by Cathryn Cade
One of them, flowered in turquoise and red tropical blooms, dangled enticingly at her eye level. Her hand twitched and began to lift off of her lap. She could just pull the bikini off the rack, hold it and look it over. Then...well, people dropped things, right? And maybe another couple bikinis would fall off the rack too, into the shadows at the end of this bench. In the mix-up, who would notice if all of them made it back onto the rack?
Her heart began to beat faster. Adrenaline shot through her system, and her senses heightened. A predator zoned in on her prey.
"Hot, ain't it?" the man beside her drawled. "Man, I thought Georgia was hot, but this tropical heat has the mainland beat all to high heaven, don't it?"
Shelle froze, and then turned her head to look at him, her hand falling back to her lap. He was smiling at her, his round face kind.
"Uh, yes," she said, her voice thin. "It's hot."
"Now where you from?" he asked, settling in for a chat. "Up north somewhere, I had to guess."
"Seattle. Washington." She wanted to punch him right in his jovial, sweaty face. Or maybe in the throat. That would shut him up. Couldn’t he see she had shit on her mind right now?
He chuckled. "Hon, ever'body knows where Seattle is. But I bet you don't know where Peachtree is, now do you? That's where the wife and me are from, Peachtree, Georgia. Real pretty in the springtime. Pretty as here, in a different way."
A short, plump woman in a brilliantly flowered caftan bustled into sight around the rack of bikinis, fanning herself with a glossy brochure. She stopped before the bench. "Melvin, sugar, you ready to go? There's nothin' in there for a woman my age, don't know why I thought there would be. I just want to get somewhere cool and put my feet up." She winked at Shelle. "Maybe have one of them fancy drinks to cool me off."
He rose, shopping bag in hand. "Yes, I’m ready. You take care of yourself now, young lady. God bless you."
"Uh, you too. 'Bye." Shelle watched the couple walk away, bemused. Then she shook her head, picked up her backpack and got moving herself. The two didn't look much like guardian angels, but maybe they were. They'd just saved her dumb ass from doing something incredibly stupid.
She stopped outside the mall and looked up and down the busy street, her feet shifting, ready to move…except she had no idea where to go.
Okay. She was here on the island. She had to find something to do with herself for a couple of days—anything but shopping.
She had little idea how long heart surgery took, or how long Dave would have to stay in Honolulu recuperating. Maybe three, four days? If so, she needed somewhere to stay for that long.
She stared at a young couple walking toward her. Deeply tanned, they both carried tall backpacks. The kind a person wore to hike in the back-country, and camp out along the way. Or to hitch-hike.
Shelle blinked. Of course. This was the tropics, but still part of the USA. So, everyone spoke English. Or most everyone did, she amended as the couple walked past her, jabbering away in some European language. She eyed the young woman's outfit. She wore a dress, and sturdy sandals. No special gear at all, except for the thin sleeping bag rolled and fastened to the top of her pack.
She picked up her phone. "Google, what is the night temperature in Kona?"
"August is the warmest month in Kona, Hawaii. The average overnight temperature in August is between sixty-eight and seventy-five degrees."
Seventy-five? That was the temperature she kept her apartment. And she was a warm sleeper. She didn't need a heavy sleeping bag. With some light covers, she could sleep outside. And here, she wouldn't be in the scary forest, she'd be on a pretty beach, with warm sand.
And she could take a dip in the ocean for a bath.
She was going camping.
CHAPTER TEN
Shelle bolted upright, a scream of terror sticking in her throat.
She was sweating, her hair sticking to her skin. She was also shaking so hard her teeth chattered, audible even over the surf a few feet away. She looked around wildly, searching the tropical dawn for the huge dark monster that had menaced her in her dream, clawed hands outstretched and mouth gaping.
She saw no one.
Another nightmare. God, she'd hoped that after she'd flown across thousands of miles of ocean, to this safe haven, the nightmares would fade. But instead, she'd brought them with her...and she had a strong, horrible feeling they would be around for a while. Maybe a long while.
