by S. R. Grey
He laughs and places his hand on my knee. Giving it a light squeeze, he says, “I see your point. I’ll be sure to make it up to you later. How’s that sound?”
His low voice and now-wandering fingers hold promise, leading me to breathe out, “Mmm, that works for me.”
I like that after the past couple of days of sullenness, my flirtatious, fun Farren is reemerging. I tilt my head back and enjoy Farren’s hand on the inside of my thigh, caressing softly as the blazing sun warms me further. And it’s in that exact second I finally admit to myself what I’ve known for a while—I’m starting to fall in love with Farren Shaw.
There’s no point in denying it any longer. Admitting it silently, to my own self only, doesn’t mean I’m ready to share the news with the object of my affection. Farren doesn’t strike me as a man with time for relationships and love. Hell, he already told me he doesn’t come with promises.
I cover his hand with mine, halting any further progression up my leg. That motion earns me a sidelong glance.
“Everything okay?” Farren wants to know.
“Yep, everything is great,” I say. I don’t add what I’m thinking: for now.
We travel a dozen dusty desert roads, making turn after turn. Finally, we slow to an almost-stop and drive—very slowly—off onto a large, flat area of sand and sparse desert vegetation. We stop a few hundred yards in, at a wide clearing where several tall saguaro cacti are lined up in a perfectly straight row. It looks as if someone planted them that way on purpose. But I doubt that was the case. Nature often has a way of giving order to the most random of things.
When I’m out of the car, I take note that many of the cacti are riddled with bullet holes.
“Aha,” I say to Farren, who is leaning into the storage space behind the seats. “We’re here to shoot stuff, aren’t we?”
I’ve been bugging Farren to teach me how to shoot, and it seems a shooting lesson is, indeed, what’s in store for today.
When Farren straightens, there’s a gun in his hand. He’s loading it. “That’s exactly why we’re here,” he replies.
Pointing over at a badly shot-up cactus, I say, “We’re not going to shoot at that poor thing, are we?”
“One, among many,” Farren quips.
“Oh,” I reply.
He glances over at me from where he’s loading a cartridge into another gun—a .45. “Trust me, Essa, they won’t feel a thing.”
“But they look so wounded already,” I protest.
Farren chuckles amusedly. “Babe, we’re a little limited on targets out here. Do you have a better suggestion?”
I shield my eyes from the blazing sun with my hand and scan the area. There’s nothing but cacti and rocks. “Nope, I guess they’ll have to do,” I conclude.
Farren hands me the .45 and says, “Let’s go see what kind of damage you can do, Essa.”
Minutes later, Farren is behind me, his hard body pressed to mine as he steadies my grip on the gun. “Pick out a spot,” he says softly into my ear. “Then squeeze the trigger gently.”
It’s a little hard to concentrate with Farren so close. It makes me think of the many times over the past few days when we’ve been this close. Closer even, and gloriously naked, joined as one. A delightful shiver runs through me at my recollection.
I smile and lean back into Farren. I know he’s smiling, too. He’s probably thinking the same thing as me.
Still, ever focused on my lesson, he urges me to pay attention. “Concentrate, Essalin,” he says.
“I am,” I reply, and then I pull the trigger.
I hit my target—a tall saguaro—dead center, at the exact point I was aiming for. “Wow,” I mouth.
“Shit,” Farren mutters under his breath. “I think you may be a natural.”
I nestle back into him and close my eyes. He feels so good. “I did okay, then?”
His mouth at my ear, he whispers, “You did better than okay, sweetheart.”
His low, sexy voice and his masculine scent distract me. I lower the gun and turn to him. “Can I tell you something, Farren?”
He nods once.
“It’s kind of bad,” I warn as I lower my chin and look up at him through my lashes.
“All the more reason to tell me,” he replies huskily.
In a husky voice of my own, I say, “I am so turned on right now I can barely concentrate.”
