Sun Kissed (11 page)

Lani glanced over at him. “No problem.” She turned the key to start the Jeep’s engine. “We can stop on the way.”

After a stop at the island clothing store, which involved a great deal of compromise (mostly on Donovan’s part, he felt), he left wearing a dark blue polo shirt with a magenta tribal design across his chest, khaki board shorts, and mesh canvas Vans. Having finally been declared suitably attired, ten minutes later he was following Lani through a winding maze of overgrown hibiscus bushes toward a house that was an oddly eclectic mishmash of architectural styles.

Although he’d met Lani and Nate’s grandmother when he’d originally visited several years ago, he’d never been to her home. Constructed of red brick, it might have been New England in feeling had there not been huge white marble columns out front, and a wide porch, which gave it an antebellum air. A series of Victorian cupolas rose from a Spanish tile roof. It was as if the house had changed hands several times in the construction process, each new owner adding his own imprint, rather than scrapping previous plans and starting fresh.

They were led into a screened solarium, filled to abundance with tropical plants. The atmosphere in the room was humid enough, Donovan was certain, to grow mushrooms through the bleached plank flooring. His head was swimming with the sweet scent of the vivid hothouse flowers when his attention was drawn past a towering banana plant to a ninety-something woman seated regally in a bamboo peacock throne chair.

Despite the sweltering heat, she was bundled in a shawl of soft wool. Antique gold rings adorned every finger, and the woman’s wispy hair, which had once been an almost blue-black, was now a bright shade of purple, contrasting with her pink scalp into a pastel tapestry.

The entire scene evoked some long-past era. However, the vast assortment of electronic equipment—state-of-the-art cameras, night vision goggles, satellite dishes, high-powered telescopes, a computer console that looked capable of launching nuclear weapons, and two drones sitting on a counter—could have come straight from the Department of Homeland Security.

“I don’t think I’m in Kansas any longer,” Donovan murmured.

“Speak up, young man.” The woman’s voice rang out.

“I was just commenting on your equipment.”

“Isn’t it nice? I used to have to order from Spy Store catalogs. Now, thanks to the Internet, I can keep up to date with whatever’s new on the market.”

The woman’s eyes turned to Lani. “It’s about time you brought a man home,” she said, holding out her arms.

Lani knelt beside the chair, giving the woman a hug as she pressed a light kiss against her weathered cheek. “You know I always do what you tell me to, Tutu,” she said, using the Hawaiian word for grandmother.

Margaret Breslin snorted. “Ha. If only that were true. You’re like your brother. Both of you have minds of your own.” The old woman’s gaze returned to Donovan. “You’re that policeman friend of Nate’s. It’s good to see you again. Even if you are too skinny.”

“We’re working on that,” Lani said.

“I should hope so. You should do something about that limp, as well.” She turned her attention back to Donovan. “I slipped and hurt my hip a few months ago. Lani has the most amazing massage that will fix you right up.”

“I’m sorry about your hip,” Donovan said.

“So was I. More because it was such a damn stereotypical old lady thing to do. If it weren’t for Lani, I’d probably be stuck in that wheelchair the doctor tried to keep me in.

“Nate told us all about your adventures when he was here with his darling Tess for Thanksgiving,” she said, segueing into a different topic. “I’m not at all surprised you’re looking overworked. A terrible thing, what happened to Tess. And gracious, I can’t imagine what it must have been like for those poor people in the Pacific Northwest living with that serial killer among them. I’d never leave my house.”

“You barely do now,” Lani murmured beneath her breath, but Donovan heard it just the same.

“Is that new?” Lani asked. In an obvious attempt to change the topic, she pointed toward a black-and-chrome entertainment center that looked as though it could have come from the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

“It just arrived yesterday,” the elderly woman confirmed with a broad smile. “This little baby just happens to be cable equipped for 380 channels. And surround sound. It also has editing capability for video.”

Her laugh was rich and delighted as she rubbed her beringed hands together. “Old Sturm und Drang will die from envy when he sees this.” Her sparkling eyes laughed up at the thirty-something man standing beside her, who thus far had remained silent. “Won’t he, Kai?”

“We’ll hear the explosion from here,” he answered with a nod of his dark head.

