Dark Lover (34 page)

Sam stopped the car in front of the huge country house. She made no move to get out of the car, even though she was racing the clock now.

He'd left her standing there naked, the doors open, and he'd walked out on her.

She hadn't thought she'd ever forgive him, but damn it, she sure had.

The memory was killing her. She almost expected to walk through the front doors that were facing her now and find Ian inside, arrogant, mocking and so damned cool about it all—and so hot about her. But he wasn't inside. He was somewhere in Brooklyn, a prisoner of a terrible demon, in pain and maybe even being tortured. She'd been let go, left on a street corner. It had taken her a moment to realize where she was. A newspaper on a newsstand had told her the date—July 22, 2009. Carlisle had returned them to the present, on the day after they'd last been in the city. It was her birthday, and the man she loved—yes, loved—was in deep trouble.

Because if Carlisle didn't literally kill him, he'd kill what was left of his soul. In the past week, Ian had been changing. The sarcasm, the indifference, was gone. The cover-up was unraveling. A real flesh-and-blood man, with a feeling heart, was slowly becoming apparent. He'd smiled once or twice. He seemed to care about little things—well, not so little things. Like evil. Like her.

He didn't want to watch her die.

She didn't want him to suffer for another second.

Sam had been tempted to go right to Nick at HCU. But Nick wanted the page for the agency. He'd never let her hand it over to the monk.

She'd taken a cab by physically removing the driver and stealing the vehicle, and gone right to Maclean's place. If anyone knew where he'd hidden the page at his Loch Awe home, it was Gerard. But Gerard didn't know—and he wasn't lying, either. Sam had filled him in on every detail of Ian's current predicament. Gerard was keeping a cool facade, but Sam knew he was frantic.

She followed him to the front doors, her messenger bag filled with weapons. The last time she'd been at Awe, she'd been totally focused on confronting Ian. She remained as focused on him now, but for different reasons. This time, she noticed the two tiny cameras above the front door. As he let them inside, Sam said, “Were those cameras there last year?”

“Yes,” Gerard said grimly. “His lordship believes in the highest security possible.”

The old Sam would have made a joke about the absence of attack dogs. But this was the new Sam and awareness rippled. “He's not worried about his art getting stolen, is he?”

Gerard met her gaze, turning on the lights. “No, Ms. Rose, he's not.”

Those cameras were to record demons. Sam had not a doubt. She glanced across the entry hall, spotting three more cameras. Like the Park Avenue town house, his country home was wired to the gills. “We'll divide up the house as we discussed on the jet.”

He nodded at her.

She'd intended to rush off to JFK and get on the first flight for Edinburgh, but Gerard wouldn't have it. Ian had
an account with a charter jet service, and in moments, their flight had been arranged. During the seven-hour flight, she and Gerard had gone over every detail of the house's floor plan. The first and most obvious place to look was in the safe Ian had in his master suite.

Sam now had the combination. She rushed up the stairs, having memorized the floor plan Gerard had described. But the moment she entered the master bedroom and turned on the lights, she faltered.

The sex tape had been made in that room
.

She stood on the threshold, staring at the classic, old-world bed with its dark wood posters and headboard, its heavy brocade green-and-gold covers and pillows. Then she glanced up at the ceiling and saw two cameras.

She looked around. There were cameras on each side of the door, too. She stepped back into the hall. Video was everywhere. No one would be able to move in that house without being on a video record.

Sam walked back inside the bedroom. The massive bed loomed. They hadn't made love there yet. But when they did, she'd know all about the cameras. She'd know that one day, someone from the past would come and get a tape and try to use it against them.

It wouldn't matter. Ian needed the security those cameras afforded. His security system had to give him some small peace of mind, knowing that the likes of Carlisle were not inside his home. And she didn't blame him. The cameras would stay.

And maybe, when the day came that they were together in that bed, the thought of being taped wouldn't even cross her mind.

She was off topic, Sam thought grimly. Sam shifted gears. She strode past the bed and took a huge eighteenth-century painting of a Thoroughbred stallion off the wall. Then she swiftly opened the safe.

She withdrew some jeweler's boxes and stacks of cash, mostly U.S. dollars. And then she saw the envelope.

The page was seven and a half inches tall and five inches wide. The envelope inside was eight by eleven, and Sam seized it carefully. But the moment she did, she was disappointed. Whatever was inside was hard.

A DVD in a plastic case slipped into her hand. She went still. What the hell could be on the DVD?

No, she thought, in dread. This was not the same sex tape that Hemmer had given her. She didn't know why such a treacherous thought had even crossed her mind.

A moment later, she was watching the DVD on the computer in the den.

It wasn't
the
sex tape. It was a different one. But it was of her and Ian, in that bed, their passion off the charts.

Ian had a sex tape of them—from the future. What she didn't know was why.

 

H
EMMER PAUSED
inside his vault, staring intently at the painting facing him. He appeared calm and composed on the outside, as he usually did, but on the inside, he was furious.

Nick Forrester had destroyed the entry hall and a great deal of the valuable artwork he had hanging there. The room would be rebuilt, but the Vlaminck, the Salvador Dali, and the Tintoretti were irreplaceable.

He'd been dodging CDA for decades. He was sick of it. On the other hand, the agency was a mere fly buzzing about his empire, incapable of doing any real harm. As for Forrester, he'd destroyed his precious artwork all because of his agent, Sam Rose. Hemmer had seen no reason not to tell him the truth—that he'd taken her to Carlisle Cathedral in 1527 and that she had escaped.

