Thirty Nights

He wanted Gillian Cassidy. And thanks to what he knew about her formerly celebrated father, he intended to have her.

2

“GOOD GOD, MAN!” The scientist stared at his former protégé. “You can’t be serious.”

“On the contrary, I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Hunter responded mildly.

The fact that George Cassidy had not been able to resist accepting the summons to Castle Mountain from his former student was proof that the power between them had shifted. It was an acknowledgment, of sorts, Hunter thought with satisfaction, that the student had now become the master.

Oh, Cassidy was still a respected researcher and teacher.

His articles still routinely appeared in scientific journals and he was a frequent speaker at conferences. But it had escaped no one’s notice that he hadn’t come up with a truly important breakthrough in a decade.

His star was on the decline. While Hunter’s, which had taken off like a comet after he’d been forced from MIT, was now fixed as the brightest in the scientific firmament. Hunter couldn’t count the number of requests for speeches he turned down in any given month.

And unlike Cassidy, whose lectures were usually scheduled for the Sunday morning on the last day of a conference, when attendees were more likely to be worried about packing and making planes than listening to a rehash of old data, Hunter was routinely invited to be the keynote speaker at the most prestigious gatherings in the world.

Not that he appeared in person any longer, of course, but his recorded speeches—audio only, never video—were enough to draw standing-room-only crowds.

Hunter had been an intensely private man even before the assassination attempt that had disfigured him, and his reclusive behavior fueled various rumors. Two of the more recurring ones were that he’d become scarred beyond recognition and/or that he’d become the quintessential mad scientist creating Lord knows what sort of genetic mutations in his island laboratory. Hunter didn’t really give a damn what people said about him, as long as they left him alone.

The older man shook his head. Although at first glance George Cassidy had the look of a lion in winter, his thick mane of snowy hair had thinned, Hunter noticed irrelevantly. His once patrician nose was red and bulbous, indicating that his fondness for alcohol had intensified.

“This has to be some sort of sick joke.”

“I never joke.” Hunter leaned back in his leather chair, braced his elbows on the arms and eyed Cassidy over the tent of his fingers. “As you once so succinctly told me, emotions get in the way of logic. Which means, I suppose,” he allowed, “I owe a great deal of my success to your advice.”

“You would have succeeded on your own.”

“True. But if you hadn’t gotten me taken off the project, you would have continued to take credit for my work.” Work that had taken off in an entirely new direction, partly due to this man’s treachery. If Cassidy hadn’t stolen his research, he might never have developed such an interest in the age-old nature versus nurture argument.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You told me someday I’d pay. And now you’re out for revenge.”

“Revenge is such an unpleasant word, don’t you think?” Hunter countered pleasantly. “And actually, you’re wrong, Cassidy. I gave up on that idea a very long time ago. After I realized that you were no longer a very formidable adversary.”

He flashed a smile Toni had once described as being as merciless as a rattler’s. “Victory against a paper tiger isn’t much of a victory.”

The words obviously struck home, causing the older man to flinch. Better watch those emotions, George, Hunter thought. Or they’ll be your downfall yet.

“Then why—”

“It’s simple. As I said, your daughter has matured into a talented, lovely woman. And I want her.”

“You make her sound like a possession, like a car. Gillian isn’t some inanimate bauble to be bought and sold. She’s a woman—”

“I’m well aware of that. It’s precisely why I want her,” Hunter interjected patiently.

“My point is, she isn’t mine to give. The girl hasn’t lived under my roof since her mother and I divorced when she was barely in her teens.”

“But you kept in touch.”

Remembering those intimate little faculty dinners where Irene Cassidy had inevitably managed to corner him in some private corner of the professor’s Cape Cod house and attempt, unsuccessfully, to seduce him, Hunter suspected the woman wasn’t the type who’d willingly go to work to support herself and a young daughter.

“To some extent.” Cassidy’s next words confirmed Hunter’s thoughts. “Although my attorney fought her every step of the way, Irene managed to get the judge to award her a hefty alimony settlement. She also demanded—and won—hefty boarding school and college tuition payments. Naturally, I demanded equally generous holiday visitation rights.”

