They grinned like idiots.
Brothers. Kill me now.
“Find anything cool this week?” her slightly better behaved brother, Shep, asked, absently rubbing Puck’s side. The golden retriever leaned into his master’s touch.
A pair of green eyes filled her vision, and something warm curled low in her belly. What was Coen doing now? Sleeping? Hunting? Reading? Screaming?
How did he fill up the hours of his day? Was he bored? Content?
Lord, when would she stop obsessing about his daily activities?
A large hand waved before her face. “Hello?” Cash crooned. “Shep wants to know if you found a carnivorous, bilobed, trapezius fuchsia green thing?”
Shep frowned. “No, I don’t.”
She smacked Cash’s paw away. “Would you like me to give its scientific name or common?”
A shudder racked Cash’s body. “A simple yes or no works for me.”
“How supportive you are, dear brother.”
“I don’t speak geek.”
Shep waved at someone over her shoulder, but she didn’t turn around. If she sought out everyone her brothers waved at, she’d get motion sickness. The combination of her dad’s business and living in the same town for decades meant their clan knew most of the town’s residents and quite a few of its frequent flyers.
He half rose to shake the newcomer’s hand. “What brings you to the B tonight?”
“Same as you, I suspect.”
Riley recognized the voice over her shoulder and groaned before setting her phone safely on the table. Easing back in her seat, she braced herself.
Two seconds later, her chair tilted backward and she expertly hooked her ankles around the legs to keep herself in place. Her world continued to roll until she stared up into her cousin’s ruggedly handsome face.
“Hello, Reid.”
“Menace.”
She crossed her arms. “Who’s terrorizing whom?”
He kissed her forehead. “If you’re going to ignore me, how else am I gonna get your attention?”
“Would you like me to list the ways? In alphabetical order? By order of priority?”
“Hell, no.” He released her chair. “Your lists terrify me.”
Her body catapulted upright and her teeth clanked together. She turned to deliver a verbal punch to her cousin and caught a familiar pair of emerald eyes locked on her. A long, clear vortex opened up between them, drying up the harsh words. Nothing existed beyond that narrow opening.
The ceiling lights reflected off Coen’s close-cropped, damp hair. The beard he’d been sporting had been trimmed to a sexy, dark stubble. His black T-shirt stretched across a broad torso that sported an impressive amount of contours. Contours she’d studied for hours. Blue jeans hugged his lean hips, and hiking boots capped his ensemble.
Fresh from the shower, he was breathtaking in a different way than the feral jungle cat vibe she’d grown accustomed to. She’d been right—black was his color.
Silence floated around her like a heavy morning fog, though she would swear later that she could hear his pulse pounding in his veins. Or maybe it was hers.
Reid set a hand on the back of her neck at the same time Way rose to stand between her and Coen.
She blinked, and the tunnel disappeared.
“Way,” Reid said in a careful tone, “this is my buddy, Coen Monroe.”
“Coen?” Recognition lit Shep’s face. “How have you been?”
“Busy.”
At Way’s raised brow, Cash added, “Coen, Shep, and I worked together at a guide company before he enlisted in the Army.” To Coen, he said, “Way’s a Marine.”
Coen held out a hand to her brother. “Active?”
Way’s fingers wrapped around Coen’s, and she saw their knuckles go white.
“My tour ended last summer. You?”
“On leave.”
“For how long?”
“Until the end of the month.”
End of the month. Her heart clenched.
“Grab another chair and join us,” Cash said, disrupting the warrior smackdown. “We’re just getting started.”
She gave Way a what-the-hell-was-that? look, and he merely stared back. After their conversation at the farm, she assumed he’d welcome Coen with open arms. She would never understand the male mind. It avoided logic like a cat avoids water.
A wooden chair banged into place beside her, and a jean-clad leg slid onto the seat, stopping a mere inch from hers. Then his scent hit her. Pine and fresh air and male.
Tempting male.
Would he tell her brothers about her visits to his camp? About their late-night reading session?
Lord, she didn’t even want to think about the catastrophe that would cause. Her brothers would never, ever let her out of their sights.
Alpha-male bullshit.
Dropping her attention to her plate, she closed her eyes and prayed her heart out.
25
Coen peered down at the stony profile of the woman beside him. Color crept its way back into her pale cheeks, though it appeared to be taking its sweet time.
He understood her shock. When he finally saw who Reid was teasing, he’d been glad to have been standing in the background. Every other time their paths had crossed, she’d seemed part of the landscape. Confident and blessed with an easy grace, even while being curious but wary of the madman in her cousin’s woods.
Tonight, steel still anchored her backbone, yet she appeared smaller, more breakable somehow.
Reid said, “This is my cousin, Riley, or Kingston Menace, whichever you prefer. Riley, make nice with my friend, Sergeant First Class Coen Monroe.”
Coen shot a warning glance at Reid before turning to the woman beside him. He could taste the burn of fear she tried hard to suppress. Did she think he would divulge their previous encounters?
He probably should. She’d been unwise in her dealings with him, a stranger camping in a remote area. He could’ve killed and buried her days ago, leaving her family to mourn the loss but never have closure. A situation he was all too intimate with and would never wish on another.
