Dark Lover (7 page)

Her ribs rose and fell heavily now, beneath his grasp. He raised his arms until her heavy breasts rode them. “Dinna move,” he said, reaching down. He freed himself and pushed between her legs, the jersey dress entangling with his length.

She gasped at the contact and grasped his hands. “Damn you.”

He moved his mouth against her ear, using his tongue. She trembled violently. “I'm not one of them. Give me permission. I want ye, Sam.”

For one heartbeat, when she didn't move or answer, he thought she would submit. But then she turned around—and jammed her knee into his groin.

Shocked, he gasped as pain flooded him, clutching himself.

“Never means never,” she cried. “And I won't be a warm body to make you feel better.”

S
AM MEANT IT
.

He somehow straightened, flushed. “Did ye break yer kneecap?” he mocked.

“Right,” she shot back. But she was instantly sorry. It had been a desperate move. She'd almost caved in to him—her body was that demanding, that hot for his. The raging attraction was getting worse. After what she'd just seen, it should be gone.

She'd never seen so much rage. She was shaken, even though she'd witnessed a lifetime of murder and mayhem, rape, torture and death.
What had that demon done to him?
It had to have been bad.

And he'd been crying afterward.
Ian Maclean had shed tears
. She was determined to hide her surprise and act as if nothing much had happened. Oddly, it felt incredibly important to pretend that nothing was awry.

It had been sheer instinct to leave him alone with his grief when he'd finished with the demon. No man, immortal or not, would want someone to see such rage, much less that shocking emotional aftermath.

And she
was
shocked.

He was breathing hard. “I
said
I am not one of them.”

She was breathing hard, too. She'd heard. And while she didn't think him a rapist, he'd probably have kept trying to seduce her anyway, if she hadn't gotten rough.

And that was the problem. Having that incredibly hard
and aroused body against hers had been so damned tempting. It was as if there was an unearthly pull between them. “Okay. I might have overreacted. I'm sorry I kneed you. But I'm fairly certain a little blow won't hurt
that
.”

He gave her a really dark glance. “Why don't ye leave?” He strode back to the bar cart and poured a scotch, which he drained. Then he poured another one. “Ye can understand why I'm not bein' a bit more hospitable.”

“I'm not leaving, not until the page is in Nick's custody,” Sam said flatly.

He gave her an incredulous look. “I'm not leapin' anywhere tonight. Not into the vault and not into the past, or any other time.” He drank half of the second scotch. He was impatient now, his stare cold and hard.

She carefully shut down those thoughts. She'd think about it all later. “And I should trust you because…?”

“Ye trust me because I'm St. Cuthbert,” he snapped. “Do as ye will. Amuse yerself, Sam.” He refilled his glass and strode from the library.

Sam walked to the threshold of the room and saw him go down the hall, past several impressive works of art, entering what was apparently the master suite at its far end. When he vanished inside, leaving the door open, she inhaled.

Holy shit. What had just happened…really?

She walked over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. Sipping it, she went into the adjacent guest bathroom. She set the drink down and opened the cabinet, where she found a few handy items, including mouthwash.

As she took off the dress, she became aware of her body, which was sore. The stab wounds felt as if they were on fire. Not that she hadn't had worse. Her right ankle was also sore, and she hoped it wasn't sprained, because she didn't have time to limp around. She shoved the red jersey
dress into the garbage and thought about the few facts she'd gleaned with Brie last fall about Ian Maclean.

Brie and Sam had been trying to save Aidan's life. They'd assumed Ian was dead—everyone had. Aidan had helplessly watched while his own father murdered him as a boy. Sam recalled that date as being 1436. Some dates simply stuck out.

She picked up a bar of scented white soap and cleaned her arm and the cut on her rib cage. Now that she thought about it, Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, making him really old—unless he was visiting New York from another century. That did not seem likely—he acted really contemporary. But the second, more important fact was that his grandfather, the notorious demon, Moray, hadn't actually killed him.

Ian had been in demonic captivity as a child. Now she recalled that Aidan had fallen to the dark side as a result of his thinking Ian murdered. Aidan of Awe had a record of nearly demonic activity that spanned decades. She knew. She'd handed the file over to Brie herself.

Ian had been presumed dead for decades…which meant he'd been a demon's prisoner for all that time.

A chill went through her.

Demons thrived on torture, abuse, rape and murder. It was a miracle he was still alive. But the emerging facts were beginning to explain a lot. No wonder he was such a hard-ass. He'd been so unlikable, so cold and unfeeling—until he'd had the breakdown.

What had they done to him?

She was never going to forget the sight of him on his hands and knees, trembling violently, tears streaming.

Her heart seemed to stir within her chest. Sam jerked in shock, and she looked at her reflection in the mirror. For one instant, she saw herself standing there, naked and cut, and her blue eyes seemed unusually soft and worried.

Her eyes looked like Tabby's, except for their color.

Her sister was the kindest woman she'd ever known. Tabby worried about everyone. Tabby's compassion knew no bounds. Tabby often had that look in her eyes.

Damn it
. She, Sam, was never concerned. She took life in stride. She fought for the Innocent, was prepared to die for them, but she never had and would never shed a single tear over an Innocent's murder. She hadn't even cried when she'd realized her mother was dead. She'd gone hunting, instead.

Her composure did not slip now. The image of her mother's murder was engraved on her mind, and she wanted it that way. She'd been twelve years old, walking home from school alone, because she'd cut her Spanish class so she could play street hockey with the boys. But they'd pissed her off and she'd gotten into a fistfight and gone home instead. When she'd walked into her front yard, she'd seen the man getting up, her mother lying prone and lifeless on the ground.

