Your Mouth Drives Me Crazy. HelenKay Dimon

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To Kate Duffy for everything

       but especially for loving this book

      Acknowledgments

      Some special words of gratitude are in order for this book. In addition to Kate Duffy, thanks also goes to everyone at Kensington who constantly take roughly four-hundred-page manuscripts and, through some miraculous process, turn them into marketable books. Also, thank you to Ethan Ellenberg for selling ideas when they only consist of a few lines.

      As always, I am indebted to Wendy Duren for her willingness to take time from her own writing schedule to read the incomprehensible mess that was this first draft. Your friendship and assistance mean a great deal.

      My deepest appreciation goes to Kunio and Miyuki Miyazawa for introducing me to Hawaii and, most importantly, for producing the amazing man I married.

      And for James, your support, patience and inside information on Hawaii made this one—all of them, actually—possible.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 1

      Three days into his involuntary vacation, Kane Travers realized one thing: he wasn’t a vacation type of guy. He had enough home projects to fill exactly two days. He cleaned up the yard, painted the porch railing and ripped out the built-in bookcase in the family room.

      He tried surfing. Running on the beach. Washing his sporty red pickup truck under the intense Hawaii sun. That blew another day.

      And still six days to go. Six long, boring days until he knew his fate at work. Until he heard the results of the trumped-up investigation. Rather than dwell on the mess his life had become, he inhaled, breathing the scent of warm salt water deep into his lungs.

      Just then, something moved off to his left. Squinting, he tried to identify the strange pile sitting about a hundred feet down the abandoned beach. Probably debris washed on shore or abandoned by the resort tourists earlier that day when the Pacific Ocean had unleashed a powerful storm on the rocky coast of Kauai.

      He stood there, his feet sinking deep into the wet sand as pink and orange bands from the retired sunset streaked across the sky and dipped low on the horizon. How any person could hear the rhythmic beating of the waves against the shore and decide this was the perfect place to throw a used potato chip bag, he’d never know.

      He’d bought the one-level cottage here as a place for escape. The edge-of-the-world feel appealed to him on a fundamental level. Having someone ruin the scenery with litter ticked him off. Also gave him something to do. Cleaning up the beach could knock ten or twelve minutes off his unwanted vacation time.

      Wearing nothing more than a low-slung pair of faded jeans, he walked the waterline back to his house to fetch a bag. Along the way, chilly February ocean water splashed across his bare feet, and small pebbles pelted his chest.

      He’d taken only a few steps when a strange sensation pricked at the back of his neck. His gaze slid back to the lump on the beach.

      The thundering crash of water against the beach blocked out most sounds. But, no doubt about it, this time the damn thing moved. One step toward the mass, then he saw it. A slim, bare arm.

      “Damn!” He broke into a blinding run, kicking up wet sand behind him.

      He reached the pitiful bulge and dropped to his knees. Sweat broke out on his forehead as a wave of desperation hit him. The same frustrating mix of rage and helplessness he’d experienced before. The worry that he was one second too late. Again.

      Sweeping the seaweed aside, he encountered a tattered blanket and tangled long hair. This time the bump groaned.

      “Can you hear me?” He lifted the rest of the waste away from the crumpled form.

      Not just any form. A woman. A naked woman with a slight blue tint to her pale skin. With two fingers pressed against the cool flesh of her neck, he felt for a beat. Despite the strong thumping, concern coursed through his veins, shutting out any of the normal interest that might have flickered to life at the sight of a nude female body.

      Three months had passed since he’d scratched that particular itch. Not that long for some men, maybe, but about two months longer than he could tolerate without getting twitchy. On the small island, one rich in tradition, everyone seemed to know or be related to everyone else.

      This sense of community, combined with a few too many pushy matchmaking mothers hell-bent on securing appropriate husbands for their baby girls, made dating rough on a single man. Especially on a single man who intended to stay that way. The resulting involuntary celibacy sometimes came with the job and the life whether or not he liked it.

      And he didn’t. Not one damn bit.

      But now wasn’t the time for those thoughts. He wasn’t that guy. He’d never taken advantage of a woman in his life. Hell, this one wasn’t even awake.

      “Ma’am? Are you hurt?” It was an obvious question, but he didn’t know what else to say.

      He brushed her wet hair off her cold cheek. Soaked from head to toe, he couldn’t even tell her hair color.

      Marks and scratches marred her pale skin. Getting tossed