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.
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