Zara Cruz's POV.
I was sent to Hawaii to investigate a smuggling ring.
You don't go to Maui for trouble.
You go for sunshine, shaved ice, and the kind of beaches that make you rethink your entire life.
But I was never that kind of girl.
I stepped off the plane with one suitcase, two burner phones, three false identities, and enough anxiety to fuel a rocket. This wasn't a vacation. It was a mission.
The briefing had been clear: infiltrate the Blue Pearl Resort, locate the source of an international smuggling operation, and disappear quietly — preferably with the intel and not in a body bag.
I adjusted my sunglasses — the kind that could scan faces in a crowd and snap photos with a blink. Around me, tourists giggled, couples kissed, and a mariachi band played way too loudly for someone trying to locate a trafficker.
This place was a tropical postcard hiding a rotten secret.
The kind of secret that gets people killed.
As I passed the tiki bar, I spotted a surf instructor who looked like he stepped straight out of a fantasy. Six-pack. Saltwater skin. Trouble with a tan.
Focus, Zara.
You're not here for the abs. You're here for the arms — as in: illegal weapons, cartel connections, and offshore accounts that stank of blood money.
I dragged my suitcase through the overly cheerful entrance of the Maui Blue Pearl Resort, where everything smelled like pineapple and people smiled like they were paid to be that happy.
Which, let's be honest — they probably were.
I was undercover as Miss Zara Cruz, a travel blogger with a passion for tropical breakfasts and couples massages. Barf. My real mission? Infiltrate the resort and identify the lead in a suspected arms-laundering network.
And suspect number one?
Leo Thompson.
Tall, tan, lean, and suspiciously relaxed. Board shorts, surfboard, and a background that didn't add up. Former marine. Discharged after a classified op. No fixed address. Multiple encrypted phone pings near cartel-related arrests. Not officially linked to any crimes — but the intel didn't lie.
And now, suddenly teaching surf lessons to wealthy tourists at a cartel-connected resort?
Please. Too convenient.
Of course he was shirtless the first time we met. Saltwater dripping. Hair tousled. Six-pack criminally exposed.
I had just stepped outside to "casually" check the beach perimeter when he came jogging up from the waves, board tucked under his arm, all slow-motion and surfer-smug.
I watched him laugh with a guest, running a hand through his hair like he didn't have a single damn care in the world.
My gut screamed otherwise.
I didn't know what his game was.
But I was about to find out.
And then — he smiled at me. And walked over.
"New guest?" he asked, flashing a grin that made my internal systems short-circuit.
I tucked a loose curl behind my ear and activated my "sweet, clueless girl" persona.
"Just arrived. It's hot," I said — which was the dumbest thing I could've said because—duh—it was Hawaii.
He raised a brow. "You haven't seen hot yet."
Excuse me?!
Was that a threat? A flirtation? A red flag?
I blinked. "I meant the weather."
He smirked, slow and smooth. "Right. Welcome to Maui, Miss...?"
"Cruz," I said automatically. "Zara Cruz."
"Long name," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Leo. I teach people how to fall gracefully into the ocean."
I took his hand.
Mistake.
His hand was warm, rough with calluses — and he wore danger like cologne. My heart kicked once, hard.
"Graceful falling sounds like something I'd be terrible at."
He didn't let go.
"Don't worry. I'm good at catching people."
Double meaning alert.
I pulled my hand back, my instincts buzzing. He was either a deadly flirt or dangerously aware of who I really was.
Either way, I had to find out what he was hiding — and fast.
<<<<<
Leo Thompson's POV.
When you fake normal long enough, it becomes performance art. Smile. Teach them to paddle. Pretend you're just a chill ex-military guy who found peace in waves and sunsets.
Lie through your damn teeth. It was exhausting. Especially with a woman like her around.
I spotted Zara Cruz the moment she walked into the resort. She was supposed to be just another guest — the kind who drinks too much coconut water and takes selfies with pineapples.
But she was trying too hard not to be noticed — which made her noticeable.
Everything about her screamed control — from her sleek black tank top to the way she scanned exits like she had memorized every escape route.
She was good.
Too good.
CIA? MI6? Or worse — one of the cartel's bounty girls?
First red flag: She wore heels to the beach.
Second: She flinched when I asked her name.
Third: She had the kind of eyes that had seen the underbelly of the world and didn't blink when I mentioned falling.
She was a plant. A spy. An agent. Had to be.
Which meant only one thing: the agency sent someone to check up on me again.
I kept my tone casual, brushing sand off my board, keeping her in my peripheral.
Her body screamed military.
But her mouth?
That was all fire and sass.
I could handle a spy.
But a spy who looked like her?
Now that was a problem.
A problem I might not want to solve.
I didn't know what agency she was with, or why she was really here. But I had a strong feeling we were both chasing the same ghost:
The Gold Ring Network.
A smuggling operation that had spread from Colombia to the Pacific like wildfire. Weapons. Diamonds. People.
And someone high up was using the resort as a front.
I was getting close.
Close enough to make enemies nervous.
Which meant someone would try to shoot me. Again.
<<<<<
Zara's POV.
Later that afternoon, I "accidentally" signed up for a beginner's surf lesson.
I don't surf. I barely float.
But I needed access. I needed proximity.
And I needed to look like a clueless tourist who had no idea her surf instructor might be an arms trafficker.
"Welcome to your first lesson," Leo said, flashing a grin that could melt steel. "Try not to drown. Makes the paperwork complicated."
"Thanks," I said dryly. "I'll do my best to avoid being murdered by a wave."
He leaned in slightly. "Don't worry. I'm very good at rescue missions."
I narrowed my eyes behind my sunglasses.
Was that a flirt?
A threat?
Maybe both.
That night, I ran facial recognition on Leo using my private scanner — hidden inside a coconut-scented shampoo bottle. (Yes, I know. Spy gadgets. But they work.)
Result? Still no confirmed criminal record. But something weird happened. I should've filed my first report.
Instead, I found myself googling:
"How to flirt with your suspect without blowing your cover."
Then deleting it.
Then googling it again.
<<<<<
Leo's POV.
She didn't flinch. I tested her — tossed references, micro-flirts, subtle spy bait. Nothing. She stayed cool, casual, ice-cold pro. Until she slipped. One tiny moment.
I mentioned the shipment that arrived "yesterday morning" — a detail no tourist should know about.
Her fingers twitched.
Barely.
But I saw it.
She was investigating the same thing I was.
The only question was —
Was she here to help me? Or bury me?
That night, I sent a coded message to my contact:
They sent someone. She's too good. Also… too pretty.
The reply came seconds later:
Don't fall for it. Too late.
<<<<<
Zara's POV.
I didn't come to Maui for distractions. But Leo Thompson? He was more than a distraction.
He was a problem.
A very hot, very dangerous problem.
Maybe he was with the drug cartel. Maybe he was a spy. Maybe both.
Either way, I was going to solve him — even if it killed us both.