Praise for New York Times bestselling author

and the Masters of Time® series

Dark Embrace “A Perfect 10. Brenda Joyce has created a tale that is full to overflowing with emotion. Passionate, heartbreaking, hopeful, and entertaining, Dark Embrace is a novel you do not want to miss. I recommend it highly.” —Romance Reviews Today

“Known for her intensity of emotion and superlative storytelling, Joyce draws you into a new Masters of Time® novel that will blow you away with its unforgettable alpha hero and a willful heroine who feels his pain across the centuries.” —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

Dark Rival “The supporting characters are excellent, the sex scenes are plentiful…and the plot thick, making this sophomore series entry a fine entertainment, sure to gratify fans of the bestselling kickoff.” —Publishers Weekly

“For intense emotions, power-packed writing, alpha males and building sexual tension, Joyce is unrivaled.”

—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

“A novel that will rivet your attention from the first page to the last.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Dark Seduction “Bestselling author Joyce kicks off her Masters of Time® series with a master’s skill, instantly elevating her to the top ranks of the ever-growing list of paranormal romance authors…Steeped in action and sensuality, populated by sexy warriors and strong women, graced with lush details and a captivating story…superlative.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

Dark Lover
Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear reader,

I hope you enjoy reading Dark Lover, the last installment of the Rose trilogy, as much as I enjoyed writing it. When I started THE MASTERS OF TIME®, I really didn’t realise how much this world would grow and evolve, and all the undertones it would have. I am really enjoying taking the paranormal wherever my muse leads me. Nor did i realise how exciting it would be for me to do strong, modern women, but mostly it is the damaged, dark heroes who are making this series so exciting.

In Dark Lover, both the heroine, Sam, and the hero, Ian, were departures for me as an author, and I had a blast putting the two of them together. Once they were on the same page, they pretty much wrote their own story, as I am sure you will see. I look forward to doing other strong, contemporary heroines, and heroes as dark and damaged as Ian.

If you haven’t tried my historical romances yet, you might want to consider checking out An Impossible Attraction. It continues the saga of the great de Warenne family and, as always, is a tale of power and passion, tragedy and triumph—and romance. Alexandra Bolton gave up marriage to her true love nine years ago, when her mother died, in order to care for her family. Now the family is in disgrace, her father having gambled away their entire fortune, and Alexandra actually sews for a living. Stephen Mowbray, the Duke of Clarewood, is the most powerful peer in the realm (and a bastard de Warenne). Haunted by his past, he lives in “splendid isolation,” and is accused of being cold and heartless. His life begins to change when he meets Alexandra, whom he decides to take as a lover. As he begins his pursuit, she is determined to refuse him, but fate has other plans for them. An Impossible Attraction is about pride and passion, sacrifice and betrayal, and love won and lost, then won all over again. And, as always, the de Warenne adage holds true: a de Warenne loves once and forever, or not at all.

Happy reading!

Brenda Joyce

For my readers

This one’s for all of you who have helped make this series such a success. Thank you!

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

New York City, July 18, 2009

SAM ROSE WAS in a really lousy mood, until she saw the memo on her desk. “Party tonight at seven at Rupert Hemmer’s. Bring stilettos and wear red.”

She slowly smiled. Great, she shot back in an e-mail to her boss. I haven’t been to a good party in ages.

It was three in the afternoon and she had just come into work, but she wasn’t late. Evil played at night, which meant she worked at night, because her job was hunting down the bad guys and doing them in. In fact, she’d been hunting evil since she was twelve years old—since the day her mother had been murdered.

It was ancient history now. Sam could think about Laura as she’d last seen her, even recalling her pale lifeless face, without a pang of sorrow or sadness. She’d learned long ago how to turn off any impending compassion. No Slayer could get the job done if he or she started feeling sorry for evil’s victims. Laura’s death had been Fate. Every Rose woman had a destiny, and hers was to be a Slayer.

That day, the need to vanquish evil had been branded into her soul. Now Sam looked forward to the night. Others feared the shadows—as they should; she thrilled when the moon rose. Others feared the sound of heavy breathing behind them; she relished evil daring to pursue her. Let it try! She hunted with a vengeance—literally.

Nick Forrester had recruited her into the Historical Crimes Unit at CDA almost a year ago, ending her years of cruising as a vigilante. The Center for Demonic Activity was a clandestine government agency founded by Thomas Jefferson, who’d established the agency shortly after his presidency had begun. He’d believed then, as was believed now, that the public couldn’t handle the truth.

Sam agreed. If the public ever knew that evil was a race ruled by the great Satan and intent on destroying humanity, chaos would ensue. It was hard enough saving the day as it was, without everyone running around in a state of abject fear and mass hysteria. It was definitely better that the public thought crime was simply out of control and society in a state of impending anarchy. Sometimes, listening to the news anchors and the accompanying social commentary, Sam would laugh at their politically correct theories.

Now, thinking about her boss’s memo, Sam was thoughtful. Rupert Hemmer was a middle-aged developer who was on his fourth or fifth trophy wife; he was the city’s most notorious billionaire. She recalled reading or hearing something about a big bash for his wife’s birthday. But Nick didn’t travel in those circles, and he did not do parties. This was not a social occasion. And that meant Hemmer’s party had bad vibes attached to it. Hemmer, as rich and powerful as he was, might even be one of the bad guys. In any case, he was not your ordinary guy and his guests wouldn’t be ordinary, either. Sam was gleeful. Tonight promised to be fun.

Sam made the mistake of glancing at the tear-off calendar on her desk and all glee vanished. She smiled grimly at the date. In four more days, it would be her birthday.

Last year, they’d all been together. This year, her sister, Tabby, and her cousin, Brie, were gone.

Abruptly, Sam brought her PC out of sleep mode. She refused to acknowledge the pang that went through her. Of course she missed Tabby and Brie. She missed their best friend, Allie, too. Allie was a Healer and Tabby was a witch, and Brie had her own gifts. They’d fought to protect and defend civilians together for years, because that was what Rose women had been doing for generations. Now she worked alone. And that was just fine. Brie and Tabby had met their destiny in the past, as had Allie. In truth, as smart as Brie had been, she’d been a bit of a klutz, and Tabby’s spells had been erratic. Sam had always had to keep one eye on them while fighting off their enemies, especially after Allie had left them. Now, she could focus on evil and the Innocent. It was so much simpler.

The bottom line was that a Slayer was meant to live alone, fight alone, and eventually, die alone. And that was as it should be.

So she’d spend her birthday alone. Who cared? She’d pick up a hottie and before she even knew it, the day would have passed. Sam flipped the calendar over and Tabby’s photograph faced her. It was Sam’s favorite picture of her sister. Tabby wore her pearls, reminding her of how gentle and classic her sister had been.

Tabby remained gentle and classic, she reminded herself—just in another time.

She turned the photo over and started to do a search within HCU’s immense database on Rupert Hemmer. As she did, someone rapped on her open door. Sam felt his power without seeing who it was and was annoyed as she looked up.

MacGregor grinned. “What happened to you last night? Only one kill and two escapes?”

“Get lost,” she said. He’d brought down five full demons last night.

“Boy toy must have worn you out.”

“He sure did,” she lied. Everyone knew she was a very liberated woman. She used men the way a playboy used women, and why not? She liked and needed sex. Except, she’d been off her game for a few months now. Her sex drive had been lacking. She was almost ready to wonder about it. “And you can’t stand it, can you?”

“You’ll come around,” MacGregor said with his usual arrogance. He’d been coming on to her ever since she’d begun working at HCU. “Sooner or later, you’ll figure out what you’re missing, Sam.”

“You’re too old for me.” She shrugged. He was probably thirty to her almost twenty-eight.

He laughed and walked away as a young, dark-haired woman poked her head into her office. “Got a moment?”

Sam leaned back in her desk chair. “Sure.” She considered Kit Mars somewhat of a friend, now that Tabby, Allie and Brie were gone. Kit was her own age, and as fervent about the war on evil as she was. She’d been recruited out of the NYPD Vice Unit, and even though she was still officially a rookie at the agency, she was tough and sharp and good to have around in the middle of the night. Once in a while, they even had a drink together.

Kit sauntered in, a newspaper in her hand. As usual, she didn’t wear any makeup. She really didn’t have to—she had striking, handsome features. She slapped the New York Times down on Sam’s desk, then glanced at the downturned calendar and photograph. Sam felt as if she’d been caught red-handed in a crime.

Kit hesitated. “It’s okay to miss your sister.”

Sam grimaced and put the photo back in its proper position and place. “What are you, a mind reader now?” She spoke calmly.

“I don’t have to read your mind to know how hard it is to lose a sibling.”

“I didn’t lose a sibling. Tabby’s alive and well, somewhere in medieval Scotland, making magic with her Highlander.” The moment Sam spoke, she was sorry for her sharp words. Kit’s twin sister had died in her arms in Jerusalem when they were only eighteen.

“Yes, she is,” Kit said seriously. “But she’s not here, is she?”

Sam stiffened. “Do you really want to get on my case?”

Kit winced. “No, I don’t, but I know how close you were. I still miss Kelly. I was just trying to be kind.”

Sam inhaled. “Okay. Be kind. But take my advice. Kind and caring won’t get the demons dead. It will get you dead.”

Kit grimaced. “I’m working on it,” she finally said. Sam couldn’t read minds, but she knew Kit was thinking she was a real hard-ass. “Good. That will make Papa Nick proud. So, what’s this?” Sam pulled the newspaper forward. Her eyes widened at the sight of Rupert Hemmer’s photograph on the front page and then she was thoroughly diverted by the accompanying headline. Hemmer Acquires Rare Celtic Manuscript For 212 Million.

Sam dragged the paper forward, her excitement instantaneous. There had been an auction at Sotheby’s the night before, and Hemmer had bought a page from a centuries-old Celtic manuscript, believed to be the oldest written Celtic text ever discovered. Sam cried out as she kept reading. Historians claimed the page was part of an ancient and holy book called the Duisean, which had been enshrined in a monastery on the island of Iona in medieval times. Some historians thought that the shrine had been guarded by a secret brotherhood of pagan warrior knights, and that the book had been the key to their power in the medieval world.

Sam looked up, her pulse racing. She happened to know that the Duisean existed. In fact, parts of it were believed to be floating around the present time. As for the secret warrior society, it existed, too. She was smiling now. “Did you get an invite to Hemmer’s tonight?”

Kit nodded. “Yeah, I did. And I’d already seen this earlier today, but I didn’t read it or notice the bit about the Duisean. Now it’s starting to make sense. Sam, he had the page transported to his penthouse last night in an armored vehicle. He has an extensive art collection there, and apparently he keeps it in an impregnable vault.”

So that was why they were going to the Hemmers’. Locating whatever they could from the ancient book was on HCU’s master agenda. Sam stared at Kit as she sat down in a chair facing the desk.

Nick probably knew more about the secret brotherhood than any other person living in modern times. Last year, Brie had been abducted by a medieval Highlander who had been turned to evil. Brie had also worked at CDA and Nick was notoriously obsessed with not “losing” agents in time. He’d chosen Sam to go back to help him find Brie. When she and Nick had brought her cousin back to New York, Brie had been thoroughly debriefed. The warriors called themselves Masters; at HCU, they’d been dubbed the Masters of Time.

Of course, Brie had gone back to Aidan of Awe anyway, having fallen in love with him even before helping him return to the Brotherhood. But HCU had gained lots of new information to play with—including the possibility that the missing Duisean might be in New York City, and in the hands of a great demon.

Sam’s excitement increased. She believed in the Duisean. The Rose women had their own book, the Book of Roses, which contained all the magic and wisdom entrusted to them by higher powers, and passed down through the generations. The Book was now in Tabby’s keeping—it was always in the keeping of a Rose witch. One of the Highlanders had come for it, to bring it back to her. Why wouldn’t the Masters of Time have a book of power? They were a warrior society sworn to protect Innocence, and they needed warrior powers to do so. It just made sense.

“Is Hemmer evil?” Sam asked flatly. Finding the Duisean—and making sure it did not fall into the wrong hands—was a priority.

“I wondered that myself. I already checked, and there is a file on him. It’s flagged for possible demonic connections.”

“That could make him anything—the real deal, a mixed breed or possessed.” Sam wet her lips. “But it doesn’t matter. He can’t have any part of the Duisean. Shit.” It began to dawn on her how dangerous a demon or a half demon could become, if armed with power meant for the good guys.

“It might not be authentic, Sam,” Kit pointed out.

“Yeah. We need to see it up close and personal.” She was wry. “Where are the near-immortals when you need one?”

Kit ignored that. “Getting into that vault is almost impossible and it won’t happen tonight,” she said. “No one goes into that vault without Hemmer, and he’s very picky about who he invites for a viewing.”

Sam deliberately folded her arms and crossed her long, sculpted legs. Her idea of a great day was competing in a triathlon. She also ran marathons, kick-boxed, biked and skied. She was wearing her usual denim miniskirt, this one gray and frayed, with a studded belt and midcalf, high-heeled tan boots, despite the heat. She wagged her booted foot at Kit.

“I agree,” Kit said, grinning. “You’re the most likely candidate to persuade him to take you into the vault.”

Based on his memo, Nick obviously thought so, too. In spite of his new wife, Hemmer was notorious for his infidelities. Tonight, he’d be toast.

“No one is persuading Hemmer of anything tonight,” Nick Forrester said, walking into their midst. He was a tall, good-looking man and a legend in the agency—for his conquests, both demonic and not, and because of the rumors that he’d been around for decades, although he appeared to be in his late thirties. He was controlling, which was annoying, but damned good at organizing and directing the war on evil—and he’d die for any of his agents. Sam hated to admit it, but she liked him. And she respected him immensely.

He was also impossibly sexist. He glanced at Sam’s legs, but she was used to it. She expected men to look at her. “Tonight is strictly surveillance,” he told them. “I don’t know if the page is the real deal yet and we don’t know just how tainted Hemmer is. I want photos, ladies, lots and lots of photos, so Big Mama can make up architectural and mechanical plans. And while you’re at it, you can bring me a swab of Hemmer’s DNA.” He smiled at Sam. “Just pique Hemmer’s interest—for now.”

“No problem,” Sam said, standing. Sometimes tainted humans had the barest percentage of demonic blood, but it was enough to make their evil frightening. “Are you coming to play, too?”

“Not a good idea. Hemmer and I have never met, so let’s just say the timing isn’t right.”

The easier for Nick to catch Hemmer by surprise, Sam thought.

“I want a word with you,” Nick said to Sam.

Without having to be told, Kit picked up the newspaper and left.

Nick stared, his blue eyes piercing. “Maclean is on the guest list.”

Sam worked really hard to keep her facial muscles frozen.

“Give it up,” he said. “You want Lover Boy, and we both know it.”

