by Brenda Joyce
He took the garbage bag from her and their hands brushed. Fire felt as if it sparked between them. Tabby dared to meet his gaze. A long night lay ahead. Evil had tried to get into her loft, and she was glad he’d been with her. So where did that leave them? “Ye need servants to clean this up,” he said.
A very safe topic, she thought in relief. “Our cleaning lady comes once a week. She would die if she saw the loft like this—and she’d quit.”
“I’ll see that she cleans the loft.”
Tabby started. “She’s not a servant, Macleod, or a serf. I pay her with coin for her services and she can leave my employ at any time.” Tabby realized she was blabbering and her composure was starting to crumble. An attack on her loft, after that interlude in her bathroom, was more than she wanted to think about. Abruptly she sat down on the sofa.
What had that thing been?
When had she ever faced such hatred?
Did it hate her?
“Ye’re tired. Ye used up too much power chasing the ghost away. Can ye rest?”
“I was tired before that ghost appeared,” she said carefully. He wasn’t really concerned about her, was he? He was a ruthless barbarian who used women, right? He had one interest when it came to her—getting her back into his bed.
Except, he kept saving her life. Or trying to do so.
His eyes changed, taking on the indolent and sensual look that choked up her breathing and made her feel dizzy. “I’ll find wood to cover the windows while ye sleep.”
Her insides vanished completely. No matter how cold it got inside, if she let him sleep with her, they wouldn’t be cold at all. Unable to move, she stared at him, her mind treacherously thinking about having that big body beside hers in her bed. She flushed everywhere, became acutely aware of how late it was and what they had just gone through together. Most of all, she knew what would happen if she let him sleep with her.
She’d shout and weep in pleasure while he filled her.
Tabby Rose would vanish, leaving a wildly passionate stranger in her place.
And if that ghost came back, she would rather be in his bed than alone in hers.
She had to rein in her feelings. He was a powerful warrior, but she had to remind herself of their differences and not allow herself to be seduced by his courage, heroism or power. He was ruthless and savage, and she had to remember that. If she decided to sleep with him again, she had better keep her head on straight. It would be a one-night stand.
Tabby almost choked on her thoughts. In the span of twenty-four hours, she was thinking like a stranger—no, her sister. “You’re a helluva partner in a demonic crisis,” she said carefully.
His eyes flickered. “Yer magic was strong. Ye’re a warrior like yer sister.”
She wasn’t certain her magic had helped. “What happened to your power, Macleod?”
“The gods are angry with me because I have refused to take vows to serve them. They aggravate me whenever they can.” A cold smile arose and vanished as quickly.
“Please tell me you are not in a battle with the deities?” Could he be that arrogant?
He was amused. “I dinna fear such a challenge, Tabitha. I am one of them.”
“It would be stupid to go up against the gods—even if you’re related to them.”
He simply smiled at her and she knew he was doing just that.
This was not her affair, she reminded herself. If he wanted to aggravate and anger the Ancients, he would eventually pay. Suddenly she wondered if he’d paid the price of such arrogance at An Tùir-Tara. “Why won’t you take your vows? You were born to defend the world from evil, weren’t you?”
“My duty is to Blayde.”
What did that mean, really? “You can serve your people and take care of your lands while serving the gods, can’t you?”
“I fight evil every day,” he said flatly. “But my word is sacred. If I took vows, those vows would have to come first—always. I canna turn my back on Blayde.”
She could not figure him out. He’d been so heroic a moment ago, but now, his mind-set was incredibly narrow and medieval. Did it have something to do with having lost his entire family in the massacre? That might make him determined to cling to all that was left—Blayde. Maybe he wasn’t even destined for the Brotherhood. For all she knew, guys with überpower were running around the world in every century—guys like Sam’s boss, Nick. Maybe that kind of power was a genetic glitch. But then, why would the gods be angry with him, enough so to interfere with him? The old gods never bothered with mankind anymore. Or, they didn’t bother with humanity in the twenty-first century. It was probably really different in 1298.
