Hot-Blooded (12 page)

The bell over the door rang, stealing Keahilani’s rapt attention from the book. Good thing. She needed a distraction after reading about how badly her father had treated Mahina.

Wiping the droplet of water gathering at the corner of her eye, she stood up, and a lead weight dropped in her gut.

“Hey there, Kea,” Blake said. He reached behind him, pulled out a knife, and said, “We need to talk.”

Chapter Ten

Blake slammed his hunting knife on the counter of Mahina Surf and Dive and drilled Kea with a hard stare. She ducked back, not meek or frightened as he would expect an innocent victim to act, but with fists up and muscles flexed in a defensive pose, ready to jump over the counter and maul his ass.

After a split second’s pause, she pawed for the knife and almost snagged it, but he was faster. Barely. Damn, she had sharp reflexes. Along with spunk, good looks, and a badass body.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, coming in here with a goddamned weapon?” Her shoulders rose and dipped with a full breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth, but that was all it took to calm her. Her quick recovery brought with it a vicious scowl that packed palpable heat. She lifted her index finger and indicated the door. “Get out of here, asshole.” Her deep, threatening pitch chilled his marrow. The thin words were thick with promise. She would find a way to forcibly remove him if he defied her. No doubt.

God, this woman. Such spirit. Damn shame he had to break her.

When he stood his ground, she dropped a hand out of sight and shuffled around under the—

He snapped the long blade toward her throat but didn’t touch her. “Put your hands where I can see ’em. Now.”

She didn’t move. He encouraged her with a light tap under the chin with the flat of the knife.

“Do it, if you have the balls.” Her low timbre emitted vibrations up the metal, through the hilt, and into his sweaty hand. Next thing he knew, his board shorts were too tight in the crotch.

“I’m pretty sure I left my balls in that hotel room yesterday. You still got ’em, right? Taking good care of them? I might need ’em later.”

Her lip barely curled.

He leaned across the countertop and tugged her arm up from the space it inhabited below. A Smith & Wesson Bodyguard had attached itself to her hand. Imagine that. Suppressing his flinch, he squeezed her wrist and wrestled the weapon from her—no easy task. If not for his size, she might have been able to pop off a round or two in his direction. He thumbed the safety in place.

Once he gingerly stowed the cursed pistol in the back waistband of his board shorts, he continued. “Now, what would a pretty surfing instructor like you be doing with a gun?” He moseyed to the other side of the counter and joined the party in her personal space, uninvited.

“A shop owner can never be too careful. Lots of knife-wielding perverts out there. A girl’s gotta be prepared for the worst.”

He stuffed the blade down the back of his shorts next to the Smith & Wesson and propped against the wall. The knife didn’t bother him at all, but the cold metal of the gun bearing down on the slope of his ass made his butt cheeks clench.

“Yeah, you’re right. I just heard about a guy who got castrated by a stray bullet in a fancy condominium last night.” He shook his head and
tsked
. “I can’t fathom what kind of monster would do that to someone.” He palmed his deflating package and executed an exaggerated, full body shiver.

Her eyes followed him, but the rest of her remained as still as a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. “Must’ve deserved it.”

“Maybe he was one of those perverts you mentioned. But I doubt he deserved the bullet through the head that killed him.”

She lifted her shoulders and settled her arms into a tight cross over the breasts he’d put on display through the sliding glass at the resort yesterday. “Why are you here, Blake?”

He spread his fingers wide and adopted a friendly attitude. “I had so much fun learning how to surf with you, I decided to come back for another lesson.” He checked his watch. “I’m guessing Bane has more studying to do. Looks like it’s just you and me, babe.”

She pushed past him to the racks on the floor and straightened some wet suits. “Bane will be in shortly. He’ll take care of you.”

He stepped forward and leaned into her neck. Her scent incited another riot in his shorts. “But I want
you
to take care of me.”

“If you value your penis and testicles, I suggest you back up.”

He laughed. “Trust me, after what happened to that drug dealer last night, I’m not letting you anywhere near my junk.”

The green lava in her eyes cooled to freezing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Inhaling another whiff of her plumeria scent, he stroked her hair. She batted his hand away. He stepped closer, herding her to the nearest clothing display. Heat bounced between them like an echo between canyons.

“You sure about that, sweetheart? Coulda sworn I saw you vacating the crime scene in an all-fire hurry. Granted, you were dressed differently—wig, trench coat, sexy boots—but the swing of that ass is unmistakable.” He eased his gaze down and wrapped it around her butt with a low, appreciative groan. Then he smacked her full, round left cheek.

She rewarded him with a jack slap across the jaw. His mouth filled with liquid rust. He wiped at the corner with the back of his hand, and a trickle of red smeared across his skin.

Enough of this shit. Jamming a knee between hers, he pinned her to the wall with his thigh. He roughly grasped her arms and held her in place.

“You got a real attitude problem, babe.” He thrust his rigid cock into the cradle of her hips. “I gotta say, it’s a huge turn-on. But it kinda bothers me that you left a crime scene last night, dressed up in some kinky costume in a big fuckin’ rush. I’m tempted to call the cops and let ’em know what I saw.” He lowered his cheek to hers, absorbed the steam of her fury, and whispered in her ear, “Unless, of course, you wanna tell me your side of it. Maybe I can help you out.”

She gently rubbed her face against his, breath hot on his flesh. Teasing his lobe with a hard bite, she purred through teeth and skin, “You’re a cop.”

“Nope.”

“What, then?” She ground her tits into his chest and gyrated those goddamn hips.

His erection tightened and lunged for the hot spot between her legs. “Just a dude on vacation, looking for some fun.”

