Marie Harte - Hayashi's Hero

“Believe it or not, I don't work for you.” That wiped away the smirk. “I work for Mrs.

Sharpe. Now, I found your boy Delancey.”

“Great, he's in the Southeast. Maybe you could narrow it down some,” Jules said with sarcasm.

“Maybe I could, if some dumbass squid wasn't breathing down my neck.” Jules gripped the steering wheel of the small boat they occupied.

Probably to keep from wrapping his hands around my neck.

Jules snarled, “When this is over, you and I are due for a long-ass talk.”

“Sorry, handsome, I'm taken.”

Before Jules could choke him, Morgan laughed his way out of the boat and jogged around the curve of land toward the nearly empty pier, where a large yacht named the Emerald floated.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, near some asshole's private island, his contact had told him to come alone.

Morgan stopped at the edge of the yacht. A feeling of wrongness overcame him. But before he could pull back, a familiar face stepped out of the shadows and put a finger to his lips.

He motioned hurriedly for Morgan to join him.

A glance up showed two swarthy men descending the stairwell to the upper level. They hadn't yet seen him, still engrossed in a heated conversation in thick Portuguese, Morgan's native tongue.

“He said Montaña killed Vicki. Why the hell would Tomas lie?” one of them said to the other.

“Shit, Francisco. I didn't want to tell you, but your sister is gone, man. Turned up a floater early this morning. Montaña hurt her bad.”

“ I'll kill him !” Francisco swore and began ranting threats and curses against his hated boss.

Dissent was good, but Morgan wasn't exactly a welcome visitor. Sticking around to increase unrest wouldn't be wise.

He hurried to join his contact in the darkened interior of the cabin. Leather, teak, some Brazilian redwood inlaid in the glossy floor, glass tiles that probably cost a small fortune. All in all, an expensive boat, and one Tomas—his contact, a clever, talkative man Morgan had convinced to be his eyes and ears—shouldn't have been on. Tomas normally worked as his cousin's lackey.

And speaking of said cousin, Morgan whispered, “Where's Pablo?” Tomas nodded for him to ease back. They entered a smaller room off the main cabin, and Tomas closed them in the bathroom. Handcrafted ceramic tiles lined the full shower and accented the dual sinks, made of gold-veined marble.

“Pablo is in trouble. Montaña and his American friend, Delancey, have been partying on a yacht for a week, and just yesterday, the Florida authorities found three dead women in the waters.”

Morgan stilled. Gotcha, you bastard . “Where are they?”

“I don't know, exactly. Near Miami, I think. Pablo isn't answering my calls. When he found out one of the girls was Francisco's sister, he told. That's Francisco.” Tomas pointed to the door, through which Morgan heard the deep voice of a seriously pissed-off brother.

Banging and clanging sounded, followed by the pounding of running footsteps. What the hell was Francisco doing?

“This boat is Colonel Montaña's. I think he come back for it in a week or two. But I have to find Pablo. Can you help me?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. Can you get me on board as a crew member?” Tomas gave an emphatic shake of his head. “No. They kill me if they know I talked to you.

I—”

A loud boom that rocked the boat cut Tomas short. Without thinking about it, Morgan dragged Tomas out of the bathroom and hurtled them both out the backdoor of the cabin toward an open veranda.

The world suddenly went black as Morgan slammed through the railing and through the air. Fire, the scent of burning flesh, and pain, the likes of which he'd felt too many times before, filled him from head to toe. And then he heard a familiar voice that eased his worry.

“I knew you'd come.”

He stared at Kisho in wonderment and confusion. “When the hell did you get here?

Where's Tomas?” Morgan looked around but could see nothing but darkness. The light slowly filtered in, and he saw Kisho's bedroom. Two jade foxes sat next to each other on the nightstand, and Morgan sighed.

“Hell, I'm gone, aren't I?”

“Gone?” Kisho frowned. “What do you—”

“Never mind, kitsu. Now why don't you give me what you've been denying me for so very long?”

Darkness pulled him under, and then Morgan broke through to incredible pleasure.

Warmth gloved him as he surged in and out of Kisho, finally joining with the man he'd been destined for.

“That's it, little fox. Give me what I need.”

Pain in Morgan's chest flared and receded, but he couldn't stop fucking his mate. So right, so perfectly right.

He groaned as the slow orgasm overtook him in a tidal wave of pleasure so strong, it literally hurt. Blackness descended once more, but this time, he couldn't breach the fog of heaviness around him.

“Fuck! Morgan, Jesus. Morgan, wake up.”

He blinked up into water droplets. Jules, soaking wet, gazed down at him in horror and pushed down on his chest.

Morgan tried to stop him, to question what the hell Hawkins thought he was doing, but instead he coughed, spewing water. And then he was suddenly unable to breathe.

“Shit. Not now. Morgan, you are such a pain in my ass. Hold on, man. Kisho is gonna—”

“Hold him down. Don't let him go,” Mrs. Sharpe directed Tersch, Ava, and Fallon as they tried to hold a bucking Kisho to the couch.

Kisho wanted to tell them not to bother, but he couldn't unclench his jaw.

“Olivia, hurry. Draw some of the pain.”

Olivia touched him. He knew because he saw her from above, looking down on everyone in the study. Odd. One minute he'd been seeing into the future—or was that the present? Morgan on a boat, talking to some nervous guy, probably his contact. Then an explosion. Fire, bodies strewn everywhere. And there in the water, floating facedown, lay Morgan.

Jesus, oh no. Please no . Kisho darted back into himself, not sure how he did so. He writhed and jerked, trying to wake up, to tell them what to do and where to look. He could see it so clearly. Could see Ava and the others trying to help him, but at the same time, he could see Jules diving into the water to drag Morgan to safety. Pulling him into a boat, then to the shore where Morgan lay on a sandy bank, his beautiful skin burned. The gaping wound in his chest looked really, really bad. Blood flowed everywhere. Jules was yelling at Morgan.

Morgan didn't answer.

“I'm right here, kitsu. I'm okay.”

But he wasn't, not if Kisho could see his ghostly image in Mrs. Sharpe's study, when by rights, Morgan's body lay several hundred miles away, wounded, on some deserted shore.

“I'm good, lover.”

“Lover?”

Morgan laughed, then frowned and clutched his chest. “Jules has no bedside manner. Did you like my roses?”

The change in subject threw him. “What?”

“My roses. I know you like white. And I read your poem when you weren't around. The one about thorns and purity and love.”

“Dick, that was private.” He paused. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it.” Morgan's sweet smile touched him, really touched him, and he felt shy all of the sudden. “I want to talk to you about it, but this really hurts. I need your help.”

“What can I do?”

“I'm not sure.” Morgan frowned. “But, I can feel them so close. I think… Ava and Alicia. I need you to reach out and grab them.” His voice and image faded. “Hurry.” Kisho blinked and gasped as his breath and sight returned. His chest hurt like a bitch. But he did as Morgan had asked. He stopped moving. When Mrs. Sharpe and Ava let go of him, he latched on to their arms. He held tight, past the yells, past Tersch's bellow, and even past the fire of pain blazing through his chest.