In the next moment she heard him cry out her name, felt him pulsing inside her, felt the shudders that rocked him. He collapsed atop her, gasping.
Naked and still entwined, they lay for a very long time, and eventually Sam wondered if he was as afraid to speak as she was. She had no idea what to say, nor had she any illusions that what had just happened made things any easier. The opposite, in fact, she was fairly certain.
“Ian?” she finally said.
“Could we,” he said, confirming her guess, “just not talk yet?”
“Gladly,” she agreed. And simply lay there, savoring what could never last, the weight and feel of him both on her and in her. And all the while knowing she was only postponing the inevitable.
Chapter 15
Worrying about Draven, Sam thought, was an exercise in uselessness.
It’s Draven, she told herself. The man can take care of himself. And then some.
She knew what was really wrong. Knew she was focusing on Draven to avoid thinking about what had happened between her and Ian. If there was anything messier than sleeping with the subject of a job, she couldn’t think of it.
If there was anything sweeter than what she’d found in Ian’s arms, she couldn’t imagine it.
With a sigh she glanced through the lowered, translucent shades at Ian’s house next door. Ian hadn’t noticed, at least not yet, that his home wasn’t vacant anymore. That someone had arrived much as he himself always had, in a car that looked suspiciously like Ian’s own.
Sam had. But then, she’d known it was coming. She’d known the plan. And for the first time she wondered if Draven could pull it off. She knew it was hardly the first time he’d masqueraded as someone who was a target, putting himself in the line of fire. She knew he’d dealt with much worse, but she was still edgy, because the disguise part didn’t seem to be as good this time. He was driving Ian’s car, he would be keeping Ian’s erratic hours. He was dressed as Ian dressed—minus, she guessed with a rush of heat, the silk boxers.
She fought down her body’s reaction and forced herself to concentrate. Draven was even wearing a wig that was a fair simulation of Ian’s hair over his own short, dark hair, yet something didn’t work.
She played back the scene in her head, when Draven had arrived at the house next door this evening—thankfully while Ian was getting coffee in the kitchen. She couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. All she knew for sure was that it had been too obvious that the man wasn’t Ian.
It was odd. Draven was usually better than that, adopting even the smallest mannerisms of the person he was pretending to be. And now that she thought of it, he did have Ian’s easy, loping kind of stride and his habit of pushing back that thick hair down pretty well. So why wasn’t he as convincing as he usually was?
She pondered it for a moment, wondering what she should do. Finally she went to the phone and called Rand.
“I’m on my way,” he said, answering his cell.
“Fine,” Sam answered. “Tell Draven to be careful.”
“He always is,” Rand said. “Anything in particular?”
“Just…something off. I don’t know what.”
“Off?”
“Not as convincing as usual. I’m worried.”
For a long moment Rand didn’t answer, then, softly, he said, “Maybe you’re just a bit too familiar with the subject?”
“That’s…” Her voice trailed off. Could he be right?
Too familiar?
Visions of last night—and this morning—flashed through her head, like some erotic movie stuck on fast forward. Oh, yes. Very familiar.
“Sam?” Rand said.
“Forget it,” she muttered. She hung up, not caring what she was giving away to her perceptive partner. And turned around to see Ian there, watching her.
Her mind raced, wondering if she’d said anything betraying. Or humiliating, she added to herself ruefully.
“Did you want some?” he asked, gesturing with the mug of coffee he held.
“No, thanks.”
She wondered if she sounded as awkward as she felt. And it only got worse as Ian stood there looking at her. After a long moment during which she got the strangest feeling he was withdrawing, he turned and walked without a word to the table where his computer was set up. It was as if the man she’d spent that long, passionate night with no longer existed.
There was no doubt about what he’d heard. Samantha was worried, to the point of distress. And he couldn’t imagine what it would take to distress the usually unflappable Samantha.
Tell Draven to be careful. I’m worried.
Or maybe he could imagine, he thought grimly.
It came back to him with the power of a kick in the stomach, what he’d completely forgotten in the heat of the passion that had erupted between them. He’d forgotten the moment when he’d heard her talk about the legendary Draven. The awe, admiration and respect that had rung in her voice. The sound of a woman in love.
His own thoughts then haunted him now.
A woman like Samantha could only love a dangerous man like Draven, as far removed from he himself as any man could be.
If she loved Draven, why had she turned to him? Was he just a temporary, convenient substitute for a man she, for whatever reason, couldn’t have?
He stole a glance at her from where he was sitting at the dining room table. He fought down the gut reaction he had to her, the welling up of a fierce need he’d never thought himself capable of feeling. The need that had so stunned him last night, sweeping over him until he was out of control, until even his strength of mind was no match for it.
She was pacing the living room. He’d never pictured her as a pacer. It only seemed to emphasize the accuracy of his guesses. He stifled a sound that would have been half laugh, half groan. He’d actually been nervous about tonight, with the awkwardness of any man wondering if the huge step taken in their relationship last night would be repeated tonight. He had his answer now, it seemed.
