Searing Need

by Tracey Devlyn

  “Dammit!”

  All he’d needed was five more minutes. Five minutes to gut out his tale to Riley. But like every other time he’d tried to unload his story, he’d succumbed to the avalanche of emotions and retreated.

  “I will not let this rule my life. I will not become a goddamn PTSD statistic. I will not.”

  Dropping his hand, he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and inhaled several even breaths. His senses opened, taking in the heavy mountain air, chattering birds, and whistling leaves. As always, the simple, biological action slowly reset his freak-out meter and calmed the electrical current sparking in his veins.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he contemplated returning to his campsite. How would he explain his explosive reaction to her straightforward question? Especially after she’d been so supportive and patient.

  What must she be thinking right now? At the very least, she’d label him rude and unpredictable. At the very worst, she’d slap him with a disorder and consider him unstable.

  Neither option set well with him.

  He wanted her to see him as strong and courageous and compassionate and solid. He wanted her to laugh more, sleep more, enjoy life more.

  He wanted her to sleep peacefully next to him, not be ripped from her dreams by his nightmares.

  He wanted to not fear lying next to her.

  Son of a bitch, he just wanted her.

  Before he made a conscious decision on his direction, his feet did an about-face and headed back to the greenhouse. To Riley.

  Groveling apology after groveling apology swerved through his mind like the Scrambler ride at an amusement park, each one more pathetic than the rest.

  Expecting to find Riley pacing outside or toe-tapping at the door or peering out a window, he frowned at her visible absence. In fact, a malevolent stillness drenched the air, sending a stab of warning straight into his heart.

  “Riley!” he bellowed as he tore open the door to the greenhouse. He ran down the center aisle, scanning left, right, left, right. “Riley! Camilla!”

  Not a murmur or scuffle or a pair of concerned eyes. What he did find was Riley’s backpack on the desk, with its contents strewn all around. From the looks of it, she’d been searching for something and, in her impatience, upended the whole pack.

  What had she been looking for in such a hurry? Coen sifted through her personal belongings and came across her wallet and keys. Opening her wallet, he found thirteen dollars and a major credit card still tucked inside. Heat pounded in his ears.

  Something was off. Way off.

  He glanced around the greenhouse again. Where had she gone? She couldn’t be far, not without her keys. He studied the bits of Riley’s life scattered across the table. What had she been searching for?

  The mess before him took on a whole new meaning. Riley hadn’t been the one rummaging through her backpack. Someone else had. Someone searching for Dr. Young’s research journal.

  Landry.

  Had the bastard kidnapped Riley? What about Camilla? Terror flooded his mind, making him light-headed.

  Focus, Monroe. Focus.

  Whipping around, he ran down the aisle and slammed through the door. He did a three-sixty, scanning the area for Riley’s brown head. His chest heaved and his thoughts splintered. Trees spiraled around him, and the whirring pulse of insects became deafening.

  Focus, Monroe. Focus!

  He forced himself to calm down, to dig into his training. To open his senses and begin a perimeter search. A robotic detachment took hold of him, and he operated on muscle memory alone. All emotion got shoved down into a tiny, airless compartment.

  A few yards away, he spotted a narrow path of trampled vegetation cutting into the woods. When he moved deeper into the tangle of trees and found a boot scrape on the forest floor, he gave no thought to calling anyone for help. He would be able to locate Riley faster on his own.

  And he wanted no witnesses to what he would do to her captor.

  A little farther along the path, he heard something thrashing in the undergrowth. Slowing his pace, he crept toward the sound and found Riley gagged and bound to a tree, struggling to free herself.

  The moment she caught sight of him, her body sagged with relief.

  It was the last thing he saw before his world went black.

  48

  “Do you have the journal?”

  Riley stilled at the clipped voice booming through Nick’s cell phone. He sat on a stool, a few feet away from where he had her strapped to her desk chair.

