Lola Carlyle Reveals All by Rachel Gibson

From Barnes & Noble

Ex-supermodel Lola Carlyle depends on publicity to boost her exclusive lingerie business -- but the revealing photos her sleazy ex-boyfriend is selling on the Internet are not the sort of publicity she prefers. Seeking privacy to plan her strategy, she treats herself to a vacation at an exclusive resort in the Bahamas, with only her beloved little dog for company. Former Navy SEAL Max Zamora is working for an ultrasecret government organization. He believes in sticking to the shadows, and revealing as little about himself as humanly possible. Though Lola is easy on the eyes, it's little short of disaster for Max to accidentally abduct a public figure like her in the course of commandeering the private yacht he needs to get out of reach of an angry drug lord -- and things only get worse from there. When Lola accidentally disables the yacht, leaving them adrift in the Bermuda Triangle, at least they've got all the privacy they could want -- but they've also got no way to call for help when they're shipwrecked, shot at, and caught up in a sizzling sexual frenzy. Lola Carlyle Reveals All is fast-paced romantic adventure.

From the Publisher

When ex-supermoddel Lola Carlyle learns that some very — ahem — private photos of herself are being peddled on the Internet, she hides out where there's sun and — she thinks — safety, until the gossip dies out. Then the private yacht she's blissfully napping on is "commandeered" by some man who says his name is Max Zamora, and that he works for the government.

It sounds crazy, but Max is telling the truth — his cover's been blown, he's on the run, and now he's confronted by a very angry — and beautiful — woman. He's seen Lola before — barely clothed on covers of fashion magazines. But she's more beautiful in person. From the top of her pert blonde head to the tips of her little painted toes, Max finds her sexy, curvy... and a pain in the butt. And that's before she blows up the ship!

Now, the unlikely pair is stranded in the middle of the ocean, it's getting very hot — not just from the sun — and Lola is about to reveal it all...

Publishers Weekly

Lola Carlyle Reveals All in this funny but formulaic contemporary romance between Max Zamora, a covert government operative, and Lola Carlyle, a ditzy blond bombshell and former underwear model. The sexual attraction between this unlikely duo burns brighter than the novel's sunny, tropical setting when they are stranded together on a yacht and then on a deserted island, with Lola's annoying, pint-sized pup providing the only entertainment. While hiding out from a handful of dangerous, drug-ring thugs, their attraction comes to a head, but will it persist once their island adventure is over? Rachel Gibson's (True Confessions) heroine is little more than a walking cliche, but her hard-bitten hero and edgy prose carry the story. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.

Product Details

• Read an Excerpt

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Max Zamora was getting too old to play Superman. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and raised the hair on the backs of his arms, but did little to dull the fiery ache shooting up his side, stealing air from his lungs. At the age of thirty-six, he felt the pain of saving the world much more than he used to.

He took steady breaths to control the pain and the nausea threatening just below the surface. Above the pounding in his head, he listened to the sounds of tourists and taxicabs, of island music and waves hitting the docks. He heard nothing out of the ordinary filling the humid night air, but Max knew they were out there. Somewhere. Looking for him. If they caught him, they wouldn't hesitate before they killed him, and this time they would succeed.

Light from the Atlantis Casino illuminated blurry patches of the marina, and for a split second his vision cleared, then doubled again, playing havoc with his balance as he moved from the shadows. The soles of his tactical boots made not a sound as he boarded the yacht tied to the end of the dock. Blood trickled from the cut in his bottom lip and dripped down his chin to his black T-shirt. When his adrenaline ran dry, he knew he'd be in a heap of hurt, but he planned to be halfway to Florida before that happened. Halfway from the hell he'd visited on Paradise Island.

Max made his way to the dark galley and rifled through the drawers. His hand fell on a fishing knife, and he pulled it from its scabbard and tested the wicked five-inch blade against his thumb. Moonlight poured in through the yacht's Plexiglas windowsoverhead and lit up patches of the inky black interior.

He didn't bother to search the yacht further. He couldn't see much anyway, and he'd be damned if he'd turn on the lights and illuminate his position.

Flatware rattled in the drawer as Max slammed it shut. He figured if the owners were still on board, he'd made enough noise to roust them by now.

And if someone did suddenly appear from out of the darkness he'd have to switch to contingency plan B. Problem was, he had no plan B. An hour ago, he'd run through the last of his backup strategies, and now he was running on pure instinct and survival. If this last ditch effort failed, he was a dead man. Max didn't fear death; he just didn't want to give anyone the pleasure of killing him.

When no one appeared, he made his way back outside and quickly cut the docklines. He moved up the stairs to the flying bridge. Max's vision cleared for a few brief seconds, allowing him to see the bridge had a canvas top and plastic wraparound windows. He knelt beside the captain's chair within the variegated shadows, and his vison blurred and doubled again.

A wave of nausea rushed at him, and he breathed through it as best he could. Mostly by touch, he used the knife to pop a section off the top of the helm. Perspiration stung a cut on his forehead and ran into his brow as he pulled out a tangle of wires. His vision wasn't getting any better and it took him longer than he would have liked to locate the back of the ignition switch. When he did, he sliced through the wires, then touched them together. The twin inboard engines kicked over, sputtering and churning the water as Max placed one hand on his side, one on the helm, and rose.

He put the yacht in gear, slid the throttle forward, and eased the craft away from the end of the dock. If he tilted his head just right, his double vision wasn't as bad, and he could keep the yacht in the center of the waterway and away from hazards.

He motored the vessel out of the marina and into Nassau Harbor, beneath the bridge that connected Paradise Island to the capital and past the cruise ships docked at Prince George Wharf. Nothing that night had come this easy, and at any moment, he expected a spray of automatic fire, shredding the canvas top and chewing up the deck. The minute he'd landed on the island that afternoon, his luck had gone from bad to worse, and he didn't trust that his bad luck was through with him yet.

“Excuse me, but what are you doing?”

At the sound of a female voice, Max spun around and gripped the arm of the captain's chair to keep from falling. He stared at the double image of a woman outlined by the fading lights of the harbor. A lighthouse at the end of the island sent a bright beam sliding across the floor and lighting up two identical pairs of feet with twenty red toenails. It made a leisurely journey up two red and blue skirts and bare flat bellies. Two white shirts were tied between two pairs of big breasts. Then it slipped across the corners of two full mouths and drifted through a tangle of blond curls. Her face remained hidden as the fuzzy image of two small dogs yapped from her arms, the shrill barking enough to make Max's ears bleed.

“Shit, I didn't need this,” he said, wondering where the hell she'd come from. The poor excuse for a dog jumped from her arms and bolted across the floor, stopping by Max's feet and barking so hard his rear legs rose from the deck. The woman moved forward, and her double image trailed slightly behind as she rushed to scoop up the mutt.

“Who are you? Do you work for the Thatches?” she demanded. He didn't have time for dogs or questions or...