Free Beneath the Surface by Melynda Price Page A

violet eyes and he didn’t need her making him soft—or hard, which seemed to be the case more often than not. As much as he tried to fight it, Quinn’s effect on him was far more visceral than he cared to admit. He’d known it back at the wedding and foolishly thought it would pass. But seeing her again had brought all that desire, and more, rushing back. He needed to figure out a way to get a handle on that shit and fast, because he could not do his job, could not keep her safe, if all he could think about was being with her. Chrissake, at this rate he was going to get them both killed.
    He hadn’t slept at all last night. The only thing that was harder than that god-awful couch was his cock. And that crotch shot she’d given him this morning had been the last damn thing he needed. So far, he’d done a pretty decent job of pretending he didn’t want her—now if he could only convince his dick of that lie, he’d be doing pretty fucking swell.
    She sat her fork down and reluctantly lifted her gaze to his. “What do you want to know?”
    “Everything. The more you can tell me, the better chance I’m going to have at keeping you alive.”
    She looked hesitant, like she was trying to decide whether she could trust him or not—a little late to be having second thoughts now. “Listen, Quinn, you’re in some serious shit. I know it and you know it, or else you wouldn’t be sitting in my kitchen right now. It’s pretty apparent that you’re not here for my company. You don’t have to like me, but you’re going to have to trust me.”
    He must have made a convincing enough argument because after a minute she nodded. “I was hired to do a publicity story on the Children’s Global Resource Network to raise awareness and support for the organization. They are the main and sometimes only source of food for many villages in Haiti.”
    “I’ve heard of them. They’re known for their humanitarian aid to third-world countries.”
    “Right. I was staying in Meille. It’s one of the smallest, poorest villages in central Haiti. Most of the huts are one-room dwellings. There was a family there that was kind enough to let me stay with them. They have five children, their oldest is a girl named Aileen—she’s sixteen.” She glanced up and the pain in her eyes made something in his chest cramp. “A few weeks ago, she was out with two of her friends and they disappeared. Her parents were devastated. We searched everywhere, but no one saw anything, or if they had, no one was talking. I began doing more digging and discovered that Meille wasn’t the only village where teenage girls were going missing. It was happening all over the area. One here, two there . . . Once I began documenting the location and details of their disappearances, I discovered a commonality—the CGRN.”
    “Fuck . . .” It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where this story was headed or what happened to those kids.
    “I wasn’t the only one who suspected they were taking these girls and selling them, but no one would say anything because if the CGRN gets pulled out of their region, many more people will starve to death.”
    “So they turn a blind eye to the atrocities of a few to save the lives of many—it’s utilitarianism.”
    “It’s barbarianism.”
    “I don’t disagree. But many underdeveloped countries operate with this mentality.”
    “Well, it has to stop. And I’m going to do everything in my power to see that it does.”
    The conviction in her voice, the determination in her eyes, was admirable—inspiring even. It’d been a long time since he fought for something he believed in, or believed in something enough to fight for it.
    “Since I was already doing a story for the CGRN, I was able to get access to different areas, take a lot of pictures, and interview people without raising suspicion. I don’t believe the majority of the people in the CGRN even know this is going on. I think there’s a small