Untouched 19 year-old Sloane sets off from Santa Cruz, California to break the record for sailing around the world solo.
Her Dad’s life hangs in the balance. A storm shipwrecks her on a remote island and puts her at the mercy of the disarming man who owns it. Gabriel will help make her dreams come true, but only if she consents to become his prey.
His entertainment for the other billionaires requires a beauty to track through the jungle, to hunt and to take. She doesn’t dare tell him she’s a virgin. But he has a way of sensing her most secret desires.
CAPTURE combines my love of seafaring adventures with trashy old movies that feature girls being chased and threatened by big men in a jungle. I daydream about such things! In this novella I get to go places those stories and movies couldn’t go.
I discovered a stash of old men’s magazines under a bed long ago. The adventure stories in them didn’t spell things out, but they captivated me with their suspense and titillating suggestiveness. The futuristic elements in The Billionaires Club series come from my passion for science fiction and technology. I have a thing for sexy vehicles of all kinds, so like Sloane, I could damned near go lesbian for a boat. I don’t take this lust as far as Chuck Tingle, though.:) I don’t want to give away too much, so I’ll just say Sloane gets to explore her sexuality in more than one way.
Sloane is the first heroine in this series who fights back. She gets kickass. I caught someone ripping off my work, in a tacky, trash-level way, and that fueled the rage that comes out in this book. It wasn’t intentional. It ended up being a way to deal with something ugly in a way that didn’t derail my goals. There are times in life you feel what you feel, do what you have to do, and keep on.
This one’s dedicated to all the women who stay strong and keep on, even if you don’t always feel strong. As dirty as these books are, I like giving my heroines a good surprise and happy ending — after all the hard surprises.
Q
EXCERPT:
He looked like an ad for menswear for a super expensive magazine, or someone you’d see on the cover of an adventure novel: strong, tanned face, crinkles around the eyes — outrageous eyes the color of the sea when it’s that unbelievable blue-green that looks like it goes on right to the bottom where the treasure ships wait.
His thick beard made him timeless, like a ship’s captain from another century. The pure masculinity of it drew my eyes, and it seduced me into imagining his mouth and chin naked, the way a striptease artist plays on what’s hidden more than on what’s revealed.
Damn, he looked fine. Big, muscular shoulders, open-collared linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up over cords of arm muscle, pale jeans rolled up on strong, hairy calves. Clinging, worn-to-hell perfect jeans gripped his meaty thighs, big package and the muscular cuts on his hips that framed his happy trail. Damn. The man was porno on feet.
I closed my mouth. Glanced away. Had to be a hallucination. Glanced back. Still there. Still hot.
Yes, he looked as old as my father with dark hair sporting silver streaks and silver curls in his chest hair. He could be any age from 35 to 60 or so. He had that timeless presence, total male confidence. I stood there staring like a mouse mesmerized by a snake.
“I won’t bite,” he whispered. “Allow me to offer you some hospitality.” He handed me a beach towel I hadn’t noticed in my distraction by his other assets.
He turned his back. “When you’re dry, you’re welcome to my shirt. Not much point getting dry and putting the wet things back on.” His deep voice caressed me.
This was getting out of hand. I felt like I’d dropped into one of those movies shown only on TV stations for women.
Of course he was going to give me his shirt warm from his body and stand there in reach of my hands naked except for those jeans that showed off every contour of his smoking hot body below the waist. This was not fair. This was insane. And whatever happened, I’d never tell Dad. I blushed.
I slid my too-big wet shorts off, yanked off my T-shirt and buffed myself dry with his big, thick, warm beach towel. Damn, that felt good. I wrapped the towel firmly around my body, hoping it disguised the fact that my nipples were hard as hell and jutting right at him. I was a good girl. The shipwreck addled my mind. As soon as he got away from me I’d be fine, I’d be normal and stop thinking about having zipless sex with a strange older man on his island.
“Ready for the shirt?”
“Yes.” I watched all that rippling muscle as he pulled it off. I caught his expert toss.
Warm from his body. I pressed the soft linen to my face before I could stop myself. So sue me. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen close up. And unlike other muscle studs I’d seen on beaches near home, he didn’t wax and didn’t look like he spent hours in front of a mirror. No signs of muscle implants, pimply steroid-abuse, makeup or cosmetic surgery.
I slipped the shirt on. It came to below my knees. I buttoned it, flapped my arms. I looked like an albino bat. I giggled. I draped the towel over my shoulders to conceal my nipple missiles. Such a gentleman. He still stood there with his back turned. I admired those dips right below the low-slung waist band of his jeans. Sweet. Man candy. God, I really was a sailor.
“Okay, I’m dressed.”
He turned around, flashed me his white, even teeth. Swoon.
“You look much more comfortable.”
“Yes, much better, thanks.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Shipwreck.” I gestured back at the beach.
“Shipwreck?” His brows rose, making waves across his forehead.
I bet he was a sailor. He looked like a man of the sea, the deep squint lines, those magical eyes. They were the color a merman’s eyes would be.
PS: I’m leaving comments off because I’m always writing. I treasure reader reviews on Amazon. If you feel the urge, please let me know what you think!
Q
Q . Z a y n e B o o k s 
You must be logged in to post a comment.