was not skin and bones by anyone’s measurement. Did he think she was too fat?
Then he took a huge bite, and she shrugged off her moment of uncertainty. His own body fat was probably low, but there was still a whole lot of man there. Heck, he made her look petite. She started chewing again, enjoying the tender smoky meat and mellow sauce.
“You like our kalua pork?” he asked her.
“Mm-mm, I love it.”
“Specialty of our family. It’s been cooking all night in da imu. You have anything like that in Oregon?”
“Plank barbecue salmon,” she decided. “With sourdough bread and coleslaw. It's great.”
He nodded. “Your father’s a fisherman, yeah?”
“Thirty years, across the Columbia River Bar.”
His eyes narrowed. “He’s a brave man. That’s one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the Pacific.”
“Yes, he is,” she said proudly. “When I was teenager, he used to take me out with him. Once, a storm came up. Twenty-foot waves breaking over the bar. Dad stayed cool, brought the boat in.”
He nodded, accepting her father’s worth. “We must respect the power of the sea.”
Then he ruined her glow of pride by pointing his empty fork at her. “And it’s dangerous here, even though our waters are warm. The surf can be high. A big wave flips you on da shore, you can crack your head on a lava boulder.”
She reached out her finger, and pushed his fork aside. “Don't let the blonde hair fool you, moke. I can actually read the warning signs on the beach all by myself.”
He stabbed his fork back into his dinner, shoveling up a bite of rice. “There are no warning signs at Nawea. Just common sense.” His look said she probably lacked this.
She widened her eyes at him. “Maybe I can wear those little floaties on my arms and a helmet when I swim.”
“Maybe you should stay on da beach, just work on your tan,” he suggested, looking down at her bare arm, close to his. She followed his gaze. His brawny, golden arms made hers look slender and pale.
She looked back into his face, ignoring the curl of arousal in her middle.
“Oh, I’ll do that, too. Can’t wait to wear my new bikinis. Why, Melia says at Nawea no one puts real clothes on.”
His eyes narrowed, and she had to fight the urge to quail before the heat that arced from his ebony gaze. Uh-oh, maybe she shouldn’t tease the big shark.
But she didn’t want to retreat; she wanted to melt forward, across the plastic chairs’ arms that separated them and kiss that stubborn mouth, drawn tight in a fearsome scowl. Wrap her arms around him, her fingers in that sable hair.
He leaned forward, and she moved with him, drawn irresistibly. The others at their table, the party around them, faded into the background as his heat reached out to her, drawing her.
“They didn’t tell you?” he muttered, for her ears only. “Out at Nawea, it’s a tradition—all da wahines are modest and wear muumuus. Even in da water.”
He slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and rose, setting the chair behind him. “Excuse me,” he said to the others. “Gonna go say aloha to some other folks.”
Claire watched him saunter away through the tables, enjoying the rear view in spite of the turmoil of emotion now roiling inside her. She wanted to throw her beer glass after him. Muumuus, indeed. If she remembered right, the missionaries had been the ones to bring the voluminous dresses to Hawaii.
And Daniel didn’t strike her as the sort to appreciate such a haole display of modesty.
She took another hasty drink as she remembered her dream, the way he’d stood in the canoe, so proud and commanding in his brief, colorful robe and headdress. Even here, he sort of stalked, as if he was ready to explode into action. Like a royal guardsman, she thought fancifully. On alert in case a rival island tribe attacked during this time of celebration.
He stopped by a group of other men, and she turned her gaze away with an effort, joining in the
Then he took a huge bite, and she shrugged off her moment of uncertainty. His own body fat was probably low, but there was still a whole lot of man there. Heck, he made her look petite. She started chewing again, enjoying the tender smoky meat and mellow sauce.
“You like our kalua pork?” he asked her.
“Mm-mm, I love it.”
“Specialty of our family. It’s been cooking all night in da imu. You have anything like that in Oregon?”
“Plank barbecue salmon,” she decided. “With sourdough bread and coleslaw. It's great.”
He nodded. “Your father’s a fisherman, yeah?”
“Thirty years, across the Columbia River Bar.”
His eyes narrowed. “He’s a brave man. That’s one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the Pacific.”
“Yes, he is,” she said proudly. “When I was teenager, he used to take me out with him. Once, a storm came up. Twenty-foot waves breaking over the bar. Dad stayed cool, brought the boat in.”
He nodded, accepting her father’s worth. “We must respect the power of the sea.”
Then he ruined her glow of pride by pointing his empty fork at her. “And it’s dangerous here, even though our waters are warm. The surf can be high. A big wave flips you on da shore, you can crack your head on a lava boulder.”
She reached out her finger, and pushed his fork aside. “Don't let the blonde hair fool you, moke. I can actually read the warning signs on the beach all by myself.”
He stabbed his fork back into his dinner, shoveling up a bite of rice. “There are no warning signs at Nawea. Just common sense.” His look said she probably lacked this.
She widened her eyes at him. “Maybe I can wear those little floaties on my arms and a helmet when I swim.”
“Maybe you should stay on da beach, just work on your tan,” he suggested, looking down at her bare arm, close to his. She followed his gaze. His brawny, golden arms made hers look slender and pale.
She looked back into his face, ignoring the curl of arousal in her middle.
“Oh, I’ll do that, too. Can’t wait to wear my new bikinis. Why, Melia says at Nawea no one puts real clothes on.”
His eyes narrowed, and she had to fight the urge to quail before the heat that arced from his ebony gaze. Uh-oh, maybe she shouldn’t tease the big shark.
But she didn’t want to retreat; she wanted to melt forward, across the plastic chairs’ arms that separated them and kiss that stubborn mouth, drawn tight in a fearsome scowl. Wrap her arms around him, her fingers in that sable hair.
He leaned forward, and she moved with him, drawn irresistibly. The others at their table, the party around them, faded into the background as his heat reached out to her, drawing her.
“They didn’t tell you?” he muttered, for her ears only. “Out at Nawea, it’s a tradition—all da wahines are modest and wear muumuus. Even in da water.”
He slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and rose, setting the chair behind him. “Excuse me,” he said to the others. “Gonna go say aloha to some other folks.”
Claire watched him saunter away through the tables, enjoying the rear view in spite of the turmoil of emotion now roiling inside her. She wanted to throw her beer glass after him. Muumuus, indeed. If she remembered right, the missionaries had been the ones to bring the voluminous dresses to Hawaii.
And Daniel didn’t strike her as the sort to appreciate such a haole display of modesty.
She took another hasty drink as she remembered her dream, the way he’d stood in the canoe, so proud and commanding in his brief, colorful robe and headdress. Even here, he sort of stalked, as if he was ready to explode into action. Like a royal guardsman, she thought fancifully. On alert in case a rival island tribe attacked during this time of celebration.
He stopped by a group of other men, and she turned her gaze away with an effort, joining in the
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