

  I dedicate this book to you, my loyal readers. Thank you for all the lovely e-mails, reviews, and support. Without you, this wouldn't be possible.

  I’d also like to say a special thank you to Leslie’s Lovelies who have had a huge role in making this book – you’re the best! THANK YOU for all your support:

  Irina Temer

  Kerry Deller

  Jessy

  JJ

  Lynda Coker

  Kim Schlack

  MDHarrison

  Robin Otoole

  Tammi

  Melody Campbell Goeken

  Gwen Osborn

  Betty Pehlman

  Lorraine Guidotti

  Joanne Wright

  Janet Paul

  Carolyn Redden

  Tonni Brown

  Patty Wells

  Raenn

  Kelly Johnson

  Wanda Ross

  Table of Contents

  Secret Billionaire’s Stormy Lover

  Dedications

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  “Is this a hotel or a concentration camp?” Mike slammed his fist on the counter. The palm leaves decorating the outside shook, but the woman behind it didn’t move. She couldn’t be more than five feet and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. In fact she looked like she’d just stepped out of the surf with her hair plastered down and a short-sleeved wet suit hugging her body. Of course, it was pouring rain outside right now and after the day he’d just had, Mike knew he didn’t look much better.

  She leaned her palms flat on the counter. “Look, Mr. Collins, I don’t care who you are in the outside world. If you’d rather share the water with the fishes, be my guest. But you don’t have a credit card and you said you don’t have any cash, and we don’t have any phone lines working right now.”

  Mike clenched his jaw. Doesn’t she know who I am?

  “What we have is a tropical storm about to hit, and you’ve got a choice to make. I’ve already told every other guest to leave or help—and most of them caught the last boat out. So you can either work for your room and help me keep this place together, or good luck to you.”

  Mike pushed out a breath. “Listen, I know you heard about the ferry overturning, I have nothing—even my damn passport is gone!”

  She continued to stand there and stare at him. The look she gave him held no compassion or sympathy—just stubborn determination.

  Mike knew he was stuck. Castaway Island was one of the smaller chunks of land that made up the Mamanuca Islands of Fiji, and the boat he had been on flooded and sank, taking his luggage with it. He’d been promised recovery or reimbursement by the ferry captain, but right now that wasn’t helping him. He was here to do a deal—he was taking Collins Marketing and branching it out, pushing them into new areas. But with his cell phone waterlogged, his computer and briefcase lost in the surf, his luggage gone with the ferry, it looked like he was on an enforced vacation for at least a few days. A working one from the sound of it.

  “You must have a satellite? A computer?” he ground out the words. “My brother—“

  “Save it. You already gave me the speech. He’s Zach Collins. You’re Mike Collins. Big movers and shakers in New York. Blah, blah. And I told you—the storm’s already taken down every bit of communication. The only thing shaking around here for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours is going to be the windows unless we get them boarded up.” She jerked a thumb behind her. “You can change in the locker room. I’ve got spare coveralls there for a maintenance guy—and you’re it. Or there’s the door.” She waved at the front entrance. Turning away, she ducked out from behind the counter and walking towards the back of the hotel.

  Mike couldn’t help it. The sway of her hips pulled him in.

  She stopped at a door labeled ‘Employee’s Only’ and cocked her head to the side. “Well, are you coming?”

  Muttering curses about pushy women, Mike followed her. She might be small, but she wasn’t easy to charm.

  She led him to a room at the back of the hotel. He stood there and looked around. “This is what I’m working for? Really? There isn’t even room to turn around in this cubby hole.”

  “Told you—we’re buttoning down for the storm. I’ve closed up most of the hotel, all the huts, and moved everyone into the main house here. It’s the safest place. And, yeah, we’re going to be tight on room for a little bit. But it’s got a bed, and I really don’t have time for anymore crap today.”

  He grimaced at her. Pulling off his wet coat, he left it hanging on the back of a spindly chair. “Fine. Lead the way to the locker room.”

  Mike followed her down another hall to an even smaller room with one rusty locker and a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. She wasn’t kidding about the storm kicking up. He could hear the wind howling and the boards covering one wall rattled like someone was trying to pull them off.

  Opening the locker he lifted faded coveralls dotted with holes. Well, better than trying to work in his suit. He dropped the coveralls and started to unbutton his wet shirt. “Got a dryer at least?”

  “Won’t help. Power will probably go off in the next hour or so.” The lights flickered and she glanced up. “Or maybe the next half hour.”

  He caught her stare slipping over to him and staying there. He glanced down at his bare chest. Eyebrows lifted, he waved at the door. “Do you mind?”

  Color stained her cheeks, but she gave him the hint of a smile. “Sure. I’ll just be outside waiting for you.”

