by Karina Halle
It wasn’t about dying either.
I steered the Jeep onto the highway and decided to head southeast to Larsen’s Beach. It wasn’t the easiest beach to get to—I’d have to travel down a road that would coat the car in the island’s infamous red dirt before heading down a dangerously steep path to the beach itself. But if this man really wanted to find me, if he wanted to chase me, to save me, all the way there . . . he would.
I parked the Jeep at the end of the red road, finding space along a fence of buffalo grass. I wasn’t the only person that day with the idea of surfing at Larsen’s; about seven other cars were crammed into the same area. Apparently everyone wanted to take advantage of the sunshine and light winds. Maybe some surfers would have been mad that other people would mean they’d be sharing the breaks, but it made me feel safe, as if I were going on a blind date with someone.
Except that I’d seen him before.
I took my time unloading my board and putting on my sneakers for the hike down, constantly looking over my shoulder in hopes of seeing a plume of red dust rising up through the air. Nothing yet. Maybe the man had just been nice in that note. Maybe he had no intention of saving me again.
I pulled my long black hair into a ponytail and headed past the open gate and down the steep, uneven path that went from the very top of the cliff to the golden beach below. I wasn’t far along, still near the top, when I decided to take a moment and observe the waves. Steadying myself with my board still under my arm, I climbed onto a few volcanic boulders that were wedged into the cliffside, rising above the tall grass that obscured my view.
Below, the ocean glistened with patches of turquoise where the bottom was sand, and royal blue where it was rocky. The waves crashed on the reef just offshore, and the tiny figures of surfers were already catching the steady swells. You’d think that just looking at the water, imagining myself back out there, would have brought some fear into my chest, but my fear was different now.
The hair rose on the back of my neck.
“Don’t jump,” a low, accented voice growled.
I gasped and quickly spun around to see a man—my man—standing on the path and watching me. His eyes widened just as mine did. I had turned so fast with the board that I was toppling to the left, my foot trying to find stability and finding none.
I was going over.
Falling.
I cried out, whipping my head back around to see where I was going to end up, what my doom would be. I wasn’t fearing death, but the amount of pain before death.
Or endless pain without death.
Then, with reflexes like a cat, he was at me, grabbing on to my arm as the ground beneath me turned to air. The surfboard crashed down the cliff but I was hanging on to him, staring up at his face as he pulled me to safety. Again.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” I said, breathless. Of course I’d be defensive.
“A simple thank-you would have sufficed,” the man said. His accent was Mexican, and now that he was standing right beside me, still gripping my arm, I finally had a clear look at him.
He was about six feet tall, with a nicely toned body he wasn’t hiding very well under his board shorts and white wifebeater. His skin was this smooth, golden tone that you just wanted to run your fingers over and over again, and played off the strands of bronze in his wavy hair. Those hazel eyes of his were watching closely, and though his dark brows were furrowed with concern, maybe even anger, there was a startling brightness to them.
The scars that lacerated his left cheekbone were ugly as sin, yet there was something almost beautiful about them. They added depth and secrets to a man who was probably in his late twenties. He had a story to tell.
I wondered if I’d be around to hear it.
When I became aware that I was not only staring at him but that he still had a grasp on my arm, I pulled myself away. “You scared me,” I explained. “I was watching the waves.”
He cocked a brow. “Planning to surf so soon after yesterday?”
I crossed my arms. “It’s none of your business what I do. I don’t know you.”
He smiled prettily. “I’m the man who saved you from a watery grave. I also delivered your board to you. And I believe I might have just saved your life again.”
“As I said, you scared me.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure, not after yesterday. Hey,” he peered over my shoulder, “want me to get your board again?”
I didn’t want to look down in case I experienced a bout of vertigo. “It’s fine. Maybe it’s a sign I should give it up.”
He gave me a curious look and then opened his mouth to say something. But he shut it with a smile and then turned around, heading to the path. “If you gave up surfing, how would I keep meeting you like this?”
He trotted down toward the beach. I watched him for a moment before I shook my head and went after him.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked him, carefully following him. Damn, he was quick. “I still don’t know you.”
“My name’s Esteban,” he shot over his shoulder. “Now you know me.”
“You don’t know my name,” I called out after him, my knees starting to hurt from the quick descent. Oh God, I hoped he didn’t know my name. That would be terrifying.
“I don’t,” he said without pausing. “But I figure you’ll tell me eventually.”
“Oh, really?” I called after him. Cocky little bastard. Well, tall bastard. And a savior instead of a bastard. Still . . . cocky.
When the path almost started to level out, he vaulted off into the wild greenery that clung to the cliffs, his athletic form disappearing. For a moment I couldn’t hear anything but the sharp wind that rushed up to me, the cry of mynah birds and the waves crashing on the reef.
Time seemed to slow as I took stock of the situation. I had no idea who this guy was other than he was a pretty hot Latino and his name was Esteban. Yes, he was retrieving my surfboard for me—at least I think he was—and yes, he had saved my life. But he’d also followed me to my rental house and to the beach today. That took some sleuthing and was stretching the boundaries of being a Good Samaritan.
