Karibu Heat (Sequel to Kabana Heat) Read online

  Karibu Heat

  By

  Titania Ladley

  Important notice: This book is a complete work of fiction. All characters, locales, incidents, events, organizations, businesses and names are products of the author’s imagination and are not intended to be interpreted as reality, nor are they meant to have any associated resemblance to same.

  Karibu Heat

  Copyright © 2012 by Titania Ladley

  ISBN: 978-0-9853843-0-2

  Cover by Kimberly Killion of Hot Damn Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book can be copied or reproduced in any manner, except in reviews or for promotional uses on retail websites where this book is sold. In addition, any portion for these uses must give full credit to the author, Titania Ladley.

  Trademark and copyright acknowedgements:

  The author fully acknowledges the copyrights and/or trademarks of any and all products and/or artist names mentioned in this work, including but not limited to:

  Hasbro/Twister

  Levis

  Nike

  Olympics

  Shaggy

  Bob Seger

  Dear Readers,

  Please note: This book contains returning secondary characters from Kabana Heat (published by Samhain Publishing), but can be read as a standalone.

  Chapter One

  Jager Manning stepped from the resort’s boardwalk onto the nude-pool deck, his jaw clenched. Despite the breeze whipping in off the Caribbean Sea, perspiration coated his forehead. His nostrils flared with his rapid breathing. But he didn’t give a devil’s damn if he looked like a hissing cobra prepared to strike. He would find her, and he would tear her apart with fangs of lethal venom if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth.

  His fingers curled into tight fists. No, make that, he would find her and he would kill her with his bare fucking hands.

  He scanned the stone structure of the outdoor restrooms that divided the au natural area of the resort from the clothing-optional section. A tinkling waterfall tumbled behind the building into crisp blue waters of a huge figure-eight-shaped swimming pool. His gaze briefly touched on each of a dozen naked people at the far end whooping and squealing during a game of pool volleyball, but none of them were her.

  No, he could never mistake anyone else for her.

  He didn’t want anyone else.

  He wanted her.

  Dead.

  Bare breasts of all shapes and lovely sizes floated and bobbed in the water, but it didn’t faze him. Hell no. He was on a mission and not to be sidetracked, even by droves of hot, buck-naked chicks.

  He darted a look at the swim-up bar-and-grill to his right. A thin Jamaican man in a bright red floral shirt and black shorts stood behind the grill whistling and flipping burgers. Jager’s stomach growled. His flight had only included a snack, so it’d been over seven hours since he’d last eaten anything of substance, yet even the enticing sizzle and meaty aroma couldn’t detour him from his course.

  To find that scheming, thieving bitch, Anjelee Montrose, and throttle her from here to the goddamn moon.

  His searching stare shifted to the buxom female bartender as she slid a pinà colada across the tiled bar toward a buff, tattooed male. Reggae music blared from the overhead speakers. At the man’s good-natured, overtly sexual thanks, the bartender threw her head back and laughed. She gyrated her voluptuous hips to the catchy island tune and flung her long dreds over a chocolate-toned shoulder.

  Jager skimmed a quick look across the pool in the direction of an accented female voice typical of those residing on the small island of Karibu just off Jamaica’s southern coast.

  “Left hand green.” One of the resort’s entertainment emcees held a colorful cardboard spinner in her hand and a microphone in the other. She glanced toward a group of bodies entwined on the plastic, dotted game board opposite the pool deck from where Jager stood. There was no mistaking the game.

  Twister.

  Naked Twister.

  His gaze took hungry inventory. He searched for Anjelee amid the tangle of male and female limbs, asses, tits and dangling cocks and scrotums.

  Then he saw her. Her husky laughter and pale-blonde, pink-striped hair positively I.D.’d Anjelee. Her toe-touch position caused her long locks to drape over the rear of another equally blonde woman, but it was the sight of that tight little bare rump sticking up in the air that had him stalking around the pool’s perimeter. His carotid pulse beat high in his neck, whooshing up to echo like a bongo drum in his head. He didn’t take his eyes off of her even as he weaved his way around lounge chairs, beach bags and couples engaging in varying displays of affection.

