Dark Lover (4 page)

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.

“W
HAT 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, whisper-ing 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.”

 

S
HE 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.