“And the opportunity to actually poison him.”
“And the opportunity. Which means we’re looking for someone with access to oleander, knowledge of its properties, and the ability to get close enough to Nolan to poison his food or drink without him noticing.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the last tourists pack up their beach gear while the tiki torches create pools of golden light on the sand, and I try to process the fact that someone I’ve probably talked to is a calculating killer.
“Tell me about your family,” I say because I need to think about something other than poison and death. “The constructionbrothers who may or may not be competent enough to save our resort from its slow collapse into the ocean.”
His expression shifts, becomes more guarded. “There are three of us. I’m the middle child, which explains the law enforcement career—classic peacekeeping syndrome.”
“And the other two?”
“Kaleo, who goes by Shaka, is older, more responsible, and probably should have been the cop. Kaimana, who goes by Loco, is younger, more reckless, and definitely should not have been the one handling client relations.”
“What happened with their reputation?”
“They got hired to renovate a luxury resort on the South Shore. The client turned out to be running a money laundering operation through construction contracts. When it all went south, the brothers got painted as either accomplices or idiots. Neither was true, but the damage was done, and the island has a long memory.”
“That’s awful. So they lost everything because someone else was a criminal?”
“Island justice. When something goes wrong, everyone assumes the locals were either corrupt or incompetent. Sometimes it’s easier to believe that than admit the system failed.”
“But you think they can handle the resort?”
“I think they need a chance to prove they’re neither corrupt nor incompetent. And I think you need their help more than you’re willing to admit. That place is held together by duct tape and optimism, and optimism has a limited structural capacity.”
“Ouch.”
“The truthusually stings a little.”
“And the truth is usually right,” I say, tipping my drink his way.
The waitress appears with dessert menus, and I snatch one up with glee, because let’s face it, I’ve had an emotionally exhausting day and deserve sugar.
“The warm chocolate lava cake with vanilla bean ice cream,” I read aloud. “Or the lilikoi cheesecake with macadamia nut crust, or—oh my word—warm soft fudge cheesecake.”
“That last one,” Hale says, looking up from his own menu.
“The fudge cheesecake?” I stare at him. “I was literally just about to order that.”
“Great minds,” he says, his mouth quirking into a smile.
“Two of the warm soft fudge cheesecakes,” I tell the waitress, who looks delighted by our synchronized dessert preferences.
When they arrive—generous slices with fudge that’s still warm and gooey—I take my first bite and actually close my eyes because it’s that delicious.
“Okay, that’s unfairly good,” Koa says, and when I open my eyes, he’s watching me with an expression that makes the excellent cheesecake suddenly feel less important than whatever’s happening across this table.
“This should probably be illegal,” I manage.
“If dessert this good was illegal, I’d have to arrest the chef. And then where would we eat?”
Where wouldweeat? I swoon a little at how that actually made us sound like a couple.
Weindulge and moan our way through the best fudge cheesecake known to man.
Before we know it, we’re driving back to the resort incomfortable silence punctuated by a sexual tension that’s ignoring all posted warning signs.
The warm wind holds the scent of night-blooming jasmine through the open windows, and the radio plays something soft and Hawaiian that makes everything feel like a movie scene.
