Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
episode is titled The Midnight Masquerade, Episode three January.
Speaker 2: Frost the Palace Hotel defines Old Manhattan money, all gilt
mirrors and crystal chandeliers that have witnessed a century of secrets. Tonight,
it's witnessing one more. As I press Morgan against the
wall of our luxury suite, his mouth hot on my throat.
Your contact is late, he murmurs between kisses. He'll come.
I arch as his hands, fine skin under my silk blouse.
He always does like you did in Vienna. His teeth
graze my pulse point. When you climbed into my shower,
pretending to be a lost guest, pretending I laugh against
his mouth, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
His grip tightens possessively. Tell me about that night, the
real story. This time, the memory floods back hot as steam.
Two years ago. Vienna, the Palais Hansen Kompinski's presidential suite
had excellent security cameras, motion sensors, armed guards, but it
didn't have Morgan Steel in its database of non operatives.
Didn't know he was Cia hunting Marina Volkov, I did oh,
I'd stumbled into his bathroom wearing nothing but surprise and
expensive lingerie. I'm so sorry. Wrong room, he'd been magnificent,
water sluicing down, hard muscle, eyes sharp despite the steam.
This suite takes up the whole floor. There is no
wrong room. Really, I'd let my gaze drift lower. Then
I must be exactly where I meant to be. What
followed was pure fire, hands sliding on wet skin, mouths
tasting truth and lies in equal measure. He'd pressed me
against the marble, not knowing I had a team copying
the Volkov server data three floors below. Tell me your name,
he demanded, fingers doing wicked things between my thighs. Eve,
I'd gasped, the first of many lies between us. Call
me Eve, present day. You knew exactly who I was,
Morgan says, now, pulling me back to our palace suite
in Vienna, in Paris every time, Yes, I start on
his shirt buttons, just like you knew who I was
in Monaco last summer. His hand still what Monaco? I
traced the scar on his chest, the one Marina's bullet
left in Prague. The Casino, the blonde at the baccarat
table who spilled champagne on your jacket. His eyes darkened
with recognition. That was me, of course. I roll my
hips against his, feeling him react. I needed to see
if you were still hunting me, still wanting me, and
his hand slides into my hair, grips firmly. What did
you learn that you let me get away? My lips
brush his ear, That you could have caught me in
the elevator, in the garage, in the His kiss silences
me hard, demanding, full of two years of chase and
want and need. His hands make quick work of my blouse,
finding lace and skin beneath. I let you go in Monaco,
he admits, between kisses, because I needed to know, know
what if you were working with Marina, if Vienna was
just a job, or if my phone buzzes three short pulses,
celests emergency code ignore it. Morgan growls, his mouth, doing
sinful things to my collarbone. Can't but I are into
his touch anyway. She's found something about project Snowfall. Snowfall.
Can wait. His hands slide under my skirt. This can't
even if I tell you, I gasp as his fingers
find their target. That I know what the bioweapon really does.
His touch turns dangerous, not quite painful, but close like truth,
like need, like power shifting between predators. What do you know?
His voice is rough against my throat, that it's not
just a weapon. I rock against his hand, using pleasure
as leverage. It's a key to genetic manipulation, to controlling
who lives. I bite his ear gently and who dies?
Clever girl. His fingers move fast and making me gasp?
What else? Marina? Marina sold it to Julian. My nails
dig into his shoulders as heat builds. But he wanted
more than just the formula. He wanted the catalyst. Morgan's
other hand tangles in my hair, pulls back so he
can watch my face, the missing ingredient that makes it work. Yes,
I'm close now, pleasure and danger blurring. The one you hid,
Oh God, you hid in Vienna? And where did I
hide it? Vivian? His thumb circles precisely, professionally, like a
man who studied every way to make me break. Tell
me and I'll let you come. Powerplay his specialty. But
I learned from the best. I lean in, bite his
bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. His grip tightens, reflexively,
pushing me over the edge as pleasure wipes out my vision.
I whisper in his ear, in me, You hid it
in me. He shoves me back against the wall, eyes
dark with something more dangerous than desire. What did you
say the catalyst? I'm still trembling from release, but my
mind is sharp that night in the shower, the scratch
on my shoulder, that wouldn't heal. You didn't just seduce
me in Vienna. You marked me to protect you. His
hands framed my face desperate. Now if they knew you
carried it like they knew about Sarah. The name hits
him like a bullet. Your wife didn't die in a
car crash, did she? Marina found the catalyst in her blood.
His kiss is brutal, punishment and passion and pain, all
mixed together. I taste blood, his or mine. I'm not
sure that's why you let me go in Paris. I
gasp as his hands tear at my remaining clothes. Why
you never really caught me. You were keeping me moving,
keeping me safe, and you. He lifts me and I
wrap my legs around his waist. Why did you keep
coming back Vienna, Paris, Monaco, because I knew I guide
him where we both need him. Every time I saw you,
I felt it, the heat, the change in my blood,
the way my body recognized yours before I even knew
who you were. He pushes into me hard, making us
both moan. Mine, he growls. From that first moment, mine
to hunt, mine to protect mine, to my phone irrupts
with Celeste's override tone, then his phone, then the hotel
alarm system. Through the sweets windows, we see figures repelling
down from the roof Marina. We say together. She knows.
I clench around him, not ready to let go about
me the catalyst let her come. His thrust is possessive,
claiming I'm done running, done watching you run. Then let's
end this. I kiss him, tasting blood, and promises together.
We come apart together against the wall, fast and hard
and desperate, as if our bodies know what's coming, as
if pleasure now might make up for pain later. The
windows explode inward as we're still catching our breath. Time
to go, Morgan says, already reaching for his weapon. No,
I grab his arm. Time to fight through the broken windows,
snow swells in like Marina's calling card. But this time
I'm not running. This time I have something worth fighting for.
And if the catalyst in my blood is what they want,
let them try to take it.
Speaker 1: Romance Weekly is a production of Calarogu Shark Media Executive
producers Mark Francis and John mc dermot. Portions of this
podcast may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 2: Calaruga Shark Media.