NOT ONLY DIDN’T SHE want Maclean, she couldn’t stand him. Sam followed Nick down the hall and into his office, aware of a new tension riddling her body and the fact that her fists were clenched. Instantly she loosened them. The only thing she wanted in regards to Maclean was payback. Because he was a son of a bitch.

“Take off the dress.”

She seethed, standing with him in a fancy salon in his fancy Scottish mansion. “You are an unbelievable bastard.”

He laughed. “I’ve heard it a thousand times. What’s wrong? Are ye afraid of the bright lights?”

She didn’t have a drop of cellulite on her body. Sam lifted the spaghetti straps of her silk dress and let it pool at her feet. “Take a good, long look—because it’s your last one.”

Oh, had he looked.

Last December, she’d gone to Loch Awe to bargain with Ian Maclean. He was Aidan of Awe’s son, and as such, he had all kinds of extraordinary powers—including the power to leap through time. She had needed a way to find her sister, shortly after a Highlander had appeared in New York and taken Tabby back in time with him. But the moment she’d walked into Maclean’s ancient mansion, his every innuendo had been sexual. She had expected it.

The first time she’d met him, she’d been with Brie, who’d needed his help. She’d pegged him then as an arrogant, oversexed playboy. She hadn’t been wrong. He was wealthy, mouthwateringly sexy, and powerful—and he knew it. That day, they’d met for no more than five minutes, but he’d looked at her like he couldn’t wait to rip off her clothes and do just about everything sexual a man could do to a woman.

But he’d left her standing on the street corner, alone, taking Brie back in time without her. Sam did not like being left out of the real action, and she had been furious.

When Tabby had vanished into time with Guy Macleod, she’d been determined to go after her. So she had gone to Scotland prepared to offer Maclean a deal—but not her body. She wasn’t going to be one of a hundred women he used. She’d be the one to say yes or no. But he’d turned the encounter into another sexual contest. When she’d met his challenge and dropped the dress, he’d looked at every inch of her body with an arrogant certainty—as if he knew he’d win one day. As if he could wait. As if she couldn’t. And then he’d walked out on her.

He had walked out on her.

Not only that, he’d left her standing stark naked in his salon, the doors wide open, and all of his guests had seen her.

It was hard not to spit with rage, even now. Men did not walk out on her. Men drooled over her body, most of which was muscle. Men gaped when they saw her face, with her long-lashed blue eyes, her small straight nose, the high cheekbones and strong jaw. But Maclean had been mocking. Who did he think he was?

Sam believed in payback. She held her grudges for life.

This was war—even if he was one of the good guys—and she was going to win.

But although his power was huge and white, and he was Aidan of Awe’s son, his loyalties were not clear. Sam did know one thing. He was most definitely loyal to himself.

She was very doubtful that he was a part of the Brotherhood. He was too selfish.

“Why is he on Hemmer’s guest list?”

Nick shoved a fat file at her. “Happy reading.”

Sam started. “He’s on file.”

“You know Big Mama,” Nick said, referring to the agency’s supercomputer. “Maclean is on the ADR list.”

That was automatic data retrieval. When Big Mama flagged a person deemed corruptible, she automatically began to build a file, retrieving data from all possible sources at a set time every day. Because Ian was Aidan of Awe’s son, and Aidan had turned to evil for decades before being redeemed, he would have been flagged immediately. His status as corruptible could only be changed by an administrator.

“Are you going to admit you’re ready to pull that short, spiky mess out by its roots?” Nick was somewhat amused.

“I don’t pull hair and you know it. I’m thinking of using my Frisbee,” she said. That toy had teeth that could sever a man’s head from his body with a gentle toss, much less anything else she might want to sever.

“You’re not doing a good job of guarding your thoughts,” Nick commented, sitting down on the edge of his desk. “And I hate to tell you, kid, you put your hand between his legs and he isn’t going to quiver with fear.” Nick started laughing.

Sam tensed, hoping he hadn’t had a visual of her standing naked in Maclean’s fancy Highland salon. “If I ever put my hand there, he’s going to be really, really sorry,” Sam snapped.

Nick’s amusement vanished and he folded his arms across his chest. His biceps bulged beneath the sleeves of his dark T-shirt. “I have never seen you so pissed off.”

“Guess I’m mostly human,” she quipped.

He ignored that. “He is not aligned with the good guys. He is not a Master, Sam,” he warned.

“Somehow, I didn’t think so,” she said wryly. But her heart was beating a bit too swiftly, the way it did before battle—or during sex.

“He doesn’t play by the rules. But you know that, don’t you?”

Sam decided that Nick probably knew everything. “I don’t play by the rules, either.”

He smiled. “That’s why I’m so proud of you.” He became serious again. “I have no evidence that he’s turned. I look forward to meeting him and deciding for myself. But you are almost out of control, Sam. Anger will weaken you. He’ll make mincemeat out of you if you don’t get a grip.”

Sam was furious. “I’m not angry—I simply can’t stand the sonuvabitch. He’s an unbelievable jerk. He makes you look like a saint. I did underestimate him, I’ll admit it. I thought he’d be putty in my hands. Well, I won’t underestimate him again and I won’t ever ask him to make a deal.” She added, “And I won’t lose.”

Nick nodded, a gleam in his eyes. “I wonder why he suddenly bought property here.”

She felt herself still. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“He’s living here?”

“Bought an eighteen-million-dollar home, right on Park Avenue.” Nick smiled at her.

Sam was shocked. Why would he come to New York? She walked over to a window and stared down at the pedestrians and traffic on Hudson Street. “When did this happen?”

“Last January. A month or so after your little visit to Loch Awe.”

“His deciding to live here has nothing to do with me,” Sam said without thinking.

“I didn’t say it did.” Nick eyed the folder. “That is interesting reading, by the way.”

Sam folded her arms, her instincts going into overdrive. When she’d arrived at his home on Loch Awe, he’d been expecting her. How was that possible?

“I was wonderin’how long it would take ye to find me.” He was amused.

She smiled coldly. “In your dreams.”

He had poured her champagne, ignoring his other guests and his Playboy centerfold girlfriend. “Welcome to my lair. ”

“Your father was the wolf.”

“Like father, like son,” he murmured, his gaze dipping to her cleavage.

“In the mood for a proposition?”

“I’ve been in the mood since we first met.”

There’s no way he’d come to New York to pursue her. No woman would ever be worth that kind of effort for him and she was sure of it. He’d come to town for other reasons. The Duisean? She wouldn’t put it past him.

“You’re an amazingly striking and terribly seductive woman,” Nick said thoughtfully. “And you know it. Coupled with that is your power as a Slayer.”

Sam stared at her boss. “Keep up the flattery and I might become frightened.”

He grinned. “Nothing scares you, Sam.”

He was right.

Nick added, “I can’t write off his arrival in New York as a coincidence. He’s dangerous and ruthless.” Nick picked up the folder. “But you’re dangerous and ruthless, too.”

Her interest was piqued. “So he’s my objective.”

“If he has the wrong intentions, I’m counting on you to neutralize him.”

“Goody.” She fingered the folder. “What’s in there?”

“Some interesting coincidences.”

“I’m a Rose. According to our Wisdom, there’s no such thing.”

Nick smiled. “I know. He’s been flagged by our agency, but he’s also on Scotland Yard’s watch list. Do you recall the theft of that van Gogh in Milan two years ago?”

“No, I don’t.”

“The painting just vanished into thin air in the middle of a working day. According to a clerk there, no one from the public was inside the gallery that morning and no alarms went off. But Maclean had been a visitor earlier in the week.”

Sam paced thoughtfully, tingling with some excitement. “He leapt into the gallery and leapt out with the painting. Gee, I wonder if it survived traveling at the speed of light.”

“Guess who is rumored to now have it?” Sam waited and Nick said, “Hemmer.”

Sam started. “Okay. So that explains the guest list. He stole the painting, sold it to Hemmer, and now they’re best buds.”

“He’s best buddies with various other wealthy art collectors around the world.” Nick was wry. “And he’s linked to five international art dealers, who have suffered the combined loss of eight masterpieces in the past decade. Several of his other friends are reputed to be in possession of those stolen works of art now.”

Sam stared at Nick. Maclean was using his powers to steal. So this was how he’d acquired his wealth—and his Park Avenue address. And then the comprehension was instant and blazing. “You don’t think he’s here to hold Hemmer’s hand.”

“I don’t think he’s here to hold Hemmer’s hand.”

“He’s going to steal the page,” Sam said softly.

Nick stood. “And I bet you’ll do anything to get in his way, won’t you?”

Sam slowly smiled. “Oh, yeah,” she said, with relish.

His stare hardened. “Do not let him out of your sight tonight.”

Sam saluted.

“There’s nothing like a woman scorned,” Nick suddenly grinned. “I’m sort of glad he pissed you off.”

“I’m not pissed off. And I hate to tell you, I wasn’t scorned. But, Nick? I’m better than the cliché. I don’t get mad, I get even—and then some.”

“I’m counting on it.”

CHAPTER TWO

MACLEAN WAS NOWHERE in sight.

Standing in the marble foyer just outside the brass doors of the elevator, which had taken them to the penthouse, Sam and Kit exchanged glances. Hemmer had built the building in his usual style—Las Vegas glitz meets haughty Fifth Avenue. There were marble floors, gilded mirrors and Corinthian columns. Everything was as costly as possible, screaming money. A handful of guests stood ahead of them, filing forward, and black-clad security agents were everywhere.

Sam wore a strapless red jersey dress, which clung to her every curve, and gold spike sandals. She’d added one of her mother’s gold bracelets to her right wrist, although bracelets tended to get in the way during tight, hand-to-hand combat. Rings were actually useful—they could be annoying for the enemy, inflicting painful little cuts. She wore several. Most women carried a clutch, but she wore a wallet-size bag on a shoulder strap. It was almost weightless, holding only a credit card, her cell phone and her red lipstick, and couldn’t possibly get in the way of anything. And she wore the diamond hoops her sister had given her last year. She only took them off to clean them.

She glimpsed Rupert Hemmer just within the doorway of his home, his blond wife with him, greeting the guests as they came in. The room beyond them was already crowded, but she didn’t see Maclean amongst the glittering partygoers. Her heart was thudding oddly, slow and steady—the way it always did before she leapt into battle. He was present. She was certain of it, and not because Nick had said he was on the guest list. She felt him, somewhere in the penthouse.

Sam could sense white power, and Maclean’s was obvious.

His aura reeked of sexuality, and her own answering tension told her he was nearby.

She couldn’t wait to spoil his good time.

Then she poked Kit and nodded up at the thumbnail-size cameras in the corners of the foyer. Kit followed her gaze. Then she gestured at their hostess. “Is she even legal?”

Sam was amused, and she glanced at their host, who was handsome and tanned in a black tuxedo, his face obviously lifted, his hair that funny shade of medium brown that every older man seemed to sport in order to cover up the gray. While he had to be close to sixty, even if he’d been under the knife and was lean and fit, his wife looked twenty—if that. She wore a bubble-gum pink evening gown that was more of a second skin than a dress. Sam pegged it as Versace. From this distance, Rupert reeked of arrogance and wealth, but not evil. Sam could sense evil as easily as she sensed white power, and she suspected him to be human with a few drops of demonic blood.

It was finally their turn to meet and greet. Rupert looked at her, his eyes widening with obvious male interest. He looked carefully at her lush chest, which was not the obvious boob job his wife was showing off, and then at her long, hard legs. He glanced at Kit, who wore a classic black sheath and had actually put on lip gloss. He smiled slowly at them. “You must be Sam Rose and Kit Mars, from World Media.”

Sam had noted that Becca Hemmer didn’t care about her husband ogling other women—and why should she? Sam had read up on the Hemmers while getting dressed. She was young, gorgeous and smart enough to have signed a pre-nuptial agreement that made her one of the city’s wealthiest women, no matter what happened to her marriage. And apparently, Becca liked to play as much as he did.

Sam dismissed her as irrelevant and smiled back at Hemmer, giving him a come-hither-if-you-dare look. “None other.” She extended her hand. “I’m Sam Rose. I was wondering how long it would take for us to meet, Mr. Hemmer.”

He grasped it warmly. “All my guests are instructed to call me Rupert.”

“Rupert,” Sam murmured. “It’s been a while since I had instruction.”

He smiled slightly as he absorbed the innuendo. “How interesting.” He added, “Had I realized World Media had publicists like you two, I think I would have been persuaded to give you my business much more easily.” His gaze was suddenly hooded.

Sam wondered if they’d been made. “Is the rest of the team here?”

“I believe so,” he murmured. “John Ensign and Charles Dupre were two of the first to arrive.”

She felt Kit’s tension. “Jack Ensign,” she corrected casually. “We all call him Jack.”

“Ah, yes, of course, my mistake. So, do come inside and help yourself to the bubbly. Perhaps we can chat a bit later about the project. I look forward to hearing your ideas.”

“I look forward to sharing them.” Sam smiled pleasantly at Becca as she and Kit moved into a huge living room with gilded crystal chandeliers and modern furniture upholstered in various shades of white. Nick had told her almost two hundred guests would be present, and Sam decided that he’d been right. The men were in tuxedoes, the women sporting lavish jewels, some in long evening gowns, like Becca. White-coated waiters were passing champagne in expensive flutes and hors d’oeuvres on sterling silver trays. It took Sam a second to decide that Maclean was not in the reception area. Was he already in the vault? She shivered. She was more than ready to find out. Her pulse beat a bit more swiftly now.

“Did we pass?” Kit murmured.

“I think he’s suspicious.” But she didn’t give a damn about their host now.

“Did you have time to read up on the project?”

“No, and I intend to avoid Hemmer. With this crowd, I don’t think he can get away for a tête-à-tête anyway. Are you okay? I’m going to explore.”

“I’m fine. Be careful. Hemmer stinks.”

Sam smiled and drifted off into the crowd. As she did, a flash of bright pink caught her eye. She turned and saw Becca making her way alone through the crowd—no easy task, as she was constantly greeted and congratulated. Sam turned to locate Hemmer. She finally saw him, still close to the front door, chatting with the mayor and a famous woman news anchor with sinking ratings. Sam turned back to Becca, just in time to see her slip from the reception room, past two big security guards.

Now what did that mean? Becca did not seem like a party pooper. She managed to find Kit. “I need a diversion so I can canvas the rest of the place.”

“You can create a better diversion in that getup than I ever could.”

“Stop selling yourself short,” Sam said, meaning it.

A moment later, Sam was posed not far from the door Becca had exited, where the two big security guards stood. A woman not far from the doorway cried out, “Someone just stole my purse! Someone just ripped my bag from my hands!”

As the two security guards rushed to her, Sam slipped into the hallway. It was quiet within, the lights lower. An elevator faced her, which would go up to the Hemmers’ private rooms. She walked swiftly past it, her lipstick now in hand. The case was actually a camera. She started taking photos as she passed a library and a media room. She did not think she’d run into Becca—she was pretty certain she’d gone upstairs.

