Lethal Game

by Christine Feehan

  “I have to check each of these for continuity with the multimeter. There’s a schematic drawing that shows which is the inlet and which is the pump. Hopefully, we can figure out what’s wrong right here.” He busied himself checking the first one. “How long have you known Marie?”

  There was a small silence. He glanced at her over his shoulder. She was fidgeting. Her eyes met his and she shrugged. “About a year. I met her in the grocery store. She needed help and I needed a job. She was, for me, like your Nonny, or more like a sister and mother all rolled into one. I didn’t come from the best circumstances either. Marie showed me that didn’t matter. I could still make something of myself.”

  “That’s good. Did you know her husband?” He didn’t know why he asked when he knew the answer, maybe to catch her in a lie. She had no way of knowing his team had investigated Marie before his arrival.

  “No. He had already passed away, but she talks about him so much that I feel as if I know him.”

  “I think this is it, Amaryllis.” He loved her name. “We’re going to have to order the part and rush it here. So, it looks like dish duty for us for the next few days.”

  “She isn’t going to like a guest doing the dishes. I can, but really, thank you for this.”

  “Put the part number in and see who has the best price and the fastest delivery. I’m doing the dishes because I told Marie I would and I’m a man of my word. Besides”—he carefully put the tools away—“you’d like to get rid of me so I’m sticking around just to bug you.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “No, I’m expanding your horizons. Pushing your comfort zone. Showing you that even rough-looking men can be nice.” He finished closing up the machine so he could stand up. Sitting on the floor so long had stiffened his leg. He stumbled a little but caught himself.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He sounded gruff. Maybe even harsh, his voice clipped and abrupt. He was looking better and better to a woman he really wanted to impress.

  She didn’t ask again. “Stop fishing for compliments. You do look tough, but you know you’re good-looking.”

  He coughed to cover his snort of derision. By no means could he be called good-looking. There were some seriously good-looking men in his unit—and he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t mind her thinking that though.

  “You want to wash or dry?”

  “I’ll dry. I know where everything goes.”

  “You just want to see my tattoos.”

  “There is that,” she agreed. Once again, she gave him a small smile and that look that he wasn’t sure how to interpret. “The ones I can see are beautiful. Someone does good work.”

  He nodded. “Started going to him when I was in my late teens. Still go back to Chicago so he can do the work on me. You have any?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I always wanted one.”

  “What would it be?”

  She shrugged. “Something very personal to me. Maybe the flower.”

  His gut tightened. He turned to survey the stainless-steel sink, not wanting her to see his face just in case his expression changed. “I don’t know much about flowers. My name’s all about the Bible. Malichai was either just a book or a prophet or both, although my mother couldn’t even get the spelling right. That was so like her.” He wasn’t above pushing a little bitterness into his voice, although he’d gotten over that somewhere on the streets of Chicago. “Much rather have a pretty name like yours. Is the flower pretty?”

  “I think so. It always looks radiant to me. Very striking depending on the color. The ones I like the most are scarlet.”

  He glanced back at her as hot water filled the sink. “I can see you as scarlet. You’re a beautiful woman so having a name like Amaryllis really suits you.”

  She flashed him a small smile. “Are you a prophet or a book?”

  No one had ever asked him that before. He read to people from the book of death and called it the bible occasionally. Okay. More than occasionally. But he felt more often he was the prophet, letting his enemy know he was doomed.

  “If I had to choose, I’d choose to be identified as the prophet.”

  She pulled a fresh towel from a drawer and stood next to him. The moment she was close, he found he took her in with every breath he drew. The more he breathed, the more he was aware of her. Every cell in his body seemed focused on her. He knew when she took a breath. When she let it out. He breathed with her. In. Out. Together. As if they were already exchanging breath.