  “Oh, yeah, there you go, baby.” At the nearby male voice, Jager glanced downward toward three people in a clench near the pool’s waterfall. The woman moaned while being sandwiched between two men.

  Holy crap, make that displays of all-out sex.

  A dark-skinned, attractive woman in a security uniform emerged out of nowhere and trailed close on Jager’s heels. “Excuse me, mon, but you can’t—”

  He held up a hand and cut off the voice of apparent authority.

  Nothing and no one could stop him at this point. He couldn’t wait to curl his fingers around Anjelee’s smooth neck, to drag her kicking and screaming back to the States. He longed to watch as the prison bars slammed shut in front of her impish little stunned face. Her green cat-eyes would snap with fury while he laughed his ass off at the spoiled little fit she’d no doubt throw once she realized she’d finally been caught.

  Jager neared, keeping his gaze trained on her upthrust rear. His mouth watered involuntarily. “Uh-uh, don’t look, you fool,” he mumbled to himself. “No matter how good she looks, she’s not going to distract you from getting even and getting justice for Mitch.”

  He stopped directly behind her and raked his stare over the tanned arch of her spine, down along the tight buttocks and shapely legs. Against his will, his eyes riveted back up and zeroed in on the moist slit glistening in the sun.

  Jesus Christ, help him.

  “Right foot red,” the emcee ordered.

  “Red? Oh, shit.” Anjelee let out a giggle of delightful protest, but she twisted obediently into a crabwalk pose.

  He waited the endless beat for her to look up and spy him.

  Finally, her eyes met his. It delighted the hell out of him when her pupils focused on him in recognition. She blinked, and her tanned, heart-shaped face scrunched momentarily, her stunning eyes widening with astonishment.

  Jager braced himself for the electricity of her bright green gaze. Once the power of it leveled out and dissipated in his system, he inhaled and crossed his arms. “Hello there, Anjelee.”

  “What…? What are you doing here?” She clamped her thighs shut, but not before he got a full-on view of her shaven pussy lips and the pierced hood above her clitoris.

  Unbelievable. Either there was a God, or Satan lived on in her. The woman exuded pure sexuality. Naughty as sin.

  But irrelevant.

  “Um, don’t you think I should be asking you that question?”

  With a gymnast’s grace, she vaulted up to a standing position. Her left arm covered her small but full breasts. He considered that ironic given she vacationed at a nude resort and had just been practically spread-eagled for the whole island to devour, yet she played coy when his gaze was on her.

  So the fuck what? He didn’t give one shit. He’d just as soon choke her than get a free visual tour of her tight little body.

  Really. He would.

  His gaze, though, seemed to have a brain of its own. It dropped to her suntanned, smooth labia. It was with that delicious im
age filling his mind that Anjelee slapped her other hand between her legs and growled in outrage. She cupped her mound in such a modest way it made Jager snort. But goddamn if he didn’t long to yank her into his arms and kiss her silly while running his fingertips down between her—

  Stop it, you stupid fucker. She’s the enemy, a lying, thieving sneak who’ll single-handedly ruin your entire career if you don’t get a grip. Besides, she’s not really your type.

  He conjured up all the various women he’d had relationships with in the past—lawyers, models, movie stars, real estate investors, even a hot young female minister.

  No, Anjelee’s definitely not his type.

  Her body trembled with rage. She smacked her hands onto her petite hips and ground out through clenched, perfect white teeth, “You creepy, spying jerk. You followed me.”

  He had to shake the fog from his head in order to shift his gaze from her beautiful pussy, which she’d just bared again, to her flaming eyes. “Well, you didn’t exactly join the Witness Protection Program, now did you?”

  She stuck out her pierced tongue. “Funny. No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I know. The P.I. I hired came pretty cheap since he was able to follow your blatant electronic trail in a matter of minutes. Your name, in connection with Jamaica and this hedonistic Karibu resort you decided to spend all of Mitch’s money at, drew a lot of database hits in spite of your lame effort to rename yourself. Bam.” He mimicked punching a computer-keyboard button. “‘There she is,’ the P.I. says. So naturally, here I am.”

