5. Cian
Chapter 5
Cian
I thought long and hard about what it would be like if and when I found Harper Brennan. In fact, it’s all I thought about on the eight-hour flight from NYC to Honolulu.
That said, the scene I put together in my head looked nothing like this.
No bar fight. No Harper standing there in a little black dress, gaping at me like I’m her worst nightmare come true.
When our eyes meet, my brain goes sideways, like a runny egg slipping off a slice of toast. I’m here in swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt I bought at the airport after I walked off the plane this morning, engaging in a staring contest with the object of my obsession.
The woman who played me.
I’m exhausted. Pissed beyond all reason wouldn’t be an understatement. Gazing at Harper now, the full weight of the chaos she unleashed on my psyche collapses on me all at once.
All those restless, lonely ass nights. All the worrying, and the horrible scenarios I cooked up in my brain, enraged and fucking petrified that unspeakable things were happening to her.
I’m so far past furious with her for putting me through this, my jaw wires itself shut. I can’t recall another time when ire consumed me in such a way, and my fury has a single cause.
She didn’t call.
I’m out here in the middle of the Pacific fucking Ocean, tracking her fine ass down to the ends of the earth, acting like she left me at the altar instead of my best friend…all because she didn’t have the human decency to let me know she was okay. And by me, I mean us. And by us, I mean the people who deserve to know where she is and if she’s all right, like her sister and her ex-fiancé.
Like me.
A fresh bolt of rage streaks through me. I open my mouth to speak, but my hothead brain can’t string together a coherent sentence. I know the only way I’ll be calm enough to talk to her is if I blow off some fucking steam. Luckily, I have multiple willing participants charging my way.
I tear my gaze from Harper’s beautiful, shocked face. We’re going to have a nice little chat once I’ve settled down enough to?—
A fist comes flying at me, and I grab the fucker’s wrist before it reaches my jaw.
The stocky guy grunts in surprise right before I bend his arm back far enough to feel the joint pop as it dislocates. A yell rips out of his throat. The sound is almost as ugly as that scraggly thing on his face that vaguely resembles a goatee.
Retaining my hold on his arm, I body check him into his companions. Shocked cries chorus around me as three of them fall into a table, dragging the tablecloth, steaming food, and icy beverages down with them.
I exhale a little. Most of the air in my lungs remains trapped there, held captive by the white-hot anger burning up my blood. It’s a miracle I even found Harper, all for our reunion to be interrupted by Tweedle Dick, Tweedle Dumbass, and their douchebag entourage.
I pop my knuckles, striding toward the dogpile of rowdy patrons collapsed in a sputtering heap.
In the past, whenever I was granted the opportunity of occupying the same room with her, she always focused on a million other things besides me. Like her stupid club friends, or an upcoming party she was throwing, or the dipshit flavor of the week she flirted with.
And now I happen to have a solo mission that concerns her, and these idiots show up out of nowhere to create an unwanted distraction.
I thrust my fist under the collar of the stocky guy, wrench him up from the ground, drag him toward the low, decorative fence separating this restaurant’s patio from the tourist-slogged sidewalks beyond, and heft him over.
Tourists jump, skirting back as I sling that motherfucker into the street. He shouts a protest, but I barely notice because I’ve jammed my hands under the collars of Stocky’s two friends and drag them over to join him.
When it’s done, I notice all the eyes and video cameras pointed at me.
Great. Beating on these guys helped take the edge off, which I desperately needed.
What I absolutely don’t need to do is go fucking viral.
Time to grab Harper and haul her ass out of here.
My heart rate kicks up. Things got out of hand, and Harper will no doubt be pissed. I give her full permission to chew me out. After she’s taken my cock a few times as punishment for worrying me.
That’s right.
Somewhere between NYC and here, I lost the battle with lust and resigned myself to the fact that my desire for this woman must be satiated at least once on this assignment.
I exhale and turn, only to find Harper gone.
Again.
For fuck’s sake…
I burst off that patio like a shot, diving into the slow-moving crowds of Waikiki foot traffic. Sirens wail nearby. Those damn restaurant patrons got me on camera, which means the police won’t have any trouble picking me out of these crowds.