  After Nick had forced her away from the greenhouse, he’d tied her to a tree, then went inside to search for the journal. A few minutes later, he’d emerged enraged but not empty-handed.

  With Coen’s broad shoulders blocking her line of sight, she hadn’t seen Nick’s approach—until it was too late. She could still hear the sickening thud of the butt of her pistol connecting with Coen’s head.

  After ranting for a full minute about running out of time, Nick had manhandled them both back into the greenhouse, securing her to a desk chair and Coen to the couch.

  Riley glanced at Coen’s unconscious body, and a cold hand of fear squeezed her heart. How long did it take for someone to recover from head trauma?

  “There’s been a complication,” Nick said, his tone frigid.

  “We’ve been here before. I’m done waiting.”

  Nick slanted her a glance. “The journal’s within reach.”

  “Then finish it. Get rid of the obstacles and head back to Costa Rica.”

  She concentrated on the caller’s voice. Something about it seemed familiar, as though she’d spoken to the man before.

  Once again, Nick settled his golden eyes on her. A chill sprinted down her spine.

  Not in all the months they’d worked together had she ever suspected him of being a sociopath. How had she missed something that now seemed so obvious?

  Maybe murder was just a means to an end. Maybe he saw his victims as roadblocks that needed to be removed. A—what had he called Camilla’s death?—collateral damage.

  Greed as his motivation seemed even more disgusting than him being a sociopath. At least the latter could be attributed to the state of his mental health. The former seemed so common, so Hollywood-esque, so disappointing.

  Other than noting a slight tightening of Nick’s jaw, she couldn’t determine his receptiveness to the idea of murdering her.

  “This isn’t a time for rash action,” Nick said.

  “Rash? I have been patient beyond what was in my best interest.”

  “I—”

  “You’re allowing emotion to warp your sense of priority. Give up this unnatural obsession, son. We have work to do.”

  “I can’t believe you’re lecturing me about obsessions.”

  At the word “obsession,” her heart stuttered inside her chest. She’d been holding out hope that she could reason with Nick. After all, he was a scientist like her. He operated in a world of logic and facts. But an obsessed sociopath would be deaf to any such pleas.

  “Should I send Booker to sort this out?”

  “No. I’ll take care it.”

  “I’ll give you one more opportunity to fix this. Don’t disappoint me again.”

  Nick jerked the phone from his ear and stared at the display. “Bastard!” He threw the phone onto the desk.

  “Who’s Booker?” Riley’s arms ached from being secured at the back of the chair.

  His features hardened into something dispassionate and terrifying. “Someone you don’t ever want to meet.”

  In a spurt of defiance, she asked, “What makes him any more dangerous than you?”

  “Booker enjoys the hunt. Takes pleasure in people’s suffering.”

  Riley picked at her bindings. “Whereas you kill with remorse and regret?”

  “I neither enjoy it nor feel the heavy weight of my conscience after taking a life. I do what needs to be done.”

  “For Dr. Hathaway?”

  Surpri
se widened his eyes.

  During their dinner, Nick had mentioned that Dr. Young was nothing more than a tool and Dr. Hathaway was the one who had established the new lab. Connecting Hathaway to the murders hadn’t required much of a leap. She just hadn’t allowed herself to make the jump until now.

  The tightness around her wrists gave a little, and blood rushed back into her fingers.

  “Had you not proven to be so… empathetic,” Nick said, “he would’ve allowed you to stay in Costa Rica.”

  “That’s why I wasn’t one of the chosen few? Because I cared about the people and plants?”

  “Your relentless pursuit of information made you one of the most valuable members of the team in the beginning. But that same tenacity made you too dangerous in the end.”

  “Because I would’ve uncovered Hathaway’s scheme?”

  “Rather than refocusing your considerable energy toward perfecting a cure for erectile dysfunction, you would’ve made an issue about our methods for securing the active ingredient.”

  It was all too much. Too much to process, too much betrayal, too much… heartbreak.

  On a shuddering breath, she said, “What a shock it must have been when you realized how badly you’d underestimated Camilla.”

