by Cathryn Cade
He couldn’t argue that. His eyes crossed as she moved again. Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to grab her hips and drive up into her tight, wet heat.
“Ah, pua,” he groaned. “Can’t help it. Everything you do turns me on. Let me—”
“No.” She sat up straight and glared down at him, imperious as Pele, ready to sacrifice a mortal.
“Aloha nō au iā ‘oe. I love you,” he said. “Let me show you how much. Let me show you another way—you’ll like it, I promise.”
Arching his hips, he moved under her, sliding along the soft, hot furrow of her sex.
She shook her head, and tears filled her eyes again, spilling down her flushed cheeks. “No. For heaven’s sake, Malu, that’s the last thing I want right now. “
He let her go, watching as she slid off of him to the edge of the bed, her back to him. He gave a calming stroke to his cock and sighed.
“You want keikis, don’t you?” he asked quietly. They hadn’t had time to talk about that, or many other things.
“Of course I do,” she sniffled. “But I wanted to be m—um, I wanted it to be on my schedule. We hardly know each other.”
“We have a lot to talk about,” he agreed. He smiled to himself. She wanted to be married before she had this keiki, eh? Well, he could see to that.
“How about a nice warm shower?” he asked, stroking his knuckles down the dimples in the small of her back. “Then some food?”
She nodded dolefully. Levering himself off the bed beside her, he led the way into his huge master bathroom. Her eyes widened as she took in the dark polished stone and soft green walls, the paintings and plants accentuating the space. He led her into his favorite part, the huge shower with three spray heads.
“You like it?” he asked as he turned the water on hot, protecting her from the spray with his body.
“I feel like I’m in the jungle,” she said, turning her face up to the spray. “I should have known you’d have a bathroom like this.”
“But do you like it?” He turned to pick up a bottle of shampoo. When he turned back, she was staring at him, her eyes wide, the water running unheeded down her back.
He looked down as she reached out to touch his chest. “Turn around again,” she said.
Malu did as she asked, and Melia reached out to touch his back, her fingers trailing down over the wet skin.
“You have more tattoos,” she said wonderingly. New marks covered the middle of his broad back in connected circles, with intricate patterns inside like webs of triangles and swirls. Her stomach clenched as she realized—the tattoos were where the bullet holes should be, except his skin was smooth and sleek, with no scars.
Bullet holes and burn marks. Both should have marred his golden skin, all twenty acres of it. Instead, he had new tattoos, making him look even more like an ancient warrior chieftain.
He turned back to her, steadying her with his big hands on her shoulders. “Au’e. Ho’ohanohano. They are badges of honor.”
She stared at the tattoos across his chest and around his shoulder. “You mean…these too?”
He nodded somberly. “Those too. But I’m here, pua. I’m alive and well, thanks to Pele’s power and the grace of our Creator. And to you, my brave wahine.”
She moved closer, tipping her head against his chest, needing his heat, his heart beating steady and strong under her cheek. His arms closed around her, sure and strong.
“But you could die,” she said around the huge lump in her throat. “One time, when you’re out doing…what you do.”
“Ku’u ipo, people die all the time,” he said. “Of illness, accidents and old age. I am protected from much of that.”
She sighed and nodded. “Okay, I get that. It just…it’s all so overwhelming.”
He gave her a swift kiss. “I know, I’m a lot to take. But you are a tough wahine with self-defense techniques, yeah?”
She smiled, as she knew he meant her to, and accepted the bottle of shampoo he handed her.
Melia felt a little better when she got out of the shower, and dried off with one of the huge green towels. There was lotion in a custom set of bottles and tubes on one of the counters. Smoothing it on, Melia waited for Malu to find her something to wear. Although if he brought her any peek-a-boo Cherie-type garments from former girlfriends, she was leaving, in a sheet, if necessary.
He came back wearing a pair of black silk pants and a tee, carrying a kimono of soft white silk. It was his, which meant it was yards too big, but she used the belt to wrap it around her so it hung to mid-calf.
