She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her face in my shirt. “I know, but it’s hard. The not knowing. It feels like I’ve lost something precious, and I have to keep looking until I find it.”
I nod, rocking her back and forth, rubbing her back. She’s so fragile in my arms, like I’m the only thing holding her together right now.
A deep, quiet anger flares in my gut at the thought of someone trying to kill her—especially her own fucking brother. What could twist a man to murder his own flesh and blood? It’s not like Ray Gerard hasn’t grown up with money, riches beyond the Average Joe’s wildest dreams.
It doesn’t make sense.
But it does piss me off. At the same time, I think back to what Cash said. How her mind doesn’t want her remembering the hell she’s been through. And apparently, that extends to her entire family being part of that hell.
“Is...is our last name Gerard?” she asks, lifting her head. “That’s what made me so dizzy outside. I stood up, and all of a sudden, I knew my full name was Valerie Gerard.”
Fuck. If I hoped someone would cut me a break from loaded questions, it’s not gonna be today.
Her voice is barely a whisper. My body goes stock-still. She’s staring up at me with this pleading look, gouging out my soul.
No. I can’t lie to her again.
“Our last name’s Calum,” I say, trying to manage a small smile for her, cupping her cheek softly like a good husband should. It’s all too easy when her face fits nice and snug, almost like it was made for my hand.
Her eyes narrow, trying to process Calum as her last name.
My gut churns.
I’ve stood eyeball to eyeball with armed men who were nothing shy of monsters without a trace of fear, yet that’s what hits now. This nervous, stinging worry. For her.
“Calum?” she says. “Not Gerard?”
“Gerard’s your maiden name.” I let the truth slip. I’m worried even that info-crumb may not give her any piece of mind, so I keep one arm around her. “You sure you’re steady on your feet again?”
“Yeah. Nothing’s spinning anymore. I napped forever, too.”
“Then let’s go,” I say, tugging at her hand.
“Go? Where?” She stumbles after me, but I’m careful not to let her fall.
“For a drive.”
“Drive?”
“Yeah, babe. Me, you, truck. My hands behind the wheel, you letting the ocean breeze blow through your pretty hair, maybe we even smile. It’s called breaking up the monotony. We can gawk at tourists and grab some lunch off a shrimp truck.”
I’m not just following Cash’s advice for her.
I need to do something to get our minds off dark shit.
So I lead her down the hall, trying to sound nonchalant. “Why not? You said you’re feeling better?”
“Oh, I am. I’m just surprised but...let’s make a day of it. Sure.”
I shrug. “I can learn a few new tricks. It’s not doing us any good to keep you under lock and key.”
The way she grins and nods hits me hard. She’s just bright, sunny, and beautiful.
Hell, there isn’t even anything overtly sexual about the gesture, yet, just like this morning, when she said she needed a shower and I stupidly asked if she needed any help, my body responds like that’s all it wants. Forbidden sex with Valerie Gerard.
Like hell.
I don’t need more complications with this job. That’s what it is. A chore, even if it has its moments where the lies just roll off my tongue.
Same way it was with the Cornaro Outfit last time, the slippery fucks. Big Joel C himself might even be behind this.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
He probably demanded her brother slaughter her. Cornaro’s known for wanting full control, total obedience from his minions. He’s an angry, jealous little would-be god, demanding nothing comes before him, and getting it thanks to the consequences for people who don’t listen.
Maybe he wants the entire company, full control over all their cargo routes. A legitimate business to transport his shit under cover of fresh fish.
“Wait.” Val freezes suddenly.
A shiver pricks at my spine, wondering if she’s remembered something new. I look at her.
“I don’t have any shoes on.” She smiles, fluttering her eyelids sheepishly.
We’re in the kitchen, near the garage door. I open it. “Go ahead and get in the truck. I’ll go dig up your shoes.”
Thankful Cash kept the shopping bags he’d brought over for her organized, I jog back to the bedroom, collect the brown Pali sandals he’d included out of the closet, and return to the garage.
She’s in the passenger seat when I climb in behind the wheel, handing her the shoes before starting the truck and hitting the garage door opener.
“So, where’d I run my turtle tours out of?” she asks once we’re on the asphalt. “Or was the whole thing a joke?”
Shit.
“Various beaches, mostly up the road,” I say, rather than admit I was straight up lying. “You want to see for yourself?”
She studies me for a second, then nods.
Fine. Letting her think sea turtles were her reality might help her from thinking too hard about her two-faced family.
There’s a private beach I know up on the North Shore. Always see plenty of turtles there flopped down on the sands, sunning themselves, so I head north once we hit the highway.
The road takes us further inland for a stretch, through the hills and valleys covered with green, lots of monkey pod trees and rainbow eucalyptus.
“Wow. Who could get tired of this landscape?” she asks, after we’ve been driving for a while. “The island has it all. Mountains, seashore, trees, and pretty flowers.”
She’s not wrong.
Having lived on the mainland and been stationed near Seattle at one point, I don’t consider the hills around here mountains, but everyone else does. She’s right, though, about there being nearly every landscape imaginable packed into Hawaiian clay—from mountains to beaches to arid, rocky areas, and everything in between.
Sans the fucking snow. Which, I swear to God, I still haven’t missed and never will.
My old man’s years in the service had us traveling from state to state, base to base, which is part of the reason I didn’t re-up after I’d done my time. Spending the better part of a decade doing my patriotic duty was enough.
Plus, I didn’t want Bryce turning into a nomad. Didn’t want him living in danger or wondering if I’d come home alive, either, which is partly why Cash and I dissolved our old security business. Cornaro was the other reason.
“We’re going to the North Shore, aren’t we?” she asks, perking up.
I unclench my teeth, chasing back dark memories, and turn with a smile. “Glad you noticed. There’s a great shrimp truck in Haleiwa.”
She nods. “I feel like I couldn’t forget it.”
No surprise. Everybody and their dog on Oahu knows about the food trucks up here. I’ll never get how the folks running them produce the masterpieces they do in such hot, cramped spaces, but damn if I don’t appreciate it.
My mouth starts watering, just thinking about that scampi. I consider asking her which shrimp is her favorite, but that’s something a husband should know by heart.