Page 25 of Dark Lover

Sam watched as MacGregor leapt into his partner’s gray Toyota, parked just up the block, and cruised after him. “Have fun,” she muttered. “I hope you lose him in the midtown traffic!” It was petty but she was still seething over being on videotape.

She was thinking about that when she saw Maclean get out of a taxi a few moments later. She tensed. He wore a dark gray blazer, a dark T-shirt and jeans, looking no worse for wear. And he walked right past the doorman, greeting him as if he did so every day. Obviously the affair with Becca Hemmer was ongoing. Sam looked at her watch.

It was half past eleven in the morning.

She turned the ignition on and put on the radio, oddly annoyed, and began flipping through the channels. She finally settled on a country music station, which quickly became really annoying. She switched to jazz and looked at her watch again. Only seven minutes had passed. Fox News was always a good bet. She slumped in her seat, listening to Sean Hannity defend America, agreeing with most of what he said. The minutes ticked by, really slowly, and it was excruciating. Of course, she knew what they were doing. He was tiring Becca out, the bastard, and if she didn’t fall asleep afterward, he’d probably drug her or slug her. Not that she cared what he did. He was a sociopath with a really messed-up past, the kind of guy every woman should steer clear of. Someone should warn Becca.

It was a quarter past noon, now.

She changed the station.

He came out twenty minutes later, a parcel under his arm. And he was smiling—dog that he was. And he veered right toward her Lexus.

Sam went still.

Still smiling, he knocked on the window, his gaze on hers. He was wearing aviator sunglasses.

She rolled it down. “Guess I’m made.”

He removed the glasses and his gaze moved over her tiny white tank top. “Ye could never pass by a man unnoticed.”

“Gee, a compliment. I’m in a relatively generic car with tinted windows.”

“But the doorman thinks ye look like Sharon Stone when she was in Fatal Attraction.”

“Remind me not to chat with the help.” Sam pushed open the door, making him step back, and she got out, turning the ignition off but leaving the key.

His gaze moved over her tight, distressed jeans. “I hope I didn’t keep ye waitin’ too long.”

“I love country music.”

“I did try to rush.”

“Don’t bother with the details.”

“Why? Are ye jealous?” He started to laugh.

“Of a mindless bimbo having mindless sex with an unrepentant sociopath? Are you kidding?”

“Mindless is how ye like it, isn’t that right? Even with a sociopath? Even with me?”

Sam felt a fist hollow her. Slowly, she said, “Mindless sex is definitely better than the other kind.”

Sam looked away from his hard gray stare, which was somehow speculative, at the package under his arm. She knew what the parcel contained. “It’s probably disintegrating even as we speak. That page needs climate control, 24/7. Want to share?”

He almost smiled. “Sharing is against my nature.”

“Of course it is. So what’s the plan?” And she reached for his cheek and dragged her nails lightly there. The gesture intensified the vibrations in her body. “What are you going to do with it? Or have you lined up a buyer, the way you did the van Gogh?”

He caught her hand and reeled her in. “I’m selling it to the highest bidder.”

She moved closer, against his big, stiff body. “Somehow I’m not surprised. I didn’t peg you for a patriot. Any way I can get you to play for the good guys?”

“Convince me,” he said.

He was hard already—clearly, it didn’t take much. Not that she should criticize, he had a similar effect on her. “Love to,” Sam said softly.

She moved. He held her hand and she ducked under his arm and twisted it behind his back, at lightning speed. It was a move she’d performed hundreds of times, always with the same results—it incapacitated a man, because if she didn’t stop, she’d break his arm. But he moved with her.