Line of Fire. Julie Leto

clues about the shooter?” she asked, waving to Kalani and hoping a change of subject would take the edge off her charged response to him.

      He folded himself wearily into the chair. “We found shell casings, so we know the make and model of his weapon. Remington M24.”

      “Standard military issue,” she noted.

      He lifted a brow.

      She smiled. “I defended a former Army Ranger suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder back in Los Angeles,” she explained. Some of the knowledge she’d picked up since passing the bar wasn’t the kind she’d want to use more than once, but for the most part, her broadening knowledge base came in handy. Like when trying to impress police detectives.

      “You practice in L.A., too?”

      Clever devil, turning the conversation to something personal.

      “Went there first after law school. I still take cases there all the time. Luckily for you, there’s more crime there than in Courage Bay.”

      “But your main office is here now?”

      Faith grinned, despite her attempt to contain her sentimentalism. “I’m a sucker for roasted pork and ukelele music, what can I say?”

      Kalani scooted over, two tall turquoise drinks poised on her tray. “See, Detective? I’ve kept her in my line of sight all evening,” she said proudly.

      “I should put you on the payroll,” he quipped.

      Kalani snorted. “For my sister, it’s free. So are these.” With great flourish, she served the drinks, complete with fresh fruit and a tiny umbrella poised on the rim. “Compliments of the house. Order anything you’d like. Anyone who saves my sister’s life has earned a complimentary dinner.”

      After laying a menu beside Adam’s drink, Kalani winked at Faith and moved gracefully away, her shoulders swaying to the twang and rhythmic whine of Maleko’s steel guitar. Faith’s foster father stood on the tiny stage in the opposite corner of the room, playing a traditional tune to an enraptured crowd. Though it was a Thursday night, the place was packed, but for the most part quiet. Maleko Apalo was a true master of Polynesian music, and the mournful strumming took only moments to seep under Faith’s skin.

      She closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept since returning to the restaurant, but while her exhaustion had dissipated, she was now blissfully tired. Like a cat who’d just lapped a saucer full of cream, she wanted a nap.

      Until she experienced the sensation of a man’s gaze roaming over her face. She opened her eyes and caught Adam staring at her intently, a tiny smile lingering on his lips. A sigh caught in her throat. Having him look at her with such contained hunger was a definite ego-booster, but she wasn’t the type to lead a guy on. She’d better tend to business soon so he could leave. The longer he hung around, the harder it was going to be to keep those melted caramel eyes of his—not to mention other choice parts of his delicious body—out of her dreams.

      She sat up straighter and took a sip of the Blue Sunset her sister had delivered. The sugary flavors of pineapple and mango juices blended with the distinctive taste of dark rum and blue curaçao. Man, she missed these. The drink was a rare luxury, since she usually left the restaurant and drove straight home to do a few more hours of work.

      Not tonight.

      She took another long, indulgent sip.

      Adam had flipped open the menu. “What do you recommend?”

      “The buffet,” she said, nodding toward the sumptuous spread of food that took up the entire west wall of the restaurant. “Have a little bit of everything. You’ll like it all, I guarantee it. Except the poi. We serve it because it’s expected, but it tastes like paste.”

      Adam glanced around, obviously impressed by the tropical festiveness of the decor. Colorful streamers, floral garlands and twinkling lights in rainbow hues decorated the ceiling, rustling lightly thanks to the lazily churning palm-frond-style fans. The walls sported a collection of antique ukeleles, most resembling mini-guitars, others more oval or pear-shaped with tropical fruits or hula girls painted on the base. The tables glimmered with votive candles crafted with a kaleidoscopic array of colored bits of glass, so that a rainbow danced on the table when the fans shimmied the flames. The air flowed with the sounds of hushed conversation at the tables, the music, and chatter from the kitchen behind them. Faith always chose a table in the back, where she could watch the action and yet remain relatively undisturbed.