"Blood Seduction"

Ian was right. It did turn out to be a long night. Before long, both Immo and Gabriel had joined the conversation at the big kitchen table. By 3:00 in the morning, they had what looked like a viable plan for neutralizing Kendall Irons and getting their lives back. Because the hour was early and they had a spare room, Ian convinced Mobius to stay with them. In truth, it didn’t require much arm twisting; Moby and Vicki had been covertly eying each other for hours, their interest quite obvious to anyone who cared – such as Ian. If he was honest with himself, Ian found that he was more than a little ambivalent about the outcome of such a pairing. Although he liked the petite coroner well enough, he had grave misgivings about her emotional stability. He had found her intense, irrational attraction to Devian distasteful and even a bit skewed. If the connection that was brewing between his friend and Vicki did, in fact, come to fruition, Ian might have to decide whether to warn his friend that he was sailing into uncharted waters where true dragons lurked. Those thoughts were still roiling around in his head when he turned out the light and settled himself into his solitary bed. Ian had also co-opted one of the empty guest rooms because Sara was sharing the master bedroom with his clone. Tonight, he was actually grateful that he was so exhausted. If he was lucky, the bone-tiredness that weighed on him might drag him down into a dreamless slumber before his agile brain began to devil him with thoughts of the couple sleeping together down the hall and the tenuous future of the volatile ménage a trois that the Witchblade had fated the three of them to become.

Sara was first awake the next morning. Pulled pell-mell from strange dreams by a virulent bout of morning sickness, she barely made it to the bathroom in time. Devian woke to the sound of her retching. Half-awake, he dragged himself into the master bath to try and help but, this morning, the Wielder was not in the mood for sharing. She just wanted to be left alone to her misery; moreover, she was less than delicate in her dismissal of her concerned lover. Slightly stung, feeling frustrated and ineffectual, the clone slunk back to their still-warm bed. Once there, he promptly fell back to sleep. When Sara was finally done, she wandered back into the bedroom. Feeling as if she had been scraped empty, wan and weak, she sourly studied the sleeping man nestled cozily among the rumpled covers; even asleep he annoyed her. Sara sighed, deciding that there was no point in returning to bed. She was up now and she wanted coffee; some of those crackers might be nice too.

Wrapping herself again in the ratty, terry robe, she padded down the hall. It was not yet 6:00 A.M. and the house was silent. Halfway down the stairs, she heard the familiar click of nails on wood and smiled. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Hannibal was waiting for her, his furry face raised expectantly. Although Sara never would have admitted to being fanciful, she could swear that the expression on the big dog’s face was one of concern. Indulging her whimsy, she sat on the bottom step and hugged the enormous Rottie, pushing her face into his fur. “I’m okay, boy,” she whispered into his massive neck. She was startled when the animal emitted a soft, knowing, “Woof,” in response. Sara lifted her head and smiled indulgently. Scratching Hannibal behind the ears, she observed, “Who am I kidding? You probably just saw the chance to get your kibbles early and went for it. Right?” She could swear that he managed to look offended by her denial of his good intentions. She snickered and held up a hand in protest. “Okay, okay,” she protested, “Don’t look at me that way. I’m sorry. Maybe an extra portion of food will make up for questioning your motives. What do you say?” He let out a muted bark, immediately prompting her to hiss, “Shh,” in response. She studied the furry face turned to her and could swear that the dog was grinning.

Sara stood and continued on to the kitchen, Hannibal hard on her heels. As she fed the dog and cat, which had magically appeared from wherever she was spending her nights, Sara thought that the hormones bouncing around in her body must have warped her normally pragmatic brain. She had just had a relatively rational conversation with Ian’s dog. She shook her head in consternation and set about making a pot of decaf French Roast. She was on her second cup when she sensed the massive presence in her peripheral vision. Sara looked up and choked on the mouthful of coffee that she had been about to swallow. Hector Mobius loomed just beyond her, his large body filling the kitchen doorway. Sara studied the Black Dragon with narrowed eyes and thinned lips. Just the hint of a smile graced the big man’s face as he formally inclined his shining head and murmured in that deep voice, “Wielder.” She tilted her head in acknowledgement and clearly responded, “Killer.”

Now, his mouth curved up into a wide grin that bared strong and predatory white teeth. Moving to the counter and pouring himself a mug of coffee, Moby said, “So I have been many times in my life. That is not my role here, however. Ian is my friend. I only wish to help him.” Sara lifted one of her eyebrows high. “And me?” she asked, “The last time that we met you tried to murder me.” He prowled back across the room and sat down opposite her. “That was a different reality,” he replied, “In this one, you are my brother’s lady and the mother of his child. As such, you are to be protected at all costs. I would lay down my life for you as I would for him.” She made a dismissive sound. “Then it’s a good thing that I would never ask that of you, isn’t it?” she observed dryly, “You haven’t earned that privilege. That comes with trust.” The slightest narrowing of his lustrous eyes was the only sign that her jibe affected him at all. Mobius shrugged negligently as he sipped coffee. “In truth, Detective,” he murmured, “Your less than sterling judgment of me is both expected and utterly irrelevant. Ian understands the depth of my fealty. His is the only opinion that is of any consequence to me.” In an unconscious, protective gesture, her hand dropped to cover the small mound of her stomach. “Touché,” she hissed.

When the weight of a warm hand fell on her shoulder, Sara jumped. She angled her head so sharply to look behind her that she pulled a muscle in the side of her neck, hissing at the sudden pain. As she winced, Ian’s gentle fingers moved up to soothingly stroke her neck. “Everything alright?” he asked, wary golden eyes glancing between his lover and his friend. She pulled in a calming breath and mumbled, “Peachy. Why?” Giving her a final, soft pat, Ian turned away to head to the stove where he turned up the heat under the kettle. “You were leaking a bit of hostility, love,” he told Sara, “I felt it upstairs.” When he turned back, his eyes locked with Moby’s and some unspoken communication passed between the two Black Dragons. “I thought perhaps that I’d best hurry downstairs before mayhem ensued,” Ian added drolly. She snorted softly, acknowledging his tiny rebuke. “Okay, okay,” she backpedaled, “Maybe I overreacted just a bit.” She was aware that it was a no-win situation. Mobius was Ian’s oldest and closest friend; she didn’t want Ian to feel caught in the middle between them. Swallowing her misgivings, Sara held her hand out across the table. “Let bygones be bygones?” she asked. The big warrior offered her a charming smile along with his enormous hand, which engulfed her much smaller appendage completely. “Of course,” he responded graciously. Ian smiled as he poured a steaming mug of tea. His relief was palpable. “Good,” he murmured.

