The Immortal Highlander Read online

  “All right, already,” Gabby bristled, temper spiking. But first things first: one dastardly fairy out of the way, then she’d deal with Jeff Staller and his sneaky little golfing plans. “This is not about me, or my ex-boyfriend, or our boss. This is only about where I can get a gun.”

  “You’re scaring me. And I’m not telling you.” Jay turned back around, nose to his computer screen.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll just look in the phone book if you won’t help me.”

  “Fine. Then I can’t be implicated as any sort of accomplice.”

  Law students could be such sticks-in-the-mud about potential liability issues, Gabby thought, sniffing, as she turned back around to her desk.

  And gritted her teeth. Adam Black was perched on the low, half-wall of her cubicle, clad in leather pants again—these a deep charcoal and positively buttery-soft-looking, and her gaze got stuck on them for a moment—white T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, and yet another pair of expensive-looking slate-gray suede boots. He was holding the Yellow Pages in one big hand. His black hair spilled in a shimmering fall of silk to his waist, with a plait swinging at each temple. Merely looking at him made her mouth go dry, her palms sweaty. Made every hormone in her body leap to quivering, delighted attention.

  “Is it to be war between us, then, ka-lyrra?” he said softly.

  Snatching the phone book from his hand, she hissed, “It already is. It has been since the moment you invaded my life.”

  “What?” Jay said behind her.

  “Nothing,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  “It doesn’t have to be, Irish. Things could be good between us.” Hand still outstretched, he captured a silky fall of her hair, sliding it between his fingers. His eyes narrowed, darkening with desire. “I like your hair down. You should wear it this way more often. Masses of silky stuff for a man to bury his hands in.” He made a soft purring noise deep in his throat that was so erotic it made her nipples tighten. Dropping from his perch atop the half-wall, he sat back on the edge of her desk, facing her, legs splayed on either side of her chair. It put her at eye level with his groin, with a heavy swollen leather-clad bulge that simply could not be missed.

  Jerking her gaze to his face, she hissed, “You’re not a man, you’re a thing.”

  Oh, who was she trying to convince?

  It just wasn’t humanly possible for a woman to look at Adam Black and call him an “it.” It was wearing her out, trying to. Diverting her attention from larger issues, like figuring out how to get rid of him. Give it up, O’Callaghan, she told herself, exasperated. It’s hardly worth the effort, considering how consistently you’re failing. Devote the effort to better causes. Causes you might succeed at.

  “And it’s only down,” she continued frostily, not about to miss an opportunity to air her backed-up grievances; it had been such a sucky morning, “because you were hogging the upstairs bathroom, and I couldn’t get my hair dryer or any of my clips. I couldn’t even get my toothbrush. And you ran me out of hot water.” She’d showered downstairs (hastily and with the door locked—as if that were much of a barrier against a being that could “sift place”—still, it had given her an illusion of security, and Gabby was willing to settle for illusion, being that her reality was so depressing) in water that had raised chill bumps all over her skin. Then she’d tugged on panty hose and a suit, reluctantly skipped breakfast, and dashed out, determined to avoid him for as long as possible.

  “Gabby?” Jay’s voice, sounding genuinely worried.

  Without looking back, Gabby snapped, “I’m on the phone, Jay; I have my headset on.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Relief evident in his voice.

  “Truly, Irish, I vow you lie more than—and nearly as smoothIy as—I. And plotting murder? It gives me pause, makes me wonder just what kind of nefarious human I’ve gotten myself mixed up with.”

  “Oooh, how dare you act like I’m the—”

  But she didn’t get to unload even the teeniest piece of her mind, for the infernal fairy had vanished again.

  Bristling, she tossed the Yellow Pages aside (not much point in buying a gun now that he was forewarned; besides, she doubted she had the stomach to point a gun at something that looked so human and pull the trigger, not to mention having to dispose of the body. Though no one else could see it, she could hardly leave its body lying about in her house or office—eew) and pulled out the Desny case. She might as well get as much work done as possible, because she knew Adam Black would be back.

