Dark Lover. Brenda Joyce
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and gold spike sandals. She’d added one of her mother’s gold bracelets to her right wrist, although bracelets tended to get in the way during tight, hand-to-hand combat. Rings were actually useful—they could be annoying for the enemy, inflicting painful little cuts. She wore several. Most women carried a clutch, but she wore a wallet-size bag on a shoulder strap. It was almost weightless, holding only a credit card, her cell phone and her red lipstick, and couldn’t possibly get in the way of anything. And she wore the diamond hoops her sister had given her last year. She only took them off to clean them.
She glimpsed Rupert Hemmer just within the doorway of his home, his blond wife with him, greeting the guests as they came in. The room beyond them was already crowded, but she didn’t see Maclean amongst the glittering partygoers. Her heart was thudding oddly, slow and steady—the way it always did before she leapt into battle. He was present. She was certain of it, and not because Nick had said he was on the guest list. She felt him, somewhere in the penthouse.
Sam could sense white power, and Maclean’s was obvious.
His aura reeked of sexuality, and her own answering tension told her he was nearby.
She couldn’t wait to spoil his good time.
Then she poked Kit and nodded up at the thumbnail-size cameras in the corners of the foyer. Kit followed her gaze. Then she gestured at their hostess. “Is she even legal?”
Sam was amused, and she glanced at their host, who was handsome and tanned in a black tuxedo, his face obviously lifted, his hair that funny shade of medium brown that every older man seemed to sport in order to cover up the gray. While he had to be close to sixty, even if he’d been under the knife and was lean and fit, his wife looked twenty—if that. She wore a bubble-gum pink evening gown that was more of a second skin than a dress. Sam pegged it as Versace. From this distance, Rupert reeked of arrogance and wealth, but not evil. Sam could sense evil as easily as she sensed white power, and she suspected him to be human with a few drops of demonic blood.
It was finally their turn to meet and greet. Rupert looked at her, his eyes widening with obvious male interest. He looked carefully at her lush chest, which was not the obvious boob job his wife was showing off, and then at her long, hard legs. He glanced at Kit, who wore a classic black sheath and had actually put on lip gloss. He smiled slowly at them. “You must be Sam Rose and Kit Mars, from World Media.”
Sam had noted that Becca Hemmer didn’t care about her husband ogling other women—and why should she? Sam had read up on the Hemmers while getting dressed. She was young, gorgeous and smart enough to have signed a pre-nuptial agreement that made her one of the city’s wealthiest women, no matter what happened to her marriage. And apparently, Becca liked to play as much as he did.
Sam dismissed her as irrelevant and smiled back at Hemmer, giving him a come-hither-if-you-dare look. “None other.” She extended her hand. “I’m Sam Rose. I was wondering how long it would take for us to meet, Mr. Hemmer.”
He grasped it warmly. “All my guests are instructed to call me Rupert.”
“Rupert,” Sam murmured. “It’s been a while since I had instruction.”
He smiled slightly as he absorbed the innuendo. “How interesting.” He added, “Had I realized World Media had publicists like you two, I think I would have been persuaded to give you my business much more easily.” His gaze was suddenly hooded.
Sam wondered if they’d been made. “Is the rest of the team here?”
“I believe so,” he murmured. “John Ensign and Charles Dupre were two of the first to arrive.”
She felt Kit’s tension. “Jack Ensign,” she corrected casually. “We all call him Jack.”
“Ah, yes, of course, my mistake. So, do come inside and help yourself to the bubbly. Perhaps we can chat a bit later about the project. I look forward to hearing your ideas.”
“I look forward to sharing them.” Sam smiled pleasantly at Becca as she and Kit moved into a huge living room with gilded crystal chandeliers and modern furniture upholstered in various shades of white. Nick had told her almost two hundred guests would be present, and Sam decided that he’d been right. The men were in tuxedoes, the women sporting lavish jewels, some in long evening gowns, like Becca. White-coated waiters were passing champagne in expensive flutes and hors d’oeuvres on sterling silver trays. It took Sam a second to decide that Maclean was not in the reception area. Was he already in the vault? She shivered. She was more than ready to find out. Her pulse beat a bit more swiftly now.
“Did we pass?” Kit murmured.
“I think he’s suspicious.” But she didn’t give a damn about their host now.
“Did you have time to read up on the project?”
“No, and I intend to avoid Hemmer. With this crowd, I don’t think he can get away for a tête-à-tête anyway. Are you okay? I’m going to explore.”
“I’m fine. Be careful. Hemmer stinks.”
Sam smiled and drifted off into the crowd. As she did, a flash of bright pink caught her eye. She turned and saw Becca making her way alone through the crowd—no easy task, as she was constantly greeted and congratulated. Sam turned to locate Hemmer. She finally saw him, still close to the front door, chatting with the mayor and a famous woman news anchor with sinking ratings. Sam turned back to Becca, just in time to see her slip from the reception room, past two big security guards.
Now what did that mean? Becca did not seem like a party pooper. She managed to find Kit. “I need a diversion so I can canvas the rest of the place.”
“You can create a better diversion in that getup than I ever could.”
“Stop selling yourself short,” Sam said, meaning it.
A moment later, Sam was posed not far from the door Becca had exited, where the two big security guards stood. A woman not far from the doorway cried out, “Someone just stole my purse! Someone just ripped my bag from my hands!”
As the two security guards rushed to her, Sam slipped into the hallway. It was quiet within, the lights lower. An elevator faced her, which would go up to the Hemmers’ private rooms. She walked swiftly past it, her lipstick now in hand. The case was actually a camera. She started taking photos as she passed a library and a media room. She did not think she’d run into Becca—she was pretty certain she’d gone upstairs.
She passed an office and came to the end of the hall. A glass-enclosed, Olympic-size indoor lap pool faced her. On her left was a huge steel door.
She had found the vault.
Maclean’s power beckoned, tangible and hot, but he was not in that vault. Sam took more photographs, aware that she was being videotaped—those thumbnail-size video cameras were everywhere. She was careful not to get too close, setting off motion sensors and alarms.
When she was finished, she put the camera away. Maclean was around, but where? And where was Becca? She’d obviously gone upstairs—but Sam didn’t think she’d gone to change her shoes. “Such a naughty girl,” she murmured. She would be surprised if she didn’t find them together, she decided. Maclean would probably think it amusing to screw his host’s wife.
Sam went quietly back the way she had come, her senses in overdrive. She did not rush—she would find him, sooner or later. Hunting put her at the top of her game. The elevator was set far enough back from the reception that she could easily get to it without being noticed. It was whisper-quiet, too. She stepped inside, her gaze on the backs of the guards, but neither one turned her way. She pressed the single button there. The elevator moved up to the building’s top floor.
She felt the hot sex before she saw it. She felt him. The air was somehow thicker and humid upstairs. Testosterone filled it. Lust thickened her. Most women would drop everything to be with Maclean, and she could hear Becca now, in the throes. Sam paused. The door to a bedroom was ajar. Becca’s cries became deep, uncontrollable sobs. Her own heart was thundering, her body