“Where can I find wood? I dinna wish to break yer fine furnishings to cover the embrasures.”
She stood up. “No, we are not hacking up the furniture. We’ll use garbage bags…plastic.” She walked across the room, suddenly thinking about his age. He’d been fourteen years old in 1201, and in his time, it was ninety-seven years later. He looked a few years younger than she did—like a young man of twenty-five—but he was over a hundred. He’d lived an entire lifetime. He was a very experienced and worldly man for his time. He’d been in hundreds of battles. He’d slept with hundreds of women—at least.
She shouldn’t care, not about anything other than the fact that he could have taken his vows since coming into manhood, and he’d refused to do so for decades. His mind was obviously made up.
It was a waste.
“Why do ye care about those vows? Why do ye care how old I am or what women I keep?”
She took a box of garbage bags out from under the sink. “Rose women have been helping the Innocent survive evil for generations. It’s our Destiny. We’ve met a few Masters and we’ve thanked the gods they exist. You’d probably make a great one.”
He made a disparaging sound. “Ye’re worried about how many women I’ve had.”
Tabby knew she turned red. “I hate this one-sided invasion of privacy!”
His regard moved over her face and then returned to her eyes. “Ye worry so much. But then, all women do.”
She could happily add chauvinistic jerk to his list of character traits. She began pulling plastic bags from the box, wanting something to do. “Being as you’re so into my mind, I hope you’ve been listening closely to all my thoughts.”
“I dinna need to look up chauvinistic jerk, Tabitha. I can feel what ye mean.”
She slammed the garbage bags down on the counter between them. “Good. Meanwhile, a ghost just tried to get in here—an evil, hateful ghost. We have a lot to worry about. So if you are too proud to worry, have no fear, I’ll do enough worrying for us both.”
He suddenly tilted up her chin with one of his strong, magic fingers. “Ye’re brave, even with yer fear.”
She felt herself nod. Of course she was afraid.
“I’ll worry,” he said.
She went still, stunned. It would be so nice to let him worry for her. It would be so nice to let him shoulder this. Of course, she’d do no such thing. She was a liberated, strong and independent woman, and sooner or later, she’d be on her own again. In fact, that evil thing might still be hanging around after he’d gone back to his time.
“I will worry, Tabitha, an’ plot, an’ ye can rest with ease.”
She slowly pulled back, so he wasn’t touching her face. “Why would you do that?”
He half smiled. “In my time, men war an’ worry. Women bake bread and bear babes.”
His chauvinism was a vast relief. “Got it.” She didn’t want him acting concerned or caring toward her.
“Tabitha? I willna go back while the ghost an’ the boys hunt ye.”
She’d almost forgotten his theory about the incident at school that morning. Tabby wet her lips. “Macleod, I recognized the evil. It came from An Tùir-Tara.”
SAM RANG THE BUZZER on Kristin’s apartment door at almost a quarter past eleven at night. Kristin used the peephole before opening the door, her eyes filled with
surprise.
“I am really sorry to bother you at this hour, but before I call it a night, I have one or two more questions about what happened at the school today.” Sam continued to smile smoothly as she lied.
She had a powerful sixth sense for evil, which had saved her ass a lot, and she wanted to hone in on Kristin now. She had decided she wasn’t demonic, merely the lowest form of evil that there was, a human filled with the basest emotions and ambitions—greed, jealousy and envy, the desire to see others fail and fall, the ability to gloat over it. But Nick was certain she wasn’t one-hundred-percent human. He’d explained to her that humans with a low percentage of demonic DNA could take on demonic traits but escape detection as demons. Sam was intrigued. She’d only been at HCU for three months, and hadn’t realized a hierarchy of sub-humans could exist. Her world had been divided into demons, possessed humans or subs, and humans. Adding a mixed breed of partially demonic humans would explain a lot, like people with more power than they should have. So now she would carefully check Kristin out. Tailing Kristin was starting then and there.
