Wild Prospects (Suite Seductions #7)

Chapter 1 Canaima Landing

Santi

Nora Valdez is sitting four rows ahead of me on the floatplane, reading the laminated safety card with a level of attention most people reserve for legal documents they intend to enforce.

Her notebook comes out next, and a secret thrill runs through me.

That small navy notebook she brings to every meeting and every coffee shop.

I saw her scribbling in that thing during the last Christmas party at the office, and I would do anything—anything—to read it.

To get an insight into her inner workings.

To know her more... intimately. And what's more intimate than a private notebook, a journal?

She opens to a fresh page and writes with a few quick strokes.

Her long, graceful fingers seem to caress the pen, and then she brings the tip of it up to rest between her lips while she carefully considers her next words.

Heat rushes through my whole body, my head spins, and my groin tightens. That's one lucky pen.

"Probability of a Bothrops bite on the canopy trail is approximately one in four thousand," says Ryan, in the seat next to me.

He has not looked up from his notebook. Ryan Yi runs the Tech and Wellness operations for Adler Hotels and has a mind like a server rack—parallel processing, multiple threads running at once, most of them invisible to anyone sharing a room with him.

His own notebook, which is much less exciting than Nora's, currently contains what appears to be a hand-drawn topographical sketch of the lodge and surrounding trail network, annotated in a color-coding system he has not explained to anyone.

He is also, I notice, working from three separate printed documents he must have sourced before we boarded, which are now arranged in order across his knee.

"That's the lancehead viper," he continues, adding a small symbol to his map.

"Most venomous snake in Venezuela. Responsible for about fifty percent of all serious snakebites in the country.

" He draws a perimeter line around the location.

"However, they are largely nocturnal, and we will be on the trail in daylight, which reduces the probability significantly.

I've revised my estimate to one in eleven thousand. "

"That's... good," I say, letting my gaze flick back to Nora briefly. She's scribbling again, and those perfect lips are pursed now in concentration.

"Less good is that the probability of an adverse reaction to an insect bite is considerably harder to model as it depends on individual immune profiles I don't have access to.

" He underlines a point on the page and lets out a weary sigh.

"I've requested that everyone carry antihistamines. Derrick said I was overthinking it."

I try not to snort. "You might be overthinking it, pal."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Caleb understands.

He helped me map the nearest hospital with a trauma unit.

" He taps a point on his sketch. "Puerto Ordaz.

One hundred and ninety-four miles. By floatplane, nearly forty minutes.

I've noted the tail numbers of the lodge's aircraft, the fuel capacity, and the name of the pilot.

" He pauses. "His name is César. He has been flying this route for eleven years. I checked."

Four rows ahead, Nora turns a page and starts what looks, from the movement of her pen, like a new list.

I watch her hand move.

"Malaria prophylaxis," Ryan says, moving to the next document.

"Everyone on the manifest confirmed they've started the course, but I did a secondary check with Aubrey because she manages Andrew's medical schedule, and he has a tendency to forget things that aren't script-related.

She confirmed. He forgot." A pause. "He took a double dose on the plane, which is not recommended but is better than nothing.

" He makes a note. "I've also cross-referenced the lodge's water filtration system specs against WHO standards.

They're compliant. But I've packed a secondary filtration kit. "

"That doesn't surprise me." I allow myself the grin, knowing he hasn't looked up from his papers.

"Sofia said I was packing like I expected civilization to collapse.

" He adds a small symbol near what I think is the trailhead.

"She packed me chamomile. Also, a note. She puts notes in my bag.

" He says this in a more distant tone, as if he considers Sofia's notes both unnecessary and privately very important.

"She's extremely optimistic about people. It's in the top four."

"Top four what?"

"Her qualities. I have a list." He doesn't elaborate.

I look back at Nora. For a moment, I wonder what top qualities she would put on her list. I wonder if she's written such a list in that notebook of hers.

"Probability of a flash storm on the canopy trail," Ryan says, "is around thirty-two percent on any given afternoon in Canaima between May and November.