Ian sat down, his lovely smile broadening until he looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Sara’s eyebrow lifted. “What?” she asked. His tawny eyes flicked to Mobius before he replied, “We have a plan.” The brow raised a tic higher. “To do what?” she asked. Ian allowed a significant pause to linger before he responded, “To get our lives back.” She was about to reply when a furtive movement in the doorway caught her attention. Vicki Po had started to enter the kitchen in her characteristic early morning funk. She had, however, come to a sudden, dead stop when her eyes fell on the large man sitting across from Sara. In one fluid motion, Moby stood gracefully and offered the petite coroner his chair. “Good morning, Po,” he greeted her, dark eyes glowing, “Did you sleep well?” Both Vicki and Sara now watched the huge man raptly with wide eyes. Vicki recovered first, accepting the offered chair like a queen ascending to her throne. “Good morning, Mobius,” she replied breathlessly, “Very well. Thanks.” He stretched out a hand like an extremely rugged waiter and asked, “Would you care for some tea?” She blushed attractively under his scrutiny and acceded, “I’d love some, thanks. But I can get it myself.” When she started to rise, he pressed her gently back into her seat with an enormous hand on her shoulder. “Nonsense,” he objected, “Do not bestir yourself. It would be my pleasure.”

Golden eyes met green and it was hard to tell which were more taken aback by the strange spectacle unfolding before them. Vicki smiled shyly, while simultaneously managing to preen at the unaccustomed attention. As Moby poured and served the tea, Vicki devoured the tall warrior with hungry eyes. Sara looked back at her own lover who, in turn, was watching his friend with a rather befuddled gaze. When she caught Ian’s eyes again, Sara mouthed silently, “What the hell is this?” He smiled and lifted one shoulder to indicate that he was as clueless as she. When all were once again seated with a beverage, Sara cleared her throat and everyone looked at her expectantly. “You mentioned a plan?” she prompted Ian. It took him a moment to switch gears. He was still mulling over the ramifications of his friend getting involved with the mercurial Dr. Po. Ian pushed a distracted hand through his thick hair, which was loose and hanging in shining waves that framed his handsome face. He blinked rapidly, reining in his worried speculations. Mobius was a grown man, after all, who could take care of himself. His experience with the opposite sex was much greater than Ian’s own; which is exactly what Moby would tell him should Ian present his misgivings. “Let it go,” Ian told himself.

Giving his attention back to Sara, Ian nodded and replied, “We’re going to expose Kendall as a clone who usurped my mas…Mr. Irons’ estate through misadventure.” The thought briefly shot through her mind that, after a night spent talking with Mobius, Ian was starting to sound like his friend. Unable to help herself, Sara automatically shifted into detective mode. “You have documented proof?” she asked, “Otherwise it will just be Immo’s word against Kendall’s. I’m assuming that Immo is onboard to provide corroboration. Right?” Ian nodded again. “We have detailed documentation of the whole process,” he assured her, “Hard copy and electronic files, as well as video. Moby found a treasure trove of documentation at the offsite laboratory.” Sara frowned. “That was uncharacteristically careless of Kendall,” she observed. Ian shrugged. “Kendall’s primary carelessness lies in his cavalier treatment of his employees,” he pointed out, “He does not care for them in the least and does not even trouble himself to create the illusion of concern. That kind of attitude does not foster loyalty in your minions. The best of them – like Immo – will take the first opportunity to break free. If they can take Kendall down in the process, all the better.” Sara looked thoughtful. “You trust Immo?” she asked Ian. Once again, he nodded. “In this, yes,” he confirmed. She lifted a brow and asked, “Who’s going to go to the police? Immo?” Ian shook his head and said, “We’re not going to go to the police.” Sara spread her hands and said, “Leaking it to the papers is risky, Ian. We know what the police will do. Reporters are wild cards.”

It was the sonorous voice of Mobius that answered her: “We will take this intelligence to neither the authorities nor the press, my lady. Rather, we will impart the impressive results of Dr. Immo’s genetic manipulation to a representative of that shadow government that made your acquaintance during your involvement with the Kennedy tape.” Sara’s eyes widened as she looked from Moby to Ian. Fixing on Ian, she asked, “Since when are you in contact with those people?” Ian tilted his head, a slight frown line appearing between his brows. She was suddenly emanating feelings of distrust that were strong enough for him to read without half trying. “I am not in contact with them,” Ian responded, the slightest note of irritation in his voice, “Moby and I both maintain relationships with people in military intelligence that we can leverage to start the ball rolling. You can’t possibly still think that I would work against you behind your back, can you?” Sara’s cheeks colored as she dropped her head in embarrassment. “No, of course not,” she mumbled, “I’m sorry.” Her head lifted and she met his steady gaze. “Forgive me, baby,” she said with more heat, “Hormones are bouncing my emotions around like pinballs. I trust you with my life. You know that.” A heavy, uncomfortable silence settled over the group at the table.

“I can see why those guys would want the result of a successful cloning experiment,” Sara finally continued, “But won’t they want Dr. Immo too? After all, he’s the mastermind behind it.” Still studying her, Ian nodded. “Yes. I imagine that they will,” he agreed, “And we discussed it with the doctor last night; offering to give them his research and keep him out of it if we could.” Sara waited to hear the rest of it and when Vicki made a soft sound, she swung her head around to look at the other woman and asked, “What?” The small woman’s disbelief was reflected on her face as she answered, “The good doctor is a company man through and through. He doesn’t want to escape the government goons. He wants to join them. He said something about needing a bit of security in his old age.” Sara frowned and focused on Ian again. “Is that wise?” she asked, “Do we really want to hand Dr. Frankenstein and his bag of tricks over to those guys?” Ian shrugged. “What would you have us do, Sara?” he asked, “We can’t keep the man a prisoner for the rest of his natural life. He assures me that he has no desire to build an army of killer clones for the shadow government. He believes that he can play them along until he reaches retirement age without ever giving them anything useful or having them figure out what he’s doing. Their price for his services will be our exoneration, including reinstatement for you, Vicki, Danny, and McCarty.” Sara squirmed in her chair, uncomfortable with handing a potential weapon like Immo over to her enemies but not able to offer a better solution to their dilemma.

