Midnight Action (14 page)

Morgan breathed through it. Ignored the sick feeling in his stomach and the throbbing of his temples and the agony shredding his heart to pieces. Instead he focused on the rage, the need to punish the person responsible for his torment.

He would make her pay for this.

Goddamn it, he would make her
pay
.

Present day

Morgan paced the guest room as he waited for Sean Reilly to return his call. He’d put in an urgent request to the information dealer nearly two hours ago, and if the son of a bitch didn’t get back to him soon, he was going to flip the fuck out. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that Noelle would storm in and kick him out of the town house by force.

Or maybe she’d put a bullet in his head. He supposed it depended on how furious she still was.

But Noelle would just have to suck it up and deal with his presence a little while longer, because he wasn’t going anywhere until he got some answers to his questions.

The most pressing one being: Why the hell was Walther Dietrich in Paris?

He still couldn’t wrap his brain around it. He’d been hunting Dietrich for almost two decades with zero results, and then, when he wasn’t even looking, the man appeared in front of him like the fucking Ghost of Christmas Past.

Dietrich must have rebuilt his empire during his long absence from society. Clearly he was living under an assumed name these days—Maurice Durand, owner of a billion-dollar pharmaceutical company. But was the legitimate businessman thing a cover? It had to be. The Dietrich that Morgan had known was a ruthless criminal, an arms dealer who wasn’t above selling guns to warlords or getting his hands dirty when he needed to. Morgan’s elite intelligence unit had been assigned to the man after Dietrich had managed to plant a mole inside US Special Operations and stolen American warheads to arm rival governments.

There was no doubt in Morgan’s mind that Dietrich was still dealing weapons, but he hadn’t heard a peep about Maurice Durand in association with the arms game.

Fortunately, his phone rang before his brain imploded from all the questions and doubts running through it.

He picked up instantly, answering not with a hello, but with a brisk, “Well?”

“Hello to you too, Morgan,” came Sean Reilly’s Irish brogue. “You really are an ornery bastard, eh?”

“What did you find out about Durand?” he demanded.

“Not much. Which says a lot, actually.”

Morgan settled on the edge of the bed and drummed his fingers against his thigh. “If you don’t fucking elaborate in the next five seconds, I’m going to fly to Dublin and beat the shit out of you.”

“Such violence! And to think, I actually wanted to come work for you, asshole.”

Right. Morgan had forgotten about that. Trevor Callaghan had told him last week that Reilly had expressed interest in potentially coming on board, but he’d had other issues on his plate at the time. And although he knew he had to replace Holden eventually, he hadn’t wanted to accept that one of his best soldiers—and his oldest friend—was gone for good.

But he didn’t have time to think about any of that right now.

“Tell me about Durand,” he said impatiently.

“Fine. This is what we know about the guy—he showed up in Paris ten years ago claiming to be the illegitimate son of Louis Durand, a reclusive millionaire from Lyon. Durand Senior rarely ever left his estate, he didn’t have any family, but he was notorious for his affairs with the female members of his household staff, so nobody was surprised to hear he’d fathered a child. When the old man died, Durand Junior showed up with his birth certificate and a copy of a DNA test, proving he was the rightful heir. The lawyers didn’t question it, those gullible oafs. But you and I both know bogus results could be bought if you just have enough money.”

“So Dietrich inherited the old man’s money?”

“Why are you so certain Durand and Dietrich are the same man?”

“They are,” he said darkly. “Trust me.”

“All righty, then. Well, yes, Durand Junior inherited a fortune, but he already had his own to bring to the table. Claimed he got it from investing wisely. Once he got to Paris, he bought out Beaumont Pharmaceuticals, renamed it, and has been growing his empire ever since.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s a recluse too. Hardly ever leaves his estate, except to pop into company headquarters once or twice a week. He doesn’t go out socially, and when he does, he’s always alone. Well, not alone—he travels with an army of bodyguards—but he doesn’t show up anywhere with a guest.”

Morgan swallowed. “No mention of a daughter?”

“None that’s on record.”

The news was disappointing, but Morgan knew it didn’t mean anything. If Dietrich went to such great lengths to stay out of the limelight, then it stood to reason that he’d demand the same of Ariana. God knew that house was big enough to hide a hundred people inside it. Nobody but the staff would have to know she was on the premises, and even then, Dietrich could hide her existence from his employees if he really wanted to.

But why? Why not introduce Ariana as his child? Why keep her hidden?

Because he knows you’re trying to find her
.

