Midnight Fire

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Jack had to drink left handed because his entire right arm was still in a sling. The bullet wound had required surgery and some rehab which Metal—who had turned out be quite a sadist—was overseeing. Getting shot sucked, but it had tipped Summer over into accepting his proposal, so there was that.

  The engagement was being celebrated in a beautiful lodge on Mount Hood and Isabel catered. It was a rowdy crowd but everyone grew silent each time a new course came out.

  There was a lot to celebrate. Their engagement. Jack’s new job with ASI. The founding of Summer’s new blog, Natura, dedicated to environmentalism. She said she was sick of politics and that the environment was more important. She ran the blog out of their new home, on the street where Isabel and Joe lived. They were celebrating the day, two weeks ago, when the Director of the FBI went to visit the Deputy Director of the CIA, Marcus Springer, and presented him with a warrant for his arrest for 720 counts of conspiracy to murder—the Washington Massacre—and high treason. The plan to bring down the electricity grid over half the United States had been found in Hector’s files and no doubt would be found in Springer’s files.

  Summer had shattered the fiber optic cable just in time. Another two seconds and they’d be in the dark, surrounded by chaos.

  There was another big thing to celebrate. Jack had found out via an old Harvard friend. He’d asked him to keep him advised and he had just gotten word.

  Summer smiled wryly at him, looking at her left hand ring finger. She complained about how big her engagement ring was and how much it bothered her when she worked. But she never took it off. Jack had bought the biggest diamond he could, just to show the world who she belonged to.

  But the fact was, Summer belonged to the world.

  Even staying by his side day and night in the hospital, Summer had written hard-hitting articles on the conspiracy that had knocked the political world off its axis. A dope of a man, John London, was supposed to be the next president, but when she wrote about the deal he’d made with Hector and Marcus Springer—to do the bidding of the Chinese once he was president—he was out of the running and retired to his country home. A new wind was sweeping Washington because it turned out many politicians had been complicit in the plan.

  The Chinese denied any knowledge of the plan, blaming it on rogue elements and executing General Chen Yi, the head of the cyber unit of the PLA. New trade agreements were in place, all favorable to the US.

  Summer’s articles, all dedicated to the memory of Zac Burroughs and Marcie Thompson, had made history.

  And she was going to make history once again.

  Jack stood, tapped his knife against a glass. The room quieted.

  “I think all of you know that I am the luckiest man alive. I don’t know how, but I managed to get Summer to agree to marry me. Of course I had a bullet in me and she couldn’t know that I’d survive and hold her to her promise—” He waited for the laughter to die down. “But being a woman of her word, Summer has agreed to marry me and we have decided to have a June wedding. You are all invited.”

  The room broke into an uproar, everyone grinning. Jacko took the opportunity to grab the last piece of blueberry cheesecake and winked at him.

  “But I have more news,” Jack went on. “Of the good variety. I have just received word from a good friend of mine that my beloved Summer Redding, soon to be Summer Delvaux, has just been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting. She’ll be getting the official call in a minute or two. So help me raise a toast—”

  Jack smiled down into Summer’s shocked face, knowing he was going to be looking at that face for the rest of his life, and that she would be winning award after award. And that he would love her all his life.

  “Help me raise a toast to Summer, the woman I love more than life itself, the most amazing woman in the world.”

  * * * * *

  Go back to the beginning with Lisa Marie Rice and Carina Press

  MIDNIGHT VENGEANCE (Men of Midnight Book 1)

  Available now, wherever Carina Press eBooks are sold!

  Morton “Jacko” Jackman isn’t afraid of anything. He’s a former Navy SEAL sniper, and he’s been in more firefights than most people have had hot meals. Lauren Dare scares the crap out of him.

  Gorgeous, talented and refined, she’s the type of woman who could never be interested in a roughneck like him. So he’s loved her fiercely in secret, taken her art classes, and kept a watchful but comfortable distance. Until now.

