Hawaiian Honey (Sweet & Dirty BBW MC Romance Book 7)

by Cathryn Cade

  She sat up, making sure the tablecloth stayed up over her chest, because the cheap pareo she'd bought at a roadside stand seemed to be missing in action. She slid her free hand under the tablecloth. No, there it was, it had slipped down around her waist.

  "This is a private house," the giant said, in a deep voice. "Hey, watch it. You'll disturb the bandages."

  Shelle looked down in consternation at the fresh white bandage on her chest and arm. "Who—who did this?" Please don't let it be him who'd handled her while she was unconscious.

  He was silent so long that she stopped checking out the bandage, and the strange absence of pain underneath, to look up sharply, her heart missing a beat. She was intensely relieved to see that he had not moved any closer. Not that it made him any less scary. Geez, he was big. Big and dark and way too close in outward appearance to her attackers.

  He shrugged, which caused fascinating things to happen to all those muscles. "I found you on the beach. A friend took care of you."

  "Oh...so where is she? I could—if you call her in here, I could thank her." And take comfort in the presence of another woman, whoever she was.

  He grimaced, as if annoyed by the necessity to shove more words out of his mouth. That mouth was plenty big enough to talk all day, wide and firm, with little curves up at the corners. "Not her, him. He's a kahuna, and a healer."

  Shelle barely restrained a moan of fear.

  "What kind of healer?" she asked while her gaze darted around the room, looking for a place to hide if she had to. Three doors, one in which he stood, another a lattice-work slider that said closet, and finally, an open door into a sunny bathroom. She started to slide her legs surreptitiously toward the side of the big bed away from him.

  "How you feeling?" he asked, ignoring the question. However, his dark gaze did not miss her movements.

  "Um...fine," she said, nodding to show her sincerity. Another three feet across the bed, and then four feet to the open bathroom door. Could she make it that far before he caught her?

  Strangely, she was telling the truth—physically at least. Down on the beach she'd felt as if she was coming down with the worst flu of her life. Only her cut had been hurting again, different from before. And she'd been light-headed and shivering even though she was hot.

  "Those cuts were bad," he said. "Infected, red streaks headed out from the one on your chest. You shouldn't swim in the ocean with open sores."

  "Oh," she said intelligently. "I thought the salt would be good for it."

  "Nah, not in the tropics. Too many microbes, yeah?"

  "Okay. Well, I feel fine now." Her stomach growled loud enough to wake anyone in the next room, and she flushed.

  "Hungry, yeah?" His mouth went up at one corner, which was annoyingly attractive. Seems Mister Menacing cheered right up when he got a chance to laugh at someone. "Better get up then. You, uh, need any help getting to the bathroom?

  Shelle shook her head and went on shaking it as she scooted across the bed. "No. Nope." Not only did she not want him anywhere near her, if her top was down, she didn't have an idea in hell what parts of her would be hanging out of her loose pareo and tablecloth. "I'm fine, I'll get up by myself. You go do your thing."

  His dark brows met over the bridge of his straight nose. "I'll wait. Not having you pass out again. Last time you face-planted on the sand. This floor's harder than that."

  He took a step into the room.

  "No! Stay away," she yelped. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, backing away toward the bathroom, holding the tablecloth before her. "I can do it, see?"

  Her pareo slithered to the floor, dragging the ends of the tablecloth with it. Leaving Shelle facing the big stranger with one side of her body bared by the flimsy table cloth.

  He looked her over and his smirk widened. "Yeah, I see."

  Shelle growled at him like a cat—and if he tried to get closer, she'd show him her claws too. "Get the hell out!" She fought to haul part of the tablecloth back up to cover her bare hip and leg.

  "Okay, okay. I'm going. Brought your pack up." Still grinning, he backed through the door into the hallway. "When you're ready, come downstairs, and we'll eat."

  He stopped, tipping his head to one side. "You don't have to be afraid of me. Don't know who roughed you up, who cut you...but that's not my style. Never hurt a woman in my life."

