R ECKLESSN IGHT
A Dangerous Passion Novella
L ISAM ARIER ICE
C ONTENTS
Reckless Night
Introduction to Bonus Excerpts
Excerpt from DANGEROUS PASSION
Excerpt from DANGEROUS LOVER
Excerpt from DANGEROUS SECRETS
About the Author
Also by Lisa Marie Rice
Copyright
About the Publisher
R ECKLESSN IGHT
Malua, Sivuatu
Oceania
December 23
Manuel Rabat opened his present with a heavy heart, knowing it would be absolutely perfect because his absolutely perfect wife, Victoria, was a world-class artist.
Even the fucking wrapping paper was perfect. Handmade wrapping paper. Florentine-style marbleized paper in brilliant swirls of turquoise and emerald green. A work of art in itself, something his brilliant wife probably shot off casually on some morning in which she had a little spare time.
But the gift, ah. The gift was not something shot off casually. It was the work of many painstaking hours of labor that his wife had put in because… she loved him.
It still astonished him.
He looked down at the small square canvas.
A portrait of his hand. His right hand on a table, a small vase of flowers in the background. He stared. It was utterly perfect. He had big, strong hands and she captured that strength, the raised veins, the scars, even the yellow calluses on the side of his hand from a lifetime of karate.
His hand wasn’t beautiful, but it was large and powerful and she caught that perfectly, and set it against the delicate crystal vase of flowers in the background, the flowers at the edge of maturity, just ready to drop their petals. The contrast between the powerful male hand and the delicate bouquet was stunning.
The canvas looked ancient, like some Renaissance painting by one of the old masters that had time-travelled to their home, the dark background and earth tones of his hand offsetting the pale pastels of the flowers.
He pointed to the vase of stunning flowers. “What are those, my love?”
His wife smiled. “Peonies.”
They looked like roses, only fuller, even more beautiful.
And the perfect finishing touch, giving it a patina of ancient mystery—gilt flourishes around the edges, making a golden frame within the carved wooden frame. And… if you looked closely, the perfectly symmetrical pattern revealed itself to be tiny interlinked “d’s”. Her secret signal to him, the only time she allowed herself to even think his name.
Because his name wasn’t Manuel Rabat, not at all.
In a previous life, what felt like a century ago, his name had been Viktor “Drake” Drakovich. A name that had been feared and envied in many places and hated everywhere.
A name that even now would bring hit men out of the woodwork if there was even a hint that he was alive. Criminals from all over the world would come crawling out from under rocks to travel to Oceania to have the privilege of killing him.
Drake had died back in New York in a conflagration, leaving his billion-dollar arms empire behind. He had no idea if someone had stepped into his shoes, and he didn’t give a fuck. That was another life.
He had enough money for ten lifetimes and above all, he had Grace, who was now Victoria.
Grace—Victoria—never ever made a mistake, not even in private. She did everything she could to keep them safe.
It was only in her many stunning handmade gifts to him that she allowed herself their secret code. A tiny “d” somewhere in the gift. Sometimes it took him an hour to discover it.
“This is beautiful, darling,” he said, cursing his inability to express fully what he felt. She’d created a masterpiece, something that, if it didn’t go onto the wall in his study, would be in a museum.
Beautifulwas a stupid word, an inadequate word, a nothing word.
But it made her glow. She smiled and kissed his temple. “You like it? Once—” That was her code word for the short time they’d lived together in his penthouse atop the Manhattan skyscraper that had gone down in flames. Once. “Once I saw your hand on your desk and there was a vase of flowers. Lilies of the valley because it was winter.”
It had been snowing the day they made their escape. Sleet and snow falling heavily from the sky, together with shards of rotor blade from the rooftop helicopter his enemy had shot down. “I was so struck by the juxtaposition of your hand and the delicacy of the flowers, I knew I would paint it one day.” She kissed him again. “So happy birthday, darling.”
Happy birthday.
Drake had no idea whether December 23rd was his birthday or not. It had been on the passport of one of his identities while operating in West Africa as a Belgian, Hugo Van Hoof, and he’d simply retained it.
Who knew what day he’d been born? Or even what year? His earliest memories were of being a street rat on the streets of Odessa. He had no idea who his parents had been.
“My birthday,” he said sourly. “And now Christmas is coming up.”
She laughed because she knew perfectly well why the idea of Christmas coming up made him so exasperated. Because she’d give him a perfect Christmas present, something so unusual he wouldn’t even think of needing it until she gave it to him and he’d give her—what?
It’s not as if he didn’t have the money to buy her things. He could probably buy her a whole country if she wanted one, albeit a small one. Maybe Andorra? Liechtenstein?
He could buy her furs, diamonds, Valentino dresses. By the ton. Chanel handbags and Gucci shoes, by the truckload. Cashmere scarves, gold-plated golf clubs, a collection of gold Rolexes. A diamond as big as the fucking Ritz.