  Chapter Two

  She slipped outside and Mike wasted no time peeling out of his suit, shirt and underwear. His shoes were ruined—Italian leather wasn’t made for salt water and sand. He left them to dry, anyway. Without money, he wouldn’t be able to buy anything. Once the storm passed, he’d have to sort out everything—assuming he could get a phone, a boat, or anything else to help him. Ms. Pushy out there didn’t seem to have a charitable bone in her body.

  Dragging on the coveralls, he found them a tight fit, but he squeezed into the faded yellow and zipped it up. The air had chilled with the wind, but this was still the tropics—nothing near as cold as New York this time of year.

  He hung up his pants, prayed they wouldn’t shrink on him and stepped out of the locker room.

  The hotel manager glanced at him. “About time. Come on.” Turning she started walking.

  “You know. You could use something to cheer you up.” He glanced out a window and saw siding peel off one of the smaller huts across the path.

  “You mea
n, something like that?” She waved out the window. Palm trees bent in the wind and every now and then a piece of debris sailed past—it didn’t look all that safe. Stopping at the front counter, she pulled out a hammer and a box of nails. “Boards are stacked in kitchen. We need the shutters closed and nailed tight—and we need it now.”

  “Yes, sir.” He gave her a sharp salute.

  She rolled her eyes, grabbing a hammer and headed out with him to help.

  As soon as he stepped outside, the wind slapped into him, almost pushing him back into the hotel. He leaned into it, and made a circuit of the wide porch that sheltered the main building. First step was always to scope out the job—marketing or hard labor, that didn’t change. He’d spent one summer in college doing construction work with a friend, so he wasn’t exactly Mr. Un-handyman when it came to physical labor. He also kept up his membership at the gym, but he’d never worked with wind trying to push him flat and rain lashing into his face and the smashing of heavy surf hitting the sand at his back.

  He quickly found the boards she’d mentioned. The kitchen looked a haven, with ancient, thick brick walls, an industrial range oven, and a chest freezer. He liked it at once. Judging by those walls, this place had been here a long time. Hopefully, it’d stand up to one more storm.

  Closing the shutters on one side was easy—the other side he had to fight the wind for every inch. And this was only the early hours of the storm. He got the last shutter closed and nailed, did another circuit around the hotel to double-check, and headed back to the lobby. Thank god the place was only one floor. He was soaked again from the rain, his hair plastered flat, and breathing hard.

  Fighting the door closed behind him, he leaned on it and let out a breath. Then he turned to Ms. Pushy.

  She was staring up at the roof, as if she was hoping it would stay put.

  Worry, and a deeper sadness swept over her face. For a second, she looked like a girl who’d taken on more than she could handle. Mike had an urge to put an arm over her shoulders—a desire to tug her in close, rub her back and…and what? She’d probably punch him, yell at him, and throw him out.

  He shook his head. No use in getting personal. She shook off whatever mood had slowed her down, started and him and nodded. “Come on. We’re not done yet.”

  “You know you could add a thank you or a please. Or didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

  Her face reddened. “Let’s leave my mother out of this. And please come on. We’re on a clock here.” She led him back to a store room off the kitchen. Pulling out a step ladder, she climbed up and began to hand down lamps and kerosene. Standing behind her, her ass right about eye-level, Mike didn’t mind the view.

  “Put the lamps in the kitchen. We need to fill these, in case—”

  The room went dark just like someone had turned off all the lights. Slivers of daylight bled in from between the shutters, but only in faint slants of dull gray. Mike glanced around. “Don’t tell me—no generator, either.”

  The tips of her ears reddened. “Broke in the last storm. Never got a chance to get it fixed.”

  Holding the lamps, Mike glanced around. “How many other guests stayed?”

  “I’ve got a couple in room ten, a pair of singles, and us. Come on, they’re going to feel better with some lights.” She led the way back to the kitchen and it was a good thing she knew this place. Mike was pretty sure he’d be wandering in circles. The hotel had a good sized lobby, but once you stepped out of there, the maze of halls circled around, leading to guest rooms, the kitchen, employee rooms, and god knew what else. The poor layout spoke of the place having evolved into a hotel, but it had potential—a history to it, great location with its own beach, and enough isolation to make it seem a true get away. The trouble was all of those things seemed drawbacks in a storm like the one howling and starting to pound on the place.

  As they spread the lamps out on a large table in the kitchen, Mike opened the kerosene, filled one lamp, found matches and lit it. He looked up to see her staring at him. “Well, you’re not as useless as you looked.”

  “Another compliment. What is with you? Do you save the smiles for the guests, or does everyone get the rough treatment?”

  Her chin lifted. “There’s one thing I’ve learned—cute guys like you are nothing but trouble.”

  He grinned. “So you think I’m cute?”