A bitter sort of pain welled up inside him. He’d been a fool to think anything else. As sweet, as hot, as incredible as it had been, it had been an illusion. Perhaps she’d only been able to turn to him when Draven was out of sight, off to wherever the man was this week.
If he’d been his father, or more like his mother, he’d go confront her. Ask her exactly what last night had meant to her. But he wasn’t like them. Nor was he sure he wanted to know.
Maybe she’d just lie, he thought. She was certainly good enough at it.
But the moment he thought it, he discarded the idea. She’d meant what she’d said last night, about never lying to him again. He couldn’t doubt that. If he was wrong about that, then he was even more obtuse about people than he thought.
He tried to focus on the computer screen before him. He’d received yet another e-mail memo from Stan, pushing for details he didn’t have yet, but thankfully Rand had told him not to answer anything work-related, that everyone had been told he was ill.
How like Stan, to pester somebody even when told they’re sick, he thought wryly.
He switched over to his latest data entries and tried to concentrate. But the work that had always been his refuge failed him now, and he found himself repeatedly staring into space—or at Samantha. And for once that spooky radar of hers didn’t seem to be working; she never looked up.
Or maybe she was just avoiding meeting his gaze. Maybe she regretted last night so much she couldn’t bear to even look at him.
Even as he thought it he had a hard time reconciling the idea with Samantha. He couldn’t picture her wasting time with regrets. Not that he didn’t think she could feel them, she simply wouldn’t waste time dwelling on them. Nor would she take the fainthearted way out of avoiding the issue—and looking at him. Samantha was nothing if not straightforward….
Except when she was lying.
The reality slammed into him once more, and he got to his feet in a reaction he couldn’t control. He couldn’t go on like
this. Not only was it wearing, and distracting him from his work, it was making him crazy. And he wasn’t sure who he was angrier at, Samantha or himself.
Determined now, he strode into the living room. He didn’t know what he was going to say, or how to say it, he only knew this had to be faced.
When she saw him, her pacing came to a halt. He thought he saw her eyes flick toward a window, then she turned away, continuing her traverse of the room. Instinctively he looked at the same window, wondering what she’d seen.
He’d never realized what a good view this house had of his own. And it never would have occurred to him to think of it now, had he not known that Samantha had been placed here exactly for that reason. The thought of her sitting here, watching him, sent his already confused emotions into free fall again. He turned to confront her, then stopped dead as something caught the edge of his vision.
There was someone in his house.
He whirled back to the window. He hadn’t been wrong; there was someone there. A man, moving through the living room office as if he belonged, casually, unconcernedly. As Ian watched, he sat down at one of the computers. There was something odd about the man, something familiar….
Why wasn’t Samantha doing something? She had to have seen him—that had to have been why she’d glanced that way. Shouldn’t she be calling Redstone, or rather, knowing her, charging over there herself as she had the night of the burglary? Yet she simply paced, restlessly, as if under stress, but did no more. Was she waiting for someone else to do something? She hadn’t called anyone; he would have heard.
He frowned. There was the distinct possibility that the ever-active Samantha wasn’t doing anything because she’d been ordered not to. Which meant she likely knew what was going on in his house. Likely knew who it was over there.
It hit him then, with an almost palpable force.
Tell Draven to be careful.
Slowly he turned once more. Samantha was watching him. No longer pacing.
“It’s Draven, isn’t it?”
He waited, knowing on some level that a great deal depended on her answer. She hesitated. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, she nodded.
“He’s pretending to be me, isn’t he? That’s why he seemed familiar. He’s dressed like me, in my house…and is that some kind of wig he’s wearing?”
“Your hair is fairly distinctive,” Samantha said, her tone so neutral it was impossible for him to read anything at all into it.
“Tell me about it,” he muttered. “I’ve had to live with this mop all my life.”
“Your hair,” she said, not so neutral this time, “is great.”
That distracted him for a moment, because there was no doubting the sincerity of the unexpected sentiment. But he didn’t let himself get sidetracked.
“What’s going on over there?”
“He’s not messing with your work,” she said. “He’s just…”
“Trying to act like me,” Ian said. “That’s obvious. But why is—” He stopped, wondering why the obvious hadn’t occurred to him before now. “Bait,” he said softly. “He’s acting as bait, isn’t he? To lure out the people after me?”
Her lack of an answer was an answer in itself. The man she loved—or at least longed for—was setting himself up, putting himself in danger, for his sake. That it was his job mattered little to Ian; the idea of another man, any man, dying to protect him while he waited safely on the sidelines, didn’t sit well with him.
He’d never thought much about having any kind of code of honor. There hadn’t been much call for such a thing in his quiet, rather staid life. But if he had one, he thought, this would most definitely go against it.
“It’s the best way, Ian,” Samantha said quietly.
“Oh? Then why are you so worried? I thought the great Draven could take care of himself.”
“He can.”
Ian thought he saw a faint touch of color rise in her cheeks. His stomach plummeted. So he’d been right about her feelings for the chief of the Redstone security team. And now that he was next door, was she no longer able to deny that Ian was merely a poor substitute? Was that what was behind her seeming withdrawal?
