Chapter 11
Goosebumps rise along the silky skin of her legs. She shaves to just above her knee. The giveaway is the straight line below a smattering of golden hairs, twinkling under the sun’s rays.
I should remove my hands from her knees because my dick has been steadily thickening. Given the context of the conversation, it’s a completely inappropriate reaction.
Given I’m here for a job, and my boss spent a lot of money to ensure we have different bedrooms, I should back the fuck up and take what I just learned to the team.
I hear the brutal honesty in her voice. See it in her body posture. Jack Sullivan may be unsure he can trust her, but I trust her.
If she was hiding anything, it was the guilt from participation in what they were doing.
My gaze fixates on her thighs. She’s sitting on the edge of the lounge chair. Her shorts have ridden up…and.
Christ.
Stop it.
I pat her leg. Touching her because she needs it. I sense that. Patting her like a friend because I need to get my head out of the gutter and focused.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You were held against your will too.”
I squeeze her shapely thigh one last time because I’m a masochist, and then I push back. My smaller head might be juggling the idea of crossing lines with her, but I won’t. We need to find answers.
“So, I take it your logic is that Origins would never be involved in the organ trade, and therefore they couldn’t be responsible for your abduction?”
“Exactly. Origins is first and foremost interested in research that delivers for its investors. I mean, most of the research conducted at the labs is related to anti-aging products. Skin-focused. My research is the one project that could one day—and realistically, it’s not as far away as you think—lead to a scenario where we can grow functional organs.”
“You dream big.” Can’t hate someone for having big dreams. If anything, jealousy stabs me. I’ve lived my big dreams. Climbing ranks, qualifying for Special Forces, a SEAL team, highlights of my life. I long for dreams.
“Yes. And no. A team at Mass Gen and Harvard Medical School used adult skin cells to regenerate functional human heart tissue. They infused hearts with a nutrient solution and allowed them to grow. After two weeks, the hearts contained well-structured tissue that looked similar to immature hearts. And… get this.” The skin along her slender neck flushes. “When they shocked the immature hearts with electricity, they started beating.” She cocks her head. “Why are you grinning? It’s not funny.”
“You’re not even looking at my face. How do you know I’m grinning?”
“I’m looking at your face.”
No, she’s not. Her gaze bounces all around, but she’s not a person who looks someone in the eye. “You’re totally geeking out. I’m not knocking you. I love it.”
“It’s world changing innovation. Growing an entire human heart is conceivable. And, if we can grow them, we can create individualized hearts so transplant rejection will no longer be a side effect.” Now, she looks right up at me, and this time she’s the one who touches my leg, and her touch travels to my groin. She’s got dark brown eyes with thick brown eyebrows that capture you, drawing you in. My heartbeat kicks up a notch above resting. Under her intense gaze, I’m the one blinking, shifting because my briefs are now uncomfortable, and I look away to the ocean.
There’s a thin strip of sand and miles of jewel blue water. No one’s on the beach. We’re away from the hotels and the resorts. This job is a solar system away from my deployments in the Navy.
“Anyway, my old boss called my research a pet project. He was an ass.”
“Growing heart tissue was a pet project? What did they hire you to do?”
“Organoid research. The heart tissue. But then the woman who hired me went back to the States, and the new investors started placing priority on financial returns. And I had to pick up the other project.” She sounds incredibly bored with the concept. A loud sigh underscores her lack of enthusiasm. “We’re trying to find the right dosage levels that won’t bring on unwanted side effects for this anti-wrinkling product.”
“Oh. What are the side effects?” I’m not a medical guy, but I’ve injured myself enough to know that sometimes medicinal side effects suck balls.
“Suppressed immune system. And then you can get all kinds of things, you know, like cancer.”
“Yeah, I’d say that qualifies as a detrimental side effect.”
She waves dismissively. “Whoever can get it right and get it approved for use is going to make a mint. I didn’t want to work on it. I only came here to work on trying to duplicate the Mass Gen team’s work, only I wanted to grow the heart to maturity. And here, no one’s checking in on us. We can do whatever we want. I mean, there are international laws, but it’s…” Again, she waves her hand. “Those laws are put in place by people who don’t understand. Politicians who don’t understand cellular behavior and deal in fear.”
“How’d they talk you into working on the skin project?”
“Rapamycin. That’s the project. My boss offered to triple my salary if I took over the project.”
“Wow.” I jumped ship for a better payday, but it didn’t triple my salary.
“I said no. I told them to keep paying me the same rate, but to let me oversee both research studies.”
