by Sydney Croft
Praise for the
NOVELS
OF
SYDNEY CROFT
Tempting the Fire
“A spicy and fabulously entertaining tale. Even the subplot has richly drawn characters and a smartly developed plot.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Tempting the Fire is a thrilling addition to the ACRO series, and will keep readers riveted from beginning to end.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Taming the Fire
“Sydney Croft creates a thrilling paranormal read with action and scorching romance at every turn.”
—Darque Reviews
“Totally outstanding … [a] sizzling hot series that has never failed to keep my undivided attention. The collaboration of Sydney Croft is nothing short of brilliant.”
—Fresh Fiction
Seduced by the Storm
“If you like intrigue, espionage, danger and sexy secret agents with psychic abilities, you will love this book—especially when one agent has to disperse a hurricane with sexual energy! Croft’s realistic characters have real, flawed motives that keep the action suspenseful and the sex extra hot.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Croft pens a tale where she manages to combine action along with sizzling hot passion. You will not be disappointed in this book, it is a keeper.”
—Night Owl Romance Reviews
Unleashing the Storm
“Red-hot romance and paranormal thrills from the first page to the last! Sydney Croft writes the kind of books I love to read!”
—LARA ADRIAN, New York Times bestselling author
“The tension, both romantic and plot-driven, was well created and upheld.… This is an author to watch.”
—All About Romance
“This second book in the ACRO series is fabulously sexy and intriguingly hot. I have become addicted to the collaboration of the two authors known as Sydney Croft, and I’m ready to find out what happens next. Definitely a must-read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Unleashing the Storm is one of those rare reads where the characters linger long after the story ends. Intense intrigue, action, eroticism, and a fascinating world combine to create an enthralling winner. Sydney Croft is a fabulous new talent.”
—CHEYENNE MCCRAY, USA Today bestselling author
Riding the Storm
“In this action-packed, inventive tale, each character’s strengths and weaknesses are more fantastic than the next. The various plots and characters ebb and flow together seamlessly.… Croft redefines sizzle and spark with weather-driven passion.”
—Romantic Times
“Absolutely fabulous!! Riding the Storm has the perfect balance of action/adventure and hot, steamy sex.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Riding the Storm will ride your every fantasy.… A power punch of erotic heat, emotion, and adventure. Remy takes you on an adventure you won’t soon forget.”
—LORA LEIGH, USA Today bestselling author
BY SYDNEY CROFT
TAKEN BY FIRE
TEMPTING THE FIRE
TAMING THE FIRE
SEDUCED BY THE STORM
UNLEASHING THE STORM
RIDING THE STORM
HOT NIGHTS, DARK DESIRES
(WITH EDEN BRADLEY AND STEPHANIE TYLER)
Taken by Fire is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2011 by Larissa Ione and Stephanie Tyler
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Croft, Sydney.
Taken by fire / Sydney Croft.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-42336-2
1. Twin sisters—Fiction. 2. Psychic ability—Ficiton. I. Title.
PS3603.R6356T35 2011
813′6—dc22 2010053284
www.bantamdell.com
Cover design: Jae Song
Cover image (couple): © Cusp/SuperStock
v3.1
With huge thanks to all our readers who have supported us through the ACRO adventures. We appreciate every one of you.
And special thanks to Gina Scalera. Your enthusiasm from the very beginning means more than we can say.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
About the Author
Prologue
The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air, tangling with the sound of screams and the sight of a man engulfed in flames. Gunfire rang out, clean, crisp pops that seemed distant and unimportant.
The man on fire was too distracting. He flailed, running blindly into trees until he hit the ground and rolled, but even as the flames began to snuff out, his movements flagged, until he was nothing but a charred, quivering lump on the jungle floor. Gray wisps of smoke rose from his body, reaching out to her, telling her the fire had done its evil work …
Melanie Milan jackknifed upright in bed, her lungs seizing in terror, a cold sweat coating every inch of her body. Panic wrapped around her as she slapped a trembling hand down on the mattress, groping blindly for something familiar. Anything.
Please, please, let me be alone.
Sweet relief washed through her at the feel of her own satin comforter. Now that her vision had cleared of the dream-smoke, she could see the position of the alarm clock, the mirror near the foot of the bed, the window that was cracked to allow a cool breeze inside.
She was at the Rome apartment. Thank God. She never knew where she was going to wake up.
Usually, waking up in the body she shared with her sister was the nightmare, but sometimes, like tonight, her dreams were far worse than waking up in some strange bed, possibly with some strange man. Or woman. Or both.
The burning man’s screams still echoed in her ears, and the foul odors clogged her nose. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t actually seen or heard the man burning alive. She knew it had happened, and she knew her sister was responsible.
