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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.
