Island In The Sun

The hot sun burned down upon her golden thighs, mingling with the droplets of seawater and oil in a profusion of glitter.

Her long blonde hair, protected from the fierce rays of the sun by a stylish straw Sombrero, was coiled up into a heavy chignon at the nape of her long, slender neck and her beautiful grey eyes were hidden behind the latest Ray-Bans.

The sound of the waves crashing onto the shore was mesmeric and it was only with effort that she managed to draw on the straw of her Pina Colada.

She was in a dilemma. She had a very difficult decision to make; a decision that could affect all that was precious to her. Sighing in frustration, she realised she was no closer to making her choice now than she was two hours ago when she first lay down on this lounger.

She went over it in her mind once again. Jeremy was from England and an aristocrat no less! Practically related to royalty! But Sandro. Oh! What a man! Spanish-Mexican, lean, dark and very handsome and with a body to die for. And both of them besotted with her. Little ol’ Sammy-Jo Beaumarie from Charleston.

She clicked a two-inch long talon against perfect white teeth in a thoughtful gesture and resumed her line of thought. The question was, did she want to be a Lady or a millionairess? What a terrible decision to have to make!

It would be easier if Jeremy was more handsome or Sandro less so, or Jeremy less handsome and Sandro with some breeding would have swung it for her. As it was she found herself totting up points on a scale of one to ten yet again and still no nearer to a decision.

Sir Jeremy Cholmondeley-fforbes was slim and pale, with dark hair and what Sammy-Jo thought of as `English’ blue eyes, which only seemed to lose their frostiness when in the throes of passion, such as last night. At such times, they took on a smouldering quality, which she found fascinating and infinitely more sexy than she would have thought possible.

Jeremy was a moody man, but she found his brooding looks intriguing and saw herself as Lady Samantha with no trouble at all!

And then there was Sandro. Ah! Such passion! Not as tall as she would have liked but nonetheless, a perfect specimen of manhood. His dark, swarthy skin was sun kissed and supple and his black hair, like a raven’s wing, had a blue cast which she thought sensational. His brown eyes burned like coals whenever he looked at her and passion was never very far from his thoughts when she was around.

Sandro was also a successful film actor and was worth millions due to his shrewd investments and knowledge of the film industry and he had already bought her a red Ferrari. However, he originated from a background of poverty and his manners were not all they could be. She found some of his behaviour distinctly embarrassing, but she was sure she could gently mould him in that respect.

So what to do, she asked herself for the thousandth time, clicking her long fingers for the boy to come and refresh her glass. It was lunchtime and she was a little peckish.

“Another. And bring me fresh fruit,” she ordered, “and don’t be all day about it.”

The boy took the order and went off to find what she ordered.

Her order was back within minutes and silently placed upon the table beside her elbow.

She picked at a little fruit and sipped her drink and then tightened her gold waist-chain by two links. She was determined it would be ten by the time she left this place. There was her tennis lesson this afternoon, but the golden tan was just as important, her thong a testament to this, being the tiniest scrap of red material on a little Lycra shoestring.

Lazily, she gazed down her perfect body, past the twin peaks of perfection that were her breasts, nipples erect in the faint breeze off the lagoon. Her ribcage was a taut expanse of superlative skin rolling down to the flat tundra of her golden abdomen, the perfection broken only by the golden waist-chain, now twenty-two and a half inches long, and the small ellipse of her navel. The scrap of red Lycra was the only thing between her and the sun and her long legs stretched, well-muscled, down to well-formed, slender feet.

Whichever of the men she chose, she considered, he would be getting a bargain.

It occurred to her how very thirsty she’d become and as she stretched out a golden arm to pick up the fresh drink, she became aware of a terrible noise, a banging and thumping accompanied by a harsh voice shouting. This was disturbing her and bringing her out of her reverie and she would, in no uncertain way, be complaining of this to the management, she thought testily. Jeremy would bring the weight of his title down on the imbeciles who allowed such an intrusion!

This disruption continued and she thought she heard her name called.

“Samantha!” the voice called, “Good grief girl, wake up!”

Samantha opened her eyes slowly, blinded by the sun.

“You’ll be burned to a crisp, you silly girl!” Her mother switched off the sun-bed. “You fell asleep again. I told you to take the alarm clock after last time, although what you want to bother with that contraption for, I’ll never know. If God in his wisdom had intended you to be brown, he’d have birthed you in Barbados instead of Bolton!”

Samantha heaved her thirteen stone bulk off the sun-bed and looked in the mirror at the patchy red marks which she knew already would peel.

Her mother continued, “Red-heads ain’t supposed to be brown. Even if you didn’t burn, it still wouldn’t look right. Anyway, get dressed and come down chuck, your tea’s ready. It’s your favourite. Tripe and chips.”