Dancing in a Hurricane

Dancing in a Hurricane

Book One of the
Hot Miami Nights
Series

By Laura Breck

Copyright 2012 Laura Breck

Edited by Ursula Avery

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. She'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.