by Brenda Joyce
Maybe the oversexed thing was a part of a massive cover-up.
“I think I’ll go,” Kit said.
Sam had forgotten that she was present. “You don’t have to leave. Maclean won’t be long. Will you?”
He grinned. “I’m hardly in a rush, Sam. I want to see yer digs.”
She thought of him standing over Becca, in no rush. The image shifted into a graphic memory of his pressing her against the library table in the entryway last night. There’d been a ton of urgency then. The urgency was building, now. She said harshly, “Kit, this is Ian Maclean, and this is my friend Kit.”
Ian smiled at her, as if he expected her to drop at his feet, too.
She flushed. “I think you two might hash things out a bit more easily if I’m not here.” Kit picked up her bag. “I think a truce is a great idea.” She smiled. “We’re all on the same side, really.”
Sam wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her or to Ian. When Kit was gone, she walked into the kitchen to pour him a glass of wine, aware of his gaze sliding down her back and bare legs as he followed her. She handed the glass to him. “I’m not a good hostess,” she warned, “unlike my sister, who would welcome you with open arms. I’m just taking advantage of this moment in time—although not the way you want.”
“I like,” he said softly, “yer boxers.”
“I’ll bet you do. And, Maclean? We’re not on the same side. It’s amazing, considering what she’s been through, but Kit’s an optimist. If we were on the same side, you’d have the page in your back pocket right now.”
His gray eyes gleamed. “Care to see fer yourself?”
Did he have to make everything a sexual invitation? “Or you could change your mind, take the high road and give the United States government the page.” She was joking, but she wanted to know where he’d stashed it.
He smiled with amusement. “And what would I gain from handing over the page?”
“Self-respect?”
He sipped the wine. “I don’t care about self-respect.”
Did he mean he did not respect himself? She couldn’t imagine anyone living with themselves that way.
“I’m sorry ye got hurt today,” he said softly. “I didn’t think you’d keep up with me.”
He’d lowered his voice into a bedroom murmur. It vibrated across her skin like a massage head. She took a breath, disconcerted, and smiled at him. “I’m rarely underestimated twice. I’ll bet you don’t do it again.”
“Never,” he said.
If he were just a bit less sexy, a bit less seductive, it would make her life a whole lot easier, Sam thought. And if he hadn’t been a captive for all those decades, that would be helpful, too, because there’d be no excuse for his asocial and selfish behavior. She studied him, her gaze searching, and he calmly walked into the living room and sat down on her sofa. He looked really good there. He also looked somewhat pleased—like a lion in its den, about to feed.
His charismatic presence took up most of the room.
She took the adjoining chair, almost doing the Sharon Stone thing as she crossed her legs. He sat up straighter. “Are you sure I can’t entice you into doing the right thing?”
He slowly smiled. “Ye can try, Samantha. Any time…any way.”
Sam smiled back at him and let a heavy silence fall. “Would you consider doing the right thing—if I gave you what you want?”
He grinned, amused. “You’d surrender so easily? I’d be disappointed.”
“I’m pretty good,” she said, certain he’d never hand over an item worth over two hundred million dollars for a roll in the sack with anyone.
“An’ what would ye do if I said I accept?”
The breath rushed out of her. A fist of desire went through her, and she stared at him in shock.
“I’m tempted. But two hundred million dollars is also tempting.”
She breathed. “If you give me the page and it’s checked out to be the real deal, I’ll sleep with you. More than once. Anyway you want.”
He stared, his eyes like smoke.
Sam tried not to think about what he might require in that deal. She stared back, trying not to appear aroused.
He broke the silence. “Yer a woman of yer word.”
“Wow—you trust me.” He didn’t reply and she knew he was thinking about a hundred different ways to get his money’s worth. “I don’t trust you, by the way.”
He gestured at the sofa beside him. “Are ye afraid to sit next to me?”
“This isn’t a date, is it? Or do we have to hold hands? Because as far as I can tell, we haven’t made a deal.”
