Free Wraith by Edie Claire Page A

doesn’t have anything to do with Matt, does it? You’ve
remembered something else. About your mother?"
    "Wow," he said brusquely, sliding off the
table top. "You’re pretty scary. I think I’d better put these back
on." He replaced the sunglasses, then gestured toward the car. "After
you. Unless, of course…"
    "What?"
    "Unless you’d rather I left the two of you
alone." I could no longer see his eyes, but his tone had turned serious.
"I will, you know," he continued quietly. "If that’s what you
want."
    My mind spun. It was what I should want.
Wasn’t it? 
    I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. No-nonsense
Kali , I reminded myself firmly. Just tell him the truth .
    "Actually," I said matter-of-factly,
moving toward the car. "I kind of like having a personal bodyguard."
    I was walking a step ahead of him, but threw a quick
glance over my shoulder.
    He was grinning again.
     

Chapter 7
     
    I could see why Matt, who had only moved to Hawaii a
couple years ago himself, was attracted to the restaurant. A local hangout
popular with military types from the nearby Marine base, it offered a
comfortable blend of Hawaiian traditional and down-home American ambience. A
Polynesian-styled wooden deck, complete with as-yet unlit tiki torches, led
into a cozy dining room and bar that could have been plucked from anywhere in
generica, except that the giant picture windows on one side offered a
pleasantly tropical view of ducks floating on a meandering canal. Matt and I
settled into a table by the window where, much to his delight, I joined him in
ordering the kalua pig. After discovering that a good friend of his was
working in the kitchen, he excused himself to go say hello—and to see if he
could wheedle us some extra pig meat.
    Matt hadn’t been gone three seconds when Zane, whom
I hadn’t seen since we parked the car, appeared in his empty chair. The secret
service outfit had been abandoned in favor of a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, but
the funky sunglasses remained perched on top of his head, nearly buried by
blond curls.
    "He likes you, you know," he announced
matter-of-factly.
    I shrugged. "As a friend, maybe."
    Zane's eyebrows lifted. "Not if he can help
it."
    I shifted my eyes away from him. There was a
compliment in there somewhere, but the whole topic made me faintly
uncomfortable. As did talking to thin air in a crowded restaurant.
    No one seemed to be paying any attention, but just
in case, I pulled out my cell and held it close to my ear. "What did you
remember about your mother?" I asked, changing the subject.
    He stared at me a moment, clearly aware of my
tactics. "I don’t want to get into it now. But it wasn’t about my mother,
it was about my father."
    "What about him?" I asked eagerly.
"Is he… still alive?"
    "No," Zane answered. "He’s not. So,
how do you feel about this Matt character? What do you really know about
him?"
    I exhaled. Zane’s tone was breezy enough, but I had
the feeling that he was covering—that he was, in fact, quite upset about
something. Something other than Matt. "What does it matter to your
problem?" I challenged. "We were talking about your parents."
    He thought a moment. "They’re kind of
related," he said vaguely. "Let me ask the question another way. How
much does Matt know about you? Does he know how many fouettés you can
turn?"
    I blinked at him, lost. "And that matters…
why?"
    The green eyes that looked back at me were suddenly
awash in sadness—at least for the few seconds I could see them before he
replaced the mirrored sunglasses.
    "My father was murdered, actually," he
said flatly. "Shot at point-blank range by an ex-girlfriend as he walked
out of a bar with his current one."
    I swallowed. "I’m sorry," I responded weakly,
at a loss. "How… how old were you?"
    "I was ten when it happened. But I didn’t know
the truth till a couple years later, when I searched his name online. My mother
had told me he died in a bank robbery—that he was a hero."
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