If grabbing the Breed male by the throat and demanding an answer to that very question wouldn’t turn an already awkward situation into a potential disaster, Lazaro might have uncurled his fists at his sides and done just that. Instead, he stared, silent and fuming. He’d deal with his friend’s apparent lapse in judgment later.
“Careful now,” Walsh cautioned his uninvited companion. “Watch your step, sweetheart.”
Hell, every male present was watching her step. She was tall, elegant, with bountiful curves that filled out every body-skimming line of a conservative—yet damned sexy—charcoal gray skirt that skimmed her knees and showcased her long, shapely legs. She wore a garnet-colored silk blouse unbuttoned midway down her sternum, just low enough to tease at the generous swell of her bosom.
At the base of her throat was a small scarlet birthmark in the shape of a teardrop falling into the cradle of a crescent moon. So, the voluptuous beauty was a Breedmate, Lazaro noted with displeasure. Had she been simply human arm candy for the councilman, Lazaro would have no qualms at all about turning her sinfully formed behind right back around and sending the motorboat away with her inside.
But a female born with the Breedmate mark commanded deeper respect than that from one of Lazaro’s kind. And although he was more warrior now than gentleman, there was still a part of him that held rare females like this one in high regard. And if she was in fact mated to Byron Walsh, then Lazaro had no bloody right to stare at her with a smoldering crackle of interest heating his veins.
As her slender-heeled pumps settled gracefully on the deck, she lifted her head and glanced up to look at him and the other men. Her mane of lustrous, flame-bright hair framed a delicate oval face dominated by large green eyes and soft, sensual lips.
She was, in a word, stunning.
The face of an angel and the kind of body to tempt a saint.
And based on the sudden hush of focused male interest on the deck of Turati’s yacht, there was hardly a saint among them.
Lazaro shut down his own awareness of her with abrupt, violent force.
Walsh took the woman’s hand and led her forward. “Lazaro, you’ll remember my daughter, Mel.”
In a flash of memory, Lazaro envisioned a gangly tomboy about seven years old who’d come with her adopted parents to the Archer Darkhaven one winter. Freckle-faced, scrawny, and possessed of more courage than good sense, the way he recalled it now.
Nothing like the curvaceous, poised woman he saw before him here.
“Melena,” she corrected her father gently, her lush mouth bowing in a polite smile as she offered her hand in greeting first to Turati, then to Lazaro. “I’m my father’s personal assistant. Tonight I’ll also be translating for him.” She turned the full strength of her smile on Turati, speaking now in flawless Italian. “I hope you don’t mind. Between you and me, Daddy’s Italian is only slightly better than his French, which isn’t saying much.”
Turati chuckled, his aged eyes twinkling as he drank in the sight of Melena Walsh. The pair immediately began a light, effusive chat about Italy and its numerous areas of superiority over all things French. Lazaro didn’t want to be impressed with the young woman, but he couldn’t deny her language skills—or her charm. Paolo Turati was no pushover and it had taken her less than a minute to have the old goat eating out of the palm of her soft white hand.
Still, this wasn’t a social call.
There was real business to be done tonight.
Lazaro cleared his throat in effort to break up the uninvited distraction. “Your offer to translate is appreciated, Miss Walsh—”
“Melena, please,” she interjected.
“But it won’t be necessary,” Lazaro finished. “As this meeting is confidential and a matter of global security as well, all interpretation will be handled personally by me. I trust you understand.”
She glanced at her father, an anxious flick of her eyes.
“I’ll be more comfortable knowing Mel is nearby,” Walsh replied. “As you say, Lazaro, there is much at stake in the world, and I would hate for my clumsy words to convey anything less than what I truly mean. Likewise, before I leave tonight, I would like to be sure that I’ve understood everything Paolo intends me to know.”
“You don’t trust that I am capable of assuring you of both those things?”
“Melena’s come all this way to assist me, Lazaro.”
“And she’s welcome to wait on board in one of the other salons until the meeting is finished.” Lazaro met his old friend’s gaze, tried to decipher some of the apprehension he saw in the Breed male’s eyes. “If you don’t like my decision, take it up with Lucan Thorne when you return to the States.”
Turati was frowning now, lost by the rapid back-and-forth in English. “Something is wrong?” he asked, directing his question to Lazaro in Italian, even though he could hardly tear his gaze away from Melena. “Tell me what is going on.”
“Miss Walsh will join us after the meeting concludes,” Lazaro informed him. “She was unaware of the sensitive nature of this arrangement and has agreed that I should provide the necessary translation assistance as planned.”
Melena glanced down, and Turati’s face pinched into a deeper frown. He stepped toward her, his mouth pursing under his silent contemplation. When she looked up at him, the old man grinned, hooking a thumb in Lazaro’s direction. “Shall we ask him to join us after the meeting instead?” he whispered in Italian. “I would much rather listen to your voice for the next few hours than his, my dear.”
She smiled but started to shake her head. “Thank you, Mr. Turati, but I cannot—”
“You can, and I insist that you do. You and your father are both my guests here tonight. I’ll banish neither of you from our meeting.” Turati slanted a sly glance at Lazaro. “I won’t banish you either. Come, let’s go inside now.”