Tempted by Midnight 12.5 Read online

  and menacing as any one of Lazaro’s

  kind. Turati’s steps hesitated at the sight

  of the unsmiling guard. The two men

  comprising the Italian’s own security

  detail now stood behind their employer,

  pulses spiking with a tension Lazaro felt

  as a palpable vibration in the air.

  He gave a solemn nod of greeting to

  Walsh’s guard, the signal as good as his

  word that Walsh would be safe among

  friends tonight. The guard turned, opened

  the hatch to murmur an “all clear” to the

  boat’s occupants.

  Byron Walsh appeared in that next

  instant. Dressed less formally than

  Turati, the Breed diplomat emerged from

  the cabin in a crisp white shirt with

  rolled-back sleeves and fawn-colored

  slacks. Although Walsh was formidable-

  looking, over six feet tall and heavily

  muscled, like all of their kind, his

  relaxed attire softened his edges.

  As did the smile he gave as he

  disembarked from his tender and

  stepped onto the deck of Turati’s yacht.

  Walsh’s friendliness seemed genuine,

  even if his smile didn’t quite reach his

  eyes. There was an undercurrent of

  anxiety about him, as if he hadn’t yet

  decided if he was stepping onto safe

  ground or a nest of vipers.

  “Lazaro, my old friend, it’s been

  too long. Good to see you,” he greeted

  briefly, then extended his hand to the

  evening’s host. “Signor Turati, buona

  sera. ”

  “Paolo,” Turati offered as the two

  men shook hands.

  “Thank you for agreeing to this

  meeting,” Walsh continued in English.

  “And please forgive the cloak-and-

  dagger aspect of our introduction tonight.

  Unfortunately, there are those who might

  prefer to keep our people at odds, rather

  than embrace the peace that you and I

  both hope to achieve.”

  Lazaro

  murmured

  a

  quick

  translation, to which Turati smiled and

  replied in kind. “Paolo says he is

  honored to have the opportunity to talk

  and share ideas with you, Byron. He

  would like you and your men to be

  comfortable as his guests inside now.”

  Walsh held up his hand, gesturing

  to wait. “A moment, if you will. We’re

  not all present just yet.” He pivoted to

  look at his pair of Breed bodyguards

  behind him. “Where’s Mel?”

  “Right behind me a second ago,”

  one of his men answered.

  Lazaro scowled, confused, and not

  a little concerned that Walsh had

  apparently brought a third member of his

  entourage when the agreement had

  explicitly called for balance on both

  sides of this informal summit. He shot a

  questioning glower at his friend—just as

  a head emerged from the cabin below.

  A head covered in long, luscious

  waves of fiery red hair.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman offered

  hastily as she made her way out. “I had

  to sit down for a second. I’m afraid I’m

  still trying to find my sea legs.”

  She came out of the cabin

  completely then, and every pair of eyes

  on deck rooted onto her like the tide

  pulled toward the moon. Not even

  Lazaro was immune.

  Christ, not even close.

  “Ah. There you are, darling.”

  Walsh pivoted to assist her off the

  smaller vessel.

  Darling? Lazaro vaguely recalled

  hearing that Byron Walsh had lost his

  mate in a car accident three or four years

  ago. Had he taken another lover so

  soon? Whether she was a Breedmate or

  human female, Lazaro couldn’t be sure.

  More to the point, what the hell

  was Walsh thinking, showing up with

  her unexpectedly to a meeting of this

  importance? Lazaro had worked on

  Paolo Turati for months before the man

  finally agreed to open the door to talks

  with a member of the GNC. Walsh

  himself had been reluctant to trust the kin

  of a government leader who made no

  secret of his suspicion and distaste for

  the entire population of the Breed.

  Lazaro could not imagine what had

  possessed Walsh to treat this unofficial

  summit as a goddamned pleasure cruise.

  If grabbing the Breed male by the

  throat and demanding an answer to that

  very question wouldn’t turn an already

  awkward situation into a potential

  disaster, Lazaro might have uncurled his

  fists at his sides and done just that.

  Instead, he stared, silent and fuming.

  He’d deal with his friend’s apparent

  lapse in judgment later.

  “Careful now,” Walsh cautioned

  his uninvited companion. “Watch your

  step, sweetheart.”

  Hell, every male present was

  watching her step. She was tall, elegant,

  with bountiful curves that filled out

  every

  body-skimming

  line

  of

  a

  conservative—yet

  damned

  sexy—

  charcoal gray skirt that skimmed her

  knees and showcased her long, shapely

  legs. She wore a garnet-colored silk

  blouse unbuttoned midway down her

  sternum, just low enough to tease at the

  generous swell of her bosom.

