Tropical Tryst: 25 All New and Exclusive Sexy Reads

by Nicole Morgan

  Wiping her hands together before planting them on narrow hips, Cedella Redfoo watched the herky-jerky motion of the chickens as they pecked at the corn and seed before acknowledging her visitor. “Heya, wh’appening?”

  It had taken some time for Dara to become attuned to the lilting accent of the native islanders. Now it was a familiar cadence that echoed the sleepy pace of life on Pequeña Esquina.

  “I’m out of eggs,” Dara said. “Please tell me you haven’t promised this morning’s lot to Miss Francy.”

  “Nah, I don’t hold with such a thing as promising eggs that haven’t been laid yet.” A wide smile with more empty spaces than teeth creased Cedella’s sepia-toned skin. She gestured toward a basket heaped with brown-shelled eggs on the edge of her rickety front porch. “You’re the early bird. Help yourself.”

  Dara pulled a net sack from the back pocket of her cargo shorts and counted out a week’s worth of eggs, then tucked a few bills under the basket. “I’m surprised Francy didn’t send Bastian down already. The guesthouse is full up. Again.”

  Bastian and Francy Luna owned and operated the Blue Moon Beach House. Part inn, part boardinghouse, it was the most popular choice for visitors to the island because of its modern amenities—air conditioning and spotty Wi-Fi—and Miss Francy’s cooking. Once or twice a month Dara stopped by for a bowl of Francy’s legendary arroz con leche and an espresso.

  “Again.” Cedella’s black button eyes glinted knowingly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, chil’.”

  Tourism was a double-edged sword, in Dara’s opinion. Yes, the income was a benefit. Many of the islanders, like Cedella, managed to scrape by but the extra dollars helped. Yet too many tourists felt like an invasion. Most wanted the commercialized version of paradise—fruity drinks with paper parasols delivered by smiling servers in tidy uniforms as they lounged under blue and white striped cabanas on the beach. And most were inordinately curious, wanting to know who she was, why she’d come to Pequeña Esquina and what kept her there.

  She knew Cedella and the Lunas and others on the island wondered the same thing, but there was an understanding, especially amongst the expats, that you didn’t ask about folks’ pasts. If they wanted to share, they would.

  Some did. She didn’t.

  “I like things the way they are.” Dara stared down the hard-packed dirt road that led back into town, and beyond that, the endless expanse of turquoise ocean. She resented anything that reminded her of the life she’d left behind.

  “Every day has a sunrise and a sunset,” Cedella said sagely.

  “Which means…?” Dara arched a brow.

  “Nothing stays the same.” There was a touch of sadness to her smile. “Not the bad. Not the good.”

  “This conversation is getting way too philosophical,” Dara said. “Especially since I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “Get on with ya, then.” Cedella waved and trundled toward the house, shuffling past the chickens.

  “Do you need anything from town?” Dara shifted the bag of eggs to her other hand, careful not to jostle them. “I’m stopping by the market this afternoon. Pinky should be back by then with his catch of the day.”

  “Thanks, chil’, but no need. I’m taking the rest of the eggs and a batch of salted codfish down to Sam later on.”

  Samuel Tanno, an islander about the same age as Cedella and her unofficial beau, sold fruits and vegetables he raised on his small farm at the open-air marketplace.

  “Stop by the Soggy Dollar if you get a chance. Quint ordered a bottle of that port you like. We can toast the sunset.” Dara wondered if her old friend heard the sarcasm in her voice. She frowned, unhappy with the negative shift her mood had taken.

  “Sunrise, sunset,” Cedella scoffed. “We’ll toast the moment. That’s what matters.”

  THE MOMENT.

  “That’s what matters,” Dara muttered as she approached her beach-front bungalow. The modest wooden structure was her haven, and just the sight of it was enough to soothe the agitation stirred up by her conversation with Cedella.

  Built on stilts and covered by a metal roof to reflect the heat, it nestled among palm trees and fragrant flowering shrubs where the sand met the jungle. She slowly mounted the wooden stairs that led to the wraparound verandah, pushing away painful thoughts of the scandal and betrayal that had driven her to flee Virginia and hide out on a remote Caribbean island. This wasn’t the life she’d imagined for herself, but it was…enough.

