Island Fantasies: An Island Escapes Travel Romance Read online

  Island Fantasies

  An Island Escapes travel romance

  by Anna Lowe

  Island Fantasies

  Copyright 2016 by Anna Lowe

  [email protected]

  Editing by Lisa A. Hollett

  Cover art by The Killion Group

  www.thekilliongroup.com

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

  By Anna Lowe

  Travel Romance

  Island Fantasies

  Veiled Fantasies

  Serendipity Adventure Romance

  Off the Charts (the Prequel)

  Uncharted (Book 1)

  Entangled (Book 2)

  Windswept (Book 3)

  Adrift (Book 4)

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  Off the Charts

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  Sign up for my newsletter at annalowebooks.com to get your free copy of Off the Charts (the prequel to the Serendipity Adventure Romance series).

  All Julie Steffens wants is a quiet couple of days on a Caribbean beach. Just her, a good book, and the balmy sea breeze. But the minute she meets Seth Cooper, sparks start to fly, and all bets are off.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  By Anna Lowe

  Free book

  Contents

  Island Fantasies

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek: Windswept

  Sneak Peek II

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  Other books by Anna Lowe

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

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  Island Fantasies

  Hannah Klein is living a fantasy in the South Pacific: swaying palms, sunny skies, and an aquamarine lagoon that puts travel posters to shame. In two weeks, she’s scheduled to set sail on the voyage of her dreams – hardly the time to be thinking “forever” about the guy she just met. So what if he happens to be sweet, soulful, and absolutely succulent? The closer they get, the more Hannah suspects that Kyle’s the one. But is any man worth trading in her dreams for?

  Kyle Stanton has it all: a stellar career, an exciting life in New York – and a bet to win. He has to endure two weeks on remote Pacific island with no phone, no email, no Internet. He’s looking for distraction, not a long-term relationship. But there’s something special about Hannah, and Kyle can’t hold back. When the time comes to say goodbye, will he really be able to let her sail away?

  Chapter One

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  ***

  Maupiti, island paradise.

  “Take Bora Bora, shrink it down, and take away the tourists.” That’s how his friend had described the place. “Just one craggy mountain and the South Pacific lagoon of your dreams.”

  Paradise was an understatement, Kyle decided as he looked over the ferry railing and inhaled the view. A rainbow of greens and blues formed a moat around the sheer, volcanic peak that rose out of the island’s center. Maupiti was truly a castle in the sea.

  It was gorgeous, like something out of a travel brochure. Hell, the whole poster, in panorama format and beyond. And that was the thing: this wasn’t just a picture, nor did it appear in any brochures or posters. Maupiti was a place fame had yet to visit or spoil. It was perfect.

  The perfect place to sit out that silly bet — the one that insisted he could go two weeks without Internet, cell phone, email, or other electronic devices. Or couldn’t, depending whose perspective you took. His or his brother’s.

  Okay, it was a little childish for a thirty-plus-year-old, but still. Two weeks in paradise! Kyle had to hand it to himself for finagling a bet that “stuck” him in the South Pacific while his brother held down the fort at the firm. Who was the winner there? Ha!

  He folded yesterday’s Wall Street Journal and ignored the sudden itch that had him wondering what today’s edition was saying about stock prices.

  He caught himself and forced the thought away. The company would survive without him. Or so he hoped. Because he sure could survive without it.

  Or so he hoped.

  He watched as the ferry backed toward a rickety dock. The shoreside crowd looked on, hoping, perhaps, to catch a glimpse of a loved one — or maybe even a minor docking disaster. Remote island communities, he figured, had to make their own fun.

  Which applied to him now, too. A speck of a remote island six miles around didn’t exactly pack in entertainment the way Manhattan did, and it had a sticky-sweet honeymooner vibe to it. And he definitely wasn’t a honeymooner. Not since Cindy, at least…

  He cut off the thought there and wrinkled his nose, even though the air was pure and clean. Cleared his throat as if he were calling a meeting to order rather than banishing memories. Then he hit his inner Reset button and looked around.

  What he needed was a distraction, something to fill the unfamiliar downtime. Sitting around on the beach…well, that didn’t have much appeal. But kite surfing, sailing, maybe some scuba diving — yes, that would do it. He’d be fine.

  His ring finger twitched, but he told himself that was his thumb, itching to scroll through messages on the cell phone he’d left at home.

  As the ferry chugged closer, the crowd grew. Kyle’s eyes wandered over the lagoon, where a dozen sailboats under various flags — French, American, German, English, and more — bobbed at anchor. The gypsies of the modern world — that’s what sailors were. People who’d checked out of the rat race and sailed the seven seas.