She'd worked with a counselor after she'd gone to live with Vicky, and one thing she'd learned—bad experiences left a mark that took time to erase. Some marks were there for life. Vicky's strong, steady affection and guidance had done wonders to help Shelle believe in herself and in her future...but in times of stress, she still fell prey to old fears.
And those fears led to impulsive behavior. Like the one that had her spending the last of her money on a plane ticket and flying clear across the ocean.
What was she even doing here?
Tears filling her eyes, she let her head fall forward. God, she felt like hell. Shaking and shivering, but too hot at the same time. And there was sand everywhere—even in her undies. Her head felt fuzzy, and her knife cuts hurt like hell despite the painkillers she'd taken...whenever that had been.
She wasn't sure of that, or of the last time she'd eaten.
Was all this the result of the nightmare? Or maybe she had the flu, she'd heard people got sick from being cooped up together on long airline flights. Just her luck to get sick now.
She was so tired of being on edge. If only Vicky were here on the island where she was supposed to be, Shelle would be safe with her, in a real house instead of camping out on a beach, and hiding from the authorities.
When she'd come out here on the trolley to the public beach sandwiched in between a high-end resort and a private estate, she had looked around and thought how beautiful it was, and how perfect for what she needed.
The public beach was full of people during the day, with a concession truck from which Shelle had purchased water, and enough food to suffice for supper and breakfast.
Then, at dusk, the gates to the beach closed, and the tourists and locals drove away. Leaving Shelle hidden at the south end of the beach, in the deep shadows of some fig trees, their branches trailing downward to the water's edge, and hiding anyone underneath.
There was evidence that others had camped here before her, but no one was here now. So she'd made a nest for herself of cheap beach towels purchased at a store in Kona, and a pillow of her things.
She'd bathed in the shallow edge of the sea, lotioned her salty skin to take away the itch, and then slept as the sky darkened, and the stars came out, brilliant in the clear southern sky. Sure, she'd taken forever to fall asleep each night. And she'd started awake at every sound, like the call of night-birds, and the crash of a heavy surf on the reef several yards out from shore. But she'd gotten by for three days, charging her phone and laptop in a plug-in in the women's restroom at the public beach, doing her business there during the day, and digging a hole in the sand when she needed to, during the night.
To her right, to the north lay the public beach, and beyond the resort, the lights winking tantalizingly in the dusk. Telling her that there, hundreds of fortunate people enjoyed the finest paradise had to offer...while she camped on this beach and hid out.
During the heat of the day. She swam a lot to stay cool. Floating in the surf along with the tourists gave her the illusion she was like them, here on vacation, carefree and happy.
However, she also pulled a few stupid tourist moves. She turned her back on the waves and got swept head-over-heels in the shallow surf. A nice local guy helped her up and checked to make sure she was all right. She was, except for a rip in the bottom of her swimsuit which rendered it unfit for the public beach. After that, she wore a pair of shorts over her suit.
To her left, the south, lay a private beach—or maybe she and her sheltering trees were on it, she honestly wasn’t sure. Through the trees, s
he could just see a dock jutting out, and a reef that the white waves crashed up on. Must be nice to be rich, and own one's very own beach. She thought about exploring there, but she did not want to actually trespass—or get arrested. So she stayed where she was.
Luckily, her heritage ensured she tanned instead of burning, and she had enough money to stay hydrated and fed.
Strangely, though, the shallow knife cuts on her arm and shoulder, instead of healing up by now, grew red, swollen and inflamed, their edges painful to touch. She'd thought the sun and salt water would help them heal.
Burying her pride, she traipsed to the lifeguard shack for some antiseptic cream and bandages. The lifeguards, all handsome local guys, first wanted to know if she’d been attacked locally. After she assured them it had happened on the mainland, they told her she really needed to head into the nearest quick-care clinic and get some antibiotics, that her cuts were now infected. She’d smiled, agreed, and gone back to her place on the beach. Putting off the decision to ride the trolley back into Kona was just…easier.
Now, she wished she’d done that.