  She grimaced. "Heard that before," she muttered, fumbling behind her for the bathroom door. She found the knob, and grasped it. Anyone could say stuff, didn’t mean it was true or that they’d stand by their word. She’d learned that lesson the hard way in her first foster homes.

  His heavy dark brows drew together, his wide jaw tightening. "When you hear it from me, it's the truth. And I ain't the one sneaking on private property, now am I?"

  Her face flushing, she scowled back at him. "I'm not a sneak. And I didn’t mean to be on private property. I just...I didn't have anywhere else to go. Don't you worry, I'll get dressed and get out of your way."

  He snorted. "Better clean up first. You might scare somebody, you go out in public looking like that." Then he turned and jogged down the stairs.

  Shelle stormed across the bedroom and slammed the door between them, shaking with anger now. Asshole—like she'd had access to a fancy shower and makeup mirror like these, when she was marooned on the beach.

  Moke, what kind of name was that? Must be a Hawaiian nickname, because surely no mother would name her kid that...would she?

  It didn't occur to her until she was rummaging in her backpack for clothing, that if he was a kidnapper and rapist, he was a considerate one. He'd brought up her pack containing her laptop, and even stacked her purse neatly on top. Her phone and wallet were still there, too, with everything intact. Huh.

  She chose some clothing and hurried to the bathroom. But once inside, she stopped dead, struck by another fact. He'd criticized her actions, and the way she looked, but he'd also seen her fear. Had he, possibly, pissed her off on purpose, to divert her?

  She shook her head, rolling her eyes. As if. Any guy who took so long just to put words together in a sentence wasn't that smart.

  Then she looked at herself in the big mirror over the pretty stone bathroom counter and sink. She gasped in horror. She was pale under her tan, her hair was a stiff, tangled mess, and was that sand crusted on her face? She leaned closer. Ugh, she looked like a...a zombie, Hawaiian beach style. Geez, she'd been worried about him ogling her—he was probably wondering if she'd wandered off a local horror movie set.

  At least now she could shower off the beach she was carrying around in her hair and on her skin.

  And yeah, maybe fix up a little. So what? She might be suspicious as hell of her rescuer, but he was a guy, and her genetic coding said when in the presence of an attractive male, present herself in the best possible light. One of the advantages of being female was being able to turn a guy's brain to mush. Then he'd call an Uber for her, and she could get out of here.

  She just wasn't sure where to.

  She realized when she was in the bathroom that she couldn’t shower after all—not without getting her new bandages wet.

  She jumped when a knock came on the door behind her. “Hey, Shelle? Leaving some plastic wrap outside the door here. Thought you might need it to keep your bandages dry.”

  “Thanks,” she managed.

  His footsteps thudded away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was half an hour before Moke heard quiet footsteps on the stairs. "In the kitchen," he called.

  This house was built around a central foyer that rose two stories, with big, wooden fans to stir the air. When his guest's footsteps stopped at the bottom of the wide staircase, Moke smiled to himself. He knew what she was doing now—gaping at the wooden carving of a whale breaching straight up, waves curling at the base, so that only his tail and part of his body were hidden. The carving managed to combine raw power and incredible grace.

  "Is this place some kind of
artist's colony?" she asked as she stopped in the kitchen doorway a moment later. "Or is it your place?"

  "Ahh..." Moke couldn't seem to form words.

  He knew this was the same woman he'd rescued off the beach, but holy hot lava, she looked real different when she was cleaned up. She'd even put on some makeup, he thought. He could tell when a woman slapped heavy shit on her face, but the classy ones who went for the natural look, he just knew they looked fine.

  This wahine was tall for a woman, and curving in all the right places, with long strong legs and rounded arms. She wore a simple white tee and Daisy Duke cut-offs, her wet hair combed back off her face and hanging down her back. The sleek hair emphasized her high cheekbones, and her eyes.

  Those eyes...they were like a tide-pool that a man could gaze into forever, just watching the light play in their depths. Their color was a puzzle, so light against her natural tan. Sort of a pale brownish-green, maybe?

  She wasn't Hawaiian... but she definitely had native blood of some kind. And some Caucasian, 'cause no native had eyes like those.

