by Sandy Steen
“Is that a new twist on ‘Want to come up and see my etchings?’ “
“I don’t own any etchings. Got a couple of cheap prints and an illustrated diver’s calendar, if that turns you on.”
“No, thanks.”
“I thought most women had a yen to get a look at a man’s home so they could see if he’s a slob or not. See if he’s decent husband material or not.”
“Oh, yeah. We live for that kind of stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re living in the wrong decade, pal.”
“Ah, a liberated woman.”
“I prefer ‘independent.’”
After a lengthy pause in the conversation, Abby said, “So, are you?”
He grinned. “Am I what?”
“A slob?”
He shrugged. “Semi.”
“Typical.”
“I thought we weren’t going to deal in generalities.”
“Sorry. I was making one of those misleading assumptions, wasn’t I?”
“Guilty as charged.”
His choice of words was a timely reminder that this evening was business, not pleasure. Particularly since Abby was beginning to enjoy herself far too much.
“You’re not even the least bit curious about my bachelor’s lair?”
“Asked the Big Bad Wolf of Little Red Riding Hood.”
They headed south, then turned left into an upscale residential neighborhood, and on up into the West Maui Mountains. “So, you think I have ulterior motives?”
“Do you?”
“If I did, wouldn’t I be a fool to say so?”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” Abby suggested. “Something simple and harmless, like dinner.”
And speaking of dinner, she wondered where they were going. The neighborhood was not only strictly residential, but it was beginning to thin out. The farther they drove, the fewer houses they encountered.
“Just where is this restaurant?”
“Don’t worry.” He whipped the Thunderbird into a tree-lined driveway and braked to a stop in front of a small house. “I’m going to satisfy your curiosity and your hunger at the same time.”
“Where? Here?” She eyed the single-story clapboard house, lights glowing from several windows. “Whose place is this?”
She entertained a fleeting hope that they might possibly be joining some friends of his, but the hope was weak at best. In her heart of hearts, she knew the answer even before he spoke.
Houston turned off the engine. “Mine.”
“I, uh, thought you said we were eating out in the open?”
He got out of the convertible, walked around to her side and opened the door. “We are.” He helped her out. “But first there’s that burning question to be answered. Am I, or am I not, a slob?”
“If you say you’re not, you’re not. I trust you.”
“Oh, but Miss Abigail, I don’t believe you do.”
He took her hand, led her up the front steps, unlocked the door and ushered her inside.
“Wait right here,” he instructed, then disappeared. A second later she heard a screen door slam.
The house was immaculate.
And small, but not cramped. She couldn’t be certain from where she stood a few feet into the living room, but there were probably only two bedrooms, and one bath. There was a dining nook just off the living room, and if she had to guess, the kitchen was on the other side of the nook. Judging from the size and some of the interior architectural points, she would guess the house had been built in the early fifties. And been very well kept.
Someone—she wondered if it was Houston’s handiwork or if he had paid a professional—had gone to great lengths to refurbish the original wood-frame windows and hardwood floors. There was a wide archway with exquisite crown molding leading into the nook, and a similar but smaller one leading into a hallway— presumably toward the bedrooms.
The decor was simple but not plain. And at the risk of sounding clichéd, homey. The walls were painted beige. The trim, including ceiling moldings of the same quality and design as the archways, was painted ivory. A watercolor seascape hung on one wall, and the top of a high narrow table behind the sofa was covered with photographs. The rooms gave the feeling of spaciousness, but at the same time were warm and welcoming.
At the risk of disobeying Houston, Abby walked into the living room and sat down on what appeared to be— judging from the style and fabric—either a sturdy handme-down sofa or a great yard-sale find. Either way, it was the central focus of the room, and looked too comfortable to resist.
On first contact, the cushions felt lumpy, but they weren’t. Once Abby settled in, the sofa seemed to snuggle up to her body, to get cozy, as if greeting an old friend.
With a deeply satisfied sigh, Abby wiggled her bottom more firmly into the cushion just as Houston walked back into the room.
“Ah, I see you’ve found my treasure.”
“Treasure?”
“You’re sitting on it.”
“Oh.” She smiled, running her fingers lightly over the soft fabric. “It’s a great couch.”
“Great? It’s way past great. I decorated this whole room around it.”
Abby glanced around. “I can see that.”
“And, I’ll have you know, my great-grandmother was sitting on this sofa when my great-grandfather proposed to her.”
Well, that answered her question about the sofa’s origin. “Now, that is impressive.”
“Great-grandmother thought so. She could never bear to part with it, so it resided in my parents’ attic for a lot of years. I stumbled over it one day. Literally, I might add. And it just sort of followed me home. So, I kept it.”
“Well, I can see why you consider it a treasure.”
Houston watched her relaxing, stroking the fabric. Enjoying the comfort he himself had so often enjoyed. Then a strange thing happened. In his mind’s eye he saw her curled up in a corner of the sofa reading a book, wearing one of his shirts—and nothing else. He was sitting at the other end, wearing only jeans. Close enough to touch her anytime he wanted. Then the picture changed, and he saw her stretched out on the sofa. Lying there, languid and sleepy-eyed, holding out her arms to him…
“Houston?”
