Page 50 of Dark Victory

MACLEOD DID NOT LOOK like a modern man—not one single bit.

Tabby had run to the closest shop and bought him Lucky Brand jeans, a black long-sleeve T-shirt and a bomber-style, faux fur-lined leather jacket. Even dressed in contemporary clothes, he looked frightening and dangerous—as if he was a pissed-off, badly damaged returning Special Ops vet or, worse, a ruthless mercenary. The clothes could not hide the savage quality of his nature.

But he looked really good, otherwise.

In fact, every woman they’d passed that morning on their way uptown, from prepubescent girls to blue-haired grandmothers, had looked at him at least twice. Women Tabby’s age had smiled and tried to flirt. To his credit, he’d been oblivious to them all.

They stood three or four people away from the security guard and the metal detector at the Met. Tabby wrung her hands. Being with him was no easy task, not after last night. She was acutely aware of his virility and power, and her own body. She simply could not reconcile the woman she’d turned into with the woman she’d been her entire life.

What did last night mean? Had it been a shameful and amazing one-night stand? She was not capable of a meaningless affair, was she? But, until Macleod, she hadn’t been capable of raw, animal sex, either.

Worse, she had sex on the brain now, like a sixteen-year-old after her first time.

But it had been her first time. She discovered passion last night at the age of twenty-nine.

The cops were looking for him, so their outing to the Met was a dangerous one. Tabby knew it, but she was nervous more because of his masculinity than because the cops might recognize him and decide to gun him down. Every time their eyes connected she felt like jumping out of her skin—or into his arms. And it was hard keeping her eyes off him—those jeans fit perfectly. She wished she knew what she should do about him and them, but she didn’t have a clue.

“What’s that?” Macleod asked.

She kept her voice low. “We have to go through a metal-detector machine, and all bags go through an X-ray. No one is allowed to bring weapons into the museum.”

His eyes flickered. His mouth curved ever so slightly.

Tabby became alarmed. He had a weapon? “Macleod?”

“Aye, a wee dagger in my boot.”

Her temperature soared. She was wearing a skirt, a cashmere turtleneck and her boots, but she wished she were in a thin jersey dress. She had her coat over her arm, and she held the turtleneck away from her throat. But it didn’t help. They were probably going to get nailed the moment they reached the security guard and the metal detectors. “We need to leave and get rid of it and then come back,” she whispered.

“Ye even worry like a shrew,” he said calmly. “When will ye trust me?”

Tabby was taken aback as his dark blue gaze held hers, and she realized that she did not want to trust him—not ever. Trust might complicate matters. Except, their relationship really couldn’t be more complicated.

Tabby felt him stiffen.

Alarmed all over again, she followed his glance. A civilian stood beyond the security line, already inside the museum, with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. He was with a woman—probably his girlfriend—and although she was chatting to him, he wasn’t paying her any attention. His dark eyes were casually scanning the huge lobby. Macleod had him in his sights.

To distract him, Tabby plucked his sleeve. That man looked like a cop or some other kind of government agent.

As she did so, the man looked at them, apparently aware of their stares. Instantly Tabby dropped her eyes, only to realize that Macleod stared back with a cold, ruthless stare that was a challenge and possibly the prelude to violence. She jerked on his arm. Only one person was ahead of them now. “Who is that?” she asked.

“A soldier.”

Tabby went still. “Please don’t tell me he’s a cop?”

“Aye, he’s off duty, but he’s thinkin’ about work tonight. He’s thinkin’ about me.”

Tabby inhaled and said unnecessarily, “Are you sure?”

“Oh, I can hear his evil thoughts verra loudly.”

She tensed. “Is he evil, or are you simply mad?”

He gave her a look. “He may be a soldier, but he’s evil.”

There were good cops and bad cops. It was just their luck to be standing twenty feet from a bad one—who was thinking about the Sword Murderer.

“Hey, you two lovebirds. Move it. You’re holding up the line.”