  “Naturally?” Her plump lips curled up in a snarl. Her gaze raked him with sharp blades of distain. “Um, for one thing, you’re unnatural in that, besides the staff, you’re the only one here with clothes on. And for another thing, a man following a woman he barely knows halfway across the world is anything but natural. In fact, it’s a bit stalker-ish.”

  He ignored a surge of temper and leaned closer. The coconut scent of her tanning lotion filled the narrow space between them. “Stalker-ish? Ya think? Huh, and that coming from a member of the oh-so non-stalker-ish paparazzi who trespassed, climbed up on a fucking rooftop, took intimate, unauthorized pictures of…some people, and then blackmailed those very people. Yeah, that’s non-stalker-ish if I’ve ever seen it. By the way, if you had any geography smarts at all, you’d know it’s not halfway across the world from L.A. to here.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Okay, I’ll concede.” He disregarded her childish retort and bent in closer still, trying like hell not to drown in the big pools of her eyes or the warmth of her body. “You’re damn right I’m stalking you. In fact, I’m going to stalk you all the way to goddamn prison.”

  She gasped, her pretty little mouth forming an O of indignation. “Prison?”

  “Yes, prison.”

  He suppressed a shiver of lust when she folded her arms under her breasts and forced the small mounds upward. The pert, pink nipples glistened where she’d slathered on suntan lotion. They peaked to hardness even as he visually devoured them.

  She threw her head back and let out a melodious laugh that massaged his ears and stroked his cock like a well-versed lover. Her long, pale locks with the striking neon-pink streaks fluttered behind her in the tropical breeze.

  “What, you think you’re some kind of big, bad international cop come to arrest me or something? If so, where’s your gun?”

  “You know damn well I’m not a cop.” But I’ve got a gun, all right, one that’s going to shoot a blank if I don’t get the hell away from her.

  He lowered his voice to a muted growl so that only she could hear him. It wouldn’t do for anyone to eavesdrop on what he said and have it end up in next week’s tabloids in some twisted version of the truth. “If you’d dig back into the dust that is your tiny brain, you might recall I’m movie star Mitch Wulfrum’s P.R. manager, the one who authorized fifty grand of his money to be deposited into your account not long ago to shut your ass up about his supposed ‘gay’ propensities.”

  “Supposed? There’s no supposed about it. Mitch Wul—” She shrieked it out, but he swooped in and had his hand clamped over her mouth before she could sing the last note of vehemence. His other arm snaked around her waist and yanked her up so he could quietly sneer in her ear.

  Ignore it, asshole. Ignore the silkiness of her skin along your arm and the moistness of her lips pressed into your palm.

  “I paid you to go away, remember?” His mouth brushed her small ear. Jesus. A soft ear. Soft and too fucking warm against his lips.

  She wiggled and thrashed, but he held her in check, despite the repeated brushing of her hip against his now tingling cock.

  He ignored it and went on, snarling in her ear. “Big, big bucks, by the way. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it kind of odd—not to mention totally against our legally binding agreement—that even after paying you all that hush money, I just got word not two days ago that Mitch is being blackmailed again—and this person seems to be demanding a quarter of a million dollars this time? And isn’t it also odd that this bit of correspondence from ‘Anonymous’ stated that if we refused, she’d write a tell-all article and sell it to the highest gossip-column magazine bidder in Hollywood? Did I not get that right, Anonymous?”

  She shrugged her shoulder to dislodge his mouth from her ear, then nipped his palm and twisted out of his hold with a grunt of protest. “Maybe.” The sun glinted off a silver ball when she stuck her pierced tongue out at him again like a spoiled brat. She crossed her arms and turned, presenting him with a breathtaking, highly erotic profile. “Maybe not.”