If Dr. Immo wanted to become a covert government employee and Ian supported him in that decision, there was very little that Sara could do about it. She would have to trust Ian’s judgment. He knew the old man better than she did. She sighed and asked, “What happens to Irons’ estate?” Ian smiled and Sara shivered. That smile had an edge to it that was as sharp as a saber. “To the world in general – including the NYPD – Kendall will be revealed as the mastermind behind Kenneth Irons murder. He will, in fact, be exposed as an arch villain with a variety of federal warrants outstanding for his arrest. Before your Captain Dante can shield him, the feds will swoop in and spirit him away to pay for his greater atrocities. He will, of course, be serving his sentence in a government laboratory with Dr. Immo as his new master.” Sara smiled; even she could appreciate the irony in that. “Unfortunately, Wolfram & Hart is too powerful to bring down for their part in this. They will come off as just another victim of Kendall’s plot. The estate will revert back to me based on an earlier valid copy of Mr. Irons’ will.” Sara gasped as something else occurred to her. “Sparky,” she hissed, “Kendall won’t go down alone. He’ll expose Dev as a clone too and the government guys will come after him as well.” Feeling her distress, Ian reached across the table to grasp her hands in his. “We’re working on it,” he told her, “In another day, Moby will have documentation that proves that Devian is my natural brother, separated from me at birth. Dr. Immo is the doctor of record for our delivery and he will verify that Dev is my twin.”

Sara frowned, worrying a nail distractedly. “It all revolves around Immo,” she said, “He holds our future in his hands – mine, yours, Dev’s, my partners’, Vicki’s – all of us, for god’s sake. He could destroy us with a few sentences in those ears that you are putting him near. If he’s playing us for fools, he could bring us all down without breaking a sweat.” Ian spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. “You’re right. The doctor is the lynchpin of any apparatus that we construct,” he conceded, “We must place our trust in him. He is our only hope for recovering what we have lost. There is an alternative, however; you and your friends can accept that your former lives are gone forever. We can permanently relocate everyone. You all start over. Of course, with that scenario, there’s always the possibility of discovery; if a former acquaintance in town for a convention recognizes your partner at the supermarket and reports it to the local police, the whole house of cards comes tumbling down. By taking that route, you create a future that’s spent looking over your shoulder, waiting for your past to reappear. I don’t think any of you want to live that way. Do you?”

Sara shut her eyes. She knew what witness protection was like. She didn’t think she could live that way; and she didn’t have a family like Danny and Lee. How could she ask that of them? She opened her eyes to stare deeply into the bright, golden eyes of her lover. Fighting her ingrained prejudices against the old man, she asked again, “Do you trust him, Ian? Do you really, truly trust Dr. Immo?” Ian had already fought the demons of his own memories long before he had reached this juncture. He answered her unequivocally. “Yes,” he stated firmly, “I do trust Dr. Immo.” She nodded. “So be it,” she replied, as if in benediction. “Thank you, my boy,” came a soft voice from the doorway, “I will not give you cause to regret placing your trust in me.” Sara jumped and they all turned their heads to look at the old man who had so quietly joined their company. Sara studied the doctor with narrowed, green eyes as he set about making a fresh pot of coffee. She was surprised when Vicki stood and pushed the elderly man aside with a gently deferential gesture. “I’ll do it,” she murmured, “You sit.”

Dr. Immo gave her a sweet and very genuine smile. “Thank you, my dear,” he replied, “I find that my knees are a bit stiff this morning.” Mobius rose and pulled another chair over to the table for the old man; he quite obviously wanted to reserve the seat next to him for the other doctor in the room. Immo slowly turned his head to meet the suspicious squint that Sara directing at him. “I know that you have strong reservations regarding my loyalty, Wielder,” he offered, “There is nothing that I can say that will dissuade you of your opinion. I can only prove it to you through my actions.” Her eyes flicked to Ian and her tight features softened. “I’ve learned to trust Ian’s instincts,” she replied guardedly, “I’ll just have to hope that he’s right once again.” The doctor gave her a patient smile and inclined his head. Not quite ready to let it go just yet, Sara pressed, “I do have another question for you though.” Immo almost managed to stifle his soft sigh. “Yes?” he asked. Watching him carefully, she continued, “Isn’t it likely that Kendall has proof that Devian is a clone?” Immo nodded. “Kendall does indeed have documentation related to Devian’s creation and existence,” the doctor confirmed. “Then Dev is screwed, isn’t he?” asked a sleepy voice from just inside the doorway. Gabriel shuffled into the kitchen rubbing red-rimmed eyes and heading straight for the coffeepot.

Looking at the rumpled young man, Immo smiled indulgently. “I imagine that Devian would be exposed if the information in Kendall’s possession were accurate,” the doctor replied. Gabe halted in mid-pour. “You faked it?” he asked, “When did you start doing that?” Immo shrugged. “I began switching and doctoring that information during the first week that Kendall assumed control,” he replied. Gabriel finished pouring his coffee and pulled another chair up to the big table. “Whoa. No flies on you,” he observed. The doctor frowned, confused. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. Now, Gabe shrugged. “Quick decision,” he translated. Immo smiled and responded, “Ahh, I see. The decision was perhaps fast but certainly valid. The writing was on the wall; unlike Kenneth, subtlety was not Kendall’s strong suit.” Sara frowned, not sure whether she understood what the old man had done. “So when the government geneticists look at this proof that Kendall gives them, they’ll know immediately that it’s been faked, is that it?” she asked. Immo nodded. “Precisely,” he confirmed. A delighted smile suddenly bloomed on her face. “But Kendall hasn’t a clue?” she asked for clarification.
Now, Immo smiled with her. “Not a glimmer,” he agreed. For the first time, Sara began to appreciate Dr. Immo’s impressive intellect, not to mention his sneakiness. She could appreciate it as long as it was directed at their enemies. “Oh man,” she chuckled, “Would I love to be a fly on that wall.” The old doctor clicked his tongue. “More flies,” he observed facetiously.

They were interrupted by a woeful sound from a corner of the room. Ian’s head swung around and he immediately stood, heading toward where Hannibal’s leash hung from a hook on the wall. “Sorry, boy,” he told the dog as he knelt to clip the leash to the Rottie’s collar, “We’re late for your walk, aren’t we? Have you been fed?” Just as the dog turned a hopeful face in his master’s direction, Sara chimed in with, “Don’t let him pull a fast one on you, Ian. I fed both him and Clarice when I came down this morning.” Nottingham made a soft tsking sound at the dog’s aborted attempt to cop a second breakfast. Hannibal hung his big, furry head in mock shame. “Well,” Ian said indulgently, “Maybe just a little treat when we get back from our walk.” Hannibal danced in place excitedly while Ian put on his jacket. Glancing at Moby, Ian asked, “Want to come along?” The Black Dragon’s rich, mocha eyes shifted to touch Vicki Po before he answered, “I believe that I will partake of another cup of this excellent coffee instead, my brother. Is that acceptable?” Ian’s molded lips twitched; he had never seen Moby in courting mode before. Getting a good grip on Hannibal’s leash with one hand, he waved the other hand to express his acceptance. “Sure,” he agreed, “We can iron out the details of the plan when I get back.” Sara noticed that her friend’s color was high; she imagined that Vicki’s libido was careening at full tilt considering the attention that she was drawing from the big, bad Dragon.