“Why did you sleep with me?”
Samantha blinked, clearly startled by the abrupt change of subject. Or by the volatility of the new topic; he wasn’t sure which.
“For starters,” she said after a moment, “because I wanted to.”
“Why?”
Recovered now, she studied him for a moment. “Fishing for compliments?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t expect that. But if I’m…pinch-hitting, I’d like to know it.”
She frowned. “Pinch-hitting?”
“For who you really want to be with.”
She drew back slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Ian, I don’t know what you—”
A rap on the door made Ian start, and cut off Samantha’s words.
“It’s Rand,” she said, heading for the door.
“What’s he doing here?” Ian asked, turning to follow.
“Since he’s already established to the neighbors as a visitor, he’s visiting.”
“But in reality he’s…?”
“Backup. Just in case.”
“For Draven?”
She nodded. “Josh isn’t taking any chances. He doesn’t like how this has gone down so far.”
“I’m not overly fond of it myself,” he muttered, drawing a sharp glance from her in the moment before she pulled open the door.
It was indeed Rand Singleton, looking as cheerful and casual as any real guest. He had a duffel bag over his shoulder, was carrying a paper bag that looked as if it held a bottle of wine, and a plastic grocery sack.
“Food?” Samantha asked, brightening at the sight of his burdens. “You’re going to cook?”
“Hello, Ian. For Draven’s sake,” Rand added to Samantha teasingly as he stepped inside. “You won’t do him much good if you keel over from malnutrition or food poisoning.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Samantha muttered, grabbing the plastic bag and immediately inspecting the contents. “Oh, heaven,” she sighed. “You’re going to do your garlic pork chops?”
“If you stay out of my way,” her partner said as they headed for the kitchen. “Have you discovered, Ian, that she’s not just helpless but a liability in the kitchen?”
“I wouldn’t know. However bad she is, I’m probably worse.”
“Children, children,” Rand said with mock parental concern. “How will you ever survive when you grow up?”
“I plan to avoid growing up, period,” Samantha retorted without missing a beat.
“So far, so good, then,” Rand returned. It was clearly an old routine with them, this verbal jabbing back and forth. Ian didn’t think there was anyone he felt that comfortable with, and he envied them their friendly ease with each other.
“How do you stand it, Ian?” Rand asked with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“I try not to think about it,” he answered truthfully. For a moment Rand looked at him steadily, with an intensity that made Ian wonder just how much he knew, just how much Samantha might have told him.
Or perhaps he was just perceptive enough to realize something was going on beneath the surface. Perhaps he had that same sort of odd sixth sense Samantha seemed to have about things, that sense that made him uneasy because he didn’t understand it.
Maybe it was a requirement for the kind of work they did. He could see where a strong sense of…intuition would be useful. Perhaps it was something they learned by long experience in that kind of work. He thought he could accept that. At least, he could accept it better than the idea that they were born with that kind of intuition. To his logical mind it seemed too inexplicable otherwise.
His process may be methodical, but the way his mind works—the leaps of intuition he can make—is anything but.
Samantha’s words to his parents echoed suddenly in his head. He’d been too gratified at the time to re
ally dwell on the sense of what she’d said. Intuition? Was that what she thought it was, the, to him, utterly logical thought process he went through?
Was that what it was?
Leaps, she had called them. He’d interpreted that as a jump to a conclusion without the necessary logical steps. He had no patience for that kind of thinking, figuring when people who indulged in it happened to be right, it was by chance. But could it be that they had simply gone through those logical steps as he sometimes did, at such a speed that it seemed they’d been skipped altogether?
Yet he couldn’t forget those times when Samantha had apparently been aware of his gaze when she couldn’t possibly be. He couldn’t think of a single train of thought that could explain it. And that still bothered him.
“—like garlic?”
It took him an instant to tune in to Rand’s query. “What? Oh. Yes. Yes, I like garlic.”
It seemed utterly ridiculous to Ian to be discussing something so mundane, when next door a man had set himself up as a target for his sake.
A man Samantha clearly had very strong feelings for.
Ian tried to quash his recalcitrant thoughts as Rand went back to unloading his bags.
“Anything from Mike?” Samantha asked her look-alike.
“Not yet. He said they have a lot of security on their system, so it’s taking a bit longer to dig through the garbage to the real source of the message. But I told him that was his priority now, everything else could wait.”
“Good thing you work for Josh Redstone,” Samantha said with a grin.
Rand chuckled. “Yeah. Not many places where a mere security peon can give orders.”
Ian couldn’t think of anybody who would dare term the much-vaunted Redstone security team as mere peons, but he didn’t say so. Instead he asked, “Is that suspicious? That they have that much security on their computers?”
Rand shrugged. “Not necessarily. Some corporate systems are really tight, others are Swiss cheese.”
He was aware of Rand and Samantha trying to include him in their easy repartee over the meal but couldn’t make himself join in. And for once it wasn’t only a sense of his own social awkwardness that stopped him; he simply had too much on his mind. His work, the man next door and Samantha, all three combined to draw all of his attention.
One of These Nights Page 17