She didn’t want them.
As a matter of fact, in an attempt to keep them low profile, she specifically kept their spending down. Hisspending down because she spent almost nothing.
Every single one of the many presents she’d made him had cost very little except time and work; they had been infused with her talent and love for him and were absolutely priceless.
The thing was, Drake was very smart. He knew how to handle money, he knew how to handle weapons, he had run a fucking empire single-handedly. He could defeat more or less any man on earth in close quarter combat.
But he didn’t have a creative bone in his body, not one. When he tried to think of making her a present instead of going out and buying the most expensive thing he could, he drew a complete blank. He loved her as he had never loved another human being; she was his life, his heart, but he couldn’t think of anything to get her that was an expression of his creativity, which was nonexistent, and not his bank account, which was considerable.
She wasn’t in any way interested in his bank account, which still astonished him.
“Come.” Grace—in his head he would always think of her as Grace—pulled at his hand. “Come look at the table I set for your first- ever birthday party.”
First-ever birthday party.
It was true. The thought of organizing a birthday party had never even crossed his mind. And if it had, he’d never had friends before to celebrate with. Only employees and enemies.
Grace had changed that, too. She’d invited his airline’s chief pilot and his girlfriend his driver—who was also her bodyguard though he’d never tell her that,—the mayor of Malua, their new home, and his wife. Plus the president of their bank who already thought Drake walked on water after he deposited one one-thousandth of his assets into the bank. She’d also invited the manager of the art gallery she’d set up in town and his partner.
Acquaintances. Maybe—who knew? Maybe someday friends. As a matter of fact, without realizing it, they were becoming friends. This had never happened to
him before.
The notion felt odd to him, like a new taste. He didn’t even know if he liked the idea of having friends. He only knew he didn’t notlike it.
And the thought seemed to please Grace, so that was that.
He’d rarely if ever allowed men into his home, and only after passing three layers of security. He couldn’t do that to people Grace had invited to celebrate his birthday, though he’d tried to suggest… but then Grace put her foot down.
Their guests were coming in through the front door without being patted down or passing through a metal detector. So dictated Grace Law, which was the law of his land.
Still… trust but verify as they said. The door frame of the entrance wasa hidden metal detector that gave off a vibration to his cell phone instead of an auditory signal. He had security guards stationed discreetly, two of whom would be serving drinks on the patio.
Other guards were posted in hidden stations in their extensive garden and on the floor below.
And anyway, Drake had a sixth and even a seventh sense for who might be carrying in his presence. Guns and weapons had been his entire life up until very recently. He’d be willing to bet his life—and more importantly Grace’s life—that he could spot a hidden weapon.
“Close your eyes.” Grace smiled at his expression, reached out with index finger and thumb and closed his eyelids. “Come on. I have something to show you.”
“Another gift?” he asked in dismay. God. Already the painting was perfect. He couldn’t stand anotherperfect gift.
“Not really a gift.” Drake couldn’t see her, but he knew his wife so very well and he knew exactly what her expression was. Loving, smiling, just a little bit exasperated at her husband who was so competent in so many ways and yet a failure at so many things ordinary people instinctively knew how to do. “Give me your hand.”
He held his hand out and she took it gently, then tugged.
“Come with me. No peeking.”
He resisted for just a second. Giving up control to another human being went against every instinct he had. All of his life had been spent under the constant threat of violence. He was alive today because he had taken an inborn paranoia and turned it into a science. Otherwise that first assassination attempt in Kiev fifteen years ago would have got him, not to mention the twenty others over the years.
He was alive because he trusted no one.
He trusted Grace. With his life. It still gave him cognitive dissonance.
She loved him and she’d saved his life back in New York. The fact that she loved him was proved to him a thousand times a day.
The imperative— trust no one!—vied briefly and violently with the other imperative— trust Grace!—and trusting Grace won, as it always did. But it took a second to overcome long-ingrained instincts.
He was certain that Grace was standing there, patiently waiting while he violently and silently fought with himself, a scenario she’d seen dozens of times over.
To anyone who hadn’t lived as Drake did, alone in the midst of the most violent criminals on earth, he must seem crazy. But Grace understood him, understood him down to his bones.
And loved him, notwithstanding the darkness and danger she knew lurked right underneath his surface.
It never failed to baffle him and thrill him.
“Okay,” he said and heard her exhale.
She led him through a couple of rooms and stopped on what he knew was the threshold of the dining room. There was, as always throughout the house, a delightful scent of living plants, fresh flowers, lemons, and in this room, delicious food.
“Open your eyes, my love,” Grace said.
His eyes popped open and he stared.
A fairyland. She’d turned the room into a fairyland, touched by magic. The room glowed with candles, candles everywhere, on every surface. Last year she’d learned how to make candles from a book and instead of producing lopsided messes as anyone else would, she produced a series of gorgeous candles that looked like flowers, candles with bits of seashell or flowers pressed into them, or twisting, sinuous,, very modern elegant shapes that caught the eye.