She passed an office and came to the end of the hall. A glass-enclosed, Olympic-size indoor lap pool faced her. On her left was a huge steel door.

She had found the vault.

Maclean’s power beckoned, tangible and hot, but he was not in that vault. Sam took more photographs, aware that she was being videotaped—those thumbnail-size video cameras were everywhere. She was careful not to get too close, setting off motion sensors and alarms.

When she was finished, she put the camera away. Maclean was around, but where? And where was Becca? She’d obviously gone upstairs—but Sam didn’t think she’d gone to change her shoes. “Such a naughty girl,” she murmured. She would be surprised if she didn’t find them together, she decided. Maclean would probably think it amusing to screw his host’s wife.

Sam went quietly back the way she had come, her senses in overdrive. She did not rush—she would find him, sooner or later. Hunting put her at the top of her game. The elevator was set far enough back from the reception that she could easily get to it without being noticed. It was whisper-quiet, too. She stepped inside, her gaze on the backs of the guards, but neither one turned her way. She pressed the single button there. The elevator moved up to the building’s top floor.

She felt the hot sex before she saw it. She felt him. The air was somehow thicker and humid upstairs. Testosterone filled it. Lust thickened her. Most women would drop everything to be with Maclean, and she could hear Becca now, in the throes. Sam paused. The door to a bedroom was ajar. Becca’s cries became deep, uncontrollable sobs. Her own heart was thundering, her body tight. Sam pushed open the door.

She’d forgotten how damn good-looking he was. How unbelievably sexy he was. Becca wept in her climax, sprawled on her belly on the bed, her skirts pushed up to her back. Maclean stood behind her, fully dressed. He was driving hard and deep, steadily, his face strained, at once hard, cold and almost ruthless. He was intent on his own satisfaction.

Becca was out of all control. Ian Maclean was not.

She wet her lips, compelled to watch. How had she forgotten those gorgeous features? Most beautiful men looked effeminate. Not Maclean. In spite of those long-lashed gray eyes and that perfect, almost pretty nose, he had a hard jaw, and high cheekbones. But he was more than that face. She’d never seen him without his clothes, but she knew his body was all long, hard muscle. And mostly, there was his sex drive. Sam had recognized a kindred spirit, in that one way. Maclean was oversexed and probably insatiable.

He’d be hard to please.

Becca’s sobs and moans filled the room. Maclean kept driving, not making a sound. Sam knew Becca had been easy to seduce. She’d bet just about anything that Maclean had never been given a run for his money.

She breathed harder. A terrible tension consumed her now. Well, there was one woman he couldn’t seduce.

Maclean suddenly made a harsh sexual sound, his only one. And he looked up at her.

The moment their gazes locked, Sam realized he wasn’t surprised to see her. In the next second, she saw that he wasn’t blinded by lust. His gaze was gray and clear. As she stared at him, he began to smile, as if he had a secret he really liked.

Sam’s heart turned over, hard.

“Ye took yer time,” he murmured, stepping away from his gasping lover.

Sam was trying to comprehend the fact that, just like at Loch Awe, he’d been expecting her. But her every coherent thought vanished as he reached for his gaping trousers, because her gaze veered to his hands.

Her thundering heart slammed. She forgot to breathe.

He slowly grinned, somehow jerking the zipper entirely up.

He wore a silver ring there.

She’d seen body piercings, of course. Just not there—and not like that.

“Something got yer tongue?” he mocked softly.

She choked and her mind came to life. “Having fun? Because I hate to be the one to ruin your private party.” But she wanted to wipe the perspiration from her cleavage and brow. Her body was rioting. So much for worrying about her sex drive.

“Hot?” His gaze followed her fingers as she wiped the moisture away. “Surely ye’ve seen a cock ring before.”

Sam felt her fake smile vanish. “That was some welcome, Maclean. Too bad I’m not into voyeurism.” She tried to be flippant. “Nice jewelry.”

His brows lifted as he sauntered toward her. “Admit it. I make ye hot, Sam, an’ ye loved watching.”

Sam realized that Becca was scrambling off the bed and racing toward the door. She swallowed, Becca’s exit giving her a much-needed pause. “It was a decent show,” she said, recovering a hair of her composure. “Aren’t you going to go after her?”

“Now why would I do that?” he asked, standing before her. “When yer right here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To piss off Hemmer? To keep an insider on your next job?” Because walking out on me is a habit of yours?

He laughed. “I don’t care what Hemmer thinks an’ I hardly need Becca. I know ye liked the ring, but did ye like the rest of the goods?”

She inhaled.

Show me the goods.

And she’d dropped her dress…

He was trying to make her recall that moment—his being in control, and the humiliation that had followed. Worse, his image was now engraved on her mind. “I always like eye candy, Maclean.”

“Ye’ve never seen—or had—eye candy like mine.”

Unfortunately she was completely breathless. “Sure of yourself, are you?”

“Very.” His gray eyes remained mocking. He leaned close and murmured, “Ye can take the ring off any time, Sam. Just say when and where.”

He’d walked out on her before, but this time, he was in pursuit. It was hard to think clearly, much less wonder why. And damn it, it was hard to look away from his smoldering gray gaze. His words intensified the currents sizzling in the room. “Gee, a come-on. Last time you weren’t very interested. Why don’t you give that honor to your girlfriend?”

“But I want ye to have the honor.” He seemed amused. “To make up fer my bad behavior at Loch Awe.”

Sam fought thinking about taking that ring off and touching him where it counted. She’d forgotten the attraction that raged between them, against her judgment and her will. But she had not forgotten their last encounter, oh no, and she never would.

And she knew that inwardly he was laughing at her. He was not repentant at all. “I don’t like men coming on to me,” she said flatly. “I call the shots.”

His mouth curled. “Of course. Ye like to be the one seducing yer little boys. Or should I say toys?”

He was right. “Do you have a problem with strong women, Maclean?”

“Aye, I do. I like my women soft an’ hot. An’ we both know ye have a problem with strong men.”

She slowly smiled. “My problem is I’ve never met a man as strong as me—especially in the bedroom.”

His smile was wide. “Now who’s the arrogant one? When yer ready to take a chance, ye’ll find out how wrong ye are.”

Sam had the disturbing notion that he’d give her the ride of her life. “I’m always ready—except when it comes to jet-setting playboys with massive egos like you.”

“Ouch,” he said. “So ye haven’t forgiven me fer Loch Awe. Ye were insulted.”

“I can’t really recall what happened at Loch Awe,” she snapped.

He laughed. “Ye can recall. I left ye standing naked in my salon, instead of begging fer yer favors like all your boys do. I didn’t grovel. I didn’t pant or drool. I didn’t give ye the favor ye wanted me to. Ye were furious with me. Come, Sam, we both know the kind of woman ye are. Ye never forgive an’ ye never forget. An’ we both know ye didn’t forget me.”

Her temper soared. “Frankly, I haven’t given you a thought since last December,” she lied. “Can your huge ego handle it?”

“My huge ego can handle anything—anyway ye want.”

“I’ll pass…like last time.”

“So ye do recall last time,” he said softly. “When I didn’t give ye the chance to say no.”

She trembled, furious.

“Are ye sure ye don’t wish fer a trophy? So there’s no danger that ye forget this night?”

“No.” There was no satisfaction in saying “no” now. Even as angry as she was, she knew she wasn’t going to forget his screwing Becca, not for a long time. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re no prize, Maclean, no matter what you seem to think.”

He shrugged indifferently and murmured, “How will ye know if ye don’t try the goods?”

Sam turned to go. “Yeah, of course, you’re the best there is. I’ve never met a man who didn’t think he was God’s gift in the sack,” she retorted over her shoulder.

He seized her arm. She was forced to halt and their gazes clashed. His stare never wavered. “I’m the best.”

His words made her feel faint for a moment. Sam wanted to retort, but she just stood there, recalling the look on his face a moment ago. Becca had seemed to be having an otherworldly orgasm, while he was hunting his own pleasure—almost as if it were an effort. She’d heard that sex with near-immortals was really different—that the rapture was somehow endless. Frankly, she didn’t believe it but she was sure he was damned good—when inspired.

He was never going to have the chance to prove it to her.

“Ye’ll never want a boy toy again,” he said softly.

“Your ego,” she said as softly, “is off the charts. Some women might find it attractive—I don’t. It diminishes any other attributes you might actually have.”

He grinned. “My ego can’t diminish what yer thinkin’ about.”

She pulled free of his grasp. “You’ve got the goods. Big deal.”

“Yer salivating.”

It was definitely time to leave before she blew a gasket. She turned to storm out, when she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to let him out of her sight. In that instant, she recalled what was in Hemmer’s vault—what he wanted, what HCU wanted. She slowly faced him. “Let’s talk turkey. How’s the vault?”

His brows lifted. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

He gestured at the bed. “I’ve been busy. Ye took yer time an’ I decided to start the evening off with a bang.”

He had been expecting her. “Did you get a peek at the guest list?”

He shrugged. “Our paths were bound to cross, sooner or later.”

“I don’t travel in Hemmer’s circles.”

“Now ye do,” he said flatly. “Yer a Rose. Yer cousin married my father. Of course ye’d hunt Hemmer now.”

Sam stared, finally somewhat diverted from his sexuality and virile appeal. Was he in touch with Brie? “Is the page the real deal?”

“The page?” Both dark brows lifted. “I don’t know. Rupert must think so.”

He sure must, to spend over two hundred million dollars on it, Sam thought.

“Are ye sure ye won’t have a drink with me? We can discuss our mutual interests.” His eyes sparked with amusement.

She looked at the bed behind him. “Really sure.”

“Ye’ll change yer mind.”

“If you say so.” She smiled at him, mocking him now. “Hey, Maclean? I’ll be the first one into the vault—when Rupert offers me a private viewing later this evening.”

He was amused. “Really? An’ what if I offer ye the viewing now?”

She went still. “Are you kidding?”

His long, thick lashes lowered briefly. “I want to make amends.”

For one moment, she almost believed him. She knew he was trying to play her, though, and that was as far as it went. But two could play his game. “Get me in and I might forgive you.”

His lashes lifted and his gray gaze met hers. When he didn’t move or speak, she pushed past him and he followed her into the elevator.

“A word of advice,” he said conversationally as the elevator began its descent. “I always get what I want.”

“Good. That makes two of us—we have so much in common!” The elevator was too small for them both. His big, masculine body was filling up the small space. But he was going to get her into the vault and that was what she needed to focus on. “How are the new digs, by the way?”

“Why don’t ye come by an’ see for yourself?”

She thought that worth a trip uptown. “Any interesting art you can show me? Maybe a stolen masterpiece or two?”

His smile returned. “So ye have been thinking about me.”

“It’s called homework.”

He grinned, pleased. As the elevator door opened, Sam walked past him, annoyed all over again. Maybe the real problem was his looks. He looked almost exactly like his father, Aidan of Awe, and that made him nearly irresistible. If he didn’t have that dark, thick hair, those pale, sizzling gray eyes, the deep dimples when he smiled and the features of an Adonis, his sexuality wouldn’t be so overwhelming. He’d just be a gross horndog.

But he did look like one of the gods he was descended from. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit that he was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever laid eyes on—and she hadn’t even seen his body in the buff.

Well, she’d seen the one part that counted the most—in her book, anyway. She thought about the silver ring, her insides lurching, breathless all over again. That piercing had to have hurt like holy hell.

“It’s steel,” he said softly. “Not silver.”

Her gaze slammed to his. He’d read her mind—and proved just how telepathic he was.

She led the way to the vault, focusing on the task at hand but terribly aware of him behind her. The back of Hemmer’s penthouse was as empty as before. She paused, gesturing at the steel door facing them. “I can sense evil and good. Right now, I can’t feel a thing.”

He gave her a look she could not decipher, then reached for the heavy door handle. Sam had expected him to leap into the vault, taking her with him. “What are you doing?” she asked sharply, waiting for the alarms to start screaming. But an utter silence remained.

He smiled and turned the lever. The steel door opened.

He turned. “Come.”

“How did you do that?” Sam asked, surprised.

He slowly smiled. “It’s as easy as the leap through time.”

It was clear that Maclean had used his mind to unlock the door and turn off the sensors and alarms. Now that was an incredibly useful trick—especially for a thief.

“So that’s how you got the van Gogh?”

He sent her a modest smile, gesturing politely for her to precede him inside.

Interior lights had come on as the door had opened. Sam walked past him, her gaze wide, scanning the rows of stunning masterpieces on the two walls. The vault was like a long tunnel. “Who would want to keep their art locked up this way?” While she was not an art aficionado, she was damned sure she recognized the work of artists she’d seen at the Met, the Whitby and the Guggenheim. Hemmer had a priceless collection, if she did not miss her guess.

Maclean hadn’t answered and she glanced back at him. He had loosened his tie and was now unbuttoning his collar, as if uncomfortable. The temperature in the vault was carefully controlled. “Hemmer lusts fer art the way demons lust fer sex and death.”

“Is he evil?”

He gave her a look that said, “yes.”

“How much did he pay you for the van Gogh?” she asked casually, not missing a beat. Not that she could trap him into an admission he didn’t care to make.

His response was as immediate. “Thirty million.” He smiled, tugging at his collar again. “I gave him a deal.”

Sam snorted. She looked carefully around again. “Something’s wrong,” she said, uncertain of what she was feeling. She strained to sense what was tugging at her and she felt the faintest wafting of evil, drifting toward them. “Do you feel that?”

He nodded. “It’s within.”

Sam ignored him, trying to isolate the rest of her feelings. She felt a stirring of holy power. It seemed to beckon her. It was to her left. She turned, trying to follow it, and faced a huge landscape of a lush European countryside, probably from the eighteenth century. She started to remove it from the wall.

Instantly Maclean came over to help her. The moment they lifted it up, the page from the Duisean faced them.

It was framed and under glass, but the aged and faded parchment shimmered with power and light. Some of the written words seemed three-dimensional. “It is real,” Sam said harshly, holding up one end of the large landscape. “But the power is distant, somehow.”

“The power is contained,” Maclean said thoughtfully. “I think ye need a spell to unleash it.”

They looked at each other. Sam was thinking about Tabby when Ian said, “Hemmer.”

“Are you sure?” Sam didn’t hear anyone approaching and she didn’t feel danger. As they quickly set the landscape back, Maclean said, “My senses are greater than yours.”

“Then maybe we should hurry.” Sam rushed out of the vault, Ian behind her, aware now of voices farther down the corridor. Maclean pushed the steel door closed and she heard it automatically lock. The voices grew louder, and she could hear their footsteps approaching.

Sam didn’t think twice about what she had to do. She seized Maclean’s tie and used it as a leash to jerk him a few steps down the hall, away from the vault’s door. She shoved him against the wall, still holding his tie tightly in her fist.