“Naturally,” Hunter said dryly.

He had the impression that neither parent had cared all that much for the teenage girl whose life must have been turned upside down by an acrimonious divorce. Gillian Cassidy had been merely a useful pawn in a war between two self-absorbed egoists.

Not so different from his own upbringing, he considered. However, in his case, neither of his illustrious, selfish parents could be bothered with the son they’d created more to ensure their immortality than out of any sense of lasting love. For each other or their child.

“But even if Gilly didn’t have a mind of her own, which believe me, despite that cotton-candy exterior, she does have,” Cassidy continued, “the days of fathers marrying off their daughters—”

“Who said anything about marriage?” Hunter cut him off again. “Marriage is for fools who believe in love and all its accompanying complications. Your own experience in the marital sweepstakes should have taught you that it doesn’t work.

“I want Gillian for one thing. And one thing only. For sex.”

“That’s obscene!”

Hunter lifted a brow. “Since when were you elected arbiter of society’s morals, Cassidy?”

Gillian’s father didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to stare at Hunter, as if he were some sort of monster. Which, Hunter allowed, he just might be.

“What the hell happened to you?” Cassidy asked quietly. Carefully.

Hunter’s ironic smile was grim and twisted and revealed not an iota of humor. “As you once warned me, it’s bunny-eat-bunny out there. And even in our business, research can get a little risky.”

The memory of the letter bomb exploding in his hand flashed like lightning in his mind. A memory of burning flesh seared his nostrils; inhuman screams, torn from his own throat, reverberated in his head. Utilizing the steely control that had kept him alive during those long and painful months of recuperation and rehabilitation, Hunter closed the door on the unbidden flashback.

“Now, since the forecast calls for an evening storm and I don’t believe either of us cares to be stuck here in close proximity while we wait for it to blow over, I’m going to cut right to the chase and save us both time so you can return to Cambridge….

“The fact is that I fancy your daughter. I’ve been thinking about her too much lately, and those thoughts are disturbing my work. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that the logical thing to do is to get the woman out of my system.

“I could take the time to go through some lengthy, ridiculous courtship routine, and, since I’ve been assured that despite certain obvious physical disadvantages, I’m a fairly good catch, I have no doubt that I could seduce her without a great deal of difficulty.

“However, since I possess neither the time nor the patience for such social game playing, I’ve decided to put the problem into your hands.”

“My hands?”

“It’s quite simple. I expect you to convince your daughter to come here to Maine, where I assure you, she will be treated with consideration and respect. I will not physically harm her. Nor will I play with her emotions the way so many lovers might.

“I’ve read that she’s just coming off a grueling tour and needs a rest. I’m offering leisurely days spent in a remote, idyllic location.

“As for her nights—” he enjoyed watching the older man flinch as he flashed a wicked, sexually suggestive grin “—I won’t bore you with the details.”

“You’re a devil, St. John.” Cassidy’s nervous eyes drifted to the twisted red-and-white flesh that ran from temple to jaw on the left side of Hunter’s face.

“Perhaps. I’m also a man, Cassidy.” Hunter’s tone remained as detached as his unblinking gaze. “A man with needs. Which is where the lovely Gillian comes in. And when those needs have been sufficiently satisfied, I’ll send her back to you. Safe and sound.”

“What makes you think I’d lift a finger to help you sleep with my daughter?”

Cassidy was shaking with rage; his face was so red Hunter wondered idly if he were on the verge of having a stroke. He also wondered if somehow he’d stumbled upon the old man’s soft spot. Perhaps he did care for his only daughter, after all.

“The stories I’ve heard about your diminishing capacity must be true.” Hunter shook his head with mock regret. “You are losing it, George, old man. The reason you’ll convince your daughter to join me here is because if you don’t, I’ll go public with what happened thirteen years ago.”

The older man blanched, the color fading from his too bright cheeks. “You couldn’t prove a thing!”

