About Kathleen
Book Buyers Best finalist Kathleen Rowland is devoted to
giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes suspense with an erotic love story
sure to melt their hearts. Her latest
release is One Night in Havana, #34
in the City Nights erotic romance series.
Kathleen also has a steamy romantic suspense series with
Tirgearr Publishing, Deadly Alliance
is followed by Unholy Alliance. Keep
an icy drink handy while reading these sizzling stories.
Kathleen used to write computer programs but now writes
novels. She grew up in Iowa where she
caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and raced her sailboat on Lake
Okoboji. Now she wears flip-flops and
sails with her husband, Gerry, on Newport Harbor but wishes there were lightning
bugs in California.
Kathleen exists happily with her witty CPA husband, Gerry,
in their 70’s poolside retreat in Southern California where she adores time
spent with visiting grandchildren, dogs, one bunny, and noisy neighbors. While proud of their five children who’ve
flown the coop, she appreciates the luxury of time to write. If you’d enjoy news, sign up for Kathleen’s newsletter.
Kathleen picked the setting of Cuba for
a reason. She wanted to trap her proud Cuban professor there. He survives
because of his flamboyant personality and opportunistic nature. Cuba is a
fascinating mid-century time warp. The 1950s cars still run due to amazing
mechanics. No matter how hardworking, Cubans exist under strict
communistic rules such as the inability to move from one section of the country
to another. Without free-enterprise they can’t make much money. If they do leave, they can only bring ten thousand
dollars with them, but this would be a huge amount of money for most Cubans.
Big business such as cigar manufacture is government-run.
About One Night in Havana
A desperate competition and
sizzling attraction leads to dangerous desire.
New York Marine biologist Veronica “Roni” Keane is attending the Havana Bay Conference in Cuba. Tomorrow only one grant will be awarded which will provide the winner with professional recognition, resources for a project, and living expenses for two years. She hopes to continue her deceased father’s work, but smooth operator, Carlos Montoya, has won many grants in the past.
Carlos, a freelancer for the Havana Port Authority, works to help protect Havana’s reputation as a bastion of safety. As international travelers flock to the island, attracted by its 1950’s time-warp and colonial architecture, the drug business is running rampant, particularly on Roni’s cruise ship. Something’s not right, and when her scuba tanks are tampered with, Carlos brings in the military police to investigate. For her safety, he keeps her close, but he craves her body.
Their attraction leads to a fun night with a bit of kink. But Roni finds herself in more trouble than she bargained for when the criminals blame her for alerting the military police and come looking for her. Can Roni trust Carlos to protect her? Will she stay in Havana if Carlos wins the coveted grant, or kiss her lover goodbye?
Excerpt-- Chapter One
“Why, Veronica Keane.” A voice heavy with
a Spanish accent drawled from behind her. “A dive bar?” A taunting tsk. “What do we have? A slumming New
Yorker?”
She stiffened and closed her eyes. She
knew that voice and its owner, Dr. Carlos Montoya, a finalist like her,
competing for the same damn grant at the biggest Cephalopoda
conference of the decade.
Her heart pitter-pattered against her ribs. To turn toward him would intimate
distress, or worse yet, weakness. She wouldn’t fail to win this grant, not when
she was a final contender. “I like this funky little place.” Sia Macario Café,
smack in the center of Havana, allowed her to observe locals and their daily
lives.
“You need to eat with all the mojitos
you’ve downed.” The big tease wasn’t counting. This was her first drink, but
his rumbling, sexy timbre hinted at all kinds of dark, hot promises. She’d rubbed
shoulders with the Cuban scientist all week. This splendid specimen of Latin
male brought on a physical ache that punched low.
A flare-up stirred fear. For her own
good, she needed to resist. “I ordered camarones
enchiladas.” By now she knew the menu on the chalkboard by heart. She
tipped her head back to whiff grilled shrimp soon to arrive in sofrito sauce
with fried sweet plantains.
“The flan is good. Just like my abuela makes.”
“I bet. Your grandmother would be happy
to hear that,” she said, knowing he brought out the best in most people. Two
days ago he'd invited her and a handful of others scuba diving. The chance to
ogle him had been one of the perks. He’d worn nothing but swim trunks, his bare
chest on display. Every glistening muscle was finely etched. Not a drop of fat
on him. Since he’d not given her the time of day, she’d checked him out without
him noticing.