  Malichai had never felt so intimate with a woman, and he wasn’t touching her. He didn’t need to. He felt her on his skin. Her breath moved over him. Her scent surrounded him. When he handed her a plate, their fingers brushed and lightning struck him deep, forked through his body, spreading an electrical charge through his veins so that she struck at his heart and cock simultaneously.

  He could barely think, his head pounding, but it was imperative for him to sort things out. Amaryllis was the name of a flower. Many women were named after flowers. Just because she had that name didn’t mean she was one of Dr. Whitney’s experiments. He’d taken infants from orphanages, female children he’d considered throwaways, and he’d experimented on them. He’d worked to enhance psychic abilities they may have had. He’d introduced animal DNA into their bodies. He’d given them cancer. He’d conducted all kinds of hideous experiments in order to be able to create the perfect soldier—him. Malichai.

  Whitney had done all those things to the little girls just to perfect what he would do to those men he deemed worthy of his program. He kept the girls and trained them as soldiers, and then, wanting more babies to work with, introduced them into a breeding program. Several of the women had escaped. Some still went out on missions for him. It was impossible to tell one from the other. If Amaryllis was involved in any way with Whitney, she was a danger to him and to national security. If an enemy of their country ever found her and took her, they would take her apart to find out just how Whitney had created his GhostWalkers.

  If Amaryllis really was part of Whitney’s program, how was it possible it would be a coincidence that she just happened to be at the bed-and-breakfast he’d chosen to visit? She’d said she’d been there a year. If he could confirm that with Marie, he’d feel much better.

  “What do people do on vacations?”

  She was keeping up with him, drying nearly as fast as he was washing. She paused though and looked at him like he was insane.

  “They don’t volunteer to fix broken dishwashers, and they don’t do the dishes. You’re paying to relax and have fun. Read a book. You know, your favorite. Go to a movie. Sit in the sun and tan. There’s one of the most beautiful beaches you’ll find around here right out the door, and you can sit and stare at the waves.”

  “Is that what you do?” He was curious about her daily life.

  “I work.”

  “You must get time off.”

  “This is seasonal work for the most part. We’re at our heaviest time of year. I work when Marie needs me.”

  “Honey, that seems like it’s pretty much all the time.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind. And when it slows down, I take time for myself. I like it here. I have my own room and bathroom. The beach is right there if I ever get time to visit it, and I love to read.”

  “What kinds of jobs do you do around here?”

  “I’m usually the cook now. Marie always did it before, but more and more I’m doing it, at least for breakfast. We work together in the evening. Naturally, we tidy up rooms and clean them thoroughly after each guest leaves, although during the heavy season, we hire a crew to help with the rooms. It’s a good life.”

  “And you meet all kinds of men.” Malichai didn’t like the fact that he felt jealous. He was happy he didn’t sound it, but he felt it, a dark, swirling, chaotic monster that reared its
ugly head, shocking him at the intensity of that inappropriate emotion.

  “I’m too busy to meet men, unless you count surfer boy.”

  She gave that soft little laugh that pierced right through his skin and sent another lightning bolt zigzagging from his heart to his groin.

  “And none of the others I met, including surfer boy, ever offered to do dishes with me, so I missed out.”

  “I’m interested in knowing more about surfer boy. He makes you laugh.”

  “He’s so stereotypical. The blond hair falling in his face. Never wearing anything but board shorts. A tan that is going to give him skin cancer in a few more years. The way he talks. Sometimes if he calls me ‘dude’ one more time, I consider tripping him as he runs up the beach with his surfboard tucked under his arm, looking like one of the television shows.”

  “Does he actually surf?” Malichai took a deep breath and turned his head in order to look at her. Up close she was even more dazzling. More beautiful. And more potent.

  She leaned one hip against the counter. “He does. And he’s good. I figure his parents must be very wealthy and they can’t take him calling them ‘dude,’ so they shipped him off to sunny California with the idea he’d drive us all crazy. Once we were all locked up, property prices would go down and they could come to California, buy all the real estate and send him to the next state with a beach and do the same thing.”

