He slammed to a stop. “You didn’t take that approach with me.”
“Because you already had what you wanted.” She spun toward him, with a finger hooked under the collar and resentment in her eyes.
He grabbed her throat. “This”—he squeezed the leather against her neck—“is fucking window dressing, and you know it. I want the real thing, Camila. I want your submissive soul, sighing and replete, in my hands.”
Her face paled as she gasped and clawed at his fingers around her throat. “I can’t…I won’t survive that.”
Goddammit, how could her brilliant mind get this so fucking wrong?
“Not only will you live, you’ll be more alive than you’ve ever been.” He withdrew his grip and strode up the path without waiting for her.
When he reached the stone wall of their destination, she caught up with him, arms crossed over her chest, gaze lowered, demeanor subdued. Scaring her hadn’t been his intention. Or maybe it had been. Either way, he wanted the light to return to her eyes.
He paused at a heavy wooden door, watching her closely. His hands felt sweaty, his throat parched and scratchy.
“What is this place?” Her gaze skittered along the eight-foot-high rock wall, tracing the length left to right where it faded into the jungle in both directions.
“Go ahead.” He gestured at the retinal scanner that was bolted into the stone. “This is the only entrance. The wall keeps out most of the critters, but we still have problems with monkeys and large birds.”
His pulse hammered as she leveled her eye with the security panel. He rubbed his palms on his jeans as she pushed open the door. Then he followed her in, clinging to her every movement as she gazed upon the landscape that had taken him a decade to recreate.
Her hands flew to her chest, her gait faltering mid-stride beside the first row of orange trees. Her head swung right, toward the acre that housed kumquat, tangerine, grapefruit, and lime trees.
“Holy shit.” Her mouth fell open, and her steps sped up, still unsteady but her excitement palpable.
She walked beneath the limbs, her hand reaching upward. He remained at her side, devouring the bright glow of her eyes, the tremble in her chin, and tentative way she brushed her fingers over the leaves as if she couldn’t believe they were real.
She halted suddenly, her attention directed straight ahead on the lemon grove. Her breath cut off. Then she gulped raggedly, again and again, her hand lifting to cover her mouth as the other reached out, blindly searching for his.
He caught her fingers, lacing them with his own, and inhaled the deepest, fullest breath he’d ever taken.
Four hundred flowering trees spread across the secluded five-acre grove, infusing every particle in the air with tranquil memories. There was only one scent as sweet as the fragrance of citrus blossoms, only one sight as beautiful, and she was finally here.
Her wide, unblinking eyes took in the delicate buds, the vibrant colors of the fruit, and the fertilized soil, and he knew she appreciated the labor and passion in a way that had connected them since they were small children. She appreciated his tribute to her.
“How did you—? You did all this…” She stepped toward the nearest lemon tree and gripped tighter to his hand, pulling him with her as she studied the healthy branches. “They’re… God, they must be ten years old?”
“Yes.” His voice broke, and he cleared it. “Yeah, I’ve been at it a while. But I’ve had help. Hired one of the best citrus farmers in Florida about eight years ago.”
“Nico let you do this? I mean…wow. There must be four or five acres here.”
“Five acres. Four hundred trees. And Nico…” A smile pulled at his mouth. “He questions everything I do.”
Most of his arguments with the other man had been over the necessity of the eight-foot wall.
She didn’t let go of his hand as she entered the lane between two rows of lemon trees, scattering the bees that hovered around the blooms. Twisted branches arced over the path and tangled together, forming a living trellis of deep green foliage and dangling fruit.
When she tilted her head upward, a tear glistened on her cheek. She swatted it away with a soft smile on her lips.
“It’s just like home. The planting pattern. The archway. Every detail.” She stopped walking and turned toward him, her gaze on the inked leaves on his forearm, her fingers squeezing tighter around his. “You did this because you missed it?”
He lifted her chin with his free hand and held her gaze. “I missed you.”
She pulled her head back, and her focus slipped away, seeking the trees, the ground, their entwined hands. When she returned to his eyes, hers were wet with regret. But there was hope there, too.
“A five-acre grove recreating our childhood. Because you missed me.” She touched his jaw, the line of his throat, her gaze following the movement. “I understand you were taken by the Restrepos, and I assume you didn’t rise to the top-level in the span of a year. So you must’ve started as a lackey? Is that why you didn’t come back for me?”
“Camila—”
“I was there, Matias. Right there in that grove waiting for you for a year before…” She swallowed. “Before it was too late.”
“I couldn’t.” He released her hand and crushed her against him, holding her face to his chest as his insides rioted with invidious memories. “The men who found me—”
“Found you?”
Fuck. He should’ve chosen a different word. “The people who came for me that day made threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
She tried to lift her head, but he held her in place so she wouldn't see the vulnerability in his expression. He was having a hell of a time evening his voice.
“They threatened everyone I cared about.” He pressed a kiss to her head. “Specifically you.”
She stiffened against him. “Why? What did they want?”
He couldn’t explain that part without
