Amazon Francesca Prescott BookStrand Category:  Romance Publisher: BookStrand ISBN-10:  1606011693 Type: Fiction Pages: 345 Copyright: September 2008 Falling in love with pop music’s Latino superstar plays no part in recently divorced Gemma's plans for a financially independent, bohemian lifestyle on a Spanish island in the sun. Common sense dictates staying away from Emilio Caliente’s cinnamon kisses, his paparazzi plagued existence, not to mention his hellacious manager who seems fixated on plotting Gemma's downfall. "Mucho Caliente!" is an effervescent romantic comedy. Excerpt Excerpt from Chapter 1 It’s not. It can’t be. It bloody well can’t be! Oh my goodness; it is! It’s Latino heart-throb, Emilio Caliente! Why is someone like him sitting next to someone like me on this flight to Ibiza? He should be up front, behind the curtain, hidden away in first class. Why now? Why him? Why me? Without so much as a glance in my direction, he’s short-circuited weeks of life changing, positive affirmations. Hiding behind my hair, I clench my fists, shut my eyes and silently recite, “My name is Gemma Talbot. I’m a beautiful, intelligent, newly single woman and I’m taking control of my life”. Yeah, right. What a joke! I’m sweating. I’m fidgeting. I’m finger combing my hair, smoothing my eyebrows and wishing I’d retouched my makeup before boarding. Can’t he go away for a few minutes and come back when I’ve had time to pull myself together, both mentally and physically? Planes should have an emergency hatch with a twisty staircase from the passenger area down into the hold, so you can get to your suitcase, grab a change of clothes, a more appropriate pair of shoes, and maybe even a change of underwear. There should be a decent sized bathroom with pink, soft-tone lights to flatter your complexion and boost your self- confidence, not that vile, green, fluorescent glare that only emphasises your enlarged pores, your premature lines, your facial hair. There should be baskets of complimentary upmarket cosmetics, sample freebies of the greatest and latest scientific breakthroughs in moisturisers and makeup. Yes, even on a forty-minute flight from Barcelona to Ibiza. On this flight especially. As it is, the bathroom has just been vacated by a podgy, sweaty, sick looking man, and the thought of following in his footsteps does not appeal. I rummage through my bag, praying that I won’t accidentally pull out a bedraggled tampon instead of a bruised and battered lip-gloss. I don’t usually look like this. Should I explain to him that, actually, I am quite a babe, even if I’m old enough to be, if not his mother, then at least his big sister? I’m usually impeccable. It wasn’t me who spilled Coca-Cola on my white linen trousers. It was the woman sitting next to me on my previous flight from Geneva. Her fiery Iberian origins led to loss of body control once she got started on the subject of her exasperating Scandinavian daughter-in-law. As for my T-shirt, it seemed to possess that casual, worn-in look when I left home earlier today, whereas it’s clear to me now that it should have been retired months ago and used as a duster. What on earth was I thinking? Oh, thank goodness; here’s my lip-gloss! My lips taken care of, I fumble through the pocket of the seat in front of me, searching for an in-flight magazine, but there isn’t one. So I grab the emergency procedures card and start studying it with exaggerated interest, then get all flustered again, as though I’ve been caught reading the Special K cereal package. What must he be thinking? I’m no first time flyer. I’m an air-sophisticate. I shake my long brown hair over my face and sneak a sideways glance at el divino, as the women’s glossies call him. Maybe it isn’t really him. Maybe I’ve just imagined the whole thing, and in reality, seat 12B is occupied by an obnoxious lager lout with spots and halitosis. But no. It’s him, pop music’s Latino superstar, looking a little dishevelled and not quite as glamorous as on his album covers, calendars and posters, and obviously wearing some kind of hastily thrown together disguise. However, if the other passengers on Iberia flight 243 to Ibiza are fooled by the navy blue baseball cap, the wraparound sunglasses, and the prickly, chestnut coloured, three-day beard, a connoisseur like me is not. I am the princess of pop music, the FM queen. I know my pop stars. It may seem sad that at the ripe old age of 37 I’m still addicted to bubblegum music. At my age, most people seem to have either moved on to cooler, more sophisticated musical spheres or remained faithful to the likes of Céline Dion, Phil Collins and Sting. Not that I dislike Céline Dion, Phil Collins, or Sting. They’re great. But when it comes to music, I’ll always be a teenybopper at heart. Boy bands may be passé, but they still do it for me. I’m a sucker for cheesy harmonies and all those slick, over-choreographed, step-step-shrug moves. Crazy as it may sound, my taste in music was one of the irreconcilable differences that destroyed my marriage. I think it was an overdose of step-step-shrug that finally pushed my husband a step too far. He went and dumped me for an older woman. Richard left me for Wilhelmina, a poker-faced, peroxided tart from Munich, whom I only ever saw from a distance, yet whose sense of style made quite an impression nevertheless: black leather trousers, sequinned sweaters featuring cartoon characters, daredevil heels and a hairstyle presumably influenced by lion tamers in circuses. Interesting choice for a conservative stick-in-the-mud like Richard. They probably have sex while listening to Metallica. “Yawohl, mein schnitzel, das ist SO gut, ya, ya schneller bitte, schneller." Gross. Well, they’re welcome to it. They can have Metallica and schnitzels, with or without noodles. Screw them! I’m going to Ibiza to get myself a new life. But please, God, right now, give me something cool to say to Emilio Caliente. Send me instant smooth moves, oodles of charm, irresistible flickety hair. I try to arrange myself a little more prettily, cross my legs. I’d offer him my best profile, but doing so would require odd contortions, since it’s the one against the window. I rub my nose, making sure there isn’t anything embarrassing hanging off the end. He takes off his baseball cap and his sunglasses, removes his brown leather sandals (hairy toes, I notice), checks his phone for messages, then switches it off and puts it in the duty-free bag by his