by A. C. Arthur
Unfortunately, the physical sparring between the two of them would have to be put on hold. There were more important matters at hand. Xavier Santos Markland, the East Coast hacker and former FBI agent for the Stateside Assembly, had yet to identify the origin of the e-mail that had put them on notice of the government possibly knowing of their existence.
For the Shadows and the laws of the Ètica, which they were all bound to live by, exposure could be considered their Kryptonite. The mass hysteria predicted when humans around the globe learned there were half-humans, half–big cats living in their midst, would be nothing less than suicidal for the Shadows. It was the job of the Assembly Leader, Roman Reynolds, to make sure that never happened.
So far, however, Rome was batting a perfect zero. Especially since the Pacific Faction Leader, Sebastian Perry, had just returned to Perryville Resorts with his mate, Priya Drake, happily in tow. Priya was a human and she not only knew about the Shadows, she was now officially working with them under the official title of public relations manager, even though her job was really to provide damage control any time the humans reported strange occurrences. That was a situation Ezra still wasn’t sure he understood, but at the same time wasn’t about to address with the Faction Leader himself, or the Stateside Leader who had offered Priya the job.
His purpose, for the foreseeable future, was to infiltrate Comastaz Labs, find out what the government knew about them, and what they planned to do with that information. That was where his focus needed to remain. As one of Rome’s Lead Guards, it was his job to protect the First Family from all harm. There was no doubt in Ezra’s mind that if the U.S. government had knowledge of their existence, the first ones on American soil that would be in danger would be Rome and Kalina.
That made the text he received as he stood up, grabbing the duffel bag with his phone and change of clothes in it from off the floor, the best news he’d heard all day. It read simply: YOU’RE IN.
Chapter 2
“The rules have changed. This is my show now,” Captain Lawrence Crowe told the two fellow military men sitting across from him in high-backed chairs that looked ridiculous and insanely expensive.
He’d received a text message notifying him of this impromptu meeting and wasn’t thrilled at being summoned to this house that looked like a throwback from medieval times. He also wasn’t pleased that they’d interrupted a bit of personal business that was a priority for Lawrence. Learning that the purpose of this meeting was for them to question his progress on the Genesis Project and form some alliance of power against him only jacked up his pissed-off meter a little more.
In life there were only three things of importance: money, power, and respect. Lawrence intended to have them all and if either of these old coots thought to stand in his way, they’d better think again.
“Your show is costing us a bundle of money,” General Oscar Pierson, the tall, slim man with a sallow complexion and raspy voice, replied first. He held a cigar in his right hand, his spindly legs were crossed, and that god-awful chair appeared to swallow him.
Pierson was retired, had been for two years since the scandal erupted depicting him as the head honcho in the inhumane treatment of POWs in Iraq. Now, he worked closely with his partner-in-crime, Major Randall Guthrie, who had somehow escaped the scandal and still remained on active duty or at least active payroll.
“More to the point,” Guthrie interrupted before Lawrence could reply to Pierson’s offensive statement. “The Genesis Project is bigger than you, Crowe. It’s gotten bigger than all of us. There are some pretty powerful people waiting on these results. Not to mention Pierson’s point about our money. There are billions riding on this project, on the product you swore you could produce.”
Lawrence straightened his tie to keep his hands busy and kill the urge to reach out and strangle one or both of these pompous idiots. They had no idea what the Genesis Project was about. All they knew was that five years ago Crowe and Guthrie had captured a foreign militant while on a covert op in Pakistan. When that militant had broken through the chains and out of the locked and heavily guarded hut they were keeping him in, they’d known something was different with this captive. Firing off enough sedatives to kill three humans only put the prisoner down for a couple of hours, during which time Guthrie had directed the troops to chain the captive from neck to ankle and put him in a steel box. That was how they’d transported him across the ocean to Lawrence’s lab.