He knew what she was about to do and he smiled smugly.

She pushed her entire body against his and their gazes locked. His eyes blazed.

And that massive, pierced erection pushed up between them.

Sam pushed him harder against the wall, impossibly aware of his entire body, which felt like steel. She stood on her toes. In her high heels, they were eye to eye.

He waited, his mouth curling slightly with triumph.

She kissed him.

She opened her mouth, claiming his. The moment their lips fused, her heart slammed and seemed to lodge in her throat. Hemmer and his entourage turned the corner. She kept one part of her mind on them, but the rest of her mind was on Maclean—and he had her body’s full attention.

He tasted so damn good. He felt even better, stiff and hard against her. The desire was so fierce, so consuming, so feral, that she was shocked. And then she couldn’t stand it. Eyes closed, she forgot about Hemmer and she forced his mouth open. He laughed. Sam shoved her tongue deep.

Her body threatened to explode.

And he grabbed her by the hips, turned her around, pinned her to the wall and took over the kiss. He ground against her, pressing one huge thigh between her legs until she rode him.

She seized his broad shoulders, kissing him wildly back. It was too good to stop now.

“I beg your pardon,” Rupert Hemmer said.

As their tongues entwined, as he pushed her even farther up his thigh and into the wall, she knew they had to stop. But no man had ever pinned her down this way, or been as dominant. She kissed him back, tasting blood. He made a triumphant sound, then tore free of her.

Her back still against the wall, Sam opened her eyes as he let her slide down his leg. She looked into his fierce eyes.

Maclean stepped away from her. “I always get what I want,” he murmured.

He was laughing at her. Shock began—what the hell had just happened?

Maclean was facing Rupert, loosening his tie as he did so. Two men and a woman stood behind him, curious.

Sam breathed hard and straightened, stepping away from the wall.

“My home is just that—my home. My guests are restricted to the reception rooms.” Hemmer’s displeasure was obvious.

Sam stepped forward. Hemmer instantly gave her a quick look of male appraisal. He wasn’t immune to her or what she’d been doing. She’d use that. “We’re sorry, Mr. Hemmer. We didn’t realize the rest of the apartment was off-limits.”

Hemmer smiled back, but tightly. He looked at the short hem of her dress again. “Security will escort you back to the party, Ms. Rose.”

Another wealthy, oversexed jerk, Sam thought.

As he spoke, two huge guards in black appeared around the corner. Sam nodded, telling him how sorry she was again, aware of Ian standing beside her. As she followed them back to the main reception, Ian behind her, she began to think rationally again.

She’d been out of control. The kiss had been meant to be a ploy. Her attraction to him was dangerous. No good could come of her being out of control.

She had to find a way to take charge.

Sam walked to the closest waiter, removed a flute of champagne and drank it. Then she took another one.

Maclean reached over her shoulder for his own glass. Then he looked at her and lifted his flute in a triumphant toast.

“You haven’t won yet.”

“If ye let me have my way with ye, ye’ll be the victor, Sam.”

“As I said, you guys all think you’re the best in the sack.”

“As I said, I am the best.”

She drank the second flute and returned it to the tray. “You’re going to steal the page.”

He grinned. “Care to stop me?”

“I can’t wait.” And Sam grinned back.

CHAPTER THREE

“WHAT ARE YOU going to do with this?” Kit asked, keeping her voice low.

It was late. The party was breaking up. Sam had watched Maclean for the past few hours as he drank and eyed several pretty women, keeping mostly to himself. He was clearly a loner, no surprise there. Nick had ordered her to keep him in her sights—and because she knew he was going to steal the page sooner, not later, she intended to do just that. She had just followed him down to the building’s lobby.

Sam took her messenger bag, loaded with her favorite toys, from Kit. “Thanks.”

“I don’t like this,” Kit said, glancing past her at Maclean.

He had a woman on each arm—both tall, young and beautiful—and clearly, he meant to take them home for a very private house party.

Sam didn’t care who he slept with. All she cared about was stopping his offense with her defense. She intended to be on him like glue. He was not going to get into that vault without her.

Sam and Kit still stood beneath the building’s canopy. He glanced over his shoulder at her, clearly offering an invitation. Sam shook her head, smiling coolly. He seemed to sigh and then stepped into the street to hail a cab.

“Are you upset? What happened tonight?”

“Nothing happened. He’s just a jerk, but he’s about to take a big fall. I’ll see you tomorrow. If I’m late, it’s because I’m on Maclean. No pun intended.”

“I think he’s dangerous, even if his power is white.”

Sam actually laughed. “No kidding. What are you going to do?”

“There are a few guests left. I’m going back upstairs. Maybe Hemmer will notice me and show me the vault. I’ll try to chat with him.”

“Hey, Kit? Work it and he’ll notice you.” It never ceased to amaze her how modest Kit was. Sam suspected she was celibate, but they never discussed it. She nodded now as Kit slipped back into the lobby. Then she glanced at Central Park West.

Tons of cabs were heading uptown and every one was full. Nothing was heading downtown. Considering how late it was, that was odd—most should be empty.

As the two girls with Maclean whispered and giggled, both high and drunk, Sam felt a chill slither down her spine. She tensed, instantly searching the area for a sign of impending violence. Maclean must have felt it, too, because he had dropped his arm and was looking past the traffic.

And Sam saw the couple on the park side of the street, running, five cloaked figures in pursuit.

Burnings were creeping up on the proportion of murders committed both in the city and globally. A recent study released by Interpol showed that almost 20% of all the murders committed last year had been burnings. Burning the Innocent alive had become a huge “gang” sport. The perpetrators weren’t entirely human—they were possessed by evil, and commonly referred to as subs. The press had dubbed the crimes witch burnings, because the subs wore cloaks and the burnings were so medieval in nature.

Five cloaked teens chasing a couple meant one thing. Sam was already running across the street, holding the short stiletto that had been hidden in her right high heel.

Running in high heels sucked, but she wasn’t about to be deterred. Sam caught one boy from behind, who screamed as he was seized. He tried to stab her with his knife and she cut his throat just as two of his friends leapt at her.

Sam dropped her messenger bag and used the side of her hand to deliver a fatal blow to boy number two’s throat. He dropped like a rock. At the same time, his buddy stabbed her, the blade of his knife grazing her arm and then cutting across her rib cage.

It hurt. And she didn’t like being hurt. Pissed, she gave him a flying front kick, which sent him backward across the street. She knelt, taking her .38 from the bag. As she did, the boy got up, his face a mask of possessed fury. She glimpsed Ian standing on the street corner. He was calmly watching her take on a pack of evil kids.

Her fury knew no bounds. Couldn’t he get rid of one of the subs for her, at least?

She felt someone behind her. Sam whirled, firing as the girl landed on her, her face hairy. Wolflike claws dug into her body. Sam fired again and again. It took a while to kill the shape-shifting girl. The half woman finally fell dead to the ground at her feet.

“Arrgh!”

Sam turned but before she could shoot the fourth possessed teen, he had kicked the gun from her hand. His rage, combined with the evil, made him terribly powerful. Off balance, she landed hard on her ass as he tackled her, his hands going around her throat. He started choking her, intent on strangling her to death.

This would be a great time for Maclean to butt in, she somehow thought. But he didn’t. Sam jammed her knuckle into the boy’s carotid artery; as he choked, she took the dagger from the garter on her thigh and imbedded it in his chest. Instantly he collapsed on her. She shoved him off, and then knelt over him to see if he was alive.

He was. She dug her cell phone out of her tiny purse and dialed not 911, but CDA. Their medical center was as clandestine as the rest of the agency. Known as Five, it was in constant use. Bringing subs into a regular E.R. was a bad idea. The non-ordinary—and many at CDA were NO—could not seek treatment in a public hospital, either. The press would start to figure things out. Full-blooded demons disintegrated if left untouched within moments of their destruction, so they were rarely an issue. Five was for the very special.

That done, she closed her phone and looked at the bodies on the street. Four dead kids, all of whom had once been normal. It was routine by now. These possessed kids were mostly runaways, and they were easy prey for evil.

She looked at the boy who was still alive. “Try not to die. With a little help from the gods, we might get you back to your family.” She spoke without emotion. Compassion was a bad idea, she’d learned that long ago. If she started caring about who lived and who died, she’d be the one winding up dead, really soon.

He spat at her, mostly blood.

“Are you all right?” It was the woman who had been fleeing the subs.

The man with her knelt beside Sam. “Jesus, are you a cop? I’ve never seen anything like what you did! You saved me and my wife!”

Sam smiled grimly. She looked past the couple at Maclean.

He stood on the corner, hands in his tuxedo pockets, regarding her thoughtfully. Their gazes locked. He hadn’t lifted a single finger to help her. The anger burned.

“Should we call 911?” the woman asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” Sam said. As she started to stand, the woman’s husband grasped her arm to steady her.

“You’re hurt,” he said with concern.

Sam looked at her bloody arm and the slashes in the bodice of her red dress. She’d been nicked on her bicep and her rib cage. It burned a lot, but she was almost certain the cuts were superficial. “Par for the course. Why don’t you two go home? Have a brandy on me. I’m a Fed.” The Bureau was her cover. “I’ll take care of this.”

“We can’t possibly leave you,” the man said firmly.

His wife nodded in agreement, beginning to cry. “She’s so brave,” she said to her husband. “I was so scared.”

He put his arm around her and turned away, whispering to her. They were in their forties, Sam thought, and it crossed her mind that they really loved each other. Sweet. She looked at Maclean again. What a frigging selfish jerk.

The sirens from CDA’s mismarked ambulance could be heard. Maclean sauntered toward her. Sam glanced at Hemmer’s house and saw that his two dates had vanished. Of course they had. Bimbos were usually chickens.

“Impressive,” he said, his glance going to the tattered bodice of her dress.

“Gee, I’m so glad you enjoyed the show.” She turned her back on him and knelt, gathering up her weapons and piling them into her messenger bag. She was bloody, bruised, stabbed and dirty, and he didn’t have one hair out of place! He had watched the entire attack. What kind of superpowered hero was he? It was unbelievable. Even an antihero would have cut in.

She stood up. “Thanks for all the help.”

He shrugged. “Yer a tough girl. Ye hardly needed my help.”

“Like you’d have bothered.”

“I want ye in my bed, not dead.”

“You have a great way of romancin’ a gal,” Sam snarled.

He smiled. “Every man likes to watch a good fight. Maybe I should help ye next time. Or maybe I’ll be your next target.” His eyes gleamed.

Sam had the instant notion that he’d love for her to fight him with everything she had. “Don’t worry. The day is rapidly approaching.”

His answer was to touch her.

Sam tensed as the back of his hand skimmed the bottom of her breast. He lifted the shreds of her red dress where it had been cut. She inhaled. In spite of the pain, desire was instantaneous and acute. She knew he kept his hand pressed against her breast on purpose.

His gaze was almost silver before he lowered his lashes and dropped the tatters of silk. “Ye need to take care of the cuts.”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages. No one dies from a few scrapes here,” she snapped, but she was trembling and rigid with tension. Damn his sex appeal.

His mouth curled, this time unpleasantly. “An’ I know it very well, Samantha. I live here, remember? Not in that barbaric time.”

She bristled. “It’s Sam. And don’t worry, no one would ever peg you as a medieval barbarian, Maclean. Just a selfish jerk.” Had he been defensive? She thought so, and she couldn’t imagine why.

The white ambulance from Five careened around the intersection, marked as Cornell Presbyterian. Sam dismissed her speculation about Maclean, watching as the agency paramedics leapt out. Then she glanced at Maclean again. He seemed to be noticing that his conquests for the evening were gone.

“You don’t need them,” Sam said. She stepped into the street, aware now that one of her spike heels was gone. Cursing, she flagged down a cab. She seized the door handle and looked at Ian as she opened it. “Get in, Maclean.”

His eyes widened.

She kept her mind blank. “I want to see your digs.”

A slow, hot smile began. He slid into the cab and Sam slid in with him. She shut the door. As he leaned forward to tell the driver where they were going, she reached into her bag. “1101 Park Avenue,” he said.

Sam snapped the handcuff on his wrist. He started, his gaze slamming to hers as she snapped its mate on her own wrist. She smiled at him. “This should be fun.”

SHE HAD JUST handcuffed herself to him.

He started to laugh, amused. Did she think to dismay him? He’d been lusting for her since he’d first seen her. He would never get over her face. Those striking features, those amazing eyes and that cropped platinum-blond hair. He looked forward to the day she rubbed her face over every inch of his body…

He raised his wrist and said, “All ye had to do was tell me, Sam. I’d have brought the handcuffs myself.”

“We stay together tonight,” she said coolly.

But he didn’t hear. As he tugged gently on the handcuffs, his gut churned, the sensation sickening. They were speeding up Central Park West, but the old, stately apartment buildings started to swim in his vision. They became dark ominous shadows…

He could not have a flashback now.

But he recognized the shadows—the small, tight walls of a cellar. The iron on his wrist was attached to one wall. They’d left him in there, like that, for months. His only company had been the rats. He’d been nine years old.

“What’s wrong, Maclean?”

“What’s wrong, Ian? Are you afraid of the dark? The rats? Me?”

He stared up at the demon who had captured him. The demon who had killed him, and then brought him back to life so he could be tortured. Used.

Soft evil laughter sounded.

And although he hadn’t used his voice in months, not since the beginning when he’d screamed and screamed for help, he begged. “Please let me out. Please. I’ll do whatever ye wish.”

“Good, because I have so many uses for a pretty boy like you,” his grandfather said.

“Maclean?”

He’d lived with horror and pain—and abject fear—for sixty-six years. But he heard Sam Rose, and somehow, he looked at her.

He was sweating.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her vivid blue gaze moved over him. “Hot flash?”

Her mockery brought him firmly back to the present and the taxicab they shared. He looked back at her and shook his wrist, so the handcuff wriggled between them. “Of course I’m hot. We’re shackled together.”

For one more moment she stared. He was fairly certain she did not believe the excuse he’d just made. He didn’t care what she believed. He was aware that she thought him selfish and a user—and she was right. He had one and only one interest in her.

Pleasure was an escape. He never had flashbacks during sex.

The first time he had seen Sam Rose, she had been crossing the street in Oban, Scotland, causing male pedestrians to trip and stare. Traffic had come to a screeching stop. His mouth had gone dry and he’d become as hard as a two-by-four. He’d known then and there that he’d have her. No woman had ever denied him. He’d been honest when he said he always got what he wanted.

He’d felt her warrior power instantly and that had added to her allure and appeal. Most of the women he used were rich and bored, the highlight of their day a trip to Cartier. Now he knew even more about her. She was a powerful Slayer. The highlight of her day was a bloody fight with the devil. He would never forget the sight of her battling the possessed teens in her little red dress and spike heels just moments ago—fighting as he’d never seen a woman fight before. She’d taken down the five possessed teens effortlessly. And she had not been afraid. He’d have felt it. Evil did not frighten her.