  He spun her back to face him and gripped both of her upper arms. “You know damn well there’s no fucking ‘maybe’ to it. It’s called extortion, same this time as last time. And it’s illegal as hell.”

  Her mouth compressed in stubborn, silent response. Taut little biceps flexed when she pushed her folded arms up higher causing her breasts to rise like two mouthwatering loaves of bread.

  Shit, I must be more hungry than I realized.

  With a strength he didn’t know he possessed, he tore his stare from her chest and raised his gaze, determined to ignore her body and maintain some semblance of control. Slowly, he lowered his head and whispered in her ear. But the question he chose to ask perplexed even him, yet he had to know the answer.

  “So tell me, Anjelee, did you miss me? Even knowing I’ve come to escort you back to the States so you can finally go to prison?”

  “Did you miss me?” She mimicked him, her face screwed up in a mask of sarcasm while her head bobbled from side to side. But beneath the mask, he caught a flash of fear as sure as the orange and pink sun was setting at that very moment out over the ocean behind her shoulder.

  He rolled his eyes. “What a stupid question.”

  “You’re the one who asked first,” she shrieked with narrowed eyes.

  “Whatever.” God, already in the time he’d been standing here arguing with her, he’d taken to her Anjelee-speak language.

  “All right, I’ll play along. Here’s what I missed.” She held up a single finger, tapped it to her cheek, and blinked disdainfully. “Hmm, let’s see. I missed hearing you stutter and seeing you stumble after I put you in your place. I missed watching you squirm through the lens of my camera when I took your picture at their wedding—when you knew that I knew you’d lied to your client, the bride’s father, Heloki ‘Alohi.”

  “Shh!” he hissed. Goddamn her.

  “I missed every flipping minute of your sooo attractive arrogance and puffed up, big-man’s chest.” To that, she puffed out her own chest and spoke in a deep, scoffing voice. “I missed your aristocratic, brown-nosing nose stuck up in the air. I missed your—”

  “That’s enough.” He shook her to silence. Jager wanted to laugh at the panic that had spiked in her chattering voice and the terror hiding behind the insolence in her eyes. He’d evoked it in her whether she cared to make it known or not, simply by mentioning the word “pri
son”. Maybe he wouldn’t have to choke her after all. Maybe his mere presence here would scare her to fucking death.

  “Is that all the defense you have to the prospect of prison? Some childish mockery?”

  “Ooh, what do you want from me?” she demanded, stomping a foot and making her boobs bounce in the process.

  He lifted one shoulder with indifference he didn’t feel in the least. “I already told you: To see you behind bars where you belong.”

  She jerked herself free of his hold and stalked over to a lounge chair, the round, smooth globes of her little ass jiggling. She dug a sarong out of a bag and jerkily tied it around her hips while her eyes damned him over her shoulder with fires straight from hell. Next, she spun back around and slid into a short, sheer excuse for a cover-up. Shit, it did little to cover anything up. So he couldn’t help himself. He drank in the muted sight of her labia through the lime-green, sheer fabric of the sarong. Holy swollen balls, was it possible for a woman to look more sexy with her pussy partially covered than totally nude?

  Her breasts jiggled beneath the thin robe as she jammed her small feet into neon-blue flip-flops. Pink nipples perked up and tented the gauzy material of the cover-up.

  He was just about to cross to her when a hand clamped around his elbow and whirled him around. “Hey, mon, either you remove your clothes, or you’ll have to leave.” It was the female security guard who’d been following him earlier. Her big brown eyes were narrowed, her jaw tight with authority, and her cocoa skin glistened by the light of the setting sun.

  Jager glanced over at Anjelee. She’d been about to snatch up her bag and flee, but at the guard’s words of warning, her compressed mouth spread into a wicked grin. Anjelee set her fists on her hips and tapped her foot, waiting for his response. The gleam in her eyes told him she knew that if she left the nude area, he wouldn’t have to strip down if he followed her. But if she stayed, thus forcing him to stay, as well, he’d have to follow the rules and get naked, or face being banned from the au natural half of the small island—of course, the half she’d chosen to inhabit.