“You did what?”
“They agreed.”
Yeah, I’d imagine they did. Some suit did a giddy dance over having a sucker in their employment.
“That’s another reason I want to break into the lab. I want to see what they are still working on. My project is everything to me. And it has nothing to do with what we saw in Cambodia. I understand why you suspect my employer, but there is no connection between what I was working on and what was going on back in Cambodia. The more I think about it, if I return, they’ll hire me back. I can’t imagine they found my replacement yet.”
This little talk is rapidly getting away from me. “Hey. I hear your frustration. But you owe it to Sage to figure this out before you waltz back into the office. Anton Solonov didn’t do this on his own. He’s a for-hire kind of guy, and an expensive one. And someone wanted you kept alive. And whoever did all this used Sage to keep you motivated.”
“I’m the most motivated person I’ve ever met. They wouldn’t need Sage to motivate me. And anyone who has worked with me knows that. I could show you years of performance reviews?—”
“That’s not what I mean. I meant in Cambodia. And something is off here. If your employer wasn’t at all involved, why refuse to help your sister when she contacted them about you being missing? Instead, they insisted you fell in love and resigned. Play along with me. Use that big brain of yours.” Her lips twist, and I know she doesn’t want to hear me, but she does. I’ve lost the attention of those big brown eyes. They’re looking up into the porch rafters, but she’s listening. “Let’s say your employer is totally innocent. They get an unexpected email from you, saying you resigned without giving notice. Is that something you would do?”
The lines along her lips deepen and a few form in her brow.
“Right. A committed employee like you would never resign without giving notice. You wouldn’t willingly leave the research you love without knowing someone is carrying it forward. But let’s say your boss is super busy. She just deals with your resignation, even if it doesn’t sit right. But then your sister calls, saying you haven’t been in touch. Did your boss know about your sister?”
“Yes.” Her expression is not a happy one. I’d say it’s about the same as my little sister’s when I forced her to eat mud. “Given your research subject is so closely related to your sister, I’d bet everybody knows, right?”
No response. But then I remember something from her file. “And you don’t have any social accounts, do you?”
“LinkedIn. I’m on LinkedIn. And I follow several scientists and organizations on Threads. But I forget to check in. I have all notifications turned off.”
It’s conceivable someone followed her on social. But our guys found little from her accounts. But they were looking for social connections. What if someone was searching for someone with her skill set?
“According to Forbes, the average person spent over thirteen hundred hours on social media last year. On average, we receive sixty-three notifications a day. By turning off notifications, you can save a significant amount of time, although no one has estimated the impact or conducted a research study.”
“That’s just rolling through your head, isn’t it?” One big brown eye closes slightly, in a half-squint. “Facts and figures,” I explain. “And you just like to say them out loud.”
My phone vibrates. I’m expecting to hear from the team today. I check the screen and grimace. Ginger Moynihan. She’s been calling me. We’re in a project lull, getting our ducks in a row, so I might as well answer or eventually she’ll check in with my folks.
“I’m gonna get this. But something’s not right with your employer. For Sage’s sake, we gotta figure things out before you go waltzing in there. You on board?”
She’d better be because as a two-man team, I can’t add restraining her to my to-do list.
“Yes.” Her chin lifts. Stubborn. Defiant. I’m not at all certain she’s on board. Whatever man ends up with her is going to have his hands full. Maybe that’s why she’s single.
I step inside the villa and take a seat on the armchair facing out, so I can keep an eye on the dark-haired, stat-spewing scientist.
“Wazzup?” It’s a cheesy greeting, but it’s a relaxed one I concocted years ago after Ginger and I split and she insisted on staying in touch.
“Are you home?”
I scratch an itch on my jaw as I weigh my answer. She lives in San Diego. What does it matter? “No.” I draw out the answer, bracing for whatever madness is about to spill from her two-timing mouth.
“I need to see you.”
“Why?” Again, I draw it out. She’s married. I doubt her husband has any idea she calls me.
“Zac and I had a huge fight. We’re getting separated. It’s over for us.”
Given Zac is the guy she cheated on me with, I’m at a loss as to why she would call me. Silence falls on the line.
“Max?”
What the hell does she want me to say? “Okay.”
“Can I stay at your place? I don’t have anyone else to turn to. When do you get back?”
Fuck me. The sentiment plays on repeat in my head as I give her my address for god knows what reason. If luck falls my way, this little op will last weeks. If it doesn’t, I’ll be home and have to deal with my ex.