“You had no idea what you were dealing with. I’m the one who recognized the signs,” he told Guthrie in a slow, authoritative tone. In all his years as a Marine, Lawrence had learned more than just leadership skills. He’d learned to play the enemy like a violin when needed and to cut him at the jugular when all else failed. Of course, the two men sitting across from him had similar, if not more intense training as they’d both outranked him in the Corps and had stayed in active duty longer than he had. Nowadays Lawrence still received a government paycheck but as a more behind-the-scenes type of operative focusing on the development of biological and chemical warfare strategies for the U.S. Still, he was no slouch when it came to delivering well-earned ass kickings—as these two were working their way toward.
“I am the one who unveiled the differences in the prisoner. I am the one who contained his DNA and who has created the most powerful weapon any country will ever face. So you don’t get to sit there and look all smug and superior, demanding I do what you say, when you say,” he finished.
“You cocky sonofabitch!” Pierson spat, sitting up in his chair as if he actually planned to launch an attack on Lawrence right here and now.
Guthrie lifted a hand to silence Pierson. Of the three men in this room he was the biggest, over six feet tall and with a muscled stature. He had a boxy head like a pit bull, the signature military crew cut that he maybe should have lost about twenty years ago, but still clung to even though his hairline had started to recede. His steely gray eyes were like flint as he cut his gaze to Lawrence, lips thinning until they almost looked like a slice in his face. After years of being stationed in the desert the sun had reinvented the entire complexion and texture of his skin, giving him the look of an old worn pair of leather shoes. His real power was in the brute strength of his meaty hands, the roped veins that popped from his neck when he was angered, and the 9mm he kept tucked at his back.
“Not cocky,” Lawrence corrected, not overly impressed or intimidated by either man. “Just stating the facts.”
“Why don’t you just state when we’ll have a live prototype to put on the market,” Guthrie instructed with a frown.
Lawrence sighed with impatience. If he could, he’d kill them both right now and walk out of here with a smile on his face. But that would only complicate things.
“There’s a final equation that needs to be worked out and then we’ll be ready to go,” he told them.
“How long?” Guthrie continued with his perpetual frown.
“I have someone working on it now,” was his response. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” Lawrence stood and exited then, effectively ending the meeting.
“He’s an arrogant bastard,” Pierson said when only he and Guthrie were left in the room. “We never should have brought him on board.”
“Then we wouldn’t have a billion-dollar deal at stake,” Guthrie said, thoroughly disgusted with Pierson’s complaints and Crowe’s stubbornness.
He longed for the days when wars were fought on the battlefield and the best strategist won, or the country with the least amount of dead bodies was the victor. But the rules had changed over the years and it was his job to make sure the U.S. was prepared. And if the U.S. didn’t have enough money to protect their own asses, well, then it was Guthrie’s civic duty to mankind to search out the next country or group that did.
Washington, D.C.
“Lilah Melrose here to see Croy DiLaurent … he works in the lab,” she continued, because the woman in the wrinkled guard’s uniform was looking at her as
if she had three heads.
To be fair, she only had one head, but she figured her dark brown hair was seriously mussed after the ride over in the cab with the malfunctioning back windows that stayed down the entire time the driver flew through traffic. She should be happy that he maneuvered so quickly to get her from Dulles Airport to Washington Hospital Center, thus saving her travel budget dramatically. Still, she thought, lifting a hand to pat down all the wayward strands that were sticking up, she did have her appearance to consider. After all, first impressions were very important.
“He works down that hall in the lab,” the sourpuss guard told her.
But when Lilah took a step in that direction, the unpleasantness was extended by way of a nightstick attached to a meaty arm stopping her path.
“I’m here to see him,” she reiterated. “He knows I’m coming.”
“And you should know that this is not a recreation center. It’s a place of business,” Super Mean Cop told her with a steely gaze. “We tend to serious issues here and none of them pertain to what I’m guessing you’re here to see him for.”
