Dark Victory (11 page)

His regard moved over her face and then returned to her eyes. “Ye worry so much. But then, all women do.”

She could happily add chauvinistic jerk to his list of character traits. She began pulling plastic bags from the box, wanting something to do. “Being as you’re so into my
mind,
I hope you’ve been listening closely to all my thoughts.”

“I dinna need to
look up
chauvinistic jerk, Tabitha. I can feel what ye mean.”

She slammed the garbage bags down on the counter between them. “Good. Meanwhile, a ghost just tried to get in here—an evil, hateful ghost. We have a lot to worry about. So if you are too proud to worry, have no fear, I’ll do enough worrying for us both.”

He suddenly tilted up her chin with one of his strong, magic fingers. “Ye’re brave, even with yer fear.”

She felt herself nod. Of course she was afraid.

“I’ll worry,” he said.

She went still, stunned.
It would be so nice to let him worry for her. It would be so nice to let him shoulder this.
Of course, she’d do no such thing. She was a liberated, strong and independent woman, and sooner or later, she’d be on her own again. In fact, that evil thing might still be hanging around after he’d gone back to his time.

“I will worry, Tabitha, an’ plot, an’ ye can rest with ease.”

She slowly pulled back, so he wasn’t touching her face. “Why would you do that?”

He half smiled. “In my time, men war an’ worry. Women bake bread and bear babes.”

His chauvinism was a vast relief. “Got it.” She didn’t want him acting concerned or caring toward her.

“Tabitha? I willna go back while the ghost an’ the boys hunt ye.”

She’d almost forgotten his theory about the incident at school that morning. Tabby wet her lips. “Macleod, I recognized the evil. It came from An Tùir-Tara.”

S
AM RANG THE BUZZER
on Kristin’s apartment door at almost a quarter past eleven at night. Kristin used the peephole before opening the door, her eyes filled with surprise.

“I am really sorry to bother you at this hour, but before I call it a night, I have one or two more questions about what happened at the school today.” Sam continued to smile smoothly as she lied.

She had a powerful sixth sense for evil, which had saved her ass a lot, and she wanted to hone in on Kristin now. She had decided she wasn’t demonic, merely the lowest form of evil that there was, a human filled with the basest emotions and ambitions—greed, jealousy and envy, the desire to see others fail and fall, the ability to gloat over it. But Nick was certain she wasn’t one-hundred-percent human. He’d explained to her that humans with a low percentage of demonic DNA could take on demonic traits but escape detection as demons. Sam was intrigued. She’d only been at HCU for three months, and hadn’t realized a hierarchy of sub-humans could exist. Her world had been divided into demons, possessed humans or subs, and humans. Adding a mixed breed of partially demonic humans would explain a lot, like people with more power than they should have. So now she
would carefully check Kristin out. Tailing Kristin was starting then and there.

“It’s late, and I’m usually asleep by now, but the truth is, after what happened today, I am dreading bad dreams.” Kristin smiled grimly. “Come in. Let’s go into the kitchen. My roommate’s asleep.”

Sam followed her inside. Kristin still felt both entirely human and entirely evil. Her smile hid a multitude of hatred and sins. Now Sam was excited. What if Kristin had a drop or two of demonic DNA? If she had set Tabby up, she was going to wind up dead.

Kristin offered her water, which Sam refused. “Would you tell me one more time exactly how you became aware of the fire?” She smiled, as if friendly by nature—which she was not.

As Kristin answered, Sam stared, not really listening. At first glance, one saw Kristin’s platinum hair, her pale skin and blue eyes, her even features, and the assumption was that she was an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Now, as Sam really looked at her, she decided she wasn’t attractive, or even pretty. She was oddly bland—almost a generic version of a blond, blue-eyed woman. But what better way to hide her evil nature than under such an understated façade?

As she spoke, she gestured and Sam noticed the fine blue veins in her hands. Young women did not have visible veins, not even when as fair as Kristin.

She looked at her neck.

There were creases there.