She pulled back and targeted him with her upswept green gems. “Tell me what kind of fun you want.”

“I’m a pretty simple guy. Keep me stocked in weed and women, and I stay out of trouble.”

“Weed and women
are
trouble.”

He notched his head to the side. “Depends on your definition. Though, a woman like you might be worth the jail time.”

The door jingled and opened. Kea shoved him off and straightened her rumpled shirt. Blake nudged his boner down with a sigh.

“Everything okay, Keahilani?” Bane approached cautiously, grimacing.

Head lowered, she coyly slid a length of hair behind her ear and adopted the crumpled stance of an embarrassed sister caught red-handed with the boy everyone warned her about. Blake didn’t buy it for a second. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”

Bane stared at Blake for a long moment. He didn’t buy Kea’s act, either. Blake buried his attention in the fascinating display of wet suits.

“You sure?” Bane said.

“Yeah. A new shipment arrived this morning. The merchandise needs to be unloaded and priced. I’ll be there to help in a minute,” Keahilani told him.

Bane scraped a hand through his hair, shot a protective, visual jab at Blake, and wandered into the storeroom.

“I’m not finished with you.” Blake withdrew a pen and a small piece of paper from his pocket. He wrote down the name of his hotel and room number and pressed it into her palm.

“Neither am I.” She stepped away.

He grabbed her wrist and glanced to the note in her hand. “Daily surf lessons at three o’clock starting tomorrow. Meet me there if you’re interested in working together.”

“I’m not.” Defiance. White-hot defiance. Such a turn-on. Like everything else about Kea.

“Keep it in case you change your mind. I have … connections.” He didn’t give her a chance to reply. Not that he thought she would. Grasping the gun by the barrel, he passed it back to her. She stroked the handle lovingly with a thumb and lowered it to her side while staring into his eyes, just as she had when they’d fucked in the hotel room—like she meant to prove something. It took all his willpower to resist her silent invitation, but he breezed out of the shop without another word.

Chest and other parts swollen with desire for another piece of her, he hit the ignition button and sped away before he fell victim to her siren’s call. Some kind of sexual superpowers hid deep within Kea’s eyes. Liquid passion. Like Pele. He shivered as he replayed their dirty tête-à-tête against the window and on the bed yesterday. His favorite part had been watching her come at the tail end of his own climax. The vivid abandon. The ride down the spiral. The relinquishing of a tiny bit of her soul to his command.

He scrubbed his face. She was dangerous in more ways than one. The longer he dwelled on her, the deeper the stain she left on him. Pretty soon, there would be no getting her out of him. She was like one of those really hot peppers that started off mild but ended with you in hives at the hospital, sweating your balls off, questioning your insane lack of common sense for indulging in such a poison.

Yeah. Poison was a good descriptor for Kea. But he wasn’t the type to get burned twice by a woman. Nope, he’d learned his lesson. Now it was back to business.

On the way to his hotel, he called Scott to update him and finish their discussion from last night after the clusterfuck with Butch.

“What have you got for me?” His friend’s voice carried more of a jagged edge than usual.

Blake smiled. “I think I just landed one of the big fish you’ve been hunting.”

“The woman?”

“Yep.”

“She did Butch.”

“No doubt in my mind.”

Scott paused. “Apply pressure. Get inside. She’s shitting all over my territory, and you know I don’t play well with others—especially when they threaten my livelihood.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, but I need some more time.”
Play time, that is.

“Keep your mind on business, Blake. I want that operation under my control by the end of the month and my salesmen knocking on doors two weeks after that. Find out where the farm is. Locate all the employees and stand ready to issue pink slips. I’m going on a hiring spree this week.”

“You got it, boss.”

“And Blake?”

“Huh?”

Scott hesitated. “I may have a lead on Lori.”

Blake’s tongue shriveled. Scott wasn’t the kind of guy who did anything without forethought and thorough investigation, but where Lori was concerned, his attention to detail bordered on fanatical.

Who was he fooling? Scott was hard-core
obsessed
with finding Lori’s killer.

And that obsession was the reason Blake refused to fall in love with a woman. After witnessing the agony his friend had endured—the torture of never-ending nightmares, sleepless nights, panic attacks, and crippling social anxiety—Blake had sworn off relationships. No woman was worth psychotic episodes bookended by tearful breakdowns and stays in mental wards under twenty-four-hour suicide watch.

Blake wasn’t wired for lovey-dovey shit anyway. Stupid-dipped, starry-eyed stares were about as appealing as tailored suits and limos to him. Dudes like Blake were homegrown for simplicity with a craving for a little spice on the side. The secret to happiness was a simple equation: sex + ditch + repeat = no worries.

Blake and a handful of others ran the public side of Scott’s business while he hid in the shadows. His lack of interaction wasn’t prompted by fear, but out of mourning for Lori. And necessity. Scott could barely function with people he trusted, so his team was careful to keep him away from the spotlight. Leaving him with strangers would likely result in a hospital stay. For everyone else. In recent months, he’d moved on from suicidal tendencies to homicidal ones. When Scott felt trapped or threatened, he made people suffer.

And if anyone other than him mentioned Lori … well, he sometimes made people dead.

“Okay. Keep me posted,” Blake said. The line clicked, and he swallowed over the bitter lump blocking his throat. Whoever killed Lori would make Butch’s murder look like a My Little Pony birthday party, complete with Silly String, pink cake, and balloons. That son of a bitch would be walking into hell on earth when Blake got hold of him. After the hell the murderer put Scott through this last year, the least he could do was return the favor.

Chapter Eleven