The Red Bikini (18 page)

He stared at her extended fingers for a beat too long. Fuck it. He’d be strong. He reached out and pulled her hand into his.

Still trying to avert his eyes, Fin led her. And not astray. He’d be good.

 • • • 

Giselle followed Fin through the shore break, gripping his hand as if her life depended on it. Although, thankfully, she was temporarily distracted from a potential watery grave right now because of Fin’s body. She glanced at his muscled chest and tried to concentrate on pulling her legs through the rushing water.

He told her to wait a second, then jogged up to toss the board onshore next to her tote bag. When he came hustling down again, he frowned at her outstretched hand.

Hurt, she began to drop it. Maybe he truly didn’t want to touch her anymore. Maybe he was being uberstrict about this “just friends” thing.

Before her hand hit her thigh, though, Fin snatched it up again. His hand was large and warm—more callused than she’d guessed, maybe from the boards? The sand? The wax? But its roughness was sexy—so different from Roy’s surgeon hands. It engulfed hers in a way that made her feel safe. She knew he wouldn’t let her go under, or let her get swept away.

They headed down the coast, toward the pier, but also angled deeper into the water, splashing through the glittery ocean. The waves splashed to her thighs, but maybe this wasn’t quite so scary after all. When you were holding Fin Hensen’s hand, anyway. She liked moving her feet and not feeling so stuck in the sand.

And
did he just ask her to his event tonight
?

She tried to shift her thoughts from the terror of the water toward the brief conversation they’d just had. He did ask her, didn’t he? She, of course, was thrilled to go. She’d hoped he would change his mind. But she also knew he wanted to keep things light—there’d be no intimate touching, certainly no more of that kissing. He’d made himself clear last night. She might get as far as gripping his hand like this, and she’d even settle for wrapping her fingertips around that biceps ball, which she was itching to do right now. But she’d behave. He’d said this was Fox’s idea, not his. And his reticent behavior said enough.

As their suits got more drenched, though, she couldn’t help but notice she was at least scoring furtive glances from him. A feeling like warm carbonation filled her chest at the idea of him looking at her like that. At the idea of
any man
looking at her like that, actually, but especially
this guy. . . .
Holy Toledo.

She couldn’t remember Roy offering that kind of attention in a long, long time—perhaps ever. And she was shocked at the tingling it left throughout her extremities. She didn’t know where all this new, awakening sexuality was coming from, but there it was, and it was freeing her in a way that all of Lia’s blind dates, hair appointments, and red bikinis never could.

“Are you okay?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

With her breath still gone at the cold, not to mention her new wayward thoughts, she simply bobbed her head.

He stopped and took her other hand as if this was where he meant to bring her. She couldn’t believe she was holding on to this guy. She couldn’t believe she was
all the way in
, or . . . well,
almost
 . . . to her waist, anyway. She followed him another four or five steps into the ocean, and a low wave hit him from behind. He blocked some of it from her, but the white sea foam wrapped all the way around her, reaching around her bottom. She sucked in some air through her teeth.

“You’re here,” he said, grinning.

The water rushed back to sea, pummeling the backs of her legs with sand and power. She let it push her—Fin was right there, after all. He grabbed her waist, as if he were catching her, but as the water pushed, she let the ocean press her all the way against him. She folded against the length of him, her bathing suit against his flat abdomen, her breasts pressed against his hard chest, her fingertips on his biceps. He was warm and sinewy, a rock-solid wall in this chaotic ocean, his muscles taut, body warm. Her legs entangled with his as the water rushed. He squinted over the top of her head as the water finished receding, his hands on her waist, waiting it out. Then he pressed his mouth into her part. “Giselle,” he groaned against her hair. It was an admonishment.

When the tide relaxed, he set her back from him. “Stay there,” he said hoarsely. With three large strides, he was in the ocean, diving under a very shallow wave that was coming their way.

He was at her side before the same wave was even ripping back into the sea, slicking the water back out of his hair, standing near enough that she could grab him if she needed to, but letting her balance herself.

