Debra Webb - Guardian of the Night

He affected her in a way that was beyond her control. With him less than two feet away, she couldn’t think. He shifted that dark, hypnotic gaze from her to his bed and back. Heat exploded inside her, sending stream after stream of hot, urgent sensations through her body. She trembled; her heart rate would not slow, her rapid intake of breath belied her composure.

He moved in her direction. “My private space is off-limits.”

He was too gorgeous…too splendid to ignore. Whatever had happened to him five years ago, there was no outward indication that he was anything other than perfect. Even in the low light it was impossible to miss the sexual hunger glittering behind those deep brown eyes. His tone was thick with desire and promise, soft in a way that was lethal to all that made her a woman. “I don’t think you realize just how dangerous it is here for you….”

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Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners and working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and they finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998 her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345.

Maggie “Blue” Callahan—A Specialist in a highly covert government organization. Protecting Noah Drake will endanger her heart as well as her life.

Noah Drake—A former military intelligence officer. His past decision to be the first human to field-test a prototype robbed him of a future.

Thomas Casey—The enigmatic director of Mission Recovery.

Lucas Camp—Deputy director of Mission Recovery. He will do whatever is necessary to take care of his Specialists. His people are his number one priority.

Victoria Colby—The head of the Chicago-based Colby Agency. She is intelligent, sophisticated and loyal…but most of all, she is the woman Lucas Camp loves.

Edgar Rothman—A lead research scientist in a secret government organization. The man who developed the prototype that failed, costing Noah Drake his life as he knew it.

Lowell Kline—Noah Drake’s assistant/companion. Lowell takes care of the home that serves as Noah’s prison.

General Regan Bonner—A man who wants only one thing: vengeance.

Chester Parks—The island gossip and errand man.

Leberman—A man who would like nothing better than to see the Colby Agency destroyed.

Things are not always as they seem. These words are especially true of those with special circumstances. Sometimes all we take the time to see is what’s on the outside of a person, never looking deeper, never noticing who they really are. This book is dedicated to a very special person whose life changed mine so profoundly and at the same time so wonderfully that my journey was forever changed. To my daughter, Erica Webb Jeffrey. You are an inspiration to us all. Love, Mom.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Darkness.

His only escape from the prison he called home.

The deserted beach stretched out before him like a vast, uncharted universe. It moved like a shadowy serpent, ever undulating. Waves crashed, slid away, leaving a glittering residue on the sand that captured the sparse light of the cloud-veiled moon. While he stood perfectly still, the breeze whispered through the night, urging him to enjoy the freedom only the too-short hours after the gloaming and before the dawn could offer.

Noah Drake closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the thick salt air. He burrowed his toes in the sand, smiled and imagined the infinite grains hot from the scorching sun, the heat baking his bare feet. He summoned the memory of how the sunlight felt on his face, warm, like a lover’s kiss. With more slow, deep breaths, he persuaded himself to relax and he could almost feel the golden brilliance touching him, healing him as nothing else could.

He opened his eyes.

It was only a memory.

Noah would never know that invigorating sensation again. This was as close as he would get. The moon peeked from amid the voluminous purple clouds making the sand appear whiter, the water bluer. All else was lost to him. For five endless years he had been sentenced to darkness. The cold, empty truth filled him with an all-consuming rage. Adrenaline surged through his veins, as hot as Hades must surely be and as insistent as the breaking surf that was now as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.

So he tugged on the running shoes that lay at his feet and he ran.

Along the beach then through the dense forest that forged right up to the sand like a battalion of troops ready to conquer. Dense undergrowth closed in around him, and towering trees laden with moss rendered the shadows beneath impenetrable. All traces of the moon disappeared, all that remained was the silent foreboding. But that didn’t stop Noah. His vision had long ago adjusted to this nocturnal existence, as his hearing had grown keener with the silence of his self-imposed exile from the human race.

He was alone, living in the darkness like a vampire but with no bloodlust to compel him to strive for survival.

He simply existed.

Noah ran through the night until he reached a place that no one else on St. Gabriel Island dared visit…even in the bright, unforgiving light of day.

The concerto of cicadas was very nearly deafening. He drew the thick, balmy air into his lungs, exhaled again and again until his respiration had slowed and his skin had ceased to tingle. A slick coat of sweat had dampened his flesh and he felt cleansed by it.

He moved closer to the looming structure that had once reigned proudly in the center of a clearing. That clearing had decades ago been reclaimed by the semi-tropical forest. Ivy shrouded the ancient chapel’s exterior, hiding the timeworn cracks in its sagging walls, disguising its proximity to inevitable collapse. Inside was cavernous and as dark as a tomb, which was fitting since the rumors on the island had pegged him as the walking dead, a distant cousin of Count Dracula, no doubt.