The Immortal Highlander (7 page)

“I’m going to
kill
you, Adam Black,” she muttered tiredly, closing her eyes.

Then opened them again, wide, electrified by the thought.

It was in mortal form.

Holy cow.

It
could
be killed.

And wouldn’t that just solve all her problems?

“I only want four of you,” said Darroc, barely concealing his distaste. He didn’t know why he even bothered to hide it; the Unseelie Hunters were far too barbaric, too brutish, to care.

“A score of us will find him more swiftly, Darroc,” said Bastion. The oldest and most powerful of the Hunters, he shifted his leathery wings, glancing hungrily around at the lush, rolling fields.

Darroc watched Bastion’s nostrils flaring at the scent of the human realm. He’d chosen to release the Hunter from his icy prison—that grim, hellish Fae realm to which the Unseelie had been condemned—and bring him to the Hill of Tara to remind him of all the Unseelie had lost. Also to ensure that the Unseelie King, who at times supported Aoibheal and at other times didn’t (and none could ever predict when, not even her) did not overhear. Though the King of Darkness rarely emerged from his dark fortress in the bleakest of reaches within his realm of shadow and ice, Darroc had no desire to draw the notice of the formidable . . . creature.

“Haste is not the issue, stealth is. A score of you in the human realm is too risky, and our plans might never come to fruition. Seek you to roam the earth freely again, Hunter, as you did before The Compact?”

“You know I do,” growled Bastion.

“Do as I say and it will come to pass. Disobey me and it will never happen.”

“The Hunters obey no one.” Dark wings rustled angrily.

“We
all
obey, Bastion, and have since The Compact was sealed,” said Darroc, striving for patience. The Unseelie tried his patience at the best of times, and these were not. They were dangerous times, and he didn’t need the danger compounded by rogue Hunters who refused to obey his commands. “A thing I’m trying to change. Will you follow my orders, or am I to assume you are content in your realm? Trapped. Stabled like lowly beasts.”

Lips drawn back in a scowl, Bastion nodded once, tightly. “Very well. Four of us, no more. Have you any idea where he is?”

“Not yet. Aoibheal has forbidden his name to even be spoken at court, hence my spies have been able to tell me nothing. Go first to Scotland, the Highlands. He once sired a son there.” Unfortunately, Darroc knew little more than that. He had no idea if the child had even survived to maturity. Those Tuatha Dé Adam might count as friends had never been friends of Darroc’s, and Aoibheal kept her own counsel where the prince she’d been so wont to indulge was concerned. If not for Mael, he’d have known nothing at all of Adam’s fate. He—a bloody Elder of her High Council—kept in the dark. Still, a number of his race hadn’t been seen for several mortal months, coinciding with a time shortly after Adam’s banishment to the human realm. He had no doubt he would soon find one of his brethren who knew exactly where Adam was, if the Hunters didn’t find him sooner.

“And when we find him?”

Darroc smiled. He could sense the Hunter’s restlessness, his hunger for a return to old times and old ways. It mirrored his own. He felt every bit as caged on the Fae Isle of Morar as did the Hunters in their prison-realm. “You may kill him,
but
”—he placed a forceful hand on Bastion’s arm—“you must make it appear an accident. As if he died of mortal causes. Removing Adam Black is only the first step in my plan, and the queen’s suspicions must not yet be aroused. That means no hint of anything remotely Fae anywhere near his body. Human wounds only. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Can you make the other three understand and obey you?”

“I will choose well.” Bastion shifted impatiently.

“Then, name your three, and I will bring them here,” said Darroc.

Bastion’s flame-colored eyes flashed as he called forth his Hunters.

8

Gabby awoke just before dawn. For one blissful moment her body was awake, but her mind was still muzzily cocooned by dreams, and she thought it was a day just like any other. Normal, peaceful, filled with trivial issues and manageable concerns.

Then,
wham-bam!
memories battered her: She’d blown the job interview, betrayed herself to a fairy, had a week’s worth of work to do today, and her life was a living hell.

