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"I never have any fun. All I ever do is work." Meg leaned back against the headrest of her rented Lexus and watched the board jocks try to "hang ten" in the pounding Hawaiian surf. She closed her eyes, allowing the swimmer's squeals and shouts to mingle with the roaring of the ocean. They were having fun.

Her college days of catching the waves in southern California flashed in her memory, reminding her of a time when she, too, frolicked in the sun and the surf, riding small waves near Newport Beach, joining friends for picnics and frolic. Kneading her temple with her knuckle, she rolled her head to the side, allowing her gaze to drift to the leather day planner beside her in the car seat.

Margaret A. Morton

The gold monogram leaped out at her. Margaret Amanda Morton. Even her name sounded formal. No fun in that name. She shook her head. She'd turned out just as solid and formal as her name. But, she wasn't in Hawaii to have fun. She was here to work, to do an audit. She ran her fingertips gently over the raised letters. Margaret A. Morton--the newest auditor-partner at Morton and Morton, CPAs International, Inc., the company founded by her great-grandfather.

She hadn't been a boy, but she had followed in the family footsteps. That had pleased her father. Meg pulled her sunglasses from her face and ran her hand over her eyes. Seemed like all she ever did was please other people. She'd scheduled this mini-vacation to Kauai in advance of the audit for a personal break--the first real break she'd had since she finished her CPA.

She glanced back to the surfers, struggling up the beach, away from the ever-crashing surf. How she envied them. They weren't worried about pleasing anyone but themselves and they were having a great time doing it.

No auditors out there, I'll bet. The thought made her smile in spite of herself. She couldn't picture any of the current Morton's on a surfboard. Or Albert either.

Just thinking Albert's name made her smile disappear. She heaved a great sigh. It was time to do something else to please the family. Her biological clock was ticking double time and Dad was ready for a grandchild. Albert was more than ready to assist in producing one, if she'd just say yes to his proposal.

The memory of Al's wedding proposal made her sink even deeper into her funk. A quick We could be married in between the Benson and the Xerox audits, wasn't exactly every girl's fantasy of a romantic interlude. But Albert was sincere--or at least persistent. He was always around. Grandmother made sure of that.

I should be glad anyone notices you at your age. Her grandmother's admonitions still rang in her head. She could feel the frown ridges in her forehead tighten at that thought. She'd heard the comment often enough. Grandmother would have had her safely married off by now, rather than schooled to be the fourth generation auditor in the family. College, grad school, and her CPA internship had certainly taken their toll on her 'free and easy' youth.

Plopping her sunglasses in place, she gazed back out to the building surf. Everyone was out of the water, lined up nearly single file on the narrow strip of sand forming Lahui Beach. They seemed to be waiting, watching. She finally spied what held their attention. "Oh!"

A tiny speck, far out on a huge roller, came ever closer. The roller began to break and the speck turned into a person--a man--guiding a huge surfboard. He popped up on the board, catching the lip of the rolling wave, beginning the long journey to the shore, just ahead of the crashing water.

She gasped along with the crowd. No one else had come close to this ride. She pulled her glasses off for a better look. He stood, almost unconcerned, on the board, his body glinting golden in the afternoon sun, bronzed and tall, tawny hair gleaming in the flying spray.

"One of the golden people, no doubt," she murmured, remembering her tour of the local cultural center and the islander's name for themselves. He was golden all right. "Looks like a Oscar standing out there--and just as naked!"

Meg leaned forward and stared. He sure looked naked. No wild flower print, no Speedo stripes, nothing she could see. I wonder if this is a nude beach? And what is he riding--a tree trunk?

She stared hard, then reached back over the seat, grabbing her camera. Automatically shifting the lens to zoom, she zeroed in on the surfer. Heavens. That board must be 50 years old. Where in the world did he get it?

A slow smile slipped across her face, disturbing her focus through the lens. I'll bet Eyewire would pay for this shot. Nobody rides these boards anymore!

In one fluid motion, she yanked open the car door and snaked out of the driver's seat, never losing sight of her quarry in the viewfinder. Clicking the digital furiously, she caught image after image of the golden one, gleaming wet, standing tall inside the churning wave.

With a quick inhale, she took a couple more shots. He suddenly crouched, increasing the speed of the board, riding low and fast, shooting the tube as the wave rolled completely around him. It'll smash him into the bottom.

She lowered the camera and turned away. She hadn't planned this trip to Kauai to see some surfer kill himself. But the suspense was too much. She had to look, to see the result of his reckless act.

He popped out of the surf again, ahead of the wave and slid into the smooth, shallow water, calmly settling lower and lower until he slipped off into the foam and walked the last few feet to the beach, hefting the huge mahogany-colored board under one arm.

He's a strong son-of-a-gun. That thing must weigh a ton. She watched, fascinated, while he walked across the beach to the parking area, where the other surfers stood waiting. He stopped even with the group. Glancing down the row of equally tanned men, his gaze stopped. A spikey-haired man, built like a tree-trunk, finally met his commanding stare. A huge grin split the golden one's face and he shot a pistol-like forefinger at the tree-trunk one. Spikey-hair threw up his hands and stepped back as if in defeat. Laughter engulfed the group. Golden one turned away and continued his walk. Meg groaned. "I'll bet he just won a bet. Goodness, he's coming straight at me!"

Sliding back into the car, she set the camera next to her day-planner, trying to look innocent, not like the voyeur she'd turned into. She could feel the heat rise in her neck as she ventured a sideways glance, to see if he really was naked.

"Humph." She frowned at what little he did have on. A tiny thong, complete with golden brown pouch, covered just enough to keep him from getting arrested. Probably has them made to order.

She breathed a sigh of relief when he veered off, stopping by the dilapidated old station wagon sitting in front of her car on the road's shoulder. She couldn't help but stare at the striking man in front of her. Completely ignoring her, he reached into the open space where the back window should have been and pulled out a towel. She almost laughed as he carefully buffed the plank. First things first, I guess.

He easily hoisted the board to shoulder level and guided it into the mounting blocks in the station wagon. The woodie's interior had been carefully redone to secure and protect its valuable cargo. Probably spends every last dime on the stupid board. Doesn't have a penny to his name. Typical beach bum.

Try as she might to dismiss the gorgeous golden hunk standing in front of her, she could not. But she'd never seen anyone as self-absorbed as he seemed to be.

He reached into the wagon and yanked out a beach towel. Giving it a flip, he tied it around his waist. It almost covered him, leaving the outside of one sinuous leg bare, clear to the knot. With no thought at all, he faced the wagon and reached under the towel. The wet thong dropped to the ground. Meg gasped. He's naked now!

The heat in her cheeks turned to fire. All she could see was his towel-covered backside, but her active imagination busily filled in all the details. With a practiced hand guiding the towel, he quickly rubbed himself dry.

Good Heavens! Meg felt like a window-peeper, watching what should be a very private action, but it was broad daylight, in the middle of a public parking area. How can he do that?

He pulled a pair of raggedy jean cutoffs from the back of the wagon. With a quick bend, he had them over his feet and under the towel. Satisfied with his zipping job, he snatched off the towel, grabbed the thong and tossed them in the back of the vehicle. Then he stretched--a huge, cat-like stretch--like a lion satisfied after a hunt and turned, facing her at last.

Their eyes met and their gaze locked. A slightly crooked grin split his suntanned countenance. He gave her a wink and a flippant wave, crawled into the driver's seat and pulled away, without a backward glance.

"Well, I never! He knew I was watching. He put on a real performance. What a jerk."

But jerk wasn't what was echoing in her heart and in her body. The fire in her face had invaded her entire being. She became aware of the throb deep in her groin, an unconscious, lustful reaction to a magnificent male animal.

Surprised by that reaction, she sat very still, willing the fires to go away, watching the car veer around the curve. The pounding of her heart subsided to a more normal level as the old station wagon disappeared from view.

His 'almost strip-tease' danced again and again in her mind. A giggle popped out as she tried to imagine Albert doing that same thing. The two looked to be about the same age --almost thirty-something--but they couldn't be more different. Poor Al. He'd be so embarrassed. Never happen.

She had to admit her earnest suitor wasn't all that bad. Albert was a nice-looking man who kept himself toned and fit, but very seriously. Workouts were not fun. Workouts were like everything else. Work. All they ever did was work. Al could never cut loose and do what she'd just watched. Probably not even in their bedroom on their wedding night. Nope. Not Al. He wasn't the type. No doubt, even their lovemaking would be precisely scheduled and timed in their respective day planners.

She glanced back down the road and a huge sigh escaped her lips. She gave herself a shake. Straighten up, Margaret Amanda. I have many things to do yet, today. Daydreaming isn't one of them.

