Dancing in a Hurricane

  DANCING

  IN A

  HURRICANE

  by

  LAURA BRECK

  Dancing in a Hurricane

  Book One of the Hot Miami Nights Series

  By Laura Breck

  Copyright 2012 Laura Breck

  Edited by Ursula Avery

  Chapter One

  Hearing a noise, Bree Prentis turned off the water, opened the shower door, and listened. Silence. Just her nerves? This was her first night in Miami, her first time ever in her sister's home, and every creak made her—

  Thumping rock music blared from the living room. Her heart double-pumped as a shiver of fear zipped down her spine.

  Oh, wait—her attorney said Cloe had a roommate. That had to be her. Bree took a deep breath and eased it out. "Relax." Stepping out onto the bathmat, she reached for a bright red towel, flipped her hair over her head, and twisted the towel around it. As she straightened, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink. Exhausted. Dark circles lurked under her eyes. The thought of that big, soft bed just yards away triggered a jaw-popping yawn.

  "Gorgeous, are you home?" a man's voice called from the bedroom. "You decent?"

  Panic flooded her. She fumbled for another towel, wrapping it tightly around herself, tucking it in and holding it at her breasts.

  She turned as he stepped through the doorway, his big body shrinking the room around her. His face held the chiseled features of a Hispanic or Native American. A black bandana covered his hair. As he came closer, her gaze flitted across his chest, broad shoulders, and large arms covered by a Harley t-shirt under a black leather vest. Down lower, a silver marijuana-leaf belt buckle gleamed, and jeans covered his long legs. Snakeskin cowboy boots completed the intimidating outfit.

  Coherent words wouldn't form. "I…I…" she whispered.

  He leaned against the doorjamb. His brown eyes stared, heavy lidded, and his smile flashed intense, sexy. As if he planned to devour her.

  Oh. Holy. Crap. He thought she was Cloe!

  "They fed you well up there," he winked. "It looks good on you."

  Self-preservation kicked aside her fear and she found her voice. "If you don't mind," she pointed back the way he came. "I need a few minutes to get dressed." And a few minutes to find the right words to explain that his girlfriend—her identical twin—died a month ago.

  "Sure." He didn't move. "We've got a licensing problem we need to resolve tonight. I've been putting off the judge for a week—"

  "Wait." Licenses and judges? Were they planning a wedding?

  "It can't wait much longer—"

  "Stop right there," she blurted, not wanting to hear any more personal details. "I'm not Cloe."

  "Oh yeah?" he growled. "So, who are you?"

  "I'm her twin sister, Briana."

  His laughter rumbled through the room. "All the sudden you have an identical twin named…Briana?"

  The way her name rolled from his lips, sensual, like a promise of outrageous satisfaction, scorched itself permanently in her memory.

  "What's this about?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

  "I'm serious." Her solemn expression slipped as the towel in her hair unraveled. "Oh, damn it." Holding the towel together over her breasts with one hand and trying to retwist the hair towel with the other was not the way she'd prefer to break the bad news to him. "Let me get dressed, okay? I really need to explain something to you."

  His brows slammed down as he studied her face. "You explained everything on the phone. Then you never showed up. Why haven't you returned my calls?"

  "Cloe called you? When?"

  He gave her a suspicious look. "You're staying in character? All right." He sighed. "Cloe called me a month ago. Cloe said she'd be home that week. Promised a surprise."

  Bree gave up wrestling with the towel and pulled it from her head.

  "Hair extensions?" he grinned. "I love it."

  Had Cloe kept her hair short all this time? Five years ago when her sister chopped off her long blonde hair, she'd promised to keep it that way until Bree forgave her for what she'd done. Forgiveness. How could she ever forgive her…but now it was too late. A wave of sadness sucked her breath from her lungs.

  "Your skin's so white." He gestured with one hand, the big silver ring on his middle finger caught the light. "No sun in Idaho?"

  Idaho. That's where her sister was killed. She had to get through to him.

  "Listen, um, what's your name?"

