After my dad passed away several years ago, my mother kept bugging me to take a trip with her. She’d always wanted to go to Monaco and she bribed me into agreeing by offering to pay all travel expenses.
Okay, I know that sounds awful, but think about this – she wanted us to stay at Bed and Breakfasts and wanted a road trip a month long. That’s 30, count ‘em, 30 days and nights together!!! Even the dh and I would be at each other’s throats after spending 30days in each other’s pants, so to speak.
You know what? It was the best, best trip ever! Twenty-eight days of driving through France and Spain getting totally lost, eating delicious food, meeting very quirky characters, and plain bonding – we never quarreled, not once.
I give the excellent wine in both countries credit. Lo and behold a year later I decide to write a romance novel, and Manacled in Monaco, and the Mediterranean Mambo series was born.
Rolan Anthony Paxton, the Patriot’s celebrated wide receiver, dominated the football world for ten years. Fame and fortune fell into his lap and he rode the rainbow collecting Super Bowl wins. Even now, he crooks his finger and women line up — Hollywood stars, super models, beauty queens. But a decade later, disillusioned and unable to pinpoint exactly what’s missing, he finds himself staring over the head of his latest arm candy at the end of his career and resenting the young buck gunning for his position. Then he runs into Sarita Khan, the nose-in-a-book classmate whose virginity he claimed on prom night on the fifty-yard line and whose memory has fueled his fantasies for over ten years.
Sarita Khan never thought she’d see Rolan Paxton again. The NFL drafted him two days after Prom, two days after he took her virginity. What were the odds of her son’s father chartering the luxury yacht she’s crewing for a decade later? And that he’d still make her burn like he did ten years ago?
Sarita wants Rolan, but she wants her independence. Rolan’s a control freak bent on domination. Determined to show her who’s master, Rolan slaps on the manacles — and turns this trip to Monaco into a pleasure cruise.
Manacled in Monaco – excerpt:
Rolan Anthony Paxton’s dawn fantasy had him in a state of rapture.
One hand cradling his neck, the other thrown across a king-sized pillow, he slid his thighs apart over the cool satin sheets to give the expert mouth cocooning his randy prick better access. A light twirl over the crown and that delectable tongue worked its way down the length of him.
Stifling an automatic wince, he lifted one eyelid and looked at the blonde servicing him. Cindy-something, a Pamela Anderson lookalike on the verge of stardom, great tits and a God-awful high-pitched, chalk-on-the-blackboard voice. He should have picked the other one.
The yacht’s engines hummed to life and the boat vibrated and rocked. An open porthole let Mediterranean brine into the room, along with an unexpected morning chill. Monte Carlo’s perpetual traffic buzzed in the background.
At least she hadn’t stopped using those wonderful hands, but that happy thought evaporated with the dig of a nail.
“Ouch,” he snapped. “Watch those talons.”
“Ooops, sorry,” she said, and cupped a hand over her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.
A barrage of firm knocks hit the cabin door and he cut to the sound, mood souring and lips curling. Figured; it took him longer and longer these days, and the slightest mishap turned him off. Age, it had to be, since he was twenty-nine and tired of the same old, same old.
Money, fame, success, and nothing counted anymore.
He knew he should be grateful. How many athletes made it to the Superbowl, not once, not twice, but three times? Startled out of his brooding by a repeat of rapping on the burnished mahogany door, he shot a glance at the blonde and ordered, “Cover up.” In a louder tone, he called, “Come in.”
Without looking up, he snagged the cover sheet and began drawing it over his calves.
He stopped when an audible gasped, “Oh no.” penetrated the silence.
His head snapped up and a stunned paralysis claimed his limbs.
He’d never forgotten those eyes, the color of liquid caramel, that wild hair, every shade of a fiery sunset, and a bottom lip so plump, so inviting that one night he hadn’t been able to resist nibbling on it for hours.
Sarita Khan, the-nose-in-a book classmate he’d been forced to serve four Saturdays of detention with during his last year in high school. The girl whose virginity he’d taken on Prom night after breaking up with the captain of the cheerleading team. Those sweet elfin features had haunted his dreams intermittently over the last ten years.
Adrenalin surged in his veins and his heartbeat accelerated. Sarita, his Sarita.
That bronze-dusted complexion paled beneath his scrutiny and she swayed, the breakfast tray balanced on her forearms listing back and forth. She swallowed, slapped a palm onto the table cemented to the left, and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and hopped out of the bed, oblivious to his nudity, stalking forward. “Here, let me take that.”
For a few seconds she gripped the tray tighter, but didn’t lift her lids. Then her hold slackened.
He tugged the tray away and set it on the table. Eyes crazy-glued to her delicate, heart-shaped face, raking a quick assessment of the changes over the last ten years, he forgot Cindy, the boat, the injuries plaguing his career, everything save Sarita and sweet memories. The urge to trace the soft curve of her cheek, cup her face, and suck that lower lip, defeated only by a nervous giggle in the background. Rolan stifled an internal groan and his hands fisted.
Sarita’s jaw clenched and the pulse at her throat beat like a cartoon character’s heart, thump, thump, in time to the rise and fall of her chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
And the memory of that low throaty voice during their lovemaking cascaded like a waterfall, showering gooseflesh on the back of his neck. Enthralled, stun-gunned, he didn’t react when she twirled, stalked to the door, exited, and slammed it so hard it reverberated.
Cindy-something, the woman in his bed, began a torrent of idle, valley-girl chit-chat.
It never penetrated his mind and became an irritating background buzz. Rolan slumped into the chair and stared unseeing at the laden breakfast tray.
Those four Saturdays they’d spent together in the detention room had started off as the worst punishment for a teenager in the throes of athletic vigor. King of the senior year, dating the cheerleader captain and giving it to her almost every day, his arrogance knew no bounds. At that time in his life, he believed himself invincible.
And he was, on the football field.
Little Sarita Khan, from the wrong side of the tracks, the product of a mixed marriage, her father from Bombay, her mother an Irish woman with a riot of flaming tresses and the temperament to go with it. Mrs. Khan cleaned houses for the country club members and he often caught a glimpse of her at his friends’ residences. The father, the famous town drunk, had disappeared sometime between middle and high school, or so he’d heard.
He stifled another groan as he took in the clothes strewn across the burgundy Persian rug, the rumpled bed sheets, Cindy’s naked double-D breasts, the platinum nipple rings, and the diamonds dangling from her navel.
What had Sarita seen?
Series Name: Mediterranean Mambo, Book #1
Release Date: 06/08/2008
Publisher Link: http://www.loose-id.com
Available at: Amazon, ARe, Barnes & Noble
Genre: Erotic, multicultural, contemporary suspense: m/f
Word Count: 70,225
Hope you enjoy!