  And he was freaking her out, staring at her. She had her chin up, and she was attempting to stare him down, a hand on one hip. But her other hand was fisted in the hem of her little cut-offs. "Seen enough, or d'you wanna snap a photo?" she demanded.

  He had to quell the sudden urge to chuckle. "Maybe," he said. "It's just...you look, uh, a lot better." Shit, that was lame. She looked...da kine. Very, very fine. Good enough to eat, and yeah, he meant it that way. That satiny skin all fresh and damp from her shower, she'd smell of woman and the flower soaps in the showers here. And she'd taste like filthy heaven.

  Luckily, she wasn't looking at him, 'cause he had to reach down and ease his shorts to one side over his hard-on.

  Right—she was looking at the spread he'd laid out on the big kitchen island. Her lips parted, and she swallowed, her smooth throat working. She was probably hella hungry, who knew when she'd last had a decent meal.

  "Come and eat." He indicated the other bar chair on his side of the island. "Got huli huli chicken, potato-mac salad, fruit salad and not sure what that is, but it's prob'ly good for you." He frowned at the bowl of some kind of grain with bits of green veggies and pineapple in it.

  She leaned forward, like a runner ready to burst out of the starting blocks, but her feet remained planted. Her gaze flicked to him, and back to the food.

  A couple years ago, a big black German Shepherd had been hanging around between the Flyers' clubhouse and their president's Stick's homeplace, across the field. Moke had tried a time or two to feed the animal, but he'd never been able to get it to eat while he was there.

  This woman reminded him of the dog, too wary to approach, too used to abuse to trust.

  The dog had finally been tamed by Stick and his family and was now a regular visitor to the clubhouse. He would accept steak bones or a hot dog from Moke's hand now, but it had taken months. The technique that had finally worked was to put the treat on the floor and then ignore the dog until he sidled close enough to grab it.

  Now, Moke did something similar. He busied himself, taking a half a chicken and set the serving plate near her empty one. Huli-huli chicken, marinated in pineapple juice and more, turned on a spit and basted while it barbecued, was the best. And the Ho'omalus had left a big container, along with lots of other foods.

  "So, my cousin Lele is coming down today," he said, keeping his voice mild. "She works here sometimes. Nice kid, when she's not talking your ear off."

  He flicked a glance at her. She had a hand on her belly, like her hunger was a physical pain, and she was eying the chicken. She ripped her gaze from it to frown at him. "Your cousin?"

  "Yeah," he said. "Mo'oleleana Ahuelo, better known as Lele. Haven't seen her in a couple years. She's about your age—no, wait. She's gotta be younger. How old are you?"

  "Twenty-four," she said, then closed her mouth as if regretting giving him that much information. He hid a smile of satisfaction.

  "Yeah, she's ... seventeen, maybe? Anyway, talked to her a bit ago, while you were asleep. She's coming down to spend the night, hang out." 'And maybe, hopefully make you drop your guard, and trust me,' he added silently.

  "We better eat up now," he said aloud, taking his time dishing up some potato-mac salad, and again setting the serving bowl near the empty plate waiting for her. "Lele gets here, you won't get a chance, with all her chit-chat." He picked up his chicken and took a big bite. "Mm-hmm," he approved as the savory flavor burst over his tongue. "So good."

  Finally, she moved closer. She slid her stool away from his, practically around the corner. Where she could duck the other way if he moved suddenly, he realized. He'd made the right move, calling his cousin. Because this woman was edgy as that stray dog had been, ready to bolt at the slightest excuse. Lucky for him, he had the patience to wait her out.

  Finally, when he ignored her to concentrate on his own food, she hopped up on her stool, and served herself a piece of chicken, ignoring the rest of the food to take a big bite.

  Her eyes closed as she chewed. Having a moment—it was that good. He liked to see a woman enjoying her food, and this one? This was special, like he was feeding a wild creature out of his own hand. Gave him a solid satisfaction that was deep, almost...sexual.

  Especially when she licked her lips like that, and turned the chicken in her fingers, deciding where to bite next.

  He tore his gaze from her before his cock started leaking precum in his thin shorts. He grabbed a roll from the basket, leaving the food where she could reach. Then he dug in again.