As Ian ushered Hannibal out through the kitchen door, Sara shook her head to clear it. “What’s the time frame for putting all these grandiose plans into action?” she asked Mobius. The large man tore his eyes away from Dr. Po with some difficulty. Turning toward Sara, he responded, “It will most likely take the better part of a week to tie up loose ends, set up contingency plans, and otherwise organize these machinations. We have set a tentative date of next Saturday for our meeting with representatives of the shadow government.” She let her mind wander back to the office that she shared with Danny and Jake; to the loft that she had shared with Ian. “It’s difficult to believe that in two weeks time I could be back on the job,” she mused, “That we could all be back in our own homes again.” Her statement was greeted by a soft sound of disbelief from across the table. “Life on my own back at Talismaniac will be deadly dull after living with a bunch of divas like you guys,” Gabriel observed.

Sara looked back at him, insulted. “Hey,” she objected, “I’d go easy with the labels there, Bowman. Now that I’ve lived with you for a while, I think I might toss a few of my own that would be less than flattering.” He stood, a shocked expression on his face, the picture of affronted innocence. “Moi?” he asked, “You must have me confused with someone else, Chief. However, I think it might be time to commune with my computers before you figure that out.” She smiled back at him fondly and replied, “Coward.” As he beat a hasty retreat, he threw over his shoulder, “You obviously have now mistaken cowardice for prudent self-interest. Considering those unstable hormones of yours, I’d rather not have my spleen yanked out through my nostrils. Later.” Sara gave an amused snort while the two doctors winced at the vivid, mental image that Gabriel had painted. Moby rose and put his empty coffee mug in the sink. From beneath her lashes, Vicki Po’s eyes followed his tall form as if they were tethered to it. When the Black Dragon addressed her, she jumped; so intent had been her perusal. “Last night, you promised to show me your laboratory, Po,” he reminded her.
Flustered, Vicki finished the remainder of her coffee in a quick gulp and replied, “Of course. I’d be happy to, although I’m not working on anything particularly fascinating.” The smile that he offered her was dazzling. “I suspect that you underestimate the attraction,” he said smoothly, leaving all to wonder whether he was talking about the work or the woman. She stood, also placing her now empty mug in the sink. The couple headed toward Vicki’s lab; the warrior’s hand looking huge against the small doctor’s back.

Left alone at the table with Dr. Immo, Sara immediately began to feel uncomfortable. Just as she started to fidget, Immo asked, “How is Devian this morning?” Sara shrugged. “He was sleeping when I left him,” she replied, “The ribs are giving him some pain and the broken fingers are awkward for him but he seems to be mending okay.” The doctor nodded. “He is amazingly resilient,” he observed, “He was badly hurt. We almost lost him.” She stood, hoping to make a quick getaway. As she pushed in her chair, she mumbled, “Yeah, well, he’s a fighter; like his brother.” Just as she began to turn toward the living room, Immo held up a hand and said, “Wielder, please wait a moment. I have a request to make of you.” Sara stopped, her back still to the doctor, her shoulders stiff with tension. Without turning, she snapped, “What is it?”
Immo hesitated, thinking that perhaps he should have waited for Ian to serve as a negotiator between them. However, her recent episode with Dev had sensitized Sara to her propensity for being a bitch. She suddenly realized that the doctor had done nothing to warrant the way that she was treating him. Sara took a deep breath to calm herself and turned to face him. “Sorry,” she apologized, “I didn’t mean to snap. What can I do for you?” He waved a hand, accepting her apology. “Ian thought, perhaps,” he suggested mildly, “That while I am still here I might be able to shed some light on the nature and progression of your pregnancy. You would, of course, have to be willing to undergo some tests with me. Would this be acceptable to you?”

Sara studied the old man with narrowed, sharp green eyes. “Ian suggested this?” she asked. Immo nodded. “Please do not blame him,” the doctor requested, “He is worried about your welfare and both of the boys are on tenterhooks over the paternity of the child. It is natural. They are also concerned for your health; the pregnancy is not advancing normally, is it? I do not know all the particulars, of course, but you seem much further along than you should be at this point. Is that not so?” Something he’d said had caught her attention. “Devian spoke to you too?” she wanted to know, “He asked you to examine me?” Dr. Immo nodded again. “Yes,” he confirmed, “Both of the boys are very nervous about you and the baby. After all, they both love you and one or both of them are about to be a father for the first time. Yes?” Her mouth had dropped open. “Did you say both of them?” she asked. Immo shrugged. “It is possible,” he conceded, “This is something that we could determine with DNA testing. I believe that we could do this before I leave. Isn’t this something that you would like to know?”

Sara came to a sudden decision. “Yes,” she agreed, “It is something that I would like to know. Alright, Doctor, run your tests. Just tell me where you want me and when. I’ll be there.” Immo smiled. “One o’clock in the laboratory if that is fine with you,” he directed, “Today, we will take the blood and other fluids that I need for testing. Depending on my preliminary findings, we may take a field trip later this week.” She looked at him askance. “A field trip?” she asked, “What the hell does that mean?” He shook his head. “First things first, Wielder,” he reminded her, “Is one o’clock satisfactory?” She gave him a sour look. This asshole was almost as annoying as Dev, she thought. “Yeah,” she grudgingly admitted, “One o’clock is cool. I’ll be there.” At that moment, Ian and Hannibal came bustling in the back door on a burst of chilly air and happy doggy sounds. Ian’s obvious good humor faded as soon as he regarded the expression on Sara’s face.
As he unleashed the dog, his nervous, golden gaze flicked between Dr. Immo and his lover. The doctor cleared his throat and murmured, “If anyone should need me, I am going to go to my room to get some writing done. Also, if Devian is awake yet, I will give him a quick checkup to see how he is healing. I will see you at one, Wielder.” And, then, with a quick nod to them both, he was gone. Unleashed, Hannibal went barreling out of the kitchen in search of Clarice.

Ian stood, studying Sara, his head tilted quizzically. “Did I miss something?” he asked. A small, tight smile twisted her generous mouth. “That’s what I was about to ask you, sport,” she countered. He lifted a hand in surrender and pointed out, “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Just tell me, Sara.” She took another deep breath, trying to calm herself again before she went off on him. “You went to Immo without asking me,” she accused, “You and Dev both. You asked him to turn me into a guinea pig; to study my pregnancy.” Before she even finished speaking, Ian was shaking his head. “No,” he protested, “That’s not the way that it happened. I would never go to Immo without talking to you first. Last night, he asked me whether I thought that you would allow him to run tests so that we could gain more information about the baby. I simply told him that it couldn’t hurt to ask you. That’s all I said. I guess that I was wrong.” Sudden color infused her cheeks. She was embarrassed that she had once again jumped to a conclusion about Ian’s intentions. Irrationally, that only fueled her anger further. Verdant green eyes narrowed, spitting fire. “Uh huh,” she hissed sarcastically, “And you’re completely blameless. Right, sport?” He straightened to his full height – which was impressive – and now his tawny eyes also narrowed, darkening to smoky copper. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she realized that Mr. Nottingham was pissed. His usually mellow voice dripped ice. “Far be it from me to characterize myself as blameless,” he growled, “It’s hardly a word that fits me considering my past proclivities. I did not, however, do what you are accusing me of.”

