Sun Kissed

by JoAnn Ross

  Thomas’s smiling face sobered. “At the time, I wasn’t sure that I could,” he admitted.

  “But then one day, Kalena asked me if I was happy.”

  His expression softened, and Donovan had the feeling that Thomas Breslin was back in the hustle and bustle of New York City. “Damnedest question she’d ever asked,” he murmured, as if to himself.

  “Were you?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’d never stopped to consider whether I really liked what I was doing. From the time I entered college, I just kept sticking to the plan I’d made for myself. Medical school, internship, residency…

  “It took Kalena to point out that I was turning into an automaton. Turn the key in the morning and I’d go to the hospital, where, each day, I became more of a mechanic than a doctor. I never really knew my patients. I only knew their hearts or their gall bladders or their kidneys.

  “So, figuring I had nothing to lose, we packed up Kalena’s chisels and my black bag and moved back here to my childhood home, where I began seeing patients as people again. Now I know enough to make sure that there’s a night-light in the room when little Keoke Santos has his tonsils out because he’s been afraid of the dark since he got lost in that lava cave last year.

  “I also know that I’d better pick up some lemon drops for Debbie before I go to the hospital because her husband, who usually supplies her with them, has been stuck on the Big Island all week at National Guard camp.

  “Regret not specializing?” he repeated. “I am specializing, Donovan. In people.” He flashed another quick, warm, eye-brightening grin that reminded Donovan of his daughter’s. Then he headed out to buy lemon drops and deliver a baby.

  Leaving Donovan to ponder Thomas Breslin’s unexpected family story.

  20

  They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They were no sooner inside her cottage than Donovan pulled Lani into his arms and pushed her back against the door, holding her there by pressing that hard, magnificent body against hers. Then, with hands as deft as a surgeon’s, he yanked up her dress and ripped away the thong panties she’d bought solely for the intention of driving him insane by strutting around the bedroom wearing just the scarlet-as-sin dental floss and a barely there scrap of lace demi bra.

  She mourned the ridiculously pricey ripped panties as they flew onto the table where she kept her keys, only for a mere nano-second, because, at the same time, his wickedly clever mouth was kissing her senseless. If there were an Olympic medal for kissing, Lani thought, as her own hands dragged down his pants, Donovan Quinn would take the gold.

  Her dress up around her waist, his pants bunched around his ankles, he lifted her off her feet, right out of the high-heeled backless red sandals.

  “Put your legs around me,” he instructed, his breath sounding as if he’d run a marathon, which was more than she could say for herself, because Lani wasn’t sure that he hadn’t kissed every last bit of breath right out of her lungs. “And hang on.”

  His palms cupping her bare butt, and her back still against the door, he thrust into her, crushing his body against hers while she wrapped her legs around his waist, grabbed hold of his hair, and went along for the ride of her life, which, when it ended nearly as soon as it had begun, left her seeing stars.

  “I think we’re in trouble,” she managed to gasp as every muscle and bone in her body went limp, causing his knees to buckle from her dead weight as he struggled not to drop her onto the bamboo floor.

  “Unhook your legs,” he groaned against her throat. Which she did, sliding down his body as if he were a firepole. “Okay.” He staggered, managing to catch her beneath the arms before she hit the floor. “We’ve got this.”

  “Thank God,” she said, as they both slowly, gingerly folded to the sisal rug, which, even as scratchy as it was, felt better on her butt than the damn thong had. “I would have died of embarrassment to have Johnny Mahuiki see me naked again.”

  “Who’s Johnny Mahuiki? And do I have a reason to be worried?”

  “He’s the island’s EMT, and if an ambulance has to be sent out, the odds are he’ll be on it. He’s also my cousin and we used to take baths together when we were babies. I was too young to remember it, but our mothers took pictures.”

  “Pictures? You have naked pictures of yourself?” he asked, making her laugh.

