Eden Burning by Elizabeth Lowell Read Free Book Online

doubted that was how the lava had really been named, but she loved the story. And she was grateful for the tough hiking shoes she wore. They went well with her sturdy khaki shorts but looked odd with her flowered silk halter, which was part of an old dance costume and very comfortable. But all resemblance to Pele ended at the halter. Her hair was braided and pinned securely on top of her head. Loose hair was a nuisance when she was hiking or sketching.
    After a few minutes she found the place where she had sat and sketched before. Here the aa gave way to a sinuous tongue of pahoehoe that was as black and shiny as the day it had cooled after its fiery birth. Once the stone had been thin and quick-flowing. Now it was a motionless mound curved into billows and swirls, as hard and nearly as bright as a mirror.
    Bracing her sketch pad on her knees, she began a study of the old frame building that brooded over the frozen lava lake. She had been meaning to complete her series on the Volcano House Hotel for months, but something else always came up. Now that Dane’s brother had arrived in Hawaii to lend his name and expertise to the Islands of Life project, she wouldn’t have much time to work on sketches just for her own pleasure. But until Dr. Wilcox was ready to begin working on the project, she was free.
    Not that she wasn’t anxious to work on Islands of Life. She definitely was. The endurance and beauty of life in the face of overwhelming odds had always fascinated her. She felt a kind of sisterhood with the kipukas, survivors of past volcanic eruptions, past devastation.
    She felt the same about the gradual return of life to barely cooled lava slopes. The grace and stubbornness of life made awe prickle through her, and with it a feeling of strength at being part of that resilient force. She was eager to work with and learn from Dr. Wilcox, a man who had made the study of volcanoes and returning life his specialty.
    Her hand hesitated over the sketch pad for a moment. She wondered if Dr. Wilcox would be as funny and friendly and easygoing as his brother, Dane. She hoped so, because she would be spending a lot of time with Dr. Wilcox. But as long as he wasn’t an octopus in drag, she wouldn’t complain about his personality. She would rather spend her time in stony silence than deal with a man who thought he was God’s gift to the inferior half of the human race.
    It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle herself if Dr. Wilcox was as bad as Fred, the horny vulcanologist who acted like every female was dying to lie down for him. She handled Fred. She could handle anyone.
    But she would have to spend a lot of time out in some very isolated kipukas with Dr. Wilcox. If he was an octopus in drag, the hours would be tiresome until he got the message and gave up. And he would give up. All the men did, sooner or later. She just kept smiling and wisecracking and saying no. Even good old Fred had given up.
    Eventually. Sort of.
    A shadow fell over her paper, blocking out not only the light but her view of what she had been sketching.
    She looked up, blinked, and decided that thinking of the devil worked just as well as speaking of him. All six feet two inches of God’s gift to Hawaiian skirts stood in front of her. About two inches away from her nose, to be precise.
    “Hello, Fred,” she said absently, returning to her sketch again.
    And wondering for the hundredth time what women saw in “Dr. Fred.” His broad shoulders, muscular legs, sun-streaked brown hair, and wide blue eyes didn’t raise a quiver in her. She took that as just one more sign of her own frigidity, the kind of feminine coldness that even a volcano couldn’t warm. Fred Warren had set more women’s hearts pounding than anything on the island except a massive eruption.
    “Hi, my little jalapeño. Saw you drawing. You looked lonely.”
    “Nope,” she said cheerfully. Then she changed the subject in a way guaranteed to distract a scientist. She asked about his