Chapter 5
FIVE
Don’t fall for the guy in the family room.
Chloe pulled on a blouse and a pair of jeans and looked in the mirror.
Great. She looked exactly like the truth—that she’d spent way too much time last night reliving the way Skeet made her laugh. Made her feel as if . . . well, as if she wasn’t in this alone.
And she didn’t know how to feel about that.
She did know she liked her new housemate, because the scent of Thai coffee hit her senses before the bedroom door opened. Rich. Dark. Cardamom threading through the aroma like a promise of a good day.
She came out of the room and padded barefoot across the cool marble, following the quiet sounds from the kitchenette.
Her pulse did a little skip when she spotted him—his back to her, sandy hair sticking up as if he’d been dragging his hands through it.
He wore clean khakis paired with a fresh white button-down that stretched across shoulders she definitely shouldn’t be cataloging.
Focus, Chloe. Dr. Tobias is dead. Children are dying. You don’t have time to—
“—confirmed for this morning, Hamilton.” He pressed his phone between shoulder and ear and poured coffee into two cups. His voice hitched when he glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, we’ll be careful. I’ll call you later.”
He hung up.
“Morning.” Her voice was still rough with sleep. Oh, that was attractive.
He turned and handed her coffee. Their fingers brushed during the exchange. She ignored the small spark that lit up her skin.
“Sleep okay?” The corner of his mouth quirked. “You were talking around three a.m.”
“I do not talk in my sleep.” The coffee hit her taste buds. Heaven. Strong enough to raise the dead, sweetened exactly how she liked it. How did he— “What did I supposedly say?”
“Something about pineapple pizza being a crime against humanity.”
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere she’d forgotten existed. “Accurate.”
“Good to know where you stand on the important issues.” He leaned against the counter, studying her face with those green eyes that seemed to see too much. “Ready to go to Bangkok?”
“Absolutely.”
“Nervous about today?”
“Terrified.” Oops. Um, “I mean . . . Dr. Radi? might be our only lead.” Truth. Just not the whole truth.
As in, she was starting to like him. Because last night she’d forgotten for exactly three hours and forty-seven minutes that she was supposed to be independent and strong and definitely not falling for— She took a breath. “If we can’t get him to talk . . .”
“We will.” He took another sip of coffee, his eyes on her. He possessed a quiet confidence that did things to her insides. “You’re brilliant at getting people to open up. And I’m moderately useful in a crisis.”
“Moderately?”
“Being humble.”
She snorted. “And I don’t know about brilliant.”
He held her gaze. “I do.”
Oh.
Honking outside. “That’ll be our GrabTaxi. Ready?” He poured his coffee down the drain, took hers.
Nope. But . . .
She grabbed her bag and met him at the door. “Here goes nothing.”
“Here goes everything,” he said and closed the door behind her.
The flight to Bangkok took one hour. One hour of trying not to notice how he’d automatically booked himself into the middle seat. How he’d shared his cashews without being asked. How he’d pretended to read while keeping one eye on other passengers.
Professional. Protective. And ding, ding—off-limits! She didn’t want a guy who disappeared for weeks like North.
She wanted to do the disappearing, thank you.
But when Skeet had grabbed her bag to carry it off the plane, shoot, her stubborn heart just hadn’t listened.
Now, surrounded by the gleaming marble lobby of the Arnoma Grand hotel, press credentials hanging from a blue lanyard, she had bigger problems to worry about.
She’d twisted her hair into a neat bun and thrown on her most serious-journalist outfit—navy blazer, crisp white blouse, black slacks. Professional, if not a little boring.
Skeet, however, looked like he’d stepped out of International Correspondents Monthly. Dark jacket over an blue button down shirt that brought out his eyes, camera bag slung across his chest.
“Remember,” she murmured, joining the stream of conference attendees heading toward the main auditorium, “you’re my photographer. I’m the journalist with the questions. Try to look artistic and brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
“Everyone broods. Photographer handbook.”
“There’s a handbook?”
“Page forty-seven. Right after ‘How to Look Mysterious While Adjusting Camera Settings.’”
He grunted. It might have been a laugh. It landed dangerously in her bones.
Around them, the lobby hummed with conversation.
