(Website, Twitter, Goodreads)Series: Surrender Isle
on June 8th 2016
PARADISE BAY - Resort 1 of the Surrender Isle Series by Havana Scott (Steamy Contemporary Romance):
A filthy rich resort mogul and the one woman he can't buy make for one sizzling summer romance.
When recently-divorced Paris Jones enters an essay contest to win a month-long vacation in Paradise Bay, a hot luxury resort in the French Indies, she doesn't believe dreams can come true. Everyone knows they choose winners with compelling sob stories, not aspiring authors needing time to work on their novels. But Paris's talent for bringing snarky humor to her writing catches the eye and heart of Paradise Bay's sexy affluent owner, and before she knows it, she's packing her bags and flying to the heart of paradise.
Tristan Giovanetti has seen it all, done it all, spent it all. After business school, he owned restaurants, clubs on South Beach, and now a private island resort with his two business partners. He has less than a year left to pay off his biggest investor, ex-lover, Tatianne Moreau who's about to arrive. He's bedded the most beautiful women in the Caribbean, but nothing rocks his island more than the arrival of a witty, beautiful travel copy writer from Ohio who's lost all faith in herself and love.
Can Tristan restore Paris's zest for life despite Tatianne's jealous interference? Will Paris give love another chance after her marriage failed so miserably? A tale of restoring balance and enchanting island romance, Paradise Bay - Resort 1 of the SURRENDER ISLE Series will have you surrendering to love again.
Yes, the thought of winning did scare me. Because there was no such thing as paradise on Earth. Because happily ever afters dissolved soon after they began. Because real people didn’t vacation on exotic islands. They stayed stuck at their dead-end jobs. Real people brought leftover soup for lunch. Real people drank reused coffee grinds.
I stared hard at the photo depicting diamond-studded turquoise waters surrounding Sorendi Isle. I imagined myself there and thought I even felt a breeze blow across my sun-kissed cheeks. Best of all, I imagined coming home with a completed novel under my belt.
Grace was right—I had nothing to lose. It was just money.
“Fine,” I grunted, “but I’ll pay for it. I have some money left.” I would have to eat ramen noodles the rest of the week, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
I closed my eyes and sighed. What would I write? A regular description of the kind of day I would like to have on Sorendi Isle would never do. They would receive hundreds—if not, thousands—of boring entries all saying the same thing. If I was going to do this, my essay had to be different somehow, but still me. Staring at the blinking cursor of the entry field, I began to type:
If I were to win your getaway vacation, each day, I’d awaken to glasses of fresh coconut water on a bed scattered with hibiscus petals, as my tanned feminine arms stretch across gauzy sheets. I’d gaze upon rays of tangerine sunshine filtering through billowy, gossamer curtains. My cabana boy, Serge, a smart-ass alpha male with a heart of gold who spanks me when I’m impertinent and kisses my feet when I step on sea urchins in your crystal blue waters, would flash me his emerald green irises from the goose down pillow next to me.
“Care for some…breakfast?” he’d coo, swiping my feet into his strong hands, sending rivulets of passion from my toes to my loins.
With lazy brown eyes, I’d stare out the window at your island paradise, as Serge rolls onto me, but I’d pin him onto the bed and make passionate love to him. Because I am one saucy woman with an untamed wild side. With his biceps and abs so hard and sinewy, it’d be like having sex with stone—ancient island stone.
I’d arch my back in wanton pleasure. Our quivers would subside, and I’d send Serge away until I’d need him again later. I’d spend the rest of my day writing my crime novel, The Gates of Lahore, while eating key lime, coconut, and passion fruit macarons, because I admit, I am not dying of cancer. I am merely a writer of fiction, a teller of lies, and writing is all I’d do with my month anyway. Because that’s what we writers do—make shit up for a living. Please pick me.
An undiscovered author,
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