The Flaming Luau of Death by Jerrilyn Farmer Read Free Book Online Page B

crossing his arms to perfection. I cast my eye around our hardhulaing group. Liz and Holly, along with most of the sisters, were more like me—a little off beat. We could do the haholo step but not while moving our hands. We could cross our hands over our chests to show “embracing love,” but then we lost our step. Who knew the hula was so freaking hard?
    Keniki showed us the hand movements to represent a man and a woman. “This is our Holly,” she said, and we all giggled. “In Hawaiian, we say the name the same. Hali. And here is her man.” She made a gesture. “Her Donald. In Hawaiian that is Konala. So all together now. Sway your hips, remember? Keep up your ka’o steps. Good. Now make a woman with your hands. That’s Hali. And now let’s make her man, Konala.”
    We were all trying very hard to get it right, but then laughing harder at ourselves the more we got it wrong, each of us taking medicinal sips of spiked fruit juicefrom our pineapples and coconut shells to keep properly “hydrated” during our extreme efforts. Marigold had been doing a rather nice job of the hula until she accidentally stepped into a deep depression in the sand and lost her balance. Down she went in a pile of grass skirt fronds. Liz also showed a certain flare for swinging her hips, a talent one might not have guessed from observing the quiet young woman at work in L.A. at her CPA firm. And, by the looks of her, Gladdie was having a fabulous time too. Awash in mai tais since the sun went down, Gladiola was now using hand signs to represent Hali and Konala that were much more suggestive than the lovely “hands crossed to show embracing love” that Keniki had demonstrated.
    “You need a private lesson,” a male voice coached.
    I looked up and met the dark eyes of a very tanned and completely gorgeous man.
    “Pardon me?”
    The guy smiled and gestured to my hips. “I can’t help but think private tutoring could help here.”
    Come on! Some wayward surfer dude, probably just off his board, had wandered onto our beach and was hitting on me. At my own luau. How cool.
    “I’m not exactly single,” I said, smiling up at him.
    I was totally tickled. What a compliment, really. There were any number of sweet young blond Nichols girls on this beach, all swinging their hips and touching their chests with much more grace than I had done. And this big rock-hard shirtless man was offering his private hula lessons to me. Wait. Was he one of my employees? A waiter? No, I decided. Absolutely not the type.
    “When a beautiful woman says she is ‘not exactly’ single, it leaves a little room for negotiation,” he commented.
    I laughed a slightly piña colada–enhanced laugh. Had I said “not exactly”?
    “So are you or aren’t you…” he asked, “single?”
    I tried to keep my hips going to the beat, showing I was a serious student of the art form. “I’m staying away from men right now.”
    “So you can’t talk to me?”
    “No.” I felt myself blush. Damned Polynesian rum! “I mean, yes, I can talk.”
    “Can you sit with me and have a drink?”
    “Yes, I can do that too.” I stopped dancing and led him over to our bar, and he asked for a Coke.
    “Thanks,” he said, taking a swig from his glass.
    I watched him drink and found him utterly fascinating, so confident and comfortable on the beach. And the no-shirt thing really worked for him too.
    The band was swinging on a new Polynesian drumbeat. “How about dancing with me? Or would that cross the line? Since you are staying away from men.”
    “Well,” I said, smiling despite myself, “that’s probably not a problem either.”
    He smiled back. “I’ll leave it up to you to tell me when we get to the part you’re staying away from. Okay?”
    I was following him out to the center of the sandy dance area, but then put up my hand to grab his arm. “But I can’t dance to this.”
    The drumbeat was getting more and more intense as the boys in the band turned making