Night Secrets

Book 2: T-FLAC: Night Trilogy

by Cherry Adair

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Military Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Penning a profile of Rio’s hottest star-studded plastic-surgery spa, writer Sydney McBride is going under the knife herself—all to revive a sagging career. But there’s a bigger, more scintillating story afoot for the daring journalist.

When Lucas, a mysterious and incredibly hot fugitive, seeks refuge in her bungalow, Sydney agrees to let him pose as her boyfriend in hopes of gaining his confidence. The T-FLAC operative’s paranormal powers may be flickering, but his bedroom skills rocket Sydney to breathtaking heights she didn’t know existed.

Then the two uncover an astounding conspiracy. When a terrorist organization marketing a virulent form of biotoxin plans nightmarish demonstrations of its deadly product, Sydney and Lucas team up to help prevent a global catastrophe.

Release date: October 28, 2008

Publisher: Ballantine Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

One
 
NOVOS COMEÇOS MEDI-SPA
RIO DE JANEIRO
BRAZIL
0100
 
He was screwed.
 
Face pressed to the gritty sand, Lucas Fox attempted to unscramble his brain.
 
Think, dammit.
 
Unfortunately he’d fallen forty feet to land on his head. It wasn’t nearly as hard as his friends claimed it to be. And speaking of friends—he could use a little help right about now.
 
The night sky was bright with the light cones of five military choppers illuminating a crosshatch pattern over both the choppy ocean and the narrow strip of beach-front where he lay. They whop-whop-whopped back and forth, stirring up sand and causing palm fronds to dance wildly. Down the entire sugary length of the beach, the rows of pastel-colored beach houses were strung like gaudy beads and the violently swaying palms were lit up as if it were high noon.
 
If he were visible, he’d be . . . fucking visible. He was a sitting duck out in the open. A ruffled wave lapped up to dance playfully against his foot. A futile attempt to move out of the surf made his head swim.
 
Acknowledging concussion—been there, done that—Lucas focused on cataloging his injuries while his lungs automatically fought for air. Everything hurt like hell. By some miracle he hadn’t broken his neck, a definite plus. He’d been shot, but only once, and in the fleshy part of his shoulder. Been there, done that, too. He’d live.
 
Maybe. Right now he was hanging onto invisibility by willpower alone. He’d been at the tail end of a Trace Teleport, following Mica Escar, a Half wizard, when his powers had fizzled out midair. He’d dropped like a rock. The sand wasn’t nearly as goddamned soft as it looked.
 
Obviously he’d been unconscious long enough to hear the distant echo of his window of opportunity slam shut. A chopper flew directly overhead, making the inside of his eyelids burn red.
 
Lucas managed to stay out of sight until it passed. Sustaining invisibility was like holding your breath underwater for too long. Eventually one had to come up for air.
 
He had to teleport off the beach.
 
He gave it his best shot. Visualizing the hidden end of the long white beach, the sheltered, grassy section of land, he thought himself there.
 
Sand still pressed into his cheek. Damn it to hell. Nothing.
 
He faded in and out of consciousness. A bad thing. Apparently, it was impossible for him to use two powers at once.
 
He could maintain invisibility for only minutes at a time, but he couldn’t maintain invisibility and attempt teleportation. One or the other apparently. Fuckit.
 
He needed cover, and he needed it fast.
 
Move.
 
Too dizzy to think, let alone stand, he fought to hold onto iffy invisibility, his only protection against the searchers. The vibrating ground, thanks to the heavy rotors on the low-flying Hueys, made his brain hurt, and swirling sand stuck like fire ants to his abraded skin. The shouts of the soldiers gathered south of his position let him know they were forming a grid to search the beach and surrounding area. His shoulder ached like a bitch. The bullet had gone through and through, and sand adhered to the bloody wound.
 
Well and truly screwed. Shit.
 
It took everything in him to remain cognizant. His stomach pitched again and his vision blurred. Great. Just frigging great.
 
Sucking in a hard-won breath, he considered his options before he passed out again.
 
Wearing a bikini and carrying a glass of chilled wine in defense against the lingering heat of the day, Sydney McBride stood to one side of the picture window and widened the gap between the slats of the wood shutters with her fingers to get a better look outside.
 
She’d been typing up the day’s notes and contemplating a swim by moonlight when she’d heard the incredibly loud noise of helicopters overhead. She’d raced to switch off the lights in the bungalow so she could watch the action on the beach unobserved.
 
The night sky was artificially bright as searchlights strafed the white-capped surface of the water. The illumination also showed at least twenty gun-wielding, uniformed men searching the beach and surrounding area. “Who or what are you guys looking for?” she murmured, intrigued. Clearly someone, or many someones, dangerous.
 
Sydney’s heart did a little tap dance. Woohoo! Excitement.
 
Thank God.
 
After five weeks of doing nothing more thrilling than compensating for her surgically enhanced boobs, interviewing fellow plastic surgery patients, writing and walking the beach, she was ready to scream with boredom. This was the longest she’d stayed in one place in years.
 
