Island Heat (A Sexy Time Travel Romance With a Twist)

by Jill Myles

  I opened it and stared at the names inside, watching as the pages flaked against the high breeze and ate away. Soon there would be nothing left, but I kept it open and touched the pages anyhow.

  Salvador Diego de la Cuerva, 1521.

  My vision blurred, and I swallowed back the sob that rose. I’d never forget him. I glanced backward, looking at the shore, and saw him still standing there, as motionless as before, receding with every choppy wave that hit the boat.

  He was sending me away, I thought, and wept, my tears splashing on the page and obscuring his name. “Shit,” I sobbed to myself, wiping at the beautiful script and crying even harder when all it did was smear against my fingers.

  How could he send me away?

  Because he loves you, you idiot, my brain told me. He wants you to be happy, even if it means letting you go back to the life you love.

  I stared around me, at Mr. Wingarde whistling as he leaned against the sail, smiling out at the blue waters. I felt like a void inside, cold and numb and aching. Is this what happiness was?

  Is this what I was returning to?

  Was this happiness?

  I thought of the moment that I’d woken up on the shore that morning. The sun had been beating down in my eyes, and my feet ached from the long walk the day before. I’d had sand in all my crevices, and my mouth was dry, but I’d rolled over and looked into the most beautiful face I’d ever seen and the most wonderful green eyes. And Salvador had kissed me awake.

  That was happiness. That was contentment, no matter the sand or the dinosaurs or whatever.

  I couldn’t do it.

  I threw down my bags and clutched the book to my chest, staring at the shore. It was receding in the distance, almost too far to swim. I looked at the book down in my hands, and knew that the pages would never make it back to shore. They wouldn’t survive another dousing.

  “Mr. Wingarde,” I said, and thrust the book in his hands when he turned.

  “What is this?” He said, his happy whistle stopping.

  “It’s a log book,” I said. “Write my name in it, please? And remember me?” And I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and ran to the far end of the boat.

  Lord, but the water looked deep. I glanced back at the shore, and Salvador’s bronzed form standing there.

  It was now or never.

  I jumped.

  The first shock of the water was cold, and I went under the waves, terrified. My first thought was of sharks, and riptides, and everything bad that could happen.

  “Diana,” Mr. Wingarde screamed as I resurfaced. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going home, Mr. Wingarde,” I yelled at him. “I can’t leave. Not now, not ever.”

  “You’re a stupid fool,” He yelled at me. “I’m not turning around to come back and get you.”

  “Then don’t turn around,” I yelled back at him, but the words were slapped out of my mouth as a wave rose up, and I went under, only to resurface a moment more, coughing.

  “You’ve decided, then?” He shouted at me, log book still clutched in his hands. I nodded, turning towards the shore, paddling slowly. I was going to need all my strength to swim back.

  There was a hard slap of water in front of me, and I stared at a circular float as it bobbed in front of me. I looked back to Mr. Wingarde, and watched as he waved at me. “God be with you, Diana.” He waved. “I won’t forget. Now swim hard!”

  I clutched the float to me, and began to kick. I swam. I swam and swam and swam so hard that I thought I was going to die from all the water I’d inhaled. My eyelids grew puffy with the salt, and I kept kicking even though the shore didn’t seem to get any closer, no matter how hard I tried.

  But it eventually got closer, and my feet could touch the bottom, and no sharks had eaten me. And no sooner was I rising out of the water than Salvador was at my side, pulling me from the exhausting water and clutching me close to him, kissing me as though his heart was breaking.

  “Why, Diana? Why did you come back?” He shook his head. “It is not what you wanted,” he said, even as he clutched me close to him and ran his hands all over my body, as if he were dying and touching me was the only thing keeping him to this life.

  And I laughed, my hands doing the same with him, because I loved him so and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him, of not being able to touch him, or kiss him in the morning. Sand and dinosaurs and everything be damned.

  This was my home.

