Crack!
Another hole appeared on the silhouette.
Another image slammed into him. Freddy’s body jerking, twisting, falling.
Crack!
Another hole.
Miller’s body exploded.
Kendra.
Still alive.
His body slammed into hers, rolling. Bullets zinging over their heads. Crawling for cover. Trapped. No help.
Run!
She won’t leave. Won’t save herself.
“Coen.”
Captured.
Tortured.
Pain. Gut-tearing pain.
“Coen.”
Strong.
So strong.
Tears.
Broken.
Broken.
All is broken.
“Coen! It’s Reid. Reid Steele. Your friend.”
Coen tightened his grip.
Right arm.
Right—
“You’re in Steele Ridge. You’re safe.”
His head twitched.
“Cash Kingston brought you here to work out.”
“Kingston.”
“That’s right. Cash, your friend.”
Kingston, Kingston…
“Riley.”
“Yes, Riley. The woman you love. She asks a lot of questions.”
Coen blinked against the darkness. Pushing the shadows back to the fringes of his vision.
Reid stood before him, with his hands fanned out between them. His gaze shifting between Coen’s face and something lower.
Coen’s hand.
And the gun pointed at Reid’s chest.
38
Gone.
Riley couldn’t find Coen anywhere. She’d checked Triple B, his tent, her parents’ place, the research center and greenhouse, Britt’s cabin, and came up with nada. Reid might have an idea of Coen’s location, but his phone kept going to voice mail.
Where else could he have gone?
His handsome features had remained as unemotional as ever when Maggie asked him to leave, but betrayal, hurt, and even disgust, she thought, had darkened his eyes.
Bahh-ling. She glanced down to find a text from Cash.
Where are you?
Dammit, why hadn’t she thought about her brothers? Maybe Shep or Cash had run across him.
She hit the speech-to-text button on her messaging app. “Driving.”
Pull over and call me.
She frowned. Her fun-loving brother rarely used that tone with her. What had ruffled his pretty plumage?
Then it hit her. Either Maggie or Coen had gotten to him. Perfect.
Her sister hadn’t been happy when she’d left the sheriff’s department. They’d had quite a sister-to-sister argument in the middle of the parking lot over her safety. Maggie had insisted she hang with her for the rest of the day and that she move in with her and Jayson until her investigators determined if the threat was real or not.
The thought of sleeping in the same house with her sister and her new boyfriend had made her shudder. She’d never get any sleep with them banging around.
In the end, Maggie had relented, promising additional patrols in Riley’s neighborhood and making her swear to check in every few hours.
So why had she involved Cash?
After swinging into an open stall in front of the Mad Batter, she hit the speech-to-text button again. “Who did you speak to, Maggie or Coen?”
While waiting for his reply, she read the bakery’s sidewalk sign.
It is a truth locally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a passion fruit éclair is in want of love.
Riley blinked, wondering who the focus of Jeanine’s prophetic chalk was this time.
Bahh-ling.
Dismissing the assistant baker and her eerie signs, she read Cash’s response.
Both. Why didn’t you call me?
“Because we don’t know anything for certain.”
Wrong answer.
“Where’s Coen?”
Last I saw him, he was at the academy talking to Reid. Where are you?
“I’m safe. Headed to the academy.”
Text me when you get there.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You’ll pay for that one, little sis.
Dropping her phone in the cupholder, she backed up and performed an imperfect U-ey right in the middle of Main Street. No doubt some busybody would inform Maggie of her sister’s reckless driving. Nark on.
Heart racing, she forced herself to walk into the training academy like a civilized human being and not one who was losing her grip on the panic bubbling inside.
When she closed in on Reid’s office, his administrator intercepted her.
“Hey, Riley. What brings you in today?”
“I’m looking for Reid. Know where I can find him?”
Blond-haired, blue-eyed, laid-back Gage Barber unleashed his All-American grin on her. A grin meant to disarm and distract. One he’d used to great effect with her badass cousin Micki Steele. If Riley’s nerves hadn’t been teetering on a razor’s edge, she would’ve allowed him to work his wiles on her, just for the fun of it.
“He’s tied up right now. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, I need to ask him a question. How long will he be?”
Gage’s easy smile slipped a fraction. “I can let him know you were here.”
Her attention shifted to Reid’s office door, and she knew. Just knew who was in there with her cousin.
“Is Coen Monroe in there?”
Understanding softened his blue eyes. “Why don’t you check in with him tomorrow?”
She made to zip around him, but he swung out one sinewy arm, halting her maneuver.
“I need to speak with Coen. It’s important.”
“So is his privacy right now.”
“Gage, let me pass.”
“Can’t do it, kiddo.”
“I-I can help.”
Regret and determination molded Gage’s features. As a former Green Beret, he would have an intimate understanding of Coen’s struggle. Had Coen told Reid and Gage that Maggie thought he’d blow a gasket? Or had something else happened for Gage to be so protective?
“Let me speak to him. To Coen.”
“Reid’s got it handled.”