  Must be nice, she seethed, to just be able to “pop out” whenever you didn’t feel like continuing a conversation. She knew a lot of men who’d give their right arms for that unique talent.

  Flipping on her computer, she mentally filed murder away as a last-resort option. If things got really bad, she’d force herself to find the stomach to do what she had to do. (That she didn’t already consider things “really bad” should have set off more than a few alarms, but her mind had moved on to other concerns.)

  Opening the file, she prepared to refresh herself with the case. And froze, blinking down at fully completed contentions. Had she finished them last night and just been so tired she’d forgotten?

  No way. She wasn’t that good when she was tired. She peered. It wasn’t even her handwriting. She had terrible penmanship, and this was beautiful script, striking, bold, flowing.

  Arrogant, actually, if penmanship could be called that. Nothing indecisive about this slanted, self-assured script. Frowning, she began to read.

  A few minutes later, she was still reading, muttering “I don’t freaking believe it” beneath her breath.

  It figured that when she actually wanted to see him, he left her alone. He stayed away most of the day. Making her wonder what dastardly deeds he was up to. The office was empty again by the time he appeared around seven-thirty, right behind her, so close he was practically on top of her, carrying bags from—oh, God, no—she briefly closed her eyes, please no.

  The Maisonette. Five-star dining, no less.

  But Gabby had prepared herself this time. She’d snacked on candy throughout the entire day (no hardship there), just to make sure she wouldn’t be hungry and tempted by anything he might offer.

  Still, the Maisonette? Grr. She shook her head brusquely and refused to even look at the bags, refused to wonder what scrumptious stolen delicacies lurked therein.

  She moved hastily away from him. When he deposited the bags on her desk, she grabbed a thick, rubber-banded accordion file and threw it at him, hitting him smack in the chest. “How?” she demanded.

  “How what, ka-lyrra?” Catching the file, he placed it gently on her desk.

  “How did you do my work? When did you do my work?”

  He shrugged, one powerful shoulder rippling. “I don’t need as much sleep as you.”

  “So you’re telling me that in a few hours last night you personally wrote the contentions for seven of my cases?”

  “Nine. Then I realized two of them weren’t yours, so I discarded them.”

  “How do you know enough about what I do to even argue liability?”

  “Oh, please.” He sounded highly insulted. “I’ve been alive for thousands of years and watching humans for most of it. I read a few of your other cases. It was easy to pattern them appropriately. Human law is simple: You blame anything but yourselves. I merely accused everyone and everything mentioned in the file but for the person you were representing, and backed it up with whatever evidence I could twist to support my allegations.”

  Gabby tried not to laugh. She did. Tried hard. But he’d gotten his subtle little dig in with such a perfectly bland expression, and had so thoroughly summed up what she hated about handling personal injury cases, after only a few hours of working on them, that she couldn’t help it. A little snort escaped her. And it turned into a laugh. And she might have continued laughing except a slow smile curved his lips and his dark eyes glittered. He stalked toward her, caught her by the waist w
ith his big hands, and stared down at her.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you laugh, Gabrielle. You’re even more beautiful when you laugh. I hadn’t thought it possible.”

  Her laughter died abruptly and she jerked away from him. But it was too late, his hands had already left their fiery imprint on her body, like a heated, erotic brand. “Don’t flatter me. Don’t be nice to me,” she gritted. “And do not do any more of my work for me.”

  “I was merely trying to help. You looked so weary last night.”

  “As if you care. Stay out of my life.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Because I refuse to sacrifice my whole world just to help you regain yours,” she snapped bitterly.

  “No,” he said evenly, eyes narrowing. “Because I don’t like your boss. I don’t like the way he looks at you. I don’t like the way he treats you. I don’t bloody like a bloody frigging thing about the prick. And when I’m myself again, I will rectify the situation.”

