Dark Lover (14 page)

She meant to hit the Stop button, she really did. Instead, she tried to breathe, staring helplessly at his lean, hard body, every inch sculpted and chiseled, slick and wet. He was playing her, slow and teasing, and she was undone. He was giving—she was taking. He was in control—she was not.

Sam leapt to her feet, turning her back on the screen. The sound of her deep and throaty cries followed her. Suddenly she heard him gasp, the sound male and sexual.

She turned. She was on top of him now, smiling down at him triumphantly
—
but there was far more to her smile than that. She did not know what that smile meant. Worse, he gazed up at her, gasping in his pleasure, and their gazes stayed locked
.

“Let go,” she whispered
.

He closed his eyes, moaning…

Sam hit the Stop button, hard.

She still couldn't breathe. Worse, she was on fire. Just then, if Maclean walked into her loft, she'd be all over him.

Sam walked over to the kitchen and splashed water on her face. She started to breathe more normally, and she started to think.

How could that be her—and him? They hadn't slept together—not yet.

If they ever did, the sex would be hot and rough. They would not be two lovers who seemed to have feelings for one another!

Her mind truly came to life. Was the woman a double? She didn't think so. But with the right makeup, the right haircut, it wouldn't be so hard to find a good double. Especially as the camera wasn't in close and never zoomed in, even though the shots had changed. Sam decided that a handful of cameras were in that bedroom, and someone had edited the various tapes.

Her insides vanished all over again. This time, there was a sick dismay.

Damn it, that woman wasn't a double. That was her face—her voice. And Maclean was obviously the real deal, too.

Her mouth became dry all over again, as she envisioned his gorgeous face and equally gorgeous body—and that gleaming steel ring.

She closed her eyes, shaken now. The hot, sexy images replayed in her mind, again and again. She had to think! Sam finally walked over to the kitchen counter to pour a double shot of vodka. “Good job, Rose,” she said grimly to herself. “He wins—twice over. Jerk!” She was referring to herself.

He'd turned her on when he was with another woman, which was inexplicable enough. But he also turned her on
when they were arguing, when he was smug, arrogant and annoying. He'd turned her on during that suicidal car chase, and after she'd seen him crying on his knees. The damned attraction had even been present when he was furious with her for her snooping on his PC and butting into his life. And now, damn it, he turned her on in a sex tape.

“Stay clinical, damn it,” Sam told herself. The tape had to have come from the future, she thought grimly. And Hemmer had been the one to deliver it.

She went very still. That thought almost had the ability to douse the desire throbbing in her. She knew Hemmer had watched them and enjoyed it.

And now, she guessed what he intended. He wanted a partnership with her. Clearly, he meant to use her against Ian. He intended blackmail.

The urgency was under control now. War came first, always.

“Bring it on,” she snarled.

 

H
IS LIFE WAS
a war of survival. He had no family, no friends and no allies. Everyone was his enemy—and now his enemies knew his worst secrets.

There was outrage, but mostly, he was horrified.

Gerard met him as he entered the marble foyer of his Park Avenue home, closing the front door behind him. “Sir? Is there anything I can get you?”

Ian barely heard him, he was so sickened.
They had a file on him. They knew about the years of captivity
.

How much did they know?

Were the cops out there on Park Avenue laughing at him even now?

Was
she
laughing at him?

He was having difficulty breathing.
Did they know what that boy had suffered, exactly?
What was in that file?!

“Open the windows and turn on the air,” he said tersely, jerking at the soft cashmere of his sweater. He pulled the V-neck lower, as if it were constricting the passageways to his lungs. He was sweating, as if he'd run uptown.

Gerard hesitated. “Sir, it's still almost ninety degrees outside.”

He couldn't get enough air. He couldn't quite breathe. He was panting like a frightened, trapped animal. “Turn the fans on high,” he snapped.

But Gerard knew. “Yes, sir, and I'll open the windows, as well.”

Maclean rushed to the elevator, then knew he couldn't go inside. Not just then, with the images rioting in his head.

You lived through sixty-six years of hell. And that makes death acceptable!

She had discovered the truth so quickly! He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall by the elevator, his knees weak, shaking like a leaf. Damn her for daring to understand him, for daring to unearth his secrets! What else did she know? Suddenly he recalled the maze.

He kept running and running, desperate to find freedom. He was running into walls and dead ends, the maze endless, treacherous. And when he turned at a dead end, a demon awaited him, a beautiful blond human-looking demon who was reaching out…Or he'd turn the corner to find a monster with claws and fangs, drooling in anticipation…

Ian seized his head, moaning. The monk had devised the maze on their first New Year's Eve together and it had become a tradition. He'd been promised his freedom if he could find the one way out. It had been the cruelest game of all, because he'd never found his way out. Instead there had been demons and beasts, eager to get their hands on him. The game would last days, even weeks. And when
they were done with him, he was so ill that the monk would bring in a white Healer to heal him.

He hadn't thought about the maze in a long time and he wished he hadn't thought about it now. It was one of his worst memories, the most frightening one. It made him sick with fear, even now. But it felt as if he was back in it and this time, the prize wasn't his freedom. If he could navigate his way through the corners and halls, he would keep his secrets.

How could they have a file on him!

Had
she
seen it?

