Join me for a look at Book Three of
The Men of Sanctuary series:
BOMBSHELL
Jesus jumped-up Christ, I'm such a ho. When did I become a ho? What the hell was I thinking? Thinking? I wasn't thinking. My hoo-hah was thinking. And the man smelled like wintergreen, fer chrissakes, and I love the scent of wintergreen. Jeez, Loueeze, I didn't even get his name. Or his business card. Or his cell phone number. I don't know where he lives. Or, heaven forbid, if he's married. Shit, wouldn't that be a bummer. Then again, I'll never see him again—which is an even bigger bummer.
The only verbalization Keko Holokai recalled using the night before had been, "Ooh, baby, do me like that again!"
Hand to her forehead, she moaned aloud at the memory.
The Demolition & Explosive Ordnance Disposal Professionals Symposium had ended. At checkout time, attendees scurried like centipedes when their rock is lifted. The Los Angeles International Airport overflowed with impatient crowds, the flights filled with hundreds of departing bomb experts.
Business class had been overbooked. Keko's choices were to wait another day, or move to economy class. Since her itinerary did not allow for the extra day, economy class won. Being squashed in her window seat by a giant Hawaiian man, who took up both the center and aisle seats and who smelled sweetly of frangipani, grated on Keko's last nerve. Not only did her head ache, but so did the muscles of her inner thighs—as well as other, more intimate body parts, which she refused to acknowledge.
To add to the physical and emotional turmoil, she'd discovered rug burns on her knees and elbows when she'd showered that morning. The sage green capris would hide the knees. But, how to keep her elbows hidden, dress appropriately for Honolulu in late summer, yet not grab unwanted attention? She opted for rubbing a bit of liquid foundation on the red blotches, then prayed the stuff didn't get all melty and rub off on her clothes.
The Hawaiian continued to needle her in his soft singsong voice. "Perhaps the next time you'll heed my advice, my little blossom. Would I ever give you bad advice?"
Trapped by his bulk, she couldn't even escape to the aisle.
"Makaha, my head is pounding off my shoulders and my gut is churning. Please, I beg you, shut your poi hole. Let me rest in peace. If you don't, I'm going to slice off your shiny black ponytail, then feed it to the sharks. You'll never go to the happy luau in the sky if the sharks eat your ponytail." As a curse, it wasn't bad for making it up on the spur of the moment.
He didn't miss a beat. "You're such a malihini." He thumped his chest. "I am Kamaka, the beloved one, not Makaha, the fierce. I'm just saying, the dude was like a total fox, totally buff, totally hot . . . but I warned you to slow down, didn't I? I tried to tell you that you cannot mainline Long Island Iced Teas like they're wimpy wine coolers, my little coconut. Did you listen? Noo, of course not. And poking him in his luscious manly chest because he didn't agree with you about the latest polymer compound to come from Navy Research was unladylike in the extreme."
"Makaha, you're a gay Hawaiian demolitions expert. Other than relying on you for fashion advice, or asking which beverages to serve with dinner, why should I listen to you about dating? You haven't gotten laid in how long? A year? Two years? So, I swear to God if you don't shut your yap . . . ."
"Ooh, girlfriend, that's harsh." Kamaka hmphed, then crossed his arms over his massive, Aloha-shirted middle. "I'm just saying . . . ."
Keko slid the puny airline pillow from behind her head, plastered it against her right ear to muffle the sound of his unwanted words.
Kamaka ignored Keko's rudeness. "Kailani, darling, as I was saying, if that big spectacular stud really gave your poor neglected hoo-hah the workout it so richly deserved—and I am so totally jealous—then I don't see what the problem—oof!" Her elbow caught him in the gut. "Damn, girl, you are a mean bitch!"
She glanced at her watch. "In just over five hours I must deal with my mother, and I have no desire to deal with my mother. Why must we visit now? We could be heading to Massachusetts and home sweet home. I could crawl into the comfort of my own nice soft bed, instead of winging it over the Pacific."
The packed jetliner shuddered as it rose to a higher cruising altitude. Her stomach lurched. "You let me worry about my hoo-hah. Now, please be quiet so I can get some sleep."
Kamaka shifted his bulk to get more comfortable, squashing Keko even more.
"Honolulu's airport is just over five hours from LA, girlfriend, but at least a dozen hours from Boston. So, we're already halfway there. Good planning on Grandmother Iekika's part so you can visit the family in Maui for a few days. As far as seeing your mother, she likes me more than she likes you. She misses me; you, she tolerates. And because we both know if you're already in Maui and don't show up for Aolina's new gallery showing and in enough time to dress appropriately, she'll send her squad of flying monkeys to snatch you up by your hair."
"Makaha, please don't assault me with logic right now. I need recuperative rest, and you're taking unfair advantage."
But she couldn't sleep. Closing her eyes didn't pose a problem. The difficulty surfaced when she couldn't blank out the previous night's images of the tall man's stunning hazel eyes. Or the feel of his incredible physique, naked, and perfectly aligned against her body. Or of her hands tangled in his thick, toffee-colored, sexy, Hugh Grant mop of hair as his mouth . . . ahh, hell . . . .
(Warning ~ This Book Contains Sexually Explicit Scenes Described in Graphic Detail)
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