Seashells & Mistletoe (Hawaiian Holiday Book 2)

by Rachelle Ayala

  As soon as we duck underneath the net where the ping-pong balls had been stored, he shoves me against the closed door.

  I squirm against him, hot with desire, as my hands roam the angles of his body. Our lips locked together, moaning and panting, we grapple each other. Every part of my body screams for attention and need. Jordan’s touch awakens every hidden desire, every suppressed yearning, as we do that lustful stagger toward the first available horizontal surface—his bunk.

  Wetness seeps through my dress, and cold chills soak the back of my spine as I realize my big mistake.

  I’d booby-trapped his bunk with hundreds of tiny paper cups half-filled with water.

  “Yikes!” I yelp, jerking away from the water trap.

  Jordan uncovers the bed, getting his sleeve wet, and raises his eyebrow. “Guess I’m not sleeping here tonight. Is your bunk dry?”

  Chapter 13

  Oahu is the gem of the Hawaiian Islands. Its skyline rises above the lush, tropical greenery, and its beaches encircle it like tan and white shell necklaces.

  The iconic Diamond Head welcomes us as our ship cruises into Honolulu Harbor. I take a deep breath, sucking in the tropical fragrances and lean over the railing, excited at the day’s adventures ahead.

  Jordan is wearing aviator sunglasses and a Panama hat with a blazing white T-shirt and ripped jeans over short hiking boots. His biceps bulge underneath his thin shirt, and his skin is bronzing nicely in the sun.

  I never did get to check out his tan lines or any other part of his anatomy, especially since I made an executive decision last night to forego physical contact with my worshipper.

  It all has to do with self-respect. It wouldn’t mean much to pleasure myself with a human vibrator who’s basically under my orders to do whatever I want.

  Better to earn his respect and let him view me as a winner instead of a victim. I’m in control and I want to hold my head up high. No more the jilted bride of Stephen Sommers the Third, but me, Dani Davison, an important woman worth admiring.

  I tilt my chin up and adjust my white, wide-brimmed sunhat, casually pointing toward the harbor. “I wonder how crowded the jewelry stores will be with all the after Christmas returns.”

  “Is that what you want to do? Buy jewelry?” Jordan asks, clearly put off by my sudden change of mind about physical contact last night.

  After asking the cruise line to change his linens, he spent the entire night on his bunk with his back turned to me.

  “Actually, I want you to buy me jewelry,” I say in my most imperious voice. “I’m sure you can charge it to whoever’s paying you.”

  He grunts, then remembers he’s under my command. “Of course. Nothing’s too good for our Dani.”

  I flash him an entitled smile. “Nothing would please me more.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He licks his lips and lowers his gaze down my body. “I’ve been given the gift of gab.”

  I swallow images of his sharp tongue and all the uses he could put it to. “I’ve decided we should not give in to our baser urges.”

  “As you wish,” he says, swiping his tongue across his upper teeth. “Although you’ll change your mind.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” I take his hand and caress his thumb with the loop between my fingers and thumb, back and forth.

  His Adam’s apple bobbles and he clears his throat as I picture beads of desire swelling on the tip of his … Ahem, I remind myself to keep it clean.

  PG-13.

  Right. It’s cold showers for me the rest of the cruise.

  After the ship docks, we disembark into Honolulu Harbor. Joy and Sheri jiggle down the gangway ahead of us.

  “You finally going to get her a ring?” Joy asks Jordan.

  “Can’t wait to see your rock,” Sheri says to me. “Hold out for a big one.”

  “I will.” I smile gleamingly at Jordan who does a great job not squirming.

  “Young people,” Joy says. “They do everything backwards. Honeymoon first, then wedding, and last of all, the ring and proposal.”

  “You two have fun,” Jordan says, waving them off. I can tell he’s beginning to rue his lie about being my husband.

  Not that we’ve consummated the supposed marriage yet. But poor Jordan is just going to have to sweat it out.

  If I’m going to be important to someone else, then they need to put up with all my whims and flaws.

  Being flaky is one of them.