“Sturm und Drang is Tutu’s nickname for Maximilian Heinrich von Schiller,” Lani explained in answer to Donovan’s questioning glance. “He was one of her early directors. In fact, Max took credit for launching her to stardom.”

Despite her advanced years, Lani’s grandmother proved her hearing was still that of a young girl by overhearing Lani’s murmured explanation.

“Which is ludicrous!” she spat out, banging an intricately carved cane imperiously on the floor. “If anything, it was
I
who saved
Max
from drowning in that trashy stew he was making of
Island Girl
.”

Even before Donovan had met Margaret Breslin, he’d known about her, having watched two of her movies in a college film class. Her star had taken off like a blazing comet when she’d appeared on the screen swimming supposedly nude in a lagoon not that different from the one he was staying on.

Given that the studios found it far easier to jump on a bandwagon than build one, her next movie,
The Sailor and the Island Girl
, a mild, innocuous romance by today’s standards, between a marooned sailor and the curvaceous, scantily dressed Polynesian girl who’d found him unconscious on her beach and hidden him from enemy soldiers, put her in the pantheon of actresses who became known as sex goddesses.

Margaret’s voluptuous curves, clad in a clinging silk flowered sarong, had even appeared as a Pinup Girl on the nose of a World War II bomber. Exuding sex appeal from every pore, she’d proven the perfect fantasy girl for GIs who’d lived day-to-day, never knowing if it would be their last. She’d also worked tirelessly for war bond drives and had accompanied Bob Hope on a tour of the South Pacific Islands racking up thousands of often dangerous miles entertaining the troops.

After the war, Sam Goldwyn signed her to MGM, casting her in World War II dramas, where she’d usually play a sarong-wearing island girl. She’d also appeared in a western where she’d been cast as a scantily clad Native American who’d tempted a cavalry officer, only to end up dying by a soldier’s bullet during the inevitable battle. Then, finally, in the early fifties, she’d appeared in a rash of musicals and sudsy “women’s dramas” in an attempt to stem the tide of movie-goers who’d begun turning to TV.

While the movie studios never regained the entertainment monopoly they’d once held, Margaret had continued to fill theaters, causing the movie mogul to tell famed Hollywood gossip maven Hedda Hopper, that “When Margaret Breslin waves her curvaceous hips in a Technicolor film, the box office instantly doubles.”

Margaret had continued to work into the early sixties, when movies became more realistic, darker, and gritty. And the actresses, with their no-makeup looks and long, unstyled hair, looked a lot more like the girl next door than the too-hot-to-handle femme fatale a guy might dream of living next door. Savvy enough to quit before casting directors no longer came calling, she’d retired, becoming more reclusive as she grew older.

“I’ll bet you’re surprised I’m still alive,” Margaret added with the forthrightness usually attributed to either the very young or the very elderly.

“Of course not,” Donovan responded on cue, as he slipped the purple orchid lei he’d bought at a roadside stand around her neck and bent to brush his lips against each of the former actress’s weathered cheeks. “Nate says you’re still as strong as a Thoroughbred.”

“And I’ll bet he adds that I’m also still as stubborn as a mule,” she said on a husky laugh as she touched her finger to one of those cheeks as if to savor the light kiss. “Now here you are, face-to-face with this very silly old woman who observes the world through a satellite dish and telescope.”

“I thought Donovan would enjoy seeing you again,” Lani cut in before he could respond.

Donovan thought it was interesting that Lani did not mention her belief that he’d been sent here to seduce her. She certainly hadn’t had any qualms about telling her parents.

Margaret gave her granddaughter a very knowing look, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect. She was still quite an actress, Donovan reflected with appreciation for the outlandish scene Margaret Breslin had cast them all in. Of course, when you considered the other members of the Breslin family, the elderly woman seemed merely entertainingly eccentric.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar, young lady,” Margaret retorted. “That’s not what your mother told me during our morning call. Besides, I didn’t just fall off the pineapple truck, you know.”

She waved her hand dismissively as Lani opened her mouth to protest. “However, since neither of you seem prepared to make an announcement quite yet, we’ll overlook the matter. For now.”

“Grandmother, you are incorrigible.” Lani’s tone was firm, but a smile teased at the corners of her mouth as she sat down in a cane chair, its cushion covered with a colorful parrot print.