Was that it? Was Dietrich protecting Ariana from the man who’d double-crossed her all those years ago?

It made sense—Walther had always been fiercely protective of his daughter. Ariana had led a sheltered life; she was a spoiled and entitled girl who couldn’t survive a day in the world without her daddy.

“Anyway, I’ll keep digging,” Reilly told him. “I’m trying to get my hands on his birth certificate and find out what he did before he appeared on the scene. I put some calls in to a few contacts in French intelligence.”

“Good.” Morgan cleared his throat. “Hey, you still want to join the team?”

He got a long pause in response, then, “Why? Are you making me an offer?”

“You want the job, you’ve got it. But only if you get your ass to Paris ASAP. I need your help on recon.”

He didn’t typically make rash hiring decisions, but he could definitely use Reilly’s help at the moment. He’d call Sullivan and Liam too. God knew they’d be over the frickin’ moon—Sully had already left him half a dozen messages demanding to be brought in as backup.

“I’ll be on the first flight out.” Reilly’s voice turned smug. “Boss.”

After he’d disconnected the call, Morgan raked both hands through his hair and cursed softly. He’d come to Paris to find out who wanted him dead, but now all of a sudden, the objective had become even more critical.

Ariana was finally within his reach.

His throat tightened as the memory of her face suddenly came to him. Her bottomless dark eyes, always conveying that perpetual gleam of petulance. Lord, he could even hear her haughty voice echoing in his head. Every word she’d said had held that superior undertone.
Mine. Give me. I want it
. She’d decided that everyone in the world lived to serve
her
, and when she wanted something, well, God help anyone who tried to get in her way.

And she’d wanted Morgan from the moment she met him.

Letting out a breath, he rose from the bed and looked around, his gaze taking in the high thread-count sheets, the gleaming antique furniture, and the thick, navy blue drapes. The room gave off an elegant vibe, just like Noelle. But it was also slightly cold.

Just like Noelle.

He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and tossed it on the bed, then rolled up his sleeves and steeled his jaw. Time to get this over with.

When he walked into her bedroom, he found the terrace doors open, and the faint scent of tobacco floated toward him. Noelle was at the railing, her blond hair loose and undulating in the night breeze. She no longer wore her fancy dress, but a pair of black yoga pants and a cornflower blue shirt with billowy sleeves.

Morgan stepped outside, glimpsing the pack of cigarettes on the table next to the door. He swiped a smoke from the pack, lit it, and came up beside her, fixing his gaze on the twinkling cityscape beyond the railing.

“Listen, about Ariana—”

“I won’t apologize for warning her,” Noelle cut in angrily. “So if that’s what you came out here for, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I didn’t expect an apology.”

“Good. Because I’m not sorry.” Noelle sounded embittered. “She deserved to know what you were up to. It’s not my problem she told her father, and it’s certainly not my problem that your team decided to ambush the house.” She laughed harshly. “If anything, I’m glad Walther and Ariana made it out. I’m fucking
thrilled
they disappeared off the face of the earth. It means I got to watch you suffer for seventeen years.”

Morgan raised his cigarette to his lips, then exhaled in a slow rush. “I never loved her,” he said gruffly.

Noelle didn’t answer, but he saw her shoulders go rigid.

He repeated himself. “I never loved her.”

When she still didn’t respond, he groaned in frustration.

“That’s just what I led you to believe, okay? I wanted to hurt you, so I let you think I loved Ariana. But I didn’t.” He inhaled a quick drag, then blew out a cloud of smoke. “I hated her. Goddamn it, I hated every second I spent with her.”

Noelle finally acknowledged his presence by shooting him a skeptical look. “You hated her,” she echoed.

He nodded miserably. “She was a spoiled, nasty woman, completely insufferable. I used to cringe when she walked into the room. I wanted nothing more than to run in the other direction whenever I saw her. I had to force myself to touch her. I forced myself to put on a smile and work the charm, and I hated myself for it. Fuck. I think I hated myself more than I hated her.”

His fingers tightened on the railing, breaking his cigarette cleanly in half. The lit cherry fell over the balcony and disappeared on the street below, and he flicked the other half over the rail, feeling tired and glum.

“The first time I slept with her...” He swallowed. “It was the only time in my life I actually felt dirty. I felt like a fucking whore.”

As he stood there staring at the city lights, the memories continued to haunt him. Kissing Ariana, escorting her to all those pretentious parties, going to her bed at night...

He’d pretended he was making love to Noelle.

Yep, he hadn’t forgotten that part, either.

