Free Kona Winds by Janet Dailey

started to deepen the kiss, introducing passion, Julie placed a checking hand against the muscled hardness of his tanned shoulder.
    His mouth lifted an inch from hers, his breath warm against the faint dampness of the sea water cooling her cheek. "You're beautiful, California," he murmured.
    "Don't rush it, Frank." She liked the casualness of their present relationship. She didn't want to plunge into something more serious until she tested the water.
    Reluctantly Frank resumed his former position on the towel. The expression on his boyish handsome features said he was prepared to wait and not rush it as she had requested. With relative ease, he began talking about himself—telling Julie of the places he'd been and the things he'd done. He'd spent some time in Boston, and they began exchanging personal observations about the city.
    By the time the afternoon drew to a close, Julie had enjoyed every minute of Frank's company, and it was with a degree of reluctance that she began gathering her things to catch the bus home.
    Just as she was ready to go, Frank said, "Watch my board, California. There's one of my buddies down the beach. I'm going to see if I can't borrow his wheels."
    Before she could respond, he was trotting off across the sun-bleached sand. The gusting tradewinds carried the name he called away from Julie's hearing. Thirty yards away, a pudgy young man turned and waited for Frank to reach him. After a brief conversation, Frank came trotting back, his tanned feet kicking up small sprays of sand. A set of keys jingled from the key ring in his hand.
    "I've got it. It's parked in the lot," he told her, and hoisted his surfboard under his arm. Grinning, he added, "We haoles stick together."
    "Haoles?"
    "Caucasians," he explained, and slipped a hand under her arm. "There are so many good-looking Hawaiians—you know the kind, dark and handsome—that when one of us gets a girl, we close ranks."
    For some reason, Julie thought of Ruel Chandler, despite the fact that his hair was a burnt shade of brown and his eyes were blue, neither were the gleaming black of the true Hawaiian race. So she simply smiled at Frank's comment and said nothing.
    The borrowed car was an aging dune buggy. Its yellow sides were splashed with red mud. The yellow stripes on its canopied top had been bleached to a cream color by the tropical sun. After stowing his surfboard in the back, Frank hopped into the driver's seat. He glanced at Julie to be sure she was safely in and started the motor. It rumbled quickly into a deafening roar. Julie suspected there was a hole in the muffler, or else no muffler at all.
    "It's no Mercedes!" Frank shouted above the din, and shifted it into gear.
    "Who cares." Julie retorted at an equal volume.
    The dune buggy rattled and roared onto the highway. Since the vehicle possessed only a front windshield, the tradewinds whipped through the open sides, churning Julie's long hair like an eggbeater. She pushed the whirling strands away from her eyes and leaned back to enjoy the wild sense of freedom.
    There was a moment of misgivings when the dune buggy roared up the circular drive. Julie could well imagine Emily Harmon's reaction when she heard the noise outside. After her veiled warning about young men, this vehicle wasn't going to make a good first impression for Frank. In spite of that, Julie smiled.
    "Here you are, all in one piece," Frank declared above the loud idling of the dune buggy.
    "Surprise, surprise," she laughed.
    His expression turned serious. "Don't forget, Friday night at eight sharp."
    "Eight o'clock," Julie agreed.
    His hand cupped the back of her neck and drew her toward him. His mouth settled onto hers—warmed by the sun and tasting of the sea. It was a hard kiss, faintly possessive but altogether pleasant. When it ended, there was a slight lift to the corners of her mouth in pleasured satisfaction. But she didn't linger for a repeat.
    Stepping out of the vehicle, she offered in goodbye, "I'll see