Thirty Nights. JoAnn Ross

stereo speakers swelled around him, in him, like a fever in the blood.

      “Don’t talk nonsense. You’re in a league of your own, sweetheart.” He pulled her close and kissed her with more affection than lust.

      It was times like this, when his body was sated and his mind pleasantly fogged, free from the burden of romantic entanglements, when Hunter understood that George Cassidy had been right about one thing. Emotions were unnecessary complications. They weakened a man, made him vulnerable.

      During the thirteen years since he’d left MIT, Hunter had survived—indeed prospered—by burying his feelings so deeply inside him he could no longer remember the idealistic young man he’d once been. Hunter supposed he should be grateful to Cassidy for that.

      As Toni snuggled against him again, his mind continued to drift to thoughts of Cassidy and his daughter, whose appearance reminded him of one of those ethereal angels painted on the domed ceilings of Renaissance cathedrals.

      He wondered idly if she were actually as virginal as she seemed, then remembering the depths of passion that had flowed from those fingertips, decided she couldn’t possibly be.

      But the contrast of passion and innocence was undeniably appealing. What would it take, he mused, to make that serene, delicate woman scream with wild, wanton pleasure?

      Suddenly, Hunter, who had not celebrated any holiday since that fateful afternoon he’d packed his bags and left MIT, knew exactly what he wanted for Christmas.

      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