"He was good looking, but not my type at all. Last thing I need is a beach bum." She said the words out loud, trying to force him and his golden body out of her mind. Her fingers traced her name on the portfolio again. Next week would get here quickly. She had to fly from here to Honolulu, to meet with the Chairman of the Board of the Queen Liliuokalani Heritage Foundation. He thought the foundation was missing money--lots of it. She had to figure out if they really were, before the newspapers got wind of it.

The foundation couldn't afford a scandal, certainly not one involving money left by the Queen for the good of the native Hawaiian people. She had her work cut out for her, and it didn't include a beach bum. She'd have to call Al when she got back to the condo. Flipping open the planner, she ran a perfectly manicured nail down today's calendar and studied the carefully printed notations. Green notes--her schedule, blue notes--Al's schedule. She still liked paper notes, even if everything was in her PDA. Sometimes the insistence of new technology just wore her down. She sighed again, turning the key in the ignition. She could catch Al between his chiropractor's visit and his Tai-Chi class.

* * *

Marc glanced into the rear-view mirror. Well, dude, I put on quite a show for that wahine. I'm getting better at entertaining the tourists every day.

Too bad he didn't enjoy it. She must have, she certainly got a camera full. Wonder what she looks like?

All he'd really seen was her camera and hair, lots of it, like caramel dripping off a sundae, dancing around her shoulders on the gentle afternoon breeze. And she drove a Lexus, albeit a rented one, from the license plate. A rich tourist. The kind that visited plantations--like their plantation. His teeth unconsciously clinched. Just what he needed --another starry-eyed mainlander to fend off while he showed the group what it used to be like in Hawaii. Great-grandfather would have had a fit.

One-handed, he guided the wagon around the winding road, while gingerly rubbing the still-stinging surface of his thigh. You're a better man than I, Prince. I don't know how you guys surfed in those getups. Board shorts are much better.

He wheeled through the gates of the Akilahu plantation. The lush expanse of taro fields stretched out in front of him. The long open buildings reached out to greet him.

Pulling up in front of one well-kept building, he stopped and gave the horn a quick tap. A graying, oriental-looking man rushed up. "Yes, sir?"

Marc slipped out of the wagon and walked to the rear. "Lee, just park it for me, please? I'm finished for the day."

Lee nodded. Marc hefted the board out through the back window. "I'll put this up. Wouldn't want Father to know I've actually been using the old thing. He'd have a heart attack."

Lee's wide smile brightened the day. "Yes, sir--but, your grandfather would be pleased, sir. He would say the board needs the water."

"Hmm." Marc turned and walked to the building, board under his arm. Fishing in his jeans pocket, he found his other keys. Juggling and grumbling, he finally got the door open and the board inside. Coming in here was like entering a shrine--a shrine to surfing in Hawaii. Pictures covered the walls, with racks set on all four sides. One rack for Prince Akilahu, one for Grandfather, one rack for Father and one rack for him. They had all ridden, since modern surfing's beginnings.

He walked to his great-grandfather's rack and set the giant board in its place. The photo that had started this whole day's activities hung on the wall above the board rack. An old black and white shot of Duke Kahanamoku, the father of the modern surfboard and Prince Akilahu, Marc's great-grandfather, both dressed in the ridiculous thong things, with the giant board between them. Duke and the Prince had made it in 1934.

Carl had seen the photo and had bet Marc that he couldn't duplicate the ride, while wearing one of those silly thongs. Never let Carl sucker you into another bet. Even when you win, you lose.

He rubbed the front of his leg again. Serves you right. You know better. That spikey hair hides a sneaky mind. I'll take boxers and a short board any day.

He looked at the nearly empty wall behind his boards. "Guess I'm not holding up the family tradition," he murmured to no one in particular. "Maybe I'm not as photogenic. I should check with that tourist. She probably got a decent shot or two."

He laughed softly and walked out into the daylight, carefully locking the building once again. He glanced across the rolling green lawn behind the mansion. "Mother!"

He waved and bounded across the manicured lawn between them. The tiny lady seated in front of a canvas-filled easel returned the wave. "Hello, Marc."

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "What are you drawing today, Mother?"

"The back garden."

He glanced over her shoulder to admire the chalk drawing of the Akilahu gardens. His mother was good. However...his eyebrows knitted in concentration. "Mother? You're adding buildings. We don't have a bungalow back by the trees. "

Lili carefully smudged the roofline of the building in the center of her drawing. "Well, I think we should. Right there."

Marc laughed. "Well, tell Dad. He'll probably build it for you."

Lili joined in his infectious laughter. "You know your father. He doesn't want to change the plantation. Doesn't want to disturb the history." A shadow darted across her face, then disappeared. She smiled a bit too brightly. "Where have you been?"

"Winning some money from Carl."

"Shame on you. You don't need Carl's money."

"I know. But sometimes he just has to give it away, so I let him give it to me. I give it back when he needs it."

Lili nodded. "Well, I suppose. Better he lose to you than to a stranger. Your father's been looking for you."

"Is he in the house?"

"No, he's in the luau building."

"I'll go find him."

Lili pressed a gentle hand to his rock-hard chest. "Put some clothes on first. You look like an aborigine, running round bare-chested and barefoot. Really, Marc."

He kissed her forehead gently and gave her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. "Yes, Mother." He headed into the mansion.

* * *

Marc studied himself in his bedroom mirror. If his father was in the luau building, he was talking business and he might have guests, so gone was the wild surf bum. In his place stood a carefully groomed, deeply tanned man, in a white linen shirt, of Philippine design, open at the throat, discretely tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The crease of his tan Dockers dropped neatly to L.L. Bean deck shoes. A very plain Rolex rested on his wrist. He had to look the part of successful family businessman. The plantation was a business, whether they liked it or not.

The days of unlimited wealth and prince-li-ness, as his great-grandfather had known, were long gone. There were no more princes in Hawaii. This plantation had to pay for itself these days and taro wasn't the top crop any more. He glanced out of his window, to the fields surrounding them. His father was coming around slowly, finally considering other crops again--giving up the old ways--coming into the present. Shifting from sugar cane to taro had been hard enough. Finding a replacement for taro as a cash crop was increasingly difficult.

Father was even allowing luaus for mainland visitors, houlies, as he called them, once a week, much like the British nobles allowing tours of their castles. Even the fifth Earl of Nottingham was allowing guests these days. Marc closed his eyes, then glanced back at the image in the mirror. I don't like them any better than you do, Father, but business is business.

Turning back to the window, he saw his father cross the courtyard to the main house. I'll meet him downstairs.

* * *

Marc could hear his father's deep bass voice rumbling in their office when he reached the bottom of the stairs. He peered around the doorpost, to see his father drop the phone receiver into its cradle with a thud. "Hello, Dad. Mother said you were looking for me."

Dominic Akilahu looked up into his son's smiling face. "There you are. We have a problem."

"What's wrong?"

"We need a pit boss."

"A pit boss? Have we started a casino?" His attempt at humor died in his father's intense stare.

"You know what I mean. Somebody has to carve the pig tonight."

Marc walked to the window and stared out toward the huge barbeque, where workers were already lining the pit with long green leaves. "Tonight?"

Dom ran the back of his hand across his mouth. "Tonight!"

Marc turned from the window and caught his father's gaze. "Why?"

"Sam isn't here."

Marc shook his head. His father was entirely too lenient with the 'old hands' as he called them. "What's wrong with Sam?"

Dom shrugged. "Who knows what wrong with Sam."

"So, he's just not here?"

"Can't find him anywhere. We have a hundred houlies booked for this evening. I guess we could refund $5,000."

Marc sighed. "No. We can't do that."

"Then I need you to run the show." Dom grinned, his gaze resting on his handsome son standing before him. "Besides. You look pretty good in that sarong thing. And you blow a mean conch shell. The women will eat it up."

Marc groaned. "Thanks a bunch, Dad. Like I don't have enough woman trouble."

"Hey, this luau thing was your idea in the first place. They don't go ga ga over this old body."

Marc grinned. That sounded more like his father. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it. But we've got to find a replacement for Sam. He's not reliable anymore and I have to get back to Honolulu next week. We need that money, too."

A frown darkened Dom's normally sunny countenance. "I know, son. We'll find somebody else before the luau next week."

Marc raked his fingers through his hair. "Fine. I'll dig out my 'sarong' and conch shell."

* * *

"What do you think?" Meg glanced up at her hostess and long-time friend. The image of the golden surfer loomed on the computer screen. Carol's eyes widened as she stared. Meg chuckled. It was a good photo.

"What a stud! How did you ever get that shot?"

"Saw him riding at Lahui Beach this afternoon. I figured Eyewire would buy a Hawaiian series, especially if he's the lead shot."

Carol's curls bobbed furiously in agreement. "I'd think so. He must be good. Not much room to surf at Lahui."