“Nice to meet you, Riley,” he said.
Stunning gray-blue eyes lifted to his, and he detected a hint of gratitude before her shoulders squared and she picked up her phone. “Fair warning, Sergeant. Call me Menace and I’ll skewer you.”
Her brothers and cousin barked out a laugh.
“Tell you what,” Coen said. “I won’t call you Menace if you don’t call me Sergeant.”
She gauged his sincerity for a moment before nodding. “Deal.”
“Now that we got all that out of the way—” Cash motioned to a server. “What have you been doing on your leave?”
Coen’s stomach muscles heaved inward. This was the exact reason he’d been avoiding people and their incessant questions, placating expressions, and morbid curiosity.
His fingers curled into a fist on his thigh. “Nothing much. A little fishing and hunting.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Riley shifting her attention from his lap to his profile.
“What kind of fish?” Shep asked.
Shep Kingston had changed little in the past decade. Same inquisitive nature and blunt conversation. He’d always liked the adventure-seeking boy, and he suspected he’d feel the same about the man.
“I’m partial to bluegill.”
Cash jumped in. “Got any plans—”
“If you’re going to grill the poor man,” Riley cut in, “at least buy him a drink first.”
Cash gave him an apologetic grin. “Sorry, it’s just been a long time.”
“Evening, y’all,” said a pretty, petite server with a purple braid woven into her jet-black hair. “What can I get y’all to drink?”
Cash nudged Shep. “You want another?”
Shep downed the last of his beer and shook his head.
“One more,” Cash said.
“Two,” Way chimed in.
&nb
sp; “I’ll have my usual, Kris,” Reid said. “Plus two of Randi’s prime rib eyes, one for me and one for my friend. Who, incidentally, is buying since I beat his ass yesterday.” He glanced at Coen. “Medium rare?”
He nodded.
“You got it,” Kris said.
Noting Riley’s half-eaten salad and near-empty glass of water, he asked, “Need a refill?”
Her finger paused its scrolling over her phone’s screen. A colorful plant etching remained visible at the top of her screen.
Blinking, she smiled at the server. “Another water, when you get a chance. Thanks.”
“Coke and Jim, easy on the ice,” Coen said.
“Did you ever find out who set Mr. Johnson’s storage shed on fire?” Reid asked Cash.
“Mrs. Johnson.”
“No shit,” Way said, grinning.
“Seems Mr. Johnson spent one too many hours in the shed with his porn magazines.”
All the guys at the table laughed. Riley looked at the lot of them as if they were fools.
“Would you burn down your husband’s shed?” he asked in a low voice that only she could hear.
“Now why would I burn down a perfectly good building for a guy who wasn’t happy with my tits? Hasta la bye-bye, jerk.”
His smile broadened.
The next round of drinks arrived, and the conversation flowed from one subject to the next. Then the second round arrived with the food. When no one seemed inclined to nose into his business again, the tension eased from his joints.
Before long, Riley set aside her phone and bantered with the guys, giving as good as she got. It was then he realized that she really had been waiting for him to out her on their previous meetings. He probably should have—for her own safety—but for some strange reason, he wanted to keep those exchanges between them.
The conversation, the joking, the meal… It was all so normal. So carefree. For a time he allowed himself to live in the moment, in this bar. He enjoyed the company, the food, the alcohol. Lots of alcohol.
At some point, Shep and Puck left. One minute they were there, the next gone.
But around ten o’clock, the atmosphere changed, became more charged. The tempo of the music pounded, and a group of women took to the small dance floor, their heels clicking against the hardwood. Voices rose to a deafening decibel. A high-pitched laugh pierced the air.
Screams from another time and place trickled into mind. Images wavered in and out of his vision. Explosions shook the ground, and gunshots zinged inches away. Then the smell of death slammed into him, knocking him back in his seat. The acrid scent bled into his nostrils, drowning him in a sea of dismembered bodies and haunted faces and whimpers of loss.
His past became a sword, slicing through his pleasant, alcohol-induced blanket of guilt-free hours.
“Do you need some fresh air?” someone whispered beside him.
He threw back the rest of his beer and held up the empty bottle to the perky, purple-haired waitress. Leaning his arms on the table, he stared at his lap, willing normal back. But the room was too loud, too hot, too everything. Sweat rolled down the side of his face. He brushed it away with his shoulder.
A small hand appeared on his thigh, and someone whispered near his ear again, “Do you need some fresh air?”
He leaned into the gentle voice, the comforting touch. The sweet scent of oranges washed away the putrid tang of death.
“Kris, can you bring our checks?”
Familiarity jarred him out of his head for a split second. Long enough to blink, to feel the wooden chair beneath him, to sense the woman beside him.
The voice. Her voice.
The one that had read to him in the dead of night. The one that had saved his sanity, if only for a few hours.
Had she been outside his tent? Or had his subconscious conjured her when he needed her most?
He shifted his burning gaze to the botanist and found her peering up at him. Not a trace of her trademark curiosity, irritation, or wariness was present. Tonight, only concern clouded that beautiful face.