feet. He then turns to me, gives me the once over, let’s-see-what-we-have-here, oh-yes, oh-well, never-mind-then, graces me with a quick smile (Yes! This is good! Initial contact established!), puts his sunglasses back on and closes his eyes. So much for contact... It’s almost eleven when we take-off. The flight has been delayed for nearly two hours. Most of the other passengers are either dozing or flicking through the kind of magazines you tend to buy at airports when you’re bored and need cheap, easy distractions. Even I have a copy of OMG! magazine in my duty-free bag. But now, with Emilio sitting next to me, I’m a little embarrassed to pull it out and have him think I’m mentally deficient. A bored, exhausted flight attendant passes down the aisle with a basket of boiled sweets. I smile at her smugly, willing her to believe that I’m travelling with Mr. Caliente, that we’re a couple. But as she reaches our level and I lean over to grab something to combat potential gorilla breath, the plane hits turbulence, causing me to knock the basket and most of its contents all over Emilio Caliente’s crotch. Both the flight attendant and I freeze, but Emilio doesn’t stir. Is he asleep or is he deliberately ignoring what he thinks is a desperate plea for attention from his moronic, past-her-sell-by-date neighbour? What kind of a person doesn’t acknowledge an unfortunate accident? Why can’t he just smile politely, say “no harm done”, and offer me a cellophane wrapped windfall? It’s now obvious to the flight attendant that we are not an item. She pulls a face at me, suppresses a giggle and discreetly points to the multicoloured sweets decorating Emilio’s khaki clad, drawstring secured, rather impressive crotch. "Do we leave them or pick them up?" she articulates silently. I shrug, mortified, then shake my head. Better to leave them there than disturb the sleeping demigod and have him open his eyes to find four unfamiliar hands groping his testicles. Grinning, the flight attendant carries on down the aisle, offering what’s left in her basket to the other passengers. ********************************** Excerpt 2 “Emilio, where are we?” “I told you. We’re on a private island called Talanta. One of the world’s best kept secrets.” “Is it a hotel?” “It’s more like a club for exhausted, burnt out over-achievers like me. It’s where I come when I don’t know where to go anymore. I come here to find myself.” I never knew he had a penchant for this spiritual stuff, but what the heck, it suits him. I chuckle. “I know what you mean. When I burn out, I go to Celeste’s, shower in plastic buckets and have a good giggle.” He misses the point and shakes his head. “For me this place is not about luxury. There are very few places where I can hide, find peace, be alone. I almost came here straight from Los Gatos…but I knew that if I did, I might never see you again. You’d never have found me here.” He reaches for a little bottle of transparent shampoo, pours some into his hand and begins to wash my hair, slowly, gently massaging my scalp. “Does that feel good?” “Mmmm.” A hand slips between my legs. “How about this?” he whispers huskily. “What do you think?” I run a hand up his arm, all the way up, past his shoulder. Wait a minute! There’s something missing. “Emilio?” “Si?” “You wax your armpits, don’t you!” “Of course, don’t you?” He’s laughing, fiddling with my nipples. “Actually, I shave,” I say. “Why do you wax your armpits? I didn’t know guys did that, except of course…you know.” He stops fiddling and sits up suddenly, sloshing water over the sides of the bath. “What? You mean gay guys? You think that I am…?” “Of course not, you big sissy! I know you’re a potential testosterone donor. No, really, tell me. Why do you wax your armpits?” “It looks better. I mean, can you imagine, there I am dancing around on stage in a sleeveless shirt, and I put my arms in the air and boom, everyone, including the cameras, catches sight of two big, hairy, sweaty, dripping bushes? Pwa! Not so sexy. Excuse me, but I think that in my profession, waxing is not gay, or sissy, or anything. It is essential!” He does have a point. “Where were we before I was distracted by your armpits?” “I seem to remember being somewhere around here.” He clamps his hands over my breasts and kisses my neck. Then he turns on the shower and rinses my hair. I squirm, wondering what he’s about to do with the shower nozzle but he only turns it off and hangs it back onto its designer hook. So much for kinky stuff, I think disappointedly as he stands up, wraps himself in a thick white towel and winks at me as he leaves the bathroom. I pile my hair above my head, lie back in the water and sigh. He’s probably gone off to do yoga or tai chi or something on the terrace. Meanwhile, I’m lying here, fizzing down below. Starving too. The sandwich in the tent didn’t have much staying power, no thanks to Carmen’s aerial acrobatics. What do they serve in this kind of place? Organic, two-tone lentils and handpicked, flawless, baby carrots? Evian in snazzy bottles? Will I upset everyone if I ask for a piece of toast, a boiled egg and a cup of tea? It’s awfully quiet out there. I hop out of the bath, rub myself dry and peek around the door. He’s sitting cross-legged on the terrace floor, presumably meditating. I tiptoe across the room to the coffee table, grab a cream, linen-bound book and go read it on the bed. Where’s the list of what’s available for room service? Ah, yes, here we are. Jesus, just as I thought! Wholesome, elegant food. Everything for the health conscious Goody Two Shoes. Even their omelette is made with quail eggs and laced with obscure sounding herbs. For goodness sake! Surely they have plain old hen eggs in the kitchen? I pick up the phone by the bed. A serene voice answers. “Yes, señora. How may I be of service?” “Hello?” I whisper so as not to disturb Emilio who, from the faraway look on his face, might well be astral planing. “I’d like to order some food please.” “Of course. May I take your order?” Om! What’s this guy been smoking? His tone suggests a spaced-out perma-smile. Shake it up a little, shall we? “I’d like four organic, two-tone, colour co-ordinated soft-boiled, regular hen eggs, piles of white toast, butter, strawberry jam and marmalade. Maybe some Nutella… And I’d also like a pot of regular English Breakfast tea with cold milk and sugar. Oh, and make sure we get tea bags please, not loose leaf. I can’t stand leaves in my tea. Hello?”