She peered at the screen for a closer look. "I'm telling you, Meg, you're wasting your time as an auditor. You should concentrate full time on being a photographer. You're really good at this."

Meg clicked a couple of buttons and the image disappeared. "Can you imagine? Grandmother and Father would have conniption fits. It's a hobby to keep me sane."

Carol sent a frown Meg's direction. "It's about time you did something for yourself, Meg Morton. They'd get over it. There are lots of good auditors in the world. There aren't nearly as many good photographers."

Meg laughed. "I don't know about that. Eyewire seems to have plenty of shots."

Carol grabbed a tabloid from the coffee table. "You could sell them to the Tattler. They're always looking for great shots--so they can stick alien heads on them--or turn the surfer studs into 800 year-old men."

Meg couldn't help but giggle. "That's just what I need. My photos in a tell-all tabloid. That would be great for my reputation as an auditor."

"It would get you some publicity, then you wouldn't have to be an auditor. The Tattler comes out once a month."

"Not weekly?"

Carol joined in the giggle fest. "Nope. There's not enough scandal in Lihue for a weekly rag. It prints once a month. This is a pretty quiet place."

Meg stretched, leaning back from the computer. "I'll take quiet, Carol. I like it here. But, I'll need to get these photos ready before I leave for Honolulu. Do we have a CD burner in the office?"

Carol nodded. "Of course. We have customers who want their reports on CD so we're creating them, even here on laid-back Kauai. I'm sure the Honolulu office will have one, too."

Meg massaged the back of her neck. "Good. I can get them all edited, transferred to disk and the submission mailed to Eyewire. I'll burn a disk for myself as well. I may want to keep him around. He'd make a great screen saver."

Carol's infectious giggle bounced through the afternoon. "You bet. He'd perk me right up. But I'm not sure I'd get much work done, if he were the first thing I saw on my computer screen."

Carol reached over Meg's hand and gave the laptop "OFF" button a push. "Come on. We have some serious shopping to do. We have reservations at the Akilahu plantation luau tonight and I know you don't have a thing to wear."

Meg laughed. "Okay, hostess. Let's go. If I'm going to go Hawaiian, I might as well look the part."

* * *

Meg tipped down the visor on the passenger's side of the car. "Carol, I'm never going to stand this thing."

Staring into the mirror, she tugged at the giant hibiscus blossom nestling just in front of her ear.

Carol grinned. "Now, now. It just matches the pattern in your new muumuu. You have to wear it. At least 'til we get in."

Meg groaned, but she had to agree. The big white blossom did match the flowers in the muumuu she'd picked out--cornflower blue and white--one of the quieter prints in the shop. Hawaiians loved color--lots of it. The outfit seemed to shout her presence, but not as much as Carol's red and yellow one.

Meg glanced at her friend. Carol's "Orphan Annie " ringlets, cut short to contain the frizzies, didn't hold flowers well either, but she had managed to tuck one of the huge blossoms behind her ear as well. Oh well, one evening like this won't kill me.

Carol wheeled the car through the gate and down the long, winding drive to the manor house at the Akilahu plantation. "Here we are."

Meg allowed her gaze to take in the entire panorama surrounding them. "This is beautiful, Carol. How long have they been here?"

Carol smiled. "The Akilahus are native Hawaiians. Blood relatives of Queen Liliuokalani. They've lived here forever."

Long open buildings stretched out from the manor house. Men in bright, flowered "Aloha" shirts and white trousers expertly waved them to the parking area, away from the main house. Carol parked the car on the green expanse.

Meg reached for her purse and asked, "Have they always entertained like this?"

Carol laughed. "No. When sugar was the big crop, outsiders didn't get near the plantation. The bottom fell out of that market and they switched to raising taro. It's never done as well for them. They started holding luaus for tourists the last time the taro prices tanked. Evidently the Hawaiians aren't eating as much poi as they used to. The Akilahus are still raising taro, but they're entertaining as well. They put on a good show though and the food's great. This is one of the smaller luaus. Much cozier than the big show at Smith's. Smith's serve 300 at a crack."

"Goodness. This is just a few friends in for dinner compared to that."

Carol nodded. "We might as well join the group. We want to get a seat close to the stage."

Meg grinned. "So you can see the hula girls?"

Carol laughed. "No, silly. So we can see the guys. Here, the men dance too, and they come from all over Polynesia. Good looking. Their singer is really a hunk. Might as well dream as we eat."

Meg shut the car door and followed her friend down the well-trimmed path. "Carol, you're hopeless."

Carol stopped and pointed to the white-haired gentlemen at the head of the path. "That's Dominic Akilahu, the owner of this place. His family built it generations ago. His wife, Lili, is around somewhere."

"Hmm." Meg studied the man. He looked vaguely familiar.

Carol glanced around. "They have one son, I'm told. I've never met him. He lives in Honolulu. He was gone when I came to Kauai."

Meg stared at her friend. "You're just a fountain of information. What else do you know about these perfect strangers we're about to have dinner with?"

Carol's giggle bounced through the palm trees. "I've heard their son's a hunk, too. And he's going to be a gazillionaire when he's thirty, if he marries a native. He inherits his personal share of Queen Liliuokalani's money, I guess. That's why he's not here. Couldn't stand all the women chasing him, so he went to Honolulu where he could get away from all the marriage-minded gals."

Meg laughed. "They don't look for husbands in Honolulu?"

Carol grinned. "He's just not as well known in Honolulu. It's bigger than Lihue."

A long, low tone echoed across the lawn. Meg's head snapped up. "What in the...?"

Dominic stepped into the center of the group. "Aloha, ladies and gentlemen. The conch shell calls us all to the pit. It is time for the luau. Follow me, please."

He headed down the flower-bedecked path, toward one of the open-air buildings in front of them. Meg shot Carol a questioning look. Carol grinned and stepped in behind their host. Meg fell into step and they joined the crowd heading toward the strangely mournful sound of the conch shell horn, still blowing in the evening breeze.

She dipped her head to allow one of the costumed young women to slip a beautiful lei around her neck. Meg lifted the flowers and took a deep breath. The sweet, rich odor encircled her. "Mmmm. They smell so good."

Carol smiled. "Those are plumeria. We'll get one of these nearly everywhere we go."

Meg grinned. "You're beginning to sound like a tour guide."

Carol nodded. "I love it here. I wouldn't go back to the mainland for anything. It's beautiful everywhere you go. The people are beautiful, too. Very open and friendly."

"Hmm." Meg took another deep breath. The scent filled her nostrils, intoxicating, almost overpowering in its fragrance. Not all of them are beautiful. At least one of them is messing with the Queen's money.

Perhaps she should tell Carol the real reason for the audit. Remembering her father's stern warnings about the need for discretion and privacy surrounding this audit, she decided against it. No one else in the office knew which account she was to work on once she got to Honolulu. Carol didn't need to know ahead of time either. She ran the Lihue office well. No need to give her any more stress by making her keep a secret. Glancing up, she hurried to catch Carol, who had disappeared through a gap in the huge hibiscus hedge.

On the other side of the hedge, the yard opened to another wide expanse of green, with a stone-ringed area in the center. Carol walked to the end of a long metal trough at the edge of the smoldering pile of palm leaves, within the stone ring. Meg frowned, "What are you doing?"

Carol grinned. "I want you to have a first-hand look at everything. The pig is in the fire pit below those leaves. This trough is where they'll take it apart for supper. You don't want to miss it, do you?"

Meg gave her nose a twitch. The smell of the smoldering leaves, mixed with the sweet, sweet odor of the lei was making her just a touch queasy. "I suppose not."

"Well, then, stand still."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our pit master for this evening."

Meg's gaze followed Dom's arm to the source of the conch shell sound. Her eyes popped open and she sucked in a surprised gasp. "Carol, look," she murmured, hoping her whisper hadn't carried too far. "It's him."

Carol nodded furiously. "Sure looks like it. The screen-saver stud, right?"

"Mm-hum. Surfs by day, carves up pigs by night. He's really versatile."

"Yeah well, take a good look at him. He's probably very versatile in lots of ways."

"Carol!" Meg stared at the tall Hawaiian standing opposite her at the other end of the pig trough. Printed sarong knotted on one hip, same long lean leg peeking out, not much on underneath that she could see; no shirt, no shoes, just a conch shell under one arm and a circle of green leaves around his head. Probably has a thong to match his sarong. Heat suffused her face. Good heavens, what a thought. It's none of my business what he has on under there.

Meg shook her head, trying to listen while he explained the legends of the pig roast and the significance of it to the Hawaiian culture. As he talked, his helpers opened the pit. Her temperature continued to rise and she began to feel dizzy. I have to stop this. He's nothing to me. He shouldn't be affecting me at all.

Giving herself a stern lecture, she glanced down, following his outstretched arm and came face to face with a whole roasted pig; head, ears, eyes and all. She jerked back. Carol caught her movement. "Well, what do you think? Quite a sight, huh?"