Seeing Phoebe’s memories as nightmares was one of the worst things about sharing a body and brain. Melanie wasn’t consciously aware of anything that happened while Phoebe had control of their body, but sometimes, like now, Phoebe’s actions played out on the movie screen of Melanie’s mind.
This particular event had happened eight months ago—Melanie knew, because she’d suddenly come awake to take over the body after Phoebe retreated during a rare moment of terror. The first thing Mel had seen was the f
ace of an extremely pissed-off man who was trying to kill her. The second thing was the dead, burned man on the ground, and she’d instantly known Phoebe was responsible.
And now, thanks to her nightmares, she was bone-chillingly aware of exactly how it had all gone down.
Melanie flopped back down on the pillow, afraid to sleep … but what sucked was that she was even more afraid to be awake.
Rome wasn’t a place where Stryker Wills was comfortable. Sure, the women were gorgeous, the food amazing, and fucking and eating were two of his favorite pleasures in life. But man, there was a lot of history here he could potentially destroy. The cathedrals and the Colosseum, not to mention the Vatican, had all survived hundreds, or even thousands, of years and he could take them out in one fell swoop with a flash of temper.
Knowing that made him more wary than usual. He’d been tense all morning, despite the beautiful women who’d been propositioning him as he ate at an outdoor café—he didn’t like mixing business with pleasure. And this trip was business, pure and simple, as he tried to get a bead on the fire-and-ice woman, a split-personalitied agent who’d killed his friend and nearly taken Stryker out—twice—eight months earlier in the Amazon jungle.
Stryker had been out for blood ever since—his easygoing personality fading into the background as his hunger to avenge his fellow murdered ACRO agent grew with each passing day.
Now the woman responsible for the murder was close. His hands fisted and he realized that he was no longer the same man who’d left ACRO for this assignment all those months ago.
Itor operative Phoebe Milan had killed his supervisor and friend, Akbar Shatar, setting him on fire while Stryker watched, helpless to do anything. And when Stryker returned to ACRO after Phoebe escaped, he’d gotten his new instructions from Devlin O’Malley, head of the ACRO agency.
Kill her, Dev told him. No further discussion needed.
It was an instruction ACRO agents heard often. As an operative with rare abilities, Stryker had actually lived on ACRO’s massive compound since birth, as his parents were also both longtime agents with the Agency for Covert Rare Operatives.
His parents had assumed he’d have abilities, but man, had they been surprised at both the type and the extent. Mating a telekinetic with an excedosapien with superstrength hadn’t seemed like a crazy idea at the time—and most agents tended to marry other agents anyway. But the first time two-year-old Stryker’s temper tantrum ripped a fault through the middle of his house, everyone at ACRO had taken quite an interest in him.
So yeah, he’d grown up within the organization and, thanks to that, he was one of the few agents with special abilities who didn’t have major adjustment issues, but that didn’t mean that sometimes he didn’t feel intimidated by his own might.
He could cause earthquakes and volcanoes. Tsunamis too, of course. Mudslides. Avalanches. Thing was, once he started them, he couldn’t stop them, so he had to make sure to put just the right spin on his power. Typically, if he was forced to use it, he’d start small. Really, really small, because hey, there was always room to advance to life-threatening.
But there was a downside to his gift—there always was, for all the agents.
Stryker didn’t have to watch the news to find out about natural disasters that occurred globally. Most were underreported anyway, but he was conscious of every single one, no matter their size.
Mainly, because they pulled at his libido, an unfortunate and common side effect for any elementalist. Mother Nature had a way of getting back at humans who could manipulate her world, and her nasty punishment for Stryker was a hard-on whenever someone used elemental powers around him—or when the planet rocked out an earthquake.
It was a constant—ranging from mild to highly uncomfortable—reminder that he had no control over Mother Nature at all, because even though he got advance notice, it came only mere seconds before the destruction, leaving no time to actually help any victims in the path of the oncoming natural disaster.
Most of the time, his sense of guilt was immense. More than once he’d gone to the ACRO scientists and psychics to seek a way to refine his abilities into an earlier warning system, but to no avail.
You can’t beat yourself up over this, Dev would tell him, but Stryker would anyway.
Over the years, Stryker had watched men and women filter into ACRO—most dragged in, kicking and screaming until they could get their powers under control. He’d been there, done that with the control thing, and by the time he’d hit the all-too-volatile teen years, complete with raging hormones and plenty of testosterone, he’d gotten it. He knew, for the most part, how to keep his temper in check and, more important, the reasoning behind the why.
The next years found him learning to temper his … temper, so he could use his power to help, not hurt. Because that’s what ACRO agents did—they helped to save the world, thanks to their blend of extraordinary gifts.
