CHAPTER SIX
SAM LOOKED at Kit, who said, “What does he want?”
“I have no idea. I don’t even know how he knows where I live.”
“Are you going to change?”
Sam smiled. She knew her tiny shorts and small T-shirt were inflammatory. That was fine with her. Let him suffer. She’d enjoy it. “I’m sure he can handle it.” Hadn’t she handled him with Becca, up close and really personal?
“Do you want him to seduce you?”
It crossed her mind that, in spite of the constant back and forth, he’d never turned on the full extent of his sexuality. Which might be good, because she wasn’t sure she could handle a full-scale assault. And that was unsettling.
Before she could analyze that, the doorbell rang. Sam turned and opened it. Maclean smiled at her with his usual arrogance, looking damned good and somehow elegant in fitted and very frayed jeans, Gucci loafers and a sweater he’d paid hundreds of dollars for.
There was no way he could belong in 1527, she thought. He looked like what he was—a rich, conceited, jet-setting playboy. But that didn’t diminish his appeal.
And then she realized he hadn’t suffered a single scratch from the car chase. She was disbelieving. “You look like you just finished brunch in Soho.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes widened as he took in her black eye and wrapped ankle.
Then his gaze slammed down her body again, this time with heated male interest. “What happened?” He sauntered inside.
“You should know,” Sam said, closing the door. “You happened.”
“If I hit ye in the eye, I dinna recall, an’ my memory is good.”
Sam wondered if he thought he’d lost so much control last night that he’d hit her and couldn’t remember it. “I got the black eye chasing you the wrong way up an exit ramp,” she said wryly. “And I got the sprained ankle fighting with a broken heel last night, while you watched.”
His gaze moved over her T-shirt and her obviously bare breasts beneath. “Ye saw a doctor.”
She felt the moment his body heat went up a few more degrees, because her body responded in kind. She made sure to keep her tone casual. “What’s the big deal? And who taught you how to drive, anyway?”
He slowly lifted his gaze. “I taught myself.”
“Cars don’t fly.”
His mouth curved. “I’ll try to remember, next time we’re fender to bumper.”
His words washed through her, as soft and sexy in tone as that cashmere sweater had to be on his skin.
“Are you always a complete horndog?”
“Ye want it that way.”
She stared. His gaze was blinding and intense. Maybe she did. She sure expected his bad-boy behavior now. But she thought about his scars and the sixty-six years of captivity he’d endured. No one would be normal after that.
Maybe the oversexed thing was a part of a massive cover-up.
“I think I’ll go,” Kit said.
Sam had forgotten that she was present. “You don’t have to leave. Maclean won’t be long. Will you?”
He grinned. “I’m hardly in a rush, Sam. I want to see yer digs.”
She thought of him standing over Becca, in no rush.
The image shifted into a graphic memory of his pressing her against the library table in the entryway last night.
There’d been a ton of urgency then. The urgency was building, now.
She said harshly, “Kit, this is Ian Maclean, and this is my friend Kit.”
Ian smiled at her, as if he expected her to drop at his feet, too.
She flushed. “I think you two might hash things out a bit more easily if I’m not here.” Kit picked up her bag. “I think a truce is a great idea.” She smiled. “We’re all on the same side, really.”
Sam wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her or to Ian.
When Kit was gone, she walked into the kitchen to pour him a glass of wine, aware of his gaze sliding down her back and bare legs as he followed her.
She handed the glass to him. “I’m not a good hostess,” she warned, “unlike my sister, who would welcome you with open arms. I’m just taking advantage of this moment in time—although not the way you want. ”
“I like,” he said softly, “yer boxers.”
“I’ll bet you do. And, Maclean? We’re not on the same side. It’s amazing, considering what she’s been through, but Kit’s an optimist. If we were on the same side, you’d have the page in your back pocket right now.”
His gray eyes gleamed. “Care to see fer yourself?”
Did he have to make everything a sexual invitation? “Or you could change your mind, take the high road and give the United States government the page.” She was joking, but she wanted to know where he’d stashed it.
He smiled with amusement. “And what would I gain from handing over the page?”
“Self-respect?”
He sipped the wine. “I don’t care about self-respect.”
Did he mean he did not respect himself? She couldn’t imagine anyone living with themselves that way.
“I’m sorry ye got hurt today,” he said softly. “I didn’t think you’d keep up with me.”