  His jaw tightened, and something ugly molded into his features. “I would argue she was the one who underestimated me.”

  “Bastard,” she spat. “Hathaway could have avoided all this if he’d been upfront about his purpose.”

  “Would you have accepted the position?”

  Would she have? Curing men’s equipment might not be as earth-shattering as curing psoriasis, but it would have an impact. A big impact.

  “Who’s to say?” She stabbed him with a your-boss-is-an-asshole look. “Hathaway didn’t give me a chance to decide one way or the other.”

  A smile played on his lips, one full of longing and understanding. “You would’ve picked people and plants over science and progress. Hathaway knew it, I knew it, and you know it.”

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned toward her, fixing those beautiful, terrifying eyes on her. “Where’s the journal, Riley?”

  She poured steel into her backbone and didn’t break visual contact. “Safe.” If he knew how easy it was to find it, he’d kill her for the insult alone.

  “Nothing’s ever safe.”

  “If that’s the case, you’ll have no problem locating it. By yourself.” Her bindings loosened a little more. “Better yet, why don’t you have Dr. Mastermind come and find it. I have a few things to get off my chest.”

  “Don’t underestimate Hathaway.” A rough, almost desperate note laced his warning.

  Something nagged at the back of her mind. Something… important. She studied his profile while she rewound through their conversation.

  Her search screeched to a halt, landing on a single word. “What is Dr. Hathaway to you? Employer, or—father?”

  Neither surprise nor bluster met her question. Instead, he displayed his rogue’s smile, the one that had curled women’s toes across Central America. “There you are.”

  49

  The lover’s caress in Nick Landry’s voice made Coen want to give up his pretense of sleep and beat the shit out of the guy.

  He’d been out cold until something hard hitting the desk had roused him from a concussion-induced sleep. He’d lain on the couch, unmoving, listening to Landry break Riley’s heart one word at a time.

  So many times he’d come close to telling the fucker to shut up. But he’d known Riley would want to hear Hathaway’s scheme in its entirety.

  Project Endurance’s benefactor had capitalized on her passion and used it against her.

  Once again he tested the rope around his wrists and ankles. His bindings didn’t budge.

  Where was Camilla? He hadn’t heard her voice since waking. Had she been knocked unconscious too? Or had she escaped Landry’s detection?

  He hoped the latter.

  “You don’t deny that Dr. Hathaway is your father?” Riley asked.

  “Why would I? He’s a ruthless son of a bitch, but I’ve made a fortune at his side.”

  “‘At his side’?” She snorted. “I’ve never seen anyone lick their master’s butt more thoroughly than you.”

  Slap! The sound of flesh against flesh snapped Coen upright. “Touch her again, Landry, and I’ll rip your fingers off, one by one.”

  She sat tied to a chair, defiant, yet wide-eyed at his sudden movement. Landry, on the other hand, brushed off Coen’s warning like a pesky mosquito as he rested his ass against the desk, next to Riley. The bulge beneath Landry’s overshirt suggested he carried a concealed weapon.

  Crossing his legs at the ankle, Landry said, “I wondered what it would take to make you break out of your pretense.” He nodded to Coen’s bound ankles. To the length of rope connecting his feet to the couch. “Careful. If you try any heroics, your tether will go taut and you’ll land on that pretty face of yours.”

  A bead of sweat slid down the back of Coen’s neck, and his hands curled into fists.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  Like an axe cleaved it in half. “I’ve survived far worse.”

  Landry’s strike had left a streak of scarlet across her left cheek. “You okay?” he asked.

  “It’ll take more than a daddy’s boy to break me.”

  Lightning fast, Landry grasped her by the throat and forced her head back. “Don’t you recall? I have a number of special talents.” He brought his face level with hers, air-tracing her features with his nose. “Should we show your lover the one I perfected in Costa Rica? I wonder if he’ll still want you after watching you scream in my arms?”