“That’s where you’re wrong. But it’s a moot point. Because the tables have turned. Whom do you think people would believe? A man recently voted the most brilliant scientist of his time? Or a broken-down has-been, clinging desperately to tenure with both hands, while trying to drown his failures in a bottle?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Hunter looked him straight in the eye. “In a heartbeat.”

He stood up and looked dispassionately down at Cassidy. “Since I have no desire to interrupt her tour, I’ll give Gillian seven days to show up.”

“If it were up to me, I’d send her to you,” George said. “But she’s always been ridiculously stubborn. Even those ruler-wielding Swiss nuns at the convent school in Lucerne couldn’t make the girl do anything she didn’t want to.”

He shook his leonine head again and looked balefully up at Hunter. “I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”

His former mentor’s response proved that there were no depths to which he’d sink to save his miserable career and overblown reputation. Despite his victory, Hunter found himself vaguely sickened by Cassidy’s willingness to act as pimp for his own daughter.

“Now, that’s where we’re different again. Because I can promise something. I promise to ruin you if Gillian isn’t here by the end of the week.”

With a defeated slump of his shoulders—though for himself or for his daughter, Hunter wasn’t quite sure— Cassidy silently left the room.

As Hunter stood at the window, watching the car that was taking Cassidy back down the cliff, he allowed himself, just this once, to enjoy the feeling of long-overdue satisfaction.

Then, as he remembered Gillian Cassidy’s soft green eyes and lush pale mouth, satisfaction gave way to anticipation.

Cambridge

GILLIAN COULDN’T BELIEVE what she was hearing.

“Let me get this straight.” She dragged her hand through her hair and faced her father across the lush Persian carpet covering the mahogany-plank study floor. “After thirteen years, Hunter St. John suddenly invites you to his home, then threatens to blackmail you?”

“The man’s a devil,” Cassidy grumbled, pouring another two fingers of whiskey into the Waterford old-fashioned glass.

“So you’ve said.”

Gillian was having trouble with that idea. Although she admittedly may have once gazed at Hunter St. John through foolishly romantic, rose-colored glasses, she didn’t believe her father’s harshly derogatory description fit.

There was something more to all this. Something her father wasn’t telling her.

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” she argued, every instinct she possessed on alert. She couldn’t remember once, in all her twenty-five years, her father ever revealing this much emotion. “You’re a respected scientist. How could Hunter possibly ruin your reputation?”

A log shifted on the fire, creating a shower of sparks. Appearing openly grateful for the diversion, George leaped from his bark brown leather chair and began jabbing at the fragrant applewood with the poker.

Gillian was not to be distracted. “I asked you a question, Father. Does Hunter know something you’ve neglected to mention? Was there something about the project you two were working on—”

“We weren’t working on any project together!” George’s ruddy cheeks were made even brighter by his anger. “Hunter St. John was a graduate lab assistant. No different from hundreds of others who have worked for me over the years.”

“He was obviously more intelligent than most,” she pointed out. “While flying back from New Zealand, I read in Newsweek that many in the scientific community consider him a genius.”

Wondering how old a woman had to get before she outgrew schoolgirl crushes, Gillian had been disgusted by whatever knee-jerk impulse had made her read the entire cover article. Twice.

The bombing that had nearly killed him had made the news, and although details had been sketchy, reports at the time had suggested that the assassination attempt was due to some top secret government project he’d been working on. The Newsweek journalist had reported that while Hunter had recovered well enough to resume his work—which had relieved Gillian greatly—he’d subsequently become more reclusive than ever. The fact that he’d refused to be interviewed for the article had not surprised Gillian, who remembered Hunter being very private.

“The man’s bright enough,” Cassidy allowed, his grudging tone jerking her wandering mind back into the murky conversational waters. “In that respect, he obviously inherited his parents’ genes. But Isabel Montgomery and David St. John were logical, scientific thinkers. Neither could have ever been described as given to emotional tantrums as St. John unfortunately is. Even during his student days, the boy was far too headstrong for his own good….

“He refused to follow my instructions, always thinking he knew best. And he wasn’t dependable.” The still-firm jaw jutted out defiantly. “Which is why I had no choice but to let him go.”