As angry as he was, Hemmer always triumphed. He was a man of great, burning ambition.

And that was what separated him from everyone else,
demon or not. Carlisle lusted as much for pain and pleasure as he did for power, and that was such a mistake. Power always came first.

Maybe it was because he was human, but pain really didn't interest him, except as a tool or a weapon. Pain could and usually did provide leverage. He certainly enjoyed pleasure, but that was mundane and fleeting. What did interest him—what obsessed him—was power.

He would do anything for it.

He'd already done everything for it.

His billions simply weren't enough to buy the power he craved.

Hemmer walked over to the magnificent Courbet landscape. He was the fifteenth wealthiest individual in the world. The sheiks and princes who were wealthier than he were all mixed bloods and demonic. In fact, he was the wealthiest human on the planet—wealthier even than Bill Gates. But it wasn't enough.

Carlisle was an idiot. Right now he was probably getting off on all the pain he was inflicting on Maclean. He was probably so engrossed that he'd lost sight of the real prize.

Hemmer never lost sight of what he wanted, not even during sex. It was always riding there with him: the need, the ambition.

He removed the painting carefully from the wall and smiled at the inscription glowing on his wall behind it. He'd sold his soul for that stamp of evil. The hieroglyphics, which dated back to the beginning of the world, signified that he no longer owned his soul, and that he was among The Cherished Few. Being Cherished meant that he could hide his evil at will. It meant that he could walk the world in absolute safety, protected from the godly and the gods. It meant that he was Adored by the Great Father. And it also meant that no god could ever enter this domain.

Hemmer ran his hands reverently over the glowing
words. He had his billions, and he had all the basic powers certain old gods had meant for the various brotherhoods, which they'd created to fight evil. But he wanted the highest powers now. He carefully hid the fact that he had so many powers, and had achieved even more power and wealth by doing so. He certainly wanted the power of virtual control. He'd lusted for the power for decades and he'd never let Carlisle have it for his own use. Of course, the monk intended to take it for himself and would try to destroy Hemmer to do so. He was not going to succeed.

“Tell me what I must do,” Hemmer said softly. “You know what I intend. I need the power. Give me the means, Greatest Father of the Dark.”

It wasn't easy summoning Satan. They'd met only once, the day he'd given him his soul in return for earthly power. Hemmer wasn't even sure he would respond to him again, but he'd meant his every word. He was determined. Besides, he was a deal-maker.

And the Great Father knew that.

Hemmer stroked the inscription again, which was burning hot under his hand. He thought about how he would use the power he intended to get, one way or another. He fantasized about the control he would have over hundreds of millions of people, entrancing himself with the dream of such absolute power. He was vaguely aware of the vault becoming cold and then freezing inside. The wall was now like black ice beneath his hand.

He turned.

A black shadow filled the threshold of the vault. It was twice Hemmer's size and had neither eyes nor a mouth nor any other feature, but parts of it glowed, like burning embers. His voice was rich and deep.

“I have a soul for you.”

Hemmer started. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted the means to get the page of virtual control.

And then he felt Satan smile.

“If you take this soul into your body, you will have so much power, you might not even want the page, Rupert…and you might not even need it.”

Hemmer's mind raced. Whose black soul was being offered? Hitler's? Stalin's?

“It doesn't matter.” The shadow shifted. It seemed more human in shape and form now. A mouth had emerged in the swirling black-and-red currents of power. “But there are those who will stop at nothing to vanquish you if you take what I am offering.”

Hemmer trembled. If he accepted, there'd be so much power, he might not even want the power of virtual control. He could barely imagine it. His lust for power made him weak in the knees.

“You will have the power of possession,” Satan added, and he laughed.

Only a handful of full demons had ever had that power, and never a human. Hemmer stiffened, barely able to breathe now. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yes.”

Black energy zoomed at him and he tensed. For one moment, it felt as if a sword had cleaved his physical body in two. He gasped.

When he straightened, the shadow that had been on his threshold was gone. The room was warmer now. The inscription on the wall no longer glowed.

Hemmer could feel the incredible powers inside him. Now, he knew he could look at anyone who dared to pass him by and enter that being, possessing it to do as he willed. He slowly smiled and flexed his fingers. He could feel the physical power of death in his body now, too. If he pointed, he could kill.

There were also swirling memories, which belonged to another, so much hatred and rage, but it didn't matter.

He didn't care about the soul's memories, his life or
yearnings. He loved the power infesting him, Rupert Hemmer, now. He was still smarter than them all. No one really understood what the power of virtual control could do, but he knew. And Hemmer already knew what he would do once he had it.

By creating the reality he chose, when he chose, he would take over the city, the state, the country and the world, slowly but surely…company by company, corporation by corporation, government by government.

He laughed.

But revenge would come first—even if it belonged to another.

 

S
AM WAS HALFWAY
through her search of the second floor of the house, having finished the upper floor, when she heard voices coming up the stairs. She went still, incredulous.

“Sam?” Tabby called. “Is that you? We said we'd help and here we are!”

Sam ran out of the guest bedroom and saw Tabby and Brie coming up the stairs. It took her one second to comprehend that they'd come from Castle Awe in 1527—they were both wearing the same clothes she'd last seen them in. Sam raced down the hall to greet them.

Tabby seized her hands. “Thank the gods we're in the right time!”

“How did you know?” Sam cried. She'd told them that Ian had stashed the page at Loch Awe in the present, but she hadn't been specific.