He was going to explode if he didn't get a grip—if he didn't find control. And he knew what lay on the other side of the explosion. All the repression would shatter, and there would only be the memories facing him, raw and gaping, like bleeding wounds, injuries no surgeon could ever stitch, and then he'd give in to the insanity.

He tried to breathe and failed. There was no more air to be had! Fear began, then escalated. He hadn't had a genuine panic attack in five and a half years.

“Calm down,” he gritted aloud. “Calm down, think…”

Did they know about the cage? Did they know about the maze? The other Innocent? Did they know about Moray's visits?

Did they know that in those first few months, he'd been an utter coward? That he'd wept in terror and sobbed for mercy? Did they?

Did they know he'd been turned into a willing slave at the end?

What did they know?

What did
she
know?

And he still couldn't breathe. Now, he'd never get into that elevator, because he was shaking and moisture had gathered in his eyes. But there was a staircase on every floor, he'd made certain. If he could stop the moisture
from blurring his vision, all he had to do was go down the hall to find it. But then what?

“Sir.”

He felt the ice-cold washcloth against his forehead. Gerard knew. He knew because his father had sent him to Ian, not that Ian had known it at the time. His damned father had wanted someone with him who knew his secrets, who could and would take care of him.

Gerard spoke as if nothing was happening. He laid the cloth against his forehead as if he were a nurse, not a butler. An image suddenly flashed, of Sam in her bloody jersey dress, pretending she hadn't seen him stab John repeatedly, all control gone.

Remind me not to piss you off
.

He almost smiled. She should have been terrified of him. She hadn't been afraid at all. But then, she didn't fear anything or anyone. She was reckless and brave…

They had been rivals from the start. He had to remember that. He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, holding the washcloth to his head now. Oddly, he had become calmer. He kept seeing her in that dress, poker-faced. He kept hearing that tone, wry and calm. She should have looked horrible, a bloody mess—instead, she looked frigging great.

Gerard held a small bottle in his hand, containing his prescription medication. Ian nodded grimly and Gerard handed him two tiny white pills. When it was this bad, it was better to take prescription drugs than blow or pot. He swallowed the anti-anxiety medication without water. Gerard was indispensable and he was discreet. “Thank you.”

“You'll feel better shortly, sir. I'll bring a tray with a very fine red wine and just a bite to snack on.”

He wasn't hungry. Food didn't interest him, but Gerard always insisted. But wine and Ativan were a great combi
nation. He'd relax enough to sit down and force himself to eat. He might even enjoy Louis's gourmet cooking.

When Gerard left, he looked at the elevator door. His control was tenuous, if that. But he was clinging to that recollection of Sam in her bloody dress, acting indifferent to his breakdown. He could admit that he admired her strength.

He was still sweating. He still felt raw. He ripped off the sweater and jammed the button. The door instantly opened and he stared at the wood-paneled interior, which was lit to his exact specifications, as bright as any midtown office. He breathed harder. Every time he got into an elevator it was a matter of mind over memory. But he'd learned twenty-five years ago how to force himself to get inside and act as if he were as normal as everyone else. It was a test to do so now.

He cursed himself. He did not want to be a coward who suffered from panic attacks and claustrophobia. He cursed Sam—because she knew most of his secrets now and if she weren't so damned sexual he'd walk away and never look back. She'd figure out he was claustrophobic before long, he thought, and add it to her list of his weaknesses. Gritting, he got inside.

Panting, he stared at the Close button. Last night, upstairs, it had been easy to avoid the elevator. Sam hadn't suspected a thing.

No one would know if he got out and went to the stairs. But he'd know.

It was only an elevator, he reminded himself firmly. It was not a small, dark, impregnable and windowless tower room—or an even smaller underground cellar—or an earthen pit. He hated small, enclosed spaces. He feared them.

He pushed the damned button.

The doors closed.

He fought to breathe. Sweat poured down his face, his body. He gripped the bar in the elevator as if for his life, gritting his teeth, hard. Sam might be his next conquest, but she was the enemy. He reminded himself of that. It made him want to survive—
she
made him want to survive, so they could have it out in his bed, so he could finally be strong, dominant, the one in control.

The elevator slid to a halt; the door opened.

Ian left the elevator, refusing to run. It took all of his willpower to walk slowly. He walked into a large library filled with his most valuable artwork and antiques and hundreds of books, all of which he'd read. The worst was over now. He'd survived the panic attack, the elevator, his memories—and the knowledge of his goddamned file.

He shut both doors and then turned. A hazy image of a boy in a maze remained somewhere in the back of his mind, and he held the cool cloth to his head, no longer enraged, no longer afraid. He thought about Sam again, first in the bloody dress, and then as he'd just seen her an hour ago, in the tiny shorts and tank top, telling him about the file. As the drugs began to work, he breathed deeply. He'd deal with the file when he confronted her boss, Forrester. Now, his body began to hum and thrum. As the sexual need grew, he relaxed even more. He held on to the picture of her in those tiny shorts and tank, wearing nothing beneath.

The other memories finally receded, too. Gerard knocked on the doors and glanced at him as he came inside, carrying a tray with a covered dish and a glass of wine. “Will you need anything else?” he asked as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He set the tray down on an eighteenth-century table.

Ian shook his head. Not looking at him, he said again, “Thank you.”

When Gerard had left, he went to the sofa and sat down,
reaching for the wine. The denim of his jeans was now constrictive, annoying. She was on his mind now, front and center. And sex was always the best escape.