Jamaican Temptation - Excerpt
Copyright © Afton Locke, 2014 - All Rights Reserved
Kyra sipped her yellow, frosty drink when it arrived, tasting pineapple, rum, and sugar. “Just what I thought. Lame. I told you we should have gone to Grand Cayman instead.”
“But Jamaica has more beauty,” Latasha insisted. “Did you see those mountains as we flew in? I already have ideas for at least ten paintings.”
“You’re such an artist. Grand Cayman has a zillion banks. That’s my kind of art.”
“Maybe we can tour a coffee plantation tomorrow,” Latasha suggested. “I want to see the island from up high, and you could meet a rich plantation owner.”
Kyra grinned for the first time since she’d strolled into this boring bar. “Me and a white plantation owner? I’m not so sure I like the sound of that.”
So why did her thighs clench under her black-and-gold striped sundress? She’d fantasized about getting intimate with a white man, but could she actually do it for real? As long as his money was green, she wasn’t too particular about her dream man’s skin color. It paid to have an open mind.
Both women focused on the stage when the band launched into the next song. The reggae beat drifted through Kyra’s body, washing away the frantic rhythm of her life and replacing it with something slower, sexier…. She found herself swaying in her seat as if rocked by an invisible tide.
In addition to the male lead singer, the band included a guy each on drums, keyboard, and bass guitar. A teenaged male swished a flag around. No white men there. Each had dreadlocks or braids of varying lengths.
Wait a minute. The lead singer had paler skin than the others. He was either mixed race or a white guy with a tan. He was so slim and lithe as he swayed to the music he appeared pretty young. Condensation dripped over Kyra’s fingers as she clutched her glass.
When the lights rotated and swept the stage, she caught a glimpse of blue. The lead singer had blue eyes. Come to think of it, his dreadlocks were brown instead of black and not quite as puffy as the others’ hair.
“I’ll be damned,” she muttered to herself. “He is white.”
“Huh?” Latasha asked.
“The lead singer is white.”
“So?” Her friend shrugged. “I don’t think there’s any rule against white people playing reggae.”
That’s not the point. The point is…he’s hot. Damn hot.
He wore a worn, light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His faded jeans had holes in them and were one step away from the rag bag. Her gaze continued to his feet, finding a pair of biblical-style sandals.
Hardly the rich man she was looking for.