The Dark Highlander

Page 35

Slowly. He need employ utmost care and caution if he hoped to achieve his aim.
Late last eve, while watching her dither over which artifacts to choose, he’d realized with startling clarity, that it wasn’t merely her body he wanted in his bed, he wanted all of her, given without reservation. He wanted it nigh as much as he wanted to be free of the evil within him, as if the two were somehow intertwined. And the animal in him sensed her killing weakness: Chloe was a lass who could be trapped by the man who won her heart. Netted and kept for life. His strategy was no longer simple seduction; he was vying for the core of her, her very lifeblood.
A woman such as she—entrust you with her heart? his honor mocked. Have you lost your mind as well as your soul?
“Haud yer wheesht,” he growled softly.
The cab driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Eh, what?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
And if you somehow manage to win her, what, then, will you do with her? his honor taunted. Promise her a future?
“Doona be trying to steal my now,” Dageus gritted. “ ’Tis all I own.” And since her advent into his life, the now held more interest for him than it had in a long time. He was a man who’d succeeded at living since the eve he’d turned dark, only by doing it hour to hour.
Shrugging at the cabbie who was now watching him with blatant unease, he reached in his pocket, double-checking to be certain the list and her key were there.
The key wasn’t. Thinking back, he realized he’d left it on the kitchen counter.
Though no one was more adept at breaking and entering than he, he did it only when necessary. And never in broad daylight.
He eyed the backed-up traffic impatiently. By the time the cab driver got them turned around in this mess, he could, like as not, be back at the penthouse on foot.
He shoved fare through the slot and stepped out into the rain.
Chloe shaved her legs with one of Dageus’s razors (studiously ignoring the cheeky little voice that volunteered the wholly unsolicited opinion that a girl didn’t need to shave when it was so cold out, unless she was planning to take her pants off for some reason), then stepped out of the shower and smoothed on lotion.
She moved into the bedroom, slipped into panties and bra, then packed a few things in the luggage he’d set out for her while the lotion absorbed into her skin.
She was going to Scotland.
She couldn’t believe it—how much her life had changed in just a few days. How much she seemed to be changing. In four days, to be exact. Four days ago she’d entered his penthouse, and today she was getting ready to fly across the ocean with him, with no idea what might come.
She shook her head, wondering if she’d completely lost her mind. She refused to ponder that thought too hard. When she thought about it, it seemed all wrong.
But it felt right.
She was going and that was that. She wasn’t willing to let him walk out of her life this afternoon—forever. She was drawn to him as irresistibly as she was drawn to artifacts. Logic didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.
Her mind raced over last-minute details and she decided she had to get word to Tom. He was probably already sick with worry and if he didn’t hear from her for another month, he’d have the entire police department in an uproar. But she didn’t want to talk to him on the phone, he would ask her too many questions; and the answers weren’t completely convincing, even to her.
E-mail! That was it. She could shoot him a short note on the computer in the study.
She glanced at the clock. Dageus should be gone for at least an hour. She slipped into her jeans, tugged a T-shirt over her head, and hurried downstairs, wanting to get it out of the way immediately.
What would she say? What excuse could she possibly give him?
I met the Gaulish Ghost and he’s not exactly a criminal. Actually, he’s the sexiest, most intriguing, smartest man I’ve ever met and he’s taking me to Scotland and he’s paying me with ancient artifacts to help him translate texts because he thinks he’s somehow cursed.
Yeah. Right. That coming from the woman who’d endlessly berated Tom for his less than lily-white ethics. Even if she told him the truth, he wouldn’t believe it of her. She didn’t believe it of her.
She went into the study and was briefly sidetracked by the artifacts scattered about. She would never get used to such casual treatment of priceless relics. Scooping up a handful of coins, she sorted through them. Two had horses etched on them. Replacing the others on the desk, she studied the two coins wonderingly. The ancient Continental Celts had etched horses on their coins. Horses had been treasured creatures, symbolic of wealth and freedom, meriting their own goddess, Epona, who’d been commemorated in more surviving inscriptions and statues than any other early goddess.