When she was silent, he added, “That’s the second time this morning that you’ve questioned my loyalty. I don’t deserve that, Sara.” Before she loosed the stinging retort that was hovering behind her lips, Sara bit her tongue. He was right; he didn’t deserve this. She was being a bitch again; shooting off her hair-trigger temper at the one who was nearest and dearest. Sara sat back down, resting her elbows on the table and lowering her head into her hands. “Shit,” she mumbled, suddenly dangerously close to tears, “I’m sorry, Ian. I am. I’m really sorry.” Her admission was followed by a loud, watery sniff that immediately diffused his anger. Ian was horrified that his uncontrolled response to her doubt might have brought her to tears. He dropped to his knee beside her chair and gently lifted her face by placing his long fingers beneath her chin. “Oh god, don’t cry,” he begged. She looked back at him, huge green eyes swimming with tears. Seeing the look of desperate concern on his beautiful face, she lost it. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed again, now dissolving into sobs. “Oh no,” Ian responded in a slightly strangled tone,” Sara…” He dropped in the chair beside her, simultaneously picking her up and pulling her on to his lap. Cradling her in his arms like an overgrown child, he held her close, rocking her and crooning soft, soothing endearments. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, burying her face in that sweet hollow between his chin and shoulder. Snuggling even closer, she sniffled loudly, filling her senses with his scent; suddenly aware that this man now felt like safety, acceptance, home. That realization was overwhelming to Sara. The last man who had made her feel that way was James Pezzini.

They stayed like that for several minutes. Gabriel wandered back to the kitchen for more coffee but, seeing their tableau, he quietly retreated to the office with his empty mug. She finally lifted her head, bringing up a hand to wipe away her copious tears. After another series of prolonged snuffles, Ian snagged a clean paper napkin from the table and handed it to her. As she took it and blew her nose, he moved his hand back to its former position of slowly rubbing her back. His other hand was stroking her hair with a gentle, rhythmic touch. “Better?” he asked, pressing his warm lips to her forehead. “Mmm,” she managed, blowing her red nose again and trying to hide her face with the soggy napkin, “ Now I must look like the shrew that I’ve been acting.” Shifting her a little on his lap, Ian held her closer and tilted his head to drop a soft kiss on each of her damp, closed eyes. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, his voice low and seductive as thick fur, “As always.” Sara shivered in direct, primal response to that tone; all the baby fine hairs on her arms stood at attention and angled themselves toward the promise implied by his voice. Her eyes still shut, she unerringly found his mouth and their arms tightened around each other as her gentle kiss of appreciation grew increasingly torrid. Needing to be even closer, Sara squirmed around on his lap until she was facing him with her legs wrapped around his hips and her ankles locked behind the chair. The sudden steamy proximity in the groin area was obviously electrifying to them both.

Forced to breathe first, Sara pulled back, flushed and gasping. With slitted eyes, she gazed at the beautiful face of her lover. She was so close that his fine features blurred in her vision. Ian’s eyes were still shut, his thick, dark lashes draping midnight fans against the high color in his cheeks. He didn’t even wince when she dug sharp, needy nails into the thin cloth covering the rigid muscles of his biceps. “I want you,” she croaked. She was soaking wet where she was plastered against the substantial bulge that pressed the fabric of his tight jeans taut. Her need for him was so acute that it bordered on pain. His eyes opened slowly. They were dark amber and feral; pure jungle cat. In mindless response to the visceral demand of that gaze, she keened softly, low in her throat, and ground her sex hard against his. Ian groaned and pushed back. Then, he suddenly blinked and comprehension began to slowly cool the raw heat in his molten eyes. He blinked again slowly and tightened his grip on her, giving her a tiny shake. “Jesus, Sara,” he rasped, his voice still filled with unbridled sex, “We can’t do this here, now. We’re in the fucking kitchen; the house is full of people.”

With hormones unleashed and raging, Sara wasn’t inclined to listen to reason. Her hand snaked between them and, lizard-quick, popped the snap on his jeans. Before even Ian’s impressive reflexes could kick in, she had his zipper down and was searching for the treasure buried in his briefs. She didn’t have to go far; he was so hard that he was testing the tensile strength of the scanty cloth restraining him. When her greedy fingers closed around him, she sighed with pleasure at the feel of the hot, silky, baby-soft skin that covered the thick, pulsing length of him. Nearly mindless with need, Sara hadn’t heard a word that he had said. Uttering small, incoherent sounds, she was desperately trying to angle herself to take him inside her; her desire so great that it had eclipsed everything else. In the meantime, Ian was waging a subtle battle with himself on two separate fronts: his body was responding to the primal call of hers with a vengeance and was nearly beyond his control; at the same time, his head was screaming at him that they were about to have at each other in a common thoroughfare and that they had to stop. It was a tribute to his iron will that his reason won out.
Ian gripped the hand that was holding him and arched his body away from hers. “Stop!” he ordered. The sudden harsh tone of his voice managed to penetrate the fog of lust in her brain. Sara froze, her eyes cleared a bit, and she stared back at him, befuddled. Seeing that he finally had her attention, Ian repeated, “We can’t do this here.”

Now, she blinked, looking as if she were coming back to herself from a great distance. As awareness flooded her eyes, color rose in her cheeks and Sara ducked her head in embarrassment. “Lordy! What’s the matter with me?” she mumbled from beneath her tumbled hair, “I nearly ravaged you.” Ian’s deep, amused chuckle made her tip up her face to study him from under lowered lashes. “Hardly,” he assured her, “We came within a hair of doing it on the kitchen table; forcing our friends to be an audience to our lack of restraint. Notice that I said ‘we.’ The ravishment thing was mutual.” His grin was infectious and Sara brought her head all the way back up to grin back at him. “It’s nice of you to say that,” she demurred, “But it was me that had you in my clutches. It was me that was trying to put you where I wanted you to be.” His tawny eyes darkened again at her admission and the recollection that it brought with it. She smiled slyly, not oblivious to his renewed arousal, and added wistfully, “I almost had you there too – when cooler heads prevailed.” His sensual lips twitched. “Cooler heads may be overrated,” he admitted. She shook her head. “Nah,” she conceded, “You were right. If poor Gabriel had walked in on us going to it, we would probably have to pay to send him to therapy. And I can’t even get my mind around Dr. Immo returning for another cup of coffee…” That image made Ian wince too.

