Oh, hell no, he wasn’t standing in the hall while Nick played doctor. He walked to the far side of the bed and leaned over her. “Chelsea,” he called softly.

“Hmm?” Heavy eyelids opened, and she looked at him. “Rafe,” she breathed out, just above a whisper.

“Hey, beautiful. How would you feel about letting Nick check you out?”

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and coughed. “I’m tired. You go ’head.”

Rafe kissed her flushed cheek and then sat near the foot of the bed while Nick sat down on the other side, close to the patient.

“Hi, Chelsea. Nice to see you again. Okay if I move you around a little to get a better look?”

She coughed a few times—a dry, hacking sound—opened her eyes and nodded. Then Nick scooted her into a sitting position. Chelsea’s robe gaped, revealing a lot of skin, and Rafe realized she didn’t have much of anything on underneath. The possessive feeling swept over him again, stronger than ever. He reached under the blankets, found her bare foot, and held it while Nick did the eyes-ears-nose-and-throat bit.

The possessiveness spiked dangerously close to violence when the doctor slid his stethoscope into the front of her robe, and moved it over her chest, listening to her heart and lungs. Chelsea’s cough cut that phase of the exam short, and Rafe mentally kicked his own ass. She sounded awful. She needed help, not some knee-jerk Neanderthal reaction from him.

Nick sat back and draped the stethoscope around his neck. “It was nice of you to tend to patient zero here.” He tipped his head toward Rafe.

Her eyes darted to Rafe, then away, as she settled against the pillows. “I manage the resort. Guest welfare concerns us.”

“Are you familiar with the expression no good deed goes unpunished?”

“Story of my life.”

“This chapter includes a first-class case of the flu.” Nick stood and tucked the bedcovers around her. “The good news is the patient will survive, and I give you the same prognosis.” He took a small amber bottle from his bag, shook two capsules out and handed them to her. Then he handed her the bottle of water from her nightstand. “Same thing I gave Mr. St. Sebastian.” He set the pill bottle on the small table. “Follow the instructions on the label. I’ll call tomorrow to check in, but reach out to me if your symptoms get worse.”

She swallowed the pills, chased them with an extra sip of water, and then murmured her thanks as she settled back against the pillows.

Rafe walked him out, noticing the starkness of the bare walls and generic Aloha-Hawaii furnishings. No pictures, no personal touches. Chelsea didn’t live here, she merely inhabited the space. Even he, who traveled more than he stayed put, needed a place to escape and recharge. Where was Chelsea’s? Not Montenido anymore. Not here. Did she have a place she considered home?

“Thanks for coming,” he said when they reached the front door. “My office will get in touch to settle the bill.”

Nick paused at the door, one shoulder propped against the frame like he had all the time in the world. “I’m not worried. So, the deal with you and Chelsea is—?”

“She’s mine.” Never mind keeping the Neanderthal in check.

The doctor’s eyebrows rose at the blunt declaration. He straightened and shrugged. “I’m not going to test the truth of that statement because I place a high value on life and limb, but I will say I don’t think she’s on the same page. She told me you two were friends. You’re headed back to the mainland soon, and I’m not the only single guy in Maui.” With that, he smiled and stepped out onto the landing. “Aloha.”

Rafe closed the door and tamped down on the urge to kick it. No, they were not on the same page. He wanted more. Where Chelsea was concerned, he always wanted more. He didn’t know what the fuck more entailed, but that’s what he wanted. What did she want?

Worst case scenario, she still wanted Barrington. Everything inside him rejected the notion, despite the telephone conversation he’d overheard. Could be his ego refused to entertain the possibility he could lose out to the useless prick, but beyond that, carrying on an illicit, long-distance relationship with a man who’d cheated on her and was now poised to start a family with the other woman simply didn’t fit Chelsea’s character. So no, she wasn’t cheating with her ex, and he doubted she’d welcome him back into her life in any capacity, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still harbor feelings for the man. Her head might insist things with Barrington irrevocably ended the moment he took up with Cindy, but what about her heart?

His jealousy surged anew in the face of uncertainty. The heart followed whatever perverse, masochistic path it followed. He ought to know. Look where his was leading him.

Even if her ex didn’t have any lingering hold on her heart, it wasn’t exactly his for the taking. She sought no-strings-attached sex, without the risk of a messy emotional investment. The very thing he specialized in, and which now sounded empty and unsatisfying as hell.

Want more from her? Prove you’ve got more to give. Convince her this thing is worth bending a few rules for.

Fine idea in theory, but assuming the deal was back on track, it provided him just a couple weeks to change her mind. He swung into her small, galley-style kitchen and took another bottle of water from her fridge. His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. The battery icon hovered at 20 percent. Her phone sat charging on the counter separating the living area from the kitchen. A tap confirmed hers had a full charge. He switched them out, and was about to put hers on the counter next to his, when the display of new emails caught his eye, and, more specifically, Cindy Ruffy’s name.

For someone consistently behind on her job responsibilities, she’d still found the time to email Chelsea. Repeatedly. Without stopping to question the ethics, he scrolled through a series of harassing, accusatory communications. All personal in nature, all sent from her Las Ventanas account, and all a clear violation of the St. Sebastian communication policy.

The irony of a woman in Cindy’s glass house flinging stones like, “You’re a selfish, cheating bitch,” and “You don’t care who you hurt,” pulled his lips into a grim smile.

Too bad irony didn’t satisfy the situation, but frankly, neither his anger at the thought of Chelsea wading through this particular sewer of emails, nor the corporation’s reputation, could settle for anything except Cindy’s immediate dismissal.

Only the “immediate” part of the plan gave him pause. Firing her long-distance from Maui wouldn’t work. He forwarded the messages to his email, debated his options for a moment, and then sucked it up and placed a call.

His father answered on the second ring.

“Where are you right now?”

“Good day to you too, Rafe. I am well, thank you for asking. And you?”

He ignored the manners lesson his father attempted to deliver. “Are you at Las Ventanas?”

“Yes. Your sister has accomplished very impressive changes, but I hope the integration is not purely superficial—”

“I need a favor.”

“You may not borrow the jet.”

“I don’t need the jet,” he said with all the patience he could manage, and refrained from mentioning he wouldn’t require his father’s permission if he did. “I need you to fire someone.”

“Picking up dry cleaning, signing for a package…these are favors. Acting as your hatchet man is not a favor. It is me doing your dirty work. Do it yourself.”

“I can’t. I’m in Maui.”

“Because of the Tradewinds fiasco? I told you to walk away.”

“The easement is resolved. Apparently the deal liaison worked her magic and the owners agreed to a transfer.”

“The woman displays talent. Why isn’t she working for us? We need a general manager at Las Ventanas.”

“It’s complicated.” And off topic, and nothing he hadn’t already considered, but Chelsea wouldn’t agree to return to Las Ventanas while Paul or Cindy remained. Fifty percent of that roadblock was about to be removed, assuming he could get his father to step up. “The point is I’m not there to do the termination myself.”