by Raina Wilde
They jogged along the length of the deck before coming to a stop at a seemingly deserted stretch of railing.
Brent opened his bag once more and withdrew a rope ladder. He clipped the ladder to the railing and flung it over the side of the ship. Emily leaned over the rail and saw a pale blue, blinking light shining from the water below. That was where their craft waited to propel them all to safety.
“Where are they?” she spoke with frustration when the SEALs still had not arrived three minutes later.
Finally, she saw them, sprinting up the balcony toward her. Ben seemed to be keeping up, she noticed with relief. Perhaps his injury was not as dangerous as she had anticipated. As they came to a halt the two men that were with Ben took protective stances, keeping guard in case they were followed. Brent pushed Ben against the railing, forcing him to lean against it.
That was when she realized that he was swaying slightly with the effort to remain upright. The bullet wound to his left shoulder was precariously close to his heart. Emily refused to allow herself to panic. She efficiently poured the powder onto the main source of bleeding. Instantly the blood thickened into a bulbous paste.
Brent nodded with satisfaction and tossed her the roll from which he had been ripping strips of tape and collecting them in a row on the railing.
“Keep tearing until I tell you to stop.” Brent began covering the wound with a patchwork of duct tape while Emily replenished the strips that lined the railing. “You bastard.” He muttered. “Couldn’t you have been shot someplace easy? Why not an arm? But no, it had to be a chest shot. You just had to join the club didn’t you?”
“I’ll pull through.” Ben grimaced as Brent pushed the tape over his diving suit. “You three did.”
Emily felt her jaw drop as she realized that each of these men had, at one point, had a similar injury. She looked with wide eyes at the four men around her before Brent declared that their work was complete.
Brent catapulted over the railing and slid down the ladder. He moved so quickly that Emily wondered if he had even used the rungs. She was instructed to follow him next. The water was icy and the waves rocked the SDV as it floated alongside the massive ship. Brent attached her belt to the watercraft and turned in time to hand the other men their harnesses as well.
From the deck above, Emily began to hear the sharp shout of voices. A figure leaned over the railing and took aim at their group floating in the water. Before she knew what had happened the man had slumped over the railing and toppled, dead, into the water a few years away. Emily recognized him as Val Marquez.
She turned to her left and watched the bearded SEAL casually return a pistol to a pocket of his wetsuit.
Now there were numerous angry voices up on the deck. Multiple shots hit the water around them as the five Americans pulled their masks over their faces and sank beneath the surface.
The force of the SDV towed them along while one of the SEALs, it was too dark for Emily to distinguish between them, monitored a small screen and steered them toward a green mass on the grid that she assumed was the sub.
She was wondering how Ben was doing when she realized that one of the bodies was dragging limply along beside them. In a state of sheer agony, Emily endured the ride to safety.
A month later, Emily sat in her apartment typing her resignation to her editor. She was done writing adventure novels. In her stories, there had always been a happily ever after. In real life, she had learned that it did not work that way.
After boarding the submarine, Ben had been whisked away to the medical bay. She had been told that his condition was critical and that he was to remain isolated.
The very next morning a helicopter had airlifted him away from her, never to be seen again. She had tried to locate him in the weeks following, but found that his security clearance was so high that it was impossible to garner any information about the man. They would not even tell her if he was still alive.
A knock on her door brought Emily to her feet. She opened it to find Brent leaning casually against her door frame.
“Wow, you’re blonde!” he exclaimed. Emily had died her hair back to its natural color.
“What are you doing here?” she breathed. Emily felt as if she were about to vomit. The only reason she would expect Brent at her apartment was if he had come to tell Emily that Ben had not survived. Except, she thought, he would not look so happy if that were the case.
“I have a present for you.” Brent grinned broadly. “Now, no driving allowed until further notice and here is the list of meds and when to take them.” He handed her a sheet of paper and a box filled with prescription medications. She looked into the box and saw that all of the bottles were labeled Ben Portman.
“Are you serious!” Emily literally jumped with joy and peered around Brent’s wide frame to see Ben slowly making his way up the apartment staircase.
She ran toward him but was stopped abruptly when Brent grabbed hold of the back of her shirt. She looked at him with a combination of laughter and annoyance.
“Be gentle with him.” He shook a finger at her like a scolding parent. “I can tell you from experience that he isn’t as tough as he is going to pretend to be. There is nothing like a good shot to the heart to kick your butt.”
“I promise.” Emily said with a smile.
Brent released her and she rushed down the staircase to stand a step above Ben.
“I thought you were dead.” She admitted. Brent coughed what sounded suspiciously like the word almost under his breath.
“I’m not dead.” Ben smiled. “They took down Lorenz, thanks to your information.” He looked almost nervous, Emily realized. “You don’t need to worry about him any longer.”
“Too bad the only thing I’ve been worried about is you.” she feigned a stern voice but they were both smiling too much to be convincing.
