Until You (The Redemption, #1)(50)

“Just us, Ku’uipo. Always. Just. Us.”

“Always, Kaleo.”

His parting words. His reminder that there is no way out for me now. His hold over me is still strong, but in such a contradicting way now.

But his absence offers me a reprieve. A moment where I no longer have to hide my complete and utter devastation. A respite where I don’t have to force a smile on my lips or welcome the touch of a man I no longer know. A man I no longer want to know.

But leaving Kaleo Makani, divorcing him, is not an option.

That much I know.

And every time I think of a way leaving him might be possible, I hear Sebastian begging. I hear the echoed gunshot and the thud of his body collapsing. I hear Kaleo’s chuckle as Sebastian lay there dying.

I can’t continue to live this life. To live this lie. To have the media and the public—my friends—look at us and think he’s just a shipping magnate and I’m just a ballerina who teaches at the San Francisco Ballet School.

Hell, he’s leaving for Panama. How many other people’s lives are now in danger when he arrives there? How many other people’s lives is he poisoning with the drugs he’s making? Distributing? Hell if I know how he gets them.

But those are the what-ifs when all I can deal in is the knowns. Like how do I live with myself knowing I’m the reason those three men are dead? I asked them to stay. I convinced them to attend my party when they wanted otherwise.

I could have called out. Distracted Kaleo somehow. Maybe saved one of them from their fates?

Even I know that’s unrealistic, but it doesn’t stop the second-guessing and the reliving of the images in my head from playing.

Guilt.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Desperation.

All four have shared the never-ending eddy of thoughts in my head since the moment I peeked over that railing. The echoes of the gunshots still jolt me awake in a cold sweat at night.

I sit at the kitchen table, my food untouched, and a killer view of the Pacific out the window in front of me, but I don’t see it. The fog is still there. The shock of what I witnessed still jarring. The implosion of my whole world still a dust cloud.

“Ma’am?”

I look up to see Rangi in the kitchen. He’s just as imposing as Kaleo, maybe even more so with his broad shoulders, dark brown hair, and silent observation of every situation. The difference between him and Kaleo is that I know Kaleo won’t hurt me. He may be a murdering bastard, but he still loves me.

Rangi, on the other hand, has no loyalty except to Kaleo.

Maybe that’s why he left him here with me. To keep me in line. To make sure I don’t do what I really want to do—bolt.

“Yes?” I finally respond.

“Kaleo thinks it’s best if you stay at the house while he’s gone. If you need anything—nails, hair, groceries—we’ll have the technicians come here, or it’ll be delivered.”

I take a sip of my coffee. I don’t flinch from its scalding temperature and the burn it inflicts because I deserve so much worse.

“Why?” I don’t back down with my stare. Am I in danger because of what happened, or is Kaleo afraid I’m going to do what any sane person would do—go to the authorities?

“Just following orders.” Rangi offers a barely-there smile that dares me to ask more. “I’ll be in his office if you need me.”

I nod and track him as he walks out of the kitchen door, down the long, floor-to-ceiling windowed hallway, to the opposite side of the house where Kaleo keeps an office when we’re here in Maui.

“You don’t like it?” Rose, our cook and head house manager, asks as she walks back into the kitchen and notices my untouched plate. I’m not the only one who’s not a fan of Rangi. She makes sure to be where he’s not.

I think of the blood seeping out onto the deck of the boat. “I don’t seem to have an appetite these past few days.”

“Can I hope that’s because a little Makani is on the way?” she says with an excited shake of her shoulders.

“Afraid to disappoint you, Rose, but Kaleo isn’t there yet.”

“But you are.” She pats my shoulder. “He’ll get the bug. Don’t you worry.”

I offer a smile as I excuse myself and wander from room to room in the house. This house and all the memories in it are built on deception, manipulation, smoke and mirrors. On sleight of hand that I should have recognized but somehow . . . didn’t connect the dots to.

Does our staff know the truth? There are at least twenty people we employ here—gardeners and staff and assistants—do they all know and laugh at me behind my back? Or worse, do they assume I know and am okay with it all?

The thought eats at me and pushes me to head upstairs to our quarters where a very select few are allowed to enter.

Just as I reach the top of the stairs, a phone rings in our bedroom. A ring I’ve never heard before. I move toward it, toward the cell phone sitting on the edge of my nightstand—right next to my cell phone.

I glance around as if this is some kind of practical joke. But the only proof that anyone has been in my room is the open balcony doors and its curtains billowing in the ocean breeze.

If I wasn’t already on edge, now I’m on edge and paranoid.

With trembling hands, I pick up the cell phone and answer it. “Hello?”