She did not have the hands or the neck of a woman in her twenties or thirties. But plenty of women went under the knife. Maybe she’d had her face done. Sam studied her again and noticed some fine lines around her eyes and mouth, wrinkles no average person would really ever see. Kristin Lafarge had
an oddly timeless quality to her appearance, neither the look of a mature woman who’d had a bit nipped here and tucked there nor the youthful and beautiful appearance of a demon.

Demons lived for centuries, but their DNA came from Satan. Under a microscope, the difference between human and demonic DNA was obvious.

“Is that it, Agent Rose?”

Did this woman have
entirely
human DNA? Sam had thought so, but as much as she hated admitting it, Nick was usually right. Something was off, and she was good enough at what she did to leave no stone unturned. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I always follow my gut.”

“That’s all right.” Kristin stood. Her smile was polite, almost friendly. There was no sign of relief in her eyes, as if she didn’t care that the brief interview was over.

If she was hiding something, she was damned good.

“Can I use your bathroom?” Sam asked, thinking about the fact that the apartment was a one-bedroom flat. The sofa was already pulled out, which meant Kristin slept on the sleeper. It was an old building, the only full bathroom would be attached to her roomie’s bedroom. Kristin probably used the powder room more than she did the other bathroom.

A moment later she was inside the powder room and she knew she was right. Because there she found Kristin’s makeup, hairbrush and toothbrush.

Perfect, Sam thought.

T
ABBY STOOD IN THE
steaming hot shower, the water pouring over her, trying not to think about Macleod. The shower was long overdue, but her body had a mind of its own and was not quite enjoying the shower as she intended. The drops seemed to agitate her breasts and nipples, and her belly was tight and quivering with tension.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep a grip on the desire she seemed incapable of escaping, desire for a man she hardly knew—a man terribly inappropriate for her—a man she’d already had sex with.

Images danced, of Macleod walking into the bathroom and taking off that plaid, his smile slow and suggestive.

She swallowed and thought she heard the door, but when she looked at it, it remained closed.

She needed to finish showering; she needed to think about something else.

She pushed her heavy hair back, closed her eyes and let the water pour on her face, determined to ignore the weight of her body. It was almost impossible, because she could feel him inside her, filling up every inch of her, the pressure immediate, inescapable and shattering.

Whatever was haunting her—or them—from An Tùir-Tara, she didn’t want to think about it now. She
wanted
to think about him, about his courage, his strength and how protective he was of her. Just then, she did not want to acknowledge his savagery, his barbarism or his chauvinism. If she kept this up, she’d leave the shower, open the bathroom door and call him to her.

Come to me, Highlander.

It would be so easy.

In fact, if she spent the night with him and was as unbridled and as passionate as she’d been for those few minutes in the bathroom earlier, she might actually believe herself to be a new and different woman. She opened her eyes, dismayed. The truth was, a part of her was afraid that she’d never experience that passion again.

That she was still the old, conservative, uptight Tabby.

But she hadn’t been uptight or conservative earlier. They’d had rough, hot, animal sex—the kind of sex only two crazed strangers could have.

She thought about everyone always saying how elegant she was, how proper and genteel, how she was held up as the perfect lady, and she started to laugh somewhat hysterically.

Was that woman forever gone? Or would she reappear when Macleod went back to the Middle Ages?

If he came to her now, which woman would climb into his bed?

She wanted some of that perfect lady back. She wanted the grace, the good humor, the confidence, the unflappable composure. She even liked being so preppie! But she really, really wanted to be able to continue to enjoy a man in bed. If she could hold on to one thing, it would be her newfound passion.

She never wanted to fake it again.

She slowly turned.

Macleod stood on the bathroom’s threshold. She hadn’t locked the door. Of course she hadn’t, because she had wanted him to come to her. Without turning, not taking his eyes from her, he closed the door behind him and pulled the plaid away from his tense body. He tossed it aside. “Be careful what ye wish for.”

She inhaled.

He started forward, stiffly aroused. “Ye dinna need to pleasure yerself, Tabitha, when I am here to do it fer ye.”

She dropped her hands, aware of her resistance crumbling, and whispered, “Macleod…I’m frightened.”

He took her hands in his, and his long, strong fingers closed over hers. For an instant, as he looked into her eyes, she thought that there was something possessive in the action. She thrilled but her fear increased.