“We haven’t made a deal.” He smiled slowly then. “I want ye an’ I want the money, too. I intend to have both.”
Sam stood. “No surprise there.”
He stood. “I thought we broke the ice last night.”
She couldn’t believe he was referring to last night, considering his breakdown. And then she told herself sternly to stop underestimating him. His MO was becoming obvious. He was adept at keeping the upper hand and keeping her off balance. He used sex as a weapon in their battle, all of the time. But two could play that game.
“Did we?” she asked. She thought about his bait and trap Internet operation. “You set John up.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter? Have I asked why ye hunt evil every single night?” He shrugged with as much indifference as there’d been last night.
“I’m a Rose. Rose women have been entrusted with safeguarding humanity for generations. Each and every one of us has a destiny. Mine is slaying.”
“Ye believe yer every word. Have ye been brainwashed?”
He was mocking. She felt her temper flare. “What’s your destiny, Maclean? Stealing art and seducing wealthy wives?”
When his cold gaze held hers, she felt guilt stabbing through her. As Kit had said, he’d been dealt a bad hand. It made her life look like a summer walk in a world without evil.
He’d gone through hell because that had been his destiny. His survival had been written, too.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your Fate stinks.”
He didn’t appear mollified. “Now ye feel sorry fer me?”
“I’m fighting the urge.”
“Like you’re fighting me?” he asked, his tone filled with skepticism. “Ye can feel sorry fer me anytime.”
She knew he wanted her to feel sorry for him. He’d be ruthless in his advances then. It was a good time to turn the tables on him. “You’re too much of a jerk for me to feel sorry for you. So, how did you survive sixty-six years as a kid being held captive by demons?”
His eyes turned to ice. She knew he was stunned, because he did not speak.
“Those scars—”
“I won’t talk about it.” He was on his feet, furious.
Sam almost backed down. Instead, speaking cautiously, she said, “It’s in your file.”
His eyes widened as if he were shocked. He breathed hard. “Someone has a file…about that?”
She almost wished she’d kept silent but she had to figure him out. “Checking out suspicious guys like you is our job.” He seemed horrified. “We know that you were imprisoned by your demon grandfather for sixty-six years and that he kept you a child the entire time, all because of his hatred of your father.”
He was incredulous now and still furious. He walked over to her. Sam stood her ground. “My life is my business,” he cried. “I won’t discuss it, ever.”
When his brogue intensified, she’d noticed, he was either aroused or upset. He was upset now. She couldn’t blame him. He didn’t want to share the details of his life, and his worst nightmares, with her or anyone. It was his right. But CDA needed to find and defeat evil, to protect the citizens of this country. It was the classic clash of national security and the individual’s right to privacy. Being a soldier meant she believed that the interest of national security won.
She w
et her lips. “I work for an agency that hunts evil, Maclean. The Bureau is a cover. You probably know this because of your telepathy. We keep vast, detailed records. The agency goes back to the time of Thomas Jefferson. We have files on demons and demonic crimes that are centuries old. Because of your father, and your penchant for taking art that doesn’t belong to you, we have a record on you, too.”
He stared at her, aghast. “I want the file.”
“It’s classified.” But her mind scrambled. Perhaps they could use his file to make a deal.
“I want to meet your boss. Immediately.”
“Nick Forrester runs HCU, a department in the agency, not the agency itself. And he won’t give you a copy of that file. But I’m sure he’d love to meet you. You guys have quite a bit in common.” She wondered if he’d hand over the page for his file.
“Set it up,” he demanded.
Sam did not like being ordered around, but she nodded. “I’ll speak with him first thing.” She studied him. “That page is in a safe place, isn’t it? I mean, no one wants it crumbling to dust.”
“It’s in a very safe place.” He whirled and started pacing.
Sam watched, trying really hard not to feel sorry for him.
He faced her. “Ye should have told me about the file sooner. Who else has seen it?”