  “Focus on the trouble word a little more.” Picking up two of the lamps, she headed out. Mike kept filling and lighting other lamps. She came back, grabbed two more and left with them. With the remaining lamps filled and lit, the kitchen took on a soft, warm glow. He could still feel the hotel shuddering under the winds—they were picking up, too, judging by the fierce growl from outside. He prowled the kitchen, checking the supplies and if the stove was working—as well as the fridge. With the power out, the fridge wasn’t keeping anything cold, but the stove seemed to be gas-fed. Mike started pulling everything from the fridge—there wasn’t too much, and if they left the chest freezer closed, whatever had been stored inside would probably keep until the power came back on.

  He found a soup pot and started chopping vegetables.

  The power outage had taken out the main, but it seemed as if the well or whatever water supply she had was on its own battery power since the water was still running. He soon had the start of a cioppino going.

  “What’s that? Oh, my! You cook?”

  He looked over to see Ms. Pushy standing in the doorway. He smiled. “Don’t even think about trying to keep me in the kitchen. I know four dishes, and this is one of them. You had seafood in there that was going to go bad, and tomatoes, and with enough garlic anyone can work a minor miracle. Besides, I hate starving.”

  She sat down at the kitchen table.

  He glanced at her. “How long have you been running this place?”

  She stiffened. “Is that a slam on Paradise Hotel?”

  “No, it’s an honest question. You have any red wine?”

  Getting up, she moved over to a cupboard and opened it. “It’s not the fanciest.”

  “Hey, good table red, I’ll take it.” Mike said, a playful gleam in his eye. “Now do we talk like civilized folks or stare at each other? And weather’s not exactly a great topic today.”

  Smiling, some of the tension seemed to ease from her thin shoulders. She leaned against the counter. “The weather’s what brought me here—my parents owned the place. The last tropical storm hit them hard. As in really hard.” For an instant, that darker sorrow shaded her eyes and he could swear he saw the glisten of tears. What—Ms. Pushy had a soft side? He wondered what had happened to her folks? Hurt? Killed? But she’d already gone cold once before when he’d asked about her mom. She seemed awfully young to be running a place like this on her own. He shoved his curiosity down. None of my business, he told himself. But he found himself wanting to know just what was under that tough skin of hers.

  Turning, she pulled down two drinking glasses. “Don’t hog all that wine for the fish stew.”

  “Cioppino.” He poured wine into the pot, and then into the glasses.

  “Whatever—it smells great.”

  “I know this, pancakes, how to roast a chicken, and I grill a mean steak.”

  She lifted her glass. “To better days.”

  Mike tapped his glass against hers. “To better days. Now, what else do you want me to do? We’ve got an hour for this to simmer. And I never did catch your name.”

  Her mouth pursed and he wondered if she was going to give him some smart-ass answer. Instead, she stuck out her hand. “Karen Whitaker.”

  Chapter Three

  Karen had to admit—the guy had a great hand shake. Solid, no sweaty palm, warm skin and the only fault she could make were the fingernails that looked manicured and polished. Not like her hands. She pulled back fast from the touch, her face warm. Everything about the guy—even when soaking wet—screamed polished and perfect.

  Small droplets of water clung to his da
rk hair still, leaving damp curls. Her fingers twitched thinking about pushing them back in shape—or way out of order.

  “So you going to say how long you’ve been here?”

  She waved a hand. “The hotel—forever just about. But…” the words faded and she had to pull in a breath and push past the sharp pain that still caught her. “My folks came here to retire. They wanted to run a small, homey hotel. It was a great place to visit for me. At least for a time.”

  He glanced at her and turned to stir his fancy fish stew, adding some seasonings. “You said another storm hit last year?”

  She gave a dry laugh. “One too many, right? It took out a lot of buildings in the area.” She looked down at the scarred wooden table. She didn’t want to think about how many had also died—her parents included.

  Thank God, he didn’t ask.

  Instead, he stirred the fish stew and nodded. “Lost my folks way back. I don’t even remember when. If it hadn’t have been for Zach—my older brother—I didn’t know where I’d be. He just about raised me.” He glanced at her, more understanding in his eyes than she would have thought possible—he’d seemed like such an all-business jerk when he’d shown up.

  His mouth crooked in a small smile, and her pulse took off. Her mouth dried and she looked away, her cheeks hot.

  Her cheeks had always flushed with every little thing. It was a bad habit and one that she unfortunately had never really grown out of.

  “Hey, got any bread?”

  She looked up and found Mike smiling at her. This time she was ready for the charm and she threw a blanket on her reaction. Getting up, she dug out bread, fixings for a salad. She pulled down trays and Mike helped her with plates and silverware. “Room service with a flare. Got any books around and candles? You want folks relaxing. Maybe we should take them some wine?”

  She shook her head. “If things get really bad I want everyone sober. Besides, I can’t afford—” She bit off the words.

  He glanced at her. “Can’t afford?”

  “Supplies may not be getting to the island right away after this storm. So let’s not splurge just yet.”