  And, yes, let’s face it, being a tease is so much fun.

  A bead of sweat trails down the side of Jordan’s face as we hop into a taxi taking us to the premiere shopping district in town.

  When we get to the jewelry district, who should be there but Alice and Sylvester?

  “Hey, you two,” Sylvester says, waving broadly. “Want to join us for sunset shuffleboard at the Hula Girl Bar?”

  Alice elbows her brother and snickers. “Can’t you see the young honeymooners are on a romantic shopping jaunt?”

  Those two know we’re not really married. Heck, they know we didn’t spend all our nights together, but maybe they figure we finally did it last night.

  “Shuffleboard and hula dancing sounds great,” I say without checking with Jordan what he wants.

  The four of us make our way through the high-end jewelry shops with Alice snickering at all of the prices and badgering salespeople left and right to bring her better deals.

  “This is too expensive.” She picks up a sapphire ring and squints at it. “Has flaws. Knock down the price.”

  “Oh, no, that one is too gaudy.” She yanks an opal ring I was trying on off my finger. “Tacky. You should hold out for a real diamond.”

  “You must ask for a loupe.” She snaps her fingers at the salesperson at a diamond shop. “They hide all sorts of flaws in these stones.”

  I peer through the tiny magnifying glass, but can’t tell a thing, so I hand it to Jordan. “Honey, can you check for flaws?”

  After sifting through diamond after diamond, he declares a big, gorgeous one free of flaws. “This one.”

  Alice swipes the stone from him faster than a pigeon on a corn kernel. She holds it up to the light. “It has a horrible cut. The angles are off. See the middle? Too dark. They’re ripping you off. When the cut is wrong, the facets don’t reflect all of the light rays and the stone doesn’t sparkle. They get more carats out of a bad cut. Sneaky. Sneaky.”

  The shopkeeper glares at her while Sylvester shrugs apologetically behind his domineering sister.

  By the end of the day, my feet are sore, my eyes are bleary, and my ears are ringing from the constant stream of snickers.

  Worst of all, I have no suitable diamond and nothing to show for it.

  The four of us retire to the Hula Girl Bar to drink and play shuffleboard. The sun is setting, and we have a nice view of Waikiki Beach from the open-air bar.

  “I wish we’d gotten that diamond four shops back,” I sigh into my mai-tai with the little rainbow-colored umbrella. It was a stunning solitaire. Cleanly cut and set in a band with embedded baguettes.

  “Not worth getting ripped off,” Alice says, darting Jordan a shrewd look. “You stick with me. I’ll always look after you.”

  Actually, I’m wondering if Jordan called Alice and Sylvester to the rescue. She certainly wasn’t looking after me.

  Does she still have a crush on Jordan?

  “Still, I’m empty-fingered,” I sigh loudly and turn my attention to the silhouettes of swaying palm trees shadowed against the brilliant, orange sunset. “At least the view is great.”

  “Shouldn’t we get back to the ship?” Jordan asks.

  “No, we must play shuffleboard first.” Sylvester gazes at the court where drunk guys in board shorts hurl and push the puck around, missing the target squares by a mile.

  “You guys go ahead with the shuffleboard,” Jordan says. “I’m going to call it a day and go back to the ship. Dani, how about you?”

  Both Alice and Sylvester’s
gazes pop between me and Jordan, wondering whose side I’ll take.

  Since I’m in charge, I could very well order him to stay with me and play. I don’t want to play, but I also don’t want to be under his direction.

  “You go ahead,” I tell Jordan. “I need to vent off some steam, and a whopping game of shuffleboard is just what I need.”

  I need someone to confess to. A best friend to bounce things off of. Someone who’ll listen and give me advice.

  Jade is out of the question. Not only is she not on board this ship, she doesn’t have two brain cells left to rub together—not if she’s pearl diving with Aiden.

  As for Joy and Sheri? They’re in an entirely different time and space. Late seventies, as in nineteen-seventies soul train gang. I don’t seriously think they believe Jordan and I are married, but they sure like to tease us.

