by BETH KERY
“Jeez, you weren’t kidding when you said you hated Waikiki, were you?” Melanie pulled her skin suit’s top down over her bathing suit. “You really didn’t have to come, Lana. And you certainly didn’t have to agree to take these surf lessons with me. I’ve taken vacations by myself before, you know.”
Regret immediately lanced through Lana’s flash of temper. Melanie was in the midst of a soul-scarring divorce that had already gone on for two years more than it should have. Sure, Melanie might have gone on a few vacations by herself before she married that sleazeball David Mason. Still, there was no way in hell Lana was going to allow her friend to be alone when she was still raw and hurting from her soon-to-be ex-husband’s latest underhanded courtroom maneuver to get full custody of their fouryear-old daughter, Shawna.
She gave Melanie an apologetic grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go diva on you.”
Melanie laughed. “Girl, if you ever showed a hint of the diva gene, I’d have abandoned you years ago.”
“Your shirt is too loose, hon.” Lana chose a shirt that read Jason Koa Surf Schools, Waikiki over the left breast and handed it to Melanie before she picked one for herself. The tight long-sleeved shirt would partially protect them from the shearing Waikiki surf and the friction burn of surfboard against bare skin . . . as well as ensure that a woman’s bikini top would stay in place.
Melanie shrugged out of the top and took the one that Lana handed her. “Why do you hate Waikiki so much?”
“Too touristy.”
Melanie eyed her. “You seem really tense. And on the plane—jeez, Lana, I thought a few times you were going to have a panic attack like you used to have before you went onstage, back when you were still a kid.”
Lana waved her hand impatiently. “Flying to Hawaii is worse than flying to Europe. I should have asked my doctor for something to help me sleep.”
For the whole damn trip, she added to herself.
“Are you afraid people will recognize you? You could be anybody under that hat and ginormous pair of sunglasses.” Melanie’s blue eyes dropped doubtfully over her friend’s figure. “’Course . . . there’s not much I can do about disguising your body when you’re wearing a bikini. The boring, baggy clothes I usually buy for you just won’t work in Waikiki. Even the homeless people wear swimsuits.”
Lana was only half listening. Her gaze had wandered back to the corridor where their surfer-dude instructor had disappeared with the blonde on his tail.
“I’m not worried about being recognized. People don’t care about the blues in Waikiki,” she said grimly.
“There are blues and jazz lovers everywhere, Lana, and you know it.”
Lana scowled. She hadn’t actually been referring to a genre of music. “Waikiki is all surface and no substance—a flashy whore decked out in skimpy designer clothes, a perfect tan highlighting a perfect boob job . . . It’s so fake.”
So vicious. So primed to use the poor and underprivileged to serve the tourist industry’s endless greed, she thought privately.
Melanie’s eyebrows rose. Lana realized she’d allowed her bitterness to show and immediately made her face settle into impassivity.
“Well, it’s certainly a happening spot,” Melanie said. “I needed someplace with this kind of energy and excitement after what David has pulled over the past month. A secluded tropical island just wouldn’t have done the trick.” Melanie stretched the dark blue fabric over her generous breasts. “I need the distraction of a party atmosphere. And these native guys are phenomenal. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how gorgeous our surf instructor is. He’s a walking god. He could be the inspiration for a tropical drink—Hawaiian Wet Dream.”
“He’s awfully tall to be a Hawaiian.”
Melanie paused in the action of readjusting her bikini top.
“You don’t think he’s Hawaiian?”
Lana shrugged negligently. “Sure, he might have been born here and have some roots. I just meant there are few pure Hawaiians left. He’s part Anglo. And he’s got some Filipino influence, I’d guess, in addition to Hawaiian.”
“Well, the combination is one hundred percent phenomenal.” Melanie’s blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’d love to have him help me forget about David on this vacation.”
Lana smirked.
