Page 45 of Dark Lover

No one would know if he got out and went to the stairs. But he’d know.

It was only an elevator, he reminded himself firmly. It was not a small, dark, impregnable and windowless tower room—or an even smaller underground cellar—or an earthen pit. He hated small, enclosed spaces. He feared them.

He pushed the damned button.

The doors closed.

He fought to breathe. Sweat poured down his face, his body. He gripped the bar in the elevator as if for his life, gritting his teeth, hard. Sam might be his next conquest, but she was the enemy. He reminded himself of that. It made him want to survive—she made him want to survive, so they could have it out in his bed, so he could finally be strong, dominant, the one in control.

The elevator slid to a halt; the door opened.

Ian left the elevator, refusing to run. It took all of his willpower to walk slowly. He walked into a large library filled with his most valuable artwork and antiques and hundreds of books, all of which he’d read. The worst was over now. He’d survived the panic attack, the elevator, his memories—and the knowledge of his goddamned file.

He shut both doors and then turned. A hazy image of a boy in a maze remained somewhere in the back of his mind, and he held the cool cloth to his head, no longer enraged, no longer afraid. He thought about Sam again, first in the bloody dress, and then as he’d just seen her an hour ago, in the tiny shorts and tank top, telling him about the file. As the drugs began to work, he breathed deeply. He’d deal with the file when he confronted her boss, Forrester. Now, his body began to hum and thrum. As the sexual need grew, he relaxed even more. He held on to the picture of her in those tiny shorts and tank, wearing nothing beneath.

The other memories finally receded, too. Gerard knocked on the doors and glanced at him as he came inside, carrying a tray with a covered dish and a glass of wine. “Will you need anything else?” he asked as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He set the tray down on an eighteenth-century table.

Ian shook his head. Not looking at him, he said again, “Thank you.”

When Gerard had left, he went to the sofa and sat down, reaching for the wine. The denim of his jeans was now constrictive, annoying. She was on his mind now, front and center. And sex was always the best escape.

There was no guilt as he used his telepathy to find her. That power had begun when he was first captured. He’d thought about his father, and instantly had been able to see Aidan in the midst of his day. He’d tried so hard to communicate to him that way. Once in a while, Aidan had seen him, back. However, he’d assumed Ian was a ghost.

He’d been a boy then, and the power had been erratic. It was highly refined now. He’d even used it from Scotland to spy on Sam several times, shamelessly. He’d watched her with her lovers a few times and he’d enjoyed every moment of that. He was shameless now.

She was seated on the sofa in her loft, still in her tiny shorts, but in a different tank top. His heart picked up a new beat now, one predatory and sexual. He slowly smiled and reached for his cell phone.

He’d made it a point to obtain her numbers earlier. He dialed her at home. The moment she answered, he heard the breathless tension in her voice. His own tension, already impossible, thickened. “Can’t ye sleep?”

“Maclean.”

Her tone was thick, like his. “I can’t sleep, either, Sam.”

She was surprised. “Are we about to have phone sex?”

His mouth curled. “I wouldn’t bother. Why are ye so hot?”

She hesitated. “Hemmer was here. He just left.”

For one moment, he was incredulous. Then he was on his feet, enraged. “An’ he makes ye hot now, too?”

“Hemmer is an evil and dangerous sonuvabitch,” she said. “And you were right about him. He is going to be a problem.”

His mind raced. She hadn’t slept with him, he was certain. He tried to read her mind and only felt her anger. Hemmer had pissed her off. “What did Hemmer want? Other than sex?”

There was another pause. “You know what he wants. Me…the page…and maybe, revenge on you. Have you considered that part of it, Maclean?”

He was still, his gaze narrowed, feeling harder and angrier now. “An’ ye care because?” He was aware of quoting her.

“I care because you have the page and we want it,” she snapped. “Gee, this is great phone sex!”

“Why did ye change yer clothes?”

There was a moment of surprised silence. “How do you know I changed my clothes?”

“Because,’ he snarled, “ye were wearing a white tank top, an’ it’s red now.”

“My place is wired?”