Island Heat (A Sexy Time Travel Romance With a Twist)

ISLAND HEAT

Copyright © 2011 by Jill Myles

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Fifteen minutes before the plane crashed, I removed my boss’s hand off of my bare knee.

Again.

“Diana,” the man next to me said, sighing my name in drunken happiness. “Thass a lovely name.” A hiccup punctuated the thought. “Who were you named after? The prinshess?”

“Nope,” I said, edging back against my seat and hoping he’d get the hint when I plucked his hand off my knee and put it back on his. “Wonder Woman. So what made you decide to move to Bermuda, Mr. Wingarde?” I decided a topic change might be for the best.

It seemed I was the only one that thought so. “You’re a lovely woman, Diana,” Mr. Wingarde slurred, leaning over me and sloshing some of his martini on my blouse (and probably on purpose). “What say we kick these chairs back and join the mile high club?”

Gross. I gave him an uneasy smile and glanced over at the stewardess nearby. At least she was ignoring us. Given that this was Mr. Wingarde’s private jet, I had no doubt that she’d seen this kind of thing before. “Gosh, Mr. Wingarde,” I said, faking cheerful ignorance. “We’ve just got so much work to do. Look at all these wonderful houses I’ve selected for you to review.” I shoved the print-outs under his nose and pointed at the first one. “See? This one’s a lovely 5 bedroom, 3 bath on the beach. It’s got a sun-room and central air and is nicely isolated from the rest of the neighborhood. I think you’d really like it...”

And I’d like the commission on the sale
, I wanted to say, but kept silent about that aspect. No sense in reminding the man why I was here. Just the thought of the commission I’d make on the sale of a several-million dollar beach bungalow in Bermuda was enough to make me salivate.

It was the one and only reason I’d gotten onto the plane with creepy, overly-forward Mr. Wingate. The man was twice my age, married, rich as all-get-out, and hadn’t managed to keep his hands to himself for the entire three weeks that I’d known him.

Offering to accompany him on the trip was a mistake, I told myself again when he slid his hand back onto my knee and shouted for another martini from the stewardess. I’d guessed what he’d had in mind the moment he suggested I accompany him to go and check out houses in Bermuda, but the professional realtor in me thought I could keep him at bay. A teeny, tiny, sinister part of me thought I might be able to talk him into buying a bigger house if he thought I was cute. So I blushed at his awkward comments and continued to wear short skirts around the man, fully knowing what I was encouraging.

I hadn’t planned on his wife canceling out on us two hours before the plane left the airport. I certainly hadn’t planned on Mr. Wingate practically pulling me into his lap as soon as we boarded the plane, nor the fact that he had gotten rip-roaring drunk as soon as he’d realized I had no intention of letting him get anywhere.

This is a lesson
, I told myself as I slapped his hand away. The stewardess leaned over the two of us and shot me a sympathetic look. A lesson that money is NOT everything, and that sometimes I needed to back away from the commission, and learn to be happy with the success I’ve had so far.

“Thanks, darlin’,” Mr. Wingate slurred, accepting the drink from the stewardess and then promptly spilling half of it on the lovely printouts I’d forced on him. He tossed the rest of it down, then smiled at me. “Now, about that private party we were gonna have in the beach-front condo.”

I shook my head, scooting back in my chair and trying not to cringe as he leaned over me again. “You know I won’t do that, Mr. Wingarde. I have a boyfriend.”

(Okay, so I’d broken up with my last boyfriend over two months ago, but I still thought about him. Sometimes. Once in a blue moon.)

“So?” He almost shouted the word in my ear. “I’ve got a wife. Don’t mean nuthin’.”

Not very helpful, that. I was about to protest when the plane took a sudden, alarming dip, and the stewardess fell on us.

Mr. Wingate slid across me, his martini flying in my face and his hands landing flat on my breasts. Judging from his shocked reaction, it wasn’t planned. I’d barely hung onto my seat myself – it was only the fact that the other two people had managed to pin me in that kept me in place. “What was that?”

The stewardess climbed unsteadily back to her feet, worry wrinkling her brow. “I’m not sure. Let me check with the captain and see what’s going on.” She hurried to the far end of the small plane and shut the door to the cockpit behind her.

It left me alone with Mr. Wingate.

I gave him an uncertain smile and tried to straighten the real estate printouts that had scattered all over our end of the cabin. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, feeling the need to break the uncomfortable silence.

As if to prove me wrong, the plane gave a sharp lurch again, teetering to the side and making me dizzy. The lights in the cabin flickered off, and the emergency lights came on.

Next to me, Mr. Wingate groaned, leaned over, and threw up at his feet (and dangerously close to mine). “Tell them to make it stop,” he moaned between heaves.

“I’ll do that,” I said, all too glad for the reprieve. I jumped to my feet and made my way through the lurching airplane, holding onto the other empty seats for support. Up ahead, the door to the cockpit was slightly cracked, and I could hear arguing from within.

“What do you mean, you can’t get a hold of anyone on the radio?” The frightened screech came from the stewardess.

Alarmed, I knocked on the door and pushed it open. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Wingate is sick—“

My voice died at the sight of the instrument panels. Every single one was lit up, the needles spinning out of control. The lights in the cabin flickered on and off, and the pilot continued to jab a button that must have been the radio, due to all the static it was giving off. In the large windows of the cockpit, I saw the ocean far below us, approaching at a speed that I figured wasn’t normal. “What’s wrong?” It was a stupid question to ask, of course, but I couldn’t help myself. “The power just went out.”

The plane gave another crazy lurch, and the steering column began to spark. The pilot backed away. “The controls are shorted out. I can’t understand it. One moment they’re just fine, and the next...” He reached for the fire extinguisher.