  He laughed. It was the sound of a demon plotting his next sin. "How long do we have to play this game?" Dropping his arms to his sides, he walked closer, looking down at her. "Tell me what's going on. Why are you acting like this?"

  She gazed into his gorgeous brown eyes. His intense stare set her heart palpitating. Her mouth went dry and warmth filled the lonely hollow of her soul.

  His brow furrowed as he narrowed his eyes, as if just finally seeing her. When his nostrils flared, her intuition jingled. Would he lean closer for a kiss?

  She looked away, startled at her own thoughts.

  She was a horrible, horrible person, enjoying even a moment of that decadent connection with her sister's boyfriend. She needed to clear this up. Immediately.

  "I'm going to give it to you straight up," she said, meeting his gaze. "I'm. Not. Cloe."

  She sensed a change in him, a subtle tensing and withdrawal. His mouth curved into a frown.

  This was not the way she wanted to do it, but the "let's sit and chat" method hadn't worked. "Cloe is…dead. She had an accident in Idaho the day after she finished her photo shoot. I'm her sister. Her twin."

  He stepped back and his gaze darted over her, from her hair to her unpainted toenails. He shuddered once and stiffened. Had comprehension finally broken through?

  "If this is a joke, it's sick."

  "I'm sorry. It's true." Her tone mellowed, but not solely for his benefit. She hadn't yet come to terms with losing her sister. Even though they hadn't spoken in five years, it ached inside to know she was no longer a twin.

  His face turned a couple shades paler as he looked her over again. "Show me the bottoms of your feet."

  "Because?"

  "Just show me. Please," he added. The sincerity in his eyes and the serious tone of voice had her nodding in agreement.

  Bree brushed past him and walked into the bedroom, keeping a tight grip on her towel. She sat on the bed and lifted her feet.

  He sat on his heels in front of her, not touching her, examining her soles.

  She studied him in the subdued light. His face was sculpted perfection, but gentle, sensual, and she knew from their short time in the bathroom, quick to break into a grin. Squatting down the way he was, his thigh muscles bulged under the fabric of his jeans. The way he rested his forearms on his legs, light and shadow brought the sleek, corded muscles of his arms into prominence.

  His heavy muscles combined with the biker gear had her guessing he did manual labor. How did he meet Cloe? And what could they possibly have in common? Oh, duh. Sex. Her sister had been a firm believer in casual sex. She probably hadn't changed that basic philosophy over the last five years.

  He looked up at her with a grim expression, his lips tight, his eyes radiating sorrow.

  Cloe's death seemed to hit him hard, and he wasn't trying to hide his pain. He was a passionate man. She could see why her sister had kept him around. Based on the last few minutes in the bathroom, he'd overwhelm a woman and rob her of her inhibitions, make her fall deeply, thoroughly in…

  Oh, Lord, was Cloe in love with him? Was he in love with Cloe? He'd mentioned a license and a judge.

  No. She clamped her teeth together. She couldn't focus on that right now or she'd start crying again. Sh
e'd explain what happened to her sister and send him off, never to see him or think of him again. And then, after a good night's sleep, she'd start her new life here in Miami. She stifled a yawn.

  He put his hands on his knees and slowly stood, as if the strain of standing was too much. "She had a scar…" His voice sounded shaky. "On her foot from stepping on glass at the beach."

  His eyes widened and he backed up. "Oh, man, I'm…so sorry."

  She started at his tone and blinked a few times when it all hit her—he just lost a girlfriend and now had to deal with her grieving identical twin sister. Probably not his best day. Curling her lips into her best impression of a smile, she tipped her head. "Let me get dressed and I'll explain."

  He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll wait for you in the living room." He turned and left, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  "Wow." She didn't know this guy, but something about him encroached on her heart.

  Shaking off the feeling, she got up and hefted one of her suitcases onto the bed, unzipped it, and found a bra and panties, a t-shirt and jeans. Pulling out her soft, pink pajamas, she laid them on the pillow and let loose with a yawn. Right now, a cup of tea and a twelve-hour sleep was her idea of heaven on earth.

