Searing Need

by Tracey Devlyn

  Left arm.

  Left hand—

  “You don’t know me.” He widened his stance and dropped his voice. “And you obviously know nothing of men.”

  She flinched as if he’d slapped her. A moment later, she opened her mouth to explain or contradict him or God knew what. He held up a staying hand. The forest began to cave in on him. Time for her to leave. Now.

  “Go,” he bit out. When she didn’t move, he infused steel into his voice. “Get out of here!”

  Before sprinting away, she studied him like a general working through her next battle plan.

  He hadn’t scared her. No one damn bit.

  Which meant she would be back. Son of a bitch.

  Despite his irritation, he followed her ascent up the steep hill, marveling at her unbound energy. She paused to snatch a backpack from the top of the ridge, knifing her arms through the shoulder straps. Even with her hurried pace, her movements were smooth and matter-of-fact, as if she’d performed the act a thousand times.

  Glancing over her shoulder, over the ridge, she peered at him one last time.

  “Don’t come back here,” he warned, his voice projecting across the distance.

  From one blink to the next, she was gone. He ignored the stab to his conscience. If any woman ever needed a lesson in self-preservation, it was that one.

  Gritting his teeth against a fresh blast of memories, he swiped away the bead of sweat snaking down his cheek and stood helpless as the darkness ate away at what little was left of his sanity.

  10

  Costa Rica

  8:47 p.m.

  Camilla’s gaze shot to the door for the hundredth time, certain that armed men would burst inside any second. All day today she’d had the sensation of being… stalked. But she hadn’t noticed anyone out of the ordinary.

  She shook off her paranoia, reminding herself that she was safe. For now. After being orphaned at the age of twelve, she’d spent years fending for herself, years that had taught her the art of caution.

  Only a small group of people from the research center knew her true address, and they were now thousands of miles away. A deep ache of longing splintered her chest, as it always did when she thought of her friends.

  Pacing the length of her small apartment, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was coming. That he was coming.

  “Get on with it, you silly, sentimental girl,” she scolded herself.

  Rushing to the airtight container, she unlatched the heavy lid. Inside rested a bulky, sandwich-sized bag. She removed the bag and carried the precious cargo to the kitchen table housing a large rectangular tray. With trembling fingers, she sprinkled the bag’s contents over the pulpy liquid, covering the tray’s surface until the last piece sank into its new watery home.

  She glanced at the door again, straining to detect any unusual sounds. Silence echoed against the walls of her tiny home.

  Lifting a fan to the table, she clicked the speed to low and set about finishing her preparations. Although her apartment contained only three small rooms—a bathroom, a bedroom, and a living room-kitchen combo—it was a palace compared to her prior living arrangements.

  Sleeping on a thin, bumpy mattress was far preferable to a nest of blankets on the floor. She would still be laboring away at mindless tasks, stealing for food, if not for an unexpected opportunity.

  The past three years had been a blessing beyond imagining—and it was all about to disappear like a wisp of smoke on a breezy day.

  She swiped the moisture from her cheek and jammed two sets of clean clothes into her backpack. Opening the drawer of her bedside table, she retrieved a tiny wooden box with a single flower carved into the top by a loving but amateur hand. Her fingers caressed her father’s work before she peered beneath the lid to assure herself that the simple circlet of silver still rested inside.

  Inhaling, she imagined she could still smell her mother’s favored orchid scent. When her vision blurred, she snapped the box shut and dropped it into a zippered pocket of her pants.

  Her hand disappeared inside the drawer, and she ripped a taped parcel from the underside of the table’s top. Unclasping the metal container, she pocketed her passport and counted the money inside before divvying it up into smaller amounts and stashing it into different pockets on her person and in her backpack.

  She hadn’t known it at the time, but every spare cent she’d saved the past couple of years had been in preparation for this moment. For years her existence had been about survival, then gratitude. Now she would make a difference. Protect her people’s way of life and give her friends one last opportunity to stop others’ suffering.

  Once she finished packing, she grabbed the items she needed from the small shelving unit and returned to the kitchen to check on the contents of the tray. Satisfied that the batter had firmed up enough, she separated the large piece into four smaller ones and placed them on drying racks in front of the fan again.

  Then she set about cleaning up every trace of her activity tonight, just in case he found this place.

  With as much care as her speedy fingers could manage, she finished preparing the dried rectangles and slid each one into an addressed, stamped envelope. Her fingers brushed over the names in her bold, childlike penmanship.

  After losing her mom, she’d had to quit school. But her lack of education hadn’t stopped her savior from trying to teach her English in addition to her other duties. If only she’d had more time to finish her lessons, she could have perfected her letters, built upon her lessons. But she hadn’t, and she prayed the packages would make it to their destinations without delay.

  It took her several attempts to write short notes to include in the envelopes. When she finished, she stared at them with tears of humiliation in her eyes. They would have to do. In a few days, she would call each of the recipients to explain in more detail.