  Lauren had finally found a home in Portland, far from her real identity, far from the memories of her mother’s death, and outside the reaches of the drugged-out psycho who’s already tried to kill her twice. One tiny misstep—a single photograph—has shattered it all. She has no choice but to run again, but this time she’ll give herself a proper farewell: one night with Jacko.

  Their highly charged emotional encounter changes everything. In Jacko’s arms there cannot be fear, there can only be pleasure. Anyone wishing her harm will have to pass through him, and Jacko is a hard man to kill.

  Chapter One

  Portland, Oregon

  January 15

  “Inside/Out” Exhibit of Suzanne Huntington’s interior designs

  “Girlfriend on your six.”

  A hard elbow jabbed into Morton “Jacko” Jackman’s hard side. It would have knocked a lesser man down. Former senior chief Douglas Kowalski wasn’t known for his gentleness or delicate touch. But then neither was Jacko. He was a former Navy SEAL too, just like Senior. But both of them were out of the service and working in the same company, Alpha Security International, so Jacko could knock Senior on his ass and not be court-martialed.

  Except, well, Senior was a good guy.

  Senior’s elbow couldn’t knock Jacko down, but his knees nearly buckled at the thought of the woman behind him.

  “Not my girlfriend,” he mumbled, hoping the tan he’d gotten over his dark skin this past week teaching Mexican federales in Baja the fine art of fucking with the enemy hid his red face.

  Senior shifted his eyes sideways, a hint of a smile on his big ugly mug. “No?” He shook his head and jabbed him again. “So why the chubby every time you lay eyes on her?”

  Fuck. Busted. Jacko pulled his tuxedo jacket lower. He’d learned to control his dick at fourteen. What was he—back in high school? Why couldn’t he be in jeans, like he was most times he saw her? Tight stiff ones that kept the hard-on down because it didn’t have anywhere to go.

  Except you don’t wear jeans to a fancy art exhibit. Particularly not when your boss’s wife’s works were on show.

  “Bravo red, moving fast,” the chief murmured. Anyone farther than a foot from them wouldn’t have heard a word and wouldn’t have understood anyway. The orientation clock. “Bravo red” meant she was moving behind him to his right. Man.

  Lauren Dare.

  Oh. God.

  Jacko thought he could smell her but that was crazy. Still, why not imagine he could smell her, because she drove him crazy in every other way? Though smelling Lauren in a room full of hundreds of people, every single one—man, woman and other—wearing perfume or cologne, with caterers walking around with hot food on platters and glasses of wine everywhere...well, that stretched even Jacko’s sense of his own craziness.

  He wasn’t known for this. He wasn’t what Suzanne Huntington, the big boss’s wife and the star of the show, would call a fanciful man. He was known for being hardheaded and hard-hearted and hard-bodied. He was a roughneck from Texas who’d be in jail if he hadn’t signed up for the Navy. They’d pounded self-discipline and a sniper’s focus plus a dozen lethal martial arts into him. He could handle any type of weaponry, explosives, hand-to-hand combat.

  Not one ounce of his very extensive and very expensive training gave him a clue about how to handle Lauren Dare.

 
; There she was! Alone and lost-looking against the wall across the room to his right. For such a beautiful woman, she was doing her best not to attract attention, though for Jacko that didn’t work. Couldn’t. It was like the roof opened up and the sun shot a beam straight down onto her like a spotlight. Jacko was surprised people weren’t gasping and turning to watch her.

  She was doing everything possible to keep a low profile. She didn’t even want her name on the program, though all of the works on the wall were hers. Suzanne insisted she take the credit for them, but Lauren had insisted right back. Very few people knew this entire show was all hers. He had no idea why she didn’t want credit. Most people were happy to receive it for things they didn’t do; few refused it. But who knew why women wanted anything, anyway? Lauren didn’t want anyone to know, and for him, that was that.

  Lauren was moving through the crowd like a ghost, nodding and smiling and never stopping to talk to anyone. Jacko couldn’t understand how the men managed to avoid staring at her, but then he’d always known deep down that most men were assholes. You’d have to be an asshole and blind to boot not to realize that Lauren was the most beautiful woman in a room full of them.