“Don’t give me that look, Lana. Not you—of all people. No one knows better than me how single-minded you are when it comes to men. Surely you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of a few rounds of sex with a gorgeous stranger when you’re such an expert on the activity.”
Lana shrugged and leaned down to put on a pair of surf shoes. “You’re right. I’m here to see that you have a good time, after all, and I’m going to make sure it happens. No better way to celebrate saying sayonara to that louse husband of yours than steaming up the sheets on your vacation. Hell, I’m only too happy to do the same.” She nodded toward the back room. “Just don’t count on doing it with our hunky surf instructor, though. It seems he’s otherwise occupied.”
Melanie checked her waterproof watch. “Jeez, he’s already twenty minutes late. If he doesn’t hurry, we’re going to be rushing to make the luau I scheduled.”
Lana clamped her back teeth together. “You have yet to learn about Hawaiian time, hon,” she muttered with a scowl.
Melanie laughed. “Care to explain how you’re such an expert on Hawaiian time? I’ve worked for you since you were a nineteen-year-old kid recording your first album. That was ten years ago, and I’ve never heard you mention Hawaii once in that time period. Did you spend time here before you came to the states from Mexico?”
“You know, this loser is really starting to bug the shit out of me,” Lana said, choosing to ignore Melanie’s questions. She dropped her beach bag on the floor and stalked toward the dim corridor at the back of the facility. “He’s a little old to be playing irresponsible surfer dude, don’t you think? I’ve got half a mind to report him to his boss.”
“Lana, maybe you should just hang loose . . .”
But Lana ignored her friend. The familiar Hawaiian phrase made her clench her teeth even tighter.
She turned into a large room that contained several surfboards on tables in the process of being repaired or waxed. Her eyes immediately found the figures of the tall man and the curvy woman, despite the dim light. He leaned back casually, one foot propped against the wall, his hands tucked behind a pair of tight buns that Lana hadn’t failed to notice as he strutted around, giving instructions about preparing for the lesson earlier. He looked down at the blonde, a half-amused, half-irritated expression on his shadowed face. His profile was as arresting as the rest of the package. That straight, bold nose had immediately pointed out his Caucasian heritage to her, along with his height.
“Excuse me. My friend and I have a schedule we’d like to keep. You would think you did, as well, considering the fact that between the two of us, we’re shelling out four hundred dollars an hour for your services.”
The woman started and gasped in surprise. Her hand jerked, and she hopped back with a guilty glance at Lana.
Lana was glad that she wore the dark glasses so neither of them saw how wide her eyes went. He had the nerve to not even hurry as he lowered the pant leg of his board shorts, covering a long, shapely, semi-erect cock. Even with his shorts lowered she could still perfectly make out the outline of it next to his thigh.
It was far from being the first cock she’d ever seen, and it wouldn’t be the last. But that quick glance informed Lana it was the most beautiful. A flash of pure, primal heat surged through her along with a lightning bolt of irritation.
She was comforted by the fact that she knew her face gave nothing away.
“Four hundred dollars an hour should help you get over your discomfort. If you start doing your job now, I’ll agree not to tell your boss about your negligence, Mr. . . . ?”
He d
idn’t move from his lazy pose against the wall. She couldn’t really make out his eyes in the dim room but sensed his stare boring into her. She’d noticed earlier that his eyes were a singular color—dark gray with flecks of green and amber.
“Koa. Jason Koa. And I’ll be happy to reimburse you for the half hour of your lesson and still give you the full two hours.”
“Good,” she replied briskly, unmoved by the fact that he was apparently the owner of the two-bit surfing school. She started down the corridor, only to notice that he hadn’t moved. “Well? Aren’t you coming?”
“That gives me another eight minutes. I’ll be with you in a moment, undoubtedly more comfortable and better prepared for teaching what I don’t doubt will be a challenging lesson.”