“You’re like a regular wahine here now.” He smiled ruefully.

“Wahine?”

“It means ‘woman’ in Hawaiian, but we use it here for a female surfer. Usually gorgeous. Let’s head back.”

She followed the direction he’d nodded, relishing in the fact he’d just called her gorgeous, that he’d just maybe been turned on by her, that he’d just helped her get into the ocean
all the way to her waist
.

But they took it slow, keeping a distance all the way back—close enough in case she stumbled, but far enough that she felt empowered.

As they stood in front of her tote, dripping into the dry sand, Fin’s gaze swept her body appreciatively. He still cut his eyes away, but this time he let her see the heat there. She grabbed for her towel.

“Don’t you have a towel?” she asked, snapping hers around her body.

“Nah.”

“Do you want one of mine? I have an extra.” She rummaged through her tote for the other towel she always brought for Coco. “It’s Polly Pocket, but . . .”

“I’m fine, Giselle.”

“I know I have it here. . . .”

“Giselle.”

She glanced up at the harshness of his tone. When she met his eyes, he was frowning.

“I’m
fine
.”

A warmth rose around her ears. She needed to stop behaving so maternally around him. That heat in his eyes wasn’t going to last long if she started throwing the words “you need a towel” and “you need a jacket” around. What was the matter with her? Next thing she knew she’d be cutting his food. She wondered whether Dan Manfield had children. Maybe that was where Lia’s logic was going. . . .

“So we’re okay for tonight?” he asked.

“Of course. I was wondering if you might—or if we might—I’m glad we’re—” She cut herself off.
Quit while you’re ahead, girl. . . .
“How can I help?”

Droplets danced along his hairline, dripped off his eyelashes. He hung his hands low on his hips, and Giselle watched the rivulets of water that curved down his chest and raced toward the waistband of his shorts, which seemed to be sitting even lower now, if that were possible, revealing those lowest, sexiest abdominal muscles that shouldn’t legally be shown in public. Children’s voices laughed behind her in the far distance.

“Just . . .” He shook his head. “Be you. You don’t have to be anyone different. And . . . let’s not complicate things, okay?”

She didn’t know where to rest her gaze. “I, uh—of course.” She swiped at her face with her towel. She must seem like a crazed—possibly horny—drowned rat.

“And, Giselle?”

She tended to her towel, tugging it tighter around her.

“Sorry about that, back there.” He nodded his head toward the pier.

She realized he was referencing his hard, warm body, pressed against hers. Or her body pressed against his. Whatever.

She closed her eyes. Guilt swept through her.
She
was going to have to behave.
He
was trying to be noble.

She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

“No complications,” he reiterated gently.

She bobbed her head in an embarrassed gesture but swiped the Polly Pocket towel out of her bag and shoved it into his waist. “Then use this.”

Snatching her tote, she trudged up the dune, sidestepping the patchwork of beach towels that now stretched as far as the eye could see.

Fin followed behind her, chuckling lightly. By the time they got back to the sidewalk, he had the Polly Pocket towel spread over his shoulders, billowing in the breeze down his stomach.

T
he art festival was tucked away, nestled in the chaparral canyons of Laguna Beach. The earthy scent of California sage hung in the air, mixed with the aroma of wine. Fin had been here once before—also with Fox and Mr. Makua, for a company-sponsored work event on the grounds—but he’d never been here on a triple date, being treated almost like one of the board members. He adjusted his dress shirtsleeve at the wrist and swept his hand for Giselle to enter first, beneath the entry arches designed to resemble a Roman ruin.

Apparently she’d spent the afternoon at some beauty salon and had her hair done back to the way it was, pretty much—more of the blond Grace Kelly thing. He didn’t care either way what color her hair was—he was more obsessed with the tendrils that moved along the back of her neck, directing his attention to exactly where he wanted to kiss her.

