Karibu Heat (Sequel to Kabana Heat)

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 image 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
un
natural
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.”

“What
ever
.”

“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.