She was sick, that was it. She was sick, and she would die out here, all alone on the outskirts of paradise, with no one to care. Her eyes filled with tears, and she nearly curled into her towels again.
Okay, okay. Wait a minute. This wasn't her, being such a wimp. This was the morning of a new day. She was tough, she had to be. And she'd get through this, just like she got through everything. Those creepy bikers hadn’t gotten her, losing her job hadn’t gotten her, and this wouldn’t either.
In a few minutes, she'd go in for a swim. Get the damn sand out of her butt-crack. Maybe even wash her hair, although salt water seemed to make her hair stiff, it was all she had now. She had bottles of water, but in the intense heat she saved them to drink, not to rinse her hair.
Drawing in a deep shaky breath, she let it out, and breathed again. She pulled the grocery sack closer, pulling out a bottle of water, and her painkillers in her purse. She took one and drank thirstily. Then she drew her knees up, curled her arms around them, and propped her chin on her knees.
Watching the day begin on the Big Island of Hawaii.
The surf washed gently in on the narrow, curving beach, then receded, leaving a skein of tiny rocks and shells strewn on the wet sand. The water was silvery in the gentle light.
A white bird flew along above the shore, ghostly in the soft light. In the distance, rain clouds hung over another island—she wasn't sure which one, maybe Maui.
Close at hand, fig trees hung their branches down over her, as if she was in a nest. Their leaves rustled in the warm, humid air. The smell of the ocean was underlaid with that of damp earth, lush vegetation and flowers.
It was as close to paradise as she could imagine....to anyone who had the means to enjoy it.
Funny in a dark way, that she'd come all this way, to a place where she could feel safe. And wound up on a beach where she wasn't supposed to be. A place where she wouldn't be, if she had any other choice. And a place that, beautiful and welcoming as it was, she'd vacate in a hot minute if she could.
But she couldn't, because having traveled thousands of miles across the wide Pacific Ocean...she now had nowhere else to go.
So, here she was. And in just a minute, when her cuts stopped burning, and her head stopped throbbing, she'd take that swim. Wash off the sweat and sand and let the waves rock her for a little while. Then she'd figure out what to do next.
She set her hands down on the sand, feeling it warm and silky under her palms, and sifting through her trembling fingers. She took a breath, and then another, and let the serenity of this place soak into her.
Calming her, soothing her.
Until a deep, male voice bellowed, "Hey, you! Wahine, whatchu doin' here?"
Shelle lurched to her feet, whirling. Unfortunately, the sudden movement made her head whirl too, and it didn't want to stop.
Her heart pounding, she gaped in horror at the apparition looming over her. He was the human version of the monster in her dreams.
A huge man with broad shoulders and long dark hair scowled down at her, face in shadow, stance menacing. And though he might be wearing only a pair of worn board shorts, and his black hair clean and shiny as a bird's wing in the sunlight...in a flash, she was back in her nightmare, where a huge, dark monster stalked her.
"You're trespassing," he growled, taking another step closer.
With a moan of terror, Shelle surrendered to the waves of dizziness. She didn't even feel the thump as she landed on the sand at the terrifying stranger's feet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"What the fuck?" Moke stared at the woman lying face-down on the sand at his feet.
He dropped to his haunches and brushed back the silky mass of her long hair. Her face was pale as the sand under her tan, except for the unnatural red of her cheeks.
"All I said was 'whatchu doing here'," he muttered. And now he was talking to himself.
But fuck, so he'd hollered at her, what did a squatter expect? For him to smile and ask all sweet, 'Hey pretty wahine, would you mind just moving yourself and your pathetic little camp off my friends' property? Mahalo, and have a nice day.'
Still, he'd intimidated men before, lowlifes who were up to no good, and some may have had women with them, but this was the first time he'd ever made a woman pass right out just by yelling at her. He didn't much care for the feeling it left on him—guilt. 'Cause she was out cold. Not much of a future for her as a squatter if she passed out every time somebody hollered at her.