  Gabby went still. Adam Black looked and sounded angry. Genuinely angry. About how she was being treated. His face was dark and thunderous, his eyes snapping with golden sparks.

  Oh, that was deadly. That was cruel. Acting like he had feelings. Like he gave a damn. Especially when she really didn’t have anybody else in her life that did. Clearly he would do anything in order to seduce her to his aim—even mimic emotion and pretend concern. After all, wasn’t that why it was called seduction? Because the victim was lulled into a feeling of false safety and well-being? And how could that be engendered except through the pretense of caring?

  No soul. No heart. Ergo, no emotions, she reminded herself.

  Snatching up her purse, she flipped off her computer and stomped out of her cubicle.

  They’d even been really good contentions, she was still brooding irritably, an hour and a half later, as she dumped the laundry basket on her bed and began sorting her clothes into loads. Immersing herself in routine helped her pretend the sin siriche du himself wasn’t currently downstairs in her kitchen, drinking single-malt scotch straight from the bottle (fifty-year-old Macallan, no less) and typing away on her laptop, surfing the Net.

  By the time she’d gotten home, he’d already been there, with the stage lavishly set for his next seduction. Five-star dinner spread out on her dining room table, a vase of long-stemmed roses perfuming the air, drapes drawn and candles lit. Fine crystal sparkled on the table, crystal she knew she didn’t own. Silverware she’d never seen before, fine china too.

  She’d tipped her nose skyward and started to stalk past him toward the stairs. He’d moved into her path, brushing his body against hers. Then caught her by one arm.

  He’d turned her to face him and just stared down at her in silence for the longest time before finally releasing her. She’d said nothing, not about to give an inch. Not even when he’d dropped his dark chiseled face forward until his lips had been a mere breath from hers, using his blatant masculinity in an attempt to cow her. Stoically resisting the overpowering temptation to wet her lips in a timeless invitation, she’d stood her ground, levelly meeting that dark gaze, refusing to believe that there might be anything other than cold-blooded calculation in his eyes. And if, for a moment, she’d thought she’d seen a hint of humanity, of male frustration, of genuine desire, of tempered impatience in their gold-sparked depths, it had been a trick of the flickering candlelight.

  Nothing more.

  His legal briefs had been better than anything she’d ever written. Brilliant, charismatically persuasive, incisive. She had no doubt she’d win every arbitration he’d written. She’d been envious reading them, wishing she’d thought of that argument or seen that subtle, keen twist. Two of the cases he’d argued were ones where she knew the person she was representing bore negligence in excess of fifty-one percent (they were being filed because they were “friends of friends,” and her smarmy boss owed a few people favors—probably in exchange for golf privileges at some fancy club), yet after reading Adam’s argument, even she would have decided in favor of her guilty client.

  He was that good.

  I’ve been alive for thousands of years, he’d said. She shivered. Ancient. Adam Black was ancient. And had probably done everything there was to do, at least once. Why should it surprise her that he could do her job so well? He was a being that could travel through time and space. Maybe he had no soul and no heart, but there had to be a pretty damned formidable intellect behind those dark, shimmering, intensely alive eyes.

  She sorted her wash automatically, hands moving, brain whirring away. Whites. Lights. Darks. Darks. Darks. Lights. Darks. Whites—wait!

  His T-shirt?

  He’d actually had the gall to toss his dirty shirt in her laundry basket? Wadding it up in her fist, she turned around to go tell him exactly what he could do with his dirty clothes. Then stopped.

  Then started again. Then stopped.

  Nibbling her lip, she had a brief and very heated argument with herself.

  With an exasperated sigh, she raised his shirt to her nose and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

  Could a man smell any more like sin?

  Hint of jasmine and sandalwood and a spray of night surf. Scent of darkness and spice and sex. Forbidden things, unholy things, things that prayers were meant to cover in that part about deliver us from temptation and protect us from all evil.