Meg could only nod. The smell of roasted pig invaded her nostrils. The overpowering odors attacked her senses.

The pit master reached into the trough and picked up a huge fork. Walking to the edge of the pit, he speared the pig's head, pulling back the well-done skin. A roasted eyeball slid down the cheek. Meg's stomach rolled.

With a twist of the wrist, he pulled out a morsel of well-roasted cheek meat, turned and took the few steps needed to reach Meg. "What about you? Would you like the first taste of our pig this evening?"

"I--ah--Oh!"

The heat and the smells and the sight of the well-done pig's eye were too much. Meg's knees refused to hold her. A shout echoed. "She's going down!"

Meg heard the clattering of the fork in the trough and a whispered, "Well, damn!"

Strong arms broke her fall and the world swirled around her.

Chapter Two

Marc pulled the fainting woman into his arms with one swift motion. Just what I need. A weak-kneed houlie. Now what? He swooped her up, cradling her against his chest. His father's voice filled the area, quickly capturing the attention of the group.

"Our roasts can be a little overwhelming up close, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sure our visitor will be fine. Please, won't you follow me?"

Glancing around, Marc saw his mother beckoning toward one of the small open-air bungalows next to the main luau building, away from the rest of the group.

"Meg? Meg?"

Marc glanced at the flower-bedecked curly top standing next to him. "Are you with her?"

Carol nodded. "I guess she doesn't like pig cheeks."

Marc ignored the pointed dig. "She'll be fine. Why don't you join the others? We'll have her up and around in no time."

Carol surveyed him head to toe. "I think I'll go with you. She's not quite herself yet."

"Hmm." Marc turned, bearing his woozy bundle away, toward the bungalow. Her silky cheek pressed against his chest, surprisingly cool and soft against his sun-dried skin. A spark sizzled through him, igniting in his groin as she rolled her head, brushing his chest ever so slightly with her feathery lashes. Good grief, she's not even conscious. Get a grip.

The loose hanging sarong helped cover his physical reaction to her innocent touch. The response shocked him; he'd held plenty of beautiful women. They didn't usually set off his hormones that fast.

Lili stood in the middle of the room, wet cloth in hand. "Put her on the couch."

Marc nodded and carefully draped the groggy beauty along the wicker sofa, noticing that this body had turned into more than the proverbial sack of potatoes--something very familiar--The shutterbug!

He took a good look at the mass of caramel-colored waves surrounding the delicate face. It has to be the same woman. A real babe--even unconscious.

He stepped back and Lili sat down, running the cloth along Meg's forehead. "Miss?"

Carol stepped forward. "Her name's Meg."

Lili nodded. "Meg? Meg?"

"Mmm." Meg shook her head, blinking.

Lili smiled and turned to the concerned faces above her. "She's going to be all right. Why don't the two of you go on and eat. I'll bring her out in a few moments. I'm sure it's nothing serious."

Carol shook her head. "No, I'll stay with her. I've been here before. I know you need to be out there. We'll come when she's feeling better."

Carol took the cloth from Lili and motioned them away. Lili frowned. Meg roused enough to whisper, "I'll be fine. Carol is enough."

Lili and Marc exchanged concerned glances. Marc shrugged. "I do need to go."

"We both do."

Carol smiled. "We'll be right there. She's a pretty tough cookie, normally."

Meg could hear the footsteps retreating. She kept her eyes shut tight until they were gone. "Thanks, Carol. One witness to me acting like an idiot is enough."

"Yeah, well don't rush it. You're white as a sheet. Just lie still." She draped the cloth across Meg's forehead and headed for the cabana sink. "These places usually have water. I'll get you some."

Meg lay quite still, listening to the opening and closing doors and the scritch of sliding drawers. Carol returned with a tall glass, brimming with ice water. Raising her head, Meg carefully sipped the cool liquid. Finishing a little, she leaned back on the couch arm.

"Whew. I'd rather not do that again. I don't know that I want to smell anything that smells like pig."

"Hey, we can skip the food and just go to the show. I'm sure we can stay here as long as you want. They won't say anything, that's for sure."

Meg glanced at her concerned friend. "Why don't you go eat? I'll come out for the show."

"Ha! And leave you here, weak and defenseless if surfer stud comes back? I don't think so."

Meg's browed knitted. "What are you talking about?"

"You couldn't see the way he was looking at you. He looked like he was about ready to jump your bones, if he hadn't had an audience."

"Carol, what a thing to say."

"I'm serious, Meg. That body wrap, pareo-thing he had on didn't hide much. And his...body was certainly noticing yours." Carol hesitated. "And I'm not saying he's not a hunk and it might not be a bad idea, but you ought to know what's happening, that's all."

"Carol! I'm never going to see the man again. He works here." Meg pulled the cloth from her forehead and wiped her face. "Good heavens, he caught me so I wouldn't hurt myself and carried me clear over here."

Carol held up her hands. "I won't say another word. But you've been warned. He's noticed you, believe me."

"Hmm. I imagine so. I nearly fell in his pig trough. " Meg held up the glass. "Thank you."

Carol took the glass and headed back toward the sink. Meg swung her feet to the floor and sat up quickly. Silvery sparkles danced before her eyes. She froze, hanging on to the couch arm. This was going to take a while.

* * *

Marc walked slowly toward the back of the stage. The rest of the guests were eating, enjoying the evening and their newly-met friends at the long tables. The master of ceremonies was very good at getting people together, helping strangers to become friends by the end of the meal.

Marc scanned the room with a practiced glance, but Meg, as her friend had called her, was still nowhere to be seen. He fought the urge to return to the cabana. The last thing he needed was to pay attention to a tourist. He didn't need that complication at all.

"Marc--Marc!" The whisper echoed up front. Carl's round face and spikey hair peered from behind the curtain. "Come here, quick."

Marc stepped around the end of the stage into the dressing room hallway. "What's up?"

Carl's wide grinned popped. "We need you to dance with us tonight."

"No way."

"Tinnau didn't get back from Waimea Canyon. His car crapped out on him. He's waiting for a tow truck at Kekaha. He's not gonna be here by show time."

Marc backed up. "After I won your money this afternoon? Not a chance, Carl. You'd cut me to ribbons."

The image of Carl and his remaining Samoan brothers heaving hook-ended battle-axes across the stage at one another, with him dashing in between them, was unnerving.

Carl's hearty laugh boomed out of his barrel chest. "Marc, you won that fair and square. I don't hold grudges, you know that. But we do need an axe swinger. Or would you rather throw fire clubs?"

Marc massaged his forehead, considering the choices. Samoan fire clubs were no easier to handle than the axes, but the fire was easier to get away from if someone slipped.

"I'll throw clubs with you, if we can toss a couple right now. It's been a while."

Carl nodded. "Sure. I don't want my best friend to get hurt--especially the one who goes around saving damsels in distress. I saw you catch the tourist. Good job!"

Marc cringed. "I didn't want her in the pig trough--would have ruined dinner."

"Sure, and having her snuggle up in your arms was just part of the job, huh?"

Marc could feel the flush creeping up his neck. "Hey, if you want me to throw tonight, find those clubs. I won't do it without a little practice. I don't want to roast my own hide."

Carl grinned again. "Come on. Let's head outside."

* * *

The conch shell's low tone and the throb of native drums filled the evening air. Carol glanced at Meg. "How are you, now? They're starting the show."

Meg stood up and brushed the wrinkles from her muumuu. "I'm fine. I didn't come here to spend my entire evening in a tiny cabana. Come on. Let's go see the show."

They walked across the grassy expanse to the open-air building holding the stage and slipped into still-empty chairs at the edge of the audience. Meg watched, enchanted, as number after number flew by--beautiful women in brightly colored costumes, dancing the dances of the Golden People. She turned to Carol. "Is it like this all the time?"

Carol nodded. "Yes. There are other shows on the island but I think this one has the best dancers. You haven't seen the best. The guys haven't come out yet."

The drum beat changed, even deeper and more throbbing than before. Meg felt as though it were penetrating her very soul. The emcee caught her attention. "Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you...the warriors of Samoa, and their fire dance."

Meg followed the announcer's out-stretched arm and gasped. Four dancers stomped onto the stage, bodies painted in fearsome black war paint, wild black and red rooster feathers encircling their heads and ankles, black loincloths looped over heavy black rope and each carrying two long, curved clubs. One by one they stepped up to the brightly burning fire pot on the front of the stage and lit the club ends.

"Meg, look close." Carol's hissed whisper shoved its way into her brain. "It's the surfer stud--again."

Meg struggled to breathe normally. It was! "Jeez, what next? He surfs, he carves pigs, he dances. What else?"