  That leaves my shuffleboard partners.

  Eh. The snickering will drive me crazy.

  After we return to the ship, I leave Alice and Sylvester at their cabin and wander around the promenade deck, not eager to look for Jordan.

  My emotions are a bundle of confusion, and I can’t decide if I’m having fun or not. Is it better to keep Jordan off balance and not give in to our mutual lust, or should I slake my dire thirst and take full advantage of my goddess status?

  I bet he’s good in bed.

  But I’d lose all respect for myself if I used him because someone was paying him. I need my lover to desire me more than money.

  Face it, him acting like I’m the center of his universe because he got paid doesn’t exactly boost my confidence. If I want to be meaningful, there has to be real feeling behind his actions. Otherwise, I might as well be with a sex robot.

  Even if we fool everyone on board the ship, we can’t fool ourselves.

  I’m deep in thought as I make the circuit of the deck, passing people sitting in lounge chairs and others taking their own evening walks.

  “You look lost,” Jordan says, miraculously materializing from a doorway. He walks alongside me. “Did you out-shuffle Sylvester?”

  “Not this time. I was too tired to do well.”

  “What would you like to do tomorrow?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “You asked for it.” His voice has a mischievous inflection. “What would you like to do tonight?”

  “Get to know you.” I put my hand in his. “You asked me what I want more than anything. I want to know what you want more than anything.”

  He’s silent as we walk several more steps. Just when I think he isn’t going to answer, he says, “To belong.”

  “To someone or a cause?”

  “Just to belong. I guess that implies other people. Certainly, I can belong to myself, and that should be enough.”

  “Have you always been an outcast?” I’m surprised I’m so direct. Usually, I beat around the bush. But then, I should have no fear of Jordan. He’s a hired gun, come to please me and make me happy.

  Except he makes me nervous, and I want him to like me.

  “Pretty much.” He rubs his chin and stops in front of the doorway leading to the elevators. “Want to go to the movies?”

  “You really don’t want to talk, do you?” I pull him closer as we step into the elevator. Just as I’m about to kiss him, I stop and pull back. “No, I won’t tempt you further. If I truly want to matter to you, then I can’t let lust cloud your judgment.”

  “You already matter to me.” His voice is low and husky as he cradles my face with his large, warm hand.

  “I’ll make you a deal. You’ll belong to me as long as I matter to you.”

  “That’s easy. You matter to me right at this moment.” He lowers his lips over mine and kisses me tenderly.

  “How about forever?” I hazard a teasing challenge.

  “Forever happens one moment at a time.”

  I sigh into his mouth and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

  I can do a moment in time. It’s forever I’m not sure of.

  Chapter 14

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” I shout across to Jordan despite the wind whipping my hair around. “We’re not going too fast, are we?”

  “Not possible with these babies.” He looks over from the moped he’s riding and swerves closer to me.

  “Watch it! Don’t bump me.” I steer my moped to the left, but a passing car blasts its horn and I jerk the handlebar to the right.

  My moped grazes Jordan’s, and I overcorrect, then wrestle with it to get it to go straight. I’ve never ridden anything more motorized than a pretty, pink kiddie car, but this is insanely fun and crazy.

  “You’re doing great.” Jordan gives me a thumbs-up, and we take a turn toward a lonely beach on the south side of Kauai, the Garden Island. It is the oldest of the Hawaiian Islands and the most lush, full of tropical color and immense beauty.

  It’s more laid back than Oahu and much less crowded. Using mopeds, we can tool around the back roads and explore the island to our hearts’ content.

  I don’t know how Jordan does it, but he must have an internal navigator, because we hop from one secret beach to the next. Some have interesting lava rock formations, with plumes of water spouting through tubes, and others are hidden between verdant valleys and secret turquoise bays.

  “You have to get a dirt shirt,” a shopkeeper says to me when we stop in an out-of-the-way place for taro chips and shaved ice. “It’s the Hawaiian way.”

  “I don’t want to look like a tourist,” I exclaim in between sucks of sugary water and crunchy, salty, and spicy chips.

