Tempted by Midnight: A Midnight Breed Novella (1001 Dark Nights) (2 page)

His Breed colleague from the States did not disappoint. Byron Walsh was arriving as promised, and right on time.

Lazaro nodded, grim with relief.

He turned away from the rail and headed down to the yacht’s main deck salon where Turati waited. On Lazaro’s directions and assurances, the gray-haired billionaire had brought just two men from his usual security entourage. The yacht’s crew of fifty had been reduced to a bare dozen, just enough personnel to operate the vessel.

At Lazaro’s entrance to the lavish salon, Turati glanced up, wiry brows lifting in question. “He comes?” the old man asked in his native tongue.

Lazaro answered in Italian as well. “The boat is on the way now.” As tonight’s host did not speak English, Lazaro would personally translate for the duration of the meeting, if only to ensure that the conversation didn’t inadvertently stray into unfriendly waters.

Paolo Turati was one of a small number of humans Lazaro considered a friend. He was also one of the few humans who didn’t look upon the Breed as a race of monsters in need of collaring at best, or, at worst, wholesale extermination.

Granted, the fear wasn’t without cause. For millennia, the Breed existed in the shadows alongside their
Homo sapiens
neighbors. In the twenty years since Lazaro’s kind was outed to man, trust between the two races on the planet had been anything but easy.

That trust became even more complicated a couple of weeks ago, when a violent cabal calling themselves Opus Nostrum smuggled a bomb into a very important summit gathering of Breed and human dignitaries.

If tonight’s introductions went well, the Breed would gain a supportive voice and a much-needed ally in their efforts to keep the peace between man and vampire all around the world. If it went poorly, the Order’s efforts to broker peace could ignite the smoldering war that Opus Nostrum seemed to want so badly.

“I hope your friend from Maryland comes to this meeting with the same intentions as I do,” Turati said, apprehension in the flat line of his mouth, even though the old human’s eyes held Lazaro in a trusting look. “If I like what I hear tonight, I will do what I can to persuade my brother to at least entertain the idea of talks with the GNC and Lucan Thorne. After all, everyone’s goal is peace, not only for ourselves, but for our generations to follow.”

“Indeed,” Lazaro replied. His acute Breed hearing picked up the faint, approaching growl of the boat carrying Byron Walsh. “He’s arriving now. Wait here, Paolo. I’ll go down to meet him and bring him up.”

Turati frowned then shook his head. “I will join you, Lazaro. It seems only proper that I greet Councilman Walsh personally and welcome him aboard along with you. I would do no less for any invited guest.”

Lazaro inclined his head in agreement. “A fine idea.”

He waited patiently as the old man stood and smoothed his custom-tailored navy suit and creamy silk shirt. By contrast, Lazaro was dressed in what he’d come to regard as
Order casual
—black slacks, light-duty combat boots, and a fitted black patrol shirt.

And although he was first generation Breed and more than deadly with his bare hands alone, he carried a blade concealed in each boot and had a semiautomatic 9mm pistol strapped to his right ankle. He didn’t expect trouble from either of the two men or their few staff present at tonight’s meeting, but he’d be damned if he didn’t come prepared for it.

Together, he and Turati left the grand salon on the yacht’s second level, making their way down a polished brass stairwell that spiraled elegantly onto the lower deck. The boat carrying Walsh was coming around the stern as Lazaro and Turati arrived on the aft deck to meet it.

A suited bodyguard stood at attention on the motorboat, just outside the cabin’s hatch. He was Breed, as big 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, there 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.