  The past month had been the most frantic of her life, even crazier than the days leading up to her aborted wedding. But here she was in Miami, just off the airplane from Seattle, toting three pathetically small suitcases containing everything in her life that meant something to her.

  She looked at the things Cloe had sitting on her dresser. An expensive bottle of perfume, an abstract statue of a couple locked in an embrace, a squat, red lamp topped with a palm leaf shade. Beside the lamp, an old watch sat in a covered crystal bowl. She lifted the lid and picked up the watch. It was their mother's.

  A pang of regret stabbed at her heart. Dead. Cloe, her last remaining family member, was dead. They'd never have the chance to mend their broken relationship. There'd be no healing, no tearful apologies or long, heartfelt chats. Bree was alone. Completely alone, and the realization weighed heavily on her heart.

  God, she was getting more morose by the second. Jet lag, lack of sleep, and stress choked her for a moment, threatening tears. Bree carefully replaced the watch and rallied the last of her reserve strength. Only a few more minutes. Just have to talk to the boyfriend.

  She finished dressing and found her makeup bag, carrying into the bathroom over the thick gray carpeting. So much luxury in this house. She wasn't used to it. But it sure as heck wouldn't be difficult to adapt.

  She pulled a mini-bottle of mouthwash out of her bag. The strong mint swishing around in her mouth helped revive her a little. Rinsing with water, she recognized the brand name of the faucet. "Hmm. Kohler." Expensive.

  As she ran a comb through the tangled mess of blonde hair, she looked around at the hand-painted tiles on the walls. This whole house was lavish. Her sister was a photographer, and not a well paid one according to the Seattle lawyer Bree hired to settle the estate.

  Cloe's money had come from her side-business, a property management company, but much of the information was unavailable to her attorney. Bree would have to do some digging to find out exactly where the money came from. She huffed out a sigh. The way her sister operated, likely enterprises ranged from porn to drugs to identity theft. Her hand froze with the comb halfway through her hair, and she looked at herself in the mirror.

  Was she a terrible person to think the worst of her twin? No, she'd put up with twenty years of torment from Cloe. Until she could learn whether her sister had changed over the years, her opinion would have to remain the same.

  She finished detangling her hair, set down her brush, and picked up a couple bottles of Cloe's hair gel. For short hair. So, her sister did keep her hair short all this time. Waiting for the day Bree forgave her for her practical joke.

  Joke? Anger flowed as fresh as it had that day. Could she ever find mercy in her heart for the woman who ruined her life? "Oh, Cloe. Why did it have to end this way?" Bree tossed the bottles into the yellow floral trashcan and they twanged against the porcelain, snapping her back from the past.

  Right now, she was procrastinating and rudely keeping Biker Dude waiting. Straightening her back, she marched out of her sister's—no, her bedroom suite, to explain to a dead woman's boyfriend how she ended up here.

  She opened her bedroom door and walked across the plush white carpet of the dining room. A few pieces of mail sat on the glass table. They hadn't been there an hour ago when she arrived. The guy must have brought them in.

  He sat in the living room on one of the two blood-red leather couches that faced each other. Wearing a t-shirt and shorts? How and where had he changed so fast?

  Smiling unenthusiastically, he dropped the letter he was reading onto the mahogany coffee table. Reaching behind the couch, he produced an acoustic guitar and settled it on his leg.

  Her eyebrows lifted. He damn sure made himself at home here.

  She walked into the big, open kitchen and glanced out the tall window over the sink. Would she catch a glimpse of the ocean in the daylight? She opened cabinet doors looking for a glass. She'd need water to get through this chat. Something stronger would be better, but that would knock her out cold.

  "Glasses are above the sink," he called.

  "Thanks." A guitar behind the couch, intimate knowledge of the contents of the kitchen cabinets. Mental note: get the locks changed.