  Irresponsible, sniffed the straitlaced half of his mind.

  Tempting, hummed the bad boy, wild side.

  The responsible side won out, though, every time, so Kyle turned his back on the boats. He was a guy who worked in the family business and made sure everyone was taken care of: his mother, his younger siblings, employees, and shareholders. A responsible guy who upheld the family name and conducted himself in a way that would make his father proud. A guy who would never, ever dream of packing up and sailing away.

  But the hidden, wild side of his soul liked the idea of casting off from it all. Loved it. A little re
lease from time to time was all he got in carefully measured doses: an hour of bouncing over the waves on a windsurfer, a quick session on an indoor climbing wall. Just enough to make him thirst for more. But he kept that side shackled and carefully controlled. Kyle knew who he was and what he wanted from life; he’d made his choice long ago.

  Or had the choice made for him, an inner voice growled.

  Kyle felt a jolt as the ferry bumped the pier, the cue to squelch his inner dialogue. He checked his watch. After nearly thirty-six hours of travel, he was in paradise at last.

  He smiled and rolled his suitcase down the ramp. Let the bet begin.

  * * *

  Passengers began to trickle ashore, met by the thick fragrance of tropical flowers and lush fruit. Kyle was one of a handful of tourists on the ferry. The rest were all locals who were greeted with hugs, flower necklaces, or tears of delight. A curvy Polynesian woman in a breezy red sundress clapped in delight and scooped up a grandchild who came running her way. A bear of a man with swirling tattoos etched into his bronze skin took a baby from its mother’s arms and made cooing noises to it, then tugged the woman close and kissed her. Two older men hobbled off the ferry and waved to a couple of grinning teens who had been fishing until the ferry came in.

  Not a single person rushed, shouted, or pushed. Not a single item of clothing blazed a name brand or sports team, and the only fashion accessories in sight were the hibiscus flowers just about every woman wore tucked behind one ear. It was about as far from the scene on a New York subway as a man could get — in spirit and in location.

  Wow. He was really in the South Pacific. Half a world away from home, and the scene was all about family. Love. Warmth, and not just the kind from the smiling tropical sun. Kyle nearly turned and commented on it, except there was no one to comment to. No brother, no travel buddy, no girlfriend.

  Definitely no girlfriend, because he’d learned about that the hard way.

  “Oh, sorry!” Someone coming the other way bumped his elbow, and his head whipped around at the American-accented Sorry, rather than a French Pardon.

  He’d turned his head without thinking, because his ears had been so filled with French over the past hours that English already sounded out of place. Or maybe because he’d never seen eyes quite that clear or quite that blue. Blue like the water out by the edge of the reef, where the lagoon dove one layer deeper.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, counting freckles. Trying to figure out if the hair under her straw sun hat was blond or brown. Wondering why he cared.

  He caught a flash of denim and a whole lot of bronzed skin, and then the woman was past him, moving toward the pile of crates that had just been unloaded. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her darting eyes intense. So intense, it seemed that whatever it was she had come to pick up at the ferry would never be found in a box like the ones she was heading for just then.

  He kept walking, but his nostrils flared, trying to capture her scent. God, was he tempted to turn around for another look. Really, really tempted.

  Kyle cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. What he needed now was a ride to his hotel, not a second glance at a cute chick.

  “Um, taxi?” he asked a blue-uniformed policeman overlooking the scene.

  The officer pointed to a man leaning against a rusty pickup. “Demandez à Gaston.” Ask Gaston.

  Kyle made his way to the sumo wrestler-sized Polynesian leaning against a pickup and did his best to string together enough words to get his message across. “Je besoin d’un taxi à la Hotel Le Beau Soleil, s’il vous plaît.” He wasn’t sure if his high school French teacher would cringe or smile with pride at that.

  Gaston responded with a smile and a river of syllables that seemed to mean, Sure, but I need a minute.

  A minute that stretched to five, but Kyle was on vacation now, right? He pushed his suitcase into the bed of the truck, next to a huge stalk of bananas and a pair of two-gallon fuel jugs. Then he waited in the shade. Tapping his foot, watching palm fronds shift in the breeze. The crowd took its merry time in heading home, and he wondered how the hell he was going to pass the time on an island where the arrival of the ferry was the main event. If this was a bustling Friday on Maupiti, what would the weekend be like?

  “Pardon…Merci…Pardon.”

  He looked up, and there she was again. The woman he’d already dubbed Summer in his mind. He could barely see her behind the huge box she was carrying, but he recognized the straw hat. Straining and sweating, she paused a few steps short of the truck, lowering the box to her knee for a breather.

  “Here, let me get that,” he offered, stepping over.

