Page 40 of Dark Lover

He hadn’t made billions by being stupid. Rupert Hemmer undoubtedly knew everything there was to know about her.

She was going to have to play this game out. “Yeah, Big Brother is usually watching.”

His eyes gleamed. “I am going to help you, my dangerous Samantha. I’ve seen how much you need pleasure. And I can give you pleasure, more than you have dreamed of. More than Ian Maclean.”

“That’s a helluva statement.” What did he mean now?

“Tomorrow you’ll find out exactly what I mean,” he said.

She wanted to step away from him. The instinct was one of self-preservation. He kept his hand between her breasts and, somehow, she did not move. “Then I’m a lucky lady.”

He was amused again and she didn’t like it. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, producing a DVD. “I think I’m about to change your life. I truly look forward to our relationship,” he said, handing it to her. “I expect it will be mutually agreeable…very much so.”

Sam couldn’t imagine what was on the DVD, but she knew she wasn’t going to like it. “I look forward to it, too,” she said.

He started for the door. “I’ll see you both tomorrow at seven.”

He was leaving. Apparently, he’d gotten what he’d wanted. But what, exactly, was that?

He’d stressed that he wanted them both.

“Enjoy the wine,” he said at the door.

Sam stared as he left. Then she ran to her desktop and pushed the DVD into the drive.

Hemmer was dangerous; Maclean was right. He definitely knew too much about her. But this was also about Maclean. This was some kind of trap. He had to know that Maclean had stolen the page. He would want the page back, and he probably wanted to kill Maclean, too.

The orgasmic cries of a woman broke into her thoughts.

As she turned to the computer screen, her first thought was that Hemmer had sent her porn, but that was too silly.

And then she saw herself.

Sam sat up like a rocket. She was in the throes of rapture, holding on to a man as if for her life, completely lost in the cyclone of her climax.

And his back was a mosaic of scars.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NICK FORRESTER WAS PISSED.

It had been a really, really bad day.

He stared at his computer screen intently. The entry hall of Maclean’s fancy Park Avenue town house was vacant. He scrolled through the rooms, which were all as dead as doorknobs, until he found the butler in the kitchen. Now that was an interesting fellow. Maclean was out. Nick knew that because of his video feeds and stakeouts.

He had a huge home, with state-of-the-art everything. The stolen page could be there. However, Nick’s gut told him he’d stashed it elsewhere.

He smiled coldly to himself. Maclean was now in deep shit. He had the page; Nick wanted it. That put him on Nick’s radar 24/7.

And Nick always got his man.

Well, almost always.

“Nick, are you working?”

He was already speed dialing one of the two agents assigned to Maclean. Maclean would have his people on him like flies to flypaper. But he’d forgotten he had company, and he was briefly startled.

Nick turned, not even trying to recall her name. He was renowned for one-night stands, but the rumors were all wrong. He liked three-, four- and five-night stands—it was so much more convenient, so much less work. He could manage to stay interested for about a week. His problem was that he could not afford any mental or emotional involvements, because mental and emotional involvement was deadly. He’d learned that long ago.