  “Let her go,” Coen demanded. Heat blurred his vision, and the throbbing in his head intensified. An image of Kendra, bloody and screaming for her captors to stop, kept superimposing over Riley.

  He fought against his bindings, the flesh at his wrists shredding beneath the strength of the coarse rope.

  Even with her neck stretched to an unnatural angle, Riley spoke to him in a low, modulated voice. “I’m fine, Coen.” Her attention shifted back to Landry, though she continued to address him. “Casanova won’t hurt me.”

  Landry’s fingers dug into her neck, igniting a deep-rooted trembling in Coen’s gut. He blinked hard, trying to diffuse Kendra’s image. He wouldn’t break. Not now. Not when Riley needed him. He wouldn’t.

  Lightning flashed overhead, followed by the slow rumble of thunder.

  Despite having a murderer squeezing off her airflow, Riley stared Landry down, hatred sparking in her gunmetal eyes. Landry’s face was mottled with rage.

  Afraid she’d pushed Landry too far, Coen tried to redirect his attention. “Killing her won’t solve your problem.”

  “Actually, it will.”

  “If I had my Leatherman,” she wheezed, catching Coen’s eye. “I’d level the playing field with Casanova.”

  Slap! The taunt hit its mark.

  Why the hell was she provoking Landry?

  “Don’t you want Young’s journal?” she asked.

  “Right at this moment? No. My need to purge you from my blood is much greater.” With unerring precision, Landry rolled his attention to Coen. “And you’re going to watch.”

  He surged forward until his tether snapped taut. Just like Landry had predicted, he pitched forward. With his hands bound behind his back, his head glanced off the concrete floor, scrambling his brains even more.

  “Coen!”

  He blinked several times to clear his vision. Lifting his head sent shards of glass into his brain.

  “Consider this my one and only mercy.” Landry rolled him into a sitting position and then drag-dumped him onto the couch. The action jostled something free from between the cushions.

  The moment his fingers slid over the leathery surface, he knew what had literally fallen in his hands.

  Riley’s Leatherman.

  When she’d sat next to him
earlier, she’d removed the multi-tool from her belt in order to get closer to him. No wonder she’d challenged her captor. She’d been trying to send him a message.

  Using his half-reclined position to his advantage, he dug the multi-tool out of its leather casing and pried open the screwdriver and bottle cap opener before he finally located the knife.

  Large raindrops smacked against the windowpanes, slowly at first, followed by a stronger staccato.

  “Where’s the journal, Riley?” Landry asked, all hint of his lewd threats gone. He raked his hand through his perfectly groomed hair. “Give it to me and we can all move on from this.”

  Riley’s eyes sharpened, and he knew she’d caught Landry’s telling gesture too.

  “Who’s turned stupid now, Nick?” she asked. “Do you really think I believe that you and Hathaway are going to let us live?”

  “Don’t mix me into the same cup as Hathaway.”

  “Why? Because you’re so much more ethical?”

  Nick stormed over to Riley, twirled her chair around, and rolled her to the edge of the greenhouse, where a large potted plant stood. He grabbed the rim of the pot and dragged it several feet away, revealing several rain-slicked windowpanes.

  Riley sucked in a sharp breath.

  Coen craned his neck to see what had upset her.

  Just outside the greenhouse sat the utility-terrain vehicle Riley used for transportation to and from the center. Inside the UTV, Camilla struggled against her restraints while trying to protect herself against the wind and driving rain. But with her arms stretched above her head and tied to the steel piping framing the passenger compartment and her feet secured to something below his line of sight, she had little defense against the elements.

  “She’s alive,” Riley said on a sob.

  “For how long, depends on you,” Nick said.

  Tears slid down her face. “How did I ever mistake you for a friend?”

  He ran a finger along her damp cheek. “Our friendship was the only genuine relationship I had down there.”

  She leaned away from his touch, hatred in her eyes. “If this is how you treat people you care about, you’re more fucked up than I realized.”