  She pivoted away, tilting her chin up from where it balanced a corner of the box. “Don’t need any help, thanks.” She hefted the box higher with a grunt.

  One of those, huh?

  The thought must have found expression on his face, because the look that flashed through her eyes said, Yes, I am one of those. A woman who can open her own doors and carry ridiculously heavy boxes, thank you very much.

  “I’m fine,” she grunted.

  “I can get it,” he tried.

  The look she shot him said, One of those, huh?

  She meant the kind who didn’t know when to back down, so he stepped away, if only to prove her wrong.

  “I’ve got it.” When she lifted the box, sinew stood out all over her legs and arms, corded with a layer of muscle that hid again the second she was at rest. Like a cat: one minute slumbering in the sun, the next minute leaping and agile. She teetered toward the truck, thumped the box onto the tail, then slid it in. She hopped up behind it and looked back at him.

  God, she had nice legs. And wow, were those eyes blue.

  Eyes that blinked at his suitcase in confusion.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Gaston said to the woman as he flipped the tail of the truck up. That much French, Kyle got. Apparently, she’d arranged a ride with him before Kyle had. “He’s going your way.”

  His heart tapped a little faster in his chest. She was going his way? Well, given that the island had a single ring road, everyone was pretty much going his way. The only choice was clockwise or counterclockwise around the shore. Everything else was up — up the sheer slopes of the craggy volcanic peak.

  But was she really going to ride in the back?

  Kyle hesitated at the door to the cab. “Wouldn’t you like to ride inside?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine back here.”

  He tilted his head at her.

  “It’s more fun back here. More wind, better views.” She laughed. “Besides, how often does a girl from New Jersey get to ride in the back of a pickup?”

  He blinked at her. Apparently, she wasn’t worried about her hair or nails or what people might think.

  Refreshing.

  She gave him an appraising look and seemed to decide he needed a little help with his escape from civilization. “You can ride back here, too, if you want.”

  He grinned at the idea, but damn it, his inner autopilot already had him folding his frame into the cab and saying, “No thanks.”

  Jesus, when had he become such a prude?

  “On est prêt?” Gaston asked, sliding in on the driver’s side. Ready to go?

  “Allons-y,” the woman chirped, and they were off.

  Gaston waved left and right as they bounced along, chattering in rapid French Kyle caught roughly one-tenth of, tops.

  The paved lane was little more than a jungle road, shaded by umbrella-sized leaves and low-hanging vines.

  “Um…” Kyle glanced in the rearview mirror as the woman ducked, then reappeared with a huge grin. She meant it when she said the back was more fun.

  Houses lined the road, small and simple but neat as a pin, their yards all miniature Gardens of Eden. Curtains wafted from open windows, mimicking the arms of a hula dancer. A man on a bicycle was coming the other way with a basket of fish slung over his back. A group of giggling schoolkids in blue-and-white uniforms bounced a
long, and two women walked slowly, carrying huge banana stalks.

  “Iaorana!” the girls called.

  Polynesian for hello — Kyle had learned that from the Air Tahiti in-flight magazine. But how anyone could get that many vowels off his or her tongue smoothly, he had no clue.

  “Iaorana!” the young woman in the back of the truck replied, and his eyes flipped back to the mirror.

  The ragged T-shirt she wore flapped in the breeze, and what he could make of the image on it showed some kind of running event in Vermont. Which fit, because the legs stretching a mile from the scrappy hem of her cutoff shorts were toned and trim. Her skin had the deep, golden tone of someone who’d spent lots of time in the tropics, and the sun hat she wore looked like it might have crossed the equator a few times.

  A sailor, maybe?

  The clothes were something you’d see on any beach, but still, something about her was different. Like the beaded anklet she wore, looped three or four times around. The bright colors of the beads stood out against the deep bronze of her leg: indigo blues, reef greens, sunny yellows. Everything about this woman was happy and relaxed.

  The Bad Boy part of him wanted to whistle and say, You don’t see that every day. Not where he came from, at least.

  She was pretty, like a ponytailed soccer player from a Nike ad. Capable, in a Robinson Crusoe kind of way. Practical, judging by the weathered sandals he’d seen.

  In other words, totally not his type. Which was fine, because he wasn’t here to find any type of woman at all. He was here to get away from it all.

  The truck whipped past a tiny chapel made of coral blocks so pure a white against the blue of the sky that he popped his sunglasses over his eyes. The truck slowed when they reached a wide spot in the road where the police and fire stations stood, each topped with the French tricolor. Gaston pulled over, leaving his engine running as the woman unloaded her box and the fuel jugs. Then she unslung her backpack, pulled out a handheld radio, and faced the sea.