Page 5 of Burning for Him

His heart rate spiked as he tried not to leap out of the chair. “What? Is Jenn okay?”

If Ian had noticed Doug’s near panic, he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply held up a hand while using the other to search through some files on his desk. “Baby-girl’s fine. At least she was as of last night, when she emailed me to find out when I was sending all the supplies she asked for.”

The tension eased from Doug’s body, and he wiped a drop of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It wasn’t leftover from being outside, but instead, it appeared the moment Ian mentioned Colombia. “The stuff you shipped last week still isn’t there yet?”

Jenn had sent her godfather a long list of things she wanted to gift to the poor people who lived at the commune. All the clinic’s medical supplies and medication were acquired through donations from pharmaceutical companies, hospitals, charities, and philanthropists. However, sometimes basic or non-necessities were hard to come by. Jenn warned him not to send anything expensive that could make the commune and its residents targets for thieves.

Between the brothers’ wealth and that of their parents, the Sawyer family paid for everything Jenn asked for and had it shipped to Bogotá, where it was supposed to be delivered to the commune.

“It never arrived. It disappeared somewhere between the airport and Ramona’s place. No trace of it.” He sighed and finally met Doug’s stare. “So, this time, you three will be at the airport, waiting for the next shipment to arrive, and will escort it to the commune. One of Ramona’s guards will meet you at whatever hotel you stay at.”

“What? Why me?” When Ian’s eyes narrowed, Doug scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t raise any red flags with his boss. “I mean, I have an interview with a new client scheduled for Monday. I won’t be back in time, will I? Can’t we send a couple of my guys down there?”

Ian shook his head. “No. The guys in PPD don’t have enough training for a detail in Colombia—it’s a fucking different world. And I can’t send Nick or anyone Jenn considers an uncle. She’ll think we don’t trust her and are just down there to check on her. You, Romeo, and Costello are the only other people I can spare right now who won’t piss her off.”

Doug wasn’t so sure about that—in fact, he was pretty confident Jenn would flip out when he showed up, but he couldn’t tell his boss that. Ian would push for details until Doug finally broke down and confessed to kissing the man’s beloved goddaughter. Since he didn’t feel like dying today and having his body tossed into the Gulf of Mexico, Doug made one more attempt to get out of the trip. “What about my interview on Monday? I also have to finish the schedule for the next few weeks. And who’s going to check in with my guys?”

“Give Jake all the info for the interview, and he’ll take care of that. Start the schedule, and whatever still needs to be worked out, Devon can take over. As for the check-ins, Marco and Boomer can do those. You’ll only be down there two nights—I want the three of you there the night before the shipment arrives and at the airport when the cargo plane lands. Clinton will fly you down and bring you back the day after you drop everythingoff at the commune.” Clinton Howe became the primary pilot for the company’s jet after C.C. Chapman retired a few months back. “This shit isn’t going to get stolen a second time. I’m just waiting to hear back from the shipping company to find out when it’s supposed to arrive. As soon as I have that, I’ll have Clinton file the flight plan.”

Doug racked his brain for another excuse not to go, but only drew a blank. The thought of seeing Jenn in a few days both excited and terrified him. He was so fucked.

Standing in the open doorway of the bunkhouse, where she and three other female volunteers slept, Jenn stared out at the rain coming down in buckets. They were waiting for it to let up a little before making a mad dash to the dining hall for dinner. Several strong storm systems blew through over the last few days, forcing everyone to work inside for the most part.

Large mud puddles dotted the commune’s landscape. According to the weather reports from a Bogotá news station, they’d already received five inches of rain in the past seventy-two hours, which was a lot considering the region’s average was a little over nine inches for the entire month. Lightweight waterproof ponchos and boots had been on the volunteers’ list of suggested gear to bring, but even those were no match for the current torrential downpour. The fat raindrops hitting the building’s metal roof were almost deafening.

Earlier, she used the satellite internet to check her emails after changing out of her wet, dirty clothes for dinner. She only turned on her iPad for short periods to answer emails, scan the weather and news reports, and occasionally post imagesor stories about her trip in her family’s private Facebook group. Then, she shut the device down again to conserve the battery. The commune had several solar-powered generators for electricity that Carter had donated a few years ago, allowing everyone to charge their satellite phones and other devices when necessary, but they tried to limit their usage. The power was needed more for the clinic and the kitchen.