“This is all I have,” he said, frowning doubtfully. “Later, we can go shopping, or I can call and have one of the shops send some things up for you. Might be tomorrow before we get your things from Nawea.”
Feeling more cheerful now that she knew his girlfriends—ex-girlfriends, she corrected herself—weren’t allowed to leave their things here, Melia rolled the sleeves up above her elbows and followed him down the wide stairs to the main floor of his house, an open expanse of polished wood floors and muted rugs in tropical leaf patterns, with furniture of soft beige leather built on a Malu-esque scale.
A few more of his paintings hung on the walls. She would examine them in detail later, especially the one of the Kona waterfront. Looking beyond them, she walked, spellbound, through the open doors to the lanai.
Below, the mountainside fell away in a glossy tangle of green tree tops moving slowly in the morning breeze. The forest was interspersed with strips of meadow and a meandering lava flow, old enough that it was punctuated with bursts of verdant growth. A few rooftops nestled among the trees, and cattle dotted the meadows.
And beyond lay the sea, a magnificent sweep of blue under the tropical sun. White waves licked at the shore and burst on the rocky points of land. Far out to sea, a line of clouds cast their shadows on the water, rain below them misting the horizon. Although the sun shone brightly, the air was cooler than down by the shore, a comfortable seventy-plus.
“That’s Maui, off to the north,” Malu said, coming to point over her shoulder. “And that way…nothing but ocean until you get to Tahiti.”
“Oh, Malu. It’s so…beautiful,” she whispered in awe. “You get to see this every day?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He settled his chin on her hair and gathered her close in his powerful arms so she could feel his heart beating against the back of her neck. “Wait ’til you see the sunset from up here.”
She nodded, but she looked around her at the carved wood on the lanai railing, and the big house behind them. “So, you must do all right with your painting, hmm?”
He chuckled. “You figured it out, yeah? Not great works of art or anything. Tourists love them.”
“What?” she demanded, craning her neck to glare up at him. “They’re beautiful, powerful.”
He searched her gaze with his and then smiled, hunching his shoulders slightly. “Just simple stuff.”
Melia snorted. “Simple, maybe—I don’t know a ton about art, but I know I love your paintings.”
“Mahalo.” His cheeks reddened slightly. He leaned over and kissed her, hard.
She kissed him back, startled to realize that her approval was obviously important to him. Apparently, her handsome Hawaiian had a few insecurities of his own. Hard to believe, with all he had going for him, but she liked it. He needed her just as she needed him, for a lot more than sex.
“Your paintings are gorgeous, evocative of this island,” she said, gazing into the distance. “All I do is cook. I’ve got my blog, but it’s not much yet.” She was a little embarrassed that she’d been so proud of it.
It was his turn to snort. “I can’t eat paintings. And I love to eat, pua. So does everyone else. Good food is one of the chief pleasures of life. You help people with their cooking, and you’ve not only fed them, you’ve made their lives easier, better.”
It was her turn to smile. He was right. “I hope someday to make my blog an active business. But it’s going to take
time to get advertisers, and a large following. Your painting is obviously lucrative now.”
He shrugged. “I do all right. But, the family’s been in business for a long time here too.”
“What kind of businesses?” she asked cautiously.
He pulled her back against him, one hand on her belly, caressing her through the robe. “Ah, boats, land development, a few other things. We own a couple galleries, showcase local art.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. Criminy, on top of everything else, he was wealthy. Her family did okay, they were all solvent, but they didn’t move in circles like this. Her best friend Bella’s mother, Grace Moran, had made a bundle writing epic romances. But even she was a quirky individualist who lived pretty quietly.
“Hey,” he said, a grin in his voice. “It’s not like we’re jet-setters, pua. We’re Hawaiian—we live ‘olu’olu—comfortably.”
Right. She happened to know living on Hawaii was incredibly expensive. To be able to afford this place at his age meant he was more than ‘olu’olu. She wasn’t sure what that meant in terms of their relationship, either. She wasn’t even sure what their relationship was. They were apparently having a baby together, but beyond that, they hadn’t had time to talk about…so many things.