But he wasn’t going to kiss her tonight. Not her neck, not her lips. Nothing. He was going to show her a nice time while she was in Sandy Cove, because she was the sister of one of his closest friends. And he was going to attend this event tonight with his sponsor company because they were good to him and he wanted to continue.

And that was the extent of tonight.

They followed a paved, winding path past angled booths displaying oils, photography, mosaics, sculptures, and jewelry.

They were early, so he didn’t search for Tamara or Fox yet. He wanted to give Giselle a chance to really take in the art here, which was all local. He knew she’d love it.

The sky was turning a deep gold, and mini-lights sparked to life in the sycamore branches. He glanced around for Fox and Tamara and Mr. Makua around six. Live jazz struck up from the center of the grounds, offered by two guitarists who stood on a grassy hill amid wrought-iron café tables.

He wished, now, that they weren’t meeting anyone. Watching her face light up with passion at each booth was strangely edifying to him. It reminded him of how he felt when a perfect wave was rolling his way—that joy that comes from your gut. But Giselle’s joy seemed as if it were awakening from a long-dormant sleep. He felt honored being the one to watch it stir.

“There they are.” Giselle nodded toward one of the tables, where Fox and Tamara were pulling up a few chairs. If he’d heard it right, her voice held a whisper of disappointment, too.

Next to Fox and Tamara were Mr. Makua and another woman Fin didn’t know. Behind them were Mr. Makua’s Samoan bodyguards, trying to blend in at a nearby table, although they were each about 280 pounds and shoved into wrought-iron chairs.

At their approach, Tamara pushed out a chair with her foot. “Hi, you two! We just got here.”

Fin self-consciously touched Giselle’s back and gave her the chair. They should have gone over some ground rules again—how much touching, how much they were going to extend this farce. He’d asked her to wear the turquoise ring again when they’d left the apartment, but mostly to cover up her white band. Beyond that, he didn’t want to continue lying. He wasn’t sure what Tamara knew, or whether Fox had come clean with Mr. Makua.

“Mr. Hensen, this is my friend Charlene.”

Charlene was a beautiful Hawaiian woman, about Mr. Makua’s age, who wore expensive-looking clothes that teetered on the edge between business and pleasure.

Fin leaned over. “Nice to meet you. This is my . . .
friend
Giselle.”

“Oh, I think she’s more than a friend,” Tamara guffawed. She’d taken only a few sips of wine, but her voice was already up an octave.

Fin had spent many an event with Tamara, most of which involved Tamara getting tipsy and moaning about how Fox always abandoned her for work colleagues. But, despite all her drama, he got a kick out of her.

“Once a woman is sleeping with a man, she’s more than a
friend
,” Tamara admonished with a finger pointed at his chest. “He becomes a
boyfriend
. And note the ‘a.’”

Fin glanced at Fox, who raised his eyebrows in a you’re-on-your-own-buddy note.

“What would you two like to drink?” Mr. Makua interrupted.

Thankful for the reprieve, Fin turned to Giselle. He didn’t know what she drank, which seemed to sum everything up in one quick realization.

“I’ll take a Moscato,” she said.

Ah, Fox would like that.

As predicted, Fox lit up. He drew Giselle into a conversation about local vintners and how many of them produced Moscato, and how it was all the rage lately. Fin bit back a grin and congratulated himself again on picking Giselle.

The beer and wine garden was about ten tables away, so Fin started ambling. On his way, Fox caught up with him.

“Your lady has good taste.”

“You didn’t tell Tamara?” Fin mumbled as they took their place in line.

“Tell Tamara what?”

“About me and Giselle.”

“What did you want me to tell her?”

“That we’re not really dating.”

Fox frowned. “What are you talking about? You asked Giselle to come?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“You’re not paying her?”

“Of course not.”

“That, my friend, is a date.”

Fin started to respond, but then thought better of it. He absentmindedly flipped through his wallet to make sure he’d brought his card. “She’s the sister of a friend.”

“Still a date.”

“Well, we’re not engaged,” he said. “And I feel like I was leading some folks to believe that. I don’t want to lie.”

