Midnight Rising (Midnight Breed 4)

Lucan answered that one. "Gideon tells me you have the camera and her computer. She needs to understand that everyone who has copies of those pictures is a risk to us - one we can't afford to let slide. So, she'll have to help us by killing her story and destroying every copy of every photograph she's let loose."

"And if she won't cooperate?" Rio could already imagine how well this conversation was going to go with her. "What do we do then?"

"We track down those inpiduals she's been in contact with, and we obtain the images by whatever means necessary."

"Mind-scrub them all?" Rio asked.

The set of Lucan's mouth was grave. "Whatever it takes."

"And the woman?" Rio wanted to be clear. "As a Breedmate, we can't just scrub her arbitrarily. She would be given some choice in this, wouldn't she?"

"Yes," Lucan said. "She does have a choice. Once she knows about the existence of the Breed and the mark she bears that links her to us, she can decide whether she wants to be a part of our world, or return to her own and give up all knowledge of our kind. That's the way it has always been done. It's the only way."

Rio nodded. "I'll take care of it, Lucan."

"I know you will," he said, no challenge or doubt in the statement, just pure trust. "And, Rio?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't think I haven't noticed those livid glyphs on you, my man." Narrowed silver eyes fixed on him over the distance. "Make sure you feed. Tonight."

Chapter Ten

Dylan sat near the head of the four-poster bed, staring intently at the illuminated digital display on her cell phone.

Looking for service...Looking for service...

"Come on," she whispered softly under her breath as the message repeated in agonizing slow motion. "Come on, work, damn it!"

Looking for service...

No signal available.

"Shit."

She'd lied to her abductor about having a cell phone. Her razor-thin mobile had been stashed in one of the side pockets of her cargo pants all this time, not that having it was doing her much good right now.

Her expensive international service was sketchy at best. Dylan had tried dialing out for help several times in the past hour, with the same frustrating result. All she was doing by refusing to give up was wasting precious battery time. She'd lost the cell phone charger and the power converter doohickey a few days into the trip; now she only had two bars of juice left, and this current ordeal seemed far from over.

As if to punctuate that fact, the lock on the door snicked free and someone twisted the crystal knob from outside.

Dylan hurriedly powered the device down and stuffed it under the pillow behind her. She was just bringing her hand out as her posh prison door swung open.

Rio strode in carrying a wooden tray of food. The aromas of fresh sourdough bread, garlic, and roasted meat drifted in ahead of him. Dylan's mouth watered as she caught a glimpse of a thick, grilled sandwich heaping with sliced chicken, marinated red peppers and onion, cheese, and crisp green lettuce.

Oh, God, did it look wonderful.

"Here's your lunch, as promised."

She forced a careless shrug. "I told you, I'm not going to eat anything you give me."

"Suit yourself."

He set the tray down on the bed next to her. Dylan tried not to look at the scrumptious sandwich or the cup of ripe strawberries and peaches that accompanied it. There was also a bottle of mineral water on the tray and a short cocktail glass with a generous two-and-a-half-finger pour of pale amber liquid that smelled sweet and smoky, like very pricey Scottish whisky. The kind her father used to pickle himself in nightly, despite that they couldn't afford his habit.

"Is the liquor to help me wash down the sedatives you put in the food, or did you put the mickey in the drink?"

"I have no intention of drugging you, Dylan." He sounded so sincere, she almost believed him. "The drink is there to relax you, if you need it. I'm not going to force anything on you."