It frightened everyone else.

It frightened him.

He hid beneath a pile of towels, trying to make himself as small as he could. His grandfather had returned and he had guests—and he was calling for him. Fear made him sick. He lost control of his bladder. He was throwing up. He knew what they’d do to him. They were bored and he’d be the evening’s sport—until they went to hunt the Innocent on the streets. There was nowhere to hide and they wouldn’t let him die. He’d heard Moray telling his captors that he must be kept alive—at all costs.

He prayed to his father, begging him to hear him, begging him to come rescue him.

The door opened and the lights in the bathroom came on.

He was sweating and sick now. His gut was so tight, he thought it might explode. He reminded himself that he was not a captive child now and that Sam Rose wasn’t evil. He wasn’t helplessly shackled and chained. Monsters weren’t waiting to devour him, his grandfather’s guests weren’t waiting to rip him apart. This was a game. And she was going to wind up in his bed, beneath his body, and he’d be the one pounding into her. He was not a prisoner now. He was a free man—wealthy, powerful and in control of his life.

She jerked hard on the handcuffs. “If you leap into that vault, you will be taking me with you.”

He had no idea if a pair of handcuffs would keep her with him during a leap. He didn’t need to use that power to get into Hemmer’s vault. He could open locks and dismantle alarms with his mind, but Sam already knew that. If he needed to leap to get inside, he didn’t think he’d have the courage to do so. Pain still terrified him.

Ian turned to stare out of the taxi’s window. He refused to go back into the past now.

“What is it? I happen to know firsthand that one person with the power to leap can bring another along. Handcuffs might do the trick.”

Somehow he smiled at her. “Really? An’ who gave ye the ride?”

Her gaze widened, focused on his. It was far too searching, too direct. He wasn’t good at reading minds. The power came and went. Sometimes it was sketchy, as if there was static in the telepathy. Sometimes it was perfect. But he didn’t need the power to know that she was determined to stop him from stealing the page.

“Nick brought me back with him. We were looking for Brie when your father took her hostage,” she finally said.

He was staring out of the window at Central Park now. So she’d gone back in time—good for her. Then she knew how excruciating leaping through time was.

“You do plan on leaping into the vault, don’t you?”

He wanted to tell her to shut up.

He turned to look at her instead. “Why leap when I can walk inside?”

She smiled. “Good point.”

He’d never let her know that he feared pain, much less the evil causing it. From the moment his demon grandfather had abducted him when he was nine years old, taking him from medieval Scotland to the modern world, he had learned what evil really was. Evil enjoyed fear and pain, and inflicted both at will. Evil lusted for sex, power and death. He’d been kept a prisoner for sixty-six years. And evil had been merciless with him.

At first, he’d thought to escape. At first, he’d thought he would be rescued. Within months, maybe a year, he’d lost hope and wanted to die.

“Do you have an ounce of courage, Ian? Oh, I forgot—your father is a coward, too.”

He tried to fight to free himself but it was impossible. Tears of rage and helplessness streamed. “He’s a hero—good, not evil—like ye!”

“He is evil now, as evil as I am!Yes, your father has fallen to the darkness, Ian.” He laughed. “You are the means I will use to destroy your father. You do remember that, don’t you? It’s the only reason I am bothering to keep you alive…”

He was released. “My father will kill you,” he cried.

“No, I will destroy him. Then you will be freed—and allowed to grow up. And you will live with the guilt, the pain and all these memories—until the gods let you die.”

He flinched as he was caressed…

To this day, he didn’t know how anyone, much less a boy, could have survived what they’d done to him: the rape, the torture, the sick games.

Ian turned to look out of the window, away from Sam, who was clearly trying to guess his thoughts. He had been powerless as a captive, but he had control now. He had wealth. He did as he chose, when he chose—and no one and nothing could or would ever stop him. Anyone who thought to get in his way would pay.

Control meant everything to him. It was a matter of life and death—it was a matter of survival. It was even a matter of sanity.

He had spent most of his life in submission. He would do as he damned pleased now.

He had spent most of his life in pain. He intended to spend the rest of his life in pleasure.

He glanced at the woman seated beside him in the cab. Sam Rose was as fearless as he was not. If she knew his secrets, she might not be so hot for him. But she’d never know the truth. No one ever would.

“What’s got you glowering? Talk about a mood swing.”

“Read my mind.” He managed a smile that felt nasty. But he knew what he needed to get the bitter taste out of his mouth, his gut and his soul.

“You haven’t taught me.”

“Then come here.” He patted his lap.

“No deal.” She smiled coolly at him.

He laid his hand on her hard thigh, his fingertips against her sex. Just barely, he waggled them, pressing the steel cuff into her abdomen. “Have ye ever thought to ask me to take ye into the vault again—nicely?”

She struck his hand away, but he’d felt the thick pulse there, beneath the flimsy dress. “I can tell you’re amused by the handcuffs, but we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“Ye can have the last laugh,” he murmured, staring at her classic profile. “I’ll even give it to ye.”

“This is a business arrangement, but I’ll help you into a cold shower,” she said.

He was finally, thoroughly diverted. “The sooner, the better,” he said swiftly. “Will ye wash my back? Or will ye cuff me to my bed an’ watch me while I…sleep?”

For one moment, their gazes met, and he was certain she knew exactly what he’d be doing while she watched. “Your mind is one track. What a surprise. I’ll be on the other side of the glass when you shower and guess what? I have no interest watching you do anything.”

“Liar,” he taunted.

He thought she flushed.

“We’re handcuffed to one another,” he said softly. “What do ye expect me to think of?”

“Pay the driver,” she said tersely, as the taxi came to a stop in front of his new town house. “By the way, why did you decide on New York City?”

He handed the driver a bill and told him to keep the change. She was on the curb side and he leaned over her to open the door, pressing her back into the seat. “I moved here so I could screw ye.”

“Yeah, right. Good luck,” she said, slipping out of the cab and away from his body. “In case you haven’t noticed, Maclean, you don’t intimidate me one single bit.”

“Then I’ll have to change that.”

The taxi drove off and she said slowly, “I can’t imagine you with a bimbo for more than two minutes, except, of course, for sex.”

She seemed to understand him and he smiled. “Even bimbos have their uses.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t ye use yer boy toys?” he asked softly. It crossed his mind that, when it came to sex, they were alike. It was late enough that no one was on the street as he went to the front door of the turn-of-the-century building and keyed in the door code. Sam stood close behind him, due to the cuffs. He’d left the lights on in the entry foyer, which had double ceilings. As he closed the door he glanced at her bleeding arm, and then at the torn dress. She seemed to be indifferent to the gash on her ribs.

He wondered if she’d even cried out a single time in pain, during the leap she’d endured.

Sam was eyeing the almost microscopic cameras that were angled at the front doors and noting the cameras in the entry hall. She hadn’t missed the cameras outside, either. He waited. She glanced at him and said, “High tech, huh?”

His security system was state-of-the-art. It was not aimed at burglars. But he didn’t owe her any explanations. She was now taking in his furnishings, which were mostly antiques. She put her messenger bag on an Irish library table from the seventeenth century. Even the chandelier above them was from fifteenth-century France. Only the rugs were new—or fairly new. Above the front door was a pair of genuine sixteenth-century swords. “Interesting choice of décor for a modern playboy,” Sam said. Her gaze was sharp. “Come to think of it, your mansion on Loch Awe is as old world.”

“I like old things,” he said. That was true. He hated his time—the sixteenth century—and had chosen not to live there, but he was oddly compulsive about collecting antiques and artifacts, which made no sense. His father had once told him that a part of him yearned for the past. That was bullshit. And he didn’t want to think about Aidan and his wife, Brie, now. “Yer bleedin’all over my twenty-five-thousand-dollar rug.”

“Sorry. I’ll get you a new one—in the twenty-second century, when I’m rich and famous.”

He tugged on the cuff and she came forward, tripping in the broken sandals. He caught her by her hips, which were hard and muscular beneath his hands. He was already in overdrive. Sex would push the last of his memories away. Why wait? “Do ye want to tend the wound?” he asked softly.

“Not if it means letting you out of my sight.” She seized his wrists but didn’t step back. “What, no butler to wait on us?”

“Gerard is sleeping at this hour.” He pulled her closer, and her eyes calmly met his as she came into contact with his huge arousal. “Afraid to be alone with that?”

She took a breath. “I’m never afraid. Hey, I have a great idea. Call Gerard and have him arrange some evening entertainment for you…before you explode.”

He grinned. “Will ye watch?”

“I’m not leaving,” she said flippantly.

He thought about performing for her—again. But that wasn’t what his body was screaming for. He tightened his grasp on her, wedging her against a hall table.

“Don’t think it,” she murmured.

“I can’t think of anything else. Especially with yer body shackled to mine an’ quiverin’ so hotly.”

“You can’t think of anything else, whether we’re shackled together or not.”

He decided not to answer. Instead, he slid his hand down her hip.

She went still, inhaling. “Make a pass at your own risk.”

He smiled. It was hard to restrain himself. He wanted to put his hand between her thighs; he wanted to turn her around and bend her over the table and just do it, finally. She knew. And she wouldn’t object very much. Her words were sharp and caustic, but her tone was thick, those violet-blue eyes smoldering. He could feel her pulse slamming beneath her skin. He could feel her desire building; he could feel the urgency and need.

It almost matched his.

“Why are ye so strong, so brave?” He touched the bloody, crusting tatters of the jersey dress, her left breast brushing his hand, and felt her flinch.

“I’m a Slayer, Maclean.”

“Are ye ever afraid?”

She stared into his eyes. “Not for myself.”

For one moment, he forgot how much he hurt. Admiration swept through him, maybe for the first time. “Then who do ye fear for?”

She wet her lips. “My sister. Brie. Allie…”

Her breast was heavy on the back of his hand. He pressed upward. Her gasp had nothing to do with pain from the gash on her ribs. “How much does it hurt?” he whispered, sliding his hand over to cup her breast.

“What are you, a high-testosterone version of Florence Nightingale?”

He took her bodice in his hands and snapped it down below her breasts.

She inhaled.

His mouth became dry. Very slowly, he looked up into her eyes. “We can tend yer cuts, if ye really wish to, or ye can turn around and let me have ye on this table, from behind, the way I like it.”

Her grasp on his wrists tightened.

He shifted and pushed the weight of his entire arousal against her thigh. “Turn around, Sam.”

She looked down at what was between them. “As good as that looks and feels, no thanks.”

She would resist him still. He reluctantly looked past her bare breasts, her nipples taut, at the open, bleeding knife wound. She wasn’t immortal. She should take care of the cut. He looked up. “Are ye sure? Because I can pleasure ye right now…more than ye’ve ever been pleasured, Sam.”

“I’d rather pleasure myself.”

“Ouch,” he said, but he grinned. He was going to enjoy the hunt. Their gazes held, hers warm but fierce. His hands were positively itching, and he finally let go of her bodice. He knew he’d pay, but he cupped her bare breasts anyway.

Her single spike heel bore into his instep. He released her, cursing.

“Hands off,” she warned. She jerked the dress up.

“Maybe ye should have thought twice about handcuffin’ us together.”

“If you didn’t have the power to leap, I’d handcuff you to the wall,” she snapped. “No, to the bed—but alone. I’ll bet that would torture you.”

He tensed, but hid it. Images flashed. He was hiding beneath the bed. Then he was on it, chained…He forced a smile. “Ye ken we’ll have to sleep together? Bathe together? Use the bathroom together?” His tone was shaky.

She’d noticed. “I can handle it, Maclean. So let’s go. It’s almost one-thirty. I need to clean up and then I’m putting you to bed.”

He stared at her, the need even worse. He had to escape the past. “I’m no gentleman.”

“No kidding. But you’re not a rapist, either.”

He jerked away from her. “Ye don’t know me at all.”

She stared, her messenger bag now in hand. “Is that a warning? Because I’m pretty sure seduction is your MO. Let’s go,” she added sharply. “It’s late and I need a couple of hours of sleep. After all, I am mortal. And just a reminder—if you leap into that vault, I’m coming with you. I’m a really light sleeper.”

The flashback was gone. He started down the hall toward the elevator. “Do ye really think to sleep beside me like a sister?”

“Actually, my plan is to take the floor.”

“How could I live with myself if I let ye sleep on the cold, hard floor when we can share the big, warm bed?” He batted his lashes at her and went past the elevator to a staircase at the end of the hall. He used the elevator often, but didn’t feel up to it now. He was afraid of what would happen in that tight space, after so many flashbacks. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Ian tensed, suddenly disturbed, but not by his past.

He felt evil. It was close by—inside his home. He hadn’t checked his security alerts when he’d come in.

Pausing, he glanced at Sam. She was still and alert, having felt it, too. She showed no fear, just a soldier’s tension. Briefly, for the second time, he had the oddest feeling of admiration for her.

Sam seized his shoulder. “You have company, and it’s not the welcoming kind.”

His gut churned with fear, a reflex he could not control. It didn’t matter. He started upstairs, almost running.

“Maclean?”

He fought the fear, breathing hard. He wasn’t nine years old now. He relished the impending encounter. And then there was only rage, so much so that he did not hear her.

He had been expecting this predator, but he’d been so intent on Sam Rose, he’d forgotten to put himself on guard. He was prepared now.

“Ye stay back,” he said quietly. It was an order. And as he spoke, he used his powers to unlock the handcuffs, which instantly dropped off his wrist.

“I thought you might be able to do that,” Sam said.

The anger began to build, impossibly. He was a man—nearly immortal, with the kinds of powers only those who followed the gods should have. He hated demons, every single one of them, just as he hated the mixed bloods and all evil. He started forward furiously. Sam followed, the steel-toothed Frisbee in her hand. “Ye leave it to me,” he warned her.

“Wow, what a change of heart!”

His library faced them on the next landing. The demon sitting on his brocade sofa there leapt to his feet, his handsome face registering surprise. Then, slowly, he smiled. “This must be a mistake. I’m awaiting a student of mine. He said he needed to see me. Are you Liam’s father?” he said smoothly.

“There is no mistake,” Ian said softly. “You were right to wait—for me.”

The demon stared. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, his eyes burning. “Is this some kind of game?”

“Aye, it’s a game,” Ian murmured, trembling with pentup rage now. The memories flooded him. There was so much pain and fear. “There is no Liam, John. There’s only me.”

“You have power. So what are you, a vigilante? I’ll play.” The demon laughed at him.

Sam made a sound.

Ian had forgotten her presence. He felt his mouth curl as he started forward. “Come and get what you deserve, John,” he murmured. There was no feeling now, not even rage, just determination.

The demon’s smile faltered as Ian paused before him. “You share our desires, don’t you? Somehow you’re tainted. I can feel it.”

