“That’s quite a motive for murder.”
“Exactly what I thought.” He sits back, satisfied that he’s pointed suspicion in a direction that doesn’t lead to him. “But here’s the thing—I don’t think Giselle killed her.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s not calculated enough to pull off something that evil, the stabbing, the macabre garnish with the crystal stirring stick—that took someone with serious planning skills and a flair for the dramatic. Although she is French.” He shrugs as if to say,There’s that.
I lean in. “There was a mystery woman there that night. She was wearing a long floral dress and sunglasses. I saw her throw a drink in Coraline’s face. Do you happen to see her?”
“Someone threw a drink in Coraline’s face?” He shakes his head as he thinks for a moment, his eyes scanning the bar like he’s searching his memory for faces. You know what, I think I might know who she is.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through what appears to be an extensive photo collection. “Here—is this her?”
The photo shows a glamorous woman with sleek black hair and skin so pale it practically glows against the tropical backdrop. She’s wearing an expensive-looking dress in tropicalprints, holding a clipboard, and standing in what looks like a resort conference room. She’s wearing the exact same sunglasses, and I gasp.
“I think that’s her!” I say, studying the image. “Who is she?”
“Mabel Ortiz. She’s an event planner from Los Angeles. She was brought in specifically to run the Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off for Coraline and elevate the event’s reputation. She’s very ambitious and very focused on making this competition a success.”
“And she had issues with Coraline?”
“Oh yeah. Coraline was threatening to expose some corners Mabel had cut to make this event happen on budget. Permits that weren’t quite legal, safety regulations that were more like suggestions, vendors who weren’t exactly licensed for this kind of work. That’s how she runs all of her shows from what I hear.” He swirls his drink thoughtfully. “Mabel’s entire career was riding on this event going perfectly. One bad review from Coraline would have tanked her reputation permanently.”
The music shifts to something slower, and I notice the dance floor has thinned out slightly. Ruby and Lani are still going strong, though Ruby appears to be making up her own steps at this point.
“You know,” Breezy says, his voice taking on a different quality, “it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all this. Someone who understands the pressure of running a business in paradise.”
He slides in closer next to me until his thigh is touching mine, and suddenly the comfortable conversation takes on a different energy—a far more uncomfortable one. His hand finds mine, and his smile becomes more focused and far more personal.
“I’ve been watching you since that first night,” he continues, his thumb stroking across my knuckles in a way that probablyworks on most women but makes me want to escape to the safety of the dance floor chaos. But seeing that I’m caged in against the wall, that’s not going to happen unless I crawl out from under the table. Or over it. I’m not above taking the fastest escape route.
“You’re not like the other tourists,” he goes on. “You’ve got depth, intelligence, and real island spirit.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, trying to extract my hand without being completely rude, or without slapping him into the middle of next week. “But I should probably get back to?—”
“Come on,” he says, his grip tightening slightly. “The night’s still young. We could go somewhere more private, continue this conversation away from all the noise.”
His other hand lands on my knee under the table, and suddenly our friendly conversation has wandered into unwanted octopus territory. I try to slide away, but the booth configuration limits my escape options.
“Really, I should get back to Ruby and Lani,” I say, attempting to crawl my way to safety.
“They’re having fun,” he says, pulling me back and his hand moves higher up my leg despite my obvious discomfort. “Besides, I think you and I could have a lot more fun getting to know each other better.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve violence or public embarrassment—what the heck, I was gunning for both, a hand grabs Breezy by the shoulder and yanks him away from me. The next thing I know, there’s the solid sound of knuckles connecting with someone’s jaw, and Breezy is stumbling backward with blood streaming from his nose.
“I’ve never been so glad to see a hot homicide detective in all my life,” I say to Koa Hale, who’s standing over Breezy with an expression that says he’s just solved a very personal problem with direct action. “Thank goodness,” I continue, sliding out ofthe booth while Breezy holds his nose and mutters threats about calling the cops. “What are you doing here?”
“I was here to question my next suspect,” Koa growls, his eyes not leaving Breezy, who’s now threatening assault charges while trying to stop his nosebleed with cocktail napkins. “But it looks like I might just find myself arrested for assault instead.”
The irony of a cop potentially getting arrested for protecting a witness isn’t lost on me, but Breezy’s hands had crossed enough boundaries to make me okay with Koa crossing a few legal ones. Here’s hoping his boss is okay with it, too.
CHAPTER 13
Okay, so we didn’t have a hot and heavy make-out session after Koa knocked six teeth out of Breezy’s mouth.
Fine, he didn’t actually knock any teeth out of anyone’s mouth, but Breezy did call the police on Koa, which is comical because Koa IS the police. It’s like calling the fire department to report that the fire department is on fire—technically possible, but mostly just confusing for everyone involved. Let’s just say the evening disintegrated from there faster than my dignity at a chocolate factory.
Before leaving me standing in the parking lot of The Salty Seahorse Saloon with mascara smudged and romantic hopes dashed, Koa let me know he’d swing by tomorrow and pay me a visit.
I’ll admit it sounded all too cryptic to me. Either he was planning official police business, or he was speaking in some kind of detective code that translated to “I’m going to arrest you for interfering with my investigation,” or—and this is where my optimistic delusions kicked into high gear—he had tracked me down to kiss me senseless, not to witness me getting groped by a murder suspect.