  At the base of her throat was a

  small scarlet birthmark in the shape of a

  teardrop falling into the cradle of a

  crescent moon. So, the voluptuous

  beauty was a Breedmate, Lazaro noted

  with displeasure. Had she been simply

  human arm candy for the councilman,

  Lazaro would have no qualms at all

  about turning her sinfully formed behind

  right back around and sending the

  motorboat away with her inside.

  But a female born with the

  Breedmate mark commanded deeper

  respect than that from one of Lazaro’s

  kind. And although he was more warrior

  now than gentleman, there was still a

  part of him that held rare females like

  this one in high regard. And if she was in

  fact mated to Byron Walsh, then Lazaro

  had no bloody right to stare at her with a

  smoldering crackle of interest heating

  his veins.

  As her slender-heeled pumps

  settled gracefully on the deck, she lifted

  her head and glanced up to look at him

  and the other men. Her mane of lustrous,

  flame-bright hair framed a delicate oval

  face dominated by large green eyes and

  soft, sensual lips.

  She was, in a word, stunning.

  The face of an angel and the kind of

  body to tempt a saint.

  And based on the sudden hush of

  focused male interest on the deck of

  Turati’s yacht, th
ere was hardly a saint

  among them.

  Lazaro

  shut

  down

  his

  own

  awareness of her with abrupt, violent

  force.

  Walsh took the woman’s hand and

  led her forward. “Lazaro, you’ll

  remember my daughter, Mel.”

  In a flash of memory, Lazaro

  envisioned a gangly tomboy about seven

  years old who’d come with her adopted

  parents to the Archer Darkhaven one

  winter. Freckle-faced, scrawny, and

  possessed of more courage than good

  sense, the way he recalled it now.

  Nothing like the curvaceous, poised

  woman he saw before him here.

  “Melena,” she corrected her father

  gently, her lush mouth bowing in a polite

  smile as she offered her hand in greeting

  first to Turati, then to Lazaro. “I’m my

  father’s personal assistant. Tonight I’ll

  also be translating for him.” She turned

  the full strength of her smile on Turati,

  speaking now in flawless Italian. “I hope

  you don’t mind. Between you and me,

  Daddy’s Italian is only slightly better

  than his French, which isn’t saying

  much.”

  Turati chuckled, his aged eyes

  twinkling as he drank in the sight of

  Melena Walsh. The pair immediately

  began a light, effusive chat about Italy

  and its numerous areas of superiority

  over all things French. Lazaro didn’t

  want to be impressed with the young

  woman, but he couldn’t deny her

  language skills—or her charm. Paolo

  Turati was no pushover and it had taken

  her less than a minute to have the old

  goat eating out of the palm of her soft

  white hand.

  Still, this wasn’t a social call.

  There was real business to be done

  tonight.

  Lazaro cleared his throat in effort

  to break up the uninvited distraction.

  “Your offer to translate is appreciated,

  Miss Walsh—”

  “Melena, please,” she interjected.

  “But it won’t be necessary,” Lazaro

  finished. “As this meeting is confidential

  and a matter of global security as well,

  all interpretation will be handled

  personally

  by

  me.

  I

  trust

  you

  understand.”

  She glanced at her father, an

  anxious flick of her eyes.

  “I’ll be more comfortable knowing

  Mel is nearby,” Walsh replied. “As you

  say, Lazaro, there is much at stake in the

  world, and I would hate for my clumsy

  words to convey anything less than what

  I truly mean. Likewise, before I leave

  tonight, I would like to be sure that I’ve

  understood everything Paolo intends me

  to know.”

  “You don’t trust that I am capable

  of assuring you of both those things?”

  “Melena’s come all this way to

  assist me, Lazaro.”

  “And she’s welcome to wait on

  board in one of the other salons until the

  meeting is finished.” Lazaro met his old

  friend’s gaze, tried to decipher some of

  the apprehension he saw in the Breed

  male’s eyes. “If you don’t like my

  decision, take it up with Lucan Thorne

  when you return to the States.”

  Turati was frowning now, lost by

  the rapid back-and-forth in English.

  “Something is wrong?” he asked,

  directing his question to Lazaro in

  Italian, even though he could hardly tear

  his gaze away from Melena. “Tell me

  what is going on.”

  “Miss Walsh will join us after the

  meeting concludes,” Lazaro informed

  him. “She was unaware of the sensitive

  nature of this arrangement and has

  agreed that I should provide the

  necessary translation assistance as

  planned.”