“It’s late, and I’m usually asleep by now, but the truth is, after what happened today, I am dreading bad dreams.” Kristin smiled grimly. “Come in. Let’s go into the kitchen. My roommate’s asleep.”
Sam followed her inside. Kristin still felt both entirely human and entirely evil. Her smile hid a multitude of hatred and sins. Now Sam was excited. What if Kristin had a drop or two of demonic DNA? If she had set Tabby up, she was going to wind up dead.
Kristin offered her water, which Sam refused. “Would you tell me one more time exactly how you became aware of the fire?” She smiled, as if friendly by nature—which she was not.
As Kristin answered, Sam stared, not really listening. At first glance, one saw Kristin’s platinum hair, her pale skin and blue eyes, her even features, and the assumption was that she was an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Now, as Sam really looked at her, she decided she wasn’t attractive, or even pretty. She was oddly bland—almost a generic version of a blond, blue-eyed woman. But what better way to hide her evil nature than under such an understated façade?
As she spoke, she gestured and Sam noticed the fine blue veins in her hands. Young women did not have visible veins, not even when as fair as Kristin.
She looked at her neck.
There were creases there.
She did not have the hands or the neck of a woman in her twenties or thirties. But plenty of women went under the knife. Maybe she’d had her face done. Sam studied her again and noticed some fine lines around her eyes and mouth, wrinkles no average person would really ever see. Kristin Lafarge had an oddly timeless quality to her appearance, neither the look of a mature woman who’d had a bit nipped here and tucked there nor the youthful and beautiful appearance of a demon.
Demons lived for centuries, but their DNA came from Satan. Under a microscope, the difference between human and demonic DNA was obvious.
“Is that it, Agent Rose?”
Did this woman have entirely human DNA? Sam had thought so, but as much as she hated admitting it, Nick was usually right. Something was off, and she was good enough at what she did to leave no stone unturned. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I always follow my gut.”
“That’s all right.” Kristin stood. Her smile was polite, almost friendly. There was no sign of relief in her eyes, as if she didn’t care that the brief interview was over.
If she was hiding something, she was damned good.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Sam asked, thinking about the fact that the apartment was a one-bedroom flat. The sofa was already pulled out, which meant Kristin slept on the sleeper. It was an old building, the only full bathroom would be attached to her roomie’s bedroom. Kristin probably used the powder room more than she did the other bathroom.
A moment later she was inside the powder room and she knew she was right. Because there she found Kristin’s makeup, hairbrush and toothbrush.
Perfect, Sam thought.
TABBY STOOD IN THE steaming hot shower, the water pouring over her, trying not to think about Macleod. The shower was long overdue, but her body had a mind of its own and was not quite enjoying the shower as she intended. The drops seemed to agitate her breasts and nipples, and her belly was tight and quivering with tension.
She closed her eyes, trying to keep a grip on the desire she seemed incapable of escaping, desire for a man she hardly knew—a man terribly inappropriate for her—a man she’d already had sex with.
Images danced, of Macleod walking into the bathroom and taking off that plaid, his smile slow and suggestive.
She swallowed and thought she heard the door, but when she looked at it, it remained closed.
She needed to finish showering; she needed to think about something else.
She pushed her heavy hair back, closed her eyes and let the water pour on her face, determined to ignore the weight of her body. It was almost impossible, because she could feel him inside her, filling up every inch of her, the pressure immediate, inescapable and shattering.
Whatever was haunting her—or them—from An Tùir-Tara, she didn’t want to think about it now. She wanted to think about him, about his courage, his strength and how protective he was of her. Just then, she did not want to acknowledge his savagery, his barbarism or his chauvinism. If she kept this up, she’d leave the shower, open the bathroom door and call him to her.
Come to me, Highlander.
It would be so easy.
In fact, if she spent the night with him and was as unbridled and as passionate as she’d been for those few minutes in the bathroom earlier, she might actually believe herself to be a new and different woman. She opened her eyes, dismayed. The truth was, a part of her was afraid that she’d never experience that passion again.