  I laughed and kissed him again, nearly choking when a wave slapped the two of us in the face. All the salt water in the world was not going to keep me from kissing this man. “I wanted to be happy,” I said, trying not to cry. “I’m happy here with you. I don’t want a laptop or a Starbucks or anything else. Don’t send me away.”

  “But...I thought you wanted…”

  I shook my head. I put my hands on his face and drew him close to me. “I want my conquistador. For now and forever.”

  “Belleza,” he breathed, and then he kissed me. “If you’re certain...”

  “Just shut up and kiss me,” I said with a smile.

  And he did. All the way back to our little cave in the wilderness.

  The End

  WICKED GAMES - Sample

  Like ISLAND HEAT? Stay tuned for a sample of a very different kind of beach romance by Jill Myles!

  WICKED GAMES - CHAPTER ONE

  I'm looking forward to the competition. Test myself against elements...and the other players. Romance the ladies? If I need to. Anything to win, but I'm not specifically looking to meet a girl. I’m looking to win. -- Pre-Game Interview with Dean Woodall

  *** *** ***

  In the four years that I'd worked for MediaWeek magazine, my boss had never seemed pleasant. I suspected she wasn't the smiley type unless she was signing your pink slip. Seeing that many white teeth in her mouth at once as I entered her office? I'd be lying if I didn't find it a little bit creepy.

  “Hello Abigail,” she cooed at me. “So very nice to see you again.” She took me by the elbow and led me into the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Another ominous sign. Well, that and my full name. All my friends called me Abby. My boss? She only called me Abby when...well, come to think of it, she'd never called me Abby.

  I noticed another man was sitting in the room, a wide-brimmed adventurer's hat in his hands. He wore a shirt that looked like it had been yanked off of a safari tour and grinned at me, flashing more white teeth in my direction.

  All these teeth. I was surely in trouble.

  “Hi,” I said lamely, not sure what else to say, and plunked down in the only open chair. My palms were sweating already, and I wiped them against my jeans. “What’s going on?”

  Jeannie trotted back around to her side of the desk, her heels clacking on the tile floor. She sat in her chair delicately and swung around to face me, clasping her hands in front of her and giving a sidelong glance to the stranger in the room. “Abigail, I've called you in because...we might have an interesting assignment for you. What's your current workload look like?”

  Oh boy. If the boss had an 'interesting' assignment for me, I was totally doomed. I smiled through my pain and tried to sound busier than I really was. “I have a couple of editorial pieces I'm working on, and that two page spread for the fashion article next week--”

  She waved her hands at me. “Oh. That stuff? Thank goodness. We can put you on something important, then. Mr. Matlock here will be working with you on this assignment.”

  The man in question looked over at me and peered, and I could have sworn he was checking out my legs. “She'd be good, I think. Seems to be in decent shape, young, and reasonably attractive.”

  “Reasonably? You sweet talker you,” I said before thinking better of it. “I bet you tell that to all the ladies.”

  To my relief, he laughed it off. “And a personality. Even better.”

  Why the heck was my appearance some sort of criteria for the job? I did b
ook reviews for an entertainment magazine, for heck's sake. I shot my boss a confused look. “What sort of assignment are we talking about?”

  The man leaned forward and grinned again, as if sharing a secret. “I'm Jim Matlock.”

  Obviously I was supposed to know who he was. I racked my brain, thinking.

  The look on his face grew vaguely insulted as moments passed and I remained blank. He glanced back at Jeannie, sitting back again.

  “Jim Matlock,” Jeannie stressed. “From Endurance Island. Executive producer.”

  “The game show?” I was surprised. “Really?” I'd caught a few episodes here and there of the first season – it had been all about pretty people on the beach, jumping through colorful hoops and eating bugs to win a big cash prize. Not really my thing, but I'd heard bits and pieces about it here and there. Mostly about how last year's finale had been a total letdown. Not that I could say that to him. “I hear you're about to start shooting season two,” I said, deciding on tact.