“It’s the Bermuda Triangle,” whispered the stewardess next to me, her eyes glued on the windows. “We’ll be lost at sea, just like all the others.”

“Bermuda Triangle?” I scoffed, unwilling to take such a silly answer. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t tell me you believe in that superstition?”

I looked over at the pilot, waiting for him to confirm what I’d just said. He avoided making eye contact, busy spraying down the instrument panel with the fire extinguisher.

“Well?” I demanded, trying not to sound frightened.

The pilot looked over at me, his face pale. “The instrument panel’s done for,” he said. “The best thing we can do is hope for a smooth landing in the water, and hope we’re close to a nearby island. If we see land, we can send up a flare.”

Real panic was beginning to set in. “How far are we from land?”

He shook his head. “Hard to say. The compass and radar were two of the first things to go out.”

“You mean, you don’t know where we’re at?” Lord, I was going to start screaming in a minute, and I wasn’t going to be able to stop once I started.

“We’re lost somewhere in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle,” the stewardess said again, and began to sob.

She wasn’t doing much for my nerves. I tried to ignore how jittery she was making me, and leaned over to peer out the cockpit windows. I didn’t believe in the Bermuda Triangle. Not one bit.

The blue of the ocean really was rushing up rather fast, I noticed, and my heart fluttered inside my throat. We were going to die out here in the middle of the ocean in a plane crash.
And if the crash didn’t kill us, the sharks would
, I thought, my mind offering forth every grisly scene from
Jaws
I could think of.

“What do we do?” The broken voice was mine. I leaned up against a nearby locker, eyes wide. I’d never anticipated this. “Buckle up?” It seemed like an inane suggestion, but I needed to do something. Anything.

I felt like a fool. I’d been blinded by money, and now I was going to die. Tears pricked my eyes, and I had to blink rapidly. Damn. It all felt like such a colossal waste.

The stewardess shoved me aside, and I managed to catch myself moments before plunging head first into the dripping control panel. The plane tilted crazily for a moment, and we all held our breath, clinging to the seats and staring at each other.

“No time to wait,” the stewardess said. She forced open the locker I’d been leaning against and pulled a heavy pack from the top. “Here, we’ll take the parachutes and maybe we can parachute to the water safely before the plane hits the surface of the ocean.” She tossed the pilot the backpack, and he began to buckle it on himself with shaking hands.

“Parachute?” I said weakly, staring out the window. We were lurching down fast. There were no more clouds, no more sky, just endless blue below us. I thought I saw a smudge of green and beige off to the side, but the plane tilted wildly again, and I found myself clinging to the empty co-pilot’s seat, nothing but blue in the windows once again.

“It’s worth a try,” the stewardess shouted, clinging to the locker door. “The plane’s going to break apart the moment it hits the water.” She pulled another pack out with her free hand, using the other to brace herself in the sloping cockpit. “Can you catch this?”

She wasn’t close enough to hand it to me. I held out one hand and yelled back at her. “Throw it to me.”

She lifted her arm to throw the pack across the short distance, but the door behind her opened and Mr. Wingarde stumbled in, reeking of vomit and martinis. “What’s goin—“

He smacked the stewardess’s arm at the precise moment that she began her throw, and instead of tossing the heavy pack in a low, underhand motion towards my arm, it sailed through the short distance and conked me square on the head.

The world went black.

My first conscious thought was that my backside was on fire.

The world was quiet around me, no sounds of plane-in-distress, no screaming, no Mr. Wingarde puking on my feet. Nothing but the sounds of the ocean in the distance, and the warble of a bird or two. Beneath my body, I could feel shifting grit, and the gentle breeze as it toyed with my hair.

My eyes slid open, and I stared at the too-bright world around me. Dark strands of my hair covered my eyes, and I shoved them out of the way with a sand-covered hand.

I was on a beach. Somewhere. Alone.

Face-down.

I sat up, wincing at the feeling when I flipped over, and twisted to look at the backs of my legs. They were bright red – no wonder it’d felt like I was on fire. Judging by the flaming-red color, I’d been face down on the sand for quite some time. Something puffy had been placed around my neck, and I removed the bright orange life-jacket.

I guess when I’d gone under, they’d given up on the parachute and had stuck a life-vest to me instead. At least they’d tried. I couldn’t really complain – after all, I was still alive and in one piece.

I squinted up at the sun. The blue sky above was clear as the sea, unhindered by clouds or planes of any sort. If we’d wrecked, we’d wrecked some time ago. I couldn’t even see remnants of a smoky trail in the sky. A quick glance down the beach showed it to be as empty as I’d expected, with only a few small, dark lumps washed up on the shore in the distance to break up the monotony of endless sand.

My body screamed in protest when I stood. My shoes were gone, and my pretty linen skirt was a wrinkled, shrunken mess clinging to my thighs. My silky, sleeveless blouse still had martini stains on it, reminding me that I should find the others.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer. “Is anybody there? Hello?”

Nothing but echoing silence. I started down the beach, not really sure of what else to do. The strip of land was peacefully idyllic, and I wondered if I’d been washed up on someone’s private island. The realtor in me went through the mental list of estates that were for sale in the outlying islands around Bermuda, trying to see if I could recall any private islands, private anything for sale. I couldn’t think of a thing except how thirsty I was.

I walked for maybe a mile or so down the beach before I ran into the first sign that I wasn’t going crazy – my suitcase, waterlogged and washed up on the edge of the water. Excited, I grasped the now puffy leather handle and tugged it out of the crashing waves. It took a few minutes to pry open the zipper, but it eventually gave and I picked through the contents of my suitcase.