As the Draghar would live again in the Scotsman’s body, once they’d taken full possession of him.
Trevor was awed that the man had managed thus far to fend off the transformation. As powerful as the Draghar were, Dageus MacKeltar must be uncommonly powerful in his own right.
But Trevor had no doubt the Prophecy would come to pass as had been promised. No man could contain such power and fail to use it. Day by day, it would seep into him until he no longer knew he was being transformed. They simply needed to provoke him, to goad and corner him. The use of dark magic for dark purposes would plunge him into an abyss from which there was no escape.
Then, the Draghar would walk the earth again. Then, all the power, all the knowledge the Tuatha Dé Danaan had stolen from them millennia ago would be restored. The Draghar would teach them the Voice of Power that brought death with a mere word, and the secret ways to move through time. When their numbers were many and strong, they would hunt the Tuatha Dé Danaan and take what should have been theirs long ago. That which the Tuatha Dé Danaan had ever denied the Draghar: the secret of immortality. Eternal life, no chancy rebirth necessary.
They would be gods.
Trevor studied the woman intently. Tiny little bit, she was, and he wondered how Giles had ended up going over that terrace. Had it been by choice? Had Dageus MacKeltar thrown him off? Surely the small female hadn’t done it. She didn’t amount to much. Barely topped five feet.
The Scot towered over her. The Draghar had been given a mighty vessel, his form strong, that of a warrior. Men would respond well to his innate authority. Even as Trevor thought that, he noted how the crowds parted for him, instinctively moving out of his way, and he strode as if he knew they would. No hesitation in the man, none whatsoever. Even from his safe distance, he could feel the power rolling off him.
When the Scot glanced down at the woman, Trevor’s eyes narrowed.
Possessiveness in his gaze. Protectiveness in the way he shielded her body from passersby, his intent gaze constantly scrutinizing his surroundings. Simon would not be pleased.
Before Trevor had found his calling in the Order, he’d run the con, quite successfully, and the cardinal rule of such business applied here: isolate the mark; the quarry falls faster alone.
He paced them, at a cautious distance.
They paused outside a bank and Trevor glided closer, dropped a few coins and bent to scoop them up. Listening, to see if he could overhear any conversation.
And finally he heard what he needed; they were planning to fly out to Scotland some time this evening.
He melted back into a small cluster of pedestrians and slipped out a cell phone. It would be a simple matter to have one of his computer-savvy brethren find out from which airport and when, and book him on the flight as well.
Speaking swiftly, he filled Simon in.
And Simon’s instructions were precisely what he expected.
Hours later, Trevor slid into a seat a dozen rows behind them. He would have preferred to sit nearer, but the flight wasn’t full, and he worried that the Scot might spot him.
He’d shadowed them all afternoon and not once gotten the chance to strike. Blades were his sect’s weapon of choice, each spilling of blood a ritual in and of itself, yet he’d had to abandon his weapons before boarding. His tie would have served well to strangle her, if he’d only been able to get a moment with her alone.
He wished he knew what had transpired in the penthouse. Something had put Dageus MacKeltar on the alert for another attack. If caught, Giles was supposed to make it look like a robbery, or the work of a sociopath, whichever best fit the moment. Yet it was apparent that the Scot was anticipating another attempt. He’d not once left the woman’s side. When twice she’d gone to the rest room in the airport, he’d trailed her there, waited in the doorway, and escorted her back. When too many people for his comfort had sat near them in the waiting area, he’d coaxed her off for a walk.
The bloody man was a walking shield.
Trevor massaged the back of his neck, sighing.
He would regroup in Scotland, acquire weapons, and eventually the man’s guard would drop. If only for a few moments. A few moments were all he would need.
• 10 •
The flight from JFK to London was only half full, the lights dimmed for the comfort of night travelers, the seats comfy (they had a whole row to themselves and had pushed all the armrests up), and Chloe fell asleep shortly after takeoff.