“So you said at the time.”

That afternoon, like everything else about Hunter, was emblazoned on Gillian’s memory. Even now, thirteen years later, she could recall with vivid clarity how livid he’d been when he’d stormed out of the laboratory.

“So.” She sat down with a flurry of flowered gauze skirt that was too thin for the frosty December Massachusetts morning, but had been just right when she’d boarded the plane in Auckland fifteen hours earlier. “Since there’s no basis for his threat, why are you so concerned?”

“Because he can make waves.” George tossed back the whiskey, then refilled the glass, this time nearly to the rim. “St. John always was a loose cannon. A damn troublemaker. If he costs me my tenure—”

“That’s ridiculous.” While her music was emotional, Gillian had always prided herself on being a woman of unwavering logic. “You achieved tenure years ago, before I was born. The only conceivable way you could possibly lose it would be to…”

Her voice trailed off as a flicker of comprehension began to tease at the back of her mind.

No, she assured herself. It couldn’t be true. Nothing had ever been as important to her father as his work. Not his colleagues, his students, his wives, nor his daughter. Gillian had long ago given up trying to win a love he was incapable of giving. But she’d always considered him to be a man of honor.

Unfortunately, as she watched him gulping down the Irish whiskey like a drowning man going under for the third time, she had to wonder.

It made sense, she considered grimly. She’d never believed her father’s unpersuasive explanations regarding Hunter leaving the project. And, even more surprisingly, MIT. Students were taken off research projects all the time, for all sorts of reasons. She’d witnessed varying levels of disappointment and frustration. Yet never had she seen the murderous depth of rage she’d witnessed in Hunter that day.

“Father.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. “Look at me.”

When he reluctantly dragged his gaze to hers, Gillian saw something that looked horrendously like guilt flash across his red-veined eyes.

“Hunter was working toward his doctorate that year,” she said slowly. Carefully. “He had his own project—”

“It was a radical, unproved idea.”

“Knowing Hunter, that could well be. You always said that he thought outside the box. But if he’s as intelligent as everyone says he is—”

“He was on the wrong track,” George said, cutting her off with an impatient wave of an unsteady hand. “It wouldn’t have worked. It didn’t work, until…” This time he was the one to stop in midsentence.

Gillian closed her eyes and rubbed at her temple as the truth struck home.

Dear heavens, she didn’t need this. She’d just come off a grueling nine-month tour; she’d caught a cold in London that had stayed with her for weeks; she’d been traveling for hours; and exhaustion was beginning to catch up with her, along with the jet lag she’d been struggling to outrun as she’d raced around the world performing to standing-room-only crowds, talking to the press, trying to remember what she’d said one day in Sydney so as not to repeat herself exactly in Melbourne….

“You stole his project.” Her flat tone revealed a deep disappointment she felt all the way to the bone.

“He can’t prove a thing,” George insisted, dodging the question.

Gillian sighed and allowed herself a moment of profound sadness as her last illusion regarding her father shattered. Then, with a strength of spirit that had gotten her through far worse than this, she began to think the problem through.

“Given Hunter’s fame and reputation these days, he wouldn’t need to prove his accusation,” she mused out loud. “It would be his word against yours. And I’m afraid that just may be a battle you couldn’t win.” It had, after all, been a very long time since her father had been featured in Newsweek.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, dammit,” he said grumpily. “The devil’s going to cost me everything I’ve spent my life working for, Gilly.”

The headache that had been threatening hit with jackhammer force, pounding at her temple, behind her eyes. As she looked out at the sleet that was being driven against the window, Gillian desperately wished she was back in New Zealand. Or Rio. Anywhere but here.

“I wonder why he waited all these years?”

“That’s simple.” The alcohol had him slurring his words. “I didn’t have anything the black-hearted devil wanted until now.”

“I see,” Gillian said, not really seeing anything at all. Bone weary, she’d intended to fly straight from Kennedy airport to her beach house in Monterey, where she could spend a restful few weeks recovering from both her cold and the rigors of her tour by sitting out on her deck, watching the whales migrate. She’d been sitting in the first-class lounge, drinking a cup of honey-laced tea that she’d hoped would clear her sinuses but hadn’t, waiting to board the flight home, when her father had tracked her down, claiming a life-or-death emergency.