“What?” he said, a little too loudly.
“For a minute there, you were miles away.”
“Not really.” He shook off the daydream. “I hope you brought your appetite with you.”
“Now that I see what a whiz you are at housecleaning, I can’t wait to see what’s on the menu.”
He grabbed her by the hand and tugged her up from the sofa. “Then follow me.”
As he pulled her through the dining nook and the old-fashioned kitchen, she caught a glimpse of almostspotless painted cabinets and countertops. “I thought you said you were cooking. What did you do with all the take-out containers, hide them under the sink?”
“You really should learn to be more trusting, Miss Abigail.” He opened the screen door to the backyard.
And she stepped into a fantasy.
The yard was a scaled-down version of a tropical forest and garden, complete with banyan, date palm, mango and orchid trees. There were blooming bougainvillea, orange trumpet vines and hibiscus, the floral emblem of the Hawaiian Islands. To one side was a fountain and a small pond. Probably recirculating, Abby decided, but if so, it had been exquisitely created, and appeared completely natural.
And in the center of all this lush beauty was a native stone patio with a bistro-style wrought-iron table and two chairs, painted white. The table was set, complete with a bottle of wine opened to breathe, two candles and a cut-crystal bowl of succulent-looking mixed fruit as a centerpiece.
There was no electric light, only two other sources of illumination. One provided by a heaven full of stars scattered across the black velvet night. The other, candles—dozens of them. Perched on wrought-iron holders stuck into the ground, some were placed around the table, some situated among the greenery and
blossoms.
Everywhere Abby looked, above and below, lights twinkled and flickered..
“Whoa,” she said, breathlessly. “This is…stunning.”
“I was trying to impress you.” From a large bush growing beside the back door, he plucked a delicate white hibiscus bloom and tucked it behind her left ear. “How am I doing?”
She looked up at him. “Ex-exceptional. I…I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”
“Good.” He ushered her to the table and seated her. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Be back in a sec.”
As he walked around the corner of the house, out of sight, for the first time Abby realized she heard music. Handel’s Water Music, if she wasn’t mistaken. But where was it coming from? Glancing around, she saw no stereo equipment, no tape player. She decided the speakers must be cleverly hidden somewhere in the foliage.
A second later the most mouthwatering aromas she had ever smelled wafted from the spot where Houston had disappeared. Finally, he reappeared carrying two small napkin-covered baskets, which he set on the table.
He flipped the napkins back to reveal two perfectly roasted Cornish game hens and foil-wrapped ears of corn in one basket, baked potatoes and French bread in the other.
He picked up a slice of the fragrant bread, and passed it beneath her nose. “And that crack about the take-out containers?”
Abby licked her lips, suddenly discovering she was ravenously hungry. “I take it back. In spades.”
Houston grinned as he loaded their plates with food. “Now, that’s what I like. A lady who knows how to take care of herself. Dig in.”
Abby did, and after several minutes of savoring the first few mouthfuls of the delicious food, she dabbed at her chin with a napkin and said, “Practice makes perfect.”
“At taking care of yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Only child?”
She nodded. “How about you?”
“Two sisters. Both younger.”
“I always wanted a big brother.”
“Talk to my sisters. They’ll convince you fortune smiled on you.”
Abby laughed, reaching for the warm bread.
“I like the way you laugh.”
“Actually, it’s more of a silly giggle.”
“Who told you that?”
“My dad.”
“At about age five, I’ll bet.”
“Close.”
“Well, lovely Abby, let me assure you… Wine?”
“Please.”
“Girls giggle. Women laugh. And you,” he continued, leaning in close to fill her glass, “have a great laugh.”
“Thanks,” she murmured. He was so close, and he smelled so good that she had to force her gaze away from his. She concentrated on her meal and small talk.
“I was surprised to see that you live far away from Lahaina.”
“Why’s that?” The way she tried to keep her distance by changing the subject intrigued him. He was already beginning to learn some of her nuances, and he wanted to learn more.
Abby shrugged. “I suppose I expected you to live in town. Maybe even on the beach since the biggest part of your life has to do with the ocean.”
“I used to. But, I decided I liked the peace and quiet up here. And it’s a lot cooler.”
All of which was true. He didn’t tell her that he had considered a beachfront home at one time and was now glad he had decided against it. Because now, he wouldn’t have to hear the surf. He wouldn’t have to watch the tides coming in. He wouldn’t have to remember.
He forked a small chunk of fresh mango, and aimed at her mouth. “Taste this. Came off that tree over there.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, taking the sweet, pulpy fruit into her mouth. Savoring the exotic taste. “Oh.” A drop of juice escaped her lips, and her tongue darted out to capture it.
At the same instant Houston reached a hand to assist.
Her tongue licked his finger.
And both of them jumped as if they had been burned.