A growling noise made her jump. His stomach. Then her own answered, and she pressed a hand to her middle. “I’m starving,” she said.
Their last meal had been breakfast the day before. Of course, she didn’t know if they could count the time they’d been inside the volcano as actual time because they’d been…well, dead, for a while at least. Molten lava…rumbling rocks…falling. She shook her head, queasy at the memories. She’d think about that later.
“Come in, and I’ll cook you some breakfast,” he said.
She gave him a look. “No, thank you. I’ll cook.” He grinned, and she knew she’d been had.
The kitchen was beyond the living room, and walking through the wide double doors, Melia looked around the big kitchen, immediately lusting after the countertops of dark, gleaming stone, the huge island, the rack of fine cookware hanging over it, and the big range with double ovens in the wall beside it. The sinks were on the opposite wall, with a wide recessed windowsill over them. No matter where one stood, there was a view, whether of the ocean or meadow and forest behind them.
He followed her gaze. “Okay?” he asked.
She looked at him. He was serious. “Malu, this is a dream kitchen. Who in the world designed it? A professional chef?”
He smiled at her. “My mother and my aunts.”
She swallowed, fighting the butterflies in her tummy. “Oh.” His mother. Parents. He had a big family, right nearby. Whom she had yet to meet. And of which she was now carrying a scion. So they were stuck with her, in some form, and she was stuck with them. Which had all sorts of connotations she was unprepared to deal with. She’d just come back from the dead, for God’s sake. She needed some time.
“Hey, hey,” he said, coming over to slide his fingers under her hair, warm on her neck. “’S okay, pua. You’re gonna like my family, I promise, and they’re gonna love you.”
She nodded. “It’s just a lot to take in, you know?”
“I know. So, how about you focus on right now, and feed me?” he coaxed.
That she could handle.
Malu didn’t have a lot in his huge refrigerator, but there was milk, juice and eggs. The equally capacious freezer beside it was stocked with prepared foods. There was also what looked like an entire side of beef in neatly labeled packages.
“Wow,” she said in admiration.
He handed her a glass of juice and went over to open an appliance garage on the wraparound countertop, revealing a large coffeemaker and some other intriguing gadgets. “My cousins ranch upcountry and keep me supplied with beef to grill. Fish I buy fresh when I want it.”
His stomach growled loudly. “Want some frozen waffles?” he asked, rubbing his flat abs.
She smiled at him. “No. I’m going to cook for you.”
“Really?” he looked at once wildly hopeful and doubtful. “Are you sure you feel well enough?”
She tossed her hair back, and tightened the belt on his robe. “I am a professional chef, mister.” Looking at the contents of his cupboards, Melia decided she had plenty of ingredients to make pancakes. She drained the juice and selected two frying pans from the rack. Pulling the milk, butter and eggs from the frig, she set them with the flour and leavening on the counter. “Bowl,” she said, looking around at the expanse of gleaming golden wood cabinets. “Measuring cups and whisk.”
Without a word, he opened a cupboard and a drawer. He went back to grinding coffee beans while she began to crack eggs. “Have any fresh herbs for the eggs?”
“There’s a few over here.” He pointed to a row of small pots on the wide sill behind the sinks. “Not really sure what they are. My auntie planted them for me.”
Melia rubbed a few leaves between her fingertips and sniffed. “This is thyme. You also have chives, tarragon, basil and cilantro. Fabulous.”
He watched in open fascination as she pinched a few of the herbs into the bowl and whisked several eggs with them.
She opened the flour, measured some into another bowl, looked at Malu and added another scoop. He grinned at her over his coffee cup.
“You have coffee,” she accused. “Gimme. No, wait. I shouldn’t have caffeine.” She scowled. “We are so getting a pregnancy-test kit today. I need to know.”
He shrugged. “We can do that. Meanwhile, have some decaf. I made a small batch for you in the press.” He held out another steaming mug, already doctored with a dash of milk.