Probably the most despicable thing he could’ve ever done, but it was the only way to get his dick hard. The only way to get through the sex he hadn’t wanted to have.

“I thought I could get close to her without taking her to bed,” he said bitterly. “I never intended to. But she had other ideas. She wanted me, and she did everything she could to seduce me. It reached the point that if I said no, I’d blow the entire op.”

“The things the mighty James Morgan does for his country.” Noelle’s voice oozed with venom.

Shame trickled down his spine like icy drops of water. “I’m not proud of it, all right? But Dietrich needed to be stopped. He was a threat to our country, and I was sent to Berlin to stop him.”

“And what better way to do that than to use his daughter, right? That is your MO, right, Jim?”

“Yes, I used her. I used
you
. Is that what you want to hear?”

She didn’t answer.

“Go ahead and criticize me for my tactics. I’m not proud of them either, okay? But I can’t change what I did. All I can do is tell you why I did it—to stop Dietrich from putting US nukes in enemy hands. And I can also tell you that I didn’t enjoy a second of the time I spent with that girl, Noelle.” He repeated himself again, something he knew he’d have to do many, many more times. “I never loved her.”

“You keep saying that, but your actions say otherwise. You’ve spent seventeen years looking for her and you expect me to believe you didn’t love her? What do you take me for, an idiot?”

He sighed. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“Yeah? Then why?” she challenged. “Why the fuck did you spend half your life searching for Ariana Dietrich if you didn’t love her?”

His chest constricted as years of grief and agony came rushing back. The desperation that had pushed him to follow every trail no matter how cold it was. The brick walls he’d slammed into time and time again. The friendships he’d cultivated with soulless criminals in order to be kept informed of any and all developments in the arms trade.

It had been time-consuming and frustrating, but he’d forced himself to keep up the search.

“Why, Jim?” Noelle asked again. “Why did you keep looking?”

His stomach twisted into knots. “Because she was carrying my child.”

“Did you bring it?” Cate couldn’t contain her excitement as her longtime friend walked into the room. She actually had to stop herself from rushing up to Gabriel and patting his pockets to see if he’d kept his word.

Gabriel gave an answering laugh in response, and as usual, the deep timbre of his voice startled her for a moment. She’d known him since she was seven years old, and she still remembered how confused she’d been when his voice had changed a few years ago. Suddenly it had become deep, cracking so often that she’d teased him mercilessly about it, but now it never cracked. Now, every time he opened his mouth, Cate was faced with the evidence that Gabriel wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was eighteen years old. A
man
.

He’d also grown more than a foot in the past couple years. He towered over her, which meant she had to tip her head back to meet his brown eyes.

“Well?” she demanded.

He hesitated. “Yeah, I brought it.”

Cate didn’t even try to hide her delight. “Ha, I knew you would! Can I see it?”

With visible reluctance, he reached into his back pocket and extracted a small leather case.

Cate snatched it from his hand before he could argue, and quickly unzipped the case to peek at the rows of small tools strapped inside. A variety of rakes, hooks, tension wrenches—everything she’d been practicing with for the past few weeks.

“My father will kill me if he finds out I gave this to you,” Gabriel warned her.

“I promise, nobody will ever know.” Cate’s finger traced the dimpled tip of a high reach hook, while her stomach continued to flutter with excitement.

As the son of a locksmith, Gabriel had access to all sorts of tools, which was super-convenient because Cate’s grandfather would
never
allow her to own a lockpick set. Though in all fairness, most teenage girls didn’t have much need for one, so it wasn’t like her grandfather was denying her an important human necessity or anything.

Truth was, Cate had always gotten everything she’d ever wanted. The finest clothes, the best tutors, lavish vacations, constant love and attention. Nobody doted on her the way her grandfather did, and she knew with absolute certainty that Maurice Durand would protect her with his dying breath if it came down to it.

But as wonderful as he was, there was one thing he refused to give her—information about her father. He refused to discuss the subject, and after years of asking questions and receiving no answers, Cate had finally decided to take matters into her own hands.

“You’re still going along with the plan, right?” She anxiously searched Gabriel’s face.

He didn’t look thrilled about it, but he nodded. “Yes. But if
Maman
finds out, I’m denying everything. She’ll whip my ass if she knows I’m helping you snoop on Mr. Durand.”

They were speaking in English, the way they always did when they were discussing something private. Most of the household staff spoke French and German, but very little English, which was a good thing because Cate couldn’t risk being overheard, not about something this important.