“Sorry, I…”
“That’s…all right,” Abby whispered, feeling lightheaded. “I just wasn’t prepared… you know, uh…”
“For the mango to be so juicy. Yeah.” Lord, but she was something. He couldn’t remember ever being turned on this hard or this quick. The feel of her tongue along his finger was like a match rasping against a striker. Only he was the one on fire. “I know.”
“It was wonderful. I mean, it tasted great. I can’t believe you can just pick fruit from your own trees anytime you want.” She was babbling, and she knew it.
“Yeah, it’s great. How’s your Cornish hen?”
“Delicious. Everything is…” The only word that kept popping into her head was delicious because she couldn’t stop thinking about the taste of his skin mingled with the juice of the mango. A little salty. A little sweet. And totally, wonderfully delicious. “Everything is really tasty.”
“Thanks.”
This was dangerous. Far too dangerous. She wasn’t supposed to forget she was doing a job, but that was exactly what had happened. She knew better. Lord, did she know better. Yet here she was, gazing across a candlelit table, thinking about how he tasted.
And how she would like to taste him again.
“Can I help with the dishes?”
“Nope.” As he rose from the table he deposited the dirty plates and glasses into the now empty baskets. “I’ll do these later.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“Absolutely not. More wine?”
“No, thanks.” Her head was spinning enough as it was.
“Be right back.”
By the time he returned a few minutes later, Abby felt more in control again. “I see you’ve got a hammock. Is it just for show, or do you use it?”
“Sometimes I sleep out here.” He glanced away. “I like looking up at the stars. It’s… comforting.”
“I’ve never sat in one.”
“You serious?”
“I’ve seen them in movies and commercials and they look so comfortable, but I’ve just never had an opportunity.”
“Try it out.”
“Oh, I wasn’t angling to—”
“Go ahead. I’m a firm believer in obtaining the heart’s desire whenever possible.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it my heart’s desire—”
“It’s something you’ve always wanted to do, right?”
“Yes, but-”
“Do it.”
Well, Abby admitted to herself, maybe sitting in a hammock under a starry night sky was a secret desire. A tiny one. So, why not?
As with the candleholders and speakers, Houston had gone to some length to hide the metal frame and make the corded bed of the hammock appear to be suspended amid the greenery as if by magic.
He took her hand. “Back up to it, then sit right in the middle. Here.” He walked around to the other side and demonstrated.
She followed his instructions, and soon found herself back-to-back with him on the hammock.
“Now, just swing your legs up, and lie back.”
She did, and two seconds later was staring up at the stars.
“So, what do you think?” he asked, smiling down at her over his shoulder.
“I love it.” She closed her eyes. “One of these is going to the top of my ‘must have’ list.”
Abby was enjoying the experience so much, she wasn’t even aware Houston had moved until she felt the other side of the corded bed dip lower. Her eyes popped open.
“What did I tell you?” he said, sliding next to her. “Great, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes.”
What did she do now? She couldn’t very well hop up the minute he joined her. Talk about overreacting. Besides, with her luck, if she tried any quick moves, she would probably wind up dumping both of their butts in the shrubbery.
The trouble was, she wasn’t sure she could get up, even if she tried. Because of his weight and size, his side of
the hammock was lower. Consequently, her body had followed the law of gravity and rolled smack-dab against his.
They were snuggled up to each other like two proverbial peas in a pod.
Only the big pea had the advantage. He knew how to maneuver on the suspended bed, and he deftly slipped his arm around her, pulling her closer. He nuzzled her earlobe.
“You smell good. What is that?”
“Passion,” she said bluntly, wishing she had lied.
He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “I’ll say.”
With each breath, she watched his chest rise and fall, watched his muscles expand over an already broad chest.
She had admired his body from the beginning, but lying next to him put a whole different perspective on her observation. He was long and lean. Solid.
And warm.
She closed her eyes and savored his warmth. And for a moment, she forgot all about cases and questions. All she thought about was how good it felt to be held in a man’s arms again. How much she needed to be held.
But she couldn’t afford the luxury of being needy, Abby reluctantly reminded herself. She couldn’t afford to forget why she was here in the first place.
But she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.
She bit her lip, and told herself to shape up. Get up was more appropriate. The longer she let him hold her, the harder it would be to extract herself from this situation. She should just thank him, and ask him to drive her home. That’s what she should do.
“Penny?”
“What?”
“For your thoughts.”
“I was just thinking that, uh… I was thinking that I can see how sleeping out here would be…nice.”
As confident requests to be driven home went, this one had about as much fizzle as day-old soda pop. “I mean, what could be better than sleeping under the stars?”
Abruptly, there was a subtle change in his body, almost a stiffness. She could feel the vibrations like a discordant note. Vibrations that, despite the fact that he shifted his weight, had more to do with body language than body placement. He was uncomfortable with the subject.
“Do you sleep out here often?”
“A few months back, it was the only place I could sleep.”
“When you were renovating? I noticed the windows, molding and floors had been expertly refurbished—”