  She opened the French doors and cool morning air rushed in behind her. The house was only four rooms—a combination kitchen/dining room, living room, bedroom and bath. All but the bathroom faced the ocean. With the doors flung wide, the living space flowed out onto the verandah, making the house seem larger than it actually was. Flicking on the portable radio that sat on her kitchen counter, Dara tuned into a station that broadcast from the Nicaraguan mainland, forty miles west of Pequeña Esquina. She hummed along to a Jimmy Buffet song while putting away most of the eggs, leaving out a couple for her breakfast. She set a pot of water to boil and measured out coffee into a French press. Fifteen minutes later she sat down to a plate of scrambled eggs, rice, fresh papaya and steaming black coffee.

  A sharp bark interrupted her first bite.

  “Sorry, Dude,” she yelled. “You’ll have to wait to get yours.”

  She heard another loud yip, and then a male voice she didn’t recognize.

  “Wait for what?”

  Startled, Dara rose from the table and peered outside. A muscular guy wearing red board shorts and dark sunglasses stared in her direction from the beach. Sweat gleamed on his heaving chest and abs. One of the tourists out for a morning jog.

  She padded out onto the verandah and said loudly, “Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  He glanced left, then right. “I don’t see anyone else out here.”

  “Dude!” Dara whistled, the shrill sound renting the gentle rasp of palm fronds shifting in the breeze.

  A scruffy mutt crept out from under the house and planted itself below Dara, a short bristly tail sweeping an arc in the sand.

  The guy sauntered in her direction. “Ah, now I get it.” He crouched a few feet from the dog. “He’s a cutie. Reminds me of Toto from The Wizard of Oz. Hey, little Dude.”

  The dog’s tail sped up, but he ignored the guy.

  “Talk about dedication. That little fellow only has eyes for you.” Standing, the stranger shoved his sunglasses back on his head and crossed his arms. “By the way, I’m Jack. I was just on my way back to the—”

  “Blue Moon Beach House.” Dara couldn’t help but appreciate the flex and release of his biceps. She quickly inventoried the rest of him: spiky dark hair that gleamed auburn in the sun, brown eyes that seemed simultaneously guileless and hooded, and a fit build. His stance was relaxed and confident without giving off any kind of vibe that he was posturing to impress her. A second, closer glance revealed lines at the corner of his eyes, putting her assessment of his age closer to mid-thirties than late twenties.

  He laughed, a sexy rumble that made Dara feel like they’d just exchanged a private joke. She shivered. All of her senses went on high alert.

  “I guess there aren’t too many places for visitors to stay, huh?”

  “Accommodations aren’t usually in high demand. We don’t get a lot of tourists on Pequeña Esquina. There’s not much to do here so most of the visitors only stay for a day or two. Mostly it’s folks who like to scuba dive or snorkel.”

  “There must be something appealing about the island,” Jack said. “I’ve met several people who obviously aren’t natives. Would I be wrong to put you in that category?”

  Although the question was intrusive, her attraction outweighed her usual reticence. It had been several months since she’d enjoyed the company of a sexy guy. If Jack was traveling alone, he might be fun for a night or two.

  “I came for two weeks and never left,” she admitted.

  His gaze swept
across the white sand and blue-green water. “It’s gorgeous. But aside from the scenery, what’s the draw for a single”—he raised an eyebrow in question and she nodded—“woman? Most of your contemporaries are busy building careers and starting families. This is a world away from Starbucks, carpools and kiddie playdates.”

  It was also a world away from the man who’d broken her heart, derailed her career and ruined her life with a political scandal that obsessed the American public for months.