“Maybe I can’t do it again.”

He began to smile. “Ye can do it, Tabitha, ye may trust me on that.”

“I was frigid, Macleod, until you. Do you know what that means?” she cried desperately.

“I ken.” He laid her hands on his shoulders. “It means ye faked it every time.”

“I’ve had, like, two orgasms with a man in my entire life. I have been dead inside!”

“But now ye’re with me.” And he tilted up her chin before running a finger down her body, from the hollow of her collarbone to the tip of her breast, her navel and then to the most swollen aching part of her pubis.

She gasped, tears forming, because she’d wanted him to touch her again so badly ever since the first time. Tabby seized his shoulders. His finger pressed low and deep, then high and she stiffened entirely, throwing her head back, the wave of pleasure rapidly building, releasing the raging torment.

“I canna bear yer pain,” he said bluntly, clasping her waist. His fingers tightened there. She tried to protest. His eyes gleaming, his face hard and determined, he pulled her abruptly forward. She gasped as the long, solid ridge of his manhood was crushed between them.

The shower started to spin.

She cried out. She couldn’t stand it. “Make me come, Macleod.”

He gave a sexual sound, seized that hank of her hair again, tilting her face upward, toward his. Tabby couldn’t breathe. Their gazes locked. Pleasure mingled with pain while he throbbed hotter and harder against her. She couldn’t stand it. For the second time in her life, she did not want foreplay and she did not need it. “You win, I lose. Hurry, Macleod,” she said harshly.

For one moment, he looked at her, his face determined, his eyes ablaze with lust and desire, his huge manhood pressing against her belly. Then he smiled and moved.

He abruptly lifted her leg and wrapped her calf over his hip. Tabby climbed up on him and he helped her, lifting her other
leg. He spun her around as she locked her ankles against the small of his back, clawing him mercilessly and pushing down onto him. She realized she couldn’t impale herself, not until he allowed it, and she started to weep against his huge shoulder, the friction between them mind-blowing.

Her back against the tile wall, he tugged on her hair, hard. “Look at me, Tabitha.”

She did, furiously. “Damn you…damn you.”

Anchoring her hips, holding her back to the wall, he thrust upward.

She choked as he stabbed his entire huge length into her. She was shocked to feel so much pleasure. She hadn’t imagined it the first time. She began to spin out of control, yet she was desperate for more. She clawed him. Ecstasy blinded her. She soared off the precipice, into a zillion stars, shattering in more pain and pleasure than could possibly exist. “Harder,” she wept. “More.”

She seemed to climax again, blinded by him now, his mouth tearing at hers, her mouth tearing at his. Each climax was more intense than the previous one. She whirled in so much ecstasy she couldn’t stand it and she screamed in release after release. His skin shredded under her nails.

She became aware of his cries, his semen burning inside her. She became aware that she was on the bathroom vanity, but otherwise, in the exact same position, her legs locked around his hips. She blinked and realized she had a death grip on his shoulders, and he remained embedded within her. Having him inside her was sheer heaven. She didn’t know how long they had been going at it, nor did she care.

He had paused and some coherence crept over her. She saw his slight, smug smile. The shower was still on. “Don’t stop.”

But he pushed her heavy wet hair behind her ear, bent and nuzzled the lobe. He whispered, “Ye’ll always have this with me.”

She did not want to think clearly and analyze that state
ment. She didn’t want to consider that she was seated on the bathroom sink, sweaty and breathless, her legs still locked around him, as he throbbed hugely inside her. She was clasping his shoulders; she saw the myriad nail marks there, all bright red. She tightened her grasp anyway. “I don’t want to talk, Macleod.”

His smile widened, dimples came. “I ken.” He moved away from her, making her incredulous, but then he began deliberately stroking her with his shaft. Tabby seized his shoulders and leaped onto him.

Macleod laughed.

T
HE PLEASURE WAS DIFFERENT
this time.

It was filled with triumph as he held her.

She had haunted him for decades, but he was the victor. It almost felt as if he owned her now, body and soul, and that somehow gave him greater pleasure. But there was more. He could not get enough of her bright power. Her rapture seemed to fill him with that stunning white light. It made him insatiable.