Brenda Joyce - Dark Lover

She’d spent a year hunting him but he’d never come back.

Now, sixteen years later, she knew she’d never find him. He might even be vanquished by someone else’s hand. But every time she brought a demon down, there was a deep, internal satisfaction. Laura would be proud.

Being cold-hearted was far more than a means of survival. It was the only way to win. She was a Slayer. And that made her a soldier. No soldier could succumb to compassion, much less sorrow. There was no room in her life for regrets. She took the mouthwash and poured it over her rib cage. It stung. Compassion was not a part of her MO. And it was an especially bad idea where Maclean was concerned.

If he thought her sympathetic toward him, he’d use it to his advantage.

Grim now, she doused the wound with the rest of her scotch. It was a good thing she still thought him a complete bastard. There was no sympathy to be had. He wasn’t that kid in captivity anymore. He’d survived—people survived the bad, the evil and the ugly, all the time. She took an emerald-green towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself, staring at her set face in the mirror. And she made a pact with herself.

No matter what they’d done to him, it wasn’t her business; she had a war to wage.

Sam picked up her cell and dialed Kit, who was back at the office. “How was the rest of the party?”

“Boring. Good caviar, though.”

“As if you’d know. Did Hemmer take you on the VIP tour?”

“No, but he asked a lot of questions about you. He’s either smitten or really suspicious. Where are you? I’m about to leave.”

“I’m at Maclean’s. 1101 Park Avenue. It’s been an interesting night. Can you swing by and bring me clothes? My dress is in the trash.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“It was just subs, Kit.”

“Yeah, I heard about the Rampage after you left. I’ll be about thirty,” Kit said, hanging up.

Sam took the small purse with her, and retrieved her messenger bag. Checking in on Maclean while clad in a towel was asking for trouble. But she was assigned to him and his PC was on the desk in the library, almost waving a red flag at her.

She smiled and went over to it and sat down. When she realized she did not need a password to log on, she shook her head, disbelieving. Then she sobered. She didn’t need a password because Maclean wasn’t worried about anyone invading his privacy. The bimbos he slept with wouldn’t bother, and she would hazard one good guess that he didn’t have friends—not even a single one.

He was that difficult, that asocial, that much of a loner.

She was a loner, too, but she enjoyed the occasional drink with Kit, her boss and some of her other coworkers. Even that jerk, MacGregor. But Maclean was just unlikable.

She had the grim notion that she might start feeling sorry for him, if she wasn’t careful. She had that odd churning in her stomach again. It was nonplussing. So what if he lived a life of extreme isolation? And for all she knew, he hung with a bunch of equally unlikable jerks.

It was time to work. Shoving her speculation aside, she started to log onto HCU’s immense database. It was time to become acquainted with his file.

But logging on required three different passwords. As she waited, she glanced at his desktop and then at his Documents folder. She might never have this opportunity again. Sam logged off from HCU, deciding to snoop into his hard drive instead. But it was all mundane stuff. He had numerous investments, a categorized and insured art collection (hmm), and lists of operating expenses for his two homes. He had auto insurance for five snazzy cars, and home owner’s insurance. It was all so routine that it was boring, when nothing about Maclean was boring.

The red flag that had gone up began waving.

A file labeled Travel contained his various itineraries from the past two years, as he jet-setted around the world—either in first class or on privately chartered jets. For a man who could leap through time, it was really strange.

Sam wondered if he was keeping a low profile because of Scotland Yard. But his profile would be even lower if he leapt in and out of Paris, instead of flying there first-class.

Kit called and told her she’d be there in five minutes. As Sam hung up, she decided to check his Web activity. She went online and checked his mailbox.

It took her two seconds to learn that he was having an erotic conversation with a man—and another ten to figure out that he was portraying himself to be a young boy of thirteen. Liam .

And the man’s name was John.

Comprehension flashed.

Was he undercover? Was he a cop?

She was stunned all over again. No authority—no agency or PD—would ever hire him into their midst, she felt certain, especially not with Scotland Yard being on his back. She went to their latest exchange, in which he gave his Park Avenue address to his buddy, claiming he lived there with his parents. “John” promised to look him up as soon as he could.

She sat back up rigidly, her mind racing. It had been bait and trap .

Ian had set up a demonic pedophile, and he had lured him to his death .

He was playing vigilante .

In spite of herself, there were the first stirrings of respect.

“Are ye enjoyin’ yerself?”

She looked up, caught red-handed in his files and his life.

Maclean stood in the doorway, clad only in a pair of loose, low-hanging sweats. She was instantly diverted from her discoveries. He had a huge, broad chest, and bulging arms, with a really tight, sculpted six-pack. The man worked out—a lot. He might be an oversexed jerk but it was impossible not to look at the “goods.” She stared at the swath of skin and hair below his naval and the very suggestive bulge below the waistband of his sweats. Her mouth was already dry. Sam looked away.

His mood clearly remained ugly, because his eyes were hard and burning with barely controlled anger.

“Your sweats are falling down, Maclean. Lose your drawstring?”

He walked over to her and stared at the e-mail she was reading, then reached past her to exit his mailbox. “There are laws against what yer doing.” His broad muscular chest heaved.

He caught her staring and she thought she almost flushed. “Gee, no nipple ring?” Sam slowly pushed away from the desk, one hand on her towel. He slammed his hand down on the desk, blocking her from rising.

He looked at her as if finally aware that she was just barely covered up. But he didn’t leer or smile that mocking, sexy smile; he was really angry.

She sank back down into the chair. “Well, you might consider devising a password.”

He seized the edge of the towel. “Are ye happy now?”

She half wished she had put the dress back on. “You found John online by pretending to be a teenage boy. You lured him here so you could kill him.”

“I’m tired of this game. I want sex. Now. Either put out or leave.” He jerked on the towel, but didn’t pull it away from her. “Which will it be, Sam?”

She understood that he was not going to answer her questions, but she barreled on. “This is about what they did to you, right? What happened to you? When you were a child in captivity?”

His eyes widened.

“I know. I was helping Brie find Aidan, remember?”

He breathed hard and harshly again. “Give me what I want or leave,” he snarled.

“So we’re back to the tiger in the cage?” Why was he even more upset?

For one moment, he did not speak. Then he leaned close. “Such a brave, fearless woman! Ye should fear me, Sam. Or have ye forgotten that my grandfather was a demon?”

She knew this was a good time to back off, because she was pretty certain he was going to rip the towel away—not that she couldn’t handle it. Still, he was really furious. “I know your grandfather was Moray—and I also know your power is white, Maclean. I think his bad genes missed. So what are you hiding?”