  She remembered how relentlessly the media had hounded her—lying in wait outside her Alexandria apartment, pestering her students for interviews, publishing nothing but speculation and conjecture when she refused to go on camera. When Tony Esposito, her ex-fiancé and a disgraced ex-senator, implied she’d not only known about but participated in his affairs with prostitutes, the backlash was devastating. The president of Edgemont University, who’d all but promised her a tenured position and had boasted about having one of the youngest and brightest English professors on staff, notified her she was being terminated with a terse text message. Her neighbors signed a petition asking that she be evicted on grounds of “illegal and immoral” activity, regardless of the fact that charges had not been brought against her and the only evidence of wrongdoing was Tony’s slanderous lies.

  Tony’s betrayal robbed Dara of everything she’d worked years to accomplish—a successful career, a family, a home—but the worst loss was her ability, her willingness, to trust. For an orphan who’d bounced between foster homes, a young girl who never had parents to love and protect her, a lonely teenager who never fit in and never belonged, opening her heart and soul to Tony had been harrowing and joyful. To have her trust shattered in such a despicable manner…

  She would never, ever put herself at risk like that again.

  Dara looked down at Jack who seemed to be waiting for some kind of answer. God, he was sexy. Desire, hot and potent, pooled low in her belly as she imagined ocean water beading on his skin as he emerged, naked, from the waves. His conversation might have been casual, but she recognized the interest in his eyes. Yeah, he was smoking hot, but she knew a girl could get burned playing with fire.

  “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay,” she said coolly. “If I don’t see you again, safe travels.” Turning on her heel, she walked back into the house, far enough back into the kitchen that she could no longer see Jack standing on the sand.

  He mumbled something she couldn’t make out, punctuated by a friendly bark from Dude. Allowing enough time to pass so that he’d be well on his way back to town, Dara eased out onto the verandah. At first she thought the pang in her stomach was hunger since she hadn’t finished eating, but then she realized it was disappointment. God knew she didn’t believe in love—at first, second or third sight—but she did believe in lust and she’d been drawn to Jack. She suspected sex with him would be satisfying. No awkward fumbling around in the dark. Something about the way he moved and spoke, confident but not arrogant, indicated a strong sense of self. She’d not caught much of his reaction to her brusque dismissal, but he’d seemed almost amused.

  Leaning against the wooden railing, she bent forward, trying to catch a glimpse of him. “Come back,” she whispered, shaking her head at her fickle mood.

  The scrabble of claws on wood snagged her attention, and she saw Dude headed up the steps to the verandah.

  “Down,” she ordered. Ignoring the mutt’s pitiful expression, she repeated the command. Dude reluctantly returned to his spot on the sand.

  It was better not to get attached, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter if it was a man or a dog or an old woman. Love was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

  She really hoped she didn’t see Jack again. Sometimes sticking to decisions was tough, even when it was the right thing to do.

  CHAPTER 2

  O h, you’ll definitely be seeing me again, Jack thought as he headed away from Dara Lockwood’s bungalow. In no hurry to return to the guesthouse where he’d checked in yesterday after arriving on the afternoon flight that ferried tourists to and from the island, he paced over the damp sand and considered the woman he’d just met.

  At first he wasn’t sure it was her. In the photo he’d been given, she had long hair. Her face was rounder, her eyes sparkled and her smile seemed almost shy. She’d been leaning into the man who stood next to her, one hand resting on his chest, the other curved around his waist. She looked young and dreamy and hopeful.

  What a difference five years made. None of the softness remained, not physically or emotionally, from what he’d seen. She’d thinned out. Her tank top revealed toned arms and shoulders while lean calves were visible beneath the baggy cargo shorts. She’d cut off her hair, too. The short, wavy style flattered the shape of her face, highlighting angular cheekbones and wide hazel eyes.

  Her initial greeting had been friendly enough, but her body language sent conflicting messages.

  Don’t come too close.

  Come closer.

  Go far, far away.

  According to her bio, Dara Lockwood was thirty-two, held a Ph.D. in English and had been a faculty member at one of Washington D.C.s most prestigious universities before the shit hit the fan. No father was listed on her birth certificate and after her mother was killed by a drunk driver, nine-year-old Dara had been dumped into the foster care system.

  It was easy to see how a kid like that, an impressionable young woman desperate to believe in fairy tales and happy ever afters, would fall for someone like Senator Tony Esposito. Handsome, influential, ambitious. Also ruthless, selfish and deceitful.