Medical professionals clutched coffee and conference programs, lanyards a rainbow of specializations.
Pharmaceutical executives in expensive suits talked in low voices near registration.
Younger researchers hurried past with laptop bags and frantic energy.
The auditorium doors opened and released a rush of air-conditioning and the low hum of several hundred conversations. Press credentials got them seats in the media section—close enough to see clearly, far enough back to avoid attention.
“There.” Skeet nodded toward the front row. “Third seat from the left.”
Dr. Radi? looked older than his conference photo. Nervous. Light-blond hair needing a trim, sweat stains darkening his collar even in the air-conditioning. He kept checking his phone, glancing around, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands.
“He looks like he’s about to bolt.”
“Or throw up.”
“Or both?”
Lights dimmed. An Asian woman in a crisp red suit took the podium.
“Good morning, and welcome to our session on Global Health Innovations. Our first presenter is Dr. Marko Radi? from the Institute for Refugee Medical Care in Prague. Dr. Radi? will be discussing enhanced nutritional interventions for displaced populations.”
Applause rippled through the auditorium as Dr. Radi? made his way to the stage. He fumbled with the microphone, cleared his throat.
“Thank you. I, um . . .” Thick Eastern European accent. “I want to talk today about hope. About how simple nutritional supplements can transform health outcomes for some of the world’s most vulnerable people.”
Chloe leaned forward. On the surface—humanitarian work that made medical conferences worthwhile. But knowing about the children dying in remote villages, every word seemed like a lie.
Skeet looked over at her, raised an eyebrow.
Dr. Radi? clicked to his first slide. Photos of refugee camps.
Children with hollow eyes and distended bellies.
“In my work with displaced populations across Southeast Asia, I have seen malnutrition rates that should not exist in the twenty-first century. Traditional approaches have failed. But what if I told you that we have developed supplements that can address multiple deficiencies simultaneously? Supplements derived from local plants that these populations already trust.”
Click. Chemical formulas filled the screen. Complex molecular structures that meant nothing to Chloe but everything to the medical professionals around her scribbling notes.
“The key breakthrough came when we learned to concentrate beneficial alkaloids from traditional medicinal plants. Solanaceous family compounds, specifically, which have been used for centuries in folk medicine but never in therapeutic doses.”
Chloe’s blood went cold.
Solanaceae.
Nightshade family?
She glanced at Skeet. He frowned at her, shook his head.
“These enhanced supplements can be distributed through existing food-supply chains,” Dr. Radi? continued, confidence growing as he warmed to his subject, “mixed into traditional seasonings and spice blends that families use daily. The beauty is that we’re not asking people to change their eating habits—we’re simply improving the nutritional value of foods they already consume. ”
Seasoning blends. Like the packets in Myanmarese villages?
Of course. Alkaloids that adults could tolerate in small doses would devastate a child’s nervous system.
Twenty more minutes. Graphs showing improved health outcomes. Testimonials from grateful families. If she hadn’t seen the bodies, hadn’t watched Dr. Tobias die from alkaloid poisoning, she might have been impressed.
Dr. Radi? genuinely believed he was saving lives. And maybe he was. Maybe she’d gotten this all wrong.
He finished to applause and left the stage. Chloe was already moving, slipping out of her row, Skeet close behind, heading for the side exit near the speakers’ lounge.
Outside, the hallway was quieter, carpeted in deep blue with abstract art on the walls. Conference attendees clustered in small groups, discussing presentations over coffee and pastries.
Dr. Radi? emerged from the Speakers Only room, still looking pale and shaky. He’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and his hands trembled as he reached for water from the catering table.
For a guy who probably spoke at conferences regularly, he had a severe case of stage fright.
“Dr. Radi??” Chloe approached with her most reassuring smile. “I’m Chloe Silver from Global Health Quarterly. I was wondering if I could ask a few questions about your presentation?”
His face went white. “I . . . No. No interviews. I’m sorry, I cannot—”
“Just a few quick questions about your work with refugee populations. Our readers are very interested in innovative approaches to malnutrition.”
“Please.” He backed away, bumping into a server carrying a fruit bowl. “I cannot talk about this. Not here.”
“Marko, my friend. There you are.”
The voice was smooth, cultured, a hint of an accent.