He hoped she wasn't some strung-out junkie he was gonna have to call the sheriff to come and haul away.
He dismissed this thought immediately. Her skin and hair were healthy, and she had flesh on her bones. Really nice flesh, bursting out of a cheap, yellow-and-red flowered pareo that left her arms and shoulders bare, along with most of her long legs.
Carefully, he dropped to a knee and got a grip on her near arm, another on her leg. Felt wrong to be touching her when she was out of it, but the tide was coming in, lapping at her toes, so he couldn't very well leave her here till she woke up.
She'd been sleeping on a couple of cheap beach towels. They straggled over the sand where she'd erupted from them. Turning her over, Moke laid her back on the towels.
She had sand all over her face. He brushed it away as gently as he could. Under his calloused fingers, her skin was soft and damp as flower petals. Damn, she was pretty—or she would be if she wasn't a mess of sand and salt-draggled hair. He touched her cheek again, his frown deepening. Shit, she was burning up. Sick with a fever of some kind.
His motion disturbed a hank of hair that had stuck to a big bandage on her chest. Moke carefully lifted a loose edge of the bandage, baring the upper swell of her breasts, and sucked in a breath of shock. The soft skin on one side was marred by a hideous, weeping cut, which was repeated on her upper arm. What the hell had happened to her? A bite from some sea creature? A slice from the coral?
No, fuck him, these were knife wounds.
And if he knew his first aid, they were now badly infected. Full of pus, and the skin around them was puffy, and red. Ugly and obscene on her silky, golden skin.
He was gonna have to take her for help.
He gathered her into his arms—and good thing he worked out on the weights a lot and lifted heavy engine parts, 'cause she was an armful. He carried her along the beach, splashing through the edge of the surf and watching for slippery lava rock under the water.
He'd load her in his rental truck and take her straight to the closest hospital, Kona General.
But when he emerged from the shrubbery and bore her up across the manicured lawn toward the house, a tall, broad, silver-haired man stood on the lanai. His face was deeply weathered by years of sun and wind, his broad face creased in smile lines. He wore a flowered aloha shirt and shorts, about the only thing Moke had ever seen the man wear.
Daniel and David's uncle, Hilo Ho'oma
lu. Not a doctor, unfortunately, but at least a voice of wisdom and support.
As Moke neared the house with his burden, her legs flopping over one arm, her hair over the other, Hilo frowned. "Moke. Who you got there?"
"Uncle," Moke greeted him with the Hawaiian term of respect for an elder. "She's a squatter. Found her on the beach. She's hurt bad. Passed out at my feet."
Hilo stepped aside, indicating the open door behind him. "Bring her into the house."
"I was gonna take her to Kona General," Moke said. "She's got cuts, all infected—look real bad."
Hilo gave him a look from under his silver brows that made Moke feel he'd come up against an immovable wall. "I see that, boy. Bring her inside, and we will help her."
The man had an air of command rivaled only by Stick Vanko, president of the East Washington chapter of the Devil's Flyers. Moke found himself moving into the quiet house, turning sideways to avoid knocking his burden's head or feet on the door jambs. "Where we gonna put her?"
They stood in the sitting room, a gracious room with two long, oversize sofas, several chairs and assorted side tables. Book shelves lined two walls, with large, vibrant paintings on the other walls. Hilo motioned to one of the long, beige sofas. "Lay her down here."
"She's not real clean," Moke pointed out. "Been sleeping on the beach, looks like."
"Ah. I'll get something to cover the sofa."
Hilo came back in a moment with a white tablecloth in one hand. Moke was glad for his quick return, because as sexy an armful as she was, the trespasser was getting heavy. If she'd been a guy, he'd have put her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. But she was definitely not a guy, plus she had the horrible cut on her chest. Couldn't be abrading that on his shoulder.
Moke squatted to let her down as carefully as he could on the covered sofa. She flopped back, lips parted, hair falling everywhere, limp and vulnerable as a mermaid marooned on a white linen beach.
Hilo sucked in a long breath when he saw the infected cuts. "Au’e. That's bad."