Jager Manning stepped from the resort’s boardwalk onto the nude-pool deck, his jaw clenched. Despite the breeze whipping off the Caribbean Sea, perspiration coated his forehead. His nostrils flared with his rapid breathing. But he didn’t give a devil’s damn if he looked like a hissing cobra prepared to strike. He would find her, and he would tear her apart with fangs of lethal venom if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth.
His fingers curled into tight fists. No, make that, he would find her, and he would kill her with his bare fucking hands.
He scanned the stone structure of the outdoor restrooms that divided the au naturel area of the resort from the clothing-optional section. A tinkling waterfall tumbled behind the building into crisp blue waters of a huge figure-eight-shaped swimming pool. His gaze briefly touched on each of a dozen naked people whooping and squealing at the far end during a game of pool volleyball, but none of them were her.
No, he could never mistake anyone else for her.
He didn’t want anyone else.
He wanted her.
Bare-breasted women of all shapes and lovely sizes floated and bobbed in the water, but it didn’t faze him. Hell no. He was on a mission and not to be sidetracked, even by droves of hot buck-naked chicks.
He darted a look at the swim-up bar and grill to his right. A thin Jamaican man in a bright-red floral shirt and black shorts stood behind the grill, whistling and flipping burgers. Jager’s stomach growled. His flight had only included a snack, so it’d been over seven hours since he’d last eaten anything of substance, yet even the enticing sizzle and meaty aroma couldn’t detour him from his course.
To find that scheming, thieving bitch, Anjelee Montrose, and throttle her from here to the goddamn moon.
His searching stare shifted to the buxom female bartender as she slid a piña colada across the tiled bar toward a buff, tattooed male. Reggae music blared from the overhead speakers. At the man’s good-natured, overtly sexual thanks, the bartender threw her head back and laughed. She gyrated her voluptuous hips to the catchy island tune and flung her long dreds over one chocolate-toned shoulder.
Jager skimmed a quick look across the pool in the direction of an accented female voice typical of those residing on the small island of Karibu just off Jamaica’s southern coast.
“Left hand green.” One of the resort’s entertainment emcees held a colorful cardboard spinner in her hand and a microphone in the other. She glanced toward a group of bodies entwined on the dotted plastic game board opposite the pool deck from where Jager stood. There was no mistaking the game.
His gaze took hungry inventory. He searched for Anjelee amid the tangle of male and female limbs, asses, tits, and dangling cocks and scrotums.
Then he saw her. Her husky laughter and pink-striped pale-blonde hair positively ID’d Anjelee. Her toe-touch position caused her long locks to drape over the rear of another equally blonde woman, but it was the sight of that tight little bare rump sticking up in the air that had him stalking around the pool’s perimeter. His carotid pulse beat high in his neck, whooshing up to echo like a bongo drum in his head. He didn’t take his eyes off her even as he weaved his way around lounge chairs, beach bags, and couples engaging in varying displays of affection.
“Oh, yeah, there you go, baby.” At the nearby male voice, Jager glanced downward toward three people in a clench near the pool’s waterfall. The woman moaned while being sandwiched between two men.
Holy crap. Make that displays of all-out sex.
A dark-skinned attractive woman in a security uniform emerged out of nowhere and trailed close on Jager’s heels. “Excuse me, mon, but you can’t—”
He held up a hand and cut off the voice of apparent authority.
Nothing and no one could stop him at this point. He couldn’t wait to curl his fingers around Anjelee’s smooth neck, to drag her kicking and screaming back to the States. He longed to watch as the prison bars slammed shut in front of her impish little stunned face. Her green cat-eyes would snap with fury while he laughed his ass off at the spoiled fit she’d no doubt throw once she realized she’d finally been caught.
Jager neared, keeping his gaze trained on her upthrust rear. His mouth watered involuntarily. “Uh-uh, don’t look, you fool,” he mumbled to himself. “No matter how good she looks, she’s not going to distract you from getting even and getting justice for Mitch.”
He stopped directly behind her and raked his stare over the tanned arch of her spine, down along the tight buttocks and shapely legs. Against his will, his gaze riveted back up and zeroed in on the moist slit glistening in the sun.
Jesus Christ, help him.
“Right foot red,” the emcee ordered.
“Red? Oh, shit.” Anjelee let out a giggle of delightful protest, but she twisted obediently into a crabwalk pose.
He waited the endless beat for her to look up and spy him.
Finally, her eyes met his. It delighted the hell out of him when her pupils focused on him in recognition. She blinked, and her tanned, heart-shaped face scrunched momentarily, her stunning eyes finally widening with astonishment.
Jager braced himself for the electricity of her bright-green gaze. Once the power of it leveled out and dissipated in his system, he inhaled and crossed his arms. “Hello there, Anjelee.”
“What…? What are you doing here?” She clamped her thighs shut, but not before he got a full-on view of her shaven pussy lips and the pierced hood above her clitoris.
Unbelievable. Either there was a God, or Satan lived on in her. The woman exuded pure sexuality. Naughty as sin.
“Um, don’t you think I should be asking you that question?”
With a gymnast’s grace, she vaulted to a standing position. Her left arm covered her small but full breasts. He considered that ironic given she vacationed at a nude resort and had just been practically spread-eagled for the whole island to devour, yet she played coy when his gaze inspected her.
