Dancing in a Hurricane (2 page)

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 asked, "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."

He sat back and let the guitar slide flat onto his legs. "Tell me about the funeral."

"It was a minimal service." A little twinge of guilt hit her. "I'm sorry you didn't hear about it. I didn't even know she had a roommate until a few days ago." Speaking of the roommate, where was she? She hadn't come home yet and it was nearly midnight. "But I did place an obituary in the Miami Herald and included my phone number in case someone from here wanted to attend."

His lips quirked into a half smile. "My parents publish the Cuban newspaper in town. We're not allowed to read the city rag."

Her eyes opened wide. "Cuban?" Jeez, she was slow. She hadn't even considered that nationality. Cuba floated within rock-skipping distance of Florida.

"What did you think?" He seemed wary.

She shook her head. "I didn't mean to make it sound like I was…" She shrugged. "I'm from Seattle. Actually Port Angeles, a small town outside Seattle. I don't have a lot of experience with…um…diversity?" She cringed. Did that sound obtuse?

His eyes narrowed.

She opened her mouth to try to explain, but closed it again. She could only make it worse. It had to be her exhaustion causing a disconnect between her brain and her mouth.

"Port Angeles? Is that where you had Cloe's funeral?"

"Yes." Okay, this she should be able to discuss without offending him. "We had a church service. Hundreds of people came. And I buried her ashes on our parents' grave."

He nodded once. "That's right. She mentioned her parents were dead." He scratched his cheek. "She said she had no family. Why didn't she talk about you?"

The reminder of Cloe's betrayal triggered a ripping pain in her heart. "She pulled a prank on me and that was the end of our relationship." Her voice came out choked and she cleared her throat. "It happened five years ago, before she moved to Miami."

He leaned forward, his eyes filled with compassion. "What did she do?"

She smiled to soften her words. "It's not something I talk about." And maybe now that Cloe was gone, that might not be such a good thing. For years, her friends had encouraged her to get professional counseling, but she'd stubbornly hung on to the anger, as if it were a medal awarded her for surviving that horrific day.

"Okay." He sat back. Thought lines formed between his dark eyebrows.

She could understand his curiosity. Sisters—twins—who hadn't spoken in half a decade. He had to be imagining all sorts of awful things, but she sure as hell wasn't going to pour her heart out to a perfect stranger. And it was time for this stranger to go. "Well." She stood. "If you don't mind…"

"You're going to bed?"

"Yes." He didn't get up. Couldn't he take a hint? She gestured toward the door. "After you leave."

His eyes shifted around the room and locked on hers. "Why would I leave? I live here."

Her lips pursed. Of course. She should have realized that was the situation. "You
lived
with my sister. If you need money for a hotel for a few nights I can—"

He held up a hand. "Whoa there,
chica
…" His voice had a snap to it. "Aside from that being incredibly insulting, I live here because I own half the house."

She sighed, strangely disappointed in him for lying. "I have legal papers that say otherwise." She pointed to the suite behind him, across the pool from her room. "A woman named Doria Six…Six-to…or something like that, owns the other half of the house"

He let out a startled laugh. "It's pronounced 'SEES-toe.' And this is going to come as a shock, but I'm Doria. Sixto Doria."

Chapter Two

Sixto watched Cloe's replica collapse onto the couch. Her blue eyes wide, her long lashes dark against her pale skin. "You?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?" If it was, he'd give
her
money to stay in a hotel.

"It seems strange after…" She stopped and stared at a spot over his shoulder. Was she thinking about their…encounter…in the bathroom?

It still hit him hard, made him hard, thinking about that intense moment when their eyes locked. Primal desire, an overwhelming sensation like he'd never experienced, had flooded through him. After, he thought he'd imagined it, but when it happened again, sitting here on the couches, it unsettled him.

She'd felt it, too. He could tell by the way her pupils had dilated in the bright bathroom light, and the blush that flooded her neck and face both times. It had to be a shock for her to realize they'd be living together.

She blinked back to the conversation. "I don't know. It seems odd to share a house with a man. Especially after thinking you were a woman for three days."

"Uh huh." He nodded. First the crack about diversity, now she questioned the masculinity of his name? "I'm not sure if you're trying to insult me again, but…" He grabbed a pen and notepad from a drawer in the end table and wrote.

"I'm sorry." Her face scrunched into a grimace and she rubbed her pinky finger. "I seem to be saying everything wrong tonight."

He tore off the paper and handed it to her. "My parents, Sixto Sr. and Estelle Doria. That's their phone number. Give them a call and ask them what a good boy I am."

She smiled, the first real smile she'd cracked, and it lit her face, caught his attention. Something zinged between them again and she looked away.

"I might just do that." She folded the paper. "But I guess if Cloe trusted you..." She shrugged.

Trust. Tough call. The wicked jolt of awareness he experienced every time their eyes locked. His body craved more of that. But for tonight, he lifted his hand, three fingers up straight. "Scout's honor."

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

"Go ahead and ask," he prompted, guessing what she wanted to know.

"Were you and Cloe…dating?"

He shook his head. "No. Just roommates. Business…" He'd almost said business partners. He didn't want Briana to connect him to Cloe's company. "Business only. We flipped the house together, and decided to live in it for a while, until the market comes back up."

She stared at him a few moments, as if judging his honesty. When she smiled, he knew he'd passed the test. "I can't wait to hear that story." She tipped her head. "Now, are
you
all right with
my
being here?"

Was he? She looked a lot like her sister, but she was different. Not just physically, but her attitude. Calm and thoughtful. Not as edgy as Cloe. He shrugged. "It's a big house and I spend a lot of time in my room."

After a moment, her eyes sparkled. "I peeked in your bedroom when I first arrived and wondered why Ms. Doria had such masculine taste."

He grinned. "Masculine.
Muchas
gracias
."

"And that solves the mystery of how you changed clothes."

"Yeah, I guess we didn't get around to properly introducing ourselves." He resettled his guitar and strummed the Coldplay song, "Clocks."