but he had the bank accounts, cars and homes to prove he was okay. This was his life! And none of it was her affair or anyone else’s! His secrets were just that. His life was just that—a dirty, dark secret.
The rage returned and he crossed the room, seizing her wrist hard. The average woman would have protested; she did not. Her gaze slammed to him. “Don’t even think of manhandling me. I’ll kill you,” she warned.
“Try!” He relished the fight.
She saw it and backed down. “Whatever he did to you, I’m not a part of it.”
The rage blinded him. “He did nothin’ to me!”
“Yeah, and that’s why you hacked him apart after he was dead.”
He pulled her up against his hard, explosive body. “An’ how will you stop me from hurtin’ ye?” As adept at martial arts as she was, as powerful as she was, he was stronger—she didn’t have half the powers he had. To make certain she understood that, he whirled her around and pushed her hard against the bookcase. Then he leaned into her, the position sexually aggressive, dominant and threatening. “Can ye really stop me now?” he taunted, pulsing against her buttocks.
She had become still. He delved deeply into her mind and couldn’t find a single shred of fear. In spite of his rage, he was amazed. Instead, she calmly debated the worst scenario—his raping her and her killing him for it, one way or another. And in that moment, he knew she’d succeed or die trying.
He didn’t want her dead.
Some of the anger receded. He had his entire body pressed against hers, from knee to shoulder, his mouth against her ear and the tendrils of hair curling there. As they stood that way, with only two layers of fabric between them, the anger shifted again, this time into an awareness of her body, what it offered him and how desperate he was for escape.
“Sam,” he said harshly, tightening his arms around her waist. As desire and lust took over, he felt her response in her heavy breathing and quivering body.
He closed his eyes, ashamed. For threatening her sexually, as if he’d learned how to behave from his tormentors, and for her having witnessed him in such a maniacal moment. It was hard to breathe. There was so much pressure now. In a moment, there could be so much pleasure, so much relief. “Sam.”
Her ribs rose and fell heavily now, beneath his grasp. He raised his arms until her heavy breasts rode them. “Dinna move,” he said, reaching down. He freed himself and pushed between her legs, the jersey dress entangling with his length.
She gasped at the contact and grasped his hands. “Damn you.”
He moved his mouth against her ear, using his tongue. She trembled violently. “I’m not one of them. Give me permission. I want ye, Sam.”
For one heartbeat, when she didn’t move or answer, he thought she would submit. But then she turned around—and jammed her knee into his groin.
Shocked, he gasped as pain flooded him, clutching himself.
“Never means never,” she cried. “And I won’t be a warm body to make you feel better.”
SAM MEANT IT.
He somehow straightened, flushed. “Did ye break yer kneecap?” he mocked.
“Right,” she shot back. But she was instantly sorry. It had been a desperate move. She’d almost caved in to him—her body was that demanding, that hot for his. The raging attraction was getting worse. After what she’d just seen, it should be gone.
She’d never seen so much rage. She was shaken, even though she’d witnessed a lifetime of murder and mayhem, rape, torture and death. What had that demon done to him? It had to have been bad.
And he’d been crying afterward. Ian Maclean had shed tears. She was determined to hide her surprise and act as if nothing much had happened. Oddly, it felt incredibly important to pretend that nothing was awry.
It had been sheer instinct to leave him alone with his grief when he’d finished with the demon. No man, immortal or not, would want someone to see such rage, much less that shocking emotional aftermath.
And she was shocked.
He was breathing hard. “I said I am not one of them.”
She was breathing hard, too. She’d heard. And while she didn’t think him a rapist, he’d probably have kept trying to seduce her anyway, if she hadn’t gotten rough.
And that was the problem. Having that incredibly hard and aroused body against hers had been so damned tempting. It was as if there was an unearthly pull between them. “Okay. I might have overreacted. I’m sorry I kneed you. But I’m fairly certain a little blow won’t hurt that.”
He gave her a really dark glance. “Why don’t ye leave?” He strode back to the bar cart and poured a scotch, which he drained. Then he poured another one. “Ye can understand why I’m not bein’ a bit more hospitable.”
“I’m not leaving, not until the page is in Nick’s custody,” Sam said flatly.
He gave her an incredulous look. “I’m not leapin’ anywhere tonight. Not into the vault and not into the past, or any other time.” He drank half of the second scotch. He was impatient now, his stare cold and hard.
She carefully shut down those thoughts. She’d think about it all later. “And I should trust you because…?”
“Ye trust me because I’m St. Cuthbert,” he snapped. “Do as ye will. Amuse yerself, Sam.” He refilled his glass and strode from the library.
Sam walked to the threshold of the room and saw him go down the hall, past several impressive works of art, entering what was apparently the master suite at its far end. When he vanished inside, leaving the door open, she inhaled.
Holy shit. What had just happened…really?
She walked over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. Sipping it, she went into the adjacent guest bathroom. She set the drink down and opened the cabinet, where she found a few handy items, including mouthwash.
As she took off the dress, she became aware of her body, which was sore. The stab wounds felt as if they were on fire. Not that she hadn’t had worse. Her right ankle was also sore, and she hoped it wasn’t sprained, because she didn’t have time to limp around. She shoved the red jersey dress into the garbage and thought about the few facts she’d gleaned with Brie last fall about Ian Maclean.
Brie and Sam had been trying to save Aidan’s life. They’d assumed Ian was dead—everyone had. Aidan had helplessly watched while his own father murdered him as a boy. Sam recalled that date as being 1436. Some dates simply stuck out.
She picked up a bar of scented white soap and cleaned her arm and the cut on her rib cage. Now that she thought about it, Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, making him really old—unless he was visiting New York from another century. That did not seem likely—he
