Page 138 of Dark Lover

He’d been alone his entire life, for as long as he could remember. He was used to it. There was no reason for his chest to start aching now.

Memories they’d made together so recently swept over him, with the force of a tidal wave. Her dropping that little red dress. Her snapping those handcuffs on, triumphant. Her standing between him and Forrester, trying to broker a deal for him. Her pointing a gun at Carlisle and vanquishing him.

And the tunnel suddenly got darker, an impossible feat. It was hard to imagine a life without her in it, but there was no other choice. Because he could imagine her looking at him with scorn and derision and then walking away with an indifferent shrug. He knew, beyond any doubt, that day would come.

She turned to him in her sleep, surprising him. He did not move. Facing him on her side, her hand brushed his hip. And his heart thundered differently now.

He was addicted to her body. He was addicted to the release she could give him, the incredible pleasure, the escape from the damned tunnel of his life. If he leaned over her now, this terrible moment would vanish. But it would be temporary. When they were done, nothing would have changed.

His chest hurt so badly he wondered if he was having a heart attack. He couldn’t imagine a day going by without their verbal sparring. He liked her tough comebacks, her clever retorts. He’d had more conversation with her than he’d had in his entire lifetime, he realized grimly. But then, most of his life had been spent in isolation, either as a captive or since his release.

How he felt didn’t matter. He was used to being alone. There’d be other women, faceless and nameless, eager to please him, women he’d use and walk away from, women he wouldn’t bother to talk to, women who could think whatever they chose to about him and he wouldn’t care. They wouldn’t challenge him or talk back to him or look at him with those concerned violet-blue eyes…

It crossed his addled mind that a light had gone on in that tunnel since meeting Sam. And it had been growing brighter each and every day. It was almost as if there were a beacon at the tunnel’s end…

But that was impossible.

The fear clawed, the same fear he lived with, day in and day out.

She was stirring. Ian sat up, throwing off the covers. He left the bed and quickly dressed, yanking on his clothing with sheer determination, refusing to think any further. His mind was made up. Using his cell phone, he told the pilots to file a flight plan to Glasgow. He had no intention of leaping, not ever again.

When he came out of the walk-in closet, he was shrugging on a lightweight leather jacket. Sam was sitting up in his bed, beneath the gold sheets, her hair more mussed than usual, her full lips swollen. Her eyes were searching and filled with dread, as if she knew what he was doing. “Where are you going, Ian?”

“I’m leaving,” he said without emotion. He turned away from her. Looking at her actually hurt, the way those instruments of torture had.

She hugged her knees to her chest, under the covers. “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?”

He finally met her gaze. He would never forget her eyes, or her courage. “It’s over.”

She nodded, poker-faced. He turned abruptly, reaching for the door.

“I won’t try to stop you,” she said, and it was a warning.

He froze at the door. “I know.”

“Do you mind me asking, why? Why now?” She spoke without emotion.

His heart pleaded with him. He didn’t really want to do this. Maybe there was hope…“I’m done, Sam.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. “Gotcha.”

He took one last look at her. His heart screamed now. But his heart did not know any better. He had no choices.

He walked into the black tunnel.

And he was wrong. There were no lights, none.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SAM WALKED into her loft, finally understanding the word heartbreak. The pain was stabbing, knifelike. If she were a lesser woman, she’d crawl into her bed and give in to the need to cry.

But she was a Rose and a Slayer. So she reminded herself that it wasn’t love. She’d been deluded, and Ian Maclean was a mess.

She slowly closed the door and saw her sister seated on the sofa, looking so incongruous in her medieval dress. She was poring over the Book of Roses and smiling, which apparently meant she’d had some success in locating whatever she was looking for. Sam also heard the shower running.

Tabby’s smile faded and she stood up. “Guy couldn’t resist taking a modern shower. I had him get the Book for me. Sam, what’s wrong? Who died?”

Sam smiled grimly, going to the fridge and taking out a beer. “No one died, Tabby.”