  Drawing in an unsteady breath, she stashed the envelopes in her pack and reached for the second canister and the leather-bound journal she’d spent hours trying to read the night before. Although she had failed to decipher the doctor’s ramblings, she knew something of value lay within the covers and would not chance mailing it.

  With her cargo secured at her back, Camilla strode into her bedroom and opened the window. She scanned the area before lowering herself to the ground. When she made to close the window, she paused to survey her small yet humble apartment. Her home. An ache welled up in her throat, blocking off words and air.

  Already she missed this place. A place where she would never be able to return.

  Hardening her heart against the anguish, she lowered the sash and left her future behind.

  11

  “Sweetheart, we’re running out of reusable bags,” Ross Kingston said. “Can you fetch more from Wilbur?”

  “I’m on it, Daddy,” Riley said.

  She climbed into the back of the truck, also known as Wilbur, parked behind their tented booth at Steele Ridge’s Farmers’ Market. The action was as familiar to her as brushing her teeth.

  The truck received its notorious name when her dad had decided to turn his passion for organic gardening into organic farming. One of his first purchases had been a used moving truck. He’d had the vehicle repainted in what was supposed to be a light tangerine color but wound up being creamy pink. Four-year-old Riley had told her dad it looked like the piglet from Charlotte’s Web.

  Charmed, her dad kept the color and dubbed the truck Wilbur. Although their original market truck had died a slow and painful death many years ago, each one since then had been painted pink and named the same.

  Wending her way through the crates of pesticide-free kale, cilantro, onions, carrots, and a dozen other vegetables and herbs, she reached the shelf holding the reusable bags and various other operating supplies.

  Although neither Riley nor her siblings had any interest in running her father’s business, they all participated in the weekend market during the summer and took shifts at the family store
whenever their day jobs allowed.

  Finding the box of reusable bags, she grabbed an armful and returned to their stall. Her dad gave her a grateful wink while swiping a customer’s credit card through their portable reader.

  She gave the petite, brown-haired woman in her midthirties a welcoming smile. “Do you have your own bag, Mrs. Callibaster?”

  The woman gave her five-year-old son a pained, sidelong glance. “No, sorry. Sammy was screaming bloody murder over the dog tearing up his toy. I left my bag at home.”

  “No problem.” She placed the harried mother’s purchases into a small, perfect-for-the-market-sized bag and handed it over. “I threw in a couple of pieces of our homemade peanut brittle.” She nodded at the cherub-faced boy watching the crowd of shoppers. “To take off the sting of losing a toy.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Callibaster’s attention shifted to her dad. “You’ve got a sweet daughter there, Ross Kingston.”

  Humor twinkled in her dad’s eyes. “She improves with each year.”

  Mrs. Callibaster laughed. “As parents, that’s all we can hope for.” She grasped her son’s hand. “Have a good day.”

  “You too,” Riley and her dad said at the same time.

  “Good morning,” a rich, baritone voice said.

  Riley glanced up, a smile of welcome on her face, and froze. Nick Landry stood before her. Easily the most handsome and intelligent scientist she’d ever met.

  Eyes the color of molten gold, skin the tone of sun-kissed sand, and hair the hue of a winter night. He was staggering in his perfection. His heritage was a complete enigma, especially since he could speak a number of languages with precision.

  All of this he understood about himself with uncanny clarity and awareness. He used his natural born gifts as lethal weapons. A person felt special and cherished until they weren’t any longer. He was equal opportunity in where he directed his affections—male, female, young, old.

  Before she’d deciphered his character, she’d fallen prey to Nick’s allure, once. A kiss. An all-consuming kiss that had knocked down her defenses and turned her into a clinging idiot. She’d been his perfect victim—alone, uncertain, a little homesick.

  To this day, she couldn’t recall why she’d pulled back and stopped the most arousing moment of her life, but she was glad her warning bells had kicked in and she’d listened. Or she would’ve become a Landry Casualty in that camp. Another statistic. Another forgettable conquest.

  For all his faults and male idiosyncrasies, though, she liked the dog.

  “Morning, Nick.” Reaching across the table, Riley gave him a hug and did her best to ignore his deep, appreciative inhalation. She eased out of the embrace, and Nick’s considerable attention rested on her mouth. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “A conference in Asheville.” His golden eyes roamed down her body, assessing, appraising, calculating. “I remembered your fondness for your hometown’s farmers’ market. I hoped I’d get lucky and find you here.”

  “Why not call? My phone number hasn’t changed.”

  “And miss your look of surprise?”

  “Sadist.”

  He smiled, not contradicting her. His attention drifted to her dad.

  “Sorry. This is my dad—Ross Kingston. Daddy, this is Nick Landry.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “How do you know my daughter?”

  “Costa Rica. We worked on Project Endurance together. Riley was our most talented ethnobotanist.”

  Her dad squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Don’t preen too much, Daddy. Nick’s only saying that for your benefit. I was the study’s only ethnobotanist.”

  A twinkle lit Nick’s eyes, making them even more compelling. “My comment still stands.”

  “Should I leave the two of you to get caught up?” Dad asked.