  Jack wondered if any of that starry-eyed idealism remained behind Dara’s guarded exterior. Launching into a run, he chastised himself. It didn’t matter if Dara Lockwood was romantic or jaded or none of the above. What mattered was that it was his job to convince her to return to D.C. and failure wasn’t an option.

  “WHO ELSE WANTS to read their haiku out loud?” Dara smiled when several hands popped up amid the group of students in front of her. Ranging in age from five to twelve, the youngsters attended the island’s small school where she volunteered two days a week. “Tuesday, let’s hear yours.”

  Seven-year-old Tuesday Belmonte was the niece of March Belmonte, the other bartender who worked at the Soggy Dollar. Unlike her uncle who was built like a tank, Tuesday was tall for her age and slender. Both had striking green eyes, sun-streaked russet hair and strong features, as did March’s younger sister, Tuesday’s mother, December.

  The girl stood and slowly read each line. “Oval like an egg / Green mountain in the middle / Island where I live.”

  “Very good,” Dara said, joining the other students in a brief smattering of applause. “That’s a great description of Pequeña Esquina. Jose, what about you?”

  By the time Jose and four other students recited their poems, the class was over. Dara collected their worksheets. “I can’t wait to read the rest of these. I’ll bring them back next week when we work on acrostic poems.”

  “’Crostic sorta rhymes with hockey stick,” Jose observed.

  “Close.” Dara laughed. “It’s ‘acrostic’. You pick a word and use each letter in that word to start a sentence in the poem.”

  The students’ regular teacher, Ellen Landerly, was watching from the doorway. As the kids called out “thanks” and “goodbye,” Dara quickly slid past the older woman to avoid becoming ensnared in one of her hugs. In her mid-fifties with short gray hair and warm blue eyes, Ellen’s picture was in the dictionary under “motherly.” Her husband, Robert Landerly, owned and managed a small mercantile that sold all manner of goods. On weekends the inventory included Ellen’s baked goods. Originally from a small town in Kansas, the couple relocated to the island after Robert won a chunk of money from a scratch-off lottery ticket about ten years ago.

  “You’re wonderful with them,” Ellen murmured, capturing one of Dara’s hands in hers. “I really wish you’d reconsider our offer. We could use you on a full-time basi
s.”

  She hadn’t been offered a job because of her credentials—no one on the island knew about her past—but because the school needed another teacher. Any adult with enough patience to deal with kids and enough smarts to provide basic instruction was qualified. Five days a week with bright, curious, affectionate kids?

  Dara wasn’t interested.

  “I’ll see you next week.” Dara gently withdrew her hand and hitched the strap of her satchel higher on one shoulder.

  She left the whitewashed clapboard building and the sound of children’s voices behind. The walk through town only took about ten minutes unless she had stops to make. She passed the post office, waving at Sarge Simpkins, the postmaster.

  In all her time on the island, she’d not sent or received a single piece of mail. No one knew where she was, which was the reason she’d chosen to live here. She’d transferred her funds from an American bank to an anonymous account in the Caymans and used most of her savings to build her bungalow. She had no family, no friends, no job and no ties to her old life. It might have seemed a high price to pay for peace of mind except that Tony had already stolen what mattered most.

  A quick in and out at the bakery to pick up a spicy meat pie for dinner later, followed by a stop at the market to purchase fresh produce for the bar and then she was on to the Soggy Dollar.

  The bar was a ramshackle hut on the beach. It had been wiped out twice by hurricanes since she’d come to the island and several more before that. Each time it was reassembled and painted a pastel hue. Streaks of flamingo-pink, canary-yellow and lime-green peeked through the topmost layer, a weathered turquoise-blue. White shutters along three sides could be lifted and lowered to secure the rectangular interior where the bartenders—her, March and Quint, the owner— mixed drinks and prepped basic menu items. An assortment of bar stools ringed the perimeter of the open-air structure, while a wooden deck extending along one side held tables and chairs. A thatched roof kept the place dry and shady.