“Then don’t.” Fox shrugged. “You brought a beautiful young woman here who makes you nervous, who probably gives you a hard-on every time you look at her, and who you’re clearly starting to fall in love with. . . . No lie.”

Fin laughed. “Starting to fall in
love
with?” That was the only part he could argue with.

Fox smiled but didn’t answer.

“So we’re not talking about business tonight?” Fin changed the subject.

“He might pry a bit—you know how he is. He’ll ask about your dad. He might ask about Jennifer. He’ll probably get you to share some of your glory days—he loves that kind of stuff. But no, he’s not going to grill you about the contract or ask you why you haven’t won a fucking competition since last July.”

A wave of guilt swept through Fin.

“It’s all right, man.” Fox clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just fucking with you. You’ve had a rough year. But you’ve got to stop the self-destructive shit, okay?”

Fox wanted to buy Giselle her Moscato, so Fin let him while he studied the handwritten blackboard menu himself. He didn’t want to drink tonight—something told him he needed to be alert—so he ordered a pinot noir he didn’t like and planned to leave it untouched.

“Actually, I might have something else in mind for you,” Fox said.

Fin frowned and put a tip in the tip cup. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking over.” Fox swept his two plastic wine cups off the table and nodded for Fin to grab Giselle’s.

“What is it?”

“How about if we get together after this? I think the show ends at ten—we can grab some beers at Javier’s Cantina or someplace and I can run this idea by you.” As they approached their table, Fox’s voice dropped to a mumble. “Mr. Makua doesn’t know about it yet.”

Fin nodded. “Sure.”

The guitarists on the grassy stage struck up a Simon & Garfunkel tune, and Fin mulled over what Fox might be talking about as he handed Giselle her drink. “From Fox,” he admitted.

She bent her neck in an elegant gesture toward Fox, and Fin felt a ridiculous jolt of jealousy.

Through a sort of fog, he heard someone say their reservations were ready, and he helped Giselle out of her chair. He took a deep breath before walking toward Mr. Makua’s questions. He didn’t want Giselle to hear about his father, or about his parents abandoning him for Bali, or about his impoverished past, or about Jennifer dying right before his eyes. Although he didn’t know why. It didn’t matter. He’d never see her again after this week unless she came to visit Lia. But, even so, he didn’t want her to see what a mess he was.

He headed toward their reservations as if walking toward the gallows.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

 • • • 

For dinner, they were seated on an outdoor patio among the bougainvillea. Mini-lights hung above them, strung through the eucalyptus trees, and stained-glass windows hung from sycamore branches, illuminating jewel-toned fish, flowers, trees, and surf. Giselle stared at one that had a wave on it and smiled at Mr. Makua, who nodded his head in appreciation.

Tamara wriggled out of her sweater, sending her colorful art-glass necklace clinking against the china place settings. “This place is
so
romantic. They have lots of weddings here, you know.” She threw a smile at Giselle. “Have you guys talked about a wedding?”

“Tamara,” Fox warned. He leaned across the table toward Giselle and Fin, and dipped his head apologetically. “She loves weddings. And how-you-met stories, despite how private they may—or may not—be. Don’t encourage her.”

Tamara lifted her menu. “Oh, Fin doesn’t mind. Do you, Fin? I was going to ask how you two met. I feel like I’ve heard a couple of different stories.”

Fin twisted his full wineglass at the stem. “We’re not—”

“Better yet, your first
kiss
,” Tamara said, leaning across the table, her glass beads forming a pool on the tablecloth. Her jaw dropped in an actress’s openmouthed surprise, a smile tugging at the corners.

“Tamara,”
Fox warned again. “I’m having the pork chops. Fin?”

Fin rubbed his eyebrows. “I’ll, uh—have the fish.”

Tamara looped her finger through her necklace and smiled coyly. “You all don’t have to get so uncomfortable on me—it’s
fun
. I played it at a party once. Fox loves to tell these stories.” She hit him on the arm.

