Midnight Kiss (Men of Midnight #7) - Lisa Marie Rice Page 0,25

TV stations in the Midwest, in exactly those states he needed to win this goddamned thing, the Presidency.

Court cleared his voice and pointed his finger at Leland. Court was worried sick, but his voice betrayed nothing. He’d been the Deputy Director of the CIA for seven years and if nothing else, it taught him how to hide emotions and put command in his voice. “Has my son Bard arrived?”

Leland pretended to consult his cell, pursing his lips. But Court knew the answer. “No, sir.” Leland lifted his round face, big moist eyes sorrowful. Amateur liars never blinked when lying but then blinked eight times more often after the lie. And now Leland was creating a small wind eddy with his blinking. “He, ahm, sent a message that he’d be delayed.” An orangutan could tell he was lying.

Bard had done no such fucking thing.

This time, Court had been adamant. He’d ordered Bard to be here. Bard needed to be by his side when meeting the big donors of his party. Bard’s absence was bad news. The worst. Particularly with the announcement he was about to make. He was making a run for the Presidency, for the office he’d been born to. Court was destined to be the leader of the country. His son was a decorated war hero and should be by his father’s side, on this day of all days. Fuck.

Why wasn’t he here? Of course, they weren’t close, had never been close. But goddammit, Bard’s entire life was duty. He was a warrior, a fucking SEAL. Always do the hard thing was their unofficial motto. And though Bard long ago cut himself off from the family and the Redfield money, he did his duty. He was on mission when Maddy died, but he came home for the funeral. He hadn’t cut himself off from his mother, Maddy, though Maddy, too, had become estranged from Court. Had asked for a divorce before breast cancer took her away.

Court had since married twice, but Bard hadn’t come home for either of the marriages.

Court could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he and Bard had actually had a discussion over the past thirty years. And most of the times had ended with Bard slamming the door behind him.

Court didn’t need to be loved, but he did need to be obeyed and damn it, Bard should be here now as he prepared for the move that had been decades coming.

If he wasn’t here, did that mean … Did Bard know what had happened all those years ago? Could he know?

Court shut that thought down immediately. Of course Bard didn’t know. Court had seen to that. The entire connection had been severed, completely contained, for almost three decades. And the person who’d made the connection again, via freaking DNA, was dead. But the girl … the girl who was improbably alive …

She’d be dead too. Soon. For the second time. If Court had had any idea that the girl had survived, he’d have dealt with it long ago.

How the hell had she survived? Who’d taken care of her?

Maybe he should have checked, sent a man to the morgue to see the bodies. But those had been different times and he hadn’t had many people on call. He had them now, by God. He had a fucking army, and they were highly competent, the best of the best. Former SpecOps soldiers, recruited when he was heading the Special Activities Division of the CIA and totally loyal to him now. Considering he paid them a fucking fortune, they’d better be loyal.

He’d once calculated that his little army had cost the US government a hundred million dollars to train.

And now they were his.

His son, the best of SpecOps, a legend, should be one of them. Should be by his side, right fucking now.

Instead he had two bodyguards in front and three behind him. Two already in the dining room, waiting. If anyone so much as yelled at him, they’d be quietly taken away. His Pretorian Guard looked after him well.

And still, it should be his fucking son looking after his father. Where was he?

Inwardly, Court seethed as he walked along the plush gold-patterned carpeting of the long elegant corridor toward the dining room. He could hear the excited jabbering halfway down the hallway. Rich men, excitable like children. How they’d squeal when he gave them a new toy.

Where the hell was the girl? The DNA scientist had kept the girl’s name off the