Lana stiffened when he reached for the giggling blonde. She thought of where she’d like to tell Jason Koa to stuff his insolent attitude and gorgeous smug face, but then she thought of Melanie. She imagined her friend’s look of disappointment if Lana marched out there and self-righteously informed her that they were leaving.
She doubted her sunglasses disguised the glare of pure loathing she threw him before she turned away.
* * *
He set down the board in the grassy area near the beach. “Okay. Which one of you ladies is up first?”
Jason was glad when the blonde with the round face and nice smile stepped forward. He’d have to work with her man-eater friend at some point, but he was still steamed by her insulting display of arrogance back at his shop. He wasn’t sure why her bitchiness had gotten to him so much, but it had. He’d been so preoccupied by her frigid superiority that he hadn’t been able to concentrate when pretty little Katie eagerly resumed her hand job.
Not that he’d really been interested to begin with. Katie had taken a lesson from him three days ago. He’d taken her up on her blatant offer of her body that night, but he’d quickly become annoyed by her pursuit of him. Her California-girl good looks, large breasts, and curvy hips and ass went a long way to making him forget his rule not to get involved with customers. He’d been irritated when she followed him into the back room today and thrown herself at him. His cock had responded to her eager hands but not with much enthusiasm.
Still, if she’d kept it up, he would have grudgingly let her finish him off. He was just a guy, after all.
But then the man-eater interrupted and ruined a little afternoon delight. He’d pushed Katie’s industrious hand away after the woman left and made small talk with her about her job as a financial analyst. Apparently Katie had a hell of a head on her shoulders. That was the vacation mentality for you. Jason seriously doubted Katie was in the habit of throwing herself at males in the everyday business world, but give her the tropical breezes and the sensual rhythms of the island, and she was suddenly shameless.
He’d made his customers wait the full eight minutes, which caused him to feel a little guilty, he realized, as he positioned the blonde named Melanie belly-down on the board. Melanie was obviously nice and excited about her lesson. It had been rude of him to make her wait longer just because she had shit taste in friends.
Five minutes later, after he was satisfied that Melanie had the basics of paddling, kneeling, positioning herself in a standing position in the center of the board, and falling in the safest way, he suggested that she go and pick out a board from the beginner rack he kept on the beach.
He gave Melanie’s silent friend a bland look. “You’re up.”
“I don’t need instruction on the basics.”
“Is that right?” he asked mockingly.
He glanced down over her. He had to admit she had the body of an athlete. It wouldn’t surprise him if she knew exactly what she was doing. He’d immediately taken note of the casual manner in which she took off her sundress earlier in his shop. She was as used to baring her body as the female swimmers he knew—as most native Hawaiians, for that matter.
He hated to admit it, but she had excellent reason to be comfortable stripping down in public. She had a jaw-dropping body—strong and supple, but soft and feminine, too. And even though she wasn’t tanned, her smooth skin held a golden hue that promised to soak up the sun thirstily. If she stayed on the island for two weeks, she’d probably be ready to contend in a Miss Hawaiian Tropic contest.
“I’ll be the one to decide whether or not you need instruction. Get up on the board, and show me the basics.”
Her muscles stiffened. For a second, he thought she’d refuse, which would be fine by him. He’d be more than happy to leave her on the beach.
She surprised him by stepping up on the board, however. He stopped her with a hand on her elbow when she started to go lie down on her belly.
“Take off the hat and glasses.”
She started. Despite her frigid nature, her skin felt warm and satiny beneath his appreciative fingers.
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“I like to be able to look into the eyes of my students. Got a problem with that?”
He felt her stare on him from behind the dark glasses.
“Look, Waikiki isn’t Waimea in March—or even Sandy for that matter,” he said, referring to a few Oahu advanced surfer beaches. “But it ain’t the wave pool at the water park, either, lady. Those waves can pound the hell out of you. If you don’t do what I say, it can be dangerous. Call me an ass, but I tend to like to know what I’m dealing with before I take responsibility for you out there. If I can’t look into your eyes, it makes it a little difficult for me to know what you’re made of. Play by my rules, or don’t play at all.”