“With
you
. In
private
.” He shot her a chiding glance, but it was clear he adored her. He turned toward Charlene and Mr. Makua. “Seriously, ignore her. If you encourage her, she’ll get worse.”

“I’ll play,” Charlene said in a rolling Hawaiian accent.

Everyone at the table turned to stare at her. “Kai first kissed me . . .” She turned and grinned at Mr. Makua, who was blushing but smiling. “Hmmm, on a boat dock. It was on our third date. Third! I thought he would never move faster.”

Giselle laughed with the others, but a rivulet of perspiration ran between her breasts. She glanced at Fin. He seemed more amused by Tamara than afraid of her question, and was sitting back, running his fingertips along his wine stem, smiling at Charlene while she told the rest of her story.

Giselle couldn’t hear the story due to her pounding heart. It was hard to tell lies.

“Giselle?” Tamara prompted when it was her turn.

Fin leaned forward. “I first kissed Giselle in a parking lot.”

Giselle let out a breath of relief at the interception and brought her water shakily to her lips.

“A parking lot?” Tamara scowled. “Oh, Fin, you could’ve done better than that.”

“Yes,” he said, stealing a glance at Giselle. “I think I could have.”

“I bet you regret that.”

“I regret the location, but I don’t regret the kiss. I mind-surfed it for days.” Fin smiled, his eyes still on his wine stem.

Giselle fluttered her menu to her face, which she could feel turning bright red.

“I hope you made up for it,” Tamara said.

“I’m working on it.”

Giselle took a tentative peek at him from behind her menu. He chose the same moment to draw a heavy-lidded gaze at her that could have held a promise or a question. She darted back toward the salad selections.

“For us, I was the one who kissed Fox first.” Tamara grinned, leaning into the conversation.

“I’m sure everyone’s shocked,” Fox said dryly.

“We were on a boat, too, Charlene,” she continued. “I thought he was attracted to me, but I wasn’t sure, and I just got . . .
impatient
.”

“Can I take your order?” the waiter interrupted.

Throughout the rest of the dinner, they talked about boating, and art, and traveling to Belize, where Charlene had been twice, and where Fox and Tamara had just returned from an anniversary trip.

Fin relaxed as the dinner went on, leaning back in his chair, laughing openly, especially when the conversation shifted to Tamara and Fox. Giselle stole a few glances at him during dinner, and caught him staring at her. Instead of lowering his eyes again, though, he smiled.

When the talk turned to his father, however, he stiffened.

“Yep, he’s doing great,” he answered toward Mr. Makua as he shifted forward.

“You said he’s still surfing every day?”

“He is.”

“Did he ever get that company off the ground? You mentioned he might start—”

“No.” Fin shook his head. “He’s happy with where he is. Have you ever surfed Padang Padang or Uluwatu there?”

Giselle glanced up. Fin was trying to steer the conversation away. She wondered again about the tightening in his jaw when anyone brought his parents up.

“Yes, Uluwatu!” Mr. Makua said, pleased. “Those reef breaks . . . Like a dream.”

“Is that where your parents live now, Fin? In Bali?” asked Tamara. “I didn’t know that.”

“They live in a small fishing village, on the eastern side. But Uluwatu.” Fin gave a groan of approval. “Those reef breaks—perfect barrels.”

Mr. Makua nodded, seeming to drift back on a memory. He turned toward Charlene. “You should see Fin doing the long barrels. He still has better form than any newcomers. They all want to do airs now—flying into air over the top of a wave. But Fin still does amazing long rides through tubes. He goes into the hollow, and the wave is crashing all over the top of him, and it goes on and on for miles; you can’t see him anywhere. You think he went down with the whitewater, but then—there he is! Riding out to the left!” His grin took up his whole face.

Fin’s cheeks grew ruddy. “But the airs are where it’s at now, Mr. Makua. The new judges—that’s what they’re scoring highest.”

“Jennifer, too,” Mr. Makua added, ignoring the comment about the judges. “She does beautiful barrels.”