So the fuck what? He didn’t give one shit. He’d just as soon choke her than get a free visual tour of her tight little body.
Really. He would.
His gaze, though, seemed to have a brain of its own. It dropped to her suntanned, smooth labia. It was with that delicious image filling his mind that Anjelee slapped her other hand between her legs and growled in outrage. She cupped her mound in such a modest way it made Jager snort. But goddamn if he didn’t long to yank her into his arms and kiss her silly while running his fingertips down between her—
Stop it, you stupid fucker. She’s the enemy, a lying, thieving sneak who’ll single-handedly ruin your entire career if you don’t get a grip. Besides, she’s not really your type.
He conjured all the various women he’d had relationships with in the past—lawyers, models, movie stars, real estate investors, even a hot young female minister.
No, Anjelee was definitely not his type.
Her body trembled with rage. She smacked her hands onto her petite hips and ground out through clenched perfect white teeth, “You creepy, spying jerk. You followed me.”
He had to shake the fog from his head in order to shift his gaze from her flaming eyes to her beautiful pussy, which she’d just bared again. “Well, you didn’t exactly join the Witness Protection Program now, did you?”
She stuck out her pierced tongue. “Funny. No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. The PI I hired came pretty cheap since he was able to follow your blatant electronic trail in a matter of minutes. Your name, in connection with Jamaica and this hedonistic Karibu resort you decided to spend all of Mitch’s money at, drew a lot of database hits in spite of your lame effort to rename yourself. Bam.” He mimicked punching a computer-keyboard button. “‘There she is,’ the PI says. So naturally, here I am.”
“Naturally?” Her plump lips curled up in a snarl. Her gaze raked him with sharp blades of distain. “Um, for one thing, you’re unnatural in that, besides the staff, you’re the only one here with clothes on. And for another thing, a man following a woman he barely knows halfway across the world is anything but natural. In fact, it’s a bit stalkerish.”
He ignored a surge of temper and leaned closer. The coconut scent of her tanning lotion filled the narrow space between them. “Stalkerish? Ya think? Huh, and that coming from a member of the oh so nonstalkerish paparazzi who trespassed, climbed up on a fucking rooftop, took intimate unauthorized pictures of…some people, and then blackmailed those very people. Yeah, that’s nonstalkerish if I’ve ever seen it. By the way, if you had any geography smarts at all, you’d know it’s not halfway across the world from LA to here.”
“Okay, I’ll concede.” He disregarded her childish retort and bent in closer still, trying like hell not to drown in the big pools of her eyes or the warmth of her body. “You’re damn right I’m stalking you. In fact, I’m going to stalk you all the way to goddamn prison.”
She gasped, her pretty little mouth forming an O of indignation. “Prison?”
He suppressed a shiver of lust when she folded her arms under her breasts and forced the small mounds upward. The pert pink nipples glistened where she’d slathered on suntan lotion. They spiked to hardness even as he visually devoured them.
She threw her head back and let out a melodious laugh that massaged his ears and stroked his cock like a well-versed lover. Her long, pale locks with the striking neon-pink streaks fluttered behind her in the tropical breeze.
“What, you think you’re some kind of big, bad international cop come to arrest me or something? If so, where’s your gun?”
“You know damn well I’m not a cop.” But I’ve got a gun, all right. One that’s going to shoot a blank if I don’t get the hell away from her.
He lowered his voice to a muted growl so that only she could hear him. It wouldn’t do for anyone to eavesdrop on what he said and have it end up in next week’s tabloids in some twisted version of the truth. “If you’d dig back into the dust that is your tiny brain, you might recall I’m movie star Mitch Wulfrum’s PR manager, the one who authorized fifty grand of Mitch’s money to be deposited into your account not long ago to shut your ass up about his supposed ‘gay’ propensities.”
“Supposed? There’s no supposed about it. Mitch Wul—” She shrieked it out, but he swooped in and had his hand clamped over her mouth before she could sing the last note of vehemence. His other arm snaked around her waist and yanked her up so he could quietly sneer in her ear.
Ignore it, asshole. Ignore the silkiness of her skin along your arm and the moistness of her lips pressed into your palm.
“I paid you to go away, remember?” His mouth brushed her small ear. Jesus. A soft ear. Soft and too fucking warm against his lips.
She wiggled and thrashed, but he held her in check, despite the repeated rubbing of her hip against his now tingling cock.
He ignored it and went on, snarling in her ear. “Big, big bucks, by the way. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it kind of odd—not to mention totally against our legally binding agreement—that even after paying you all that hush money, I just got word not two days ago that Mitch is being blackmailed again, and this person seems to be demanding a quarter of a million dollars? And isn’t it also odd that this bit of correspondence from ‘Anonymous’ stated that if we refused, she’d write a tell-all article and sell it to the highest gossip-column-magazine bidder in Hollywood? Did I not get that right, Anonymous?”
She shrugged to dislodge his mouth from her ear, then nipped his palm and twisted out of his hold with a grunt of protest. “Maybe.” The sun glinted off a silver ball when she stuck her pierced tongue out at him again like a spoiled brat. She crossed her arms and turned, presenting him with a breathtaking, highly erotic profile. “Maybe not.”