  “In the Cook Islands,” he agreed, and the mega-watt smile returned. “I'm afraid the network is a little concerned about ratings, however, so we're resorting to a couple of different strategies in order to create a bit more buzz about the second season.”

  “Oh?” I said politely, wondering where this lead to me. “And you want me to give you a favorable review?” I guessed, though a few things didn't add up. The show was for the fall season and we were just hitting spring at the moment – far too early for a review. And a fake gushing review? Jeannie knew I hated those – I was known for my scathing book reviews and not my glowing ones. They didn't call me ‘Abby the Book Bitch’ for nothing.

  “We want you to write, but not really for a review,” Mr. Matlock began slowly.

  Jeannie cut to the chase. “Jim has had a high profile player drop out at the last minute, and filming starts in three days. The parent company of his network – you know they own the magazine, darling – has decided to stick an insider into the show to give a 'first hand' exclusive experience to the thing.”

  “Can you run? Swim?” Matlock asked me.

  My heart sank and my stomach gave a nervous flutter. “I don't really want to be on TV.” God no. See my name mocked and reviled in the same magazine that I wrote in every week, mocking and reviling others? No thank you.

  “There's a rather lucrative book deal attached to this after the show,” Jeannie added in a sly voice. “With a guaranteed push at all major media outlets.”

  “And a TV special,” Jim added.

  A book deal? I swallowed hard at that. It would be a lot of money. A lot. And infamy. Money and infamy, always hand in hand. I glanced over at Jeannie, but her slender jaw was set in a firm manner that told me that if I refused, I wouldn't find myself with very many more assignments at MediaWeek, if ever again. Not that she could fire me if I refused...but she could conveniently edge me out the door over time.

  Let's see – fame and fortune and six weeks of island misery and eating bugs? Or no fame, no fortune, and one severely pissed off boss?

  I swallowed hard. “Why me out of the team? Why not Roger? Or Tim?” Both were handsome, young, athletic and gay. Tim was my best friend, and a media darling if there ever was one. Me, not so much. I tended to blend in with the wallpaper, and I preferred it that way.

  “We need a female contestant,” Matlock said without hesitation. “The one we lost was female, and we need the teams evenly balanced. Young and reasonably attractive helps as well.”

  That did narrow down the staff quite a bit. Old Mabel that did the crossword and Gertie that set the TV listings probably wouldn't be good picks. All the others I could think of had small children, so I was the only candidate. It really grated that they kept saying 'reasonably' though. Jeezus. Way to make me feel like their last resort. “Uh huh.”

  “Here's the deal, Abigail,” Jeannie said in a blunt voice. “You go out there and join their little game show and don't tell anyone about the deal. You'll meet up with production assistants that will allow you to record a video diary every day, exclusive for MediaWeek's usage. You stay until you're voted out, and when you come back, you do the press tour like a good girl, write your articles that give us an exclusive inside look, and then you write your book. It gives MediaWeek a nice bit of leverage and free advertising, and Matlock's show gets a boost as well. That's how the parent company wants it. Do you understand?”

  I understood. It kind of sounded like the entire thing had been decided long before I even went into the room. I glanced over at Matlock and found him studying my figure again, and I resisted the urge to wrap my arms around my torso and hide myself. “I'm uh...not a hundred percent familiar with the show. How long would I be out there?”

  “Six weeks if you stay the entire time. Someone will be voted off every four days. The show starts with twenty-four people with fifteen elimination rounds total. After seven group eliminations, we'll go down to singles for the last ten and two will go to the final vote for the two million dollars.”

  Holy shit. Two million dollars on the line – I felt dizzy. “Can I win the millions?”

  “Possibly. You'll have to be really good.” He gave me a faint, smug smile.

  Interesting. They were going to give me a shot at two million? Suddenly I was a lot more interested. “What if I'm the first one voted out?”