Now, stirring drowsily, she kept her eyes shut, mulling over the events of the day. It had whizzed by with incredible speed, from the attack, to the packing, to going to her place for her passport, to getting a box at the bank for her artifacts (her artifacts!), to a hasty late lunch/early dinner, and finally the trip to the airport.
No wonder she’d fallen asleep. She’d not slept much the night before, nervous and excited about the decision she’d made to accompany Dageus to Scotland. Then the day had been crammed full, and the shock of the attack, alone, had nearly drained her of energy. She still couldn’t believe it had happened; it seemed surreal, as if she’d watched it on TV or it had happened to someone else. She’d been living in New York, in one of the less savory sections for almost a year, and nothing bad had ever happened to her. She’d never been mugged, never been harassed on the subway, in fact, hadn’t encountered any adversity, so she supposed maybe her number had finally come up. Unless, of course, the police determined some other mot—
That thought was slippery and abruptly vanished from her mind.
Though it troubled her that her assailant had killed himself (and if that didn’t demonstrate how crazy he’d been, she didn’t know what would), she knew he’d intended to injure her severely, if not kill her. Pragmatism tempered her emotion. The simple fact was: She was grateful she’d survived. Sorry the man had been so crazy that he’d attacked her, then taken a leap off the terrace, but glad to be alive all the same. It was startling how having one’s life placed in jeopardy reduced one to the basics.
Had Dageus not returned—that thought made her shudder—she would have fought to the death. She was discovering all kinds of parts of her personality she’d not known existed. She’d always worried that if someone attacked her, she might just crumple, or freeze helplessly. Had always wondered if she was a coward at heart.
Thank God she wasn’t. And thank God Dageus had forgotten the key.
She’d been so gullible. Giles “Jones,” indeed. What a tip-off that should have been. But she’d not given it a second thought because the man had looked and acted so darned normal, at first. Then again, she’d read somewhere that most serial killers looked like the guy next door.
When Dageus had walked in, the man had gotten the strangest look on his face. She couldn’t quite pin it down. …
Mentally shrugging, she pushed the grim thoughts away. It had been awful; she’d never been so frightened in her life, but it was over, and she would look forward, not behind. Dwelling on it would make her feel terrified all over again. A freaky, awful thing had happened right before she’d left New York, but she would not let it characterize her time there, nor cast a pall over her future. He was dead; she would not grant the man the success of making her feel terrorized. In twenty-four years, she’d been the victim of an attack once. She could live with those odds. Would live with them, would not let it make her frightened in the future. More cautious? Absolutely. Afraid? Not a chance.
She was on her way to Scotland, with a man that made her feel more alive than anyone she’d ever known.
And she was determined to enjoy every last minute of it.
She wondered what Grandda would have made of Dageus.
Chloe Zanders. Chloe … MacKeltar.
Zanders, she chided herself instantly, stop thinking like that! She was not going to romanticize things. She’d promised herself that earlier, while sitting in the airport with him, waiting for their flight to leave. He’d been so attentive, walking her to the ladies’ room, taking her for
a snack, never leaving her side, yet with that eternal coolness. That infuriating reserve, that tight containment. It was no wonder women fell hard for him; such reserve challenged a woman, made her want to be the one who got inside Dageus MacKeltar. But Chloe wasn’t going to make that mistake. So far as she could see, she was woman-of-the-hour, nothing more. She was determined to be smart about things, to view the trip as an adventure, to take things purely at face value and not read any more into them than there was.
Still, Grandda would’ve liked it. …
Her thoughts returned to touch briefly on the morning again, but on a less disturbing part. After the man had jumped, Dageus had stripped her fast and frantically, the look on his face enough to mute any protest. Scarcely bridled rage had emanated from him, making her think her assailant might just have been granted a more merciful death by jumping. His strong hands had been shaking when he’d begun tending her. She’d never seen someone so filled with fury behave so gently. He’d sponged the wine from her, cleansed and bandaged her wounds, all the while resolutely ignoring her state of undress.
