Tempted by Midnight (Midnight Breed 12.5)

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 good 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.