  He laughed because she was so funny. “Your conspiracy theories need work.” This was fun. He was having fun. He was going to kiss Nonny for teaching him how to wash dishes.

  “When you meet surfer boy, you’ll understand completely.”

  “Does he have an actual name?”

  “He’s taken a surfer name. He is called Dozer. And yes, if you’re silly enough to ask, as I was, even though Marie warned me not to, he will explain just why he has that name.”

  “You’re setting me up to ask him, but I prefer that you just tell me. I’m not about to ask some pretty boy surfer who will call me ‘dude’ until I want to twist his head around so he’d face backward when he walks.”

  She pressed the towel to her mouth, muffling her laughter. “I’ve wanted to do that very thing a million times. Okay, he dozes the waves. You know, like bulldoze. He’s the bulldozer and he’s destroying the waves.”

  Malichai turned slowly toward her, although he knew it might be a mistake. He couldn’t seem to help himself, but he had to see all of her when she was in full-blown laughter. There was no mistaking the beauty of her delicate bone structure. Her form was all feminine, but he could see the muscle hidden beneath her soft skin. She moved with grace, her foot placement exact for balance and speed. He didn’t want to see those things.

  He only wanted to see her. The woman. He wanted to be that man on vacation, who met the summer fling. The one woman who would seduce him into a long stay and he’d dream about the one who got away forevermore. That sort of hokey hogwash he’d heard about. Instead, he was very much afraid he was meeting Amaryllis, one of Whitney’s experiments.

  Whitney had decided at some point that he would pair a female soldier with a male soldier. He felt between the two, they would be able to move in and out of situations that called for stealth. Men tended to be intimidating and noticeable. A couple was viewed as less threatening. He decided to give the couple complementary animal DNA or anything else that he decreed might help his soldiers succeed. He paired them so they could give each other blood if needed. He specifically targeted psychic improvements that went with his physical enhancements. Then, lastly, he heightened the pheromones between the couple so they would be intensely physically attracted to each other.

  Malichai knew that Amaryllis was definitely beautiful enough and sexy enough to entice any man to her, but she was flirting—with him. They were working in a kitchen. His leg hurt like a son of a bitch. Maybe he would feel attraction toward her, but like this? Like this unrelenting ache that wouldn’t just go away? Like a need to feel her touch on his skin? Or her breath on his body? He swore to himself. He didn’t believe in that kind of physical attraction, not that fast.

  “I look forward to meeting Mr. Dozer.” He forced himself to continue their conversation.

  She pressed the cloth tighter over her mouth, holding it with both hands, her blue eyes alive with sheer merriment. “Don’t. Oh my God, you cannot call him that. Not in front of anyone. You have to keep a straight face when he introduces himself and calls you ‘dude.’ If you don’t, anyone within hearing distance will laugh and he’ll be so hurt. He’s really a nice boy.”

  “You keep calling him a boy. How old is he?” Malichai was hoping he was fifteen or sixteen. He couldn’t keep wanting to deck a kid.

  “I’m guessing he’s pushing thirty, but he seems like a kid. He’s happy all the time. Smiling all the time. The world seems like a wonderful place to him and when you’re with him, you feel that. In spite of the theatrical aspects of surfer boy, you can’t help but like him.”

  He didn’t know about that, but he’d give it his best shot. Right now, he was going to get something to eat before he starved, and then he had to rest his leg. The girls had chosen the beach for him. A sunny, beautiful place. He’d watched them, Bellisia, his brother’s wife, with Zara, Shylah, Pepper and Cayenne huddled together over a table with Nonny and the three little viper triplets. All of them had given input, looking up places in books, and on the Internet. He’d promised the women he would go where they pointed. It hadn’t mattered to him. The choice had been random and it had led him straight to Amaryllis and trouble.

