Let me introduce a new book from Author
Kathleen Rowland.
She picked the setting of Cuba for a reason. She wanted to trap her proud Cuban professor
there. He survives because of his flamboyant personality and opportunistic
nature. Cuba is a fascinating mid-century time warp. The 1950s cars still run
due to amazing mechanics. No matter how hardworking, Cubans exist under
strict communistic rules such as the inability to move from one section of the
country to another. Without free-enterprise they can’t make much money. If they do leave, they can only bring ten
thousand dollars with them, but this would be a huge amount of money for most
Cubans. Big business such as cigar manufacture is government-run.
One
Night in Havana—blurb:
A desperate competition and
sizzling attraction leads to dangerous desire.
New York Marine biologist Veronica “Roni” Keane is attending the Havana Bay Conference
in Cuba. Tomorrow only one grant will be awarded which will provide the winner
with professional recognition, resources for a project, and living expenses for
two years. She hopes to continue her deceased father’s work, but smooth
operator, Carlos Montoya, has won many grants in the past.
Carlos, a freelancer for the Havana Port Authority, works to help protect
Havana’s reputation as a bastion of safety. As international travelers flock to
the island, attracted by its 1950’s time-warp and colonial architecture, the
drug business is running rampant, particularly on Roni’s cruise ship.
Something’s not right, and when her scuba tanks are tampered with, Carlos
brings in the military police to investigate. For her safety, he keeps her
close, but he craves her body.
Their attraction leads to a fun night with a bit of kink. But Roni finds
herself in more trouble than she bargained for when the criminals blame her for
alerting the military police and come looking for her. Can Roni trust Carlos to
protect her? Will she stay in Havana if Carlos wins the coveted grant, or kiss
her lover goodbye?
Excerpt-- Chapter
One
“Why, Veronica Keane.” A voice
heavy with a Spanish accent drawled from behind her. “A dive bar?” A taunting tsk. “What do we have? A slumming New
Yorker?”
She stiffened and closed her eyes.
She knew that voice and its owner, Dr. Carlos Montoya, a finalist like her,
competing for the same damn grant at the biggest Cephalopoda conference of the decade. Her heart
pitter-pattered against her ribs. To turn toward him would intimate distress,
or worse yet, weakness. She wouldn’t fail to win this grant, not when she was a
final contender. “I like this funky little place.” Sia Macario Café, smack in
the center of Havana, allowed her to observe locals and their daily lives.
“You need to eat with all the
mojitos you’ve downed.” The big tease wasn’t counting. This was her first
drink, but his rumbling, sexy timbre hinted at all kinds of dark, hot promises.
She’d rubbed shoulders with the Cuban scientist all week. This splendid
specimen of Latin male brought on a physical ache that punched low.
A flare-up stirred fear. For her
own good, she needed to resist. “I ordered camarones
enchiladas.” By now she knew the menu on the chalkboard by heart. She
tipped her head back to whiff grilled shrimp soon to arrive in sofrito sauce
with fried sweet plantains.
“The flan is good. Just like my abuela makes.”
“I bet. Your grandmother would be
happy to hear that,” she said, knowing he brought out the best in most people.
Two days ago he'd invited her and a handful of others scuba diving. The chance
to ogle him had been one of the perks. He’d worn nothing but swim trunks, his
bare chest on display. Every glistening muscle was finely etched. Not a drop of
fat on him. Since he’d not given her the time of day, she’d checked him out
without him noticing.
The hard-bodied host had led the
way toward habitats of soft-bodied creatures. To find where invertebrates lived
was never an easy task. Octopuses squeezed into narrow passages of coral for
protection and gave females a place to keep their eggs. She’d discovered the
remains of a few meals nearby. Octopuses scattered rocks and shells to help
them hide.
This grant meant so much to her and no doubt
to him as well. Veronica mindlessly toyed with the gold necklace around her
neck, but anxiety crackled through her brain. Unlike this man of action, she
lacked the flamboyant personality necessary to talk people into things. Carlos
had that ability. He'd made friends with judges on board while she’d conversed
with an older woman about a box of scones made with Cuban vanilla cream.
That day the wind had picked up to
a gale force, and this woman named Bela with Lucille Ball red hair needed help
walking to her home. The half mile down the seaside promenade, The Malecón, had provided her with time to
practice her Spanish. Turned out Bela was Carlos’s grandmother. She’d worked as
a maid when the Castro government came to
power. When private homes were nationalized, titles were handed over to the
dwelling occupants. Bela owned a crumbling home in the respected Verdado
district and rented out rooms.
