Page 12 of Duty and Desire

“I can do that, sure.”

For the rest of the trip, I listened to his calm, steady voice as I tried to concentrate on the scenery and not on the young man whose presence kept tugging my attention away from it.

Then it occurred to me I’d better not let him see me get into the boat I’d left moored. Because why would someone hire a boat when they already had one?

I didn’t want Nick to be suspicious.

I wanted him to trust me.

When we arrived at the dock, I took the card he produced, thanked him, and walked toward the road. I watched with relief as a family of four approached him, all carrying snorkeling gear, obviously the booking he’d mentioned. I waited until he’d pulled away from the dock before heading to my boat.

My groceries were toast, but it wassoworth it.

After another visit to the supermarket, I took off for the bungalow, and as I steered north, I replayed our conversation in my head.

Kai had been right on two counts. Nick would make a very interesting character, and there was more to him than met the eye.

Chapter Five

April 7

Gio

“Morning, Gio.”

I turned my head toward the side of the bungalow. “Morning. I thought you didn’t work Sundays.” I closed my laptop.

Aulani appeared at the corner of the veranda, wearing one of her colorful dresses, her straw hat in place as usual. “That’s because the last few Sundays I was looking after my cousin. He’s been in the hospital, and he needed a little help around the house.” She peered through the open doorway into the living room, and tut-tutted. “What do you do, clean the place before I get to see it?”

I chuckled. “Okay, there’s something you need to know about me. When I get immersed in something, I become a bit of a slob.”

She ambled into the bungalow. “What do you write anyway? You never did tell me.”

“Books. I write books,” I quipped.

Well, that was the general idea.

She glanced up from stacking the magazines in a neat pile, and rolled her eyes. “Funny man. So do you write thrillers, horror, crime, romance?” Her lips twitched. “I read some Harlequin romances once.” She grinned. “Not enough blood for me.”

“Aha.” I shook my head. “You give this impression of being a sweet lady, and yet underneath…”

“And you still don’t answer my question.” She folded her arms. “What was your first book about?”

I could talk about that.

“I wrote a story about a guy who escapes from someone who’d abducted and abused him. I wrote about his struggles to become the person he’d been before all that happened, his pursuit of justice… And in the end, he accepts that he’ll never be that person again. He’s stronger, more resilient, and determined to live every day to the full.”

A ton of research had gone into that book. In the early days of writing, I’d write a couple of lines, then analyze them to death, deleting, polishing, redrafting…

I was amazed it had only taken me two years to write it. The following books had taken less time, but I was still a perfectionist.

A trait that had bled into all the corners of my life, unfortunately.

“And are the rest of your books like that? Mr. Roger says you’ve written seven or eight.” She flushed. “I had problems writing essays in school. Anyone who can write that many words is to be admired.”

“My books usually center around one person who is surviving some kind of crisis, be that physical or emotional.”

She peered past me to the table, and her eyes lit up. “You’ve been writing.”

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