He sighs, lowers his lips to mine, and kisses me gently. When he pulls back, he says softly, “Later, Essa.” I groan, but he holds resolute. Turning my body so I’m once again facing the target, he says in a serious voice, “Right now, I need for you to learn how to protect yourself. I don’t know what we may encounter before this is all over. I want you to be ready for anything.”
Now, I’m certain things aren’t going as smoothly as planned. There must be some kind of trouble with Rick and Haven. That is why Farren has been so quiet the past few days.
I take the rest of my shooting lesson seriously, listening to and putting into action every single thing he suggests. And, like with my first shot, I remain surprisingly accurate.
“Maybe I am a natural,” I say to Farren when the shooting lesson is over and we’re packing up the car. “I think you were right.”
“I usually am,” he replies lightly.
I roll my eyes and mutter, “You are so cocky.”
With a chuckle, he finishes placing the guns in the car.
When he hands me the keys, I say, “Are you sure? I was only teasing earlier. I don’t have to drive.”
“But you want to, right?”
“I do,” I admit.
“Then it’s settled,” he says.
As we drive back in the direction of the Blue Cactus Inn, I pay no heed to any posted speed limits. I’m too busy enjoying Farren’s amazing car.
Farren says, “Turn here,” when we’re a few miles from the motel.
“We’re not going directly back?” I question.
“Nah,” he says lightly, “let’s play a little; see what this thing can do.”
With that decided, we have a blast with the Ferrari. Each of us takes a turn opening it up on various empty stretches of pavement. By the time we pull into the motel parking lot, Farren and I are exhausted from our fun in the sun.
It’s twilight, and as Farren and I walk to our room—hands touching—under a muted blue-and-orange-streaked sky, it feels as if we’re the only two souls on earth. We’re sort of in a Farren-Essa zone, but the minute we step into the room, Farren’s burner phone rings.
Farren takes the phone into the bathroom for more privacy, and I flop down on the bed. Through the closed door, I hear enough to discern he is speaking with Rick.
When the call ends, Farren remains in the bathroom. The water starts up, and I hear him stepping into the shower. I could use a shower myself—I’m sweaty and dusty from our time in the desert—but I hold off on joining him. I know if I’m in the shower with Farren, we’ll get distracted.
I’m still smiling at that thought when Farren emerges from the bathroom, a white towel perched dangerously low on his waist.
I take a few minutes to admire him. He’s all damp skin, lightly tanned from the hot desert sun, and sharply defined muscles. God, he is unfairly gorgeous. And he’s mine…at least for now.
Oblivious to my perusal, Farren turns away and drops his towel.
“God, you have a great ass,” I blurt out.
While I continue to admire his taut behind, Farren chuckles, making it clear he’s all too aware I’ve been checking him out.
I go to him.
Gently, I touch the scar on his lower back, and he turns to me, magnificent in his nakedness. He raises a questioning eyebrow.
“This isn’t over, is it?” I whisper.
“Not by a long shot,” he admits flatly.
“That was Rick you were talking to, right?”
He nods, and I swallow the lump that rises in my throat. “Whatever you end up having to do, Farren, please
, please be careful.”
He cups my cheek. “I’ll be fine, babe. I always am.”
My hand is still wrapped around him, touching his scar. I tap it lightly. “Not always,” I remind him.
He smiles sadly. “Take your shower, Essa. We need to leave tonight.”
“Tonight?” I take a step back. “Why? What’s happening now?”
“Albuquerque is off. We’re heading straight down to Las Cruces, and I’d like to get there before morning.”
My insides are flipping and flopping at what this sudden change in plans might mean. I softly inquire, “Is Haven all right?”
“For now she is.” Farren closes his eyes, pained. When he opens them, there’s true concern in his emerald gaze. “I need to get down there, though. Something was off with the doctor. It wasn’t the original guy I sent. Rick thinks their location may have been divulged.”
“To the bad guys?” I ask shakily.
“Yes,” he replies.