She gazed at him, touched by his thoughtfulness. “You noticed how I drink my coffee.”
He saluted her with his cup. “I noticed a lot about you.”
She blushed and turned back to her cooking. Because judging by the look in his eyes, otherwise they wouldn’t eat for a while, and even though she was still befuddled with shock and awe at having this huge, rampant male at her sexual beck and call, she didn’t want to faint from hunger in his bed.
Malu found a jug of maple syrup and then hung over her shoulder as she turned the first plump, golden pancake, its edges sizzling crisply.
“Oh,” he groaned. “Smells so good, pua.”
Smiling, she lifted the pancake onto a platter and poured another. He reached over her shoulder, pinching a bite from the hot cake on the plate.
“Quit that,” she scolded, laughing. “It needs butter and syrup.”
As the next cake cooked, she dolloped butter and poured syrup on the first pancake and then turned to him, plate in hand, and forked up a bite for him.
“Open up,” she offered, holding the dripping bite to his lips. Malu opened his mouth and took the bite. His eyes closed in ecstasy as he chewed, and a deep moan rumbled in his chest.
She fed him the rest of the pancake, smiling with the sheer delight of his enjoyment.
He kissed her, his lips tasting of syrup and butter. “I’m your slave. Your pancakes no ka oi. Brok da mouf.”
“Really?” She kissed him back.
“But don’t burn the rest,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m still hungry.”
“Oh!” She whirled back to the stove. Fortunately, the pancake in the skillet was just ready to be turned.
He leaned against the counter, watching as she scrambled eggs in the other skillet and flipped pancakes into a small mountain on a platter.
“You love to cook,” he observed, watching her brisk, sure movements.
“I do. I’m going to cook you all my favorites.”
He sighed. “Something else to look forward to.”
They had barely settled at the table in the sunny breakfast nook, with plates of tender, fluffy scrambled eggs, hot, crisp pancakes, a pitcher of warm syrup and a bowl of fresh fruit, when Malu scowled.
“What’s wrong?” She looked at the food. “Did I forget something?”
&n
bsp; He grabbed a pancake, slathered butter and syrup on it, and forked up a huge bite. “There won’t be any leftovers,” he said. “We’ve got company.”
She nearly choked on her first bite of mango as she heard it too, the throaty growl of an engine outside. “Your parents are here?”
He looked out the window as he chewed. “Worse. My brother Daniel.”
She speared a pancake and picked up the syrup pitcher. “Brothers are easy.” Compared to parents, anyway.
Malu consumed the rest of his pancake in record time, then shoved back his chair and strode around the counter to the door.
“Huh. Mine’s the only person I know who eats more than I do,” he told her.
“You’re afraid he’ll get your breakfast,” she realized.
“Oh, yeah. I grew up with him, remember.”
Chapter Twenty
Recipe for full recovery—take one traumatized wahine, add support of family and friends, and quality time with Hawaiian lover. Watch healing begin.
Daniel Ho’omalu was, if possible, bigger than Malu. Or maybe he just seemed so because of the way he carried himself, ready for trouble. Or because of his mane of dark hair, sun-bleached with auburn highlights, caught back from his face in a mass of braids tied at the back of his neck. Or the tribal tattoos which paraded down one side of his harshly beautiful face, down his throat and under his dark tank. Or the multi-pocketed utility pants he wore over laced boots.
He strode into the kitchen without knocking, a fearsome scowl on his face, his heavy brows drawn down, wide mouth tightened in a grim line as he looked Malu over.
Melia stared, her fork forgotten in her hand. Oh, wow. He was a Ho’omalu to the core, all right. He wore power like an aura, his darker, more mysterious than Malu’s. And all those tattoos… What on earth kinds of perilous situations had he been in?
“What the fuck you land in this time, brah?” he demanded in a deep, rough voice. “I go to an art show in Honolulu, and the next thing I know, you’re throwing drug runners to Pele like sacrifices.”