Dark Lover

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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