“I’m not sure. Probably everyone who is working on getting the page into government hands.”
“An’ how many people would that be?” he demanded. “Ten, twenty—a hundred?”
He was really upset at the idea that other people knew about his ordeal. “Probably less than five or six of us have seen it. Nick likes to keep things really tight and in his control. If he could, we’d all be puppets on his really short string.”
He nodded, his eyes still blazing.
Sam wanted to tell him that there were no details on his captivity in his file. It was hard to control the urge. The information would undoubtedly soothe him, but if he found that out, they’d lose their leverage—if his file could be used against him.
“I want to see Nick tomorrow,” he said with warning. He was already at her door.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bet he wants to see you, too.”
Ian stopped, his hand on the knob. He didn’t turn it. “Ye need to be careful of Hemmer. I came here to warn ye.”
Sam started, genuinely surprised. Maclean was warning her of danger? Why would he do that? And how could Hemmer pose a threat? “Why? By now he knows you stole his favorite new toy, unless you dismantled his surveillance system.”
“He knows I stole the page. But he mentioned ye, Sam. He thinks to use ye in our little war.” His eyes flashed silver all over again.
Sam wasn’t particularly disturbed or convinced. “Maclean, how can he use me? Why would he use me? I’m not very easy to use, by the way.” She didn’t smile. “You can attest to that.”
His face hardened impossibly. “He’ll use ye against me.”
His single statement sent a rush of desire through her. She refused to acknowledge that. She couldn’t be used against Maclean—he didn’t care what happened to her. “You must have laughed like crazy at him.”
His expression never changed. “Hemmer is evil,” he warned. “He may be human, but he has power an’ he has deamhan friends. He’ll do whatever he can to have revenge on me. Stay far from him.”
“Like you care,” she said slowly. “Because you just said it—he is after you, not me.”
“I have no wish to see anyone hurt or used,” he said firmly.
“Well, then you’ve fooled me.” When he didn’t speak, she added, “Are you trying to convince me that you’re a good guy after all? Because I’ve seen you in action and we have your file. Even our supercomputer has all kinds of doubts about you.”
He shrugged.
“Is it even remotely possible that you inherited some predisposition toward heroism from your father?”
“I am nothing like my father.”
She’d hit a nerve. “Too bad. I liked him—once he was redeemed.”
He stared at her and Sam realized he was trembling. “Why are you pissed? We can’t talk about you or your dad? Why is he off-limits? He’s a hero. Frankly, I’d love to see some of Aidan’s drive to destroy evil emerge in you.”
“I don’t care what ye want or hope for! I came to warn ye that Hemmer is evil and he has plans to use ye against me,” Ian snapped.
Another subject he didn’t like. “Hemmer doesn’t worry me.”
“Of course he doesn’t, because you have no fear.”
It was almost an accusation. “There’s no point in being afraid. One day I’m going to die. We both know I’ll go down in battle. And my death will be Fate.”
His face was so hard now that Sam was surprised it didn’t crack. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “What does that livid look mean? I know you don’t care if I live or die.”
He took her chin and tilted it up. Sam went still. His grasp was brutal. She didn’t flinch; their gazes locked. “Sometimes Fate isn’t what ye think it will be.” He dropped his hand abruptly.
Comprehension began to grow in Sam. “You expected to grow up in Castle Awe in the fifteenth century—not in modern day New York City.”
His mouth twisted. “Yer a fool to drive like ye did—to have no fear—to think you’ll die on yer terms.”
“So are you! And I’m not the one with a death wish!” She stopped. Full comprehension finally struck her. “Wait. You don’t care whether you live or die. That car chase proved it—and I know why.”
He whirled and strode for the door.
Sam didn’t follow. “You lived through sixty-six years of hell. And that makes death acceptable,” she cried after him.
He did not look back; he slammed out.