  Two of the beauties were married to his employers, John Huntington and Senior.

  Lauren moved gracefully, not speaking a word to anyone, accompanied by notes from heaven. It took Jacko a full minute to realize that angels weren’t sending down a sound track for Lauren Dare to move to. It was Allegra Kowalski, up on a dais, playing her harp. The notes morphed into a recognizable tune he’d heard Senior’s wife play a million times.

  Senior’s wife was a talented musician—a harpist and singer. Jacko remembered the first time he’d met her, sent to be a bodyguard while Senior hunted down the fuckhead who’d attacked Allegra and blinded her. She’d had to have tricky experimental surgery to get her sight back, which had added years to Senior’s life. Jacko would have done his duty, even lain down his life, for a snaggletoothed banshee girlfriend of Senior but as it happened, Allegra Kowalski was beautiful and sweet and had played her harp for Jacko for a couple of hours while he sat in a chair facing the door, .22 on his lap, finger along the trigger guard.

  Allegra’s music had fucked heavily with his head and changed him forever.

  But Lauren was the one who messed with him the most. Those long, white delicate hands of hers created things he couldn’t even begin to imagine existed and yet became stone hard reality for him the instant he saw them.

  He’d seen her drawings and paintings first. Suzanne, the wife of his other boss, John Huntington, aka Midnight Man, designed places where you walked in and felt like you were in some kind of stylish fairyland. Suzanne had sent him to pick Lauren up in her workshop to talk about creating images of Suzanne’s designs. Jacko had walked into a big airy room and had frozen because he was surrounded by the most beautiful things he’d ever seen in his life. He’d simply stood stock still and gaped, mouth open like some raw recruit watching SEALs in training.

  And then Lauren had walked into the room and even her gorgeous watercolors and drawings vanished from his head like smoke.

  Suzanne and Allegra were beautiful women. They were known for being beautiful, though they never used those coy tricks most good-looking women did. But Lauren—it was like she was another species. A cloud of shiny dark hair surrounding a heart-shaped face with silver-gray eyes on top of a body to make men weep. It had been a hot late summer day and she’d worn a sundress that showed delicate pale shoulders, slender arms and a tiny waist, and when she spoke Jacko didn’t hear a word she said.

  His head was buzzing too loud.

  She tried twice. He got that much. He saw her full mouth open and close and all he could think about was that mouth on his while his entire body buzzed and he got the first of many, many hard-ons that sprouted whenever he was around her.

  At the third try, he tried hard to focus and managed to grasp that she was asking him a question. Morton, right? He simply stared at her. Suzanne said she’d send someone called Morton? And at the end there was this little inflection, making it a question. And fuck him if he didn’t forget his own name was Morton.

  He was an asshole and blown away by her, but in his defense was the fact that only the Navy ever called him Morton, and that was only on official occasions or when he was being chewed out. He’d been Jacko forever.

  It was only when he saw the first glimmerings of fear in her eyes and she took a quick instinctive step back that he pulled his head out of his ass. And felt ashamed. Having a 240-pound thug who lifted weights daily and had spent the last fifteen years training to kill people stare at you was probably not a good thing. Particularly if you were a beautiful woman with a slender build, alone in a space with the thug.

  So he’d used every single ounce of self-discipline the navy and particularly SEAL training had beaten into him and nodded and said—Yes, Morton’s my name—most folks call me Jacko. Suzanne Huntington sent me to pick you up.

  She’d just stood there, staring at him. Well, he could do something about her unease. He’d tapped his cell and called Suzanne. When she answered he simply handed the phone to Lauren and watched as some color came back into her face.

  And when he complimented her on some of the artworks she actually blushed.

  And Jacko was lost.

