Lara Adrian - Tempted by Midnight (ENG).pdf

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LARA ADRIAN
TEMPTED BY MIDNIGHT
1001 DARK NIGHTS
BOOK 12.5
Once, they lived in secret alongside mankind. Now, emerged
from the shadows, the Breed faces enemies on both sides—
human and vampire alike. No one knows that better than
Lazaro Archer, one of the eldest, most powerful of his kind.
His beloved Breedmate and family massacred by a madman
twenty years ago, Lazaro refuses to open his heart again.
Sworn to his duty as the leader of the Order's command
center in Italy, the last thing the hardened warrior wants is to
be tasked with the rescue and safekeeping of an innocent
woman in need of his protection. But when a covert mission
takes a deadly turn, Lazaro finds himself in the unlikely role
of hero with a familiar, intriguing beauty he should not desire,
but cannot resist.
Melena Walsh has never forgotten the dashing Breed male
who saved her life as a child. But the chivalrous hero of her
past is in hard contrast to the embittered, dangerous man on
whom her safety now depends. And with an unwanted—yet
undeniable—desire igniting between them, Melena fears that
Lazaro's protection may come at the price of her heart....
Foreword
One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning. I studied philosophy, poetry, history,
the occult, and the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast library at my father’s
home and collected thousands of volumes of fantastic tales. I learned all about ancient
races and bygone times. About myths and legends and dreams of all people through the
millennium. And the more I read the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered that
I was able to travel into the stories... to actually become part of them. I wish I could say
that I listened to my teacher and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I would
not be telling you this tale now. But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off with
bravery. One afternoon, curious about the myth of the Arabian Nights, I traveled back to
ancient Persia to see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar (Persian:
رايرهش
,
“king”) married a new virgin, and then sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was
written and I had read, that by the time he met Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter, he’d
killed one thousand women. Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived in the midst
of the story and somehow exchanged places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that
had never occurred before and that still to this day, I cannot explain. Now I am trapped in
that ancient past. I have taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can protect
myself and stay alive is to do what she did to protect herself and stay alive. Every night
the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales. And when the evening ends and dawn
breaks, I stop at a point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more. And so the
King spares my life for one more day, so that he might hear the rest of my dark tale. As
soon as I finish a story... I begin a new one... like the one that you, dear reader, have
before you now.
CHAPTER 1
He had lived for more than a thousand years, long enough that few things still held the
power to amaze him. The sea at night was one of those rare pleasures for Lazaro
Archer.
Standing on the third-level bow deck of a gleaming, 279-foot private megayacht off the
western coast of Italy, Lazaro braced his hands on the polished mahogany rail and
indulged his senses in a brief appreciation of his moonlit surroundings.
Crisp, salty Mediterranean air filled his nostrils and tousled his jet-black hair. The late
summer breeze was cool tonight, gusting rhythmically toward the Italian mainland. Dark,
rippling water spread out in all directions under the milky glow of the cloud-strewn moon
and blanket of stars. Far below, waves lapped fluidly, sensually, against the sides of the
yacht where it floated, engines silenced as it waited at its destined location on the
Tyrrhenian Sea.
Lazaro supposed the luxurious vessel he stood aboard would take the breath away from
just about anyone—human or Breed. Being born the latter, and first generation Breed
besides, one of the vampire nation’s eldest, most pure-blooded individuals, Lazaro had
known his fair share of wealth and luxury.
He’d once had all of those things himself. Still did, if he could be bothered to care.
He left everything he once had back in Boston twenty years ago, after the most precious
things in his long life had been taken from him. His blood-bonded Breedmate, his sons
and their mates, a houseful of innocent children...all gone. His only surviving kin was his
grandson, Kellan, who’d been with Lazaro the night the Archers’ Darkhaven home was
razed to the ground in a heinous, unprovoked attack by a madman named Dragos.
Lazaro exhaled deeply, no longer feeling the raw scrape of grief whenever he thought of
his slain family. The anguish had dulled over time, yet his guilt was always with him,
scarred over like a physical wound. A hideous, permanent reminder of his loss.
Of his life’s greatest failure.
If his existence had any meaning now, it belonged to his work with Lucan Thorne and his
fellow Breed warriors of the Order. As the commander of the Order’s operation in Rome
these past two decades, Lazaro had little time for self-pity or personal indulgences. He
had even less opportunity for pleasure, rare or otherwise.
Which was the way he preferred it.
He dealt in justice now.
At times, he dealt in death.
Tonight, he was representing the Order on a less official basis, on the hopes that he
could facilitate a secret meeting between two of his trusted friends. One of them was
Breed, a high-ranking American member of the Global Nations Council. The other, the
megayacht’s owner, was human, an influential Italian businessman who also happened
to be the brother of that country’s newly elected president, a politician who had won his
office with tough talk against the Breed. If the meeting with Paolo Turati took place as
planned tonight and was deemed a success, it would be the first step toward forging an
alliance with one of the vampire nation’s most vocal detractors.