He’d lowered his voice into a bedroom murmur. It vibrated across her skin like a massage head. She took a breath, disconcerted, and smiled at him. “I’m rarely underestimated twice. I’ll bet you don’t do it again.”
“Never,” he said.
If he were just a bit less sexy, a bit less seductive, it would make her life a whole lot easier, Sam thought.
And if he hadn’t been a captive for all those decades, that would be helpful, too, because there’d be no excuse for his asocial and selfish behavior.
She studied him, her gaze searching, and he calmly walked into the living room and sat down on her sofa.
He looked really good there. He also looked somewhat pleased—like a lion in its den, about to feed.
His charismatic presence took up most of the room.
She took the adjoining chair, almost doing the Sharon Stone thing as she crossed her legs. He sat up straighter. “Are you sure I can’t entice you into doing the right thing?”
He slowly smiled. “Ye can try, Samantha. Any time…any way.”
Sam smiled back at him and let a heavy silence fall. “Would you consider doing the right thing—if I gave you what you want?”
He grinned, amused. “You’d surrender so easily? I’d be disappointed.”
“I’m pretty good,” she said, certain he’d never hand over an item worth over two hundred million dollars for a roll in the sack with anyone.
“An’ what would ye do if I said I accept?”
The breath rushed out of her. A fist of desire went through her, and she stared at him in shock.
“I’m tempted. But two hundred million dollars is also tempting.”
She breathed. “If you give me the page and it’s checked out to be the real deal, I’ll sleep with you. More than once. Anyway you want.”
He stared, his eyes like smoke.
Sam tried not to think about what he might require in that deal. She stared back, trying not to appear aroused.
He broke the silence. “Yer a woman of yer word.”
“Wow—you trust me.” He didn’t reply and she knew he was thinking about a hundred different ways to get his money’s worth. “I don’t trust you, by the way.”
He gestured at the sofa beside him. “Are ye afraid to sit next to me?”
“This isn’t a date, is it? Or do we have to hold hands? Because as far as I can tell, we haven’t made a deal.”
“We haven’t made a deal.” He smiled slowly then. “I want ye an’ I want the money, too. I intend to have both.”
Sam stood. “No surprise there.”
He stood. “I thought we broke the ice last night.”
She couldn’t believe he was referring to last night, considering his breakdown.
And then she told herself sternly to stop underestimating him.
His MO was becoming obvious. He was adept at keeping the upper hand and keeping her off balance.
He used sex as a weapon in their battle, all of the time. But two could play that game.
“Did we?” she asked. She thought about his bait and trap Internet operation. “You set John up.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter? Have I asked why ye hunt evil every single night?” He shrugged with as much indifference as there’d been last night.
“I’m a Rose. Rose women have been entrusted with safeguarding humanity for generations. Each and every one of us has a destiny. Mine is slaying.”
“Ye believe yer every word. Have ye been brainwashed?”
He was mocking. She felt her temper flare. “What’s your destiny, Maclean? Stealing art and seducing wealthy wives?”
When his cold gaze held hers, she felt guilt stabbing through her. As Kit had said, he’d been dealt a bad hand. It made her life look like a summer walk in a world without evil.
He’d gone through hell because that had been his destiny. His survival had been written, too.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your Fate stinks.”
He didn’t appear mollified. “Now ye feel sorry fer me?”
“I’m fighting the urge.”
“Like you’re fighting me?” he asked, his tone filled with skepticism. “Ye can feel sorry fer me anytime.”
She knew he wanted her to feel sorry for him. He’d be ruthless in his advances then. It was a good time to turn the tables on him. “You’re too much of a jerk for me to feel sorry for you. So, how did you survive sixty-six years as a kid being held captive by demons?”
His eyes turned to ice. She knew he was stunned, because he did not speak.
“Those scars—”
“I won’t talk about it.” He was on his feet, furious.
Sam almost backed down. Instead, speaking cautiously, she said, “It’s in your file.”
His eyes widened as if he were shocked. He breathed hard. “Someone has a file…about that?”
She almost wished she’d kept silent but she had to figure him out.
“Checking out suspicious guys like you is our job.” He seemed horrified.
“We know that you were imprisoned by your demon grandfather for sixty-six years and that he kept you a child the entire time, all because of his hatred of your father.”
He was incredulous now and still furious. He walked over to her. Sam stood her ground. “My life is my business,” he cried. “I won’t discuss it, ever.”