She knew Gabriel was apprehensive, and she didn’t blame him for being scared of his mother. Joséphine Traver ran the kitchen, and the woman terrified most of the people in the house, Cate included. She was a force to be reckoned with. Strict and mule-headed and insistent that her way was not just the right way, but the only way.

Yet despite her steely exterior, Joséphine was warm and loving. When Cate was young, she and Gabriel used to play in the kitchen while Joséphine cooked, and Gabriel’s mother had always been there to listen to Cate’s problems or help with schoolwork.

As much as it pained her to admit it, Cate had always felt more comfortable with Gabriel’s mother than her own.

“
Maman
can’t find out, understand?” Gabriel repeated firmly.

She fought a rush of guilt at the thought of getting Gabriel in trouble, but it was too late to turn back now. “Don’t worry. She won’t. C’mon, Thierry is already downstairs. I went down there earlier to say hello to him.”

“Why would you do that? Now he’s going to be suspicious!”

“No, he won’t. I say hello to him every morning.”

It wasn’t a lie—Cate was good friends with their longtime security guard. He had a great sense of humor and she liked talking to him, the same way she enjoyed interacting with the rest of the staff.

Her grandfather wasn’t thrilled about the friendships she’d formed with the help, but what else was she supposed to do? She’d been homeschooled her entire life and wasn’t allowed to leave the house without her bodyguards, which didn’t give her many opportunities to socialize. Who else could she talk to if not the people who worked and lived with them?

Needless to say, her life was unbearably lonely at times. She understood why her grandfather was so overprotective, but although she was willing to follow his lead most of the time, there was one thing she refused to compromise on, and that was the issue of her father.

“You know what to do,” she told Gabriel. “Just make sure Thierry doesn’t see me on any of the monitors.”

He sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll come downstairs in five minutes. Go do your thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

When a faint smile crossed his lips, Cate’s heart skipped a beat. He was so handsome that sometimes it got hard to breathe when she was around him. She’d been feeling kind of edgy lately, hot and confused and...
Nope, not the time
.

Swallowing hard, Cate gave him a little shove. “Go,” she repeated.

He rolled his eyes, then strode out of the room, leaving her to her nervous thoughts.

She had her own suite of rooms in the west wing of the house, complete with a living room, office, bedroom, private bath, and an entire room for a closet, which was full of beautiful clothes she’d never worn. Where would she even wear them? Should she put on a fancy Gucci dress just to go downstairs and have breakfast with her grandfather? Slip into a pair of Manolo Blahnik boots to walk around in the vast gardens surrounding the estate?

No, thank you. Besides, even if she did have a booming social life, fancy clothes weren’t really her thing. She only felt comfortable in faded blue jeans and comfy tank tops, while her choice of footwear was either sneakers, or the scuffed-up black combat boots that her grandfather despised. He’d ordered her to throw them out on more than one occasion, but Cate always fought him tooth and nail. She was already living the most sheltered life on the planet—the least he could do was let her keep her darn boots.

Today she was wearing her trademark jeans and tank, but she’d added a flannel shirt to the mix. The shirttails hung down to her butt, effectively covering the lock pick case she’d tucked under her waistband.

She paced the thick carpet, checking her watch every other second. When her allotted five minutes were up, she hurried out the door.

This was it. Her one chance to get the answers she’d been seeking her entire life.

She forced herself to walk casually, praying that she didn’t run into anyone. Her grandfather and Nikolaus had already left for the city, a rare occurrence because they didn’t go to the office every day like normal people. Maurice Durand had managers and vice presidents to run his company for him, and he usually spent his days on the phone in his study or walking around in the gardens.

As Maurice’s assistant, Nik was the only one who seemed to do any actual work, but Cate wasn’t exactly sure what he did for her grandfather. He joked that he was a Nik-of-all-trades, taking care of anything that needed taking care of, and she’d never really questioned that.

Truth was, she really liked Nik, who’d been around for as long as she could remember. He was the one who’d taught her how to ride a bike and sail a boat when they’d been living in Greece. He’d taken her hiking and mountain climbing on a trip to Peru, scuba diving when they’d gone to Australia. Unlike her grandfather, Nik genuinely seemed to appreciate her thirst for adventure.

When Cate reached the first-floor study, she tried not to feel guilty about going behind her grandfather’s back. But what other choice did she have? He insisted that her father was dead, yet refused to say anything more on the subject, which was why she was so reluctant to believe it.

Because if her father truly was dead, what was the harm in giving her a few more details? How had he died? What had he done for a living? Maurice didn’t want to offer even a sliver of information.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find today. Maybe her father
was
dead—she was fully prepared for that. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be happy with a few more facts. Just learning his name would be good enough for her.

