“Talk to me.”

“I’m okay.” The words tickled his skin. “Just a little overwhelmed. Can you give me a minute?”

He tried to pull back and look at her, but she dug her fingers into his shirt and held on. “Chelsea—”

“Don’t,” she said, but let go of his shirt and gave a small, uneven laugh. “I’m the world’s ugliest crier.”

Relief washed over him, so profound he almost laughed. He had enough experience with women to concede he might never understand what he’d done to bring her to tears, but this reaction, at least, he understood. Arden always insisted the ugliest crier honor belonged to her. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her temple. “Always.”

But sitting here, watching her, would only add to her discomfort, so he handed her a fistful of tissues from the box tucked discreetly in a side console, and then occupied himself untangling her bra and helping her into it.

By the time she finished wiping her tears and aimed her doe eyes at him, he’d gotten her blouse on and his own clothes in reasonable order.

“Sorry.” She tucked her blouse into her skirt, sniffled, and offered him a tenuous smile. “I guess I had some kind of orgasm-induced tear duct flush.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m flattered. I think—”

She held up a hand and cut him off with a soft, “We’re here.”

He jerked his head around and looked out the window. Sure enough, there sat his jet.

A moment later, the limo rolled to a stop. Soon the impact of the driver’s door closing buffeted the car.

“Good-bye,” she whispered.

Ron would be around to open the door in a few seconds. Say good-bye. Get out of the car. Instead, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her. Quick. Hard. Deep. And pulled away just seconds before the back door opened.

He stepped out of the limo without taking his eyes off her. Then three very strange, completely impulsive words crossed his lips. “I’ll call you.”

Where the fuck had that come from?

Chelsea sat motionless, looking up at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “No you won’t. No promises, remember?”

Shit.

Ron closed the door.

Rafe walked onto the plane.

It wasn’t until the jet cruised at thirty thousand feet that he shoved his hand in his pocket and touched something slippery. He pulled out a bundle of satin and stared at Chelsie’s panties. She’d left a pair for him when he’d arrived, and he’d taken a pair when he left. He was amassing quite a collection. A smile threatened, until his better judgment kicked in. Playtime’s over. She’s right. Don’t call her.

He shoved her underwear back into his pocket.

Chapter Eighteen

Chelsea watched Rafe’s plane lift off the runway, and tried to tell herself the sight didn’t put the hollow ache in her stomach. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Of course she’d skipped breakfast because the thought of saying good-bye to Rafe this morning had killed her appetite. Then she’d cried all over him, which only succeeded in making him so uncomfortable he’d resorted to platitudes they both knew weren’t true. Dismaying behavior, considering she was supposed to be evolving into the kind of woman who didn’t crave promises. She was guarding her heart, damn it, and letting Rafe slip past her newly erected defenses would be an exercise in self-sabotage. She’d already sabotaged herself enough for one lifetime.

The buzz of her phone interrupted her moment of self-discovery and personal growth, and she fished it out of her purse while ignoring the thirteen-year-old girl in her head who squealed, OMG! He really is calling.

She hit the talk button, and mentally braced herself for the sound of his voice. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon.”

“I’ll bet you weren’t. Listen to you, so sweet and innocent. Save it. I know what you really are.”

The cold, hard¸ undeniably female voice definitely did not belong to Rafe. But she recognized the icy tone. “Cindy?”

“You walk around with your guileless smile and nauseating, how-may-I-help-you attitude, but underneath the nice girl exterior, you’re a vindictive, home-wrecking bitch.”

If voices could cut, she’d be bleeding out right now. Even long distance, Cindy’s words brimmed with enough venom to have her hands shaking. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A lying, home-wrecking bitch. I know you’re after Paul, trying to win him back. I’m not about to let that happen. I don’t pretend to be a passive little good girl. You come after what’s mine, you’ll have a war on your hands.”

Mustering up her calmest voice, the one she used with unhappy guests or frustrated staff, she replied, “Cindy, I’m sorry you’re upset…”

Shit, Chelsea, you did not just apologize to the woman. Don’t default to customer service mode. Stick up for yourself! She certainly didn’t owe Cindy any apologies, or explanations, for that matter, but self-respect forbade her from meekly accepting accusations and threats. She’d taken the high road, for God’s sake.

“Perhaps nobody shared this with you, but I relocated to Maui last year. I haven’t seen or spoken with Paul since the holiday party, and I don’t wish to. I’ve moved on.”

The truth of the words settled on her as soon as they left her lips. Maybe she could still use some practice guarding her heart, but the wounds Paul had inflicted? Gone, and, in retrospect, completely superficial. Unfortunately, Cindy wasn’t so easily reassured.

“I don’t care where the hell you are. I know you’ve been communicating with him. He mentions you constantly. I’ve seen your number on his phone. If I see it again, or an email, a fucking text, you’re going to wish—”

She hung up. Silence swelled in the interior of the limo, broken only by the sound of her shaky exhale. What a nightmare. Laurie had warned her—

Her phone hummed again. Uh-uh. I’m not playing this game. She thumbed the screen, intending to hit disconnect, when she noticed the name on the display. Larry Sizemore, one of the attorneys representing Tradewinds in the deal. Right. She had a job to do, and when someone who charged five hundred dollars an hour called, the job involved taking the call. Time to pull up her big-girl panties—had she been wearing any—and put her head on business.

“Hello?”

“We have a huge problem.”

Larry’s Kermit-the-Frog voice assailed her from the other end of the line. “I’m staring at a contract between Tradewinds and the Maui Indigenous Landowner’s Consortium. Are you familiar with the document I’m referring to?”

She’d reviewed a ton of documents over the last week, but did her best to pull the terms of the one in question into focus. “I think so. I don’t have it in front of me at the moment, but I don’t understand the problem. It grants Tradewinds some sort of an easement, correct?” Between the cumbersome legalese and anachronistic land rights, easement was about all she’d gotten from the contract.

“Here’s the problem. Tradewinds doesn’t own the strip of land providing the beach access for the resort. A critical piece of land, I think you’ll agree, because a resort in Maui with no beach access is like a Vegas hotel with no casino.”

“But we have the easement, from the Maui Indigenous Landowner’s Consortium.”

“Tradewinds has the easement. The right is non-transferable, and, in fact, automatically revoked upon conveyance of at least fifty percent of the hotel, measured in terms of property or ownership shares, to another person or entity.”

Chelsea’s gut knotted as understanding dawned. “So, the minute St. Sebastian buys, Tradewinds’ beach access vanishes?”

“Exactly. Someone from Tradewinds needs to get over to MILC right away with a big fat checkbook, because those fellows have us over a barrel. If Tradewinds can’t negotiate a transfer of the easement to St. Sebastian, this deal is dead in the water.”