They were companionably quiet for a few moments, just holding each other. Then, Ian suggested, “I have a compromise.” Sara bent forward to place a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose. “I’m all ears,” she told him. His simmering golden eyes dropped to where the raggedy terry robe still gaped to expose a substantial expanse of skin. “Not even close,” he murmured teasingly. She giggled and punched his rock-hard shoulder. “What’s the compromise?” she asked. His eyes flicked toward the basement door and she followed his gaze, then raised one brow in question. Instead, he replied, “You and I have a date tonight. I propose that we finish then what we started here. What do you say?” She gave him a long, measuring stare before she answered, “It’s a date. But, this time, it’s your turn to play the aggressor. Deal?” The predatory grin that he gave her made something low in her belly flutter. “Deal,” he agreed. The husky promise in his sexy growl caused a fresh gush of hot arousal to escape her. At that very moment, she began counting off the long, tedious hours until they could be together again.

As promised, Sara spent several hours of her afternoon with Dr. Immo, allowing him to take numerous vials of blood and even peeing into a cup for his edification. Still hypersensitive from her recent emotional meltdown and keenly aware of her precarious temper, she was on her best behavior with the elderly doctor. He was pleasantly surprised by her equanimity. He had fully expected the examination to be an ordeal for both of them. Whenever her temper began to fray or another cold instrument touched her in a private place, Sara sustained herself by letting her mind wander to the coming evening that Ian had promised her. It had been too long since they had had an uninterrupted stretch of time alone together. In the wake of her aborted seduction of him that morning, it had struck her just how much she had missed being with him.

From the beginning, her relationship with Ian had been a rocky one. Until recently, the unwanted presence of Kenneth Irons and his unyielding control over Nottingham had been the primary deterrent to them coming together. That obstacle had been removed with his death but, of course, he had bequeathed them another stumbling block in Devian. The blasted clone was a problem because he was not what any of them had expected. If he had merely been Irons’ evil tool, they could have found a way to defeat him and then he would have been gone from their lives forever. They could have moved on. But he wasn’t evil; at most, he was a bit amoral. In fact, he gave every indication that he was crudely groping in his own inimitable way toward the light.

Since neither she nor Ian were the type of people that could abandon someone who appeared to be struggling along the road to redemption, they were stuck with Dev. Neither one of them were able to simply cut him loose. As ambiguous as Ian’s feelings were about sharing her with his clone – and, yes, she could sense the jealousy that her true love was trying so hard to master – he also felt a great deal of empathy for the daily battles that his replica was waging with life; he could relate only too well with Dev’s desperate, confused, and only marginally successful attempts to win the regard of the Witchblade’s Wielder. All in all, Ian’s emotions were strongly conflicted; which, of course, was bound to play hell with their relationship. If you added her feelings to the mix – a temperament which was, even under normal circumstances, highly volatile – you had a recipe for disaster. Even now, after all that had happened, everything that had been said, Sara was still not sure how she really, truly felt about Devian. He unmistakably elicited strong emotions from her; among them, annoyance, lust, tenderness, pity, anger, and guilt. But, if she was brutally honest, Sara was still ambivalent that her gentler tendencies toward the clone could be described as “love.”

What made it worse was that, with his eerie instincts, Devian sensed her resistance. He had intuited an attitude in Sara that she was hesitant to admit even to herself, let alone examine too closely. There was something in her that recoiled from the knowledge that Dev had not been born of human parents; that he had been conceived on the sterile altar of science, his mother, a genetic principle and his father, the brilliant old man who was piercing the crook of her elbow with yet another syringe. Logically, she knew that that was nothing he could help or change; she knew that it was small of her to hold his origin against him. Even so, there it was. In the deepest part of her, it was how she felt. If he confronted her with it, of course, she would deny it. Sara didn’t like thinking of herself as someone who could harbor that kind of prejudice; so, she simply pretended that the attitude did not exist. She blamed her inability to freely love Devian on other causes – lord knows, he gave her plenty of alternatives in his struggle to become what he thought she wanted him to be.

But, unless Sara could find her way past the bias that was at the heart of her evasion, the clone was doomed to ultimate failure. No matter what Devian did, regardless of how he changed, Sara would never care for him in the way that he yearned for her love. And, to rub salt into that wound, her relationship with Ian was a constant reminder of the bright and shining grail that he was seeking. His brother was the paradigm, the true pattern of which he was only the copy. As Immo poked and prodded, Sara ruminated on the many intricacies of her curious predicament. She actually had too much of a good thing for the first time in her life; she had finally found her soul mate when she had stopped running from Ian, but she now also had the superfluous love of his literal double. Beyond that, none of them had really explored the motivations of the Witchblade in any depth. Why hadn’t the perverse Object of Power been content once Sara and Ian had mated? Why had It forced her coupling with Devian – not once, but twice? The most obvious explanation was to ensure that she became pregnant with his child. Why Dev? Was it because Ian had failed to impregnate her? What would happen to her relationship with Ian if the baby was Devian’s?
It was obvious that the clone would try to instigate a more dominant role in her life if the baby turned out to be his. She had too many questions and too few answers; but that had been the story of her life since the cryptic bracelet had chosen her.

Sara had been so lost in introspection that when Dr. Immo gently patted her shoulder and told her that they were finished, she didn’t even hear him. She sat still on the makeshift examination table, eyes glazed. The doctor cleared his throat and repeated that they were done. Sara blinked and asked, “When will we know who the father is?” He had lost no time in beginning to arrange the filled test tubes, sparkling ruby red with her blood, into carriers. His gray head turned slowly. He was distracted, his attention already diverted toward the lab work that he planned to do. Refocusing on Sara, he answered slowly, “A couple of days, I’m afraid. No sooner than that.” She nodded and levered herself down from the table. When she and Immo had first appeared in the lab to collect the test samples, Mobius and Vicki had vacated the room to allow them more privacy. The last that she had seen Gabriel, he was headed upstairs to spend some time with his buddy, Dev, who was still reluctantly confined to bed. Ian had taken off soon after breakfast for a series of meetings with various Notties. For a moment, Sara wondered whether he had returned. Almost immediately though, she decided not to look for him. They would be spending the evening together and she didn’t want to outstay her welcome.