Sam stared at her front door. She had just figured him out. He didn’t exactly have a death wish. It was just that death wasn’t the worst that could happen to a man—and no one knew it better than Ian Maclean.
SAM HAD JUST STEPPED OUT of the shower and was towel-drying her hair when her telephone rang. “Hello, Samantha,” Rupert Hemmer said.
Sam went still, dropping the towel. What did Hemmer want? It was ten at night. “Hello, Mr. Hemmer.” She went into a battle-ready mode.
“I’m downstairs,” he said, surprising her yet again. “May I come up?”
Her mind raced. The last time she’d seen Hemmer was that morning, when he was on his way to his office—but he hadn’t seen her. Prior to that, she’d been at his wife’s birthday party, and he hadn’t been happy with her or Maclean. However, before she’d left the party last night, she’d apologized. He’d been suave, displaying some male interest, as if he knew she’d put out sooner or later. She’d come on to him just a bit, as well.
In spite of the mild flirtation, she was almost certain he’d made her, not as CDA, but as a Fed. Now, she intended to find out.
Besides, there was something evil in his vault. She hadn’t forgotten—it needed to be checked out.
She slowly smiled. “Sure. Why not?” She couldn’t wait to find out what he wanted, and she didn’t think sex was on the top of his list. He wanted his artifact back. But why come to her?
“I didn’t think you’d be resistant,” he murmured, hanging up.
Bring it on, you rotten sonuvabitch, she thought. She could manage Hemmer and whatever game he meant to play. Sam hung up and leapt into jeans and a sexy jersey top, adding Black Orchid perfume. The buzzer from downstairs rang. Carrying lip gloss and dangerously high heels, she ran through the loft to her intercom and let him into the building. She stepped into the sandals, ignoring her sprain. She put on the gloss, finger combed her hair, and when her door bell rang, she opened it and smiled at him.
Maclean had mentioned that he was human, but evil. Maclean wanted her to fear him. If Hemmer was your average malicious human, hoping misfortunes upon others, his evil would not be detectable to her. Except, he wasn’t average—he was a billionaire. Sa
m decided she should proceed with the assumption that Maclean knew what he was talking about. “Come on in,” she murmured. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He came in, his gaze moving over her body with real relish. “I’m so glad you’re pleased to see me.”
“What woman isn’t?” She closed the door.
“You make my wife look like a silly cheerleader,” he said softly.
An interesting opening shot, she thought. “You can’t buy experience, can you? Or intelligence.”
“No, you can’t.” He handed her a bottle of wine. It was a Rothschild burgundy, which had to have cost hundreds of dollars—if you could ever find it on the shelf. Sam didn’t react. Did he know she had a thing for really good red wine? That would mean he’d done some homework, or had some telepathic ability. Both ideas were equally interesting. “Just as you can’t buy fortitude.”
Sam’s eyes widened. What did that mean?
“It’s from my cellar,” he added pleasantly, glancing around her loft as she thanked him. “Another room I would love to personally show you. You’d appreciate it as much as my art collection.”
Okay, he was onto her. “I would love to see it—and anything else you’d like to show me,” Sam said as softly, glancing at his tight midsection. He knew she was after something in his art collection. That was not good.
But hadn’t Maclean warned her?
He smiled. “A woman after my own darkest desires,” he said. “I hope.”
That was an interesting choice of words, almost a challenge for her to demand what he meant. Did he mean he was on the dark side? She steeled herself as he reached for her. Revulsion swept through her but he only fingered her short hair. “Dark desires are so much more interesting than pure ones,” she murmured.
He laughed. “Yes, they are. I wasn’t sure you’d think so, daring Samantha.”
She smiled, her brain buzzing. “I’m so glad we got past my little faux pas,” she said. “I’m a red-blooded woman and sometimes I get caught up in the moment. Desire is desire.”
“A hot-blooded woman of passion, trysting in my home with one of my guests—how could I truly object?” He murmured. “And I did promise you a private viewing.”