Sam had run to her mother, and had quickly realized Laura was dead. Tears had burned her eyes, but the grief had been dull because there was so much rage. She welcomed the fury, the need to strike back, the burning revenge. She leapt up and set chase. The demon had been halfway down the block. But instead of confronting her, he'd vanished, leaping into time.

She'd meant to murder him with her bare hands, even though just a skinny kid.

“Coward!” she had screamed.

She'd spent a year hunting him but he'd never come back.

Now, sixteen years later, she knew she'd never find him. He might even be vanquished by someone else's hand. But every time she brought a demon down, there was a deep, internal satisfaction. Laura would be proud.

Being cold-hearted was far more than a means of survival. It was the only way to win. She was a Slayer. And that made her a soldier. No soldier could succumb to compassion, much less sorrow. There was no room in her life for regrets. She took the mouthwash and poured it over her rib cage. It stung. Compassion was not a part of her MO. And it was an especially bad idea where Maclean was concerned.

If he thought her sympathetic toward him, he'd use it to his advantage.

Grim now, she doused the wound with the rest of her scotch. It was a good thing she still thought him a complete bastard. There was no sympathy to be had. He wasn't that kid in captivity anymore. He'd survived—people survived the bad, the evil and the ugly, all the time. She took an emerald-green towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, staring at her set face in the mirror. And she made a pact with herself.

No matter what they'd done to him, it wasn't her business; she had a war to wage.

Sam picked up her cell and dialed Kit, who was back at the office. “How was the rest of the party?”

“Boring. Good caviar, though.”

“As if you'd know. Did Hemmer take you on the VIP tour?”

“No, but he asked a lot of questions about you. He's either smitten or really suspicious. Where are you? I'm about to leave.”

“I'm at Maclean's. 1101 Park Avenue. It's been an interesting night. Can you swing by and bring me clothes? My dress is in the trash.”

“I'm afraid to ask.”

“It was just subs, Kit.”

“Yeah, I heard about the Rampage after you left. I'll be about thirty,” Kit said, hanging up.

Sam took the small purse with her, and retrieved her messenger bag. Checking in on Maclean while clad in a towel was asking for trouble. But she was assigned to him and his PC was on the desk in the library, almost waving a red flag at her.

She smiled and went over to it and sat down. When she realized she did not need a password to log on, she shook her head, disbelieving. Then she sobered. She didn't need a password because Maclean wasn't worried about anyone invading his privacy. The bimbos he slept with wouldn't bother, and she would hazard one good guess that he didn't have friends—not even a single one.

He was that difficult, that asocial, that much of a loner.

She was a loner, too, but she enjoyed the occasional drink with Kit, her boss and some of her other coworkers. Even that jerk, MacGregor. But Maclean was just unlikable.

She had the grim notion that she might start feeling sorry for him, if she wasn't careful. She had that odd churning in her stomach again. It was nonplussing. So what if he lived a life of extreme isolation? And for all she knew, he hung with a bunch of equally unlikable jerks.

It was time to work. Shoving her speculation aside, she started to log onto HCU's immense database. It was time to become acquainted with his file.

But logging on required three different passwords. As she waited, she glanced at his desktop and then at his Documents folder. She might never have this opportunity again. Sam logged off from HCU, deciding to snoop into his hard drive instead. But it was all mundane stuff. He had numerous investments, a categorized and insured art collection (hmm), and lists of operating expenses for his two homes. He had auto insurance for five snazzy cars, and home owner's insurance. It was all so routine that it was boring, when nothing about Maclean was boring.

The red flag that had gone up began waving.

A file labeled Travel contained his various itineraries from the past two years, as he jet-setted around the world—either in first class or on privately chartered jets. For a man who could leap through time, it was really strange.

Sam wondered if he was keeping a low profile because of Scotland Yard. But his profile would be even lower if he leapt in and out of Paris, instead of flying there first-class.

Kit called and told her she'd be there in five minutes. As Sam hung up, she decided to check his Web activity. She went online and checked his mailbox.

It took her two seconds to learn that he was having an erotic conversation with a man—and another ten to figure out that he was portraying himself to be a young boy of thirteen.
Liam
.

And the man's name was John.

Comprehension flashed.

Was he undercover? Was he a cop?

She was stunned all over again. No authority—no agency or PD—would ever hire him into their midst, she felt certain, especially not with Scotland Yard being on his back. She went to their latest exchange, in which he gave his Park Avenue address to his buddy, claiming he lived there with his parents. “John” promised to look him up as soon as he could.

She sat back up rigidly, her mind racing.
It had been bait and trap.

Ian had set up a demonic pedophile, and he had lured him to his death.

He was playing vigilante.

In spite of herself, there were the first stirrings of respect.

“Are ye enjoyin' yerself?”

She looked up, caught red-handed in his files and his life.

Maclean stood in the doorway, clad only in a pair of loose, low-hanging sweats. She was instantly diverted from her discoveries. He had a huge, broad chest, and bulging arms, with a really tight, sculpted six-pack. The man worked out—a lot. He might be an oversexed jerk but it was impossible not to look at the “goods.” She stared at the swath of skin and hair below his naval and the very suggestive bulge below the waistband of his sweats. Her mouth was already dry. Sam looked away.

His mood clearly remained ugly, because his eyes were hard and burning with barely controlled anger.

“Your sweats are falling down, Maclean. Lose your drawstring?”

He walked over to her and stared at the e-mail she was reading, then reached past her to exit his mailbox. “There are laws against what yer doing.” His broad muscular chest heaved.

He caught her staring and she thought she almost flushed. “Gee, no nipple ring?” Sam slowly pushed away from the desk, one hand on her towel. He slammed his hand down on the desk, blocking her from rising.

He looked at her as if finally aware that she was just barely covered up. But he didn't leer or smile that mocking, sexy smile; he was really angry.