“He doesn’t need to be handled.”
The door opened, and Reid squeezed through the opening before shutting it behind him. “Hey. How about keeping it down.”
Hair askew, hard lines etched between his eyes and around his mouth, sweat stains beneath his pits, her cousin looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter.
“I’m looking for Coen.”
Reid ran a hand through his hair, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door. “Not a good time, Ry.”
“I upset him earlier, and I want to apologize.”
He shared a look with Gage. “I’ll let him know.”
“You’re really not going to let me speak with him.”
“No.”
“Does he know I’m out here?”
“Yes. Everyone in the damned building knows you’re out here.”
“Did he say he doesn’t want to see me?”
Reid’s jaw hardened. “Look, we’ve had enough drama around here for one day. Go home.”
“You’re a jerk, you know that, Reid?”
She sensed more than saw Gage’s eyes widen.
“If Britt or Cash were standing here, demanding to see Coen, would you accuse them of creating more drama?”
Reid squeezed his eyes shut. “Dammit, Riley. Give me a break. There’s no playbook here.”
“All I want to do is speak with him. Maybe I can help—”
“You can’t!” Reid barked out. “I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “Go home, goddammit. I’ll call you later.”
Everything hurt. Her chest, her throat, her stinging eyes. Her every breath.
She blinked and swallowed hard, sparing the door behind Reid’s big frame
one last glance. Before turning away, she said, “Tell him Charlotte and Cameron are about to confront the villain. Together.”
Reid’s brows slammed into a vee. “Huh?”
Not bothering to answer the ape, she stormed out. Coen would understand her reference to the story she’d been reading to him.
The walk back to her Jeep took an eternity, and she was certain a dozen sets of eyes followed her every second of the way. She ignored them. Ignored the stares, the ache in her throat, the sadness in her heart.
Only one thing registered in her pounding mind.
Rejection.
First Hathaway and now Coen.
What was she doing wrong?
39
After spending the rest of the morning GPSing plants, Riley couldn’t bring herself to go to the greenhouse or to the farm. Going to the farm would mean putting on a happy face, and the greenhouse reminded her too much of Coen.
Coen.
What a cluster. How does a conversation go from informational to protective to injurious, all within the space of a few minutes?
She couldn’t stand the thought of him walking around in the world believing she’d thought him a head case. Someone who needed to be put down, for God’s sake.
Did he really believe her to be so insensitive? Or had he succumbed to some inner demon of his own?
Fat chance of her finding out. Reid in his Katie-bar-the-door mode would sooner kick her into next Tuesday than let her see Coen. The hint of bleakness she saw on her cousin’s face told her something else had happened after Coen left Maggie’s office. But what?
If she weren’t such a coward, she’d plant herself on his tent step and not budge until he talked to her. But she didn’t know how to navigate this situation. One wrong move and she could make things so much worse.
On top of all that, his rejection still stung like hell.
Sitting on her couch with her feet propped up on the coffee table, she searched for Camilla’s number on her new phone. Around noon, she’d received a text from Camilla, promising to share more details soon and reiterating her warning about going someplace safe.
Was she really in danger? She’d never known Camilla to exaggerate a situation.
As a precaution, Riley had removed the pistol Way had given her years ago from its gun case and put it in her pack, along with her concealed carry permit. Thanks to their biweekly target practice sessions at the academy, she was pretty comfortable handling the weapon, but didn’t know how she felt about carrying it around.
The worry that clutched at her chest wasn’t for herself but for Camilla. Would she turn to someone in her community for protection? Or return to the streets?
The phone rang three times before a mechanical voice kicked on, telling her the number was no longer in service. Riley sat forward, staring at the number on her phone’s display. Her mind whirled at the reality of what that meant.
A veil of helplessness and uncertainty settled over her. Not thick enough to suffocate her but heavy enough to prevent her from seeing a clear path.
She pushed her mind to focus, to sort through the data. What reason would anyone have for killing the researchers who worked on the Endurance project?
Endurance Project.
Her eyes widened, and she rushed into her bedroom.
“Endurance Project.” EP. EP not ded. “Endurance Project is not dead.”
Rifling through her pack, she found the note.
EP not ded. Keep fort safe.
“Fort. Fort. Fort.” She ran through scenario after scenario, then it hit her. “Fourth.”
You are next. Run.
“Three obituaries. Plus me. That’s four. But what am I keeping safe?”
Her back hit the dresser as her legs grew weak. Camilla had known. She’d somehow found out that Hathaway had shut down the project to start up a new lab.
But what is the fourth? None of it made any sense.
Pushing off the dresser, her eyes skimmed over her bed—and caught. She squinted at the side she always slept on. At the indentation in the bedspread. An indentation in the shape of a body.
Her breath stuck in her throat as she scanned the room for anything else out of the ordinary.
Nothing.
Then her attention shifted to the floor, to the shadowed undercarriage of her bed. With lightning speed, her mind recalled all the movies where the main character had knelt by the edge of the bed and peered underneath, into a black void, until a hand shot out…
She took three steps back before dropping to her knees and bending forward until her temple grazed the hardwood floor.