  Melena glanced down, and Turati’s

  face pinched into a deeper frown. He

  stepped toward her, his mouth pursing

  under his silent contemplation. When she

  looked up at him, the old man grinned,

  hooking a thumb in Lazaro’s direction.

  “Shall we ask him to join us after the

  meeting instead?” he whispered in

  Italian. “I would much rather listen to

  your voice for the next few hours than

  his, my dear.”

  She smiled but started to shake her

  head. “Thank you, Mr. Turati, but I

  cannot—”

  “You can, and I insist that you do.

  You and your father are both my guests

  here tonight. I’ll banish neither of you

  from our meeting.” Turati slanted a sly

  glance at Lazaro. “I won’t banish you

  either. Come, let’s go inside now.”

  Lazaro sent the motor boat away

  with a dismissing wave as he waited for

  the Walshes, Turati, and the two pairs of

  bodyguards to head back up to the

  yacht’s main salon. Then, with a low

  curse and a vague, but troubled, niggling

  in his veins, he fell in behind them.

  CHAPTER 2

  The meeting was going far better

  than they could have hoped. Especially

  considering Melena had nearly been

  banned from the room before it even

  started.

  Her father and Paolo Turati had

  talked without interruption for a couple

  of hours—serious conversations ranging

  from cultural misconceptions among the

  Breed and mankind, to the volatile

  political climate that existed between the

  two races. They’d discussed their hopes

  for a better future and confessed their

  shared worries about what that future

  might look like if the mistrust that

  festered on either side of Breed/human

  relations were allowed to continue.

  Or worse, if it were encouraged to

  spread—something the failed terror act

  at the GNC peace summit in Washington,

  D.C., two weeks ago had seemed

  orchestrated to do.

  The two men hadn’t solved the

  world’s many problems in the space of

  two hours, but they did seem to be

  forming a genuine respect and fondness

  for each other. With the heavier subjects

  behind them, Melena happily translated

  as they moved on to trading anecdotes

  from recent travels they’d both enjoyed

  and talk of their children. Mundane,

  comfortable conversations peppered

  with easy smiles, even bouts of laughter.

  If her father had reservations about

  his trip overseas for this covert

  audience, those concerns seemed all but

  evaporated now. And he had been more

  than apprehensive, Melena had to admit.

  He’d been on the verge of paranoia in

  the days leading up to this meeting.

  He worried that betrayal awaited

 
him around every corner—not so much

  groundless panic, but a hunch he

  couldn’t shake. Born with limited

  precognitive

  ability,

  her

  father’s

  hunches, good or bad, all too often

  proved to be fact.

  Every Breed vampire was gifted

  with a preternatural talent unique to

  himself. The same held true for

  Breedmates like Melena, women who

  bore the teardrop-and-crescent-moon

  mark and had the rare genetic makeup

  that allowed them to blood-bond with

  one of the Breed in an eternal union and

  bear his young.

  It

  was

  Melena’s

  specific

  extrasensory ability that brought her

  along with her father tonight, more so

  than her translation skills. She’d needed

  to see Paolo Turati in person in order to

  assure her father of the human’s

  intentions. And she’d been satisfied in

  that regard. Signor Turati was a good

  man, one who could be trusted at his

  word.

  Melena was glad she could be there

  to allay her father’s worry, even if her

  presence had met with the glowering

  disapproval of the Breed male who’d

  arranged the important introduction.

  For the duration of the meeting so

  far, Lazaro Archer had loomed in

  brooding silence at the peripheral of the

  megayacht’s opulent main deck salon, as

  distracting as a dark storm cloud. While

  he’d allowed her to translate as Turati

  insisted, it was obvious the raven-haired

  Gen One Breed male wasn’t happy about

  it.

  No, he was furious. He wanted her

  gone. And she didn’t need to rely on

  ESP to tell her so.

  From the sharp stab of his piercing

  indigo gaze, which had been fixed on her

  each time she dared a look in his

  direction, Melena guessed it wasn’t

  often he found himself not in absolute

  control of any given situation.

  She could personally attest to

  Lazaro Archer’s commanding, take-

  charge demeanor. She had witnessed

  him in action firsthand once. She’d been

  just a child, but to say he left an

  impression was an understatement.

  Memory yanked her back to a cold

  winter night and a foolish dare gone

  terribly wrong. She could still feel the

  frozen water engulf her. Could still see

  the blackness that filled her vision as her

  head struck something hard and sharp

  with her fall.

  Idly, Melena ran her fingertips

  across the scar that cut a fine line

  through her left eyebrow. She didn’t