  “You won't be,” he said. Again, the patronizing smile. “Other than that, it will be played out as the game goes. If you are eliminated early, you can give everyone a behind the scenes look at the Loser Lodge.”

  A six week island get-away and a book deal any way I looked at it. I glanced over at Jeannie and she was giving me a death-glare. Islands or Boss From Hell. Coconut Hell or Editorial Hell. Sand in my swimsuit crack every day for two months, or Jeannie up my ass for the rest of my life.

  I looked over at Matlock and gave him a game shrug. “Let's give it a shot, then.”

  “That's a girl,” he crowed, and Jeannie smiled smugly.

  Yeah, joy. Yay. Me on TV.

  *** *** ***

  The next two days were a whirlwind, but the magazine was there to help out. There were things to be covered for and trained on (my weekly articles), a cat to be boarded (dropped off at Tim's), utilities to be paid ahead of time (so I wasn't homeless when I returned), and an endless round of physicals and vaccinations for the actual show. Just when I needed a nap – or to run away screaming from all of it – I was shuffled onto a charter plane and flown out to Auckland, New Zealand. One of the assistants continually shoved objects into my hands as we rode on the plane. She asked me a million questions and continually handed me release forms and waivers. No piece of information was sacred – from the last time I'd had my period to my blood type to my swimsuit size to did I need a bikini wax before the show filmed?

  I admit I freaked out a little over the bikini-wax thing. Exactly how much were they going to be showing on this gameshow? But I sucked it up and got waxed, because the alternative was worse.

  It got worse as we progressed. Every time I made a concession, I had to give three more. While we were on the plane, the assistant sidelined me with something else. “And here's your bag of clothing for the next six weeks.”

  It looked really, really small. Unnerved, I picked it up and began to dig through it. The fabrics that touched my hand felt soft, lycra-ish. Swimsuits, I guessed, and a shirt or two. Nothing warm, nothing concealing. Too kind of them. “Great, thanks.” My enthusiasm was evident in my voice.

  “You need to change before we get on the plane,” she chirped at me, beaming, and led me towards the nearest bathroom. “Strip off all of your old clothing and put on what's provided for you. We have corporate sponsors and you have to wear their logos.”

  Made sense, even if I wasn't crazy about it. But, yay bathroom. Of course, I discovered a few minutes later that the show was going to be a bit of a lesson in humility and identity.

  The shirt I pulled out? Bright, vivid pink with my name – ABBY – embl
azoned across both the front and the back in bold white letters. I suppose that was to help the audience figure out who we were easily. Lovely. With a grimace, I tossed the shirt aside and dug into the bag again. A string bikini – same pink. Same garish name across the backside of the panties. Yeah, well that wouldn't be getting much use, despite my new (and painful) hair-free bikini line. I tossed it aside as well.

  At the bottom of the bag, there was one more bikini in a different style, and a swimsuit – a tankini. All in the same nasty pink with my name screaming across the chest. I also had a pair of water shoes and a pair of sneakers. That was it.

  Six week’s worth of beach clothing. They were kidding, right?

  WICKED GAMES - CHAPTER TWO

  Abby who? -- Dean Woodall, Day 1

  *** *** ***

  The blindfolds did an excellent job – I hadn't seen the face of one single, solitary person. I could hear them and smell them around me, though. The faint scent of cologne, deodorant, and some girl's powdery floral perfume lingered in my nostrils as the plane descended, and we were shuffled out, blindfolds intact, and onto a boat. The motor purred as we were taken out onto the water, waves crashing against the sides of the boat. I sat with my small bag of clothes in my lap, my legs pressed against two other pairs of legs on either side of me.

  Someone shuffled equipment near the front of the boat, and I heard the motor cut. The breeze ruffled my hair gently, a signal that we'd slowed down or stopped on the water. I heard the microphone flick on, and the crew talking to themselves in low voices.

  “Are we ready?” called a familiar, overly-cadenced voice. I tried to place it, but couldn't without a face.