He realized he’d tightened his grip on her firm biceps. Without speaking she removed the straw hat and tossed it on the grass. Brown hair with golden highlights spilled around her shoulders. The glasses landed on top of the hat. Exotically tilted hazel eyes studied him coldly through thick, long lashes.
He knew those eyes. He knew that face. So did half the population.
He dropped his hand.
Okay, so half the population wouldn’t recognize her. She wasn’t pop-star famous by any means, but she did have a loyal following, not to mention the fact that her work commanded the respect of blues and jazz aficionados across the globe.
“Show me what you got,” he said grimly. He watched her as she gracefully came up into a surfing stance.
“I told you,” she said coldly over her left shoulder.
Jason spread his hand on the back of her thigh. “You know the actions, but you need to loosen up. You’re too tight. Relax.” He almost broke out in a huge smile when he slapped her thigh lightly. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Get your hand off me.”
“Give me a break, lady,” he muttered as he slid his hand down to her ankle, urging her to widen her stance an inch or two. “You saw me touching your friend as well. You need to relax more than just your body. Your attitude could use a Hawaiian adjustment as well.”
“Think I should just hang loose, dude?”
He paused with his hand on her firm calf and glanced up at her. Her face was livid with fury.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that particular expression on the front cover of a magazine. I guess that’s for the best, considering the publisher wants people to buy their magazine, not be repulsed by it.”
She clamped her jaw shut. He watched in fascination as her face smoothed into a beautiful mask of impassivity. He stroked her satiny skin ever so lightly, preferring her fury for some reason. Must be turning into a masochist in his old age. When she tensed even further, he knew she’d noticed his subtle groping. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Melanie approaching with a short board under her arm.
“Lana.” Her name lingered on his tongue. “That wouldn’t be short for ’Ailana now, would it?”
This was interesting, Jason thought when he saw her cheek muscle twitch. He rose slowly unti
l he looked down at her, holding her gaze all the while.
“It means ‘loving’ in Hawaiian. Of course without the okina, the word ailana refers to raw, fuck-me-till-I’m-blind sexual intercourse,” he said softly, referring to the punctuation mark before the name. He saw the fury return to her expression and smiled insolently. “Ah—I see you already knew that, ’Ailana.”
“There isn’t a damn thing you can teach me that I don’t already know and wish I didn’t, Mr. Koa.”
He leaned closer, catching her fresh, floral fragrance combined with healthy, sweet sweat. Onaona, he thought, instinctively using his admittedly primitive knowledge of the Hawaiian language to describe her scent. She even smelled like the islands.
“I beg to differ.”
He saw her nostrils flare. His eyes fastened on her lush mouth.
“Is this board okay, Jason?” Melanie called out. He stepped back, glad for the interruption. He was only too happy to consider something else beside the fact that his cock had just stiffened to a lead pipe as he verbally sparred with a prima dona who clearly had some serious issues.
Not his problem.
So what if her personality was a far stretch from what he’d thought it would be given her low, sultry singing voice. Her voice, face, and body had thrilled many a male before him. He didn’t need to be a fan of the entertainment industry to know that most famous people were whacked. Why should it surprise him that Lana Rodriguez was no different?
Still, Jason acknowledged he was disappointed. Her voice and bluesy arrangements brought out the pensive, moody side of him—the side he rarely showed others, certainly not in his role as an athlete or as an extroverted businessman in the Hawaiian tourist industry. In truth, he’d always been a little haunted by her songs.
He suppressed a frown when he fully registered his thoughts and gave an easy grin instead.
“Yeah, that’s perfect, Melanie. Why don’t you go and pick a board, Lana, and we’ll catch a wave.”
“Bitchin’,” he heard Lana mutter scathingly under her breath before she walked away.