“Share this,” Ian said softly. The blade had been strapped to his wrist, beneath his sleeve. He thrust it deep into John’s heart.

But John had seen the movement, and as the blade went deep into his chest, his red-black energy blazed. Ian had known the blast would come and he withstood it, yanking the dagger out and impaling him again. He heard Sam cry out as the black power threw her back into the hall, but he couldn’t care, not now.

This was his revenge.

Alive and enraged, John blasted him again.

It hurt. The pain engulfed him and infuriated him even more, and he tackled the demon and wrestled him to the floor. He seized the dagger, jerked it free of flesh and bone, and sent it back into the bloody heart again. The demon’s red eyes blazed and rolled backward, becoming lifeless.

Ian knew it and didn’t care. He stabbed him again…and again. He would never hide under his bed again, never hide in the closet, never feel pain or fear or shame…John deserved to die for all that he had done, for all those days, weeks, months and years of shocks and cords and prods and the ripping apart and the final submission. Now he recalled every atrocious act. Now he recalled the fear and the pain, merely repressed and buried deep. For fear and pain were who and what he was. But most of all, he recalled the loss of his humanity and sanity, which he would never have again. Sweat and tears blinded him as he raised the knife again.

“He’s dead.”

He heard her but couldn’t stop, even though he realized that the demon was dead, his eyes entirely sightless now, his bloody and mangled body unmoving and still. He buried the knife to the hilt and it quivered in John’s chest.

“Ian. He’s dead.” She clasped his shoulders from behind but merely held him that way, instead of attempting to pull him off.

He became vaguely aware of her grasp. He let go of the knife. Slick with blood, it stood up gruesomely in John’s chest.

“Ian?” she asked very cautiously.

He was panting uncontrollably, straddling the corpse, wiping the moisture from his face, too late realizing it was tears, not sweat, and his hands were covered with blood. He remembered it all.

The pain threatened to kill him.

He turned away and vomited violently.

He didn’t know how long he remained there, on his hands and knees, the tears sliding helplessly down his face. But by the time he sat up, the demon was half gone, his physical presence rapidly disintegrating, leaving a glowing wake of what looked like embers behind. And a terrible silence filled the library.

Comprehension began. Sam Rose had just witnessed his insanity.

He inhaled, seeking composure. Aghast, he launched himself to his feet. To his surprise and relief, she was gone.

He reeled and used a bookcase to steady himself. The relief vanished. She’d been present and had seen what no one had ever seen, except for Gerard. And she might even be smart enough to figure out the truth…

At the wet bar, he washed his hands, wiped the last drops of moisture from his face, dried his hands. As he poured a huge scotch, he heard her returning to the room. Tensing—wishing she’d gone home—he looked up.

She stood in the doorway in her bloody red dress, her expression somber. Her blue eyes were wide and trained on him.

He did not see pity or compassion on her face, for which he was thankful. He’d kill her if she dared to pity him.

He was so tired. He hated this fucking miserable life. “Leave.”

She started.

He slowly smiled, hoping she would stay so he could take his rage out on her. He’d do to her what they’d done to him and enjoy it. “Ye really should take warning. My mood is foul.”

She didn’t move. “No kidding.”

She wasn’t afraid; she was being sarcastic. Briefly he was amazed.

She glanced at the mostly disintegrated corpse. “Remind me not to piss you off too much.”

There was more control. Not a lot of it, but more. He didn’t want to hurt her or torture her—he wanted her in his bed, catering to his every damnable desire. But he did not trust himself.

When he felt like this, he was careful to stay away from women, from humans, from the Innocent. “Go away. Before I do what I want to do.”

“If you think that tantrum scared me, you’re wrong.” But she wasn’t mocking now. Her tone was thoughtful. “You could give lessons in payback.” She slowly approached.

He jumped into her mind. She wanted to comprehend him. She wanted to know why he had acted as he had, why he had mauled the demon to death. She wanted to know if he was okay?

He was fine. He might be crazy, but he had the bank accounts, cars and homes to prove he was okay. This was his life! And none of it was her affair or anyone else’s! His secrets were just that. His life was just that—a dirty, dark secret.

The rage returned and he crossed the room, seizing her wrist hard. The average woman would have protested; she did not. Her gaze slammed to him. “Don’t even think of manhandling me. I’ll kill you,” she warned.

“Try!” He relished the fight.

She saw it and backed down. “Whatever he did to you, I’m not a part of it.”

The rage blinded him. “He did nothin’ to me!”

“Yeah, and that’s why you hacked him apart after he was dead.”

He pulled her up against his hard, explosive body. “An’ how will you stop me from hurtin’ ye?” As adept at martial arts as she was, as powerful as she was, he was stronger—she didn’t have half the powers he had. To make certain she understood that, he whirled her around and pushed her hard against the bookcase. Then he leaned into her, the position sexually aggressive, dominant and threatening. “Can ye really stop me now?” he taunted, pulsing against her buttocks.

She had become still. He delved deeply into her mind and couldn’t find a single shred of fear. In spite of his rage, he was amazed. Instead, she calmly debated the worst scenario—his raping her and her killing him for it, one way or another. And in that moment, he knew she’d succeed or die trying.

He didn’t want her dead.

Some of the anger receded. He had his entire body pressed against hers, from knee to shoulder, his mouth against her ear and the tendrils of hair curling there. As they stood that way, with only two layers of fabric between them, the anger shifted again, this time into an awareness of her body, what it offered him and how desperate he was for escape.

“Sam,” he said harshly, tightening his arms around her waist. As desire and lust took over, he felt her response in her heavy breathing and quivering body.

He closed his eyes, ashamed. For threatening her sexually, as if he’d learned how to behave from his tormentors, and for her having witnessed him in such a maniacal moment. It was hard to breathe. There was so much pressure now. In a moment, there could be so much pleasure, so much relief. “Sam.”

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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

SAM 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.

She sank back down into the chair. “Well, you might consider devising a password.”

He seized the edge of the towel. “Are ye happy now?”

She half wished she had put the dress back on. “You found John online by pretending to be a teenage boy. You lured him here so you could kill him.”

“I’m tired of this game. I want sex. Now. Either put out or leave.” He jerked on the towel, but didn’t pull it away from her. “Which will it be, Sam?”

She understood that he was not going to answer her questions, but she barreled on. “This is about what they did to you, right? What happened to you? When you were a child in captivity?”

His eyes widened.

“I know. I was helping Brie find Aidan, remember?”

He breathed hard and harshly again. “Give me what I want or leave,” he snarled.

“So we’re back to the tiger in the cage?” Why was he even more upset?

For one moment, he did not speak. Then he leaned close. “Such a brave, fearless woman! Ye should fear me, Sam. Or have ye forgotten that my grandfather was a demon?”

She knew this was a good time to back off, because she was pretty certain he was going to rip the towel away—not that she couldn’t handle it. Still, he was really furious. “I know your grandfather was Moray—and I also know your power is white, Maclean. I think his bad genes missed. So what are you hiding?”

His eyes widened and then he struck the papers and files from his desk, knocking over the monitor as he did so. Sam leapt to her feet, but he seized her and pulled her close. “The doorbell woke me up. Yer friend is downstairs. I will steal the page, but not tonight. Now get out.” And he pushed her away, hard.

She stumbled, keeping a firm grip on the towel.

He strode past her, like a whirlwind, in fury.

Sam managed not to cry out.

His back was so scarred, it was a mosaic.

SAM WOKE UP, her neck aching. It took her a moment to realize that she was asleep on the sofa in Maclean’s library, clad in the jeans and tank top Kit had brought last night. She sat up, grunting. The room’s only windows faced north, showing the landscaped terraces of a neighboring building. It was bright enough out that she was certain she’d slept more than a couple of hours.

She cursed and got up, stepping into her worn biker boots. Then she hurried from the library, running a hand through her disheveled hair to comb it.

A man was leaving the master suite, but it wasn’t Maclean. She recognized the gray-haired butler she’d met at Loch Awe. “Where’s Maclean?”

“Good morning, madam.” He was cool. “Will you be having breakfast this morning?”

Sam hurried past him into an opulent drawing room. A doorway to her left led to an exercise room with some major weight lifting equipment and cardio machines. Well, that explained the hard, packed body. His bedroom was directly ahead, the walls pale blue, the ceiling ivory, a huge four-poster bed that looked as if it belonged in a historic castle in its midst.

“Lord Maclean’s rooms are private, Miss Rose,” Gerard said. “He made it very clear to me that you are not welcome in his apartments, and that after breakfast, if you cared to dine, I should ask you to leave.”

Sam strode into his bedroom.

So much testosterone filled it she felt confused, off balance. For one moment, she stared at the bed with its darker blue bedspread and pillows, and then she turned. “When did he leave?”

“A few moments ago.” Gerard stared coldly at her.

She might need him as an ally. “I’m sorry about us having gotten off on the wrong foot last spring,” she said.

He did not soften. “It is terribly impolitic to barge into other people’s homes. But it seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Yeah, I need a lesson in good manners.” She laughed. “Has it ever occurred to you that Maclean might need the very same lesson?”

He stiffened, clearly affronted. “His lordship does the best that he can.”

“Gee, so do I.” She’d forgotten Maclean was titled—the baron of Awe.

“There have been exceptional circumstances.” He was not going to budge.

Sam went on alert. “Really? I’d love to hear about them. How long have you been with his lordship?” She hoped she hadn’t been too mocking upon uttering the last word.

“Two decades, and I do not gossip.”

Sam sighed. That was for the best. Maclean had a jump start on her, and she knew where he was going. She patted Gerard’s arm, who flinched as if she’d struck him. “I really don’t bite. Not unless you ask me to. And even then, you have to ask really, really nicely.”

He scowled at her.

SAM DOUBLE-PARKED her black Lexus sedan in front of One Hemmer House, putting a siren on top of the roof. Still in her jeans and biker boots, wearing dark glasses, she got out and went up to the doorman. He was suitably admiring of the tight denim and tiny white tank top. Sam flashed her fake ID at him. “Did Ian Maclean go up?”

“No, ma’am, but I already told your partner that.”

Sam was surprised. Then she glanced into the lobby. Mac-Gregor was seated on a plush beige sofa, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He gave her a very speculative look.

What did that mean? Almost taken aback, Sam strode inside without bothering to ask the doorman permission. “What’s your gig?”

“Wow, you’re in another great mood. I guess spending the night with Maclean wasn’t all that great?”

“I’m going to kill Kit.”

MacGregor stood. “Actually, we have the apartment wired, so Kit didn’t give you up.” He had a very male look in his eyes. “You’re so tough on the job, Rose,” he said softly.

She actually flushed. Was he kidding? Maclean’s apartment was wired? They’d been on camera? “Are you on Maclean, now?”

“I think Nick is leaving Maclean to you.” He started smiling.

“You’re almost as much of a jerk as he is.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of what? The parade of perfect ass?”

He leaned close. “No one’s ass is as perfect as yours.”

“Don’t I know it.” She walked back out to the street.

“I’m on Hemmer,” he called after her.

Sam ignored him, but she was livid. Nick could have told her he was wiring Maclean’s house. Damn it. They’d probably been eating popcorn and drinking beer at HCU last night—at her expense.

They were all in over their heads. Maclean might not have leapt into the vault yet, but he most definitely could and would leap out with the page and go anywhere he chose, in any time. He’d be almost impossible to find.

She tensed as she acknowledged it. That was why she’d been so determined not to let him out of her sight last night. His absence now was not good news.

She saw Hemmer first, before he saw her. She ducked into her sedan.

He looked like a happy man as he left the building, a paper in one hand, a briefcase in the other. A chauffeur opened the door of a dark sedan and he got inside.

Sam watched as MacGregor leapt into his partner’s gray Toyota, parked just up the block, and cruised after him. “Have fun,” she muttered. “I hope you lose him in the midtown traffic!” It was petty but she was still seething over being on videotape.

She was thinking about that when she saw Maclean get out of a taxi a few moments later. She tensed. He wore a dark gray blazer, a dark T-shirt and jeans, looking no worse for wear. And he walked right past the doorman, greeting him as if he did so every day. Obviously the affair with Becca Hemmer was ongoing. Sam looked at her watch.

It was half past eleven in the morning.

She turned the ignition on and put on the radio, oddly annoyed, and began flipping through the channels. She finally settled on a country music station, which quickly became really annoying. She switched to jazz and looked at her watch again. Only seven minutes had passed. Fox News was always a good bet. She slumped in her seat, listening to Sean Hannity defend America, agreeing with most of what he said. The minutes ticked by, really slowly, and it was excruciating. Of course, she knew what they were doing. He was tiring Becca out, the bastard, and if she didn’t fall asleep afterward, he’d probably drug her or slug her. Not that she cared what he did. He was a sociopath with a really messed-up past, the kind of guy every woman should steer clear of. Someone should warn Becca.

It was a quarter past noon, now.

She changed the station.

He came out twenty minutes later, a parcel under his arm. And he was smiling—dog that he was. And he veered right toward her Lexus.

Sam went still.

Still smiling, he knocked on the window, his gaze on hers. He was wearing aviator sunglasses.

She rolled it down. “Guess I’m made.”

He removed the glasses and his gaze moved over her tiny white tank top. “Ye could never pass by a man unnoticed.”

“Gee, a compliment. I’m in a relatively generic car with tinted windows.”

“But the doorman thinks ye look like Sharon Stone when she was in Fatal Attraction.”

“Remind me not to chat with the help.” Sam pushed open the door, making him step back, and she got out, turning the ignition off but leaving the key.

His gaze moved over her tight, distressed jeans. “I hope I didn’t keep ye waitin’ too long.”

“I love country music.”

“I did try to rush.”

“Don’t bother with the details.”

“Why? Are ye jealous?” He started to laugh.

“Of a mindless bimbo having mindless sex with an unrepentant sociopath? Are you kidding?”

“Mindless is how ye like it, isn’t that right? Even with a sociopath? Even with me?”

Sam felt a fist hollow her. Slowly, she said, “Mindless sex is definitely better than the other kind.”

Sam looked away from his hard gray stare, which was somehow speculative, at the package under his arm. She knew what the parcel contained. “It’s probably disintegrating even as we speak. That page needs climate control, 24/7. Want to share?”

He almost smiled. “Sharing is against my nature.”

“Of course it is. So what’s the plan?” And she reached for his cheek and dragged her nails lightly there. The gesture intensified the vibrations in her body. “What are you going to do with it? Or have you lined up a buyer, the way you did the van Gogh?”

He caught her hand and reeled her in. “I’m selling it to the highest bidder.”

She moved closer, against his big, stiff body. “Somehow I’m not surprised. I didn’t peg you for a patriot. Any way I can get you to play for the good guys?”

“Convince me,” he said.

He was hard already—clearly, it didn’t take much. Not that she should criticize, he had a similar effect on her. “Love to,” Sam said softly.