We are in June. I've noted the meteorological warning signs Mateo described in the pre-trip brief—" He taps a printed document "—and I've identified two natural shelter points on the trail map that would provide adequate cover for a group of our size.

" He circles two spots. "Here and here. The second one has an overhang formation. Better drainage."

He draws a small, careful note next to the second circle.

"Also," he adds, "I've confirmed that the lodge carries epinephrine. Two units. I know where they're stored."

Then Nora closes her notebook.

She tucks the pen into the spiral, smooths her palm across the cover once in a small, habitual gesture that makes me ache, and reaches up to check her braid, resettling it over her shoulder.

She glances out the window. Her face opens slightly, only for a second, then she looks away.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, excuses herself past the person in the aisle seat with a small, professional smile, and stands.

She starts down the aisle toward the back of the plane.

I stop thinking about what Ryan is saying.

She moves the way she does everything: with the gentle pace of someone who doesn't spend energy on things that don't need it.

One hand trailing the seat backs as the aircraft shifts.

Dark linen shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, braid falling forward over her shoulder when she leans slightly to pass someone's outstretched arm.

The fabric shifts with her movements. I track the line of her back, noticing the damp patch at the small of her back, and the way she sets her shoulders. She's absolutely gorgeous.

The rear cabin door closes behind her with a soft click.

Ryan is talking about river parasites.

I am no longer listening.

I look at the closed door. In the smutty books I've seen Nora reading, the main character would follow her in there. Pin her up against the wall and—

But I'm not a main character. And Nora...

well, she doesn't even know I exist, not really.

I'm part of the furniture at work. Some guy she has to interact with every now and then to make decisions.

She doesn't notice me watching her. She has no idea how badly I want her.

She didn't even say hello as we boarded.

The bathroom on a twelve-seat floatplane is no doubt too small for what I'd want to do with her anyway. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, glad for the loose linen trousers that hide my arousal.

Maybe if I head to the bathroom now, I think, she might look up at me. I might get that hello and catch a whiff of her mango-scented shampoo.

I'm out of my seat almost without thinking, with a quick muttered, "Bathroom," to Ryan, who is talking about water sources now.

I walk to the back of the plane and loiter in the galley corridor.

My heart is hammering in my chest, and my breathing is a little ragged.

I put one hand flat against the wall and breathe.

I am thirty-six years old, and I work in corporate development.

I have negotiated nine-figure acquisition deals without once losing my composure, but Nora Valdez has been in a floatplane bathroom for forty-five seconds, and I am standing outside it like this.

I hear the tap run.

The door opens.

She pulls it toward her and steps into the corridor. Her lips part in a surprised, "Oh!" and she looks up. Rich chocolate eyes meet mine for a single moment. But in that moment, I forget how to breathe. Dark curls have escaped her braid already and curl at the nape of her neck, framing her face.

I imagine sliding my hand around the back of her neck to cup her and drag those lips to mine. I wonder what it would feel like if I backed her into the bathroom and pressed my hips against hers. Would she arch into it? Would she make a sound? Would she reach between us and—

"Sorry," she says, dropping her gaze and moving to sidle around me. There are six inches between us at most, maybe less. As she moves around me, I feel the heat of her body. I can smell the soap from the tap and underneath it, that scent that is all her, clean and faint, like mango.

She turns to edge past me, and the line of her shoulder brushes against my chest, and I stop breathing entirely.

"Sorry," she says again, quieter, already moving.

"No problem," I say to the wall over her head through gritted teeth.

She goes back up the aisle without looking back. She sits down, reopens her notebook, and picks up where she left off.

I force my legs to move and almost topple into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I press my hand against my straining cock and hiss air through my teeth. So fucking hard for her.

I've managed to keep my obsession with Nora Valdez to myself for eighteen months since I first laid eyes on her. And I've done it by simply watching her from a distance and never letting myself get too close.

How on Earth am I going to survive this Senior Leadership Retreat in the middle of the jungle—hiking, sweating, and sleeping near her?

***

Nora