Leilani laughed. “All the above. Sometimes, it’s a case of when you know, you know.” She patted Kimo’s hands and squeezed them gently. “We never know how long we have in our lives. I learned that during the Lahaina fires.” Her gaze shifted to Angel eating pizza at the table. “You have to grab for happiness whenever and wherever you find it.”
“I’m almost thirty years old. I’ve dated men, but I’ve never felt this before. It’s so achingly beautiful it’s almost painful.”
Leilani gathered Kimo’s hands in hers and gave her a watery smile. “Honey, if you’re not in love already, you’re well on your way there.”
“What if he doesn’t feel the same?” Kimo whispered.
From across the room, Angel answered, “Trust me, I’ve never seen Rex say so many words to a woman before. He might not realize it yet, but he’s absolutely, no-going-back smitten.”
Kimo shook her head. Insta-love didn’t exist. What she was feeling had to be a product of living through danger together. When the danger was over, would they have anything in common? Would there be enough to forge a lasting relationship?
She hoped with all her heart that they lived long enough to find out.
* * *
Rex drove across the island to Maalaea Bay, his thoughts on the meeting with his father warring with the kiss he’d shared with Kimo before he’d left.
He’d gone into many dangerous situations free of distraction from what he was leaving behind, able to commit his entire focus on the mission ahead and his teammates with him.
Now, his thoughts were on getting through the meeting with Holte, if it truly happened, and getting back to Kimo.
The whole leaving a loved one behind was messing with his mind, his concentration and... his body. His pulse raced, and his heartbeat alternated between pounding and fluttering.
Who was he?
One passionate kiss shouldn’t have him acting like a teenager after his first date with a gorgeous girl. He wanted to immediately see her again. The attraction was so strong, all he could think about was taking her to the next level as soon as possible.
Before he realized it, he was pulling off the highway into the Maalaea Small Boat Harbor.
Mission on. Time to bring his focus back to his purpose for being there, dressed in a suit with a tie already choking him. Not because it was tight, but because he hated wearing them.
He drove his truck into the parking lot ten minutes before nine o’clock, backed into a space and glanced around at the other vehicles parked there. Several limousines were lined up side by side, also backed into their spaces, their drivers sitting behind the wheels. His truck stood out among the gleaming black vehicles. He shrugged and waited, glancing down the long stretch of boat slips filled with crafts of different types and lengths. His gaze came to rest on the largest yacht moored near the middle of the paved dock, lights glaring, people already milling about on board.
A black limousine rolled into view in front of the slip with the brightly lit yacht. A man emerged alone.
Rex’s chest tightened. From a distance, he couldn’t mistake the way the man stood, straight as an arrow, his chin raised, hand tucked into the lapel of his suit. Aside from his hair having turned gray, he was the same. James Johnson. Rex’s father.
Rex drew in a breath, reminded himself that his father had no hold over him and dropped down from his truck.
Music drifted in the air, growing louder as Rex strode the length of the dock, passing cars parked in front of slips with smaller yachts and sailboats. His gaze zeroed in on the man he'd sworn he’d never speak to again.
So much for swearing.
Necessity drove him forward. A woman’s life hung in the balance.
His gaze swept over the yacht, noting the helipad on the roof and a crane, draped in twinkle lights, perched over the wide deck now filled with guests. The name emblazoned in gold lettering across the back proclaimed the yacht Dancing Lolita—Lucien Vaughan’s yacht. A matching, smaller motorboat occupied the slip beside the yacht with the name La Petite Lolita written across its stern.
His father approached the gangway.
Four security guards stood, two each, on either side of the slip, eyes narrowed, armed and alert for any trouble.
A beautiful young blonde, dressed in a black, form-hugging gown, stood at the gangway, a leather-bound notebook in her hand.
James Johnson was speaking with her as Rex approached.
The woman nodded, touched a hand to her ear and spoke into a microphone curving around her cheek. After a moment, she nodded and smiled as Rex came to a stop beside his father. “I take it this is your son, Mr. Johnson? He looks like you.”
His father turned, his gray eyes meeting Rex’s for the first time in thirteen years. “Yes, this is James Rex Johnson the second,” he said, his tone flat and emotionless. “My son.”
