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About the author:
Afton Locke is a USA Today Bestselling Author who prefers romantic fantasies to everyday reality. Fantasies take her to different times, races, places, and beyond. She lives with her husband, several unnamed dust bunnies, and a black cat that can be scary or cuddly, depending on the current book. When she’s not writing, Afton enjoys hiking, cooking, reading, and watching retro T.V.
What inspired you to write your book?
Every time I go to Jamaica, I get inspired to write. First came Jamaican Temptation and now this story. There will be a third, so I guess I have to go back!
Here is a short sample from the book:
from Jamaican Vibration by Afton Locke copyright 2018
“Would losing your precious company really be the end of the world?” She crossed her arms. “Couldn’t you work for someone else? Over half the people on this island would be happy to have a regular job. Including me.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. Latasha, I’m sorry.”
“If you’re so uptight about the interracial thing, why did you enter into a relationship with K.C. and me? A ménage would really freak the old man out. Am I wrong?”
“I don’t know. It just felt easy. Less pressure on me. Safer than a one-on-one relationship.”
She huffed out a breath. “Safer? That’s funny. I don’t feel safe at all. I’ve got two men, and today I find out neither one really wants me because of their precious careers.”
Their server appeared. “Would you care for some dessert?”
“No, thank you,” she replied, standing so abruptly she bumped the table. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
The waiter laid down the check and scurried off as if sensing trouble.
Jonathan stood, too, and placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Latasha, calm down. Please don’t make a scene.”
“Don’t worry,” she said in a low voice. “I wouldn’t dream of staining your precious white reputation.”
After Jonathan paid the check, she managed to leave the restaurant with dignity. It would be the last time she ever shared a meal with mister white supremacist.
“Take me home,” she said when they reached his SUV.
He opened the door for her. “I thought we’d go to my place for a while. You can even spend the night if you want.”
She hopped onto the leather seat, which felt softer than melted butter against her thighs. “Why? So you can enjoy my body in private and tell your father I’m just a hired hand?”
He closed her door and got in on the driver’s side. “Latasha, be reasonable. Making love is a private act. It would be good for us to try it without K.C.”
“K.C.,” she spat. “He’s probably doing some groupie right now. You know what? I hate both of you.”
“Do you, now?” He chuckled as he set his key fob on the center console. “Then show me.”
She glanced over at him. “What do you mean?”
“You’re right. I’m a selfish bastard, just like my father. Show me how much you hate me.”
He breathed hard, fogging the windows, which were already privacy tinted and spotted with rain. She replied by gripping the lapel of his jacket and squeezing until it crumpled in her fist.
“You’re ruining my suit,” he said, not sounding put out about it at all.
“To hell your suit, and your precious money.” She gave it a tug, which pulled his face closer to hers.
While rain tapped the windshield, his gaze bored into hers—igniting her from limb to limb. She kissed the mouth that had been so serious and grim all evening. She kissed it hard. Until her own lips crushed against her teeth from the pressure.