The hard-bodied host had led the way
toward habitats of soft-bodied creatures. To find where invertebrates lived was
never an easy task. Octopuses squeezed into narrow passages of coral for
protection and gave females a place to keep their eggs. She’d discovered the
remains of a few meals nearby. Octopuses scattered rocks and shells to help
them hide.
This grant meant so much to her and no doubt
to him as well. Veronica mindlessly toyed with the gold necklace around her
neck, but anxiety crackled through her brain. Unlike this man of action, she
lacked the flamboyant personality necessary to talk people into things. Carlos
had that ability. He'd made friends with judges on board while she’d conversed
with an older woman about a box of scones made with Cuban vanilla cream.
That day the wind had picked up to a gale
force, and this woman named Bela with Lucille Ball red hair needed help walking
to her home. The half mile down the seaside promenade, The Malecón, had provided her with time to practice her Spanish.
Turned out Bela was Carlos’s grandmother. She’d worked as a maid when the
Castro government came to power. When
private homes were nationalized, titles were handed over to the dwelling
occupants. Bela owned a crumbling home in the respected Verdado district and
rented out rooms.
What Veronica detested about Carlos was
his abnormal level of talent for schmoozing. Not that he wasn't charismatic; he
drew her like a powerful magnet with emotions hard to untangle. Why was a
self-assured woman who ran her own life thinking about a man who commanded
everyone around him?
She inhaled a breath and turned around on
the barstool, caught fast by a gut punch of Carlos Montoya in the flesh. She
sighed and surrendered to the tendrils of want sliding up between her thighs.
Tall and muscular, his lush dark hair
curled to his collar giving him a wild, roguish appearance. His face was lean
and chiseled. His mouth full and tempting. His eyes the smoky-gray of a grass
fire and fringed with black lashes as dense as paintbrushes. He smiled. A faint
hint of mockery curved his mouth, a sensual mouth she imagined to be either inviting
or cruel. Or both at the same time when he leaned over a woman with a
diamond-hard gleam in his dark eyes while she drowned with pleasure. She fought
a fierce desire to run her hand across his broad chest, tip her face upward,
and…
His breath tickled her face.
Not going
there.
She blinked and forced her mind to focus. Carlos Montoya was not the kind of
man you lost focus around. But that image
of putting her mouth full on his and peeling away his shirt once introduced in
her mind was impossible to expunge.
Pointless even to try.
He was an intimidating blend of intellect
and sexy danger. Both qualities had her leaning back against the bar’s edge. If
it weren’t for him, she’d have a chance at winning the grant.
His lips twitched. “You’re staying on one
of the cruise ships, am I right?” He rolled up the sleeves of his linen jacket
to reveal a dusting of manly hair.
”Yes." Her cabin served as her hotel
room while attending the January meetings with perfect high-seventies
temperatures. His eyes locked with hers. She willed herself to move and yet she
remained seated, clutching heat between her legs, a wetness so intense that her
breath stalled in her chest while her heart hammered faster. Soon she’d return
to freezing New York City.
“So, Bonita,
give.” He slid onto the bar stool next to her. “What brings you down from a
lofty ship to grace us lowly Cubans with your presence?”
Bonita. Pretty lady was not an
endearment coming from the mouth curved in a taunting smile, but not a slight
either. Not with his deep, melodic voice speaking words as if he knew secrets
about her. What secrets did he know? Would he pry into her personal life? She
doubted this bad-boy college professor acknowledged boundaries.
“Just drinks and dinner.” She scrambled
for composure. “Aren’t we attending a world-class conference? I find the local
population to be friendly and kind. That’s not slumming.”
The bartender set down a saoco. “Hope you like it, senorita.”
“Gracias,” she said. “Very nice, served
in a coconut.”
“Ah, the saoco,” Carlos said. “Rum, lime
juice, sugar, and ice. The saoco,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in his words.
“Um. Wow. Once used as a tonic for prisoners of the revolution.”
“Medicinal?” She couldn’t help it. She
chuckled and sounded as if a rusty spoon had scraped her throat raw, but it was
genuine. The warm glow in its wake was welcome and needed.
He leaned an elbow on the bar, his beer
bottle with the green-and-red Cristal label dangling between his fingers. “Be
careful with that one.” He dipped his head toward the front door as if he
needed to go somewhere soon.
That fast, the glow snuffed out. She
cleared her throat and gripped the fuzzy
surface of the coconut container.
He placed a five-peso coin with a brass
plug on the counter and whirled it. The spinning motion mirrored a dizzying
attraction going on in low parts of her belly.
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