I thought about the man standing beside me, the relaxed yet intuitive way about him, the way my feelings about him swung from easygoing to vaguely fearful in the blink of an eye. He was handsome as hell, the scars only adding to his rugged appeal.
I needed to know more.
“So you said they call you the nice one,” I said. “You never said who they were. How do I know I can trust their opinion?”
He scratched at his sideburn and squinted at the sun. “They’re my colleagues. Out of all of them, I am the . . . most civilized. Though I guess that’s not saying much, hey.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his board shorts. “Oh, you know. This and that. I’m usually a tech guy. Sometimes I help out in other areas of the business.”
“What business is it?” I asked, and immediately felt stupid for doing so. From his evasive nature, to the darkness, to his very scars, I knew whatever he did, it wasn’t working at Target.
“I’ll tell you the truth if you tell me the truth,” he said without looking at me.
“Okay . . .” I started, feeling a little bit uneasy. “What do you want to know?”
When he picked up my left hand in his and raised it to eye level, my skin immediately began tingling.
“You’re married. Why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”
My chin jerked down. “How do you know I’m married?”
“Tan line,” he said. “You live somewhere where you get a lot of sun, and normally you wear your ring. But here you don’t. Why?”
I looked at my hand, at the sun spots and faint lines and a tiny splice of lightened skin where my ring usually was. “I don’t know. I was in the water so much, I took the ring off. I guess I haven’t put it back on. It’s on my dresser.”
“I see,” he said.
I frowned. “It’s true.”
“I believe you. I was just curious.”
I eyed his bare left hand. “Are you married?”
“Nope,” he said with a smile. “I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”
“I’m glad you know that,” I said solemnly as clouds momentarily blocked the sun. “Men aren’t cut out for it. But so many think they are.”
I knew he could tell I was talking from personal experience, but luckily he let it go. He cleared his throat. “Is that what you wanted to know? If I was available?”
The silky way he said “available” sent a rush of blood through me. “No. What business are you in? I mean, unless you’re a CIA agent and you’d have to kill me first.”
“I’m Mexican,” he said. “The closest thing we have to the CIA is the CIA.”
I stared at him with impatience until he continued.
“I’m in the import and export business.”
I raised a brow. “Of?”
“Drugs.”
I froze. He couldn’t be serious. Of course he wasn’t. If you were involved in importing and exporting drugs, you didn’t just tell a stranger that.
And that was when the hairs at the back of my neck danced. He wasn’t joking, was he? I stared at him, afraid to see the truth in his eyes, but his scars and that glimmer of burning darkness within told me otherwise.
He was a drug dealer. He was part of a cartel. An actual fucking Mexican drug cartel.
I tried to swallow, feeling like there was a lump in my throat. “Oh,” I said stupidly.
“Are you afraid of me now?” he asked with intensity.
I squared my shoulders and looked him in the eye. “No more than I was before.”
“I saved your life, you know,” he said. “You shouldn’t fear someone who won’t let you die.”
“Why not?” I countered. “They might love granting something and then taking it away.”
“Lani,” he said, and my name never sounded so sweet. “You don’t trust me because you don’t trust yourself.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know you’re in an unhappy marriage. That you’re struggling to find your art again. That you feel this life holds nothing for you anymore, and you think that you’re doing your husband and the world a favor if you just . . . disappeared.”
I hated the way he—this stranger, this fucking drug dealer—thought he knew me.
“You’re wrong,” I lied.
“Then why are you here, with me, now, looking to find those shadows?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I didn’t even know what to say.
Esteban reached out and touched my arm gently. My skin buzzed under his fingers, feeling alive, as if it had been nothing but dead cells before.
“Some fear will kill you,” he said. “Some fear will open your eyes. I know all about the difference.”
I let out a shaky breath. He was getting under my skin and his occupation didn’t help the situation. Still, I found myself asking, “So, what are you doing on Kauai?”
He smiled and removed his hand. “Ah, the million-dollar question. How about I tell you about it over dinner?”
I smiled warily. “Is that code for ‘dump my body somewhere afterward’?”
“I told you,” he said breezily, clapping his hands together, “that isn’t my intention. You took a chance on coming here today, didn’t you?”
I looked away, letting the scenery fill my sight. “I did.”
“And it was worth it, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, still not used to the competing feelings of fear and exhilaration running through me. “It was.”
“Come on then,” he said, stepping away from me and jerking his head toward the parking lot. The golden strands in his surfer hair caught the sunlight that was piercing through fast-moving clouds. “Let’s get you home, get you rested. Maybe when I pick you up tonight, you’ll be splattered with paint. That would make me very happy.”
That would have made me very happy. I followed him to the bike and shot one last glance at the kaleidoscope of greens that tinted the lush cliffs. I couldn’t