  “My mother does. And if you dare ask to see one, you’ll never have sex with me again.” She rolled over on top of him. Partly to get off the rug and partly because she wanted to feel his body against hers. At least the good parts that weren’t still covered by clothes.

  “I hope Dad didn’t bore you tonight,” she said.

  “He sure knows a lot of art history.” Donovan wrapped his arms around her.

  “Which he’s always happy to share and may have been useful if I were still writing questions for Jeopardy!. ”

  “I quit paying attention when he got to the Etruscans,” he admitted. “Because I was having a debate with myself.”

  “About what?” Starting to feel frisky again, she began nibbling his neck, pleased to discover that she wasn’t the only one ready for round two.

  “About whether or not I should make you come over dessert.”

  “You could not!”

  “Oh, I knew I could .” He ran a hand over her butt and squeezed. “The question was whether or not I should .”

  “So, what stopped you from trying?” As wicked as the idea was, Lani couldn’t deny it was tempting. If they’d been anywhere but with her family…

  “I wasn’t sure you could keep from moaning and screaming my name the way you always do when you come.”

  She lifted her head and looked down into his laughing bad-boy eyes that were such a change from the sad, shadowed ones he’d viewed the world through when he’d first arrived.

  “I do not.”

  “Yeah, you do, and believe me it’s hot as hell. In fact, if you’re ever looking for yet another job, you could probably make big bucks as one of those 1-900 phone sex women.”

  “Do they still have those? With all the Internet porn available?”

  “They do. I guess because not everyone has a computer handy, and some guys actually like to use their imaginations. When I was working vice, I had to listen to way more than any human ear or brain should have to handle. But believe me, sweetheart, you top them all.”

  “I can’t decide whether to be insulted or flattered.”

  “I meant it as flattery. Your mother’s right about you having your own talents. But that one’s probably inappropriate for a family dinner.”

  “I still don’t believe you.”

  “Want to move this party into the bedroom and I’ll prove it to you?”

  “That’s assuming either one of us can move.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Roll over again, and, being the strong, manly alpha male cop that I am, I’ll help you up.”

  Which he did. Then, holding on to each other like two drunks leaving The Blue Parrot at closing time, they managed to make it to the bed, where Donovan proved his claim. Apparently, all the previous times they’d made love, she’d gone not only blind, but deaf, because she’d certainly never heard herself making those wild woman noises before.

  “You do realize,” she said, as she snuggled up to him, her head on his chest, her long legs wrapped around his muscular, hair-roughened ones, “that you’ve handed me a secret weapon.”

  “Oh?” he asked, his absent tone revealing that he hadn’t made it all the way back to reality yet as his hands, which had learned her body well, idly stroked their way from her shoulders, down her back, and lower. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll demonstrate my new super powers. Ready?”

  “Go for it,” he said.

  “Oh, Donovan,” she gasped in a breathless, throaty tone. “Please, Donovan… Please… Do that again, baby… Oooh! Yes! Yes! Yeesss!�
�� After an ear-piercing scream, she let out a long, slow, moan that softened to a silky, satisfied purr.

  “Okay,” he said. They both looked down at the already renewed hard-on that had him thinking she could possibly kill him if they kept this up. Not that he was complaining. Because right now he couldn’t think of a better way to go. “That is one helluva a super power. But I just happen to have a few of my own.”

  Before she could question what powers Donovan possessed that could possibly equal the one she’d just proven, he planted a row of wet kisses down her body, spreading her thighs apart with his wickedly clever hands so his mouth could fully claim sensitive, still-tingling parts. Then, with a stroke of his tongue, finished her off. As she shattered, Lani did, indeed, shout out his name.

  “I think,” she decided, when she could talk again, “that when it comes to super powers, it’s a draw.”

  “Works for me.” He drew her close into a spooning position, put his hand over her breast, and as she heard the steady breathing that told her he’d fallen asleep, she let her own eyes drift shut.

