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

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.”