“Got it!”
I whirled around, surprised to see him appearing a few feet down the path, my board under his arm, while he wiped away the loose foliage that was clinging to his hair. He strode over to me proudly and lifted the board out in my direction.
When I reached for it, though, he pulled it back to his chest. “Not until you tell me your name.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “It’s Lani.”
“Lani? Interesting . . . short for something?”
Was this really the time and place for small talk? “It’s short for Lelani.”
“Lelani, hey? Are you Hawaiian? I thought you’d have better surfing skills than that.”
“Actually,” I said as I wrestled my board out of his grasp, “I have Hawaiian ancestry. My grandparents were from here. But I just like to come here to . . .”
“Escape life?”
I pursed my lips as I eyed him. Despite the sparkle in his eyes, there was still something odd about him. Though I didn’t feel I was in danger, there was still a sense of unpredictability and circumstance that seemed to swirl around us.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “To escape life.”
He nodded, then asked. “Are you part Japanese?”
“My grandmother was, why?”
He smiled. “No reason other than you’re strikingly beautiful. Most mutts are.”
Though I was blushing, I had to laugh at the mutt comment. I think it was the first genuine laugh I’d had in a long time. “Well, we can’t all be purebreds.”
“Oh, senorita,” he said cheekily, “I don’t know what the hell I am other than the fact that I was born in La Paz, Mexico. One of my aunts has bright blue eyes, like the ocean here, and my half sister is a redhead. I’m probably one of the biggest mutts around. Would explain why all my ex-girlfriends would call me a dog.”
&n
bsp; I nearly laughed again but I saved it with a smile. It was almost gratuitous after the last few days.
“Well, thank you,” I said, moving to walk past him.
“That’s it?” He reached out and grabbed the back of my board, pushing it to the side so I had to face him. “You laugh and then you leave?”
I had no idea what to say. It wasn’t that I wanted to leave, but I had a hard time processing anything new. I had been so happy to just plod along on this island, keeping quiet and looking for the easy way out.
Esteban cocked his head toward the beach. “Why not try surfing, like you’d planned. The waves look nice.” He took a step toward me, and I imagined his eyes were darkening. “Or is that the problem? It’s not dangerous enough for you.”
My pulse raced as I bit my lip. I noticed beads of sweat on the crest of his forehead, and wondered if they would taste salty on my tongue.
I really needed to go.
“I was watching you, you know,” he said. “I was out on the waves, too, though I know you didn’t notice. You were just sitting there, watching every wave pass by. For the longest time, I thought maybe you were a total beginner. But even from far away, I could see it in your eyes.”
Shocked, I swallowed hard. Though the sun was bright as sin, I felt a chill creeping up my limbs. “What could you see?” I whispered.
“The shadows,” he said simply, as if he were making sense. “I have them, too. You have to in my line of work. But you wanted yours to pull you under.”
“Look,” I said, trying to appear cool and calm, as if he hadn’t seen who I was out there. “It was really nice that you saved me and got my board, but I think we have to part ways here. I’m just here on vacation. I like to surf. I like to paint. I’m here to relax and have a good time, like everyone else.” I stuck out my hand so I wouldn’t look scared. “Good-bye, Esteban.”
When I expected him to be put out, he just smiled at me, so pure against the scars. “Esteban Mendoza. I’m staying at the Princeville Saint Regis. If you ever feel like discussing those shadows of yours.”
I was about to tell him I wouldn’t be doing that, but he just turned around and headed down the path to the beach. From there I watched him trot toward the water’s edge and dive into the clear blue water, swimming powerfully out to the reef. He made it past the breakers, disappearing into the foam before appearing out on the horizon, a tiny dot against the navy swells.
I could have sworn he waved good-bye to me. It must have been my imagination.
After the beach, I stopped by Foodland to pick up another bottle of Scotch and headed straight back to the house. I poured myself a drink, neat, and took it into the shower with me. I stood in there, washing and washing and washing until I felt raw and real and my skin had turned pruney. I could have stayed in there forever, just living in the warmth.
Oddly enough, it felt like I’d taken a shower for the first time in my life. God, how much of my day was always on autopilot.
When I finally dragged myself out, slipped on my robe, and wound my coarse hair into a braid, I decided to call Doug.
He picked up on the fourth ring. Just like always, he made himself seem too busy for me, yet would get mad if I didn’t pick up right away.
“Hello?” His voice was distracted, and I heard the distinctive crinkle of a potato chip bag in the background.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said, trying to sound cheery and sober.
A pause. “Nice of you to call me back, finally. I was trying to reach you yesterday. Where were you?”
“Surfing.”
“Not painting?”
“Not painting,” I said with a sigh. “So, how are things?”
Now it was his turn to exhale. He launched into tirade against some of the new clients at his work, the tightness of our purse strings, the lack of opportunities. With each sentence I could feel the stress and frustration pour out from him. He often used me as a venting board, though I assumed it was only on the days that Justine wasn’t around.