He’d stubbornly refused to be more specific, but concerned enough by the uncharacteristic tremor in his voice, Gillian had immediately changed her plans, taking the plane to Boston instead. Only to discover that the problem wasn’t honestly life-threatening at all, merely career-threatening.

Then again, Gillian reminded herself wearily, her father’s work had always been his life.

“What does Hunter want, Father?”

He stared at her through blurry, glazed eyes. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“No.”

“He wants you, Gilly. The heartless, amoral bastard says that if I don’t send you to Maine to sleep with him for thirty nights, he’ll ruin me. He gave me seven days to get you there. That was three days ago. I’ve only got four days left before I’m ruined.”

He shook his head. Then, muttering something about devils and the lowest circles of hell, George Cassidy passed out.

3

Castle Mountain

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS PAST the deadline, Gillian still hadn’t shown up on the island. Frustrated and disgusted with himself for the way he’d been watching the clock, Hunter had driven to the think tank located a few miles from his house, where he’d tried, with scant success, to concentrate on work.

“I figured you’d be working at home today,” a familiar voice said.

Hunter glanced back over his shoulder and saw Dylan Prescott standing in the doorway. Dylan, the founder of the think tank, was extraordinarily brilliant and unrelentingly good-natured. His sister was police chief and he was married to a science fiction writer whose stunningly cool beauty defied every nerdy stereotype regarding the mostly male genre.

More important, Dylan was also one of the few individuals Hunter trusted without hesitation. They weren’t working in the same fields—Dylan’s area of interest and expertise was space and time travel—yet Hunter enjoyed running hypotheses by his friend. Invariably, the imaginative scientist would come up with a new twist that Hunter hadn’t considered.

“Why would you think that?”

Dylan shrugged. “I dropped into the Gray Gull for coffee this morning before coming here. Ben Adams mentioned something about having to pick up a guest of yours from the mainland on his mail packet.”

He was too polite to ask, and too good a friend to probe into personal matters, but Hunter knew Dylan was curious. Especially since Hunter wasn’t known to entertain all that many guests at his remote, well-guarded home.

It was his turn to shrug. “That’s up in the air,” he said vaguely.

Dylan gave him a probing look, then, knowing his friend well, apparently decided that there was no point in digging. “It’s just as well you’re here,” he said. “Since you’ve got a visitor.”

“Oh?” He wondered if Ben had actually brought Gillian here, instead of to the house as he’d instructed.

“It’s that GQ guy from State,” Dylan revealed. “He’s currently cooling his heels in the reception area.”

Hunter shook his head. A government bureaucrat was just what he needed to top off a less-than-perfect day. He cursed. Then, remembering that the government was paying the bills for his research, sighed with resignation.

“I suppose, since he’s come all this way, I’m going to have to see him.”

“I’ll go tell Janet to send him in, then,” Dylan said.

As the receptionist ushered the man into his outer office, it crossed Hunter’s mind that if Hollywood ever went looking for someone to cast in the role of a rising player in the high-stakes world of international diplomacy, James Van Horn would be perfect for the part. His hundred-dollar haircut and cashmere coat suggested the family wealth Hunter knew had made him a legendary undergrad at Princeton. The British accent he tended to affect was a reminder of his days at Oxford, and his shoes—wing tips, for God’s sake—were far more appropriate for walking the marbled halls of the State Department than wading through Castle Mountain’s snowdrifts.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Annoyed by the intrusion, and even more irritated that the man wasn’t the woman he’d been expecting for the past twenty-four hours, Hunter didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“I suppose you wouldn’t believe that I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop in and see how the work was progressing.”

“Not on a bet.”

Without waiting for an invitation, he took off his coat, which he hung with precision on the coatrack, hitched up the legs of his wool suit slacks, sat down in a leather chair, crossed his legs, then ran his manicured fingers down a knife-sharp crease.