  They ate in silence for several moments. Finally, she sat back with a sigh, and licked her lips for real this time. Moke wished she'd do it again, more slowly.

  "Mind if I get a glass of water?" she asked.

  "'Course," he said, gesturing with his chunk of bread.

  "You want one?"

  "Sure." He'd have a couple of beers later, on the beach. He watched her cross the kitchen, admiring the roll of her heart shaped ass in those short cutoffs. Or maybe he should have a cold one now, cool off. Fuck, those long legs of hers had his cock aching, his balls drawing up tight. This was not like him. Yeah, he liked women, liked a good time at the club and a blow-job or a ride from one of the women who liked to party with bikers. But they strutted around the club in outfits scantier than hers, and still it usually took a few drinks to get him this ready to go.

  She brought back their tall glasses of ice water and sat. He drank half of his, and held onto the chilled, sweating glass. Time to start thinking with his big head. He looked to her, keeping his voice quiet. "So, you wanna share? What's your name, and what brings you to Nawea Bay?"

  She shot him a side-long look, around the curtain of her hair. It was drying in big, unruly waves that framed her face and throat. Like a lion's mane. This thought tickled him. She was feisty enough to be a wildcat.

  "Shelle." Good. He already knew her name, along with her age, weight etc from her Washington state driver’s license, but it felt good to have her tell him. "Is your name really...Moke?"

  "Matthew," he said. "But nobody calls me that. Family calls me Matty, everyone else calls me Moke."

  She nodded. "And I'm here to visit someone," she said, her gaze skittering down to her empty plate. "Thanks for lunch. I'll walk up to the road, hitch a ride into town."

  Moke was used to being quiet, letting others do most of the talking. T-Bear talked enough for both of them at work, and loved taking care of customers, bullshitting with them. And at the Flyers' clubhouse, there were so many brothers who loved to hold center stage that Moke could hang on the edges, and no one noticed his silence.

  But here, he needed to communicate. 'Cause call him a cynic, but he didn't believe her cool talk about being fine. He eyed her, then dropped his gaze to the condensation on the sides of his glass. "Here to visit, huh? So how you end up on the beach here?"

  She set her jaw, and her fierce look dared him to notice the blush tha
t darkened her face, even washing down her throat. "Just bad timing. The person I'm here to see isn't, uh, home right now. My bad, so I'll just find somewhere else to stay till she gets back."

  She. This qualifier cheered him a lot more than it should, until he realized 'she' could be a lover. Nah, this woman wasn't gay—she'd looked him over just as he had her. Although he didn't know if she'd checked out his ass the way he had hers.

  He turned toward her. "You sure you wanna head back into town? That gonna be safe for you?"

  Her eyes widened, and she froze. "What d'you mean?"

  Moke looked to her chest, where the bandage was visible under her thin tee, above the sweet, heavy curve of her breast. "Whoever did that to you. They gonna be after you again?"

  She stayed as still as a wild creature hiding in the underbrush for another heartbeat, and then she moved sharply. Shoved back her bar stool, jumped off, grabbed her plate and glass and headed around the island for the sink. "No, they're not," she said over her shoulder. "Thanks for lunch. I'll go pack my stuff."

  He scowled at her back. "Hey—just wanna know if you're gonna be safe till your people get back."

  There was independent, and then there was bull-headed. She was definitely turning out to be the latter. She was thousands of miles from home, obviously broke, and still determined not to lean on anyone. Or at least, not on him.

  She paused on her way to the door, long enough to answer him. "It, uh...it happened on the mainland. So, thanks, I'll be fine."

  Then she hurried out of the kitchen. And she wasn't exactly running, but those long legs could sure cover ground fast. Too damn bad they were carrying her away from him, instead of straight into his arms.

  And onto his aching cock.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Shelle took the stairs up to her borrowed bedroom two at a time and packed her things without regard for order or neatness. In a hurry, the way she'd packed to come here.

  Then she carried her backpack and purse down the stairs. Even in the cool house, she was sweating by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. Guess she wasn't completely back to normal quite yet.