âI donât have any idea who you are. I feel like Iâve never seen you before in my life.â
For a second or two Shayna felt sick. The room seemed to sway. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, then looked him in the eye again, searching hard. The man sheâd spent all that time with just a few weeks ago had to be in there somewhere, but she couldnât find any sign of him at the moment.
âIs this some kind of game, Marco?â
âNo. Itâs not.â He shook his head, holding her gaze. âIâm serious as a midnight clock.â
She pulled her arms in close around her. It was a steamy, warm tropical day, but she was shivering. Something in his words, something in his attitude, had chilled her to the core.
âI do not know who you are. I canât remember a thing.â
Dear Reader
Living on a South Pacific island is different. Those of you who do it know this very well. You live with lush trade winds, elegantly swaying palm trees in the silver moonlight, the thunder of surf on the reef, dancing sunlight glinting on the ocean in the distance. Itâs all the background music of your life. I knowâI grew up on an island.
Of course thereâs also the feeling of isolation, the heat and humidity, the mildew, the bugs and the coconut crabs and the huge snailsâbut never mind all that. Weâll leave that part out and concentrate on the romantic side of island living.
Thereâs also a nice earthy innocence to island life. Thatâs what Shayna Pierce finds when she comes to Ranai to escape the media firestorm lifestyle sheâs been living in New York. She finds what sheâs searching for among the down-to-earth islanders, but she also finds love when Marco DiSanto appears in her lagoon. Will his presence ruin the idyllic life sheâs made for herself? Or will she find her own voice and make a stand for her choices?
So, are you ready to take a little vacation? Hop aboard. Weâre heading for an island where anything can happen!
Regards!
Raye Morgan
Raye Morgan has been a nursery school teacher, a travel agent, a clerk and a business editor, but her best job ever has been writing romancesâand fostering romance in her own family at the same time. Current score: two boys married; two more to go. Raye has published over seventy romances, and claims to have many more waiting in the wings. She lives in Southern California, with her husband and whichever son happens to be staying at home at the moment.
The Italianâs Forgotten Baby
By
This book is dedicated to Jenn and her Vespa.
MARCO DISANTO lowered his long, elegantly lean body into the rickety bamboo chair and rested one elbow casually on the little round sidewalk café table. The heavy heat was offset a bit by the afternoon trade winds. Still, it was a good bet he was the only man on the island crazy enough to be wearing an Italian business suit in this climate.
Was he here on business, or was this a search for lost love? Maybe it was time he made up his mind and acted accordingly. With his free hand, he pulled a crumpled photo out of his pocket and flattened it on the surface of the table. Bracing himself, he glanced at it again.
No matter how often he looked at the picture, the shock of seeing those mesmerizing blue eyes gazing back at him sent a quiver of excitement through him. Eyes like that didnât belong in real life. He was pretty sure they only existed on the covers of science fiction books or on fantasy movie posters.
But the ticket agent at the Ranai airport had recognized her right away when heâd shown him the photo.
âOh sure. Thatâs Shayna. You can probably find her at Kimoâs Café. She works there off and on.â
So here he was, wondering why nothing looked familiar. Out of the corner of his vision, his attention was caught by crisp white shorts encasing a firmly rounded female bottom and set off by long and lovely tanned legs. He didnât want to make eye contactânot yetâbut he turned enough to see a bit more, including a loose, gauzy top that fell provocatively off one lovely shoulder, giving a teasing glimpse of full breasts. Waves of blond curls cascaded almost to her shoulders and framed a pretty face that was alive with laughter. He drew his breath in sharply, muttered something slightly obscene in Italian and looked down at the picture.
Yes, he had the right woman. But heâd never seen her before in his life. Not in the flesh, at any rate.
Who the hell could she be? The man at the airport had called her Shayna, so he supposed that must be her name. Other than that, he knew nothing about her.
He slid the picture into the pocket of his suit coat and sat back at the remote table on the patio of the fashionably shabby waterside café. He would wait. She would have to get to him eventually.
Funny that he couldnât remember her. Funny that he couldnât remember anything from the recent two weeks heâd spent here, on vacation in the Traechelle Islands. Heâd tried. It just wouldnât come. Something about the accidentâor maybe something about what had happened while he was hereâhad caused his brain to block it out. The psychiatrist whoâd been assigned to him during his recovery had a name for this kind of thing: selective amnesia.