I gasp, and Farren soothes me by placing his hand on my arm. Caressing me gently, he says, “Haven’s been moved to another safe house. She should be fine there, but I can’t take another chance. Not when Rick is the only man there to protect her.”
“What about the team he had assembled?” I ask. “The ones who helped him rescue her.”
“They’ve been dispersed,” Farren explains. “It’s not as if the team hangs out together for a few days after the mission is complete.”
“Oh…” I trail off. And then I say brightly, “Well, at least Rick is still there.”
Farren sighs. “That’s true. And he’s good. But not as good as me.”
His words aren’t uttered in a cocky tone. It just is what it is. When it comes to things like this—protecting people, engaging in ongoing dangerous missions—I’ve already figured out that Farren is the best.
He wraps his arms around me and holds me for a minute, until I say quietly, “I better get cleaned up so we can get going.”
He nods once, and I slip out of his grasp and into the bathroom. It’s still humid and misty in the small space, but the mirror is mostly clear. As I start to undress, I assess my reflection.
Wow. I am almost unrecognizable. Not just that, but I also feel as different as I look. I’m no longer the timid, afraid-to-take chances college student I was the day I left Oakwood. And it shows in my confident expression.
But that’s just the start.
I slip the blue tank that Farren thought matched today’s sky over my head. My skin is lightly bronzed from the sun, just like his. My hair is lighter, blonder than usual. Dark blonde has turned to a light golden shade, complete with coppery highlights.
My body is different, too. I’m thinner than I was and firmer in places I wasn’t so very firm before. “It’s all the great sex,” I murmur to my reflection in the mirror.
But there’s something more. There’s a sparkle in my eyes that wasn’t there before.
I feel alive, really alive. And I know why. The reason for that not-so-minor change is the man in the next room.
As we travel through the night, under a velvet blanket of black that appears covered with a million stars, the temperatures plummet. Relieved that I grabbed a light jacket from my suitcase before I packed everything, I tug the denim fabric tightly around my body. The flimsy tangerine top I’m wearing is no match for the cool nighttime desert air.
Farren, ever observant of my movements and ever-thoughtful of my needs, turns on the heat. “Cold?” he inquires.
“Just a little,” I confirm. I nod to the vents, where warm air is starting to pour out, and add, “Thanks, though.”
“Of course,” he says.
I appreciate that he’s thinking of me, as I know there are far more important things weighing on his mind. Things like getting our butts down to the southern part of the state as quickly as possible. So far, we’ve stuck solely to the interstates, but Farren now hits the turn signal and moves over to the exit lane.
“Are we stopping somewhere?” I inquire.
“No,” he says. “I just think we can make better time on the back roads since it’s so late.”
“Okay,” I say, yawning. It is late, very late, and I can barely keep my eyes open.
Farren pats my knee, his hand sliding up under the black material of my maxi skirt so he can feel my skin. He likes my skin, he likes touching me.
“Get some sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers.
A few minutes later, with Farren’s comforting hand on me, I fall asleep.
Sometime around dawn, I wake with a start. Farren’s hand is gone, as is Farren. I sit up quickly, blinking. I’m still in the Ferrari, which is pulled off, askew, in a gully on the side of a desolate stretch of road. There’s not a soul in sight, just wilderness everywhere I glance.
Staring out at the stretch of black asphalt directly in front of me, the bright yellow line in the center blurs in the dim early morning light. The rising sun blankets the vast desert, the distant mountains, and the sparse vegetation.
“Where are we?” I mutter, even though I’m all by myself.
Where is Farren?
For a second, I panic. And then I spot him out in the desert. Farren is a dark silhouette, standing quietly, shoulders squared. He’s staring out at the mountains in the distance as the rising sun turns the peaks from silt brown to blood red.
I don’t know what’s wrong with Farren, but I sense from his tense stance that something is nagging him.
