Page 50 of Shattered Crown
"How was the flight?"
"Long."
He smiled, opening the back door of the black SUV. "They usually are. But worth it, I think. The islands have a way of making you forget about the rest of the world."
We drove in comfortable silence through a landscape that shifted from industrial tarmac to rolling green hills to glimpses of ocean between the trees. Keoni pointed out landmarks occasionally—a historic church, a famous surf break, the mountain where locals went to watch the sunrise. I nodded along, my mind already turning to the meeting ahead.
Lono Kahale. Eighty-three years old, no children, no heir. He'd built the Kahale Grande into something legendary, thekind of boutique property that travel magazines wrote about in reverent tones. He'd turned down every offer that had come his way, holding out for a buyer who would understand what the place meant.
I needed to be that buyer. The property was perfect for what I had in mind—a resort that honored the cultural heritage of the island while drawing the kind of high-end tourism that would benefit the local economy. The history, the authenticity, the sense of place—those were assets you couldn't manufacture. You could only preserve them.
The key was convincing him that I understood that.
The road curved along the coastline, and Keoni slowed as we approached.
The hotel rose from the landscape like it had grown there, white walls gleaming against the tropical green, dark wooden accents framing windows and doorways. Lush gardens surrounded it, hibiscus and plumeria and birds of paradise spilling over stone walls in riots of color. The main building stretched along the oceanfront, two stories of colonial elegance softened by palm trees and flowering vines.
It was beautiful. More than beautiful. It had soul.
I could see why Lono had spent his life protecting it.
Keoni pulled up to the entrance, where a porter was already waiting to collect my bags. The lobby opened before me as I stepped out of the car—open-air, cooled by ocean breezes, with high ceilings supported by carved wooden beams. Art covered the walls: woven tapestries, vintage photographs in koa wood frames, carved figures that looked like they'd been collecting stories for generations.
A young woman at the front desk smiled as I approached. "Mr. Dubois. Welcome to the Kahale Grande. Mr. Kahale is looking forward to meeting you this evening."
"Thank you." I nodded, reaching for my wallet to present identification.
Movement in my peripheral vision. Someone walked through the lobby, just off to my right. A woman in a flowing sundress, dark curly hair loose around her shoulders, a leather bag slung over one arm. She was talking to one of the staff members, laughing at something they'd said.
My hand froze halfway to my wallet.
I knew that laugh.
I turned.
Aria Kealoha stood fifteen feet away, frozen mid-step, staring at me with an expression of absolute shock.
Her lips parted. Her eyes went wide. The staff member beside her was still talking, oblivious, but Aria wasn't listening anymore. She was looking at me like I was a ghost. Aria's hand drifted up to touch her lips.
I wondered if she could still taste me, too.
11ARIA
I recovered first.
My brain, which had gone completely offline the moment I recognized him, sputtered back to life with a single, furious thought: Of course. Of course, Sebastian Dubois was the other buyer.
It made perfect sense now. The secrecy around the acquisition. The way Lono Kahale's representatives had been so careful not to reveal who else was in the running. And Sebastian's sudden interest in me—the auction, the dinner, the kiss that left me reeling for days.
He'd known. He must have known about my interest in this hotel, and he'd decided to push me off balance before the competition even started. The dinner, the wine, his finger on my lip—all of it had been part of his strategy. A way to get inside my head, to make me lose focus.
And I'd fallen for it. I'd kissed him back like my life depended on it.
Rage flooded through me.
I crossed the lobby in quick strides. Sebastian hadn't moved from his spot by the front desk. His wallet was still in his hand,his briefcase still on his shoulder. He looked like someone had hit him over the head with a coconut.
Good.
