Page 110 of Dark Lover

SAM STARED at him, shocked. He turned away, reaching for his T-shirt. He shrugged it on.

Her brain buzzed. He was actually discussing the past. “I hate what happened to you. I want the monk to pay, too.”

He didn’t answer. He turned back to the window. Outside, the sun was rising and the morning was pale gray.

She’d probably used up all of her spare luck, but she said, “Do you dream about it a lot?”

He gave her a dark, are-you-kidding look.

She’d thought so. Sam slid from the bed. She shivered, but decided not to bother with a blanket—she wanted a bit of female power. Naked, she might hold his interest a bit longer. He might answer a question or two. She walked up to him. “Are the dreams always that bad?”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“No, Ian, it’s not an interrogation. It’s a friend being concerned.” She’d been right not to put on her clothes. He watched her now.

Sam poured herself a glass of water, and took a sip as his gaze moved down her body. “Yer freezing.”

She smiled and put the cup down, then laid her hand on his shoulder. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

He didn’t pull away. “Get dressed. Not that I mind the show.”

She was offering comfort in the tiniest, most discreet way possible, and he was allowing it. She was exultant. “Aren’t you going to deny it, Ian? Aren’t you going to laugh at me, mock me, for calling myself a friend?”

His stare became impossible to read. His mouth curled, but Sam didn’t know if it was with scorn and derision or simple amusement. It didn’t matter. This was all his big cover-up. He shrugged. “If ye want to call yerself my friend, why would I stop ye? Ye can call yerself whatever ye like.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He looked from her eyes to her mouth to her breasts, then lower. He slowly looked up. “Ye can’t play me, Sam. Ye can’t work me the way ye work other men.”

Sam slid her hand to his nape. She felt him tense and knew he was going to pull away.

Sam glanced around, saw her thong and T-shirt, and picked them up. She slid the clothes on and said, “When my mother was murdered, I was twelve. I didn’t see the demon do it. But I saw him get up and leave her there, dead and drained of her life and power.”

Ian started. “I didn’t know.”

“My mother was like Tabby. She was a powerful witch with a heart of gold. No one was kinder.” To her surprise, Sam felt herself becoming upset. Her gaze felt moist. What the hell was that about?

“Did she look like ye or yer sister?” Ian asked quietly.

“She looked like me, except she wore her hair long, and it was champagne-colored, not platinum.”

He smiled. “Ye dye yer hair—if ye can call those wisps hair.”

“You like my hair,” she said.

His smile vanished. He said slowly, “I like yer hair because all I see when I look at ye is yer face and eyes.”

Sam went still. Her heart exploded with delight. “Wow,” she said.

And Ian Maclean flushed. He started abruptly across the room.

“I had such nightmares, too, Ian.”

He halted at the door, glancing at her.

“I started dreaming about how she died, when I hadn’t seen it. But I knew. Even though I was only twelve, I knew.” Sam felt a lump solidify in her chest. She told herself it was heartburn. “Life does suck, doesn’t it? It was her time to die, or so my grandma said, but I couldn’t ever accept that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.