I get out of the car and go to him. My skirt and top billow wildly, stirred by breezes not yet warmed by the sun. Glad that I tied the jean jacket around my waist last night after the car finally warmed up, I loosen the knot at my middle and work the denim fabric up my arms.
Warmed, I continue walking.
But when I reach Farren, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He just continues to stare pensively at the blood-red mountains.
I touch his forearm. “Farren?”
Snapping out of whatever trance he was in, he turns to me. Smiling sadly, he says my name. And then he reaches out and trails his index finger from my cheek to my lips.
I kiss the tip of his finger, but he drops his hand. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
Sighing, he says, “Remember when I told you about the man named Dawson?”
“Yes, the elderly businessman who’s secretly evil.”
“He’s not elderly, Essa,” Farren says, smiling slightly at my mistaken assumption. But his smile fades quickly when he continues. “Dawson is an older man, yes, but never let his age fool you. He’s not to be underestimated.” He pauses. “You are right about one thing, though.”
“What is that?”
“Dawson is absolutely evil.”
I involuntarily shudder, and not from the chill still hanging in the air. “So, what do you need to tell me about him?” I whisper.
“I have to go meet him.”
My chest tightens. “Why?”
“Many reasons,” Farren says cryptically.
“Oh,” I murmur.
He goes on. “Ideally, I’d prefer to meet him alone”—his gaze goes to me—“but I can’t.”
“Why can’t you meet him alone?”
“He knows I’m in New Mexico, Essa. And, unfortunately, he’s been made aware that I’m not alone. He knows you’re traveling with me.”
Okay, this is not good, I think.
“So”—my voice cracks—“you’re taking me with you to meet him.”
After an audible, frustrated exhale, he says, “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think it’s best if I do. You’ll be safer with me than if you waited somewhere alone.”
I know Farren means there’s a chance I’ll be abducted—like Haven was—if he leaves me alone in some motel somewhere.
“Why do we need to meet him?” I press.
Farren runs his hand down his perfect features, always beautiful, but especially so in this early red-dawn light. “Dawson is under the impression I’ve gone rogue. Contrary to what I
first believed, he has no idea I’ve been working for the man I told you about. The man named Mr. Barnes.”
“The man who lost his daughter?”
“Yes, that man.” Farren takes a breath, and then continues. “I was so convinced Dawson must have figured out my true motives for infiltrating his organization. I was sure that was why he abducted my sister. But though he did take Haven as retaliation, it was for a different reason. He thinks I rescued those girls in Venezuela so I could sell them in my own trafficking ring. He thinks I stole what he views as his property.”
“Property?” I scrunch up my face. “God, he really is sick.”
“He’s also very dangerous,” Farren says grimly. “But having him believe I’ve gone rogue is the best-case scenario.”
“For who?”
“For everyone involved,” Farren replies, though that tells me nothing.
“So, what do we do?” I ask.
“We meet with Dawson. I let him think I was planning to start my own sex-slave ring.”
I cringe, and Farren reminds me, “It’s just a cover story, Essa.”
“I know. But still…”
Farren ignores my commentary and continues. “I need for him to think I changed my mind. I need him to think that his taking Haven made me reconsider. Let him believe he sent the message not to mess with his business, let him think it was received. He’ll think his plan worked, and he’ll leave Haven alone.” His expression softens as he adds, “It will also ensure that you’ll be safe from here on out, too.”
Farren’s words, though comforting, remind me that my time with him will come to an end, and soon. In response, my heart clenches and a lump forms in my throat. I have all these feelings for Farren. If I just poured my heart out to him here and now, then maybe…
But, no, I can’t say anything. Not when we have this important—and potentially dangerous—meeting to contend with.
Resolving that I’ll talk with Farren later, I lift my chin, my focus renewed on what needs to be done first. “What do you need me to do?” I inquire.
Farren explains the logistics of the meeting. We’re to meet Dawson at a home he owns near the Mexican border. “It’s a point of operations,” Farren says somberly.
