Page 3 of Just My Luck

A shapely form dashed into the room, snatched up a pillow, and retreated. The door closed again. Footsteps hurried away, down the path. He let out a breath of relief.

She’d only been visible as a silhouette, but even so, he replayed the moment a few times in the quiet of the storage room. He knew her, he realized, though they hadn’t met. She worked at the concierge desk, Zara something. Wavy brown hair in a topknot, a wide smile, pretty in a sun-kissed kind of way. Laughed easily and often, even though she was always dealing with the constant demands and complaints of the guests.

Something about the way she’d breezed in and out came across as…carefree. As if everything was an adventure, even grabbing a pillow.

2

When he was sure it was safe, Lincoln got dressed in his work uniform—a pair of tan pants and matching shirt provided by the resort—and ventured outside. Another bright and sunny day, as most were here in Kona. He put on his Armani sunglasses, which were much too expensive for a gardener. No one had commented about them so far, and he wasn’t going to risk his vision by wearing nonprescription sunglasses.

He hunched his shoulders as he strolled past the private bungalows, known here as hales, toward the main hacienda-type building, where a breakfast buffet was set out for the guests. The staff wasn’t allowed to eat from it, but they were permitted to help themselves to kitchen leftovers. Better yet, there was always coffee perking in the kitchen.

Coffee and day-old pastries for breakfast…he’d take it. Especially because the pastries were guava Danishes made from fruit grown in the resort’s private orchard. Nothing but the best for the resort’s guests. He knew, because he’d stayed here three years ago, under very different circumstances.

The kitchen staff was busy with the breakfast service. Even though the buffet offered everything from fruit to pastries to scrambled eggs, waffles, and bacon, a substantial portion of the guests had special dietary requests.

“Someone from hale twelve wants a sourdough English muffin with a poached egg on a bed of watercress,” announced Kiki, one of the young servers. When she wasn’t working, she was either sunbathing or recovering from her latest tattoo session.

“We don’t have any fucking watercress,” the chef swore. At first, Lincoln had been surprised by how freely the kitchen staff cursed, until the sous-chef told him that was standard practice in professional kitchens.

Which had made him rethink everything he’d assumed about his own kitchen and his staff of five. Had they been swearing up a storm the whole time, while he’d been calmly consuming forkfuls of New Zealand veal?

The thought made him remember his weird dream, and he shivered.

“What should I tell them?” Kiki asked.

The chef blew out a breath. “Tell them we’ll have some flown in and tomorrow they can have a fucking poached egg with some motherfucking watercress.”

Correct answer, Lincoln could have told him, minus the cursing. It was acceptable to not have a particular item. It would be unacceptable to not make any effort to acquire it.

“I don’t know,” Kiki said doubtfully. “I think they might be checking out today.”

Lincoln’s ears perked up. Finally! That hale had been occupied ever since he’d been working here, and it was number one on his list to search. Hale twelve was the last known location of the item he was seeking, the thing so valuable to him that he’d gone deep undercover to find it. So far, he’d managed to search the hale’s private terrace, the swimming pool, and the bedrooms. He hadn’t been able to inspect the kitchen yet because that took more time. He hadn’t wanted to take a chance on the guests reappearing early from their surf lessons or flightseeing trips.

“If they’re leaving, they should have asked me yesterday,” the chef grumbled.

“Is that what I should tell them?”

“Fuck no! Tell them what I said. Maybe they’ll extend their stay. You.” The chef wheeled on Lincoln as soon as Kiki had left. “Can we grow watercress here?”

“Um, sure, why not?”

“Thought it was too hot here.”

Crap. His knowledge of gardening was essentially zero, except for what he’d learned over the past few weeks. “We can get almost anything to grow here. I’ll see to it.” Fortunately, he wouldn’t be around long enough to worry about keeping that promise.

Before he could get quizzed about more gardening issues, Lincoln downed his coffee, grabbed another guava pastry, and hurried in the direction of hale number twelve. He nearly did a fist pump when he saw the suitcases piled on the golf cart parked out front. The guests were checking out early, probably leaving as soon as they finished their non-watercress breakfast. The cleaning staff wouldn’t start on this hale until at least ten. That gave him a clear window of time in which to scour the kitchen.

Metaphorically, of course. He’d never actually scoured anything in his life.

An hour later, he was crouched under the sink, swearing more than the chef. He’d waited, posing with a leaf-blower, as a staff member had driven the suitcase-loaded golf cart away. He’d given it more time in case someone forgot something. When the coast seemed to be clear, he’d slipped through the hale’s front door, using one of the key cards belonging to the housekeeping staff.

Now he was searching the space under the sink. He’d set all the cleaning products to the side and was using his phone to shine a light into the corners.

The CHUM—short for Crystalline Harmonic Universal Magnifier—would catch the light, so all he had to do was flash his phone around and look for a reflection.

Nothing.

What if the CHUM was covered up with something, a rag or a rubber glove? Since strange things happened when it was exposed to light, he had to consider that possibility.