“You said you’d call me first.”
He shrugged, taking my body in, his gaze trailing from my tired face all the way to my bare toes. I felt like I was being dissected. Couldn’t say a tiny part of me didn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t remember the last time Doug looked at me like that. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted him—or anyone—to mentally undress me.
“I’m sorry,” he said more sincerely this time. “I should have called.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty . . . want me to come back?”
I sighed. He was already here, and I didn’t feel right about turning him away. Luckily I never took too long in getting dressed, so I invited him inside. He said he’d put on a pot of coffee while I got ready. I picked up my clothes for the day, hoping I wouldn’t have to ride his motorcycle, and went into the bathroom to do my face.
The only problem with the vacation rental—and it wasn’t a problem when you were alone—was that it was extremely unsoundproof. While I washed my face and put on the barest touches of makeup, I could hear him puttering around in the kitchen. It was an odd feeling having a stranger in the house, doing domestic things while I was in another room. Of course he could have been casing the joint, stealing my camera and the few pieces of jewelry I had brought with me, but I didn’t feel that was the case with him.
Then again, other than his name, I didn’t know Esteban Mendoza at all.
When I came out of the bathroom I found him standing on the back steps, two cups of coffee in hand, admiring a pair of chickens that were strutting around the backyard. He shot me a winning smile and handed me my cup of coffee like we were old friends.
He nodded at it. “It’s black. There was no milk and sugar in the house, so I figured you liked it dark.”
I couldn’t tell if that was sexual innuendo about his deeply bronzed skin, but I tried not to dwell on it.
I took the hot mug from him, our fingertips brushing against each other. The brief contact caused my face to grow hot, something I didn’t quite understand. I was never shy—introverted, but not shy—but this man made me feel like an awkward teenager again.
“Thank you,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He watched my movements like a hawk and just before his attention became too intense, he smiled. His dimples were such a contradiction to his scars. I had this terrible urge to reach out and touch them, to stroke his face and find out what shadows followed him.
Instead I cleared my throat and said, “Thanks for taking my call last night. I was . . .”
“I know,” he said, taking such a large gulp of coffee that I winced, imagining it must have burned going down. “You don’t have to explain why. I told you why. I’m just glad you called.” He gestured to the yard with his free hand. “This is a beautiful spot.”
I nodded. “It is.”
“You’re a painter.”
I gave him a sharp look, feeling intruded.
He tilted his head. “I saw your easels. I saw no art, though, so I could only assume. You have the hands of a painter.”
I sipped my drink, gathering my thoughts before I said anything. “I do paint. I came here to . . . but . . . I just haven’t.”
“You haven’t been inspired.”
I snorted and shot him a sideways glance. “If you can’t be inspired on the most beautiful island on the planet, there’s something wrong with you.” My smile quickly faded at my last words. There was something wrong with me. Fatally.
“Maybe you’re not looking in the right place. Inspiration isn’t in your backyard or at the bottom of the ocean. It’s somewhere else.”
I glanced at him curiously. His face was grave but his eyes bright, shining like the sun.
“Come on,” he said, tugging lightly at my arm. “I’ll show you.”
Minutes later I had finished my coffee and was climbing on the back of his bike. Legally you didn’t have to wear helmets here, but he still gave me his to wear. Truth be told, I hated motorcycles—I hated the speed and uncertainty, finding them to be more constrictive than freeing. They also forced intimacy with the person you were riding with. Not only did I have Esteban’s helmet on my head, which was damp from sweat, though it was a musky, pleasant smell, but I had to put my arms around his waist. This Harley was definitely not a cushy cruiser.
“Where are we going?” I shouted into his ear as he revved the engine.
“Around,” he shouted back at me.
“That’s not very helpful!”
“Don’t worry, it will help you in the end!”
“How do I know that you’re not taking me somewhere to kill me?”
He shot me a lopsided smile. “Because you’d already be dead. Besides . . . they call me the nice one.”
“Who are they?”
He didn’t answer. He accelerated and we were flying down the road toward the highway. Esteban was a safe driver, though, and didn’t go much faster than the speed limit, which on Kauai was stupidly low, yet I still found myself holding on to him for dear life. My God, he had fucking abs of steel, and somehow I felt guilty just touching them.
It took about ten minutes of us heading south before I began to loosen up a bit and reduced my Kung-Fu grip on his T-shirt. I began to appreciate the speed as we picked it up and the road rushed past us. The scenery was breathtaking; to our right were deep-cut green mountains, straight from the scenes of Jurassic Park. To the left were the fields of tall grass and small farm stands, red dirt coating the signs while the Pacific sparkled in the distance.
But despite how much I relaxed, the ride—everything—felt dangerous. It wasn’t
