“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.
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 g
ood 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 realize she was being spoken to until she saw both her father and Paolo Turati looking at her in expectation.
“Oh, I...I’m sorry,” she stammered, embarrassed to have been caught drifting. Especially with Lazaro Archer there to notice it too. “Would you repeat that last part for me, please? I want to be certain I get it correct.”
Her father chuckled. “Sweetheart, I just asked if you might like to take a short break. We’ve been going on for hours without a rest. I’m sure we all could use a few minutes to relax a bit.”
“Of course,” she replied, then pivoted to translate for their smiling host.
As she rose from the antique sofa, both men politely stood with her. Lazaro Archer took the opportunity to stalk out of the salon. She watched him disappear into the darkness outside.
“Would you like some wine?” Turati asked her, his Italian words infused with pride as he gestured to a collection of bottles encased in a lighted cabinet the length of one entire wall of the salon. “My family owns three vineyards, one dating back nearly a thousand years. I would be pleased if you would join me for a glass of my favorite vintage.”
Melena smiled back at him. “I would enjoy that very much, thank you. But first, may I ask where I might find a restroom, please?”
“Certainly, certainly.” Turati snapped his fingers at the pair of bodyguards who’d been hanging back obediently for the duration of the night. Continuing with Melena in Italian, he said, “There is one just through that door and down the passageway, my dear. Gianni will show you—”
“No, that’s okay.” She shook her head at the approaching guard, unaccustomed to so much fawning and more than capable of finding her own way. “Thank you, but I’m sure I can find it on my own. Will you all excuse me?”
With a reassuring glance at her father and a nod to Turati, Melena headed out of the salon and into the passageway. The private restroom at the other end was every bit as sumptuous as the salon, with gilded trim and elegant millwork, gleaming mirrors, and a wealth of original art on the walls.
As she came out of the single stall a few moments later and washed her hands, she couldn’t help but pause to check her reflection in the polished glass. Her light copper hair was wind-tossed and thickened from the humidity of the sea. Her skin was milky beneath the freckles that spread out over the apples of her cheeks and marched across the bridge of her nose. And the aura that radiated off her was imbued with shades of green and gold.
Hope.
Determination.
She tried not to notice the faint pink glow that simmered beneath the stronger colors of her psyche. Her curiosity about Lazaro Archer had no place here. Her awareness of him as a dark, dangerously attractive male, even less. She’d come to assist her father; that was all.
And besides, the grim representative from the Order had given her no reason to think he’d even noticed her tonight, other than as a nuisance he was eager to relieve himself of at the earliest opportunity.
Every time she looked at him, he’d been cloaked in a haze of unreadable, gunmetal gray. Coupled with his intimidating gaze, the effect should have been enough to make her keep a healthy distance.
Instead, as she left the restroom, rather than returning straight to the salon again, Melena pivoted in the opposite direction. Toward the aft deck, where she’d seen him go.
He stood alone at the rail in the dark, a stoic figure, unmoving, forbidding. His large hands were braced wide before him. His immense, black-clad body leaned slightly forward as he gazed off the stern of the yacht over the endless blanket of rippling water beyond.
Melena took a silent step toward him, then hesitated.
This was probably a bad idea. She should go back inside and focus on what she was supposed to be doing. She had no business with Lazaro Archer, even if there was something she’d been wanting to say to him all night. For much longer than that, in fact.
But from the rigidity of his stance, she could see that he was in no mood for conversation. Probably least of all with the interloper who’d shown up uninvited and inadvertently defied his authority over the meeting.
Her feet paused beneath her, Melena started to pivot around to leave him to his solitude.
“You’re doing well in there.” His deep voice arrested her where she stood. He didn’t bother to look at her, and although the compliment was completely unexpected, it came out more like a growled accusation.
“Thanks.” Tentatively, since there was no point in trying to avoid him now, she crossed the deck to join him at the railing. “I like Signor Turati. And I have a good feeling about this meeting. I think my father has made a true friend here tonight.”
Lazaro grunted. “I’ll be sure to inform Lucan Thorne that you give your blessing.”
Melena exhaled a short sigh. “I’m not trying to minimize the importance of this meeting. I understand what’s at stake—”
“No. You couldn’t possibly,” he replied, finally swiveling his head to look askance at her.
And oh, Lord. If she thought Lazaro Archer was intimidating from across the room, up close he was terrifying. His midnight-blue eyes glittered as dark as obsidian in the moonlight, ruthless under the ebony slashes of his brows. His strong nose and sharp cheekbones gave him a ferocity no human face could carry off, and his squared, rigid jawline seemed hewn of granite.
Only his mouth had an element of softness to it, though right now, as he looked at her, his broad, sensual lips were flattened in an irritated scowl.
“How old are you?” he demanded.
“Twenty-nine.”
He scoffed, his dark gaze giving her a brief once-over. Based on the fierce ticking of a tendon in his already ironclad jaw, she guessed he didn’t particularly like what he saw. “You’ve barely been out of diapers long enough to understand how important it is to have peace between the Breed and humankind. You were only a child when the veil between our world and theirs was torn away. You didn’t wade through the blood in the streets. You didn’t see the death, the brutality inflicted on so many innocents by both sides of this war.” He blew out a curse and shook his head slowly back and forth. “You can’t possibly comprehend how thin the thread is that holds back an even uglier war now. Nor can you know the lengths to which some people will go to rip that thread to tatters.”
“You’re talking about Opus Nostrum,” Melena said quietly. A flicker of surprise in those narrowing indigo eyes now. “As my father’s personal assistant, he trusts me completely with all of his GNC business. I collect data for him. I summarize reports. I attend most of his meetings, as well as compose the majority of his speeches.
I’m also his daughter, so of course, I’m well aware of the attempted bombing at the summit he attended a couple of weeks ago. I know Opus wanted to take a lot of lives at that event—Breed and human. I also know the Order’s primary objective now is to unmask the members of Opus’s secret cabal and take the terror group down.”
Lazaro grunted but seemed less than impressed. “If you came out here to recite your credentials, Miss Walsh, let me spare you the effort.”
“You all but challenged me to tell you,” she pointed out.
“And all you’ve done is confirm what I already knew about you. I have a job to do here too, and you’ve been standing in my way all night.” He glanced back out at the water. “I’m sure your ample charms will find a far more receptive audience back in the salon.”
Ample charms? Was that a cut on the fact that she actually had curves and a figure, or could he possibly mean he found her even a little bit interesting?
“I didn’t come out here to...Jesus, never mind,” she stammered. “Forgive me for disturbing you.” Frustrated, Melena pushed back from the railing. She started to pivot away, then paused. Glanced over at him one last time, her own anger spiking. “We’ve met, you know. You don’t remember me.”
Why she felt stung by that she really didn’t want to consider. When he didn’t respond after a long moment, she decided it was probably for the best. God knew, she would be better off forgetting the night she nearly died too.
She turned and headed back across the deck.
“I remember a reckless child doing something stupid,” he muttered from behind her. “A silly little girl, being somewhere she damned well didn’t belong.”
Rather like the way he seemed to regard her now, she thought, bristling at the comment.
“I was seven,” Melena replied, swinging a look over her shoulder at him. Lazaro hadn’t moved from his position, was still staring out at the black water. “I was seven years old, and you saved my life. I’d be dead if not for you.”
“Saved you? Christ.” He exhaled sharply, as if the idea annoyed him. “I’m not in the habit of saving anyone.”