She moved. He held her hand and she ducked under his arm and twisted it behind his back, at lightning speed. It was a move she’d performed hundreds of times, always with the same results—it incapacitated a man, because if she didn’t stop, she’d break his arm. But he moved with her.

As if he knew what she meant to do, he went with her, preventing her from twisting his arm, and they wound up in their starting positions, face-to-face, holding hands, breathing hard.

He grinned. “I was hopin’ fer a different kind of persuasion, Sam.”

She went for his solar plexus. He dodged the attack and lightly blasted her with power, sending her backward, into her car. “Sorry,” he taunted.

She cursed.

He hurried into the street, raising his hand to flag down a taxi. Brakes screeched. Sam launched herself upright as he waved the parcel containing the page at her. Then he opened the driver’s door, pushed the driver out and got in, taking over the wheel.

Sam leapt into her car, turned the ignition on, jammed it into Drive and peeled out after him. Horns blared at her. She ignored the outrage. A Honda crashed into a parked car to avoid hitting her as she barreled through the traffic.

She hit the gas. She was not going to lose him, but there were half a dozen yellow cabs ahead, each identical at this distance. She was careful to keep him in her sights.

His yellow cab suddenly veered away from the group, turning abruptly onto a side street.

Sam cursed, weaving past two taxis to follow him. But a woman and a child were already stepping into the street and she had to slam on the brakes. Maclean was almost at the end of the block and she saw that he was going to run the changing light. “Shit!”

She leaned out of her window. “Move!” she screamed at the woman. She turned her siren on.

The woman leapt across the street, the boy in tow. Sam slammed down the accelerator. Maclean was entering the next intersection, and the light between them had turned red. She cursed and hit the gas harder, using the horn. Miraculously, the New Yorkers about to cross the street actually stopped and she drove furiously forward, into the uptown traffic.

Horns blared, tires screeched. An SUV hit her passenger side door. Sam kept going. The Lexus leapt into the next street, only a half a block between them now.

He was laughing—she just knew it.

Ahead, she saw the cab veer left, heading back downtown.

Sam drove faster, the light ahead still green. Not that it mattered—she was on Broadway now and dozens of pedestrians were jaywalking. She held down the horn, the blare incessant, her sirens still screaming, but the pedestrians ignored her. She braked hard to avoid vehicular manslaughter.

The crowd streamed across the street, blocking her way.

She leaned out of her window, firing her gun into the air. “Get out of my way!”

The men and women walking past her car ran for the safety of the sidewalk.

Sam shot through the intersection.

About twenty yellow cabs were ahead of her.

She slowed, her heart racing, scanning the mass of taxicabs. From behind, most of them looked alike. “Shit.”

The light changed. The traffic moved on. She followed the pack of yellow cabs, now trying to feel him. “Where are you, you sonuvabitch? Which one are you?”

She didn’t expect an answer. But she focused as never before.

And she felt his hot male power. Oh yeah, she did.

Her gaze slammed onto a cab on the right side of the mass. “Gotcha,” she snarled. She turned the wheel hard, cutting off a delivery van, ignoring the driver, who hit the brakes, cursing her through his window. She slammed down the gas and drove her vehicle right into his rear fender.

The cab bounced hard at the contact, the fender crumpling. Then Maclean turned and looked over his shoulder at her.

He was laughing.

“I’m having the last laugh, Maclean,” she said. “And I am staying right here, glued to your shiny yellow ass.” She smiled, wondering what he would do next.

She found out two blocks later. Suddenly he swerved toward the sidewalk and she followed him, determined to stay with him. Maclean looked like he was going to hit the patrons of a sidewalk café, and the masses screamed, people diving away from their tables and chairs. He swerved again. Sam followed as he drove into the exit ramp of a parking garage—at full speed.

He was testing her, she thought grimly, her hands clamped on the steering wheel. But she did not have a death wish. The exit ramp spiraled tightly upward—making it impossible to see who was coming down.

Sam slowed fractionally.

And as she turned the corner, she saw a car swerving away from the down ramp to avoid a head-on collision with Maclean.

Maclean swerved between two pillars to avoid the next descending car and Sam came hood to hood with it. She swerved, hard, bouncing into the ramp’s concrete wall, metal screaming. The oncoming Volkswagen hit the ramp wall dead on.

Breathing hard, Maclean no longer in sight, she took the next corner. She swerved to avoid another descending car and sideswiped some parked vehicles, while the passing vehicle hit the garage posts. The next car coming down the ramp swerved to avoid a head-on collision, as did Sam. She drove her Lexus hard up the ramp, against the concrete wall, sparks shooting off her car. She heard the car she had just passed collide with either the ramp wall or a pillar.

And when she turned the next corner, she was on the garage’s top level. Maclean was racing the taxicab through the rows of parked cars.

Sam hit the brakes. The top level was mostly unoccupied, and she could see that the roof of the garage was a rectangle. The buildings on three sides were taller; she did not know what was on the fourth side.

Where was he going?

The only place for him to go was down, but he’d sped by the entrance ramp, and he was far from where she sat at the top of the exit ramp.

Sam realized he was heading for the open side of the garage. She shifted into gear and drove toward it.

Maclean didn’t stop.

Sam was close enough now to realize that the roof of the adjacent building was about two stories below the garage’s top floor. And she realized what he was going to do.

She braked hard. “Are you crazy?” she cried.

And as she spoke, the cab hit the low barrier wall, went through it and was briefly suspended in the air.

Then it fell.

And it landed hard on the lower roof.

Sam leapt from her Lexus and ran across the garage to the barrier wall. Below, she saw the cab on the asphalt roof, looking somewhat mangled. The driver side door opened and Ian Maclean got out.

He waved at her and, holding the parcel, started across the roof. A moment later he’d entered the building, disappearing from her view.

Sam dialed 911.

He was crazy. Either that, or he didn’t care if he lived or died.

CHAPTER FIVE

IAN WANTED TO WAKE UP.

So much dread began that he could not breathe.

But the scene was so innocent, his reaction made no sense—except that he knew something terrible was going to happen.

He watched the children milling down the front steps of the Brooklyn public school, from a distance. Laughing and chattering, they were being met by their parents and care-givers. He did not want to watch, but his focus zoomed in closer. One boy wasn’t laughing or speaking. His heart sank as he recognized the thin, sullen, dark-haired boy.

It was himself.

The focus shifted and he was that boy now, his heart hammering with fear. He liked school but he hated going home. He was always careful to never think about what might happen when he got there—until the last bell of the day rang, and there was no other choice.

A dark shadow fell into step beside him.

His fear increased. He ignored the fingertips sliding along his cheek. They walked the three blocks home in silence.

At the door of the house, he said, “Your grandfather has returned, Ian. He has special plans for you.”

Ian choked, closing his eyes. Months and sometimes even a year would go by without Moray returning. Ian knew he preferred Scotland to New York. He would dream about his never coming back—that he would finally be allowed to go home.

He stood on the threshold of the dark, narrow, turn-of-the-century house, afraid.

Inside that house was his worst nightmare. He knew pain and fear and shame would greet him if he went in there. He knew he’d find his various captors in there, demons who changed over the years, and he also knew that he’d find Moray, too.

The Innocent wept and begged for mercy from the cellar.

God, he’d forgotten about them. He’d forgotten how he’d try to bring them food and water, only to be tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life for it.

He became sick. He couldn’t go inside.

And the door slowly opened. Black evil poured out onto the street, cloaking him. He tensed, aware of the evil worming its way into him.

“Stop cowering and come inside.” His grandfather smiled. “I have a use for you, my boy.”

Ian sat up, gasping. Fear and panic clawed through him, the talons knifelike. It took him an instant to realize that he had been dreaming. He cursed.

The dreams were as bad as the flashbacks.

In that first waking moment, there was nothing but fear. He launched himself from the plush chaise where he’d fallen asleep. He was still trembling, wet with sweat. He refused to think about the dream—he did not want to go there, not now, not ever. He took a breath and saw that it was early evening. He’d arrived home a few hours ago and sat down to savor his triumph over Sam Rose. He’d thought about her reckless courage, unable to quell his admiration. He’d had three or four drinks. And he must have fallen asleep.

He glanced at the unfinished drink and sandwich by the chair. He feared sleep almost as much as he feared pain and evil, which was why he avoided it at all costs. Sleep always brought nightmares, and waking up brought horrific, vivid and recycled memories.

Sometimes he went days without sleeping. But in the end, the past always triumphed. Eventually he would fall asleep for a few moments, the way he’d just done now.

His grandfather Moray had been one of the greatest demons to ever walk the earth. Rumor had it he had ruled his evil empire for almost a thousand years. His one failure had been his inability to completely turn his son Aidan, Ian’s father, to the dark side. Moray was not only accustomed to power, he was obsessed with it. Every demon lusted for power—it was the reason for their pleasure crimes. But Moray wanted to rule the world. Aidan was his worst enemy—his own son, refusing his wishes, his commands. Moray had abducted Ian in 1436, when he was nine years old, in order to use him against Aidan, intending to destroy him.

He hadn’t. In the end, Aidan had vanquished Moray, and Ian had been freed.

He’d been released exactly twenty-five years ago, just before Moray was destroyed once and for all by Aidan and Brie. Although Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, he’d spent most of his life in modern times, in New York City, where he’d been kept captive. Ian would never forget the day he had been freed. His father had found him and there had been so much relief. It had been his wildest dream coming true. There had even been joy. But the joy had been so brief.

Because Moray had returned him to Scotland in 1502. The moment he’d stepped outside of Elgin’s tower, he’d been in the medieval world. It should have been familiar to him, but instead, it had been strange and confusing, upsetting. He could barely remember his earlier childhood years there. Instead, he began to wonder why his father hadn’t come to his rescue sooner. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting Moray or one of his captors to be there, waiting to hurt him. And he couldn’t sleep. When he slept, he dreamed.

And he had still been nine years old.

His grandfather had deprived him of every aspect of a normal childhood by putting a spell on him, one which had kept him nine years old for the duration of his captivity—emotionally as well as physically. But upon being released, he’d rapidly aged, becoming an adult man within months. Biologically he was one hundred years old, but he’d only been an adult for twenty-five years. None of it mattered. He felt a thousand years old.

Ian drained the rest of his scotch whiskey. No one knew better than Ian how sadistic, cruel and evil the son of a bitch had been. Even though he was vanquished, Ian still feared him. He could think of nothing worse than dreaming of his grandfather—other than actually coming face-to-face with him again.

Moray had once told him that he was Satan.

Ian believed it.

Moray had said, laughing, “Haven’t you grasped the truth yet? I am Satan.”

His heart had exploded with fear and disbelief. He choked, hugging the bars of the cage he’d been put in—his current punishment. “Ye canna be Satan. Satan is the father of all evil.”

Moray had reached for the door, smiling cruelly. “But I have so many faces, my son. Now will you do as I command?”

Ian reached for his drink and realized it was empty. He cursed. Satan had imbued Moray’s very existence and all that he had done. Satan surely had a thousand faces. Moray had been one.

How else would Moray have survived for over a thousand years? The Brotherhood and other great men had hunted him across time. They’d all failed, until Aidan and Brie had destroyed him.

And now his father, who had left him alone with evil for so long, had gone down in history as a great Master. Ian laughed. He knew the sound was bitter. He didn’t care. Hooray for the great Wolf of Awe, he thought caustically.

He had almost all the powers his father had, and a few he didn’t have. But Ian knew they’d never ask him to join the Brotherhood. The gods knew the truth about the years of captivity. They knew how defiled he was, how deficient, how insane. Not that he cared. If they were ever crazy enough to ask him to join, he’d refuse, because he was too different to ever be one of them. How could he ever be trusted to protect Innocence?

Hanging in the cage, the Innocent sobbed in fear.

“Do it.”

He held the knife, starting to cry.

“Do it, Ian, or suffer as they will suffer.”

He knew what he had to do. But he couldn’t do it, not to the little girl and not to her mother. He looked up at the monk, who stood beside him with his grandfather.

“Punish him,” Moray snarled.

Suddenly Ian grunted in pain. He realized that he had been holding his glass so tightly he had broken it. His hand was bleeding now. He cursed and let the cracked glass fall.

Sometimes he hated everyone—the gods, his father, the world.

At the end, when they knew he’d never try to escape—when he knew he’d never be freed—Moray had tried to turn him. It was another ploy meant to destroy his father. But in spite of his fear of them, and his fear of what the punishment for refusal would be, he hadn’t ever been able to hurt anyone innocent. The boy had been heroic, but the man flirted with pain. Sometimes he had such an intense urge to hurt others, even the women he slept with. But it was nothing like the urge he so often had to hurt himself.

When he’d been on that garage rooftop earlier, he’d looked over the edge, and wondered if he’d finally die. When that day came, he’d embrace death as he’d never welcomed anything else. Others might fear death. Ian knew death was peace.

Now, he tested his shoulder. He’d suffered a few bumps and bruises in the car chase.

Sam Rose’s striking image filled his mind. He hadn’t expected her to keep up with him today, just like he hadn’t expected her to stick around last night. But she had. That woman was a cool character. And she could drive like she fought—which was probably how she fucked.

His intention had always been to get her fighting and clawing into his bed. He wanted a savage sexual contest. But suddenly he imagined her smiling warmly, stroking him softly, gentle and tender beneath him.

And he laughed out loud at himself. If she made love to him like a pussycat, he’d be bored out of his mind. What was wrong with him? Where had that fantasy come from?

He shook his head. She was very powerful, very smart and maybe as sexually driven as he was…and so beautiful, she made it hard to breathe. He smiled. She would hold her own with him in bed. She’d be tireless, insatiable, and very demanding.

He realized he was sort of glad that she wasn’t hurt.

That notion surprised him as he rang for Gerard, deciding he was hungry. His one and only interest was himself. There was no way he would care that she was unhurt, unless it was because he wanted her whole for their next encounter.

He was getting impatient for her.

He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he’d moved to New York so he could screw her. Hunting her from Scotland had required more patience than even he had.

He looked forward to their next encounter. He was enjoying the opening salvo in their little war. And then he recalled last night.

He began to pace. He had banished what had happened with John from his mind. He’d gotten his revenge, even if Sam had seen him at his weakest. There wouldn’t be any explanations. He owed her nothing—other than a night or two of extreme sexual pleasure. His secrets were going to stay secrets. He’d lose whatever sanity he had left, if the truth about his captivity ever came out.

The intercom buzzed, interrupting that worrisome thought. He crossed the drawing room of his master suite. “Gerard?”

“Sir, Mr. Hemmer has arrived. Should I wait to bring your supper?”

“Please do. And thank you, Gerard.” He released the button, pleased. It hadn’t taken his old pal very long to add two plus two.