Emily wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled Ben in for a kiss that sent shivers through her body.
“I said to take it easy, not jump him.” came the laughing voice from behind her.
Emily waved one arm behind her, “Go away, Brent. I’ll take it from here.”
THE END
Flip the page for Bonus 3: Midnight in Monaco!
Midnight in Monaco
World travelling Lydia Berkshire is a suitcase entrepreneur who has her sights set on the wealth of beautiful Monaco as a hunting ground for potential investors.
But when she wanders into a high-stakes poker room at the fabled Monte Carlo casino, she has no idea that she is surrounded by a ring of criminals who have mistaken her for an American spy.
With powerful crime boss Renaldo Jaquiennes now wanting Lydia dead at any cost, danger follows her every step as she teams up with a mysterious poker player who claims to be able to keep her alive.
Will Lydia place her trust in this seductive mystery man, or will his dangerous mission put her too close to harm’s way? And just how long will she be able to ignore the burning desire toward him that is building within her?
Follow Lydia’s terrifying journey as she lands in a deadly world that is beyond her experience. Will this case of mistaken identity be the end of her, or is it just the beginning?
Midnight in Monaco
Lydia Berkshire evaluated her reflection in the mirror. The satin gown pooled around her ankles in emerald waves as she stepped into the stiletto heels that rested on the plush white carpet of the hotel suite. The additional height lifted the fabric to skim just above the floor and allowed the risqué slit to peek open to the knee, though when she walked it would expose skin as far reaching as mid-thigh.
She adjusted the wide, square neckline over her breasts. The design of the gown lifted and cupped her body in a way that left no need for a bra. In fact, with her back exposed to the base of her rib cage, there was no opportunity for the undergarment had she wanted one. She smoothed her hands over her trim waist and turned to ensure that the seamless lines of her underwear left no traces of their existence.
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She added an extremely thin silver chained necklace with a many-faceted diamond and a bold cuff bracelet before deciding that her outfit was the picture of perfection. She needed to be perfect tonight, she reminded herself. Her livelihood depended on it.
Lydia tucked a stray auburn curl behind her ear, grabbed her emerald studded clutch, and headed down to the lobby where her driver would be waiting. She had worked very hard to get where she was today. As a world traveling investment consultant she rubbed elbows with some of the most elite names in international business. She was on the prowl for investors for her most recent project, and Monaco was the place to find investors. The Monte Carlo Casino was where she would start, meeting and greeting some of the highest stakes gamblers; the type of men who would not blink an eye at throwing millions of dollars at her clients, the type of men who might have need of her skills for their own endeavors and investments.
She loved being able to work from any place in the world. Her dream had always been to travel and traditional employment had always left her miserable and unfulfilled. That was when she first became a suitcase entrepreneur. Lydia had started small, focusing mostly in the United States before expanding her services one continent at a time. Here she was now, on the French Riviera, one of the best in the business with the freedom to accept or decline any job that caught her interest.
She’d always wondered what it would be like to live in Monaco. Her brief visits here had shown her an extravagant lifestyle that she could only dream to attain one day. The percentage of unnaturally wealthy residents in this tiny region included some of the most influential business investors in the world. She had been surprised at the sheer quantity of people who resided in the area that spanned just over 2 km. She wondered how people with the finances to travel without concern for cost, could isolate themselves to such a small region. She guessed that they worked and played together in ways that only increased their joint wealth; the mere proximity of their allies and competitors allowing for convenient deals and updates with those who were as powerful and prominent as themselves.
Lydia rode to the casino in silence. She sipped from the flute of champagne that had been offered before entering the vehicle. She could afford these extravagances because she incurred very little overhead costs for her work. No office, no equipment that did not fit in her suitcase, and no regular staff.
When they pulled up in front of the massive, ornate building Lydia’s mouth dropped open in awe. The entire façade was lit against the darkness of the night, like some regal castle or estate. She had a hard time accepting that, for the casino, this was a night like any other.
Lydia smiled when her eyes caught sight of the enormous fountain that sat with regal presence in the center of the circular drive. The palm trees swayed in the gentle night breeze. She shivered with anticipation as she climbed out of the limousine and ascended the staircase into the casino. This, instinct told her, would be a night to remember.
Two hours later, Lydia sauntered into the elite high-stakes poker room. She was a successful enough gambler to warrant an invitation to the selective group, though she took no pleasure in the activity. Truthfully, she had only learned enough to ensure her position in the room, and therefore have a chance at initiating a conversation with potential investors.
The silence of these isolated rooms was always deafening to her ears after the chaos of the central casino. Lydia strode to the nearby bar and requested a tall glass of pale champagne. She paid for a tray of poker chips and moved to the only remaining seat at the table. The antechamber was designed as a smaller replica of the main table room. Gilded ceilings with ornate, circular trays and a crystal chandelier that hung directly over the center of the ten-man table made the room sparkle like a palace.
