Page 42 of Dark Lover

But he was sorry he’d put her on Maclean now.

He knew she found Maclean attractive, thanks to his telepathy. But he also knew Maclean infuriated her—and he knew why. He was fully aware of her little jaunt to Scotland a few months ago. She’d wanted Maclean to send her back in time to her sister; he’d refused. That was okay. It had pissed her off.

She wasn’t just the best agent he’d ever had, she was also the kind of woman to lead a man around by his dick. He’d put her on Maclean because he was one hundred and ten percent certain that she could manage Maclean and defeat him. But now, he was having second thoughts. Maclean was playing her. He seemed to be in control. And he did not want one of his kids winding up dead.

It was a miserable and rotten day because his best agent had screwed up and Maclean had stolen the damned page right out from under their noses. He’d waltzed into Hemmer’s that morning, dismantled not just the alarms and locks but all of their surveillance equipment, apparently with the blink of an eye, and then Sam had lost him in the ridiculous car chase—which happened to be the first time she’d ever shown shitty judgment in the field. Now, they didn’t know where the fuck the page was.

His agents had already checked out every possible art dealer and gallery from Montauk to Allentown. So it was time to widen the loop. The page had to be carefully maintained. It couldn’t be just anywhere—or could it?

And that was one of the problems. The experts at Sotheby’s claimed it had to be in a carefully controlled environment. Nick wasn’t so sure. After all, the page had survived over centuries—or it might have survived traveling through time at the speed of light. He just didn’t know.

And if it could survive the leap, then Maclean could have it stashed anywhere, in any time.

Nick decided it was time for him and Ian to have a little not-so-friendly chat.

His computer chimed three times.

Nick leaned forward. The alert indicated he’d received an e-mail from Big Mama. He couldn’t believe it, but she’d responded to his inquiry. The e-mail read: Coincidental between Aidan of Awe and Rupert Hemmer. A document was attached.

Nick couldn’t imagine what kind of involvement there could be between the Master and the modern billionaire. He opened the attachment.

It was a news article with a photograph, dated twenty-eight years ago. Rupert Hemmer was on a podium, shaking hands with someone who seemed damned familiar somehow. Nick was certain he knew him—even if they’d never met. Both men were identified in the caption below. The stranger was the international mogul, Robert Moran, who resided in New York.

Warning bells rang. He punched in a search for Moran on HCU’s database. The response was instantaneous.

Robert Moran was none other than the demon who had terrorized the world for centuries, the demon once believed to be immortal, the terrifying and legendary Moray.

SHE WAS IN BED with Ian Maclean.

Sam was so shocked that she did not move. This was impossible.

He caught her waist, held her still, and moved his mouth lower and lower, taking his time. Sam moaned, long and low, writhing sensually. He slid his knee between her thighs, pushed up hard, and paused, looking at her. And he smiled…

You bastard, she said, but she was smiling, too.

Sam hit the Pause button.

What the hell was this?

She breathed hard, gripping the edge of the desk, trembling. She was in bed with Maclean. She exhaled. No. It was a fake. It had to be. She’d never been in bed with Maclean—she’d never been in that bedroom.

But she couldn’t breathe properly. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t stop seeing him there at the foot of the bed, pausing between her legs, so hard and aroused. She hadn’t missed that steel ring, either.

He’d never smile at her like that.

Sam looked at the screen, wetting her lips.

That was Maclean, there was no doubt about it.

She told herself not to hit the Play button. She reminded herself that it was a fake as she did so anyway.

Suddenly he moved over her, sliding slowly into her. His massive entry seemed to take forever. And the whole time he watched her and she stared back, breathlessly, until she exploded. As she wept he paused and murmured to her.

She meant to hit the Stop button, she really did. Instead, she tried to breathe, staring helplessly at his lean, hard body, every inch sculpted and chiseled, slick and wet. He was playing her, slow and teasing, and she was undone. He was giving—she was taking. He was in control—she was not.

Sam leapt to her feet, turning her back on the screen. The sound of her deep and throaty cries followed her. Suddenly she heard him gasp, the sound male and sexual.

She turned. She was on top of him now, smiling down at him triumphantly—but there was far more to her smile than that. She did not know what that smile meant. Worse, he gazed up at her, gasping in his pleasure, and their gazes stayed locked.