  The last thought Lani had, as she fell into sleep, was although she must have written dozens of topic answers about famous lovers, for the first time in her life, she actually knew what true love felt like.

  21

  While waiting for the feelers he’d put out on Britton—who’d seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth and hopefully wasn’t swimming with the sharks as the bartender had suggested—the day after his visit to The Blue Parrot, Donovan discovered that Lani wasn’t exaggerating about the Island’s Christmas celebration.

  While the mainland Americans might be dreaming of a white Christmas, Orchid Island had its own unique take on the holiday. The parade was much the same as ones happening in most places in the world. The floats, many covered in flowers, were lit with white and colored lights while girls waving flags and pom poms marched along with the high school band. Also marching were uniformed Girl and Boy Scouts while military vets going back to World War II either marched or rode on floats that garnered the most cheers. The route wound through the town, past sidewalks filled with families, most dressed in holiday-themed attire, ending at the beach in front of the Breslins’ home.

  Which was where Kanakaloka, aka Santa Claus, dressed in a red-and-white poinsettia aloha shirt, red board shorts, and a traditional red Santa hat arrived in an outrigger canoe with dolphins swimming alongside, to hand out brightly wrapped gifts.

  The trunks of all the palm trees had been strung with bright lights, and a play snow zone had been set up at the end of the beach with, Thomas informed Donovan, twelve tons of the icy white stuff he’d had shipped in.

  “What’s the point of having money if you don’t use it to make others happy?” he asked Donovan, proving yet again the difference between Lani’s family and his. His own parents were spending Christmas in London this year. Last year was Paris, and the year before that, they’d gone on a Greek Island cruise.

  A late, unplanned child, Donovan had never been mistreated. His childhood had been more of benign neglect, beginning with a series of nannies, housekeepers, and boarding schools.

  Watching the snowball fights taking place, he decided that these laughing, shouting, shrieking kids would rather be here, with family and friends, than getting a golden ticket to Disneyworld.

  “Your dad certainly pulled out all the stops,” Donovan said as he watched, at the very edge of the battle zone, another smaller, quieter group of children industriously building a snowman that would doubtfully last the night, but tonight, there were no cares nor thoughts about tomorrow. There was only now. Island time.

  “In ancient times, the islands celebrated Makahkiki , a New Year festival that covered four lunar months from the fall into February or March,” she explained. “It was to honor the god Lono, and the bounty of the land. During those months, all wars were forbidden.”

  “A season of peace and goodwill to all men,” he said.

  “True. But that was a concept impossible to explain to the Protestant missionaries who arrived in the 1820s with their own ideas of proper religious practices,” she said. “Since they banned ancient gods, most of what we celebrate today came from them.” Although her voice had sounded a little sad about the loss of an ancient tradition, she smiled. “Of course, the missionaries, mostly from New England in the early days, didn’t have a king who could bring in snow, so they undoubtedly missed their white Christmases.”

  Local merchants had donated items for a raffle with funds going to the local food bank. Taylor had contributed a huge basket filled with an assortment of her bestselling candy, while Thomas had provided a signed oil painting depicting a trio of dancing dolphins wearing Santa hats. It had been painted, Lani told Donovan, during her father’s Oceana stage.

  So many people had lined up to buy tickets you’d think they were giving away free musubis . Lani had bought him one of the sandwiches consisting of a fried slice of Spam on rice pressed together into a small block, then wrapped in seaweed, from a street vendor. She’d assured him that not only were they the most popular to-go snack in the islands, eating one was a rite of passage for any malihini (newcomer) aspiring to achieve local status.

  When the sun sank into the Pacific in a blaze of color, the night became alive with fire and music while long tables draped in red and green linens were covered with platters of food. If Donovan had found Orchid Island to be a different world than the mainland, tonight he felt as if he’d stumbled into a DeLorean and gone two hundred years back in time.

