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I can’t bel
ieve I asked because who cares where she’d like to go. Women like her are supposed to be somewhere at all times. Accounted for. And yet I can’t wait to hear what she says.
Her smile is bright and sudden and sincere. “You really want to know?”
“I never waste my breath asking questions I don’t want to know the answers to.”
She nods, and as much as she might want to shake off her royal trappings, even that small movement of her dark head is imperious.
“Netflix.”
I don’t catch my shout of laughter in time, which seems to surprise us both and only widens her smile.
“Did you say Netflix?”
“Yes.” A naughty chuckle pours out of her. “I’d like to be in my hotel room with vanilla rum and popcorn and binging Netflix.”
“That doesn’t seem too tall of an order.”
“Ah, but you haven’t heard the hard part yet,” she says, and the high curve of her cheekbones carries the slightest flush of rose gold. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. Alone is the hardest place to be, but it’s where I spend most of my time.”
I get the sense that she’s forcing herself not to look away from me; like it’s an act of courage for her to hold my stare while her meaning sinks in. Is she . . .
I look down at the small woman with a presence so huge it fills this room without any real effort on her part.
Is she propositioning me?
You wish, Grimsby.
I’m still holding her elbow, and she takes a step closer. Her scent stirs memories of lazy afternoons on the Big Island growing up, trees laden with Hawaiian hibiscus.
“Noelani,” a stern, accented voice says behind me. A dark-haired man with joins us, his irritation straining to get out through the tight corners of his eyes and mouth.
“Kimo,” Noelani says, her tone stiffening. “Did you need me?”
“It’s time to go.” He glances pointedly at her elbow still in my hand. “Sir, release the queen.”
Not surprisingly, I do not.
I search my Manaroan lexicography for the word weasel and stare the man down.
“It’s fine, Mr. Grimsby.” Noelani pulls away from me and offers a starchy smile, so different from the wide, natural one a few moments ago. “Kimo is my brother-in-law, my son’s uncle. I’ll be fine with him.”
I’m not so sure. Years of dealing with crooked, dirty motherfuckers has honed my instincts to a fine point. My gut is fail-proof, and there’s something I don’t like about the royal weasel taking Noelani’s elbow. There’s a misplaced possessiveness in the way he looks at her, the way he touches her. I don’t know if he covets her body, her crown, or both, but something about me touching her threatens him.
So I do it again.
I gently take her elbow from him and start walking toward the door. He sputters behind us, insulting me in Manaroan he thinks I don’t understand.
“What are you doing?” Noelani asks, slanting a startled look up at me as we exit the ballroom and enter the outer hall. Immediately, four suited security guards fall in step behind us.
“Walking you out.” I stop and turn to the nearest guard. “Is Her Majesty’s car ready?”
Wordlessly, he takes the lead, guiding us in the right direction down a long red-carpeted hall.
“You don’t have to do this,” Noelani says. “I’m fine. I’m used to him.”
“What are you used to?” Inexplicably I tense awaiting her response. She’s the queen. He’s not beating her, I’m sure, or harming her, but something about him makes me hesitant to leave her in his care. Only a fool would be careless with a woman like this, and Kimo strikes me as a fool.