Ibiza Now magazine
Mucho Caliente - Ibiza Books
Posted by: admin in Mucho Caliente, ibiza books
This debut novel by Francesca Prescott is a romantic comedy based around a 37 year old divorcee bumping into a younger Latino superstar on a flight to Ibiza.
Mucho Caliente is written in a chatty, effervescent style, the story follows the rollercoaster romance that flourishes between the unlikely couple as we follow their escapades around Ibiza and its familiar beauty spots. This is obviously the perfect book for those of the fairer sex flying out to Ibiza for a holiday, and maybe some romance…
For a male reader the book poses more of a challenge. It’s certainly enlightening in the difficult task of unravelling the complex workings of the female mind, but might leave one observing his female colleagues in a slightly different light…
Mucho Caliente was voted LASR Best book of the Year 2008
You can buy Mucho Caliente for 18 euros from our online shop
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You Gotta Read
Rating: YOU GOTTA READ!
“Gemma Talbot is like every woman I know. From time to time she questions her judgment and her insecurities. She is forced to take a good hard look at herself and her passions when she meets Emilio, a dreamy Latino superstar. Emilio is tired of the superstar lifestyle and not knowing who cares about him just for himself or for his fame. When he meets Gemma, he finds passion and friendship in the quirky, sexy, passionate woman he comes to know.