Groaning, she rolled over, trying desperately to fall back asleep so she wouldn’t have to face it all yet.

No such luck.

Adam Black was in the shower.

She could hear him, er—
it
—splashing around in there.

A mere dozen paces down the hall from her bedroom. A tall, dark, sexy, and
very
naked fairy. Right here in her house. In her shower. Using her soap and towels.

And it was singing. Sexy voice, too, with that strange, husky Celtic accent. Nothing less than an old Sophie B. Hawkins song:
Damn, I wish I was your lover, I’d rock you ’til the daylight comes . . .

I just bet you would,
a teenage voice sighed dreamily inside her mind.

“I need a gun,” Gabby whispered.

“I need a gun,” Gabby told Jay as she stepped into her cubicle.

Placing her cup of coffee on her desk, she tucked her purse in a drawer, dropped into the chair, smoothed her skirt over her hips, then spun about, facing the aisle. “Where does a person buy a gun, Jay?”

Jay Landry, co-intern and inhabitant of the cube catty-corner to hers, slowly spun his chair around and glanced at her searchingly. “Gabby, are you feeling all right? Jeff said you were sick. Are you sure you’re better? You’ve been acting funny.”

“I’m fine,” she said, legs crossed, one foot briskly tapping air. “I just wondered where a person might buy a gun.”

“What do you want it for?” he hedged.

“I don’t feel safe living where I live,” she lied baldly. It wasn’t as if she could possibly get caught and tried for what she was planning to do, she reassured herself. In order to establish murder, one had to have not only a weapon but a body. And since nobody but her could actually
see
the body-to-be,
voilà
—no crime. Besides, it was self-defense, through and through.

“Take a karate course.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what do I do for the next however-many-years it takes before I manage to become remotely proficient at that?”

He shrugged. “Make your boyfriend move in.”

“I don’t
have
a boyfriend anymore,” she said peevishly.

He didn’t look at all surprised. “Probably because you work so much, Gabby. I bet he got sick of you being married to your job. I would. You know”—he glanced around and cautiously lowered his voice—“Jeff wouldn’t push you around so much if he didn’t know you’d take it. He knows you’ll spend the whole weekend researching the Rollins case. He knows you’ll bust butt trying to prove yourself. And what’s
he
planning to do this weekend, you ask? I’ll tell you. I overheard him making plans this morning to meet some buddies and spend the weekend golfing at Hilton Head. He’ll be out catching some rays, drinking some beer. While you sit here in your—”

“All right, already,” Gabby bristled, temper spiking. But first things first: one dastardly fairy out of the way,
then
she’d deal with Jeff Staller and his sneaky little golfing plans. “This is not about me, or my ex-boyfriend, or our boss. This is only about where I can get a gun.”

“You’re scaring me. And I’m not telling you.” Jay turned back around, nose to his computer screen.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll just look in the phone book if you won’t help me.”

“Fine. Then I can’t be implicated as any sort of accomplice.”

Law students could be
such
sticks-in-the-mud about potential liability issues, Gabby thought, sniffing, as she turned back around to her desk.

And gritted her teeth. Adam Black was perched on the low, half-wall of her cubicle, clad in leather pants again—these a deep charcoal and positively buttery-soft-looking, and her gaze got stuck on them for a moment—white T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, and yet another pair of expensive-looking slate-gray suede boots. He was holding the Yellow Pages in one big hand. His black hair spilled in a shimmering fall of silk to his waist, with a plait swinging at each temple. Merely looking at him made her mouth go dry, her palms sweaty. Made every hormone in her body leap to quivering, delighted attention.

“Is it to be war between us, then,
ka-lyrra
?” he said softly.

Snatching the phone book from his hand, she hissed, “It already is. It has been since the moment you invaded my life.”

“What?” Jay said behind her.

