Page 30 of Dark Lover

“That made us business partners, Maclean.”

“Aye…an’ possession is ten-tenths of the law, now isn’t it? Ye’d know that better than anyone.” Ian walked over to a seventeenth-century cupboard to pour himself a glass of the fine wine.

Hemmer followed. “So it was you! You bastard! You came to my party only to steal from me.”

He was calm. “It takes a thief to know one.” He sipped and was impressed.

Hemmer was shaking. “Have you bothered to consider that I am one man you do not want to cross?”

Ian shrugged. “I’m trembling.”

Hemmer grimaced, eyes ablaze. “How much? How much will you extort from me? How much will it cost me to get the page back?”

Ian tried to slip into his mind, but the power eluded him. All he felt was Hemmer’s fury and a sense that Hemmer meant to make him suffer for what he’d done, but he hadn’t needed telepathy to comprehend that. Hemmer had to know that the page had god-given powers. Ian didn’t think he’d pay over two hundred million dollars for it, otherwise. The man wasn’t even Irish.

But there was more. A black shadow clouded Hemmer’s thoughts—a distinct but undefined presence. Was someone else involved in Hemmer’s desire to possess the page? Ian tried again, but he couldn’t quite bring that other person into focus—if there were another person involved. He couldn’t find a name. He merely glimpsed the black shadow, which remained. If the shadow was a demon, that certainly upped the stakes. “I’m taking bids until Friday at midnight. Make yer best offer.”

Hemmer choked on outrage. “You’re taking bids? The page is mine! How much do you want for it?”

“Make yer best offer,” he repeated flatly. “I’m selling to the highest bidder.” He smiled and added softly, “Good luck.”

Hemmer breathed hard. “You’ll be sorry, Maclean. I am not the kind of man you really wish to cross.”

Ian was amused. He feared demons—not evil billionaires like Rupert Hemmer. If Hemmer was playing with demons, he might be afraid, but that still wouldn’t stop him. Because hundreds of millions of dollars were at stake. And wealth was power. “Really? Good luck making me pay, as well.”

Hemmer slowly smiled. It was a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t trust you when we first met. I should have known. So, did you enjoy my wife last night? Did you enjoy her today?”

He’d known they were being taped. He shrugged. “She was skilled enough.”

Hemmer went still. “I know you think yourself above us all. But you should fear me, Maclean. No one has as much power as I do in mortal realm—and I have allies. Allies that will make you seem weak and pathetic.”

A twinge of wariness went through him. He’d been right. Hemmer had demonic allies. He’d intended to sell to the highest bidder, but he did not want to become involved with any great black powers.

On the other hand, he’d spent twenty-five years making himself as safe as possible, and a hundred million dollars or so would be the icing on the cake. Being safe—making his world impregnable—was the driving force of his existence. People thought he was a greedy bastard—how wrong they were.

And he didn’t like threats. There’d been a thousand of them during his years of captivity. “I don’t like being threatened, Rupert.” He nodded dismissively at him.

“And I don’t care to be mocked, and I especially don’t like being duped.” He started for the doorway, then turned. “I taught Becca every trick she knows. I wonder…how many tricks does Sam Rose know?”

Ian stiffened, incredulous.

“When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”

Ian watched him leave, and suddenly he was livid.

SAM SLOWLY CLOSED the door to her loft and leaned heavily against it.

Her car was more or less totaled. She’d left it right where it was, taking a cab back to HCU, where she’d gone directly to Five. Her rib cage was bleeding and the doctor there had lectured her for not having it properly attended the night before. He’d added three stitches and redone the bandage. She did have a sprain, too, and he’d wrapped that. One of the collisions must have caused her to hit her head, because she had a black eye. He’d given her an ice pack—and then he’d asked her out. Sam had politely refused.

She didn’t move. Her ankle hurt, her rib cage burned and her left eye throbbed. She’d managed to escape the building without being waylaid by anyone, especially not her boss. By now, Nick had to know that the page was stolen—and that one of his top agents had caused multiple car wrecks.

Damn Maclean.

What was wrong with him?

She pulled off one boot, then had to sit down on a kitchen stool to get off the other one. Sheer fatigue set in. It had been a hellish twenty-four hours. At work, they thought her a superagent, but she was human, which everyone seemed to forget. Sam half limped into the kitchen, found a bottle of red wine and uncorked it. She poured a glass and took it with her, limping toward her bedroom.

Maclean’s image was etched on her mind as she’d last seen him, standing on the rooftop beside the dented taxi, waving at her. She paused, recalling his horrifically scarred back. That was a sight she’d never forget—as was his breakdown after destroying John.