Anthropologist, Cinnamon Mitchell has been single and unattached most of her thirty-three years. After moving to Chateeva, a small resort island, hordes of steamy locals desire the exotic beauty. Suddenly, it’s raining men. They all want possession of the ebony goddess; only one can win her heart. What’s a girl to do?
When Cinnamon woke up she was sitting in the backseat of Remington’s patrol car. He was talking on his radio and assessing damage. It was still raining, but the flow was much lighter. Remington turned around as she stirred in the backseat. “I see you’re alright.”
She tried to sit up. “God, man. What happened?”
He pointed to her precious shop, positioned on the high platform. A palm tree had fallen against her porch and flying drift wood had destroyed a front window. “Oh my God. Is everything alright?”
“I think you’ve lost a few items, a front window, a shelf or two, but not much else.”
Remington’s radio was blaring loudly. There was damage almost everywhere. Chateeva was so small, Cinnamon found the reports disturbing. Pushing against the already opened door with her right hand, she tried to stand up. Feeling a shooting pain in her left arm, she grabbed the discomfort and winced. Grasping the source of pain, she discovered a bandage on her forearm. It was obvious Remington spent time cleaning her wound and then applied a bandage. She lifted her stare to meet his. “Is it pretty bad?”
“Not really. You lost a little blood. Women can lose a lot of blood each month and still live, so I’m not worried.”
“Funny.” From her seated position, Cinnamon touched Remington’s arm. Eagerly, he turned to address her. “Thank you for your help,” she said tenderly.
Remington’s chest inflated. “No problem, doll. Got an ‘A’ in first aid.” He extended his arm and raised her from the backseat.
Cinnamon swept damp hair from her eyes. “Have you heard anything about the North side of the island? Was there very much damage?”
“The Mainland? Yeah. They got it easy. We took the brunt of the storm.”
“Thank God.” She slowly got her footing, while Remington released the talk button on his radio. He wrapped his arms around her bare waist to assist her.
Cinnamon gazed into his calm eyes. “I’ve got to look inside.”
“Doll. The only way to stop you from going in that building is to handcuff you to this patrol car. Come on, let’s go.”
Remington helped her up the stairs and onto the wooden porch. Then he led her into the ramshackle gallery. She gasped. There was glass, blood, and debris everyplace. When she saw that her new shipment had been destroyed, a tear rolled down her cheek. Gnashing her teeth, she clenched her fist. “Damn!” Shocked by reality, Cinnamon turned from the horrible sight.
Remington’s strong arms enveloped her as she cried against his massive chest. Holding a tissue tightly in her fist she cursed and stamped her feet in agony.
Remington stroked her damp hair, pulling the wet strands from her face. He rocked her in his arms. “Shh,” he said, giving her a warm embrace. “It could have been worse.”
“How could this happen, Remington?” she sobbed. “I’ve worked so hard for this dream.”
Remington grasped her chin and brought her attention to his. “Baby doll,” he whispered, “that’s life. This shop is not completely destroyed. You have insurance. A few hundred dollars, your shop will be open for business as usual.”
“You think so?” She sniffed.
“I know so.” A soft smile crept across his lips. “You’re going to be fine, I promise.”
Compassion beamed from Remington’s soft brown eyes. He looked over her lips, and then looked into her consenting eyes. Their lips met. She felt the heat of his body engulf her. He pulled her closer, drawing her deeper into the recesses of his passions.
Pressing her against his cumbersome belt, he swallowed up her nectar with his soft probing lips. Responding to his will, chemical changes took place in her body.