Carol giggled. "I told you what else. He's barely hiding behind that loincloth. He's not much for clothes, is he?"

Meg smacked her friend's arm. "Carol!"

Carol grinned. "Never thought I'd like a man in chicken feathers, but on him, they do have possibilities."

Meg laughed out loud. She couldn't help herself. "Hush. You'll get us thrown out. This is a family show, not Chippendales."

Carol shrugged and nodded toward the action on stage. The four were swinging and tossing the clubs in the air and across their bodies. The drums pounded faster and faster, with the throwers keeping time. They started to move, dashing across the throwing path, tossing clubs around one another's heads, catching each other's clubs, all the time keeping the fiery heads of the clubs spinning in time to the drum beat, always catching the clubs by the handle.

The surfer stud didn't look Samoan; the three others were built like beer kegs on tree trunks--not fat, just big, solid men. The surfer looked more like an Olympic swimmer. But he was certainly keeping up with them. His muscles rippled and glistened in the flickering firelight. He caught and tossed the big clubs effortlessly. No wonder he could carry me. He could toss me like that. Meg shivered, not allowing her errant body to give in to the erotic feelings threatening to surface, driven by the throbbing of the drums and the pulsing moves of the bodies on stage. Make love not war should be his slogan. She giggled at the thought. Carol might be right about the surfer. He was sexy to watch, no doubt about it.

Meg clapped along with the rest when each of the dancers tossed his final club, slinging it into the barrel of water at the edge of the stage, to douse the flaming ends. She took a deep breath, relaxing the tensions that had gripped her body during the exhibition. It was too...too...too intense to be labeled a dance.

"Carol, I'm exhausted just watching them. How can they do that every night?"

Carol shrugged and grinned. "They're warriors." The infectious grin widened. "Lots of stamina. Who knows? Maybe it's all that poi."

Meg frowned, nostrils flaring. "You mean that stuff that looks like purple wallpaper paste?"

"Yep. That's the stuff. The natives love it."

"Then I'll never be a native. It's dreadful. I decided that the first night I was here. I got a bowl of it with dinner. Purple glue. I'll take pasta any time."

Carol laughed. "It's an acquired taste. I can eat more of it now than when I first came. But the islanders eat it all the time."

"Ugh. I'd have never made it through dinner the other night, if I'd tried to eat that bowlful--and I like most food."

They turned back to the announcer. "Now it's time for our guests to join us. Could we have all the ladies who've never danced the hula, come up on stage for a lesson?"

Meg shook her head, but Carol gave her a shove. "Go on. It'll do you good. Nobody knows you but me and I've already been up there. I'll get your picture."

Meg hesitated and finally stood. "Why not? Sounds like fun--and I need some fun!"

Carol's tousled curls bounced. "That's better. Get up there."

Meg made her way to the stage and joined the other tourists. The dancers gently guided them through the basic steps of the hula, with lots of smiles and encouraging words. The music began again, this time soft and dreamy, speaking the language of love to all.

Meg moved with the music, scarcely aware of her body's gentle sway to the rhythms all around her. A strange peace settled over her during the dance. The steps seemed to come easily to her. I should do this more often.

Too soon the music stopped. Meg came out of her reverie to hear the announcer say, "Now audience, we're going to pick the best dancer. You must clap for your favorite when I ask."

To no one's surprise, the prize went to a pretty white-haired grandmother who had won the hearts of the crowd. She was truly surprised and flattered to have their attention. Meg was satisfied to disappear. Being the center of attention, even in a simple contest, had never appealed to her. She slipped to the back of the stage and descended the stairs, looking for Carol.

Fingertips lightly gripped her elbow. "I voted for you. You're a much better dancer."

Meg recognized the voice and turned, staring into the face full of war paint and feathers. His deep brown eyes caught the flickering firelight and glowed golden--like a lion about to pounce.

"My hero. I haven't thanked you for keeping me out of the pig trough."

Marc smiled. "No thanks necessary, Meg. I didn't mean to send you over the edge like that."

Meg could feel a heartbeat racing beneath the fingertips still encircling her arm. Was it hers...or his? She didn't know. But one of them was certainly excited. "Still, I'd like to say thanks. But it's hard to thank someone you don't know. And I don't even know your name." She gave a tiny tug against his grip. "But you know mine."

Marc grinned and released his hold. "And you already have my picture, right?"

Meg could feel the blush creeping up her neck. "Touché. Yes, I do. I hope you don't mind."

"Not if you'll tell me why you want it and let me make up for spoiling your evening. Could I take you to dinner tomorrow night?"

It was Meg's turn to grin. "Only if you tell me who I'm going out with."

"All right. I'm Marc...Keawanee."

Meg nodded. "All right, Marc Keawanee. I'm Meg Morton and I'll go to dinner with you tomorrow evening, provided there are no pigs in sight. I'm staying at the Lelanai Condos next to the Poipu Hilton--Number 2--think you can find it?"

His smile widened. "I've lived here my whole life. I know every inch of this island. I know Poipu--both the hotel and the beach."

"Good. About seven?"

"About seven."

Meg turned back to the crowd and saw Carol, camera in hand, coming toward them. "Till then. We'll talk about your picture."

She walked away, joining Carol for the walk back to their car. Marc followed and stood outside in the starlight, watching them make their way to the waiting vehicle. The flickering torches lining the path added a special glow to their departing figures. He watched until their car pulled away into the darkness.

Massaging his forehead, he turned toward the manor house. It hadn't really been a lie. He was a Keawanee. His mother's side of the family certainly claimed him. Face it. I didn't want my reputation to precede me.

Maybe they could have a pleasant evening before her vacation was over and she went home, wherever that was. And maybe, just maybe he could enjoy this lovely lady's company, without the family legacy--or curse--getting in the way.

* * *

"Well?" Carol's voice echoed in the big bedroom.

"Well, what?"

"You know very well, what, Meg Morton. If you think I'm going to toddle off to bed without hearing about your conversation with the surfer stud, you're very wrong."

Carol leaned back on one huge pillow, feet curled beneath her on the bed. Meg tried to be cross but couldn't. Since college, Carol had been Meg's closest friend, even after she'd come to Hawaii after graduation, to manage the Morton company office on Kauai.

"Well, if you must know, his name is Marc Kiwanis, or something like that, and we're going out to dinner tomorrow night."

"Oh really? So much for 'I'm never going to see him again.' I hope you're not allergic to chicken feathers."

Meg grinned. "You're the one who said he was a hunk and it might be a good idea to see more of him." She returned to her studious hair brushing.

Carol frowned. "I don't believe that's quite what I said. But hey, if he puts a smile on your face and a memory in your heart, go for it."

Meg dropped her brush and turned to face Carol. "You know what? I've never sown a wild oat in my life. If I'm going to marry a man who wants to work in a wedding between two audits, so we don't waste any time, I may just sow an oat or two before then."

Carol's feet hit the floor. "You sound serious. You haven't said anything about a wedding. Who's the lucky guy?"

"Al."

Carol's eyes popped wide open. "Al? Albert Anderson? Meg you can't really be thinking of marrying him--surely not! He's...he's...he's..."

"He's asked me--or rather told me--we could work in a wedding between the Benson and Xerox audits if I wanted to."

"Oh, wow! A real romantic, that man."

"I'm not getting any younger. At twenty eight, I should be pleased that any man notices me, according to Grandmother."

"Humph! You'd have them waiting in line if you ever paid attention to any of 'em, Meg. You've been too busy trying to fill your dad's life to give anyone a chance to get into yours."

"It's too late to change any of that, Carol. Dad needed somebody and I tried to be there."

Carol's voice softened. "Well, Meg. You need a life of your own. Your dad needs to take care of himself. Your mom's been gone how long?"

"Years and years. Since I was a toddler." Meg looked away, not wanting to continue this conversation thread at all.

Carol stood and shuffled her feet back into her slippers. "Well, that's certainly long enough for your dad to get his act together and you to get started on your own family."

Meg tried another tack. "Oh, are you Doctor Ruth now? Offering advice on my dad's love life as well as mine?"

Carol giggled. "If you don't want to hear the truth, fine. Never mind. I'm off to slumber land. Sweet dreams. I know which guy I'd be dreaming of."

Meg laughed. "Oh, yeah. You and the chicken feathers. You're a lot of help. Sleep well. Breakfast?"

"Sure. Some of us still have to work tomorrow."

Carol padded into the hall, toward her own room, muttering to herself, "Sow your wild oats, Meg. If you sow enough, there may not be a wedding. And that would be a good thing."

