Secret Billionaire's Stormy Lover (The Secret Billionaires 2)

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.