  Flaming torches glowed a brilliant orange against the star-studded black sky as the throbbing beat of drums echoed the pounding of waves against the dark lava ramparts. The sultry night air was perfumed by myriad flowers adorning the huge backyard, their hues rivaled by the brilliant aloha shirts, dresses, and brightly flowered muumuus, which, Lani told him, were updated adaptions of the voluminous Mother Hubbards, which those early missionaries had forced on the indigenous population.

  Greetings of Mele Kalikimaka were exchanged, many directed to him, as, Lani suggested with one of those sunny laughs he’d come to love, people were checking him out to make sure he was good enough for her.

  Then, suddenly, the deep, foghorn sound of the conch shells being blown encouraged increasingly loud answering roars from the gathered crowd.

  “They’ve just taken the pig from the imu,” Lani said, pointing toward the subterranean oven, where Donovan could practically feel his arteries clogging from the aroma alone. “The first recorded Hawaiian Christmas was in 1786, when the merchant ship, the Queen Charlotte, docked on Kauai. The captain and his crew celebrated with a big dinner, including a whole roasted pig, which started a new tradition that spread through the islands.”

  She linked her fingers with Donovan’s, leading him from the shadows into the circle of light created by the flaming torches where he found himself seated between at the head table between Lani and Thomas, facing an extraordinary array of exotic dishes.

  “I like this,” Donovan said after taking a taste of the opihi, a salty black mollusk that reminded him of a small clam.

  “Try this lomi lomi salmon,” Lani suggested, holding out a piece of the pink-fleshed fish.

  “You’ve just caught my interest, sweetheart,” he said, thinking of her massages. Not only were they helping his bum ankle, since the first one, he hadn’t suffered any more nightmares of his partner’s brains and blood looking like a Jackson Pollack painting splattered on the wall.

  “In this case, the salmon’s massaged with a marinade of chopped onions and tomatoes before cooking.”

  Donovan’s lips closed around her fingers. “Good,” he decided. “But I think I prefer Lomi Lomi Lani.”

  Her eyes darkened with memories of the lovemaking that had inevitably followed the massages. “You haven’t tried the poi,” she murmured.

  “I’ll try it later,” he s
aid, toying with the natural pearl adorning her earlobe.

  “You haven’t experienced a real luau without tasting poi,” she insisted.

  Without taking his eyes from hers, Donovan dipped two fingers into the wooden bowl of purplish-brown starch made from pounded taro root. It tasted like library paste.

  “Terrific,” he said. “Can we go home now?”

  Thomas, who had been arguing with Margaret over whether the chicken luau was better with taro or spinach leaves, overheard Donovan’s request.

  “Oh, you can’t leave yet,” he insisted. “The dancing’s just beginning.”

  Donovan sighed as he ran his knuckles down the side of Lani’s face, trailing his fingers along her firm, uplifted jaw. “Later.”

  “Later,” she agreed, sensuality swirling in those sea-green eyes.

  “The hula began as a religious dance,” Lani remarked, reverting to her best tour-guide fashion. “It reflected the deep cosmic piety of the people, their love and awe of the tremendous forces of nature that surrounded them.”

  The percussive rhythms that accompanied the dancers came from wooden sticks struck together, producing sounds like those of a xylophone. Other musicians clicked together small stones like castanets, or shook seed-filled gourds to the pulsating beat, reminding Donovan of Latin-American maracas.

  “You’re supposed to watch their hands,” Lani explained. “They tell the story.”

  A lissome young thing whose undulating hips were tracing a perfect figure eight momentarily captured Donovan’s attention. “You watch the hula your way and I’ll watch it mine,” he suggested with a wicked grin.

  Lani laughed. “It’s just a good thing I’m not a jealous woman, Donovan Quinn, or you’d end up with this bowl over your head and poi dripping off your chin.”

  Before he could assure her that she had no reason to be jealous, that she was the only woman he wanted, she was called away for her dance.