Meg stared at herself in the mirror, listening to the soft brush of Carol's bedroom door against the floor. She frowned at the face staring back at her. "This is your vacation, Margaret Amanda. You might as well enjoy paradise while you're still a free spirit. "

She sighed. The words sounded hollow. She'd never been a free spirit, and she didn't know how to be one. Carol was right. She'd been a miniature grownup all her life. Her father had really never gotten over her mother's death. She'd been too little to remember her, and Grandmother Morgan never spoke of her. At least not positively--only when Meg misbehaved. She never really knew why Grandmother disapproved of Mother. She learned early not to ask. It simply wasn't discussed.

Maybe it is time for me, she mused. Maybe this beautiful island could help her find a little bit of happiness, for just a week. I'll surely have a good guide tomorrow. Marc what's-his-name seems to know all about this place.

She slid between the sheets and turned out the bed lamp. The pale moonlight shimmered in through the slats covering the window. The gentle night breeze wafted in, rustling the gauze drapes ever so slightly. Meg snuggled deep into the cozy bed. I could get used to this.

* * *

Meg paced the floor, gauze skirt swishing with her every step. The day had disappeared quickly. Her first trip outside the condo had presented many opportunities for photos. She had a camera full, waiting to be downloaded and edited. Flowers, birds, surf, trees; everything here was alive with color. A photographer's dream come true--and she had just started. But she was ready to go to dinner.

Glancing at her watch, she stepped out onto the south patio. The sun rested lazily in the western sky, casting sparkling highlights on the water in front of the condo. What a beautiful place. Meg could feel her heart slowing down, beating to match the waves lapping at the shore, a gentle rhythm lulling her, calling her to join the rhythm of the island.

Everything here has a rhythm and no one keeps time. She glanced down again. 7:10 pm. He was late. Lihue wasn't that big. I'm in no hurry. I have nothing else planned this evening.

The sound of the doorbell called her back inside. Crossing the room quickly, she opened the door and tried not to gasp. He was even more handsome in clothes; from his crisp white aloha shirt and white twill slacks to his khaki loafers, with no socks. She gulped and managed a smile. "Hi! Come in."

"Hi yourself. Sorry I'm late. I hit Lihue's only traffic jam. The fire department had the hoses strung across the main road. No one could cross until they got them all rolled up."

Meg laughed. "Sounds like a major emergency."

"It is around here. There's usually not more than one street going anywhere." He held out a giant ivory-colored hibiscus blossom. "I brought you this."

"Thank you." Meg tucked it behind her ear. "I'm getting the hang of wearing these. They seem to be quite fashionable."

He nodded. "But you might want to switch ears. Unless you really are married."

Meg could feel the heat radiate up her neck. "No. Does it make a difference?"

"Oh, yeah. The right one says you're available. The left says you're not."

Meg pulled the blossom out and nestled it snuggly on the other side. "Well I certainly wouldn't want to send the wrong message, now, would I."

"No."

Meg couldn't help grinning at him. "And I'd be a lot more impressed if this blossom didn't match the ones on the tree growing outside the door."

Marc hung his head and flopped onto the couch. "Curses, foiled again. There goes my plot to turn your head by plying you with flowers and flattery."

Meg laughed. "Oh, go ahead, ply away. It sounds wonderful. But you might also try food. I didn't eat much last night, remember? I'm starving."

Marc was up in an instant. "Food it is. I know just the place. You look like a sea sprite, so we'll go to Bremecke's. It's right on Poipu Beach."

"A sea sprite?"

"Yeah. That outfit, kind of green and swirly? Looks like a wave curl. A sea sprite would wear it. I'll tell you about them some time. Hawaii has lots of mythical little folk."

"I won't let you forget. I want to hear all the stories. " Meg grabbed her handbag. She pulled out her cell phone and tossed it on the side table. No one needed to call her tonight. Turning, she rewarded Marc with a dazzling smile. "I'll bet you're a great story teller. Let's go before you turn my head completely."

* * *

Meg set her fork down. "The mahi mahi was delicious. Much better than what we get at home."

"It was in the ocean a few hours ago. Eddie goes fishing every morning for the special of the day. You get whatever he catches."

"You know the owner?"

"Yeah. But I don't see him here this evening. Maybe next time."

"Mmmm." Meg could only nod while she finished her last bite.

Marc breathed a silent sigh. He'd dodged that bullet. Good thing Eddie wasn't here. Thank heavens the waiter was new and didn't really know him. "Where is home, Meg?"

"Los Angeles."

"Here on vacation?"

Meg finished off her roll. "Uh-huh. I love this Hawaiian bread, too. It's much sweeter than what we eat."

Marc couldn't resist. "Everything's sweeter here. Even the people."

Meg shot him a horrified look. "You eat people? I didn't think Hawaii had cannibals."

She couldn't keep the smile from sneaking around her mouth. She could see Marc's eyes sparkling from the centerpiece candlelight.

He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Not usually, but you do look good enough to eat."

She laughed. "You should be full. You polished off that whole plate."

Marc's voice turned into a low purr. "There are sweet things you just never get enough of."

Meg felt the heat rush to her face. Thank heaven the candlelight hid most of her blush. Marc's smile told her he was used to having conversations like this one--and making his partner for the evening blush. Well, she could hold her own. They'd have a good time this evening. And she wouldn't let his teasing embarrass her again. She took a sip of the Chablis he'd ordered. He had good taste in wines, too. She tossed her head and smiled over her wine glass, letting the silence hang between them.

Marc finally broke the pause. "How long will you be here?"

"The rest of the week. I have to go back to Honolulu on Sunday."

"Do you have plans?"

"I'm pretty much left to my own devices. Carol has to work. She lives in Lihue. I'm staying in her parent's condo and I'm on my own during the day. It doesn't look like it will be that hard to get around."

"It's not, but to really see the sights, you need a guide."

Meg regarded him closely. "Are you volunteering for the job?"

Marc smiled slowly. "I think I just did."

"Guide, fire dancer, pig carver, surfer, swooning woman catcher. Is there no end to your talents?"

It was Marc's turn to blush. Meg was gratified to see the pink creeping up from his collar, not quite hidden by his golden skin.

"I try to keep busy. Speaking of talents, what about you, shutterbug? Am I to be in your private collection of surfer shots?"

"Well, now that I've met you, maybe. But I had intended to sell you to the highest bidder. It was a public beach."

"Hmm."

An idea turned in Meg's head. "That's what I do. I'm a freelance photographer. I'm here on vacation, but I plan to take pictures while I'm here. I thought you would be a great lead shot for a Hawaiian series."

Meg noted the grim set of Marc's jaw. He really doesn't like the idea.

His voice was almost a whisper. "I wish you wouldn't."

Her business voice whispered inside, I probably do need a release from him.

Meg turned on her most winning smile. "Well then, you'll have to show me a better shot. If I can put together a decent set of shots and a great lead photo without you, you'll stay in my personal collection."

He reached out, covering her hand with his. "I like that idea much better. Being in your personal collection would suit me fine."

The heat radiating from his hand amazed her. What a hot-blooded man. Was she truly playing with fire? The waiter's voice intruded. "Would you like dessert?"

Meg glanced up. "I couldn't eat another thing."

Marc nodded toward the ocean. "Would you like to go for a walk on the beach? There's a path from the front door right down to the water's edge and the moonlight is bright. We have a full moon."

Meg smiled. "Sounds like a movie set."

Marc laughed. "It was. Kauai is a very photogenic island. Movies have been made on nearly every major beach, including this one."

"Well then, you'll have to show me and tell me all about it."

Marc paid the waiter and extended his hand. "It's a nice night for a walk."

Meg hesitated an instant, finally slipping her hand into his. "It certainly is."

They made their way out of the restaurant, across the road and down the path to the beach. Impulsively Meg stepped out of her sandals and curled her toes in the still-warm sand.

"That feels good!"

Her exuberance was catching. He stepped out of his loafers and they were both barefoot in the sand. "We'll have to watch out for the sand crabs. They come out at night. They'll bite your toes."

Meg caught his gaze with her most beguiling smile. "You'll chase them off for me, won't you?"

At that moment, Marc was willing to chase off a million sand crabs for another one of those glowing smiles. She was so straightforward--not trying to be anything but herself, her utterly charming self.

Meg picked up her sandals and reached for his hand. "Come on, Captain Cook. Let's explore the rest of this beach."

Marc smiled as he picked up his loafers. "So you do know a little Hawaiian history."

She laughed. "Who hasn't read Hawaii? Michener described it from the erupting of the volcanoes."

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Well, maybe I can show you some things Michener didn't see. I'll show you my island."

Intertwining her fingers with his, Meg met his gaze, shivering in anticipation of the unknown. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

Chapter Three

Tiny shadows skittered out of their way. The beach seemed alive--moving, undulating in the silvery moonlight. Meg jumped when a tiny creature ran across her bare foot.

"O-oh! What are they?"

Marc's laugh surrounded the night. "The sand crabs. Watch your toes."

Meg pulled up one foot. "Do they really bite?"

