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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.