Okay, so the first thing Lilah did was take a step back because she didn’t like the feel of that nightstick, as it was positioned just beneath her breasts. Second, she looked down at herself, noted the thigh-length dress she wore, the scooped neck that required her to wear a tank top underneath, and the strappy but flat sandals. Nothing about this outfit said, “I’m a hooker so definitely treat me like one.” Instead it said, “Hey, I’m as wholesome as apple pie, please give me what I want.”
Clearly, Super Mean Cop hadn’t received that memo.
“I’m just here to talk to him about something. About some tests he performed on a friend of mine.” That was only a partial lie. It was a good thing lying had become a big component of her daily life since her father died.
“Uh-huh, sure you are,” Super Mean said, pointing that nightstick at her as if she were going to either poke her with it or beat her to death—either/or, Lilah wasn’t in the mood.
She reached around to her side to slide her hand into her purse.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Super Mean warned.
Lilah looked at her then sighed. “You wouldn’t dig into your purse to get your cell phone so you could call Croy DiLaurent and have him come out here to get you?”
Super Mean shook her head, huge gold hoops that looked ridiculous with her rent-a-cop uniform moving with her motion.
“That’s right. I would keep my hands where they could be seen if I were standing in front of an officer of the law.”
Lilah couldn’t help it, she smirked at that remark. Then she thrust her hand farther into her purse until she could feel her phone, and her Mace.
“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you’re not an officer of the law, but a lowly rent-a-cop instead,” she taunted as she pulled out her phone.
This wasn’t the first time her impulsiveness had gotten her into trouble and a few moments later, as Lilah pushed up from the concrete that had almost had an intimate meeting with her face, she figured it wouldn’t be her last. She hadn’t anticipated that even though Super Mean didn’t have a gun, she did have about a hundred and eighty pounds on Lilah and proved just how true that was by picking Lilah up by the collar and tossing her out into the parking lot.
But Lilah was not to be deterred. Finding the source of the only DNA known to match the species they had in custody was imperative to the project. As for Lilah personally, she could not care less about this top-secret project. She was in this solely for the money and if she didn’t get what she was promised after going through all this, Larry Crowe was going to regret the day he’d ever met her.
Chapter 3
Ezra had set his alarm for seven a.m. He needed to be at Comastaz no later than nine, but first had a meeting with Bas and Jacques. The ride to the lab was only thirty minutes from the resort. He’d timed it on the two occasions he’d gone out to scout the location.
Ten minutes after slamming his hand over the blaring clock Ezra stood beneath the warm spray of water coming from the showerhead. He’d adjusted it a few days after his arrival to the perfect setting—hard. He loved the persistent pelt of the water against his skin, or rather his cat loved it. With that thought, he flattened his palms on the tile, lowering his head and letting the water run fluidly down his back. Normally jaguars weren’t big fans of water, but Shadows were different from the cats they originated from, just as they weren’t identical to the humans that also contributed to their DNA. They were a one-of-a-kind species and that came with a price.
The muscles in his back relaxed as his cat stretched beneath, extending its length and leaving Ezra with a slightly rejuvenated feeling. Tossing his head back he let the spray tickle his face, running down the outside of his throat like a waterfall. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, all the while his dick grew harder with each breath.
It wasn’t just the normal hard-on that most human men woke to each day. No, this was the result of a hunger that would pound against his very being until it was sated. Behind closed eyes he saw the face of the one he wanted to complete the task. She was about five feet nine inches, not too tall and not too short. Her body was tight, but not thin, perfect, he thought was the best way to describe it. High, heavy breasts, full hips, and a pronounced backside blended seamlessly into a neat and attractive appearance regardless of whether she was wearing spandex leggings and a sports bra or a straight knee-length skirt and button-up blouse—two of the most alluring outfits he’d seen her in to date.
Ezra groaned as he stepped back and the spray pelted his chest and abs, the warmth of the water and the sting of the pressure from the nozzle giving him a taste of what he hoped to feel in Jewel’s arms. Yes, he was thinking of her that hard—clenching his teeth at the word as it related to his current physical state. He’d been this way all night, ever since seeing her in the gym yesterday. The need had grown to its next stage, he knew that without a doubt.