She nodded politely to the only other woman at the table: a short-haired blonde in a red velvet dress. Lydia made an educated guess that she was no true player, but a guest of one of the men beside her. She mentally removed the woman from the list of potential investors. Of the remaining eight players, all male, she noted that six had acknowledged her addition to the table. A man to the left of the blonde glanced briefly at Lydia before placing his arm around the female and drawing her close to whisper in her ear. Lydia had never been one to encroach on another woman’s territory, so she eliminated him from her list as well. One man smiled nervously at her before continuing to shuffle his few remaining poker chips with only his right hand. His eye kept shifting across the felt as if re-playing old hands in his head and trying to determine how to beat them. She guessed he had lost more than enough for one night and struck him from her list. The four others that had acknowledged her did so with appreciative gazes and lusty smiles. Lydia was not looking to form any relationships other than the professional kind, and she would not risk offending a business partner by denying his advances. It was always better, she had learned, to keep lusts and passions out of her enterprise.
Finally she turned her attention to the two that had not reacted to her. An elderly man, who likely had trouble seeing anything past the edge of his reach, and one who appeared to be in his mid-thirties who had a heaping pile of chips that he was stacking into neat towers at his side.
Either he had bought in to the game with a hefty purchase that belied his ability to toy with extreme amounts of money, or he had won enough from the other players that his profits had increased exponentially. Either way, brains, pocketbook, or both, this man appeared to be the most likely candidate to receive Lydia’s proposal.
The dealer entered the room and ten pairs of eyes turned to him with complete focus. They played for nearly an hour before taking a break and having the chance to mingle about the room. Lydia found that her chip count had stayed much the same. After losing a few hands at the beginning she had begun the steady climb toward her breakeven point.
She had found that her initial evaluation of the men of the table had been generally correct. The old man was less blind and more senile that her original observation. The man with the tower of chips was by far the most interesting character at the table. He rarely spoke, moved with only the slightest motion necessary, and kept his face blank of all expression. Lydia would have said he was boring, except for the energy that burned with intensity in his eyes. He played the game with passion, neither risky nor benign. He was clearly the man to beat at the table, yet somehow, his low profile kept him out of the sights of his competitors. The easy prey had been dealt with first. The woman in the red dress outlasted three men before her, mainly due to the financial backing of the man beside her. But Lydia had to admit that she had been a formidable opponent across the table.
With four players withdrawn from the game, a six-seated format would continue after the brief hiatus. Lydia welcomed the refill to her glass of champagne. She moved down the bar until she reached the hazel-eyed man. He was standing in front of a massive tray of complimentary hors d’oeuvres, which provided an excellent excuse for Lydia to join him.
“You’re awfully quiet.” She spoke without looking at him. Rather, she was collecting a small plate of the samples from the tray.
He grunted his agreement and picked up a small finger sandwich and placed it directly in his mouth. Lydia held her plate in front of her, leaned against the bar top, and watched him from the corner of her eye as he continued to eat from the tray. She noticed that many of the men did the same.
“You play well.” She tried again, this time in French.
“You’re not so bad.” He replied with a bursting exhale that she assumed was meant to be a laugh. He’d answered in English, which meant that he had certainly understood her first statement. She was surprised to find that he had a very strong Irish accent. To be honest, she had not known what to expect; the clientele of this establishment came from all over the world. Dealers could often speak multiple languages to accommodate the gamblers and it was not unusual to sit at a table where players were completely unable to communicate with each other.
He seemed gruff, but Lyd
ia knew he was the perfect investor for her new company. She’d watched his towers of chips grow steadily for the past hour. He was shrewd and analytical, but a man of decisive action.
“I’m not a professional gambler.” She smiled, revealing straight white teeth that, despite her overall beauty, were her favorite feature.
“Nor am I.” he clinked his tumbler of amber liquid against her champagne flute. “To luck.”
She repeated the toast and they each drank deeply.
“I’ve never seen you here before.” She liked the sound of the words rolling off his tongue. Beautiful accents always made her wish for something other than her harsh American tone.
“I’ve been to Monaco once before, but this is my first time in the Monte Carlo.” The bartender refilled her glass and Lydia chose more crackers for her plate. “Do you come here often?”
“Often enough. I’ve only recently become a regular.”
At that moment they were joined by one of the other players.
“Travis,” The newcomer addressed the man that she had been speaking with. “Introduce me to your new friend.”
“Lydia.” She held out her hand to shake.
The man grasped it but did not let go. He had a sleek French accent. His brown hair was gathered in a ponytail at the base of his neck and he towered over every other man in the room.
“I’ve been dying to meet you, Lydia.” The man stared at her in a way that made her skin crawl and she pulled her hand free of his grasp. He was staring at her with an intensity that implied that he was trying to communicate something, though Lydia could not imagine what. The man had an unsettling energy that left Lydia with raised guards.
“And who are you?” she asked, raising her chin and standing tall. She refused to allow him to intimidate her.