“Why didn’t you come get me? Call me? Wait for me, for Pete’s sake?” he growls, and somehow looking angry makes him ten times more handsome, which seems totally unfair.
“I wanted to,” I start, then pause as he tips his head expectantly. “Well, I would have wanted to if I’d thought of it.”
“You would have wanted to if you’d thought of it,” he repeats, like he’s trying to process the logic behind that statement and coming up empty.
“In my defense, I was operating on pure investigative instinct and possibly lingering adrenaline from all the other times I’ve accidentally stumbled into life-threatening situations since arriving in paradise.”
“Investigative instinct?” he muses with a dry humor that makes my heart do stupid acrobatic things.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, with relief and exasperation mixing in his expression.
His lips crash over mine, and he’s kissing me—hard and fast first, as if he’s claiming his territory, then soft and slow, as if he’s savoring the fact that I’m alive and safe in his arms while waves lap the shore and palm fronds whisper in trade winds that carry the scent of plumeria and successful amateur detective work.
When we finally come up for air, I’m dizzy from either the kiss or the recent near-death experience. Honestly, I can’t tell which has more dramatic effect on my cardiovascular system.
Murder, as it turns out, is a shockingly effective aphrodisiac when it ends with the right man holding you under tropical stars, roosters crowing like they’ve got opinions, and cats staging their own investigation nearby. Life-or-death situations have a way of clarifying things, and what’s suddenly crystal clear is this: I’d rather face danger in a cocktail dress and terrible shoes with him than play it safe with anyone else.
He cocks his head to the side. “What did we stop for?”
“Who says we’re stopping?” I say as our lips reconnect in the most delicious way.
Evidently, my love life requires a homicide to get interesting. And if that’s what it takes to keep this hot detective’s lips glued to mine, I say bring on the bodies.
It’s wrong, I know.
But if this is being wrong, I don’t want to be right—or arrested, but mostly right.
CHAPTER 20
The luau crowd parts for Koa and me like we’re celebrities returning from a successful vacation in Homicide Land, and I spot Ruby and Lani hovering near a couple of tiki torches with an anxious energy usually reserved for parents waiting for teenagers to come home past curfew.
“Thank the heavens you’re alive!” Ruby shouts, launching herself at me with enough force to test the integrity of my cocktail dress. Her coconut bra has somehow survived the evening’s excitement, though one shell is definitely sitting lower than the other, creating an asymmetrical tropical aesthetic that would probably win awards at some Paris fashion shows.
“Are you hurt? Do you need ice? Food? A strong drink? All three?” Lani demands, circling me like a mother hen conducting a medical evaluation while brandishing her wooden spoon with authority as if ready to perform emergency surgery if necessary.
“I’m fine,” I assure them, though my hair probably looks like I’ve been personally attacked by a tropical storm and my underwear has accumulated enough sand to build a small coastal development project.
“Well,” Melanie strides over with her usual lack of warmth and compassion, “at least the resort won’t get sued for another murder. That’s really all that matters here—our liability insurance premiums.”
Ruby gasps with a horror reserved for people who just discovered that their best friend has no soul. “Melanie! Jinx nearly died!”
Okay, sobest friendis too strong of a statement.
“She nearly died while solving a murder that happened at our establishment,” Melanie corrects while calculating public relations angles instead of expressing human concern. “Although the publicity value alone should offset any negative coverage from the initial incident.”
I shrug at the thought. “I hate to say it, but she might be right.”
A small parade of chickens chooses this moment to conduct their post-crisis evaluation of the luau area, led by a rooster who struts past Melanie as if he were judging her emotional range and found it lacking. Three cats follow behind, providing security for the poultry investigation team.
“Jinx! Detective Hale!” Mabel approaches with a wave. “I owe you both a tremendous debt,” she says, extending her hand to each of us with a firm handshake that suggests genuine gratitude rather than a networking obligation. “I have to admit, I suspected something was off about Breezy’s operation—his supply chain stories never quite added up—but I never imagined he’d resort to murder to protect his brand.”
“I guess the rum switching was pretty obvious once you knew what to look for,” I say.
And you had evidence practically taunting you.
“Your detective instincts are impressive,” she continues, turning to include Koa in her praise. “Most people wouldhave missed those details entirely, or dismissed them as unimportant.”
“Most people don’t have Jinx’s talent for stumbling into criminal evidence,” Koa says, and I can tell he’s still processing the evening’s excitement and possibly questioning his choices in romantic partners.