“I certainly hope so, my dear,” Margaret agreed. “It’s just about the only fun left to an old lady. Speaking of aging, my mind must be going soft: I haven’t offered your young man refreshments. Which reminds me that I’ve also failed to introduce Kai, who’s in charge of my Island Girl Organic Tea. Donovan, this is Kai Fletcher, whose family coincidentally dates back to that same group of whaling mutineers as ours. Kai, this is Donovan Quinn, a friend of Nate’s.”

“Kai has his Ph.D. from the University of Hawaii in tropical plants and soil sciences,” Lani volunteered.

“Nate told me his grandmother had hired someone to take over a failing tea plantation,” Donovan said to Kai. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Donovan also knew the story of a dozen mutineers who’d abandoned ship in order to get medical help for the ship’s cook, who’d been badly beaten by an overly abusive captain. Once the whalers had been welcomed warmly to the island, they’d refused to return to the ship and had become farmers, storekeepers, and traders who subsequently supplied other whaling ships.

“You, too. Nate claims you’re the Steve Jobs of tea,” Donovan told Kai.

Kai laughed at that description. “Nate’s a writer. He enjoys hyperbole. In reality, tea plants were first brought to the islands in the 1800s. But Asian tea pretty much had a monopoly on the market, and since pineapple and sugarcane proved more profitable, farmers developed those crops instead.

“It wasn’t until the 1980s that a new generation of farmers re-explored the idea of commercial tea farming with help from the local USDA office and the university. More recently, as people became more interested in eating local, a few of us formed a collective to share what we learn. To farm tea, you need acidic soil, good drainage, a higher elevation—”

“Island Girl Organic Tea Farm is at four thousand feet on the side of Mt. Waipanukai,” Margaret broke in.

“The rain forest at that elevation provides a steady seventy-five to ninety percent humidity,” Kai explained. “We also have steady sixty-to-eighty degree temperatures, which creates a sweeter tea and ample sunlight. Also, being grown on volcanic soil, our leaves take on a distinct flavor that stands out because of its brighter, clearer flavor profile…

“Let me get you a cup and you can taste for yourself.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said. “And please bring us some of that coconut pie. We’re going to put some meat on this boy’s bones before we send him back to the mainland.” The elderly woman peered at Donovan with bright, inquisitive eyes. “I’ve heard Lani’s feeble explanation. Now why don’t you tell me the real reason you’ve come to the island.”

“Nate sent me here as a Christmas present for Lani,” Donovan answered easily as he sat down on a matching chair next to Lani’s. “I’m supposed to seduce her.”

“It’s about time someone did.” The still-bright button eyes swept over Lani, subjecting her granddaughter to a long, studied appraisal. “Given that Lent has long passed… My grandson always did have exquisite taste in gifts,” Margaret acknowledged, echoing Thomas Breslin’s words of the previous evening. “I may just forgive him for not visiting me more often.”

“Donovan is only kidding, Tutu,” Lani insisted. “Tell her that you’re joking,” she demanded, shooting him a stern look.

Donovan enjoyed seeing her flustered. The soft pink color infusing her cheeks was decidedly attractive, and her sea green eyes flashed with passion that he’d already discovered.

“I’m not certain I am,” he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him as he subjected Lani to a slow, leisurely inspection. “Actually, the more I think about it, the more I find the idea vastly appealing.”

As she was drawn into his dancing, deep blue eyes, Lani was forced to wonder, yet again, where she had ever gotten the idea that this man was harmless. Despite the stiff, formal clothes he’d shown up in, and what appeared to be a rigid amount of self-discipline, she suddenly had the feeling that he could be every bit as unmanageable as her grandmother and her parents. Or her brother. No wonder Nate and this man had been best friends for so many years.

As he watched the slow recognition dawn in her eyes, he flashed those dimples in a satisfied male grin.

Margaret’s interested gaze did not miss the exchange between Lani and Donovan. “I like this one,” she announced. “He knows how to add zest to the chase.” Her ebony eyes sparkled up at Donovan. “There was a time when I would have enjoyed fighting that age-old battle of the sexes with you, Donovan Quinn.”

He leaned forward, taking her creased hand and raising it to his smiling lips. “Believe me, Ms. Breslin, if you’d honored me with your interest, we wouldn’t have wasted our time fighting.”