Why all the guns? Was someone stealing penile implants? The thought amused her. A chapter in her new book Skin Deep on that subject would be entertaining to write if nothing else.
 
There was much yelling and talking as the soldiers moved with purpose toward her middle-of-the-row bungalow. Whoever they were looking for didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. She felt a twinge of sympathy for their hapless prey. A mouse couldn’t escape detection faced with such determination and manpower.
 
She observed several men knocking on doors far down the line of bungalows to her right. It wouldn’t take them long to get to hers. The bungalows were all but empty. At least she thought they were. Sometimes when she’d been walking the beach late at night, she’d seen lights go on or off, and thought she heard voices. But she’d never seen anyone coming or going. As far as she knew, only nine of the twenty-five small, luxury beach houses still housed patients. Sydney knew them all.
 
Polly Straus, nose and boobs; Stan Simpson, chin. There was Karen with her enhanced butt and higher cheekbones, and Denise with her face bandaged after her skin resurfacing and full lift. There was flirty, movie megastar Tony Maxim who’d looked better before he was “done.” And Kandy Kane, a porn star whose new double Fs made her look as though she were a Macy’s hot-air balloon ready for liftoff. The soldiers might linger at Kandy’s door awhile, but they’d be knocking at her door soon enough.
 
Sydney lifted her glass, taking a sip of cold, crisp Casa de Amaro chardonnay and letting the fruity flavor roll on her tongue as the soldiers got closer.
 
Setting down her glass on the coffee table, she went to find a wrap before they got there. She had a few questions of her own to ask and her new, larger breasts distracted even herself. Crossing back to the window as she tied the belt of a short white robe, Sydney listened to the crunch of gravel as two men approached her front door. Her heart lurched in anticipation. God, she loved drama.
 
Reaching for the doorknob she froze in her tracks as a primitive chill of awareness raced up the back of her neck. Exactly the same chill as when she’d been a kid, and frightened to put her feet on the floor because of the monster under her bed. She’d always had a terrific imagination.
 
The hair on the back of her neck and arms stood up. This was not her imagination.
 
Someone was in her room.
 
She started to spin around just as a large hand curved over her mouth. The second he touched her, Sydney’s eyes went wide and her teeth snapped together mid-scream as terror rendered her immobile.
 
Static electricity shot through her body, making her hair crackle and her heart skip several beats before picking up speed and knocking hard against her ribs. Ow! Had the son of a bitch used a Taser on her?
 
“What the hell—” her assailant muttered at the same time. He recovered from the shock faster than she did, and tugged her against him so that her back was flush to his front. He was a big man, yet he’d moved close enough to grab her without making a sound. Shifting slightly, with her against him, he leaned against the wall next to the door. Her body couldn’t have been in any closer contact with his.
 
Holy Mother of God. He was naked.
 
Like an animal sensing the hunter was ready for the kill, Sydney’s body went still, but her mind zigged and zagged as she tried to find a center of calm so she could decide what to do next.
 
Whatever it was better be fast. And soon. But it was hard to think with the heat of his body surrounding her. The hot male smell of his skin overwhelmed her, making her thought process muddy and unwieldy. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps as mind-boggling carnal images—things she’d never done, let alone imagined—flooded her brain in a kaleidoscope of graphic pictures. She went hot, then cold, then hot again.
 
Bam. Bam. Bam. The soldiers were impatient.
 
The intruder’s breath brushed her neck. “Take off the robe.”
 
“N—” He stripped her of the garment before she’d finished the word. Left in just a few scraps of cloth that made up her bikini, Sydney felt the shocking, intimate touch of the man’s powerfully muscled body from shoulder to thigh. He was tall, at least six three. His body the kind of hard that came from strenuous physical activity, not the gym. His skin felt hot. Wet. Gritty.
 
She sucked in a breath—
 
His left hand went back over her mouth and smothered her scream. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” His hot breath as he whispered against her ear was a disconcertingly intimate assault of its own.
 
No way, buster. She tried to bite his palm. No go. Wiggling in his tight hold, Sydney kicked back with her bare foot. He didn’t even twitch as her heel struck his shin.
 
The knocking got louder.
 
“Open it.” His free hand snaked around her waist sliding down to rest securely, possessively, on her hipbone. Heat came off his large body in waves. He seemed to surround her. His hands were huge, cool, and implacable. The water on his skin formed a glue between them, sticking them skin to skin. She went absolutely still as the scent of him—heat, ocean, man—curled inside her like smoke. The sensual images flashed in her head. Something dangerous and crazy was happening to her.
 
Terrifying and thrilling.
 
She reached out to turn the doorknob.
 
He uncapped his fingers from over her mouth and controlled the door opening with his foot—just wide enough to reveal the two of them, but not wide enough for someone outside to notice that the man standing behind her was buck naked. She felt rough toweling against her left shoulder blade. He hadn’t used her robe to cover himself, instead he’d slung it toga style over his shoulder. Boy, did he have self-confidence or what? Arrogant came to mind.
 
You picked the wrong woman, asshole.