  He drove her to Suzanne’s office in Pearl, which was also the headquarters of Alpha Security International, where Jacko worked. He thought driving under eighty miles per hour was for dead men but he kept it at a steady forty and would have driven at twenty miles an hour if he could, just to stay in the vehicle with her. He waited for her as she and Suzanne talked, then drove her back. At thirty miles per hour. When he dropped her off at her house, he drove around the block and stopped the car and waited for his hands to stop shaking.

  When he found out that Lauren taught drawing at a community center, he enrolled immediately and got another huge whack to his system. He was good at it. Damned good.

  The past four months of his life had been work, thinking of Lauren, attending her classes, sitting in his empty apartment drawing maps and drawing Lauren. There hadn’t been room for much of anything else. No cycling out to the boonies and letting his Kawasaki Vulcan Voyager motorcycle rip. Megadeth, his favorite band, came through Portland, one night only, and he didn’t go. It was a Tuesday and Lauren taught on Tuesday evenings. So no Megadeth.

  No fucking, either.

  That was a shocker. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped fucking chicks until three weeks after meeting Lauren. It hadn’t even occurred to him. When it did, he made a point of going out that evening to his usual hole, The Spike, and picking someone up because Jacko Jackman didn’t do abstinence. Nope.

  A couple of chicks he’d hooked up with before stopped by and made interested noises and to his enormous surprise, his dick said no. Fuck no.

  As a matter of fact it felt like his balls tried to crawl up into his body.

  He never tried that again and so he might as well have been a tattooed and pierced monk these past four months for all the tail he got.

  And the reason was right in this room.

  Jacko tracked Lauren as she made the rounds, speaking briefly with a few people when they spoke to her, then moving on. In the room full of trendy women dressed in bright peacock colors tottering on stiletto heels, she was low key in a midnight-blue dress with ballerina slippers. Jacko couldn’t even see the other women while she was in the room.

  They all seemed overblown and shrill. Sharp laughing voices crackling. Lauren’s voice was never sharp. It was soft, with an underlying tone like music, only not.

  She was sweeping the room with her eyes and Jacko felt a change in the air when she saw him. Her face went from slightly sad to joyous in one second, and his heart nearly exploded out of his chest when she veered course immediately, making a beeline for him.
He could feel himself stiffening in every sense.

  “Incoming,” Senior muttered. “You’re on your own here, son. I’m going to my own woman.”

  Palm Beach, Florida

  “Go on in,” the muscle said, waving toward the door with his .44, a weapon that probably cost more than he did.

  Frederick Rydell stifled a sigh. The quality of Guttierez goonhood had declined sadly since the death two years ago of that thuggish, though stylish, mobster Alfonso Guttierez. The organization had fallen to his moron nephew, Jorge Guttierez. Alfonso had had discreet, well-dressed security at the gate. Frederick passed through a metal detector and that had been that.

  Jorge’s muscle had actually frisked him, rumpling Frederick’s Hugo Boss jacket, and had taken entirely too much pleasure in touching his private parts and between his buttocks.

  Really.

  Alfonso would never have hired this outlandish man-child with a backward baseball cap and oversized jeans with the dropped crotch.

  Morgan, Alfonso’s personal bodyguard, had always been impeccably dressed, able to serve tea or shoot you between the eyes without breaking a sweat. This goon looked incapable of thought, let alone style.

  Frederick opened the door to the suite of rooms Alfonso had used as a study and had to work hard to hide his shock. The two rooms were high ceilinged and elegantly decorated. Alfonso’s late wife had been a bitch of the highest order but a bitch with exquisite taste. And Alfonso himself was a thug with social ambitions. It didn’t really make any difference in Floridian high society if you made your money running drugs and arms and trafficking in humans. As long as you made a lot of it, you were in. Alfonso had had a lot of it and Chantal, the new wife, knew how to spend it.

  Alfonso’s study wouldn’t have been out of place in a lord’s palace. It had been filled with superb antiques, exquisite rugs, decent art on the walls. And Chantal managed the staff like a general. Frederick had never seen the mansion less than perfect. Never even a fallen petal from the numerous floral arrangements.