“Nothing,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“It doesn’t have to be, Irish. Things could be good between us.” Hand still outstretched, he captured a silky fall of her hair, sliding it between his fingers. His eyes narrowed, darkening with desire. “I like your hair down. You should wear it this way more often. Masses of silky stuff for a man to bury his hands in.” He made a soft purring noise deep in his throat that was so erotic it made her nipples tighten. Dropping from his perch atop the half-wall, he sat back on the edge of her desk, facing her, legs splayed on either side of her chair. It put her at eye level with his groin, with a heavy swollen leather-clad bulge that simply could not be missed.

Jerking her gaze to his face, she hissed, “You’re not a man, you’re a
thing
.”

Oh,
who
was she trying to convince?

It just wasn’t humanly possible for a woman to look at Adam Black and call him an “it.” It was wearing her out, trying to. Diverting her attention from larger issues, like figuring out how to get rid of him.
Give it up, O’Callaghan,
she told herself, exasperated.
It’s hardly worth the effort, considering how consistently you’re failing. Devote the effort to better causes. Causes you might succeed at.

“And it’s only down,” she continued frostily, not about to miss an opportunity to air her backed-up grievances; it had been
such
a sucky morning, “because you were hogging the upstairs bathroom, and I couldn’t get my hair dryer or any of my clips. I couldn’t even get my toothbrush. And you ran me out of hot water.” She’d showered downstairs (hastily and with the door locked—as if that were much of a barrier against a being that could “sift place”—still, it had given her an illusion of security, and Gabby was willing to settle for illusion, being that her reality was so depressing) in water that had raised chill bumps all over her skin. Then she’d tugged on panty hose and a suit, reluctantly skipped breakfast, and dashed out, determined to avoid him for as long as possible.

“Gabby?” Jay’s voice, sounding genuinely worried.

Without looking back, Gabby snapped, “I’m on the phone, Jay; I have my headset on.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Relief evident in his voice.

“Truly, Irish, I vow you lie more than—and nearly as smoothIy as—I. And plotting murder? It gives me pause, makes me wonder just what kind of nefarious human I’ve gotten myself mixed up with.”

“Oooh, how dare you act like
I’m
the—”

But she didn’t get to unload even the teeniest piece of her mind, for the infernal fairy had vanished again.

Bristling, she tossed the Yellow Pages aside (not much point in buying a gun now that he was forewarned; besides, she doubted she had the stomach to point a gun at something that looked so human and pull the trigger, not to mention having to dispose of the body. Though no one else could see it, she could hardly leave its body lying about in her house or office—
eew
) and pulled out the Desny case. She might as well get as much work done as possible, because she knew Adam Black would be back.

Must be nice, she seethed, to just be able to “pop out” whenever you didn’t feel like continuing a conversation. She knew a lot of men who’d give their right arms for
that
unique talent.

Flipping on her computer, she mentally filed murder away as a last-resort option. If things got really bad, she’d force herself to find the stomach to do what she had to do. (That she didn’t already consider things “really bad” should have set off more than a few alarms, but her mind had moved on to other concerns.)

Opening the file, she prepared to refresh herself with the case. And froze, blinking down at fully completed contentions. Had she finished them last night and just been so tired she’d forgotten?

No way. She wasn’t that good when she was tired. She peered. It wasn’t even her handwriting. She had terrible penmanship, and this was beautiful script, striking, bold, flowing.

Arrogant, actually, if penmanship could be called that. Nothing indecisive about this slanted, self-assured script. Frowning, she began to read.

A few minutes later, she was still reading, muttering “I don’t
freaking
believe it” beneath her breath.

It figured that when she actually wanted to see him, he left her alone. He stayed away most of the day. Making her wonder what dastardly deeds he was up to. The office was empty again by the time he appeared around seven-thirty, right behind her, so close he was practically on top of her, carrying bags from—
oh, God, no
—she briefly closed her eyes,
please no
.

The Maisonette. Five-star dining, no less.

