by Brenda Joyce
He’d never smile at her like that.
Sam looked at the screen, wetting her lips.
That was Maclean, there was no doubt about it.
She told herself not to hit the Play button. She reminded herself that it was a fake as she did so anyway.
Suddenly he moved over her, sliding slowly into her. His massive entry seemed to take forever. And the whole time he watched her and she stared back, breathlessly, until she exploded. As she wept he paused and murmured to her.
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.
HIS 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 k
new. 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 combination. 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.
There was no guilt as he used his telepathy to find her. That power had begun when he was first captured. He’d thought about his father, and instantly had been able to see Aidan in the midst of his day. He’d tried so hard to communicate to him that way. Once in a while, Aidan had seen him, back. However, he’d assumed Ian was a ghost.
He’d been a boy then, and the power had been erratic. It was highly refined now. He’d even used it from Scotland to spy on Sam several times, shamelessly. He’d watched her with her lovers a few times and he’d enjoyed every moment of that. He was shameless now.
She was seated on the sofa in her loft, still in her tiny shorts, but in a different tank top. His heart picked up a new beat now, one predatory and sexual. He slowly smiled and reached for his cell phone.
He’d made it a point to obtain her numbers earlier. He dialed her at home. The moment she answered, he heard the breathless tension in her voice. His own tension, already impossible, thickened. “Can’t ye sleep?”
“Maclean.”
Her tone was thick, like his. “I can’t sleep, either, Sam.”
She was surprised. “Are we about to have phone sex?”
His mouth curled. “I wouldn’t bother. Why are ye so hot?”
She hesitated. “Hemmer was here. He just left.”
For one moment, he was incredulous. Then he was on his feet, enraged. “An’ he makes ye hot now, too?”
“Hemmer is an evil and dangerous sonuvabitch,” she said. “And you were right about him. He is going to be a problem.”
His mind raced. She hadn’t slept with him, he was certain. He tried to read her mind and only felt her anger. Hemmer had pissed her off. “What did Hemmer want? Other than sex?”
There was another pause. “You know what he wants. Me…the page…and maybe, revenge on you. Have you considered that part of it, Maclean?”
He was still, his gaze narrowed, feeling harder and angrier now. “An’ ye care because?” He was aware of quoting her.
“I care because you have the page and we want it,” she snapped. “Gee, this is great phone sex!”
“Why did ye change yer clothes?”
There was a moment of surprised silence. “How do you know I changed my clothes?”
“Because,’ he snarled, “ye were wearing a white tank top, an’ it’s red now.”
“My place is wired?”
“I don’t need wires or feeds, Sam,” he said softly.
She breathed hard. “Right. Forgot. You have that amazing brain—one that can dismantle security systems and see me across most of Manhattan?”
“I can see ye from Scotland, if I want.”
She was silent.
He smiled, taking that little victory. “I told ye to stay away from him. Ye should have called. Did ye play him, Sam?”
“Here’s a news flash—I don’t take orders from you. And guess what? I did work him, Maclean. Come on! What else would I do?”
Had she listened to a word he’d said? “I’ll take care of Hemmer from now on.” He couldn’t help himself. “Did he kiss ye?”
“Oh, yeah, Hemmer and his bag of tricks make a perfect date. Soo romantic and sexy! I couldn’t wait to have his tongue down my throat.”
He knew then that Hemmer hadn’t touched her. He was relieved—and that was odd.
“You are playing with fire, Maclean. You stole his property. He wants it back. We want it, too. I think you need to consider an exit strategy—like handing over the page.”
He slowly smiled. “In return for two hundred million dollars’ worth of sex?”
She exhaled. “You said no.”
“I’m starting to like the idea.”
She choked. “Are you kidding?”
If he gave her the page, spent a few days with her, he could walk away from all of this. He didn’t need the money, not like this. There was other art he could steal and sell. And he didn’t need evil in his face. Mostly, he didn’t need the growing reminders of his past.
For some damn reason, in the past day or so, he felt like he was on a precipice, about to be shoved back into the past.
And that was unacceptable.
There was one problem. He had nowhere to go, other than his Loch Awe mansion.
“Are you okay?”
He jerked. He’d been lost in thought—and that last thought had been almost dismaying. Of course he had other places to go. He’d sell the Park Avenue place. He’d buy homes in Nice, Sydney, Monaco. “Come over and have some wine with me,” he suddenly said.
“I’m going to bed—alone.”
“Ye only delay the inevitable. Besides, what will ye do when ye dream of me?”
“You said no phone sex.”
He smiled then. “What if I come back over? Ye can go to bed alone—I’ll watch.”
She was silent. He knew she was considering it. Then she said, “I don’t think you could keep your hands to yourself if I did what we both know I want to do.”
“No phone sex,” he chided softly.
“What if I tell you that we’re invited to a party tomorrow—the two of us. It’s a special party…at Hemmer’s.”