What Veronica detested about Carlos
was his abnormal level of talent for schmoozing. Not that he wasn't
charismatic; he drew her like a powerful magnet with emotions hard to untangle.
Why was a self-assured woman who ran her own life thinking about a man who
commanded everyone around him?
She inhaled a breath and turned
around on the barstool, caught fast by a gut punch of Carlos Montoya in the
flesh. She sighed and surrendered to the tendrils of want sliding up between
her thighs.
Tall and muscular, his lush dark
hair curled to his collar giving him a wild, roguish appearance. His face was
lean and chiseled. His mouth full and tempting. His eyes the smoky-gray of a
grass fire and fringed with black lashes as dense as paintbrushes. He smiled. A
faint hint of mockery curved his mouth, a sensual mouth she imagined to be
either inviting or cruel. Or both at the same time when he leaned over a woman
with a diamond-hard gleam in his dark eyes while she drowned with pleasure. She
fought a fierce desire to run her hand across his broad chest, tip her face
upward, and…
His breath tickled her face.
Not
going there.
She blinked and forced her mind to focus. Carlos Montoya was not the kind of
man you lost focus around. But that image
of putting her mouth full on his and peeling away his shirt once introduced in
her mind was impossible to expunge.
Pointless even to try.
He was an intimidating blend of
intellect and sexy danger. Both qualities had her leaning back against the
bar’s edge. If it weren’t for him, she’d have a chance at winning the grant.
His lips twitched. “You’re staying
on one of the cruise ships, am I right?” He rolled up the sleeves of his linen
jacket to reveal a dusting of manly hair.
”Yes." Her cabin served as her
hotel room while attending the January meetings with perfect high-seventies
temperatures. His eyes locked with hers. She willed herself to move and yet she
remained seated, clutching heat between her legs, a wetness so intense that her
breath stalled in her chest while her heart hammered faster. Soon she’d return
to freezing New York City.
“So, Bonita, give.” He slid onto the bar stool next to her. “What brings
you down from a lofty ship to grace us lowly Cubans with your presence?”
Bonita. Pretty lady was
not an endearment coming from the mouth curved in a taunting smile, but not a
slight either. Not with his deep, melodic voice speaking words as if he knew
secrets about her. What secrets did he know? Would he pry into her personal
life? She doubted this bad-boy college professor acknowledged boundaries.
“Just drinks and dinner.” She
scrambled for composure. “Aren’t we attending a world-class conference? I find
the local population to be friendly and kind. That’s not slumming.”
The bartender set down a saoco. “Hope you like it, senorita.”
“Gracias,” she said. “Very nice,
served in a coconut.”
“Ah, the saoco,” Carlos said. “Rum,
lime juice, sugar, and ice. The saoco,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in his
words. “Um. Wow. Once used as a tonic for prisoners of the revolution.”
“Medicinal?” She couldn’t help it.
She chuckled and sounded as if a rusty spoon had scraped her throat raw, but it
was genuine. The warm glow in its wake was welcome and needed.
He leaned an elbow on the bar, his
beer bottle with the green-and-red Cristal label dangling between his fingers.
“Be careful with that one.” He dipped his head toward the front door as if he
needed to go somewhere soon.
That fast, the glow snuffed out.
She cleared her throat and gripped the
fuzzy surface of the coconut container.
He placed a five-peso coin with a
brass plug on the counter and whirled it. The spinning motion mirrored a
dizzying attraction going on in low parts of her belly.
All buy links are right here:
Bio—Kathleen Rowland
Book Buyers Best finalist Kathleen Rowland is devoted
to giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes suspense with an erotic love
story sure to melt their hearts. Her
latest release is One Night in Havana,
#34 in the City Nights erotic romance series.
Kathleen also has a steamy romantic suspense series
with Tirgearr Publishing, Deadly Alliance
is followed by Unholy Alliance. Keep
an icy drink handy while reading these sizzling stories.
Kathleen used to write computer programs but now
writes novels. She grew up in Iowa
where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and raced her sailboat on Lake
Okoboji. Now she wears flip-flops and
sails with her husband, Gerry, on Newport Harbor but wishes there were lightning
bugs in California.
Kathleen exists happily with her witty CPA husband,
Gerry, in their 70’s poolside retreat in Southern California where she adores
time spent with visiting grandchildren, dogs, one bunny, and noisy
neighbors. While proud of their five
children who’ve flown the coop, she appreciates the luxury of time to
write. If you’d enjoy news, sign up for
Kathleen’s newsletter at http://www.kathleenrowland.com/
http://www.kathleenrowland.blogspot.com
Thanks for sharing you book with us,
Anita