Cate slid the leather kit out of her waistband and spared a nervous glance at the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling, crossing her fingers that Gabriel was occupying Thierry like he’d promised.

Taking a breath, she removed a tension wrench and a shallow hook from the case. Gabriel had explained that this particular hook worked best on the high-security locks you usually found in Europe, which tended to have smaller, more restrictive keyways. The slender pick with its slack curvature would do the job when a standard short hook was too large for the hole.

She inserted the wrench into the lower part of the keyhole, then placed the hook in the upper part and began feeling for the little pins that kept the cylinder locked in place. She’d been practicing with Gabriel for weeks, but now that her new skill was being put to the test, it was harder than she’d thought.

Cate blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, wishing she’d tied her long hair in a ponytail. As she continued fiddling with the lock, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, willing the job to go faster. One by one, the pins in the lock were lifted by the hook and pushed out of the cylinder. When she thought she had the pins set, she held her breath, then turned the wrench.

Click
.

Pride shot through her as the cylinder turned and the door was unlocked. She’d done it. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten it on the first try, and she couldn’t wait to tell Gabriel.

Without stopping a beat, she retrieved her tools, crept into the study, and quietly closed the door behind her. The room smelled like her grandfather, the familiar scent of leather and cologne filling her nostrils.

Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the back wall, and as Cate neared her grandfather’s commanding desk, she caught sight of the garden hedge maze through the glass. Even after ten years of living on the estate, she still hadn’t been able to finish that darn maze. Nik constantly tried enticing her to keep at it by hinting about the spectacular treasure she’d find in the center, but patience had never been Cate’s strong suit. She usually wandered around blindly for ten minutes, fifteen tops, before she got bored and gave up.

Her grandfather told her that the maze was an exercise in focus and discipline, but she preferred doing things that got her adrenaline pumping.

Cate moved her gaze away from the windows and settled in the big leather chair behind the desk. She tried opening the top desk drawer. To her surprise, it was unlocked. Her grandfather probably didn’t feel the need to lock anything inside the room since the locked door kept people out in the first place.

The first drawer contained nothing but office supplies, so she tried the next one and found a leather-bound ledger. She pulled it out, flipped through it, and saw nothing but appointments. The next drawer had a bunch of documents inside it, typed reports about prescription drugs with the most technical-sounding names. The information was so dense and boring that her eyes started to cross.

She shoved the papers back in the drawer, starting to get frustrated. There was no other furniture in the office except for the desk, the bookshelves, and the two armchairs in front of the stone fireplace, so if she didn’t find anything in these drawers, she didn’t know where else to look for information about her father. She had absolutely nothing to go on. Not even his name.

She reached for the handle of the bottom drawer, but it didn’t budge.

Her suspicions were instantly roused. This drawer was locked. The others weren’t. That had to mean something, right?

She hopped off the chair and kneeled down, pulling out the wrench and a smaller, more slender rake. It took much less time to pick this lock compared to the one on the door, and when the drawer sprang open, her gaze hungrily devoured the contents.

She pulled out several file folders. Opened the first one.

And stopped breathing.

It’s him
.

She didn’t know where the certainty had come from, but as she stared at the picture in the folder she knew without a doubt that she was looking at her father.

Eagerly, she memorized every detail. Dark hair, so short it was nearly buzzed off. A handsome face with chiseled masculine features. Blue eyes.

Her throat clogged at the sight of his eyes. She’d seen that dark shade of blue in only one other pair of eyes in her life.

Hers.

She’d always figured she’d inherited her eyes from her father, because both her mother and grandfather had chocolate brown ones. And now her hunch was confirmed.

Her hand shook as she flipped to the next page. It contained lines and lines of information, like a celebrity’s biography on the Internet. Age, height, weight, background.

But only one detail interested her at the moment. The line that read “name.”

Her father’s name was James Morgan.

Cate couldn’t stop the tears that filled her eyes. After years and years of wondering, she finally had a name, a face, something tangible to hold on to.

The file didn’t say whether he was dead, which was encouraging. It also omitted an address or phone number, though it did list some information about a security company that James Morgan apparently owned and operated.

Cate shot to her feet and dashed toward the multipurpose laser printer next to the fax machine. Her fingers trembled as she shoved the short stack of papers into the scan tray. She pressed the copy button, then waited anxiously for the copies to spit out. She’d already been in here way too long, and she knew Gabriel wouldn’t be able to distract Thierry forever.