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“I want you to do it again.”
Diane stepped closer until her chest pressed gently against his. Hale slid his arms around her, pulling her closer still and cupping her backside. Diane’s mouth opened and she uttered a weak moan. She put her arms around his neck, lifting her lips blindly to find his kiss.
It was just what she needed then, hot and deep and all consuming. Their lips worked together with a deliberate slowness that left her dizzy and disoriented. Hips touching, they were separated only by her bikini briefs. Together their breathing melded and hissed like a whisper in their ears with a growing urgency. The prelude was rich with promise, and they took their time to enjoy each movement and touch. The intensity was building until they both felt it in the rush of blood through their veins, the throbbing in their groins that edged toward release.
Suddenly Hale pulled his mouth free, momentarily teasing her lips with the tip of his tongue. Her breasts were so tender and sensitive they ached.
“Do it again,” she pleaded.
Promises in Paradise
Sandra Kitt
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
I cannot think of a more romantic setting for a story than an island in the Caribbean. For those of you who have visited many of the islands as I have, you know what I’m talking about! The pure aquamarine sea and serene white-sand beaches alone are worth the price of admission.
My favorite island has always been St. John, one of the three U.S. Virgin Islands. I’ve returned there dozens of times. Not only that, but some of my most memorable (and romantic) vacations have taken place there, so it was an obvious choice as a rendezvous point for my hero and heroine in Promises in Paradise.
I hope you are swept away by the magic of St. John and the thrill of the love and romance in Diane and Hale’s story.
Take care,
Sandra Kitt
Chapter One
Uttering an obligatory thank-you and grabbing the claim ticket from the valet, Diane Maxwell took a deep breath and began to hurry down the street toward the minimalist and very modern entrance of the Maryland Museum of African American Culture in Baltimore. She knew the title was much longer than that, but she didn’t have time for formality…or to remember.
Instead, she concentrated on not twisting her ankle in her three-inch dress sandals, or getting the heel caught in the hem of her gown.
It was cold. Much colder than Diane wanted to accept, even though it was the second week of December. She was dismayed and annoyed that her breath expelled in a chilly vapor. Yet she would not admit to the vanity and poor judgment that had her out for the evening with nothing warmer than a cashmere shawl wrapped artfully around her shoulders, and no panty hose.
She’d reasoned that she was only going from her car to the entrance of the museum, but she hadn’t counted on the valet stand being a city block away. She was already beyond late for the gala function being held at the beautiful facility, but her running-walk had more to do with the goose bumps rising on her exposed arms.
Diane slowed her pace and stopped in front of the museum entrance, covertly straightening the bodice of her gown. She tucked her evening clutch under her elbow and quickly shook out the yards of silk that made up the skirt. She squared her shoulders and tried to give the appearance of a woman of poise and presence and not the tomboy hoyden she was once known as. But there was no audience for her little pretense or her grand entrance.
Once inside the glass doors she was immediately assailed by the warmth and met with the hum of conversation from an upper level of the museum.
“Good evening. Thank you for coming tonight.”
Diane turned to the voice to her left, where a reception table had been set up. Behind it sat a lone woman, her folded hands atop a spreadsheet of the names of guests attending the function. She smiled a greeting in return and approached the table. The matron was attired in an overly bright red dress, with a rhinestone pendant necklace lost in the cleavage of her bosom.
“May I have your name, please?” the woman asked, her fingertip poised to run down the list.
“Maxwell. Dr. Diane. I’m here in place of my father, Adam Maxwell.”
“Maxwell…Max…yes, here it is. Oh, he’s one of the special guests tonight.” She placed a check next to the name.
Diane glanced quickly around the empty entrance.
“Am I very late?” she asked, accepting the card calligraphed with her father’s name and a table number.
“You’re the last to arrive. They just started serving dinner, but you know how the folks are,” the woman said with a knowing smile. “The reception ended late ‘cause they couldn’t get people to stop drinking and talking.”
Even as she explained Diane could hear one voice over a microphone introducing herself and welcoming everyone to the annual dinner.
“You better hurry.” The woman chuckled. “It’s embarrassing to walk in when someone is talking.”
“You’re right.” Diane grinned sheepishly.
She lifted the skirt of her gown and, graceful and athletic, took the stairs two at a time, stiletto heels, rustling silk and all.
“Be careful!” the woman whispered loudly behind her.
At the top of the stairs Diane regained her composure, dropping the skirt and again shaking out the fabric. She looked inside a large darkened room that had been set up with some twenty tables, each capable of seating ten people. She wasn’t paying much attention to the speaker, an elegantly dressed woman about her own age, making opening remarks about the event. Instead, Diane was aware that it wasn’t going to be that easy to find her table now that the lights had been dimmed. But she took heart in the fact that the first course was being