She was still pissed about all the supplies that Uncle Ian had shipped to her in several large crates that had been lost or stolen—most likely the latter—after arriving at Bogotá’s El Dorado International Airport. The list she sent him was long, but she didn’t feel guilty about it. He and his family always donated to good causes. Of course, Ian told everyone it was for the tax write-offs, but Jenn knew it was because underneath his tough exterior beat one of the biggest and softest hearts ever. Aside from her father, Ian was the most incredible man she had ever known.

According to the email he sent her a few hours ago, he had ordered a new shipment of supplies and made arrangements for it to be escorted to the commune by armed guards upon arrival at the airport. Jenn wished she could have seen the expressions on the thieves’ faces when they opened the crates and found nothing of great value, like electronics. They probably would still sell or use most of the items, though.

Margie Kimball sidled up next to Jenn and eyed the rain. “I think this is as slow as it’s going to get for a while, and I’m starving. I say we make a run for it.”

The sixty-two-year-old retired school principal, who looked ten years younger, became a widow last year. She and her late husband often volunteered at various charities in their hometown near Albuquerque, New Mexico. With their wedding anniversary, their birthdays, and the anniversary of his death coming up, she didn’t want to spend the time moping around her house. All four events fell within the same three-month periodover the summer. Through one of the charities, she discovered Dr. Sanchez’s commune and signed up as a volunteer. She reminded Jenn of Grandma Marie—outgoing, friendly, caring, and full of life.

Jenn glanced over her shoulder to see if the other two women, thirty-year-old best friends Rachel Cho and Lexie Miller, agreed with Margie. When they both nodded, Jenn pulled the bright yellow poncho’s hood over her head. She wore a black and red University of Tampa T-shirt, tan cargo shorts, and her rain boots underneath it. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Squealing and laughing, they ran across the commune, doing their best to avoid the bigger puddles as the rain pelted them. Mud still splashed against Jenn’s legs that were partially exposed between the bottom of the poncho and the top of her rain boots, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t like she was out to impress anyone there. Everyone else was a mess too.

A strong gust of wind blew everyone’s hoods off, and the women gave up trying to stay dry and hurried as fast as possible to the dining hall. They burst inside, dripping and giggling.

Jenn pushed her sopping wet, long blonde hair from her face. “If we walked, I think we would’ve gotten just as soaked but not as muddy.”

“The rain gods have it out for us today,” Margie said, taking off her poncho and hanging it on a hook by the door. The other women followed suit. Their boots stayed on to prevent them from getting splinters in their feet from the old wooden planks that made up the floor.

Jenn spent the first week at the commune adjusting to things she had often taken for granted while living in a comfortable home in the States. Now, she couldn’t go barefoot anywhere and always shook out her clothes and checked her boots, sneakers, and shower shoes for scorpions, snakes, or spiders before putting them on. Taking preventative malaria pills wasa daily practice she started a week before arriving in Colombia, as recommended. Mosquitoes were unavoidable, even though she’d gone through several cans of bug spray already.

Glancing around, she noticed most of Dr. Sanchez’s staff were already there, enjoying their dinner. Three of the five male volunteers sat together at a table. She knew one of the missing men, a nurse practitioner named Roland Elrod, had gone with the doctor and a guard to check on a patient in a nearby village earlier, and it looked like they weren’t back yet. Jenn frowned when she noticed Tony sitting by himself at another table in a corner, away from everyone else. His gaze was downcast as he used his fork to push the food around on his plate aimlessly. That was unlike him. She’d never seen him alone before—he was a bit of an extrovert.

After filling a plate at the small buffet the kitchen staff had set up for dinner, she grabbed a fork and napkin, then strode across the room. Her boots made a squishing sound with each step. The muddy water that splashed against her legs had rolled down them, soaking her formerly dry socks.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked Tony, not waiting for an answer as she set her plate down, pulled out a chair, and sat.

When he didn’t acknowledge her at all, Jenn ducked her head to get a better look at his face. His eyes were red and watery. Reaching over, she placed her hand on his on the table. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Tony shook his head. Dropping the fork onto his still-full plate, he swiped at his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Worried about her friend, she scooted her chair closer to him while keeping her hand on his. “Hey, Tony. Talk to me. Please. I’m a great listener, I promise.”

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