I let him talk, not putting in a word edgewise, not even when he reminded me that the time I was spending in paradise was costing us money we didn’t have, and if I wanted to truly make it worthwhile, I’d need to start painting. I’d need to create. I’d need to make something, and something of myself.
Instead I eventually hung up the phone with a stiff “I love you,” and poured myself another glass. I let the drink burn on my tongue as I stared at the easels and blank canvases that were hidden in the shadows of the room.
Those damn shadows. They really were here with me, filtering out through my soul, permeating every inch of my life. Just how long had they been living my life for me?
I finished my drink, then placed it down on the counter with a desolate clink.
I googled the number for the Saint Regis and was put through to one Esteban Mendoza.
Chapter 3
The next morning I woke up to the sound of a motorcycle outside the house. I barely had time to register that I had slept through my alarm when there was a knock at the door.
Fantastic.
I quickly got out of bed and slipped on my pajama pants, all the while thinking it couldn’t be Esteban. We had made plans to do something in the morning, but I’d assumed he would have called me first.
On the way to the door, I paused by the mirror and winced at my reflection. My eyes were sleepy and puffy with smudges of mascara underneath, my hair was a mess, and my nipples were poking out of my camisole. Another knock prevented me from trying to fix myself up.
I opened up the door and lo and behold, Esteban was on the other side, a motorcycle parked behind the Jeep.
He looked surprised at my disheveled appearance and couldn’t hide the cheekiness in his grin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we said noon.”
I wiped underneath my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest the minute his eyes rested on my breasts.
“You said you’d call me first.”
He shrugged, taking my body in, his gaze trailing from my tired face all the way to my bare toes. I felt like I was being dissected. Couldn’t say a tiny part of me didn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t remember the last time Doug looked at me like that. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted him—or anyone—to mentally undress me.
“I’m sorry,” he said more sincerely this time. “I should have called.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty . . . want me to come back?”
I sighed. He was already here, and I didn’t feel right about turning him away. Luckily I never took too long in getting dressed, so I invited him inside. He said he’d put on a pot of coffee while I got ready. I picked up my clothes for the day, hoping I wouldn’t have to ride his motorcycle, and went into the bathroom to do my face.
The only problem with the vacation rental—and it wasn’t a problem when you were alone—was that it was extremely unsoundproof. While I washed my face and put on the barest touches of makeup, I could hear him puttering around in the kitchen. It was an odd feeling having a stranger in the house, doing domestic things while I was in another room. Of course he could have been casing the joint, stealing my camera and the few pieces of jewelry I had brought with me, but I didn’t feel that was the case with him.
Then again, other than his name, I didn’t know Esteban Mendoza at all.
When I came out of the bathroom I found him standing on the back steps, two cups of coffee in hand, admiring a pair of chickens that were strutting around the backyard. He shot me a winning smile and handed me my cup of coffee like we were old friends.
He nodded at it. “It’s black. There was no milk and sugar in the house, so I figured you liked it dark.”
I couldn’t tell if that was sexual innuendo about his deeply bronzed skin, but I tried not to dwell on it.
I took the hot mug from him, our fingertips brushing against each other. The brief contact caused my face to grow hot, something I didn’t quite understand. I was never shy—introverted, but not shy—but this man ma
de me feel like an awkward teenager again.
“Thank you,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He watched my movements like a hawk and just before his attention became too intense, he smiled. His dimples were such a contradiction to his scars. I had this terrible urge to reach out and touch them, to stroke his face and find out what shadows followed him.
Instead I cleared my throat and said, “Thanks for taking my call last night. I was . . .”
“I know,” he said, taking such a large gulp of coffee that I winced, imagining it must have burned going down. “You don’t have to explain why. I told you why. I’m just glad you called.” He gestured to the yard with his free hand. “This is a beautiful spot.”
I nodded. “It is.”
“You’re a painter.”
I gave him a sharp look, feeling intruded.
He tilted his head. “I saw your easels. I saw no art, though, so I could only assume. You have the hands of a painter.”
I sipped my drink, gathering my thoughts before I said anything. “I do paint. I came here to . . . but . . . I just haven’t.”
“You haven’t been inspired.”
I snorted and shot him a sideways glance. “If you can’t be inspired on the most beautiful island on the planet, there’s something wrong with you.” My smile quickly faded at my last words. There was something wrong with me. Fatally.
“Maybe you’re not looking in the right place. Inspiration isn’t in your backyard or at the bottom of the ocean. It’s somewhere else.”
I glanced at him curiously. His face was grave but his eyes bright, shining like the sun.
“Come on,” he said, tugging lightly at my arm. “I’ll show you.”
Minutes later I had finished my coffee and was climbing on the back of his bike. Legally you didn’t have to wear helmets here, but he still gave me his to wear. Truth be told, I hated motorcycles—I hated the speed and uncertainty, finding them to be more constrictive than freeing. They also forced intimacy with the person you were riding with. Not only did I have Esteban’s helmet on my head, which was damp from sweat, though it was a musky, pleasant smell, but I had to put my arms around his waist. This Harley was definitely not a cushy cruiser.