Four huge candle-pillars were in the four corners, looking like alabaster, glowing from within. He had no idea how she’d made candles that big.
Their dining table was long. Down the center she’d cut supple branches and braided them all the length of the table, tall slender columns of wax placed in the interstices of the candles.
The centerpiece was a huge green Christmas tree candle with red hanging decorations.
The napkins were arranged in some amazingly complex way to look like flowers in the middle of the plates.
There was an incredibly fresh smell to the air as well, coming mainly from the open sliding doors leading out onto a patio and the swimming pool.
He had nearly lost his calm when she explained what she wanted in their new home. Open doors? Insane.
He’d spent his entire adult life behind the strongest walls and doors science could devise. An opendoor? So enemies could just walk in?
Drake was hard-wired by this point to give Grace what she wanted but this went against everything he knew about the world.
In the end, of course, he caved, but not before secretly creating a force field of security around the sprawling home on a bluff overlooking the ocean. He had 400 motion sensors and an array of IR cameras everywhere. If a fly shat on his property, or in a buffer zone of 100 meters around his property, he knew about it.
Still.
He looked out the open window, looked longingly at the sliders against the wall, his hands itching to close them…
“Relax,” his love murmured, rubbing his back, and he did.
“Old habits, dusch—” She lay a finger against his mouth, a slight frown between her eyebrows and she shook her head slightly.
“People are coming,” she said quietly.
Of course. Manuel Rabat, a Maltese businessman who’d spent time in America, would never say the Russian term of endearment duschka.
“Darling,” he finished and she smiled and kissed him. Just a brush of her lips and all those unsettled… things inside him that baffled him and kept him off balance suddenly settled and focused and burned brightly with the desire he felt for his wife.
He didn’t know what to do with the other emotions—and even acknowledging that he had emotions felt odd and jangled—but, by God, he knew what to do with this.
He fisted his hand in her soft, thick hair and deepened the kiss, everything roiling inside him suddenly still, focused like a diamond point on her, her mouth…
Drake was taking her down to the floor when a bell rang faintly.
One of their guests, otherwise he’d have been notified by his security staff.
Grace pulled away smiling, leaned her forehead against his. “Our guests are arriving.”
“Yes.” Kissing her was the only thing that could possibly make him forget that strangers—and the whole world was full of strangers as far as he was concerned—were coming to his door. Invited by him. Greeted as guests, allowed free rein of his home.
It still felt so foreign to him.
And then Drake watched Grace’s face and saw something, something she forgot to hide from him. She wanted this evening. She wanted company and conversation.
He knew she hid her real feelings about the way they had to live, while reassuring him over and over that he was enough for her. That the world didn’t matter.
But it did.
Sivuatu was paradise on earth in terms of weather and nature, but there was no cultural life, none. He knew that back in New York, she’d gone to almost every single concert in Lincoln Center, buying tickets that cost $25 and were up in the nosebleed sections because she had little money, but she was there. She went to all the plays in Central Park and to all the off-Broadway plays she could afford.
There was absolutely nothing like that here.
They lived in isolation, because of his paranoia. Absolutely justified paran
oia, true, but limiting nonetheless.
Grace filled her life well. She spent her days painting and had thrown herself into gardening. Plants were one thing Sivuatu excelled at. She looked and acted happy.
But then she loved him and would never, ever complain. He knew her well enough to know that.
Right now, she was really looking forward to having guests. She’d enjoyed decorating the dining room. It was clear in the loving care she’d taken. She found pleasure in this evening.
So whatever it cost him in terms of peace of mind, it was worth it. His wife needed the world, or at least the tiny corner of it he felt safe to give her.
That was when the plan sprang full blown in his head. The perfectgift for Grace. And he could arrange it tonight!
The mayor and his wife were entering, smiling, looking around in awe. Smiling at Grace. Smiling at him.
Drake walked forward to greet them, wondering if this was going to become a new style of life.
Wondering whether he’d pay for it with his life.
“Well.” Grace—now Victoria—laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder after their guests had gone. Even now that she’d touched him a million times, it still thrilled her to feel him under her fingers.
The first time she’d touched him it had been like laying her fingers against a powerful engine, an extraordinary feeling of sheer power under her fingertips, and it was still that way.
Her husband swung his face to hers, placing his huge hand over hers. “Well.”
Grace studied his face. As usual, it gave little away. Her husband had learned to school his expressions in very harsh places. “Your first birthday party. What did you think? It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No.” He gave out a little half puff of surprise, frowning. “No, it wasn’t.”
“And you actually enjoyed yourself, didn’t you? I saw a couple of smiles break out. Surprised the hell out of me.” Her husband had a bleak and dark view of life and she was making it her life’s work to slowly ease some joy and light into it.
His eyes widened, “I smiled?” She understood his surprise. Smiles were rare for him.