It seemed the stronger his emotions, the more rigidly he controlled himself. That was a hypothesis she was curious to examine further. But why the fury? she wondered. Because someone had dared to trespass on his property? Messed up his home? A woman inclined to romanticizing things might have read some emotion for her into it, but Chloe wasn’t going to be that fool.
With a soft sigh, she opened her eyes slowly to find him staring straight at her. He didn’t speak, just looked at her. In the shadows, his chiseled face was breathtaking, savagely masculine.
His eyes.
She got lost in them for a long moment, wondering how she could have ever thought them tiger-gold. They were the color of dark whisky. And filled with some emotion. She stared. Something like …
Despair?
Deep beneath the coolness and mockery, well hidden beneath the relentless seduction, was it possible that Dageus MacKeltar hurt?
Don’t read into things, she reminded herself. Face value says the man looks like he wants to kiss you, not give you his babies, Zanders.
God, he’d make beautiful babies though, a primordial, feminine part of her purred. That part of her that still bore the biological imprint from cavewoman days, and was drawn unerringly to the most able warrior and protector.
His eyes glittering, he bent his dark head to hers. Oh, he definitely wanted to kiss her. She knew she should turn away, called herself a fool in every language she knew, but it didn’t help. The lights were down, most of the passengers were sleeping, the atmosphere was cozy and intimate, and she wanted to be kissed. What harm was there in a little kiss? Besides, they were on a plane, for heaven’s sake—how far could it go?
Had she known the answer to that in advance, she would have scrambled across the aisle and sealed tape over her mouth. Duct tape. Several layers. Maybe taped her thighs together for good measure.
The moment his lips touched hers, a sultry storm whipped up inside her, and she sizzled with heat lightning. He rubbed his sensual lips over hers, taking it slow, making her feel needy and reckless.
Slow wasn’t what she wanted. She’d allowed herself a kiss and, by God, she intended to have it. A real one, with all the trimmings. Lips and tongues and teeth and lots of soft sighs. With a little sound of impatience, she touched her tongue to his. His response was instant and electrifying, whipping her inner storm into a tempest of heat and desire. With a low growl deep in his throat, he fisted his hands in her hair, and yanked her head back against the seat, his tongue penetrating deep. She couldn’t breathe around it.
The kiss he gave her was not meant to seduce, it was meant to mark a woman’s soul, and it was working. Dominant like the man, hungry, demanding. Beckoning forth the secret Chloe that harbored hunger every bit as deep as his. He was a dark, seductive shadow, all around her, and she was drowning in him. In the spicy scent of leather-clad man, in the sleek wet glide of his tongue, the strong hands in her hair. And she dare not make all that sound that trembled inside her. It was unbearably erotic, being forced to take such a kiss in absolute silence.
His hot tongue thrust and withdrew in blatant mimicry of sex, and she felt herself getting hopelessly wet, just from his kiss. The man made a woman feel like she was being devoured, eaten up, lap by delicious lap.
When he stopped and traced the pad of his thumb over her swollen lips, she panted softly, staring, unable to say a word. He searched her face, clearly liking what he saw in her glazed eyes, the evidence of the mind-numbing effect his kisses had on her. With a low, satisfied laugh, he pressed his thumb against her bottom teeth and forced her mouth open wide, clamped his hands on the sides of her face, taking her in an open-mouthed, deep-tongued kiss. Stealing the breath from her lungs, then giving it back. Making love to her mouth, letting her know how he would make love to her in all kinds of other places.
When she was whimpering against his lips, he drew back, his gaze smoldering. Lifting her jean-clad legs, he pulled them across his own, positioning her so she leaned back against the window, giving him better access.
“If you wish me to stop, lass, say it now. I won’t ask again.”
Some other woman must have shaken her head “no,” because Chloe knew she was supposed to say “yes.”
And it certainly must have been some other woman who slipped her hands around the nape of his neck, beneath his soft black leather jacket and into his hair.