In no particular hurry, he walked into his large walk-in closet and shed his clothes. He slipped on worn jeans and a paper-thin blue cashmere sweater. Although it was midsummer, he kept the town house cool. Then he glanced at his eighteen-carat gold Cartier watch. It was a quarter to eight. He went downstairs to greet his guest.

Gerard had served Hemmer a ten-year-old Philips Insignia cabernet wine, which he hadn’t touched. Instead, Rupert was staring at his recently acquired Motherwell. It wasn’t all that valuable—it had originally been sold for fortyfive thousand dollars—but he happened to like the bold red and black strokes which the artist had used on the starkly white canvas. For him, Motherwell symbolized the life-and-death struggle of good and evil. He’d actually paid for the acrylic painting.

Hemmer turned, scowling and flushed.

“Having a bad day?” Ian asked, trying not to sound too happy about it. He kept his gaze as innocent as possible. He truly disliked Hemmer. Although technically human, he was evil to the core. Stealing the van Gogh for him had purely been business and he relished sticking it to him. “Ye might want to watch yer blood pressure.”

“I know exactly one person who could disable my security system and get away with the Duisean page without triggering a single alarm,” Hemmer snapped.

Ian grinned. “Surely there are other thieves as skilled as me in the world.”

“I invited you into my home as a friend.”

Ian dropped his smile. “We were never friends. Ye asked me to get ye the van Gogh and ye paid me handsomely to do so.”

“That made us business partners, Maclean.”

“Aye…an’ possession is ten-tenths of the law, now isn’t it? Ye’d know that better than anyone.” Ian walked over to a seventeenth-century cupboard to pour himself a glass of the fine wine.

Hemmer followed. “So it was you! You bastard! You came to my party only to steal from me.”

He was calm. “It takes a thief to know one.” He sipped and was impressed.

Hemmer was shaking. “Have you bothered to consider that I am one man you do not want to cross?”

Ian shrugged. “I’m trembling.”

Hemmer grimaced, eyes ablaze. “How much? How much will you extort from me? How much will it cost me to get the page back?”

Ian tried to slip into his mind, but the power eluded him. All he felt was Hemmer’s fury and a sense that Hemmer meant to make him suffer for what he’d done, but he hadn’t needed telepathy to comprehend that. Hemmer had to know that the page had god-given powers. Ian didn’t think he’d pay over two hundred million dollars for it, otherwise. The man wasn’t even Irish.

But there was more. A black shadow clouded Hemmer’s thoughts—a distinct but undefined presence. Was someone else involved in Hemmer’s desire to possess the page? Ian tried again, but he couldn’t quite bring that other person into focus—if there were another person involved. He couldn’t find a name. He merely glimpsed the black shadow, which remained. If the shadow was a demon, that certainly upped the stakes. “I’m taking bids until Friday at midnight. Make yer best offer.”

Hemmer choked on outrage. “You’re taking bids? The page is mine! How much do you want for it?”

“Make yer best offer,” he repeated flatly. “I’m selling to the highest bidder.” He smiled and added softly, “Good luck.”

Hemmer breathed hard. “You’ll be sorry, Maclean. I am not the kind of man you really wish to cross.”

Ian was amused. He feared demons—not evil billionaires like Rupert Hemmer. If Hemmer was playing with demons, he might be afraid, but that still wouldn’t stop him. Because hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake. And wealth was power. “Really? Good luck making me pay, as well.”

Hemmer slowly smiled. It was a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t trust you when we first met. I should have known. So, did you enjoy my wife last night? Did you enjoy her today?”

He’d known they were being taped. He shrugged. “She was skilled enough.”

Hemmer went still. “I know you think yourself above us all. But you should fear me, Maclean. No one has as much power as I do in mortal realm—and I have allies. Allies that will make you seem weak and pathetic.”

A twinge of wariness went through him. He’d been right. Hemmer had demonic allies. He’d intended to sell to the highest bidder, but he did not want to become involved with any great black powers.

On the other hand, he’d spent twenty-five years making himself as safe as possible, and a hundred million dollars or so would be the icing on the cake. Being safe—making his world impregnable—was the driving force of his existence. People thought he was a greedy bastard—how wrong they were.

And he didn’t like threats. There’d been a thousand of them during his years of captivity. “I don’t like being threatened, Rupert.” He nodded dismissively at him.

“And I don’t care to be mocked, and I especially don’t like being duped.” He started for the doorway, then turned. “I taught Becca every trick she knows. I wonder…how many tricks does Sam Rose know?”

Ian stiffened, incredulous.

“When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”

Ian watched him leave, and suddenly he was livid.

SAM SLOWLY CLOSED the door to her loft and leaned heavily against it.

Her car was more or less totaled. She’d left it right where it was, taking a cab back to HCU, where she’d gone directly to Five. Her rib cage was bleeding and the doctor there had lectured her for not having it properly attended the night before. He’d added three stitches and redone the bandage. She did have a sprain, too, and he’d wrapped that. One of the collisions must have caused her to hit her head, because she had a black eye. He’d given her an ice pack—and then he’d asked her out. Sam had politely refused.

She didn’t move. Her ankle hurt, her rib cage burned and her left eye throbbed. She’d managed to escape the building without being waylaid by anyone, especially not her boss. By now, Nick had to know that the page was stolen—and that one of his top agents had caused multiple car wrecks.

Damn Maclean.

What was wrong with him?

She pulled off one boot, then had to sit down on a kitchen stool to get off the other one. Sheer fatigue set in. It had been a hellish twenty-four hours. At work, they thought her a superagent, but she was human, which everyone seemed to forget. Sam half limped into the kitchen, found a bottle of red wine and uncorked it. She poured a glass and took it with her, limping toward her bedroom.

Maclean’s image was etched on her mind as she’d last seen him, standing on the rooftop beside the dented taxi, waving at her. She paused, recalling his horrifically scarred back. That was a sight she’d never forget—as was his breakdown after destroying John.

Being held captive as a child by gross evil was what was wrong with him. The fact that he was alive to tell the story was miraculous.

To get to her bedroom, she had to pass Tabby’s door.

Tabby’s bedroom door was closed. Sam always kept it shut. When Tabby had first gone back in time, abducted by Macleod, Sam had expected her to return. Every time she’d passed by her bedroom, she glanced inside, but Tabby hadn’t been there. It wasn’t like her to leave without saying goodbye. But no one could resist Fate, and Tabby’s was in the past. One day, Sam had shut her door, resolved to never open it again. In her heart, she knew she’d see Tabby again, sooner or later. There was simply no other possibility.

Just then, she wished it were sooner. Sam shoved her shoulder against the door and opened it, then turned on the lights. Tabby’s bedroom was classic and elegant, just like Tabby. It was as neat as her sister had been. The décor was blue and white, right down to the French Etoile design of the bedding and drapes. For one moment, she could see her sister reading in that bed and Tabby smiling warmly at her.

A huge pang went through Sam. “Okay, I miss you, sis,” Sam said, feeling foolish. “And I could really use your advice. Can you believe it? I need advice! So…where are you? How can I get to you? I’m getting antsy, Tabby. I really expected our paths to cross before now. Of course, you’ve only been gone for seven months, but it feels like years! And I do know you’re happy…This is so dumb, but in a few days I turn twenty-eight, and you have never missed my birthday.”

They’d always had amazing telepathy, from the time they were toddlers, only a year and a half separating them in age. But Tabby didn’t answer her now, and Sam didn’t expect her to. After all, she was centuries away. But she’d meant her words. If she had the ability to go back in time, she would visit her sister and talk her ear off. And she’d do it tomorrow. Enough was enough, really.

But which time should she go to?

Maclean had taken her back to the late thirteenth century. When Sam had gone back with Nick to look for Brie, they’d found Tabby in 1502 and she’d been two hundred years older.

Time-travel changed reality, big time.

While Sam considered herself and her sister perfectly human, they weren’t exactly ordinary. Tabby had the power of magic, and Sam was aware that her strength wasn’t average, not at all. And she’d always had a few kinetic abilities up her sleeve, too. The razor-edged DVD that she kept taped to her arm could be summoned to come down into her hand; she could will her stiletto out of her garter and move small objects around, too—like forks across the table. She could even push open the occasional door or gate. Her coworkers thought her truly skilled with weapons; Nick was probably the only one who knew she had a bit of extra-worldly help. But the interesting fact was that Tabby had lived for over two centuries, which made Sam wonder about the old family joke that a Rose woman only got better with age. That little jest had always been delivered with a wink.

Sam knew exactly how her sister would react to Ian Maclean, if they should ever meet. Tabby would feel sorry for him. She’d excuse his behavior, rationalize it all. She’d cook him a gourmet dinner, pour him really good wine, give him lectures on life, and top it off with a bear hug.

He wouldn’t be immune to her kindness. Everyone liked Tabby. Ian would probably act human around her for a change.

Sam couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine having a normal conversation with him. Even thinking it was a bad idea—and she didn’t want to have a conversation with him, not really. She closed the door, reminding herself of how selfish and screwed up he was. And he frigging owed her a car, not that she’d ever collect.

She limped into her own bedroom, which was painted brown and beige and was as starkly modern as Tabby’s was genteel. She stripped, showered and slipped on gray fleece shorts and a plain white T-shirt. All the while, she thought about how insanely he’d driven that taxicab during the car chase, which kept replaying in her mind. She was certain that he didn’t care if he died.

But then, he didn’t seem to care about anyone or anything, did he?

She knew she shouldn’t go there, but it was sort of sad. He was Aidan of Awe’s son. Ian had inherited so much white power from his father—which he wasn’t using. Or rather, he wasn’t using it as he should. He was using his powers to steal art and accumulate wealth. There wasn’t a trace of evil in him, even if his grandfather had been a demon, but there was so much indifference, as real as his shocking selfishness.

And then there was his pain.

Sam did not want to think about him on his hands and knees, crying. But she wasn’t ever going to forget the way he’d vanquished that demon. The scene was engraved on her mind, unfortunately.

Sam would like to think that he had vanquished the demon out of concern for the war on evil, but that was a helluva stretch. He’d vanquished John out of personal vengeance. He didn’t care about the war on evil. He’d pretty much proven that.

Her stomach was churning, and not because she was drinking on an empty stomach. She wished she had someone to talk to. Maclean remained an enigma. Tabby would encourage her to be soft and kind, which was not a good idea. Of that, Sam was certain.

Especially since he now had the page and she was determined to get it back.

The thought was barely formed when the downstairs buzzer sounded. Sam limped into the kitchen, curious. She never had uninvited callers. Everyone knew how much she protected her privacy.

“Hey, Sam, it’s me,” Kit said. “Can I come up?”

Kit never dropped by, but Sam was relieved to hear her voice. Kit was smart. She loved research. She was logical. Maybe she could help her figure Maclean out. “Come on up.”

Kit appeared with a grocery bag and a bottle of wine. “I heard about last night and today,” she said, setting the bag on the counter. She withdrew a bottle of red wine, a bag of baked soy chips and avocado and yogurt dip. She added mini soy dogs, and started to put a batch in the microwave. She was a health nut.

“By last night, do you mean the happy videos of me fending off Maclean’s sexual advances?”

Kit gave her a worried look. “That, too. But that’s not so odd—he’s a guy. I heard he went really nuts on a demon.”

“Yeah, he did.” Sam poured her a glass of wine and Kit dumped the chips into a bowl. They went back into the living room.

“You look really bad,” Kit said. “So what happened today?”

“I decided to chase him down, not realizing that he has a death wish. We had a car chase that ended with him driving off a rooftop.”

Kit sat down and said, “Don’t let him take you to the grave with him. He could have gotten you killed, for God’s sake!”

Sam had to smile. That would be a travesty, because she intended to die slaying demons. Then, carefully, she said with guilt, “He won this round. I feel really responsible for his having the page from the Duisean. I have to get it back.”

“It’s not your fault. But I don’t think he’ll hand it over to you.”

Sam laughed without mirth. “No, he won’t. He’s going to sell it to the highest bidder. And there’s a good chance that bidder will be someone far more evil than Hemmer. We don’t have the budget to even make a decent bid! How pissed is Nick?”

“It’s a good thing you skipped out.”

Sam sighed. “Maclean simply doesn’t care who’s good and who’s bad. He doesn’t care about anything except himself and his impossible sex drive.”

Kit blinked. Then she blushed.

Sam looked closely at her. She’d just embarrassed her. Although she was in her midtwenties, sometimes Kit acted like a virgin. “He’s into sex, Kit. And with me, he’ll use it as a weapon—if he can.”

“He’s really attractive,” Kit said.

Sam grimaced. “Until you get to know him.”

“And you do?”

She sobered. “No, I don’t. In fact, I bet no one knows him—and he wants it that way. But he’s in the game—a game we have to win.”

“Is that it? Or are you just a wee bit intrigued by all that brooding sex appeal?”

“He’s hot but I am not intrigued.” Kit was staring skeptically now. “I shouldn’t want to know what makes him tick, except as an agent. I know that. But, Kit, I’m a bit shaken from what I saw last night. He went berserk with the demon. He was out of control, crazed. And afterward, he had a brief breakdown. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

Kit’s eyes were wide. “You’re never moved by anything or anyone. Are you telling me you feel sorry for Maclean?”

It was hard not to be moved by a man as powerful as Maclean losing it to the point of tears, Sam thought. “I’m a pro, remember? I’d never allow myself to feel sorry for him! But he’s the number one player in this game, and the stakes are high. The more we know about him, the better.”

Sam had the funny feeling that she was lying. It was her job to figure him out, but he turned her on and he’d shaken her up. In fact, she almost felt confused. She looked at Kit.

“How can you not feel sorry for him, as a human being?” Kit asked.

“Kit, we’re trained to be objective on the job.”

“I read his file.”

Sam went still. She needed to know what Kit had discovered, but suddenly she wished she didn’t have to go there.

“Sam? Why do you have a funny look on your face?”

Dryly, wishing she could confide in Kit, she said, “The suspense is killing me.”

“What’s going on between you two?”

Sam tensed. “Nothing. I mean, he wants into my pants, and I said no. He’s enjoying the chase. Don’t they all?”

“Why would you say no?” Kit was puzzled. “He’s a stud, just the way you like them. I’ve never known you to refuse a hot guy and then dump him on your terms.”

Sam became uncomfortable. An image flashed of her in Maclean’s bed. They’d tear each other apart, use each other up, she thought. It would be off-the-charts passion. She knew it. “He’s under investigation, Kit. Why are we talking about my sexual habits?”

“We’re not. We’re talking about you and Ian Maclean, a near-immortal with a two-inch-thick agency file, filled with flags. A near-immortal who, I might add, is a suspect in the thefts of art worth hundreds of millions of dollars. A near-immortal who spent decades in demonic captivity. He should be one of us—but he’s not. But he’s not one of them, either. I think it’s worth talking about how you’re dealing with him. And if you have feelings, I think that’s worth looking at, too. And that is why I’m here.” She flushed. “I’m worried about you.”

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