Shadow Shifters were carnal beings; they were primal and more alpha than any human male. Ezra and his twin brother, Eli, had up-close and personal knowledge of how true this statement really was. It was also said, even though Ezra was personally incapable of relating to these attributes, that shifters were highly sensitive creatures that loved, whether physically or emotionally, with an intensity matched by no other species on this earth. He had the sexual intensity, fueled by dark memories and deeply buried feelings that burned through his skin like acid when piqued. Once Ezra was aroused, that need had to be satisfied, no matter what the cost. Right now Ezra feared his throbbing headache and tense muscles might keep him from catching something of importance when he made his first official appearance as technical analyst at Comastaz Laboratories.
With that thought in mind he let out another guttural groan and grabbed his raging erection with just enough force to have him sucking in a breath and his cat chuffing in anticipation. He stroked furiously, determined to get this sick and demented act over with as soon as possible. Not in years, not since the time he’d spent in Sierra Leone, had he needed to resort to these measures. Girls, then women, always seemed to be around and more than ready to avail themselves of him. They were infatuated with his body, the way he dressed, the way he looked. The complete physical package aroused them and opened the door for Ezra. The conquest and the control, the build and release that came afterward was what Ezra craved, what he enjoyed most about the moments. It was all he could allow himself to enjoy.
As for Eli, he had that allure as well, although his younger brother had chosen another route as they’d entered their adult lives. Lessons learned by both of them back in the rain forests of West Africa had dictated they both do what was necessary to survive.
The allure was in their eyes, he’d heard someone say before. The volatile green orbs flecked with hazel brown stood out against the tree-bark tone of their skin. Thick eyebrows gave them a fierce appearance that matched the strong cut of their jaws. Mo
stly everyone discounted their easy smiles. Then again, that side of the twins was rarely shown to anyone other than family or close friends—usually the other shifters they worked with.
Ezra wondered what Jewel saw when she looked at him. Was it his eyes? The structure of his face? The combative stance he tried to downplay with trendy clothes and an alluring swagger? Could it be possible that she saw the dark energy surrounding him, the aura that had shadowed him and Eli after that fateful night in Sierra Leone? Or, on a less dramatic level, did she bypass all that BS and zero in on the desire that clawed at him like an angry beast? His fist gripped his length with a vengeance, as if it had been the one to actually put him in this state. Sure, “it” was partially responsible, but really the blame rested solely on Jewel.
She moved around this resort with a quiet potency that had reached out and grabbed him by the throat from the very start. Jacques and the others acted as if she didn’t even exist, nobody having much to say about who she was or where she’d come from and being pretty content with that lack of knowledge. It seemed he was the only one mesmerized by the beauty with the red hair that didn’t quite fit her, and at the same time made her even sexier, even more intriguing.
She should not have fascinated him, should not have had this effect on him because he’d seen more beautiful women, had slept with more physically attractive women. Yet none of them made him feel like this, none had him in this shower doing what he was currently doing.
Dropping his head back Ezra worked his hand even faster, the other hand planted firmly, supporting his weight as warm water rained over him. He opened his mouth, kept his eyes closed, gurgled on the water that found its way there and spit. All the while he never ceased the rhythmic motion that had his blood simmering, his tense muscles bunching.
Amy, one of the front-desk clerks that worked the morning shift at the resort, came into focus. She had palm-sized breasts, a slim waist, and a firm bottom, even if she was a little on the slight side. Her hair came to her shoulders in heavy brunette waves and her big brown eyes smiled at him each time he walked by. On the instances where he’d had to ask her questions—which were usually more a source of entertainment than to actually gain any knowledge—she’d batted her long curving eyelashes and smiled at him seductively, invitingly. Of course, he’d smiled in return.