Had she noticed the war he waged with his mind? Had she realized the room was closing in on him, suffocating his reason?
What had given him away? Most people had no clue what to do when he got lost in his head, so they usually just stared at him with wide, cautious, or empathetic eyes.
Not his botanist—ethnobotanist. She might not be treading with her usual take-no-shit attitude, but she was definitely in action mode.
Behind her blue-rimmed glasses, her attention shifted to Way. Something passed between them. Then Reid’s head swiveled sharply in Way’s direction, as if he’d been kicked.
“Ladies, it’s time for me to cruise,” Reid said, rubbing his flat stomach. “I’ve got an early morning.”
They had been in the midst of silent communication. About him. He nearly choked on his humiliation.
Coen pushed out of his chair and threw a crisp Ben Franklin in front of Reid. “I’ll meet you outside.” He forced himself to catch the eye of every man at the table, avoiding Riley’s before marching out of hell.
Why hadn’t he listened to his gut and stayed the fuck away from this place? Why did he have to slip gears in front of her?
Stopping next to Reid’s truck, he scrubbed both hands over his face. It was time for him to move on. Ever since he’d caught the botanist spying on him, his sojourn had become less peaceful and more complicated. He didn’t do complicated right now.
When he dropped his hands, he noted a silver Audi parked two stalls away. A lone figure sat in the vehicle, unmoving, with the sun visor down—at night. The visor obscured the top half of his face.
Coen’s spine tingled and his shoulders sharpened. He slowed his heartbeat down as he scanned the area. When he found nothing else that looked out of place, he returned his attention to the Audi.
Long ago, he’d learned to trust in his training and instincts. Both told him this guy was up to no good. Most people wouldn’t give him a second glance, assuming he was waiting for someone to emerge from the bar. But Coen saw the tension outlining the man’s jaw, and his utter stillness was unnatural. No texting, no surfing, no scrolling through the radio stations. Nothing but focused attention on something or, more likely, someone inside Triple B.
Before he realized it, he found himself stalking toward the Audi. He approached the vehicle from the rear, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy’s reflection in the side view mirror. He inched up alongside the vehicle, alternating his attention between the silhouette inside it and the mirror.
Right when his face would’ve come into view, the man whipped his head back at the same time the engine roared to life. The Audi screamed backward, nearly clipping his hip when it made a sharp turn out of the stall. He jumped out of the way. By the time he righted himself, the S4 was out of reach. He didn’t bother running after a turbocharged V6 engine.
But he did commit the license plate number to memory. He followed the car’s race down Main Street until it rounded a corner, the taillights blinking out.
Coen strolled back to the now-empty stall. Stood in the location of the Audi’s driver’s seat, crouched till he had the same view as the driver had had, and peered inside Triple B.
What he saw made sweat break out all over his body and his heart drop to land between his feet.
He had a perfect, unhindered view of the botanist.
Riley.
What kind of trouble had she gotten herself into now?
26
The scent of a fresh spring rain interwoven with a sultry summer night drenched the air as Coen strode down the service drive leading to Riley’s greenhouse. Water dripped all around him. The rhythmic splat, splat, splat, combined with the kreeeck, kreeeck, kreeeck of a dozen insects, created an oddly soothing symphony.
Once Reid heard about the Audi Guy situation, he’d stormed back into the B and ordered Riley and her brothers to meet them at the training academy. There, Way and Reid had laid out a plan that in
cluded Riley being under twenty-four seven surveillance.
The botanist’s reaction had been swift and hide stripping. She’d wanted nothing to do with more “alpha-male bullshit” because she already felt like she “couldn’t take a dump without one of them checking to make sure she used the right toilet paper.”
By the time she’d finished, she’d actually managed to extract a promise from each of them to stay out of her space. Coen hadn’t promised, because he hadn’t been asked. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with him. Not after the way he’d rebuffed her help at the bar.
Rubbing his neck, he gave the greenhouse a visual sweep as he passed by. At the rear of the building, a beam of light reflected off several glass panels.
He stopped and, out of habit, pressed a forearm against his side, wincing to find it free of the heavy weight that usually rested there. Although he’d been trained to kill a person a hundred different ways, he would’ve preferred having his pistol within reach when clearing a building.
When Reid had dropped him off, there had been no cars in the parking lot. His pulse quickened, and a cold sweat broke out over his body, but he moved toward the threat as he had hundreds of times before.
He tested the door and found it unlocked. Drawing in a steadying breath, he slipped inside. With the new moon riding high in the sky, the interior was cast in shadow after deeper shadow.
Now he wondered if he’d been wrong about what he saw the other night. When he’d found no sign of a Peeping Tom outside the greenhouse, he’d chalked the whole thing up to a shift in wind or passing wildlife.
Spotting a heavy-duty hand trowel on a nearby workbench, he picked it up and held it out in front of him like a knife.
Light flickered against the windowpanes again, and he crept closer. Once he got within a dozen feet of his quarry, he crouched low, using a large-leafed plant for cover. He counted to three, evening his breathing, before stretching his neck to see who’d invaded Riley’s domain.
What he saw made him blink, certain the fog of alcohol had skewed his vision.
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