Mucho Caliente is one of the most well written book that I have ever read. The reader is pulled into the story and you just can't help but laugh at most of the situations that come about in the book. The scene where Gemma is swimming to the boat has got to be one of my favorites. The description that went into Mucho Caliente was breathtaking. I felt like I was there with Gemma and her friends experiencing the surroundings and the actions that the characters took. At times, Francesca Prescott represented the reader so well that I felt she could have been writing about me.

The passion and road to a relationship was steamy, sensual and downright funny. The characters were intoxicating, compelling and genuine.

Francesca Prescott has gone above and beyond what I expected this book to be. I was drawn in as a reader and could not put the book down. I would highly recommend this book to ANY reader. If you enjoy humorous, sensual, informative, well written books, this is the book for you. I urge you to pick up this book, you will not be disappointed. Because of Mucho Caliente, Ms. Prescott has just found herself a lifetime fan. I am honored to give this book a YOU GOTTA READ rating as it is just simply amazing!”
Reviewer: Val
http://yougottareadreviews.blogspot.com/2009/01/review-mucho-caliente-by-francesca.html


LASR
BEST BOOK / BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR 2008


Gemma just went through a divorce from Richard, a very dull man with the ability to squash all her hopes and dreams in a single insulting comment. He laid a very generous offer on the table during their divorce but Gemma turned it down, opting instead for independence and the satisfaction she would get making it on her own. As she boards a plane to Ibiza, she has no idea how much her life will change. She couldn't have imagined that Emilio Caliente, the most famous Latino superstar in the world, would sit beside her on the plane. Her fantasies start to take on a life of their own as she strikes up a conversation with Emilio, leaving her to wonder if dreams come true.

I very much related to Gemma's character because she had so many insecurities, dreams and a steadfast opinion of what romance and love should be. A fabulously beautiful, zany, entertaining, and curious character, she constantly questions her own and everyone else's motives. It takes Emilio, a gorgeous hunk of a man and a Latin superstar swooned over by females the world over, to show Gemma she could have her pick of men and that her imperfections represent her individuality and attractiveness.

Emilio's character is the proverbial package with his sexiness, wit, charm and understanding. Did I mention sexy? He is the epitome of what women fantasize about. The hilarity begins with their first meeting and doesn't stop until the end.

The relationship between Gemma and Emilio strengthens as they journey together through many hilarious situations. The Caliente chicks, the outright nasty manager and the vindictive ex-husband lend a comedic twist to otherwise awkward situations. Mucho Caliente will make you laugh, cry, get angry and every emotion in between.

Francesca balances the perfect amount of imagery and comedy to ensure that even the worst cynic is left with a smile on their faces. Mucho Caliente is a laugh out loud hilarious read that left me wanting more and certainly transcended my expectations. So sit back, relax, crack open that book and be prepared to be whisked away to the world that is Mucho Caliente! This book is a must read for any lover of romantic comedy. I look forward to reading more work from Francesca Prescott. She has proven through Mucho Caliente her writing is comparable to most seasoned writers. I consider any of her books to be an automatic add to my to be read list. I give her the LASR Best Book rating because this is most definitely a book that I will be reading mulitple times as well as ordering for my friends.