Marc pointed to a tiny creature perched on top of a dead minnow, waving its claws to frighten them away. "That one might. He's defending his dinner."

Meg's giggle bounced in the starlight. She stepped down carefully. "Poor little guy. Minnows must be hard to come by."

"It's a big beach and he's a tiny crab."

As they watched, a bigger crab sneaked up behind the little one and a fight ensued. Meg's tender heart pounded. "Oh, no. Marc, don't let the little one lose his dinner."

Marc stared, watching Meg closely. Her concern seemed genuine. "If you say so."

Meg cringed as the bigger creature took another swing, driving the little one back. "I say so."

Marc took two steps and towered over the oblivious crustaceans. He bent down and snatched the big one away, making sure to get his fingers right behind the waving claws.

"He's not happy, Meg."

"I don't care. He's a bully."

"Big guys need to eat, too."

"He can just go on down the beach. There are minnows down there."

Marc nodded and walked along the water's edge, finally setting the crab down amidst a pile of seaweed. He returned to Meg, watching the tiny one reclaim his minnow. The little one grabbed the fish in both claws and wrestled it under an overturned seashell.

Meg nodded. "There. He can eat and grow up to be a big crab. Then he can fight with the others for minnows."

Marc stood very quietly at her side. "Do you always root for the underdog, Meg?"

Meg watched the little crab eat, considering Marc's question. "It's not that. I just think everything needs an even break. We distracted him, so we needed to help him. That's only fair."

Marc stared out over the ocean. "Nobody ever said life was fair, Meg."

The stillness of the night encircled them both, casting a chill over their conversation. Meg's voice sounded strained. "No, it's certainly not. I've already learned that. At a very early age."

Marc turned, sorry he'd started this conversation. "I'm sorry, Meg. I didn't mean to..."

Meg held up her hand and turned away. "It's okay. I don't generally go off like that. It's getting chilly. Shall we go?"

Marc followed Meg back up the path. What got me on the soapbox? Why am I lecturing her about fair? What's that got to do with having a good time tonight?

The walk back to the car was exceptionally quiet. Meg stared at her carefully pedicured toenails while Marc started the car.

The silence in the car was deafening. The purring of the motor had turned to a growl. The road from Bremecke's to Poipu seemed forever long. He tried again. "Meg, forgive me. I didn't mean to sound..."

She waved a hand. "Please. It's not you. I certainly have a knack for ruining a conversation, don't I?"

Marc heaved a grateful sigh, "It wasn't you. Getting philosophical on a beach is not my usual style."

Meg smiled, trying to recapture their playfulness from earlier in the evening. "Maybe we should try a beach in the daytime. Maybe there won't be any sand crabs to watch out for."

Marc's shoulders relaxed and he released his death grip on the steering wheel. The easy banter seemed to be flowing again. He turned into the condo parking lot. "Absolutely. No sand crabs in the sunshine. I'll show you a beautiful beach. Maybe several of them."

He turned off the car and came around to let her out. "Be sure to wear your suit--and a cover up--and a hat tomorrow."

Meg sighed. "You sound like my father."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. He's always telling me things for my own good."

They walked up to the door. Marc tried again. "You're not as brown as a native. The midday sun will fry you to a crisp."

"Maybe I'd like being a crispy critter."

He gave up. "Fine. Wear whatever you'd like. But you might want to bring your camera, shutterbug. That's just a suggestion, however. Feel free to leave it home."

Meg giggled. "We sound like a couple of twelve-year olds."

Marc shrugged. "Yeah, we do. Can you tell I don't do this much?"

"Are you telling me you're really the strong, silent type? You're not an accomplished lady's man?"

"I don't make a habit of taking beautiful tourists for personalized tours of my island. I'm not good at it. I just speak my mind."

A tiny smile played around the corner of Meg's mouth. " I like that. Don't change it. I should do more of it."

"I can't imagine you need to do anything different. You're pretty near perfect as it is. "

They stopped at Meg's front door. "Hmm. I don't know if I can handle being perfect. Not even a perfect stranger. I'm a long way from perfect. Just ask my family."

Key in hand, Meg leaned back against the door, meeting his gaze in the moonlight. Marc hesitated, trying to read the depths of her eyes, trying to understand the emotion lying beneath the surface of those aqua pools shimmering in the moonlight. Were those tears? Why should that simple compliment upset her?

He finally raised his hand, running his thumb along the silky line of her jaw. "Well, from what I've seen so far, you're very special. You have most of your week left. We'll see if I can make it as exceptional as a week on Kauai can be. "

He took the key and unlocked the front door. The seashell lamp in the living room glowed a soft hello, gently illuminating the room.

Meg hesitated, caught between inviting and not inviting him in. He leaned forward and softly kissed her forehead. "Sleep tight, sprite. I'll be by in the morning about nine. "

He turned and disappeared into the darkness. Meg slipped into the condo and clicked the latch. Heavens, what kind of goodbye was that?

Her mind raced through the evening's events. Never, on any date, had she had so many emotions triggered by the same man. He had her giggling, laughing, angry and on the verge of tears, all in the space of a few hours. What kind of Svengalli was he?

Her heart still pounded as she walked down the darkened hall. A scribbled note hung taped to her bedroom door.

Meg. I'm staying in town. Have to work late. Must work late tomorrow. Have fun. Carol.

Meg grinned. Sure she did. Carol was a good friend. This place wasn't fifteen minutes from Lihue and Carol's apartment. She'd left the place empty "just in case". Well it hadn't been necessary. Mr. Keawanee wasn't interested. That was the most brotherly kiss she'd had in years. Not that she'd had that many. But Al rated better at kissing, so far. At least Al was serious.

The thought rattled in her mind while she slipped out of her clothes and into her gauzy night shift. But did she really want Marc to be "that " serious about her? I don't need any entanglements. I just need to have some fun. Keep it light and have a good time.

Yeah, right. Like she knew how to do that. Heaven help her, she didn't have a clue. But she knew it was nothing like running an audit.

Glancing around, she spied her phone on the table. At the on-click, a list popped up. She'd missed several calls. Scrolling through the numbers she winced--Dad once, the office once and Albert twice. She calculated the time difference. It was too late to call the office, Dad would be in bed, and Al normally was, too. And if he wasn't...she didn't want to talk to him right now. She had other things to dream of.

* * *

Marc paced in his spacious bedroom. Where should he take her tomorrow? Where could they go without someone calling him by his real name? This was getting too complicated. I should have told her the truth and just let things happen.

Nope--not a good idea. Fortunes get in the way of knowing people, even fortunes you don't have yet. He could make this work. Where should they go? A beautiful imaged formed--Waimea. There were lots of Keawanees up that way. The name would be all right. "A beautiful drive to a beautiful beach."

He focused on the image of the black sand beach of Waimea. They could swim and surf there--and take the canyon road. Maybe even stop at Lanai harbor. They could take the old station wagon. It would hold two boards. She could get some more pictures. But maybe she'd still keep the other one. That thought sizzled through him. Wear a decent suit.

He marveled that she stirred him so completely and so quickly. Maybe because she's not trying to, he mused. She's the first woman in a long time that hasn't fallen all over me. She really doesn't know me and might not care about the money I may get. She may have more than I do.

The thought set him back on his heels. That would be a switch. She was obviously well off. Everything about her whispered money--understated, carefully put-together and classy, from the get-go.

In any case, he'd promised her a good time this week. He had to make sure she got it, that his family name didn't get in the way, and with a few phone calls in the morning, maybe he could make that happen. He knew just the plantation to show her.

* * *

Glancing at his watch, Marc rang the doorbell. Precisely nine a.m.. On time--good job! No answer. He rang again. Funny--he'd pictured her as Miss Very Prompt. A sleepy-sounding voice called out, "Just a moment. I'll be right there."

He smiled to himself. She must have overslept. The door opened a crack. Marc struggled not to laugh at the tousled sleepy head peering out the door. Carmel waves cascaded around her face.

"Oh, Marc. I'm so sorry. Come in." She stepped back allowing the door to swing open. "It must have been the wine. I don't drink much. I slept right through my alarm."

Marc took in the sight. She looked great and all he could see was her sleepy head and her white silk robe, wrapped around her like a blanket. Those aquamarine eyes looked as though she'd trapped the ocean in a blink. Her tiny pink toes peaked out from beneath her robe. She didn't like shoes much, either. "Don't worry. It's your vacation. We have all day."

She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "I hate to be late. Please, sit. I'll be ready in a minute."

She waved a hand and disappeared down the hallway. Marc glanced around the living room. The room was amazingly orderly. She's not messy.