It was definitely some other woman who slid them hungrily down his rock-hard chest.
He caught them in one of his own and pushed them aside.
“Doona touch me, lass. No’ now.”
He shushed her protests by pushing one of his fingers between her lips. He touched her tongue, then traced the outline of her lips. Slowly, he trailed that damp finger down her neck, along the edge of her V-neck sweater, stopping in the valley between her breasts. She watched him, mesmerized. He was so incredibly beautiful, there in the shadows, his sensual lips parted, his eyes narrowed with desire. His breath was warm against the damp path he’d left, teasing nerve endings to fiery life.
When his dark gaze fixed on her breasts, her nipples puckered into hard peaks and her breasts felt swollen and heavy. God, the man was intoxicating! Even his gaze was potent, making her skin sizzle, making her frantic for more. The mere thought of his hot, wet mouth greedy on her nipples made her weak with desire.
With a glance so rife with sexual promise that it took her breath away, he tugged the blanket from her waist, back up to her neck. Then he slipped his hands beneath the blanket, and Chloe’s head dropped limply back against the window, her eyes fluttering closed.
She should stop him. And she would. Soon. Really soon.
“Open your eyes, lass. I want to see you watching me when I touch you.” A soft command, but command nonetheless.
Her lids lifted languorously. She felt as if he was sucking the will out of her with his touch, leaving her limp and utterly vulnerable to his demands.
He slipped his hands beneath her sweater, impatiently unhooked her bra, and bared her breasts, palming them roughly. Oh, yes, she thought. This was what she’d been wanting since the moment she’d seen him. To be naked with him, to feel his hot, big hands branding her bare skin. She was melting into a puddle of soft, feminine heat in the hands of a master, and she couldn’t gather the will to care. He cupped her breasts, kneading and plumping, tugging her nipples between his fingers. His breath hot against her skin, he ran the tip of his tongue up her neck, then glided his mouth over her chin, to her lips, taking her in a bruising kiss, fingers closing on her nipples, pinching lightly. He continued the relentless barrage against her senses until she was helplessly arching her hips up from the seat.
Suddenly he broke the kiss, and pulled away, his eyes closed, his jaw tightly clenched. A breath hissed from between his gritted teeth. The sight of him fighting for self-control, the proof of the effect she had on him, sent a primitive, erotic thrill throug
h her. The sight of him so aroused that he was in pain was beyond arousing. It had the same effect on her desire for him as gasoline splashed on an open flame.
She should stop him. She was helpless to stop him.
Then he opened his eyes, their gazes collided and she knew he knew exactly what she was feeling. Lost. On the edge. Hanging. In terrible need. He slanted his mouth over hers, sucking her tongue deep into his mouth.
A tiny convulsive spasm began to shiver inside her, and with it came the dim memory of where they were: On a plane, with nearly a hundred people around!
God, what if she came?
God, what if she screamed when she came?
“S-stop—” she panted against his lips.
“Too late, lass.”
He cupped her intimately between her legs, through her jeans, pressing the heel of his palm hard against the vee between her thighs, and she nearly cried out from the exquisite pleasure of his touch there, where she was so empty and ached so desperately. His breathing harsh, he moved his hand in perfect rhythm, expertly finding her clitoris through the fabric of her jeans, using the bump of the inseam to create the perfect friction against it. Oh, the man knew how to touch a woman!
“Let go, lass. Give it to me now.”
His husky growl pushed Chloe helplessly over the edge.
The noise that might have escaped her then, had he not crushed his mouth hard to hers, would have embarrassed her for perpetuity. Might have awakened the whole damned plane. She fancied it might have caused turbulence.
Her cries muffled, Chloe exploded. Helplessly, wantonly, lost, one of his big hands on her breasts, the other between her legs, she had a complete meltdown, shuddering against him, clamping her legs tight around his hand.
He took her cries with his tongue deep in her mouth, muting her, but for a tiny whimpering noise.
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