Camy Tang - Formula for Danger

Then the man moved.

The stranger eased closer to the greenhouse and seemed to be trying to peer inside. He had to be up to no good. He moved slowly, as stealthy as a coyote.

When the intruder had fully cleared the branches of the orange tree, Edward leaped at him.

They went down in a whirlwind of dead leaves and the stranger’s thick jacket. The man was smaller than he had anticipated, but wiry and quick. Edward got a glancing blow to the jaw from a flailing fist that made him jerk back slightly.

The stranger took advantage of the pause to scramble away, or maybe to grab a branch as a weapon. Edward didn’t want to find out—he dived for the figure, using all his weight to pin the man to the ground, reaching to capture scrabbling arms and twist them behind the man’s back.

“Eep!”

He stilled. Male trespassers didn’t eep.

He loosened his hold, and the person flipped over.

“Rachel!”

She stilled the moment their eyes met. The light from the greenhouse windows gave her face a pearl-like glow, and he caught a whiff of her perfume—lavender and citrus. She was beautiful, ethereal. The first time she’d come to his greenhouses to hire him, over a year ago, the sight of her had sucked the air out of his lungs. Like now.

No, this was dangerous territory. Edward stood and gave her a hand up.

She busied herself dusting the leaves from her jeans, but at the same time, she seemed to be trying to shrink inside her bulky winter jacket.

“What are you doing, Rachel? Detective Carter said you didn’t need to be here.”

“Yes, I did.” Her eyes, wide, determined, but fighting tears at the same time, met his. “I did. I couldn’t stay home and just…” She bit back a sob.

He could understand her need to see for herself the damage done to the plants and how that sight would somehow make her feel more in control of the whole situation. She had been working long hours to develop her scar-reduction cream, and this kind of setback would have thrown her for a loop.

He wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her it would be all right.

No, he had to keep his distance from her. He and his family had already lived through the broken promises and hurt from a workaholic father. He had vowed he would never neglect his own children for his work, he would never make them feel like a secondary priority in his life, he would never make them feel as if their graduations and work successes were not important enough to attend, as Papa had done to Edward. Therefore, he wouldn’t even consider getting involved with a woman who would cause the same sort of pain in her children.

So he’d withdrawn from Rachel. He had to remember why he’d done that.

She shivered, despite her jacket.

“Come inside the greenhouse.” He led her into the warm, moist air. The sight was going to upset her, so he watched her closely.

She surprised him. She went completely still as she surveyed the mess. Her bottom lip trembled once. Her hands pressed to her stomach as if to keep herself from falling apart.

Her silence filled the greenhouse, so he spoke tentatively, reiterating what he’d told Detective Carter. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

No answer. Her unfocused gaze told him that he’d lost her to her own thoughts.

“Rachel?”

She started, then darted a sideways glance at him. She took a deep breath and adopted a more businesslike demeanor. “What do you want me to do?”

“You’ve had a tough night. Are you sure you want to help clean up? Why not come back tomorrow—”

“No, if I go home, I’ll just lie awake worrying about it all.” She gave him a small smile. “I’m fine, really. The black eye looks worse than it feels.”

Actually, it hadn’t colored much yet. It only looked like a trick of the shadows. “Did Monica look at it?”

“She sighed in exasperation and said something like, ‘If you insist on gallivanting around Sonoma County with a black eye, don’t come crying to me if you faint or get blurry vision. Go to some other nurse, because you won’t get sympathy from me.’”

Edward laughed. “Which means, in Monica-speak, that you’re okay but she doesn’t want to say so.” He handed Rachel a broom. “I’ll clean up the broken shards. You sweep the dirt into the bin. And look for any plants I might have missed.”

They worked in silence for a moment. Then Rachel asked, “Did Detective Carter already leave?”

“No, he’s in greenhouse seven. He needed to talk to Alex.”

Rachel hesitated a moment before asking, “Is your brother in trouble?”

Edward blinked at her. “No, why?”

“Why would Detective Carter need to talk to him?”

“Oh. Horatio and Alex are friends. Horatio is the officer who arrested Alex for the robbery.”

“The robbery? The one that sent Alex to prison? That makes no sense.”

Edward laughed. “After Alex received Christ in prison, he went straight to Horatio once he got out on parole and thanked him for arresting him. And apologized for giving him so much grief for so many years.” He’d have given anything to have witnessed his tall, 220-pound brother apologizing to Detective Carter, who, while steely-eyed and intimidating in his own way, was still five inches shorter than Alex.

“Wow.”

“They’ve become friends in the years since. I think Alex occasionally helps Detective Carter on some of his cases, because of his past experiences and connections he still has.”

“Not illegal connections?”

“No, he gave those up. But he still visits several of his old friends asking them to come to church with him.”

“Oh.” Her eyes skittered away as she renewed her sweeping.

There was only silence for a moment, then Edward said, “Alex said to tell you he was praying for you—”

“Tell him thanks.” But her words were curt.

He tried again. “He also said that if you wanted him to pray for anything in particular—”

“No.” Her voice was sharp, and she started sweeping the floor with short, jerky movements. The conversational topic was clearly over.

Strange, she seemed even more uncomfortable talking about her faith now than three months ago, when they had been closer and chatting together more often. They’d rarely discussed God, but she’d never avoided the subject. She had said she was a strong Christian. Was her faith wavering in the face of all the recent problems?

She suddenly stopped and stared at the ground, her broom lax in her hands. He caught the sheen in her eyes, the painful way she pressed her lips shut. Even the red tinge of her nose made his concern well up in him, and before he knew it, he’d crossed the room to gently grasp her shoulders. “Rachel, it’s okay.”

The smell of her perfume brought it all back to him. He was surrounded by lavender-citrus—the way it melded with her musk made it distinctly Rachel. It brought back the memory of dinners spent talking and laughing. The unique way she viewed the world made him think, made him laugh. Being this close to her, he missed that.

She relaxed under his touch, but her head dipped down. He peered over her shoulder at what had caused her distress—a mangled uprooted basil plant, its leaves dark green with damage, the roots tangled into a brown yarn ball. Forlorn and dying.

“Stupid,” she whispered. “Crying over a plant.”

“It’s not just a plant.” He knew it was the crux, the “secret ingredient” of her scar-reduction cream, which made it like gold to her.

He gently lifted his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. “Don’t worry. You’ll have more than enough basil for the product launch.”

“How can you be sure?” Her voice was worrying.

“Because I’m the one raising your plants.”