Definitely off track. “Good-bye Luc.”

“Au revoir. I must call your mother and ask if you are my biological son.”

An old joke. Rafe rolled his eyes and disconnected. With the sun sinking below the horizon, he sacrificed the last of his pretzels to the birds and debated calling Chelsea.

The debate took a whole two seconds. He dialed. He wanted to hear her voice.

She picked up on the second ring. “I’m sorry,” were the first words out of her mouth. She sounded tired and stressed. He could relate.

“About the easement? It’s not your fault.”

“You wasted a week here at Tradewinds, spent money on attorneys to draw up contracts and conduct due diligence.”

“Finding these types of issues is the purpose of spending money on attorneys and conducting due diligence. Nothing’s wasted so far.” Even if the deal fell through, he’d never consider those six days with her a waste.

“Oh. I assumed you were calling to tell me St. Sebastian intends to back out.”

“No. Not when a quick negotiation might put everything back on track.” What was she wearing? He let his imagination roam while he spoke. “If MILC won’t agree to transfer the easement, then the deal won’t work. However, I understand the Templetons are sending a captivating representative to meet with them and work out a transfer. In fact, I hear she’s irresistible.”

Chelsea laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “She’s in over her head. You’ve got a lot at stake here, personally, so I think it’s only fair to tell you I’ve never met these people, I don’t have the first clue what they want, and I don’t have much to offer. John and Evelyn can’t afford to throw money at them. Improvements to the Tahiti resort are driving this divestiture. If the Templetons can’t walk away with the originally anticipated profit from the sale, they can’t do the deal.”

Shit. He could feel her anxiety through the phone. He’d taken the wrong tact with his “irresistible” comment, and piled on the pressure. “Look”—he broke off to cough, and then took a sip of his scotch to ease his dry throat. “I recognize who’s got the bargaining power. MILC has nothing to lose by refusing, and, by all accounts, very little to gain by agreeing. But if they’re open to granting a transfer of the easement, under reasonable terms, I know you’ll get it done. You’re a good listener and a born fixer. On the other hand, if they’re not, they’re not, and nothing you, me, or anybody else says will change their minds.”

Silence met his statements. Finally, he heard her tenuous reply. “Wish me luck on Wednesday.”

“How about I go with you?” The offer flew out of his mouth before his brain vetted it. He couldn’t afford the time away. Not now, with the Las Ventanas re-launch looming and the resort in the hands of a general manager incapable of overseeing a simple staff meeting, much less a full-blown re-launch. But Chelsea needed someone. “I can personally assure the MILC representatives that St. Sebastian will protect and care for their stretch of land as diligently as the Templetons did.” Another cough scratched at his throat until he was forced to let it out. “I’ll fly over Tuesday.” He’d make it happen, somehow.

“Rafe, you just got home. You’ve got responsibilities at Las Ventanas, and you sound like you’re coming down with something. You can’t fly to Maui to hold my hand. I can convey your assurances.”

“I’m not coming down with anything, and I’m not coming to hold your hand. I’m coming to…take notes.”

“Ha. You wouldn’t have the first clue how to take notes. You talk and everyone around you takes notes.”

“Shows what you know. I’m an exceptional note-taker. It’s one of my underappreciated talents. See you Tuesday.”

“Rafe.”

“Chelsea,” he said, giving her name the exact same inflection she’d given his.

She sighed. “See you Tuesday.”

He smiled, and raised his glass to his lips before he remembered he’d already emptied it. “Oh, and Chelsea?”

“What?”

“Told you I’d call.”

As much as he enjoyed proving her wrong, as soon as he hung up his smile disappeared. The deal wasn’t the reason he’d called. It was merely a justification. He’d wanted to talk to her. As soon as he had, he’d wanted to be with her. He could tell himself she needed him there, but that was just another justification. He wanted to be there, dammit. He wanted to be the man who came through for her.

The timing sucked, but he’d make it work. Hell, he’d fly commercial if necessary.

Fucking commercial flights.

Rafe covered the receiver to avoid coughing into the phone. That’s what he got for squeezing onto an over-sold red-eye from Los Angeles to Honolulu.

“My chest hurts just listening to you,” Arden offered from the other end of the phone. “Why don’t you ask the concierge to call a doctor out for you?”

“I don’t need a doctor. And you didn’t call to check on my health. What’s up?”

“Dad’s in L.A. tomorrow. He wants to take me to lunch and then stop by Las Ventanas and see how the re-branding is going. From a design perspective, everything’s going great, but I didn’t know how you’d feel about me showing him around when you’re not here.”

“I don’t love the idea, but I’m not sure how you’d talk him out of it.”

“That would be my next question. I could fake food poisoning or something.”

“I appreciate you risking a trip to the ER just to keep Luc from a fault-finding mission while I’m not there to defend my decisions, but don’t bother. As long as the re-launch happens as scheduled—and it will—I’m fine.” He sipped the drink he’d poured upon arriving at the villa and dropped down onto the sofa. Immediately, images of the last time he’d used the sofa swam in his mind. With a low groan, he rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“Oh yeah, you sound fine. So tell me, do you envision a big, showy funeral, or something small and private, just for family?”

“You’re funny.” His head ached. His throat ached. His whole body ached. Why wasn’t he on the way to a doctor’s office instead of sitting here, nursing a bad cold with good whiskey?

Easy answer. Chelsea had agreed to bring her MILC notes by tonight. She’d offered to email the information, but he’d wanted to see her, so he’d told her his laptop crashed, fabricating a reason to bring her to his doorstep. His gritty eyes traveled to the computer bag sitting under the table in the entryway, containing his perfectly functional laptop. Whatever plague he’d contracted courtesy of one of his fellow passengers constituted karmic payback for the lie. Another round of rib-cracking coughs validated the notion.

“Want to reconsider the doctor, or should I just call the coroner?”

He smiled, despite his misery. “I would never make it that easy on you—” A knock at the door cut him off. “I’ve got to go. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Get some rest.”

Not likely. He fought back another cough and hauled himself up to answer the door.

And there she stood, glowing with vitality, and even more beautiful than he remembered. Her sleeveless white dress highlighted her figure, set off her golden skin and the warm tones in her long, sable waves. Her cheeks flushed pink, either from the walk to the villa or the pleasure of seeing him. He chose to think pleasure. Her deep brown eyes conducted their own slow survey, finally arriving at his face.

“Miss Wayne,” he said, and then turned away and fell victim to another coughing fit.

Her eyes filled with concern, not exactly the sentiment he wanted to see reflected there.

“Sorry,” he finally managed. “Somewhere between L.A. and Maui, I caught a cold.” As much as he wanted to see her, talk with her, ideally talk her into bed, he forced himself to do the honorable thing. “I don’t want to get you sick. Why don’t you give me the notes and I’ll call you if I have any suggestions?”

She ignored him and stepped closer, the look of concern deepening as her eyes moved over his face. Before he could stop her, she placed her palm on his forehead. “I knew you were coming down with something when we talked. Why didn’t you cancel your trip? You can’t blame the flight, but dry airplane air sure as heck didn’t do you any favors.”