  Riley nodded, and he moved down the table to chat up the vendor next door.

  Her attention snapped back to Nick. “What are you really doing here?” She didn’t for a moment believe he’d sought her out for no reason.

  “I told you.” Something flicked across his features. “To check in on an old friend.”

  “Friend?” she teased. “I considered us more along the lines of companionable colleagues.” He’d been courteous to everyone, though he placed people into two categories—sex and knowledge. Friend didn’t have a place in Nick’s world.

  “Not for my lack of trying.” His gaze traced every contour of her face. “Endurance alone held your heart.”

  As it did yours.

  “Not enough to make it a success.” When he didn’t reply, she took his silence as confirmation of her failure and changed the topic. “Can I interest you in some homemade fudge?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Using a set of tongs, she lifted a small, dark square from a floral-patterned platter. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

  He popped the sweet into his mouth, chewing with a sensual grace that only he could pull off. He licked his fingers, one by one.

  Riley swallowed, unable to look away.

  “Delicious.” Bracing his fingertips on the table between them, he leaned forward. “Allow me to repay you by joining me for dinner tonight.”

  “Dinner as friends?”

  “Of course, what else?”

  “Tempting, but I have a date with a plant.”

  “You’d turn me away after I’ve come all this distance—just to see you?”

  “See that’s the thing, Nick.” She pushed into his personal space, lowering her voice. “I hear voices in my head. One of the voices has the absolute best radar for detecting bullshit.” With her nose, she caressed the air between them, sniffing. “And you’ve got it smeared all over you.”

  His bark of laughter echoed through the market. Heads turned in their direction—just in time to see him grasp her face with both hands and plant a kiss on her mouth. She tried to pull away, but the bastard held on. And despite her mortification, Riley’s muscles clenched against a stirring deep in her stomach.

  Lifting a shaking hand, she dug her thumb into the soft, fleshy part at the base of his neck.

  He gagged and released her.

  “Goodbye, Nick.”

  Rubbing his neck, he winked. “Later, Riley.” Hands in his pockets, Nick Landry sauntered off. Eyes of every flavor followed him from the market.

  Including her father’s.

  “Did he hurt you?” Ross Kingston asked in a harsh voice.

  “No.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “Trying to prove that I’m not immune to his magnetic self, no doubt.”

  “I don’t find guys manhandling my daughter funny.”

  She linked arms with him. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “Not likely. He’s only in town for a conference.”

  “Good.” He kissed her forehead, then went to gather more product from Wilbur while she refilled the containers set out on the table. They completed the process without a single word, having worked as a team many times in the past.

  Once their inventory was replenished, he asked, “How’s your survey work going?”

  Rather than a list of scientific names drifting through her mind, an image of Coen, naked, hard in all the right places, and angry as hell, surfaced.

  What did he do all day? Read? Hike? Sleep? Did he get lonely? Does he have family nearby? How did he come by the sugared ginger?

  “Where’d you go, Riley-girl?” Her dad’s hand waved in front of her.

  She shook Coen out of her head.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “Slow.”

  “I know you’d rather be off in some foreign land finding a miracle cure, but sometimes our greatest achievements can be found closer to home.”

  “I enjoy the survey work. I’ve already discovered and documented several rare plant communities.” She tossed a wicked smile his way. “Plus the
conservation area is vast enough that I can go a whole day without seeing or speaking to another person.”

  “My little hermit. I’ve never been able to reconcile how such a lively, vivacious, and ornery young woman could be so content with her own company.”

  “I’m only ornery when provoked.” She sent him a sidelong look. “Which tends to happen a lot with so many men in our family.” She smiled. “Present company excluded.”

  He chuckled. “Well, try to be patient with the surveying. It’s a good job until something more to your liking crops up.”

  Guilt tore through her. She didn’t want to worry her dad. Meeting the demands of a successful family business was stressful enough. He didn’t need his adult children’s problems added to his plate.

  She wasn’t unhappy. But survey work was typically reserved for undergrads needing experience or grads developing their theses. She’d moved beyond those needs. Now she wanted to make a difference, a positive, culture-altering impact.

  Costa Rica had been the answer to a long-burning need.

  Until it all collapsed.

  “Daddy, don’t give me another thought. What I’m doing at the conservation area is important work.” She wrapped an arm around his solid torso. Despite nearing Medicare age, Ross Kingston could run marathons around most twentysomethings. She gave him a squeeze and stepped away. “What I don’t need is the boys getting into my business.”

  “They love you, Riley-girl. When your mom and I moved out west, I made them swear to look after you and Maggie.”

  “Somehow I doubt my sister, the soon-to-be sheriff, needed protecting.”

  “Everyone needs protecting, even the boys. Call me sexist, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask Maggie to keep an eye on them while your mom and I were out west.”

  “I’m sure Maggie kept them in her sights, even without you asking.” She brushed off bits of dirt and leaf litter from the table while memories of all the ways her strong sister had diverted disaster over the past few years flashed through her mind. Incidents Maggie had kept from their parents so as not to worry them. Ms. Fix-it.