Dark Lover

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?”