If I don’t find Harper and get us the hell out of here, we’re screwed.
Irritation grates against my skin like sharpened nails.
Finding her the first time was hard enough.
As soon as I stepped off the plane, I realized hunting her down, even on an island as small as this, would prove a challenge. She left her old phone in New York the night she disappeared, so I couldn’t track her that way.
The photo that popped up on De Luca’s computer showed her relaxing on the beach, but this island has over a hundred beaches, none of them outfitted with CCTV cameras.
At Shane’s behest, I brought enough cash to hire a private investigator. Just in case , he said. But who has the time for that? Harper was smart enough to give the Irish Kings the slip. I doubt a private investigator would be able to sniff her out quickly, especially if she changed her name.
Finding her came down to using what I know about her. The most obvious of her interests is fashion. Harper Brennan dresses like she stepped off a Milan runway. I figured wherever the designer goods were, she wouldn’t be too far off.
Lucky for me, only two places on Oahu host shops that sell those types of designer goods.
Ala Moana Shopping Center and Waikiki.
I cased the mall, an indoor-outdoor ant colony for human beings, with no success. Never seen a mall that sprawling, labyrinthine, or confusing.
Around midday, I headed into Waikiki, the center of the island’s tourist action, and scoped out Kalakaua Avenue, the area’s bustling main street. I walked the avenue twice, checking Coach and Cartier and every other high-end store on the strip. Probably freaked out more than one blond woman until I realized they weren’t Harper.
Before long, my stomach started to protest, and I wandered toward the nearest restaurant, one with a view of the street and the beach so I could continue to case the place. I seated myself on the patio and glanced through the window. Like magic, she appeared, wearing a name tag and a professional black dress that hit just above her knees, with her golden hair down and her skin glowing with her new tan.
Even the damn sun gets to kiss her more than I do.
My head swerves right. The road’s packed with cars and half-naked tourists on rented mopeds driving one direction. Heart chugging in my chest, I scan the opposite curb. Over there, the sidewalk’s straight and wide, but on this side, the snake-like pavement curves back and forth. Torches line the way, the flames lighting the whole street like the entry to a luau. Dusk starts to settle over the area, bathing everything in a sherbet haze.
Picturesque, and also the most inconvenient fucking setup possible. The congested sidewalk boxes me in. Unless I bulldoze a bunch of people and torches with my body, I’m trapped.
The crowd flows toward an intersection up ahead. People wait for the crosswalk signal to change, and my muscles tense when my gaze lands on an anxious Harper Brennan, bouncing on the balls of her feet and hitting the walk button repeatedly.
Her shoulders stiffen abruptly, as if someone just stabbed her.
Slowly, she moves her head. Once our eyes meet through the throngs of people separating us, her body recoils, revealing a deep and instinctual fear.
Panic glazes her deep blue eyes.
My gut seizes. She’s afraid of me.
The seeds of past trauma sprout in the soil of my mind.
Terror quivering in eyes as green as mine. Blood-soaked, nut-brown hair. My mother’s near-silent pleas as she begs for her life.
Harper stares at me the same way my mom stared at my dad, moments before I decided to kill him myself. Like I’m here to harm her.
That realization punches me in the heart.
I don’t know why her fear hurts because it shouldn’t. She’s smart to worry.
When Harper was seventeen, she was prom queen. When I was seventeen, I killed the man who sired me without a second thought.
Still, frustration erupts inside me like fucking lava when she whirls and sprints into a sea of tourists.
When Harper fled New York, I knew she was trying to escape her wedding. Hell, I was trying to escape her wedding. That’s how I ended up at the bar that night we kissed.
Her disappearance drove me absolutely nuts, but at the time, it wasn’t personal.
Now, it is.
Because she’s not running from her wedding.
She’s running away from me .
Too bad for her, escaping me a second time won’t happen.
Even if it fucking kills me, Harper Brennan won’t get away.
And good luck to her once I catch her, because she’s really pissed me off.