  3

  Malichai glanced at his watch as they finished cleaning the kitchen and setting it up for making dinner that night. Amaryllis had already started the huge casseroles of lasagna and slathered butter and garlic salt on loaves of sourdough bread she was serving for dinner. He didn’t understand how she was still on her feet.

  “What are you still doing in here?” Marie asked as she walked in. She had a little girl by the hand.

  Malichai smiled at the child, knowing from long experience his looks tended to intimidate children. He crouched down so he was closer to her size. “You’re every bit as beautiful as your mother is. I’m Malichai. What’s your name?”

  The child blinked at him and then slowly smiled. “Jacy.”

  “That’s a really nice name.”

  “Do you know my daddy?”

  Malichai glanced up at Marie. She was standing very still, almost as if she were frozen or would shatter if she moved. There was no help there.

  “No, honey, I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to know him, but he was a very good man.”

  The child nodded solemnly, her blond curls bobbing up and down. “You’re like him. I can tell.” She reached out and touched one of the smaller scars he had on his jaw. It curved down his neck. That was one that had nearly killed him.

  “Jacy.” Marie’s voice was filled with warning.

  “I don’t mind,” Malichai said. “My friend Wyatt has triplets. Three little girls, and another set of twins were just born. All girls.”

  Marie’s eyes widened and she exchanged a look of shock with Amaryllis. “Five? They have five little girls?”

  Malichai nodded. “We all live close and help raise them. It’s easy to fall in love with them, although the triplets are little tornadoes. We have to watch them all the time. What one doesn’t think of, another will.” He didn’t bother to try to keep the affection from his voice.

  Marie laughed, the sound genuine, rolling through the kitchen, making Amaryllis and Jacy smile. “I can’t imagine having three the same age and then twins. How old are the triplets?”

  He flashed a grin as he straightened up. His leg was giving him fits and it took effort not to wince. He felt Amaryllis’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look to see if she’d observed any weakness. “They’re around two. I’m not so good with ages. How old a
re you, Jacy?”

  “Five. I go to school,” she added proudly.

  “Very smart,” Malichai said. “I’ve been doing dishes.”

  “Are you Amaryllis’s boyfriend?”

  “Not yet, but I thought I’d take her out to get something to eat. We’ve been working all day together, and so far she hasn’t hit me over the head with a frying pan.” He winked at the little girl. “That probably means she likes me. And”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“we both have the same favorite book, although she’s not as fast at reading as I am.”

  He stole a quick glance at Amaryllis. She had her hand over her mouth, muffling her laughter, but her eyes were dancing as she looked at Marie, shaking her head at what she considered Malichai’s nonsense. He wasn’t so sure he was acting for the child. He liked Amaryllis. The more time he spent in her company, the happier he was. He liked the way she worked so hard to help Marie. She had compassion in her, a good work ethic, and she knew how to cook. He admired all three traits. She also had a great sense of humor, something he considered an absolute must in anyone who was friends with him.

  Jacy nodded solemnly again and then looked up at her mother. “Can Amaryllis go eat with Malichai?” She stumbled over his name but managed to pronounce it adequately.

  “I believe she can. We have time before we have to serve dinner tonight.”

  Malichai sent Amaryllis a grin. “I guess that means you’ll have to show me where the best place to eat lunch is. We’re a little late for it, but that’s all right.”

  “This is the best place to eat,” Amaryllis said. “But there’s a nice little café just down the block. We can get our food and eat on their patio overlooking the beach.”

  “Sounds perfect. We won’t be long,” he assured Marie. “Is there anything you need while we’re out?”

  “Malichai.” Marie tried to sound stern. “You’re a guest here.”

  “Maybe, but Nonny wouldn’t want me to be a self-centered guest. Doing a few dishes or lending a hand where it’s needed is a good thing and I don’t mind. We’ll be right back.” He switched his attention to Jacy. “I was going to put on your mom’s apron, but it didn’t fit. Do you think I can find one in my size?”