As for Byron Walsh, the Breed male had been one of Lazaro’s colleagues in the States,
even before the GNC had tapped Walsh for his current diplomatic post. As leader of his
own Darkhaven in Maryland, Walsh’s social circle had occasionally intersected with
Lazaro’s in Boston. There had even been a time, one bitter winter, that Walsh’s family
came to visit Lazaro’s at their Back Bay mansion.
A long time ago, back when Lazaro had a Darkhaven. Back when he still had a family
kept safe under his protection.
It had been even longer since Lazaro Archer had played emissary for any cause. He
hoped like hell this clandestine introduction wasn’t a mistake.
Seventy-odd miles behind him was the seaside town of Anzio, where Lazaro had joined
Turati on his yacht a couple of hours ago. Up ahead of them, an even farther distance,
the island of Sardinia glittered with light against the darkness.
A smattering of other large yachts and watercraft bobbed in the vast space between
Turati’s vessel and the island, but it was the low drone of a motorboat that captured
Lazaro’s full attention. The size of a small cabin cruiser, the yacht tender had departed
from an idling vessel in the distance and was heading Lazaro’s way. He watched the
chase boat approach from out of the inky darkness, its navigation lights dimmed as
instructed, flashing three times as it crossed the water toward them.
His Breed colleague from the States did not disappoint. Byron Walsh was arriving as
promised, and right on time.
Lazaro nodded, grim with relief.
He turned away from the rail and headed down to the yacht’s main deck salon where
Turati waited. On Lazaro’s directions and assurances, the gray-haired billionaire had
brought just two men from his usual security entourage. The yacht’s crew of fifty had
been reduced to a bare dozen, just enough personnel to operate the vessel.
At Lazaro’s entrance to the lavish salon, Turati glanced up, wiry brows lifting in question.
“He comes?” the old man asked in his native tongue.
Lazaro answered in Italian as well. “The boat is on the way now.” As tonight’s host did
not speak English, Lazaro would personally translate for the duration of the meeting, if
only to ensure that the conversation didn’t inadvertently stray into unfriendly waters.
Paolo Turati was one of a small number of humans Lazaro considered a friend. He was
also one of the few humans who didn’t look upon the Breed as a race of monsters in
need of collaring at best, or, at worst, wholesale extermination.
Granted, the fear wasn’t without cause. For millennia, the Breed existed in the shadows
alongside their Homo sapiens neighbors. In the twenty years since Lazaro’s kind was
outed to man, trust between the two races on the planet had been anything but easy.
That trust became even more complicated a couple of weeks ago, when a violent cabal
calling themselves Opus Nostrum smuggled a bomb into a very important summit
gathering of Breed and human dignitaries.
If tonight’s introductions went well, the Breed would gain a supportive voice and a much-
needed ally in their efforts to keep the peace between man and vampire all around the
world. If it went poorly, the Order’s efforts to broker peace could ignite the smoldering
war that Opus Nostrum seemed to want so badly.
“I hope your friend from Maryland comes to this meeting with the same intentions as I
do,” Turati said, apprehension in the flat line of his mouth, even though the old human’s
eyes held Lazaro in a trusting look. “If I like what I hear tonight, I will do what I can to
persuade my brother to at least entertain the idea of talks with the GNC and Lucan
Thorne. After all, everyone’s goal is peace, not only for ourselves, but for our
generations to follow.”
“Indeed,” Lazaro replied. His acute Breed hearing picked up the faint, approaching growl
of the boat carrying Byron Walsh. “He’s arriving now. Wait here, Paolo. I’ll go down to
meet him and bring him up.”
Turati frowned then shook his head. “I will join you, Lazaro. It seems only proper that I
greet Councilman Walsh personally and welcome him aboard along with you. I would do
no less for any invited guest.”
Lazaro inclined his head in agreement. “A fine idea.”
He waited patiently as the old man stood and smoothed his custom-tailored navy suit
and creamy silk shirt. By contrast, Lazaro was dressed in what he’d come to regard as
Order casual—black slacks, light-duty combat boots, and a fitted black patrol shirt.
And although he was first generation Breed and more than deadly with his bare hands
alone, he carried a blade concealed in each boot and had a semiautomatic 9mm pistol
strapped to his right ankle. He didn’t expect trouble from either of the two men or their
few staff present at tonight’s meeting, but he’d be damned if he didn’t come prepared for
it.
Together, he and Turati left the grand salon on the yacht’s second level, making their
way down a polished brass stairwell that spiraled elegantly onto the lower deck. The
boat carrying Walsh was coming around the stern as Lazaro and Turati arrived on the aft

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