style="font-size:15px;"> Comprehension flashed.
Was he undercover? Was he a cop?
She was stunned all over again. No authority—no agency or PD—would ever hire him into their midst, she felt certain, especially not with Scotland Yard being on his back. She went to their latest exchange, in which he gave his Park Avenue address to his buddy, claiming he lived there with his parents. “John” promised to look him up as soon as he could.
She sat back up rigidly, her mind racing. It had been bait and trap.
Ian had set up a demonic pedophile, and he had lured him to his death.
He was playing vigilante.
In spite of herself, there were the first stirrings of respect.
“Are ye enjoyin’ yerself?”
She looked up, caught red-handed in his files and his life.
Maclean stood in the doorway, clad only in a pair of loose, low-hanging sweats. She was instantly diverted from her discoveries. He had a huge, broad chest, and bulging arms, with a really tight, sculpted six-pack. The man worked out—a lot. He might be an oversexed jerk but it was impossible not to look at the “goods.” She stared at the swath of skin and hair below his naval and the very suggestive bulge below the waistband of his sweats. Her mouth was already dry. Sam looked away.
His mood clearly remained ugly, because his eyes were hard and burning with barely controlled anger.
“Your sweats are falling down, Maclean. Lose your drawstring?”
He walked over to her and stared at the e-mail she was reading, then reached past her to exit his mailbox. “There are laws against what yer doing.” His broad muscular chest heaved.
He caught her staring and she thought she almost flushed. “Gee, no nipple ring?” Sam slowly pushed away from the desk, one hand on her towel. He slammed his hand down on the desk, blocking her from rising.
He looked at her as if finally aware that she was just barely covered up. But he didn’t leer or smile that mocking, sexy smile; he was really angry.
She sank back down into the chair. “Well, you might consider devising a password.”
He seized the edge of the towel. “Are ye happy now?”
She half wished she had put the dress back on. “You found John online by pretending to be a teenage boy. You lured him here so you could kill him.”
“I’m tired of this game. I want sex. Now. Either put out or leave.” He jerked on the towel, but didn’t pull it away from her. “Which will it be, Sam?”
She understood that he was not going to answer her questions, but she barreled on. “This is about what they did to you, right? What happened to you? When you were a child in captivity?”
His eyes widened.
“I know. I was helping Brie find Aidan, remember?”
He breathed hard and harshly again. “Give me what I want or leave,” he snarled.
“So we’re back to the tiger in the cage?” Why was he even more upset?
For one moment, he did not speak. Then he leaned close. “Such a brave, fearless woman! Ye should fear me, Sam. Or have ye forgotten that my grandfather was a demon?”
She knew this was a good time to back off, because she was pretty certain he was going to rip the towel away—not that she couldn’t handle it. Still, he was really furious. “I know your grandfather was Moray—and I also know your power is white, Maclean. I think his bad genes missed. So what are you hiding?”
His eyes widened and then he struck the papers and files from his desk, knocking over the monitor as he did so. Sam leapt to her feet, but he seized her and pulled her close. “The doorbell woke me up. Yer friend is downstairs. I will steal the page, but not tonight. Now get out.” And he pushed her away, hard.
She stumbled, keeping a firm grip on the towel.
He strode past her, like a whirlwind, in fury.
Sam managed not to cry out.
His back was so scarred, it was a mosaic.
SAM WOKE UP, her neck aching. It took her a moment to realize that she was asleep on the sofa in Maclean’s library, clad in the jeans and tank top Kit had brought last night. She sat up, grunting. The room’s only windows faced north, showing the landscaped terraces of a neighboring building. It was bright enough out that she was certain she’d slept more than a couple of hours.
She cursed and got up, stepping into her worn biker boots. Then she hurried from the library, running a hand through her disheveled hair to comb it.
A man was leaving the master suite, but it wasn’t Maclean. She recognized the gray-haired butler she’d met at Loch Awe. “Where’s Maclean?”
“Good morning, madam.” He was cool. “Will you be having breakfast this morning?”
Sam hurried past him into an opulent drawing room. A doorway to her left led to an exercise room with some major weight lifting equipment and cardio machines. Well, that explained the hard, packed body. His bedroom was directly ahead, the walls pale blue, the ceiling ivory, a huge four-poster bed that looked as if it belonged in a historic castle in its midst.
“Lord Maclean’s rooms are private, Miss Rose,” Gerard said. “He made it very clear to me that you are not welcome in his apartments, and that after breakfast, if you cared to dine, I should ask you to leave.”
Sam strode into his bedroom.
So much testosterone filled it she felt confused, off balance. For one moment, she stared at the bed with its darker blue bedspread and pillows, and then she turned. “When did he leave?”
“A few moments ago.” Gerard stared coldly at her.
She might need him as an ally. “I’m sorry about us having gotten off on the wrong foot last spring,” she said.
He did not soften. “It is terribly impolitic to barge into other people’s homes. But it seems to be a habit of yours.”
“Yeah, I need a lesson in good manners.” She laughed. “Has it ever occurred to you that Maclean might need the very same lesson?”
He stiffened, clearly affronted. “His lordship does the best that he can.”
“Gee, so do I.” She’d forgotten Maclean was titled—the baron of Awe.
“There have been exceptional circumstances.” He was not going to budge.
Sam went on alert. “Really? I’d love to hear about them. How long have you been with his lordship?” She hoped she hadn’t been too mocking upon uttering the last word.
“Two decades, and I do not gossip.”
Sam sighed. That was for the best. Maclean