  She pulled a hand-blown tumbler from the shelf, walked across the tile floor to the red refrigerator, and filled the glass with ice and water from the dispenser in the door. Her face reflected back from the extra-shiny red surface of the fridge. Who would have imagined they made red appliances? She loved this kitchen at first sight. The black and red granite countertops gleamed and the big gold tiles on the floor perfectly matched the color of the maple cabinets. Someone did a fabulous job designing the room. Actually, the whole house could be in a magazine. Hard to believe this was hers, now. Well, half hers.

  Stepping toward the living room, she stopped at the high counter that separated the two rooms and took a sip of water. She wanted this conversation to be over. It wouldn't be fun.

  He finished tuning the guitar and strummed it softly. The notes carried a sorrowful resonance. He'd removed his bandana, and his brown hair… She blinked and looked again. Long hair, pulled back into a thick ponytail—or whatever men called them—that ended in the middle of his back. How had she missed that?

  She looked past him to the three sets of sliding doors that opened onto the square, outdoor courtyard around which the house was built. A light shone from her bedroom suite on the right. Across the courtyard on the left, her roommate, Doria's bedroom suite was dark. Straight ahead on the far side of the building, a fitness room and Cloe's office sat next to each other. The pool and spa took up most of the outdoor space, but a small kitchen and bar, lounge chairs, and a table with an umbrella filled the other corners. She would really enjoy living here.

  He stopped playing and looked at her, his deep brown eyes expectant.

  A shiver rattled through her. Well, she'd start enjoying it once she handled this mess and got him out of here. She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace and she gave up and plodded over to sit on the couch across from his. The soft leather cushions melted under her, inviting her to sink in for a long nap.

  He stayed silent, and she appreciated his patience. In his Harley gear, he'd looked like a Rottweiler, but in a moss green shirt and khaki shorts, he seemed more like a friendly Golden Retriever. Her sister had good taste in men. This guy was exceptional. The moment dragged on as their gazes locked. A frisson of awareness flowed through her, a repeat of what she'd felt in the bathroom. Did he feel the same thing? What was this bond that made her want to toss his guitar aside and straddle him? Pull the band from his hair, and run her fingers through it. Then…

  He glanced away first this time. Setting the guitar on the couch next to him, he as
ked, "So, what happened?"

  Bree took a gulp of water, and another to cool the sizzle spreading through her. She set the glass on a coaster on the table. Staring at her hands, folded in her lap, she began. "A month ago yesterday, she came out of a bar after closing, in the town where they were doing the photo shoot."

  "Boise."

  "Yes." She met his gaze. His features looked tight, wary. Now that she'd connected with him, she couldn't look away. "She'd been drinking and they think she was texting and stepped off the curb into traffic."

  He flinched and drew an uneven breath. "Mujer pobre."

  Bree knew very little Spanish, but she guessed "poor girl."

  He watched her expression as closely as she watched his. Neither of them broke down, nor did their eyes fill with tears. She'd done enough crying, but if he'd teared up, she would probably have started blubbering again.

  "They said she died instantly," she blurted, needing to ease his worry.

  He nodded and picked up his guitar and strummed softly. "That's good, at least. She didn't suffer."

  She wanted to finish her story, get him out of here, and examine the strange intoxication his presence caused. "I inherited everything."

  He looked up at her. "What is everything?" His eyes narrowed as sharply as his voice.

  That seemed an odd reaction. Had he expected to be remembered in her will? "Well…" She gestured around her. "Cloe's half of this house, her car, a few warehouses, a property management company. I don't know what else, really. I haven't had time to check into it."

  He nodded and took a breath, as if he might say more. After a moment, he went back to strumming the guitar. A few minutes later, he spoke softly. "She has life insurance through work. I can find the paperwork for you."

  "I have all that. Thanks." Her curiosity peaked again. How did he know where Cloe kept her personal papers? Just how involved were they?

  He watched his fingers on the frets. "She's got a…" He paused and met her gaze. "Hard to stop talking about her in the present tense."

  "It's understandable. I've had a month and a funeral to help me adjust."