Free Dark Lover by Brenda Joyce

him—her body was that demanding, that hot for his. The raging attraction was getting worse. After what she’d just seen, it should be gone.
    She’d never seen so much rage. She was shaken, even though she’d witnessed a lifetime of murder and mayhem, rape, torture and death. What had that demon done to him? It had to have been bad.
    And he’d been crying afterward. Ian Maclean had shed tears . She was determined to hide her surprise and act as if nothing much had happened. Oddly, it felt incredibly important to pretend that nothing was awry.
    It had been sheer instinct to leave him alone with his grief when he’d finished with the demon. No man, immortal or not, would want someone to see such rage, much less that shocking emotional aftermath.
    And she was shocked.
    He was breathing hard. “I said I am not one of them.”
    She was breathing hard, too. She’d heard. And while she didn’t think him a rapist, he’d probably have kept trying to seduce her anyway, if she hadn’t gotten rough.
    And that was the problem. Having that incredibly hardand aroused body against hers had been so damned tempting. It was as if there was an unearthly pull between them. “Okay. I might have overreacted. I’m sorry I kneed you. But I’m fairly certain a little blow won’t hurt that .”
    He gave her a really dark glance. “Why don’t ye leave?” He strode back to the bar cart and poured a scotch, which he drained. Then he poured another one. “Ye can understand why I’m not bein’ a bit more hospitable.”
    â€œI’m not leaving, not until the page is in Nick’s custody,” Sam said flatly.
    He gave her an incredulous look. “I’m not leapin’ anywhere tonight. Not into the vault and not into the past, or any other time.” He drank half of the second scotch. He was impatient now, his stare cold and hard.
    She carefully shut down those thoughts. She’d think about it all later. “And I should trust you because…?”
    â€œYe trust me because I’m St. Cuthbert,” he snapped. “Do as ye will. Amuse yerself, Sam.” He refilled his glass and strode from the library.
    Sam walked to the threshold of the room and saw him go down the hall, past several impressive works of art, entering what was apparently the master suite at its far end. When he vanished inside, leaving the door open, she inhaled.
    Holy shit. What had just happened…really?
    She walked over to the bar cart and poured herself a drink. Sipping it, she went into the adjacent guest bathroom. She set the drink down and opened the cabinet, where she found a few handy items, including mouthwash.
    As she took off the dress, she became aware of her body, which was sore. The stab wounds felt as if they were on fire. Not that she hadn’t had worse. Her right ankle was also sore, and she hoped it wasn’t sprained, because she didn’t have time to limp around. She shoved the red jerseydress into the garbage and thought about the few facts she’d gleaned with Brie last fall about Ian Maclean.
    Brie and Sam had been trying to save Aidan’s life. They’d assumed Ian was dead—everyone had. Aidan had helplessly watched while his own father murdered him as a boy. Sam recalled that date as being 1436. Some dates simply stuck out.
    She picked up a bar of scented white soap and cleaned her arm and the cut on her rib cage. Now that she thought about it, Ian had been born in the fifteenth century, making him really old—unless he was visiting New York from another century. That did not seem likely—he acted really contemporary. But the second, more important fact was that his grandfather, the notorious demon, Moray, hadn’t actually killed him.
    Ian had been in demonic captivity as a child. Now she recalled that Aidan had fallen to the dark side as a result of his thinking Ian murdered. Aidan of Awe had a record of