  “Why not?” Jordan asks. “If the shoe fits.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s always pointing out the obvious.

  “I’m not about to wear dirt.” I wipe my hands over my white tank top.

  “You can take home a part of our island,” the shopkeeper says. “Come, I’ll show you how we make our dirt shirts.”

  We follow the shopkeeper, a wizened, petite lady with a mound of gray hair in a poufy bun, to the back of her shop where shirts soak in washers full of dirt and vinegar.

  “Feel free to look around and get dirty,” she says. “We’re having a big sale after the horrible flooding we had earlier this year.”

  She winks at Jordan as if they have a secret understanding and leaves us in front of what looks like a wall of dirt-stained washers and dryers.

  A vat of moist mud sits nearby for workers to scoop into washing machines, and a pile of dry dirt stands inside a shed.

  “I’m still not wearing dirt,” I say to Jordan after the shopkeeper goes back to the storefront.

  Jordan doesn’t reply. His eyes narrow and focus on my pristine white shirt.

  Oh no.

  I know exactly what he’s thinking, so I put down my snacks. This time, I’m striking first.

  I pick up a handful of mushy, red mud and smear it on his equally pristine, white shirt. “This is for all of the mud pies you stuffed down my shirt in third grade.”

  “This is war and for all the blue balls you’ve inflicted on me,” he growls, brows lowered, but can’t quite hide the smile on his face.

  Uh oh.

  Before I can rush back to the safety of the storefront, Jordan dips his hands into one of the washers and palms me over both breasts.

  “I can’t go anywhere looking like this.” I stare at the handprints over my boobs, then pick up a ball of mud and smush it over his crotch.

  A worker comes in, wide-eyed. His clothes, from his apron to his shoes, are stained with red-brown mud. He picks up a hose and points it at us. “Let me clean you two off.”

  Before we can protest, he sprays us with water. I jump back, trying to dodge his shooting hose, but the water turns the mud under my feet slippery.

  My feet shoot out from under me. Hands wild and windmilling, I land in the pile of dirt. A cloud of red dust puffs and lands all over me.

  Jordan reels his head back and laughs, right at the moment the water spray points his w
ay.

  Splat.

  A stream of water enters his mouth. He chokes, coughing, and tries to ward off the water, backing away until he tips into a wheelbarrow filled with dirt.

  The last thing I see is Jordan tumbling over with the wheelbarrow and disappearing underneath a plume of red-brown dust.

  Laughter spews out of my lips as I crawl from my dirt pile. Jordan rises out of the dirt like a winged wraith in a cloud of red, shaking off clods of mud.

  We square off like gladiators before a bloodthirsty, or in this case, mudthirsty crowd.

  “I’m going to get you.” Jordan rushes me. “You started it.”

  “No, you started it in third grade.” I can’t stop laughing. “This is payback.”

  He grabs me around the waist, and we’re hit with another spray of water as the worker insists he wants to wash us off.

  “Stop, stop,” I cry, all cold and wet with goosebumps invading my skin. I’m sure my nipples are standing out underneath the muddy handprints and my face is streaked with the red dirt.

  The wrinkled shopkeeper pokes her head through the doorway. “You two want to buy anything now?”

  “Looks like we have to,” Jordan says, still smearing my back with his grimy hands while I stuff my muddy hands into his pockets.

  The shopkeeper stands in front of us and ties on a mud-stained apron. She glances at my shirt and says, “Hey, I love your handprint shirt. New design. Let’s get you in the dressing room and I’ll print one up with our logo for you.”

  Half an hour later, Jordan and I walk out of the store with completely new dirt wardrobes. I’m in a handprint shirt and he’s wearing one that says “Eat me,” with a picture of a cylindrical shaped mud pie, better described as a mud sausage.

  From head to toe, we’re covered with Hawaiian dirt, from dirt caps to dirt cut-off jeans, dirt bandanas and dirt socks.

  “They always buy,” the shopkeeper says over her shoulder to the worker, then turns to us and asks, “Like an order of spicy taro chips and shaved ice to go with that?”