Page 34 of Dark Lover

Sam smiled. She knew her tiny shorts and small T-shirt were inflammatory. That was fine with her. Let him suffer. She’d enjoy it. “I’m sure he can handle it.” Hadn’t she handled him with Becca, up close and really personal?

“Do you want him to seduce you?”

It crossed her mind that, in spite of the constant back and forth, he’d never turned on the full extent of his sexuality. Which might be good, because she wasn’t sure she could handle a full-scale assault. And that was unsettling.

Before she could analyze that, the doorbell rang. Sam turned and opened it. Maclean smiled at her with his usual arrogance, looking damned good and somehow elegant in fitted and very frayed jeans, Gucci loafers and a sweater he’d paid hundreds of dollars for.

There was no way he could belong in 1527, she thought. He looked like what he was—a rich, conceited, jet-setting playboy. But that didn’t diminish his appeal.

And then she realized he hadn’t suffered a single scratch from the car chase. She was disbelieving. “You look like you just finished brunch in Soho.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes widened as he took in her black eye and wrapped ankle.

Then his gaze slammed down her body again, this time with heated male interest. “What happened?” He sauntered inside.

“You should know,” Sam said, closing the door. “You happened.”

“If I hit ye in the eye, I dinna recall, an’ my memory is good.”

Sam wondered if he thought he’d lost so much control last night that he’d hit her and couldn’t remember it. “I got the black eye chasing you the wrong way up an exit ramp,” she said wryly. “And I got the sprained ankle fighting with a broken heel last night, while you watched.”

His gaze moved over her T-shirt and her obviously bare breasts beneath. “Ye saw a doctor.”

She felt the moment his body heat went up a few more degrees, because her body responded in kind. She made sure to keep her tone casual. “What’s the big deal? And who taught you how to drive, anyway?”

He slowly lifted his gaze. “I taught myself.”

“Cars don’t fly.”

His mouth curved. “I’ll try to remember, next time we’re fender to bumper.”

His words washed through her, as soft and sexy in tone as that cashmere sweater had to be on his skin.

“Are you always a complete horndog?”

“Ye want it that way.”

She stared. His gaze was blinding and intense. Maybe she did. She sure expected his bad-boy behavior now. But she thought about his scars and the sixty-six years of captivity he’d endured. No one would be normal after that.

Maybe the oversexed thing was a part of a massive cover-up.

“I think I’ll go,” Kit said.

Sam had forgotten that she was present. “You don’t have to leave. Maclean won’t be long. Will you?”

He grinned. “I’m hardly in a rush, Sam. I want to see yer digs.”

She thought of him standing over Becca, in no rush. The image shifted into a graphic memory of his pressing her against the library table in the entryway last night. There’d been a ton of urgency then. The urgency was building, now. She said harshly, “Kit, this is Ian Maclean, and this is my friend Kit.”

Ian smiled at her, as if he expected her to drop at his feet, too.

She flushed. “I think you two might hash things out a bit more easily if I’m not here.” Kit picked up her bag. “I think a truce is a great idea.” She smiled. “We’re all on the same side, really.”

Sam wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her or to Ian. When Kit was gone, she walked into the kitchen to pour him a glass of wine, aware of his gaze sliding down her back and bare legs as he followed her. She handed the glass to him. “I’m not a good hostess,” she warned, “unlike my sister, who would welcome you with open arms. I’m just taking advantage of this moment in time—although not the way you want.”

“I like,” he said softly, “yer boxers.”

“I’ll bet you do. And, Maclean? We’re not on the same side. It’s amazing, considering what she’s been through, but Kit’s an optimist. If we were on the same side, you’d have the page in your back pocket right now.”