Some could control the weather. Others could communicate with animals, some with ghosts, and there was a small army of men—excedosapiens—who had superstrength or -speed.
ACRO was a pretty cool organization that assisted the government in saving the world from evil—and from Itor Corp, its most dangerous enemy to date.
Dangerous not just because of its self-serving, take-over-the-world goals, but because of the operatives it employed. Operatives like Stryker’s current target. Phoebe was the fiery bitch and her alter identity was the icy one; from what little information ACRO had been able to gather, it seemed that the icy personality was the more vulnerable of the two.
Stryker had seen that firsthand, would wake nightly from the same recurrent nightmare that played out as it had in real life in the jungle, with the icy personality pleading with him for her life—but he refused to let his resolve down.
He would kill her as soon as he got the chance, because his nightmares about the smell of burning flesh, and Akbar’s screams of pain, were just as vivid.
“Can I get you another espresso?” The young waitress, dark and curvy, was asking, before peering into his eyes. “I’m sorry, signor, I don’t mean to stare, but your eyes—they look like … a kaleidoscope.”
He nodded, had heard that before. His eyes were different, just like he was, crystal clear with a hint of blue and green, but the rest of him was classic all-American—blond, lean, and tall. “I’m all set here.”
He stood to leave, ignoring the woman’s continuing gaze, and that’s when he felt it. A chill passed through the air, as if someone had poured ice down his back. But when he raised his head, he noted he wasn’t the only one feeling the effects.
Spring had just hit and Rome was brimming with tourists. Although March in Italy was always iffy weather-wise, Stryker knew this sudden chill had nothing at all to do with Mother Nature.
And still, his body responded as if a major earthquake was about to happen. A pull that got him up and moving fast, hands jammed in his pockets to hide his sudden arousal.
He did not want to get closer to that bitch—not like this, had not thought through the fact that her powers could be a major turn-on to him. Mainly because he hadn’t been affected at all the first time they’d met. He didn’t know if it was because of the horror of watching Akbar die, but this was an unfortunate development neither he nor his trainers had considered.
Shit.
He hated her—did not want to need sex because of her. He cursed her as he walked against the icy wind, taking in the icicles hanging off storefronts and the hoarfrost coating windows. He knew he was close.
His gaze strayed upward, and he caught sight of a woman on a balcony, a blond woman who waved her arms wildly and was apparently having a rather animated conversation with … herself.
It was the ice lady, and although he much preferred her to the one who shot fire, he had to stop both of them. ASAP.
Quickly but covertly, he stashed all but one of his weapons and let himself into the secured building—illegally, of course—and headed up the stairs to
the third floor.
Her icy door knocker gave her apartment away, if the film of frost on her door hadn’t.
He drank the potion ACRO scientists had given him, the one that would render him immune to both of Phoebe’s powers, albeit for only a few minutes, but it did nothing to stop his arousal. If anything, the salty liquid seemed to heighten his sexual needs.
He cracked his fingers. He could control himself for a few minutes. That would be more than enough time.
Melanie Milan knew she’d just done something incredibly stupid, but at the moment, she was far too pissed off to care. She was so pissed, in fact, that if her apartment—or, more accurately, Phoebe’s apartment—were any higher than the third floor, she’d take a swan dive from the balcony just to teach her sister a lesson. A nice, long hospital stay would go a long way toward making Phoebe miserable.
All around her, the air had gone still. The mild March weather had taken a temporary vacation thanks to her temper tantrum, and on the streets below, in probably a three-block radius, it was winter again, complete with frost and ice. Shivering, but from fury, not the cold, Melanie went back inside the apartment, which had also gone chilly, because her fit of anger had started in the kitchen, where she’d found her pet goldfish impaled on the tines of a fork.
The fish was Phoebe’s handiwork, a punishment for something Melanie wasn’t even aware of yet. And now, because she’d just drained the battery on their special powers, Phoebe would devise another way to torture her.
She was so tired of this.
Cursing up a storm, she trudged to the bathroom where, sure enough, there was a note taped to the mirror—one of three methods of communication she used with Phoebe.
You stupid, lazy cow. You know I hate to find dishes in the sink. How many times do I have to tell you to make sure the kitchen is clean? And do the fucking laundry today. I want my favorite jeans to be clean and pressed.
Melanie’s hands shook as she ripped the note in half and tossed it into the garbage. She was sick of being Phoebe’s slave, sick of being abused, and sick of the face that stared back at her in the mirror. It wasn’t hers. The long, blond hair was Phoebe’s—Mel would prefer a chin-length cut. The ice blue, bloodshot eyes that spoke of late nights and drugs that left Melanie exhausted and hungover were Phoebe’s doing. Worst of all, the swollen lips that had probably done some wicked things to God only knew how many men and women were all Phoebe’s.