Nothing.
She rested her cheek against the cool boards for a second while she caught her breath, then pushed to her feet. Room by room, she made a systematic search of the bungalow, with her pack and gun at hand.
Besides an unlocked bathroom window, the only thing her surveillance flushed out was an indecent amount of dust bunnies.
Now that the initial scare had passed, she returned to her bedroom, certain she’d lost her mind. She studied the bedspread from different angles and came to the same conclusion.
Someone had lain on her bed.
She moved to her pillow and bent close. A familiar scent filled her nose. She closed her eyes and concentrated, but no name surfaced.
Who the hell was sneaking into the house and violating her personal space? Had Coen been right about the guy in the Audi?
Straightening, she toyed with the idea of going to Maggie’s for the night. No sooner than the thought formed, it disintegrated beneath her formidable Kingston stubbornness. She might not be able to sleep in her bed tonight, but she wouldn’t leave her home.
Nothing was damaged or stolen. Who knew? Maybe Randi or Britt had stopped by and took a siesta.
To be safe, she would pass on the information to Maggie. But first she had a big decision to make.
She marched into the kitchen. Should she drink something to calm her nerves or eat something that would kick her brain into overdrive?
So many unanswered questions swirled around her mind. The answers for each one dangled just out of her reach.
She blew out a breath, resetting the mental chaos in her head. “Ice cream it is.”
Hauling out a new quart of Turtle Tango, she ripped off the lid and plunged a spoon inside, not even bothering with a bowl. One of the many perks of being single—she could double-dip all day long and not get one sideways glance.
Cold, sweet, and smooth, the ice cream slid over her tongue and down into her stomach. She shuffled into the family room and paused by the couch, shoveling spoonfuls of goodness into her mouth. The scrape of the spoon against the container echoed through the silent house.
Flopping onto the couch, she cradled the quart to her chest and put her feet up on the coffee table. She attacked her Tango like an expert ballroom dancer.
Some people hated being alone. But she found answers in the quiet. It allowed her to think, analyze, pick at her wedgies. She didn’t have to pretend to be anyone except her curious self.
But there were times when crawling inside another’s embrace also appealed to her. She would love to have someone smooth a hand over her hair and croon comforting nonsense into her ear, like her dad used to do when something in Riley’s world hadn’t gone right.
What would it be like to snuggle with a warrior like Coen? Strong, brave, deliberate. Intense. Would his hands be rough and his whiskered chin sharp against her skin? Would the taut, ribbed flesh on his stomach be hard as stone or smooth as silk?
She squeezed her eyes shut; her glasses suddenly felt like a thousand-pound weight sitting on her nose. She flipped her glasses up onto her head and rubbed at the indents the nose guards left behind.
The Warrior and The Researcher. The title sounded like a nursery rhyme gone wrong. It was definitely not the makings of a romance. Why even start anything when he would be returning to duty soon?
She stared at the ceiling, wondering if she should just
slouch there and wallow in her own pity party or if she should ditch the ice cream and upload this morning’s flora findings into the database.
“Ice cream or data entry?” For most people, the choice would be simple. But she thrived on both. Both fed different parts of her brain. Both gave her pleasure.
Three sharp raps on her door forced her upright, like a vampire rising from her coffin. Who could that be at this hour? With all the curtains closed, she couldn’t peek at her visitor.
Heart hammering, she sat there, unmoving, unsure. Would a killer knock? Yes, if he was a friend.
She shoveled a big mound of ice cream into her mouth, recalling all the movies and news reports regarding lack of forced entry, leading to speculation that the victim had known her murderer.
Brain freeze! She pressed her fingers to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. “Ow, ow, ow,” she whispered. Her glasses slid off her head and dropped onto her nose with a dull thud.
Another series of impatient knocks kicked her heartbeat into overdrive. Still holding her ice cream, she tiptoed to the door and set her ear to the wooden panel.
Silence.
Straightening, she stared at the door. Was she being smart or stupid?
Undecided, she lifted another spoonful of Turtle Tango to her mouth.
“Riley, it’s me.”
The pressure on her chest disappeared at the sound of her sister’s voice.
Stupid it is.
Rotating the deadbolt, she opened the door to find Maggie in her sheriff’s garb.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Hunky-dory now.” Maggie swiped the ice cream carton from where Riley had it clutched to her chest and the spoon from her hand as she strode inside. “I always knew you were a closet sweet eater.” They stood in silence while she helped herself to Riley’s ice cream. “Mmmm, I needed that.”
Riley shut the door. “How did you know?”
“Really? I’m the one who used to sneak you Fla-Vor-Ice bars.” She dropped an overnight duffel onto the floor. “Besides that, when it was just you and me, I found ice cream sandwich wrappers in your trash.”
“You went through my garbage?”
“Yep. Can’t say that I ever found anything exciting. Except for that half-written love letter to Tommy somebody or other.”
Searing Need Page 18