On the heels of that decision, Sara yawned hugely and realized that what she really wanted was a nap. While she was slightly appalled that she was ready to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, she was now fighting to keep her eyes open. She soon gave up the battle and, waving a casual goodbye to the oblivious Immo, headed upstairs to the spare bedroom that Ian had occupied the night before. Still clad in Ian’s old bathrobe, Sara settled herself on the neatly made bed, pulling the comforter draped across the foot of it up over her. She fell into a deep sleep seconds after her head hit the pillow. A warm hand gently stroking her hair pulled her slowly from the depths of a lovely dream. Opening sleepy eyes, Sara realized that the room was dark. It had been sunny when she had stretched out for her nap; in fact, she remembered a passing impulse to close the drapes before exhaustion had claimed her. The figure sitting beside her on the bed was no more than a shadow but she would know his touch anywhere. She yawned delicately and asked, “Did you get all your errands done?” There was just enough light coming in through the half-open door to see him nod. He had his own question for her. “Are you ready for our date?” he asked. She smiled, arching her body in a long, lazy stretch. “Oh, yes,” she purred, “I’m well rested and raring to go.” She sensed rather than saw his answering smile. It was in his voice too. “There’s a new dress in the box on the chair,” he told her, then asked, “Do you want to shower first?” She turned her head to look curiously at the big box angled across the easy chair before she nodded.

Sara’s stomach growled audibly and Ian laughed softly as he stood. “The date includes dinner,” he assured her, “When you’re ready, go to the kitchen.” She had a sudden picture of trying to share an intimate, romantic dinner with her lover while their housemates periodically interrupted them to get fresh mugs of coffee or grab a quick snack. Catching the pained look on her face even in the dim light, he shook his head. “We’re not eating in the kitchen,” he clarified, “Where I’m taking you, we won’t be disturbed.” The expression on her face segued into shock. “We can’t leave the house,” she protested, “There’s nothing that I’d rather do than get away with you but we can’t take a chance on being seen.” Ian held up his hand to stop her protest. “It will be both safe and private,” he replied with a heavy dose of mystery, “Trust me.” She tilted her head to look up at him, a tall and elegant shadow standing beside the bed. She wondered what he was up to – Nottingham could be a sneaky devil when he put some effort into it. “Of course I trust you,” she replied. Bending at the waist in a courtly bow, he caught her hand in his long fingers and lifted it to press soft lips against her wrist. “Good,” he murmured against her skin; his hot breath making her shiver. He dropped her hand and headed to the door, where he stopped, silhouetted against the light coming from the hall. “In the kitchen in one hour,” he directed, “Don’t be late.” Then, he was gone.

Sara was able to take a leisurely shower, primp a bit in her new outfit, and still be in the kitchen a few minutes ahead of schedule. Nothing was out of place in the stark, utilitarian room; the table wasn’t set for dinner; pots with aromatic concoctions weren’t simmering on the stove; and Ian wasn’t there. She glanced up at the wall clock. It was still five minutes shy of the hour. Sara took the spare time to give herself another once over. The lighting had been dim upstairs. In the harsher light of the kitchen, she was able to take a better look at the dress that Ian had left for her; more of a gown, really, and vaguely reminiscent of the style popular in the nineteen-twenties. It was white and diaphanous, and it bared a daring amount of décolletage. She had put up her hair in a smooth chignon just because that coiffure seemed to go with the outfit; it would also give Ian a chance to pull out the pins and free her golden brown mane later in the evening. Sara was still lost in that image when she heard him calling her name. Startled, she turned in a full circle, the filmy length of her dress swirling out around her legs. The room was still empty. She briefly wondered whether Ian was doing some weird-ass thing with his ring again before she noticed that the door to the basement was slightly ajar; fey, golden beams spilled from its narrow crack but were soon lost in the fluorescent glare of the kitchen.

Sara went over to the cellar door and pulled it open. Something that looked like a sheet fell from ceiling to floor at the bottom of the stairs obscuring her view. She could almost hear the strains of some low, exotic music that was heavy on strings and woodwinds. A sudden breeze rippled the curtain below her and wafted up the steps. It carried a strong hint of sandalwood with an undercurrent of other more subtle and heady spices. She shivered, rubbing her bare arms with her hands. “Ian,” she called out, “Are you down there?” A moment later, his dark head appeared at the edge of the curtain. His hair was loose, falling in lustrous waves around his grinning face. “Ah, there you are,” he greeted her, “Come on down.” She studied him as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue. “You want me to come down to the basement?” she asked, hoping this wasn’t his big surprise, “What’s going on?” His golden eyes were glowing in the muted light below, sparkling with mischievous glints. “You’ll have to come down here to find out,” he challenged her. Never able to resist a dare, Sara held the long dress up with one hand and carefully began to navigate the narrow basement steps. Just before he disappeared again behind the curtain, Ian called, “Shut the door behind you.” She stopped, then went back up a couple of steps to pull the heavy door closed. She saw a hook and eye lock on the back of the door and made an executive decision. She didn’t know what Ian had planned but she knew that she didn’t want any of their housemates interrupting them tonight. Sara slipped the hook in the eye to lock the door.

With their privacy secure, Sara continued her careful journey down the basement steps. At the bottom, she stopped at the curtain that was barring her way and blocking her view of the space beyond. From a distance, she had thought that it was a simple bed sheet. Now that she was close to it, she found that the material was a pale blue silk. She could tell that there was flickering light beyond the drape. “Candles,” she thought. Another slight breeze ruffled the fine fabric in front of her face and she got another strong whiff of sandalwood; this time, she picked up a tantalizing undertone of patchouli. A deep, amused voice not far from the other side of the curtain asked, “What are you waiting for? How bad could it be?” He was right, of course; how bad could it be? It was just that she had been so looking forward to their date as something magical and she figured that playing it out in the basement meant that she had better get ready for disappointment. Sara gathered herself together and decided to put a good face on it for Ian. After all, they were confined to this house until they were no longer fugitives. That didn’t leave a lot of options in the way of magic. She plastered an excited smile on her face and pushed aside the filmy silk – and stepped into Paradise.

The walls and ceiling were completely covered with long swaths of billowing silk in shades of pale blue, pink, and violet. The floor was covered with oriental rugs; scattered about there were great mounds of silken pillows and stacks of fake fur throws. It looked like some Hollywood sheik’s tent in an old Rudolph Valentino movie. There were candles everywhere casting soft, dappled light on the lush surroundings. Somewhere, there was running water; a fountain, she imagined. That light breeze that she had felt at the foot of the stairs was still coming from somewhere, laden with subtle and mysterious scents. In the center of all this artifice, there was a long, low table laden with several covered dishes. It was set for dinner. She frowned when she saw a bottle of wine chilling in an ice-filled bucket. Sara was about to object that she couldn’t have wine because of her pregnancy when he stepped from the shadows into the light. Her eyes widened and her breath caught sharply in her throat. He was dressed like something out of “Lawrence of Arabia” in full desert garb – except for the headdress, which he had omitted. Ian, too, was all in white. His gold-streaked hair fell about his beautiful face in shining, chocolate waves. He looked breathtaking. When she found her voice, Sara squeaked out, “Are we playing dress-up?”