Her papers and books were neatly stacked on the coffee table. Her camera bag, a sturdy leather case, sat in one corner, completely zipped. Even the table holding her computer was tidy. No stray papers, nothing. He glanced at the day planner lying beside it. The embossed name jumped out at him. Running his fingers over the letters, he glanced toward the bedrooms. Pretty ritzy for a photographer. He ran his thumb under the edge of the planner's cover. It would be easy enough to take a peak, to look into the private world of Margaret A. Morton. And how would I feel, if it were mine? Nope. Bad idea.

Shrugging off the temptation, he walked into the tiny Pullman kitchen. If she just got up, she hadn't eaten. She'll be hungry in a minute.

Her voice echoed down the hall. "Help yourself, Marc. There's juice in the fridge and fruit on the table. "

He peered into the fridge and pulled out a carton. Mango-Passion Fruit--what else?

He laughed. "I see it. Thanks." He pulled two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with ice, pouring the juice, swirling the liquid to chill it. Setting her drink on the coffee table, he sat down on the couch to wait. Sipping his drink, he surveyed the room.

A magazine on the table caught his eye. He snatched up the offending tabloid. Piece of trash. What's Iman found now? He flipped through the latest copy of the Tattler, looking for Ron Iman's byline. Good. I'm not in it this month. Thank heaven for small favors.

The reporter seemed to delight in smearing the Akilahu name across the tabloid headlines at the slightest opportunity. At least he didn't follow me to Honolulu. Maybe we can stay away from him this week. I wonder?

He glanced toward the hallway. "Meg? Are you a Tattler fan?"

"A who?"

"Our local gossip rag. The Lihue Tattler. There's a copy on the table."

Meg's silvery laughter carried in from the bedroom. "That would belong to Carol. It's her parent's condo. She uses it most of the time. She's up on all the gossip, not me."

"Oh." He dropped the offending piece back to the table, hoping against hope he could keep his name out of the headlines this trip. On Kauai, his bridal search had caused intense speculation in the gossip rag before he'd left. Things had quieted down. Honolulu was a big enough place to hide and the guys with the cameras had given up. He wasn't news any more.

Thank heavens. Gossip would go against him with the board of trustees --too close to scandalous behavior. Never mind that most of the stuff in there wasn't true. It sold papers...No use worrying, I've done all I can do. If I don't find a proper bride it won't matter.

His mind wandered back, to the vision of Meg disappearing down the hall, dimly aware that she was completely wrong as a bridal possibility, but still...before he could even begin to contemplate what was under that silky white robe, Meg's voice echoed from her bedroom. "I'll show you what I plan to wear, okay?"

"You can wear whatever you want, Meg."

She walked down the hall and into the room. "How's this?"

She turned slowly allowing him to get the full effect of the new outfit. The suit showed off every curve she owned. Two pieces, not quite a bikini, but brief enough to be much too inviting and a pareo, wrapped around and tied gracefully on one hip, just like the dancers in the show. The silky fabric flowed like water around her, to the knee, yet allowing one trim leg to peek out. Her hair had been swept up, secured by a huge butterfly clip, exposing her slender neck.

She had a floppy straw hat in one hand and a white gauze shirt in the other. "Will this keep me from getting fried? I guess I don't want to be a crispy critter. That would spoil the fun."

Marc's mind raced. That suit's built for fun. He settled for a long, low whistle. "Hey! Who am I to criticize an outfit like that? I'll hold your hat and beat off the other guys."

"Like the little sand crab?"

"Like the little sand crab. I told you, you look good enough to eat."

Meg's laughter filled the room. "Let's go. I want to see everything today."

Marc grinned. "I've already seen everything. And it all looks good."

"Thank you! " Meg stopped, halfway to the front door. "What about food? Do we need to pack a lunch?"

Marc shook his head. The girl had an appetite. "Don't worry. Here's your first meal. Passion fruit juice over ice, and I've already arranged a lunch stop. I won't let you starve. It's not on the program."

Meg slugged down the glassful. "Ooh, that's good! I'll have to remember to put lots of ice in it." She grabbed the handle of her big straw bag sitting next to the door. "Okay, I'm ready. Camera, film, shades, snacks, shorts, sunscreen. Do I need anything else?"

"The kitchen sink?" Marc took her glass and set the two on the counter.

"I just want to be prepared. I was a good Girl Scout."

"I'll bet you were. Prepared for anything."

"Will we need an umbrella?"

"Nope. We get fifteen minutes of rain everyday. But it comes down eight drops at a time. Your hat will be enough." He opened the door for her.

Meg eyed the beach umbrella in the corner. "Still..."

Marc grabbed her hand and pulled her through the door. "If you need anything else, we'll buy it on the way. Kauai's not a big place, Meg. You're not packing for a trek to the Amazon."

Meg's laughter followed them to the car, or rather the station wagon. "Oh, you brought the classic!"

Marc nodded. "It holds two boards. I thought we might try surfing. We'll be going by several good beaches."

Meg climbed in and curled up in the seat until Marc settled in. "I'd love to. I used to surf in college. All along the California coast, from LA to Big Sur."

"Big Sur? You surfed Big Sur?"

Meg laughed. "Not seriously. Only when the water was relatively calm. It can get heavy around there."

Marc nodded. "I've seen pictures."

"I quit surfing when I finished college. It drove my dad nuts. It wasn't worth worrying him."

Marc frowned. "It's not that dangerous. Why was he so worried? "

"It wasn't the actual surfing. My mom was killed coming back from Big Sur, in a car accident."

"That's tough."

Meg turned away. "My father, my mother and my dad's brother had been surfing. Something happened on the highway. Their old station wagon--like this one, I think--flipped. It was in the days before seat belts. " She ran her hand along the seat, probing for the commonplace devices and found none. "Just like this--no belts. "

Marc cringed. For the first time, he regretted not having the old car retrofitted with safety equipment. She looked concerned about the lack of a seat belt. A frown wrinkled her brow as she squirmed in the seat.

"My mom and uncle were killed. My dad was in the hospital for a long time. I stayed with my grandparents. When he came home, he refused to drive the stretch of highway where they died. And he never went surfing again."

"How old were you then?"

"Not quite two." Meg stared out the car window, brushing away a tear. Marc grabbed a towel from her bag and flipped it over her shoulder. "I didn't mean to dredge up unhappy thoughts, Meg."

"It's all right. Dad blamed surfing rather than the car accident for her death."

"Why?"

"I guess they weren't supposed to be there in the first place. And he was tired from surfing, but he insisted on driving anyway. Never has forgiven himself."

Pulling the towel from her shoulder, she dried her eyes. "Goodness. It must be the air. I never cry."

"Crying can be a good thing. You were too little to cry when your mom died."

"Maybe. Oh Look! Don't hit him!"

Meg's shout brought Marc's attention back to the road. He hit the breaks, stalling the engine in the middle of the roadway. "Wha...it's a chicken."

"But it's such a beautiful rooster. He's gotten away from someone's pen."

They sat, not quite patiently, while a rooster, covered with long black and red feathers strutted across the road and into the lush underbrush at the side. Marc scowled at the walking feather duster. "No. He's a wild one. Kauai is covered with them, thanks to Captain Cook and the conquering hoards from Europe."

Meg's quizzical look encouraged him. He tried to ignore the honk behind them. "The Europeans brought their livestock with them. Domesticated chickens interbred with the native birds and now we have wild chickens; all over the island; all black and red like him. They're protected so we can't run over them."

Meg peered into the underbrush. "I'll watch out for roosters, you pay attention to the road."

Marc nodded. "Good enough. Maybe we can get to Waimea without smashing into anything."

* * *

"Black sand! I've never surfed on a black sand beach." Meg dug up a tiny bit with her toe. "This is beautiful."

Marc pulled the second surfboard out of the station wagon. "Welcome to Waimea Beach. The black sand beaches of Oahu get all the attention, but we have them here on Kauai as well. We just don't have as many tourists."

Meg glanced down the empty beach. "I'd think people who live here would be here all the time. It looks perfect."

Marc shrugged. "You get used to it. It's a workday, remember? The people who live here come out on the weekends. It'll be crowded Saturday." He picked up both boards and headed toward the water.

Meg grabbed her beach bag, joining him for the short walk across the beach to the water's edge. He set their boards in the shallow water in front of them. Meg took in the expanse of the beach in a single glance. Tall, lush palm trees swayed gently in the trade winds blowing into shore. The ocean sparkled in the late morning sun. "Well, I'm glad we're here now. We have the place to ourselves."

"There's a good curl to the waves. Are you ready to swim?"

"You bet. " Meg gave her sarong's knot a quick yank. The released fabric floated to the sand; revealing the full length of her lovely, trim legs. She slipped out of her sandals, nudging them underneath the pareo cloth. Finally she dropped her hat on top. "There--stripped and ready for racing."

Marc stood, already bare-chested, admiring the view. Oh yeah!

She grinned, "Those don't look like racing shorts."

"Traditional Hawaiian board shorts. Much more comfortable than the other get-up."