But Gabby had prepared herself this time. She’d snacked on candy throughout the entire day (no hardship there), just to make sure she wouldn’t be hungry and tempted by anything he might offer.

Still, the Maisonette? Grr. She shook her head brusquely and refused to even look at the bags, refused to wonder what scrumptious stolen delicacies lurked therein.

She moved hastily away from him. When he deposited the bags on her desk, she grabbed a thick, rubber-banded accordion file and threw it at him, hitting him smack in the chest. “How?” she demanded.

“How what,
ka-lyrra
?” Catching the file, he placed it gently on her desk.

“How did you do my work?
When
did you do my work?”

He shrugged, one powerful shoulder rippling. “I don’t need as much sleep as you.”

“So you’re telling me that in a few hours last night you personally wrote the contentions for
seven
of my cases?”

“Nine. Then I realized two of them weren’t yours, so I discarded them.”

“How do you know enough about what I do to even argue liability?”

“Oh, please.” He sounded highly insulted. “I’ve been alive for thousands of years and watching humans for most of it. I read a few of your other cases. It was easy to pattern them appropriately. Human law is simple: You blame anything but yourselves. I merely accused everyone and everything mentioned in the file but for the person you were representing, and backed it up with whatever evidence I could twist to support my allegations.”

Gabby tried not to laugh. She did. Tried hard. But he’d gotten his subtle little dig in with such a perfectly bland expression, and had so thoroughly summed up what she hated about handling personal injury cases, after only a few hours of working on them, that she couldn’t help it. A little snort escaped her. And it turned into a laugh. And she might have continued laughing except a slow smile curved his lips and his dark eyes glittered. He stalked toward her, caught her by the waist with his big hands, and stared down at her.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you laugh, Gabrielle. You’re even more beautiful when you laugh. I hadn’t thought it possible.”

Her laughter died abruptly and she jerked away from him. But it was too late, his hands had already left their fiery imprint on her body, like a heated, erotic brand. “Don’t flatter me. Don’t be nice to me,” she gritted. “And do
not
do any more of my work for me.”

“I was merely trying to help. You looked so weary last night.”

“As if you care. Stay out of my life.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Because I refuse to sacrifice my whole world just to help you regain yours,” she snapped bitterly.

“No,” he said evenly, eyes narrowing. “Because I don’t like your boss. I don’t like the way he looks at you. I don’t like the way he treats you. I don’t bloody like a bloody frigging thing about the prick. And when I’m myself again, I will rectify the situation.”

Gabby went still. Adam Black looked and sounded angry. Genuinely angry. About how she was being treated. His face was dark and thunderous, his eyes snapping with golden sparks.

Oh, that was deadly. That was cruel. Acting like he had feelings. Like he gave a damn. Especially when she really didn’t have anybody else in her life that did. Clearly he would do anything in order to seduce her to his aim—even mimic emotion and pretend concern. After all, wasn’t that why it was called seduction? Because the victim was lulled into a feeling of false safety and well-being? And how could that be engendered except through the pretense of caring?

No soul. No heart. Ergo, no emotions,
she reminded herself.

Snatching up her purse, she flipped off her computer and stomped out of her cubicle.

They’d even been really
good
contentions, she was still brooding irritably, an hour and a half later, as she dumped the laundry basket on her bed and began sorting her clothes into loads. Immersing herself in routine helped her pretend the
sin siriche du
himself wasn’t currently downstairs in her kitchen, drinking single-malt scotch straight from the bottle (fifty-year-old Macallan, no less) and typing away on her laptop, surfing the Net.

By the time she’d gotten home, he’d already been there, with the stage lavishly set for his next seduction. Five-star dinner spread out on her dining room table, a vase of long-stemmed roses perfuming the air, drapes drawn and candles lit. Fine crystal sparkled on the table, crystal she
knew
she didn’t own. Silverware she’d never seen before, fine china too.

She’d tipped her nose skyward and started to stalk past him toward the stairs. He’d moved into her path, brushing his body against hers. Then caught her by one arm.