  He was never getting his T-shirt back.

  Much later, after Gabby had gone to bed, Adam ducked his head inside her turret bedroom. She was sleeping soundly. Good. The petite ka-lyrra worked too hard. Permitted others to push their responsibilities off on her. He would put an end to that. Life was short enough for a mortal. They shouldn’t work so much. Play more. He would teach her to play. Once he was again immortal, she would never work, want for nothing.

  All the windows were open and a fragrant night breeze was blowing in, rippling across the thin sheet beneath which she slept. Moonlight spilled across the bed, casting her long hair spun-silver, her slumbering features warm pearl.

  Fully clothed, he noticed, with a sardonic smile. Wise woman. If she’d been foolish enough to sleep nude, he’d not have contented himself with the minor mission for which he’d come. The mere thought of her nude beneath that sheet . . . ah, he was sexually obsessed with her. With her full, round breasts, the endless temptation of her soft, womanly ass, her lush carnal lips, her hair, her eyes, her hands. Her fire.

  Even her virginity turned him on. Filled him with a primal possessiveness, knowing he would be the first man to push himself inside her, to fill her up, to touch her in all those dark, heated, intimate ways. He would seduce her so thoroughly that she would no longer be able to conceive of herself apart from him; she would be his for the taking, anytime he wanted, anywhere, and in any way he chose to take her, able to deny him nothing.

  He knew she’d expected force from him. He’d seen it in her eyes when she was tied to her chair yesterday, so defiantly telling him “no.”

  How little she understood of what he had planned for her.

  Yesterday morning, after she’d gone in to work (which hadn’t surprised him; his tenacious Sidhe-seer would no more relinquish control of her world than he willingly would of his), he’d thoroughly acquainted himself with her home, learned everything about her he could. He’d examined what kind of books she liked to read, what kind of clothing she wore, what lingerie got the bliss of cupping her breasts and slipping between the curves of her bottom, what soap and scents caressed her silken skin. He’d examined photographs, opened her luggage, and studied what things she’d deemed too precious to leave behind when she’d packed to run. And each discovery had made him want her all the more; she was shiny and bright and ripe with mortal hopes and dreams.

  The Books of the Fae had been a laugh. Well, except for the volume that so grievously maligned him. But he’d been rectifying that.

  The slender tome had made him out to be the foulest of the Fae. It had portrayed him as a c
onsummate liar, a trickster and deceiver, a cold-blooded, arrogant seducer who cared for nothing but his pleasure in the moment.

  It was no wonder she’d fought him so fiercely, no wonder she’d so swiftly dismissed his word. The Devil himself hadn’t fared worse in literary history.

  Still, he could do without words; he would speak to his Sidhe-seer through his actions—select, carefully chosen ones. He’d learned long ago that it was the tiniest of details that seduced, the most delicate of touches that brought the mightiest to their knees.

  Christ, he thought, staring down at her, she had to be hot in all those clothes. Her house was overly warm, even on the first floor where he’d been working online. Another thing he would do something about for her.

  He’d had no luck finding anything about Circenn’s whereabouts in any of those databases humans were so fond of compiling, but he’d not truly expected to. His half-Fae son could be not only anywhere but anywhen. It was entirely possible he’d taken his wife and children back to the Highlands, to his own century and a simpler way of life, where he might stay indefinitely.

  But no matter, Circenn would show up eventually.

  And the day had been productive in other ways; he’d planted many seeds that were already taking root. Not the least of which was a simple shirt.

  She’d done her laundry tonight; he’d heard her.

  But there’d been no explosion. No shouting, no insistence that it would be a cold day in hell before she washed his clothes. Not that he’d intended her to. He discarded clothing once he wore it and took new.

  Stepping deeper into her room, he silently slid open a dresser drawer. Then another. And another. Until there it was. His T-shirt. Neatly folded in her bottom drawer, hidden beneath a pair of sweats.