That she was still the old, conservative, uptight Tabby.
But she hadn’t been uptight or conservative earlier. They’d had rough, hot, animal sex—the kind of sex only two crazed strangers could have.
She thought about everyone always saying how elegant she was, how proper and genteel, how she was held up as the perfect lady, and she started to laugh somewhat hysterically.
Was that woman forever gone? Or would she reappear when Macleod went back to the Middle Ages?
If he came to her now, which woman would climb into his bed?
She wanted some of that perfect lady back. She wanted the grace, the good humor, the confidence, the unflappable composure. She even liked being so preppie! But she really, really wanted to be able to continue to enjoy a man in bed. If she could hold on to one thing, it would be her newfound passion.
She never wanted to fake it again.
She slowly turned.
Macleod stood on the bathroom’s threshold. She hadn’t locked the door. Of course she hadn’t, because she had wanted him to come to her. Without turning, not taking his eyes from her, he closed the door behind him and pulled the plaid away from his tense body. He tossed it aside. “Be careful what ye wish for.”
She inhaled.
He started forward, stiffly aroused. “Ye dinna need to pleasure yerself, Tabitha, when I am here to do it fer ye.”
She dropped her hands, aware of her resistance crumbling, and whispered, “Macleod…I’m frightened.”
He took her hands in his, and his long, strong fingers closed over hers. For an instant, as he looked into her eyes, she thought that there was something possessive in the action. She thrilled but her fear increased.
“Maybe I can’t do it again.”
He began to smile. “Ye can do it, Tabitha, ye may trust me on that.”
“I was frigid, Macleod, until you. Do you know what that means?” she cried desperately.
“I ken.” He laid her hands on his shoulders. “It means ye faked it every time.”
“I’ve had, like, two orgasms with a man in my entire life. I have been dead inside!”
“But n
ow ye’re with me.” And he tilted up her chin before running a finger down her body, from the hollow of her collarbone to the tip of her breast, her navel and then to the most swollen aching part of her pubis.
She gasped, tears forming, because she’d wanted him to touch her again so badly ever since the first time. Tabby seized his shoulders. His finger pressed low and deep, then high and she stiffened entirely, throwing her head back, the wave of pleasure rapidly building, releasing the raging torment.
“I canna bear yer pain,” he said bluntly, clasping her waist. His fingers tightened there. She tried to protest. His eyes gleaming, his face hard and determined, he pulled her abruptly forward. She gasped as the long, solid ridge of his manhood was crushed between them.
The shower started to spin.
She cried out. She couldn’t stand it. “Make me come, Macleod.”
He gave a sexual sound, seized that hank of her hair again, tilting her face upward, toward his. Tabby couldn’t breathe. Their gazes locked. Pleasure mingled with pain while he throbbed hotter and harder against her. She couldn’t stand it. For the second time in her life, she did not want foreplay and she did not need it. “You win, I lose. Hurry, Macleod,” she said harshly.
For one moment, he looked at her, his face determined, his eyes ablaze with lust and desire, his huge manhood pressing against her belly. Then he smiled and moved.
He abruptly lifted her leg and wrapped her calf over his hip. Tabby climbed up on him and he helped her, lifting her other leg. He spun her around as she locked her ankles against the small of his back, clawing him mercilessly and pushing down onto him. She realized she couldn’t impale herself, not until he allowed it, and she started to weep against his huge shoulder, the friction between them mind-blowing.
Her back against the tile wall, he tugged on her hair, hard. “Look at me, Tabitha.”
She did, furiously. “Damn you…damn you.”
Anchoring her hips, holding her back to the wall, he thrust upward.
She choked as he stabbed his entire huge length into her. She was shocked to feel so much pleasure. She hadn’t imagined it the first time. She began to spin out of control, yet she was desperate for more. She clawed him. Ecstasy blinded her. She soared off the precipice, into a zillion stars, shattering in more pain and pleasure than could possibly exist. “Harder,” she wept. “More.”