Ian fixed her with a slow, seductive smile and spread his hands. “I thought that since we are unable to travel to faraway places, we would bring some exotic climes to us.” He tilted his head trying to gauge her reaction. “What do you think?” he asked. She smiled back at him, trying for a little seductiveness of her own. Between the filmy gown and the luxurious surroundings, she certainly felt transported beyond the mundane world of the safe house above them. “I think that you’ve created something very cool here, Mr. Nottingham,” she replied, “With a little imagination and some suspension of disbelief, I think I might be convinced that it’s just you and me, alone in a vast and mysterious desert kingdom.” With sparkling, dark amber eyes and lips curved in a wicked grin, he glided toward her, purring, “That works for me.” He stopped scant inches from her, so close that she could feel the heat coming from his body. She looked up at him, sliding her arms around his neck where she pushed her fingers into his silky hair. The candlelight was doing amazing things to his eyes. Sara pushed her pelvis forward playfully until she connected solidly with him and studied him from beneath lowered lashes. Ian was obviously very happy to see her. His warm hands now rested lightly on her hips. “Want to fool around?” she asked, adding “Do I get to unwrap you from all those robes?” He bent down to slant his lips artfully across hers, touching just the tip of his tongue to the tip of hers.

Ian pulled back far enough to regard her with smoldering eyes. “They’re actually much easier to remove than they look,” he confided huskily, “But you can make it as hard as you want. Have fun with it.” She smirked. “We are still talking about the robes. Right?” she asked. Ian shrugged and suddenly dropped his head to capture her ear lobe between his teeth. She shuddered when he scraped the skin lightly only to suck it soothingly a second later. His hands slid upward from her waist until his long fingers splayed to cup each of her hypersensitive breasts; both their size and sensitivity had increased with her pregnancy. The rough pads of his thumbs shifted subtly to skillfully stroke her rapidly hardening nipples. Sara gasped at the heat that suddenly pooled in her center. Shutting her eyes and tilting back her head, she filled her fingers with his thick, dark curls and let her cares drift away for a little while. She was just ready to jump him when the delightful caresses stopped. Her head came back up and her dazed eyes opened. “What happened?” she asked. He was grinning. “Hungry?” he countered. Was he kidding? she wondered. She could begin devouring him this very second. She would start with his toes and work her way up. Sara was not adept at masking her thoughts. Reading her intentions on her mobile face, Ian’s grin grew a bit more wicked. “I meant for food,” he clarified.

As if it had just been waiting for its cue, Sara’s stomach growled loudly. Ian laughed. She looked chagrined, dropping her head. “I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast,” she explained, rubbing her stomach, “It’s the baby. It’s daddy may have rather delicate culinary sensibilities but this Nottingham has a voracious appetite.” In the lambent candlelight, his handsome face took on a complex, unreadable expression. Ian hesitantly stretched out his hand to cover her own hand where it rested on the slightly distended mound of her stomach. Time seemed to stop as their eyes met. The moment was suddenly intense, fraught with a million possibilities. Their future turned on the axis of the night like a giant wheel of fortune set spinning by the bejeweled gauntlet that held them in its thrall. Emerald green eyes went huge locked on wide, tawny gold as they both felt the soft, tentative brush against their minds from deep within her. Simultaneously, there was a tiny nudge beneath the skin under their joined hands. Ian gasped; a stunned intake of air as he slipped bonelessly to his knees before her, resting his bearded cheek on her belly. He held her to him with both arms wrapped around her thighs. Sara gripped his head against her with possessive fingers dug deep in his silken mane. They stayed like that for several moments, both of them shaking, before Ian again lifted his head to look up at her. “Did you feel him?” he whispered, awed, “My son?”

Sara nodded; tears of joy were rolling slowly down her cheeks. “He’s going to be a real charmer, isn’t he?” she whispered, “He’s already got the touch, just like his daddy.” And she thought, though she didn’t say it aloud: so different from his sister, Devian’s daughter, who was already brashly trying to kick her way out into the world. She slid one hand from his hair to gently stroke the strong angle of his cheek. “Looks like I suffered through Immo’s poking and sticking today for nothing,” she murmured, “We didn’t need a bunch of tests to learn about these babies. We just had to get quiet enough to let them tell us themselves in their own way.” Ian gave her legs a little tug to pull her down to the soft mound of oriental carpets beside him. In his logical way, he replied, “It may not have been for nothing. There may still be something that his testing can tell us that will be of help.” There was a pause while Ian studied her raptly and Sara wondered how much of the entire picture he had already intuited. He answered her unspoken question a moment later. “There are two babies?” he asked rhetorically, “Devian’s daughter will be the Wielder and my son will be his sister’s Protector. The Blade has set about creating a new dynasty to serve it.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed its scarred knuckles. “Sure looks that way,” she agreed.

Ian frowned. “Why?” he asked. Sara nodded. That was the $64,000 question alright. Trust Nottingham to get to the heart of the issue and not get caught up in the emotional mechanics of the process. “I don’t know,” she answered. That statement was punctuated by another loud rumble from her stomach. Ian bent forward to brush his warm lips across hers. When he pulled back, he was smiling ruefully. “Perhaps because the present Wielder’s Protector is doing such a miserable job at seeing to her needs,” he said, “You’re hungry. Let’s have dinner now. We can talk about this more later.” Sara smiled up at him as he rose fluidly and helped her to her feet. “Like I said,” she thought, “He’s a charmer.” Ian led her to the low table that held several covered chafing dishes with candles burning beneath them. Once there, he settled her on a comfortable mound of pillows and dropped gracefully beside her. “What’s all this?” she asked, a bit overwhelmed by the number of dishes arrayed before her. “I got carryout from the best Moroccan restaurant in the city,” he explained, adding with a quick grin, “What we don’t finish goes to the waiting throng upstairs. Gabriel tried to bribe me to dine lightly. He’s counting on lots of leftovers.” Sara made a rude sound as she lifted a lid to release a luscious aroma into the already heavily scented air. “He can dream,” she replied, “But I could eat a horse.” Ian made a face. “No horse, I’m afraid,” he said facetiously, “Lamb, chicken, eggplant, some other vegetables; but, alas, no horse.”

Sara waved a hand airily. “Oh well,” she drawled, tongue in cheek, “I suppose that I’ll just have to make do without it then. Pass me that plate, would you, baby?” He handed her one of the large dining plates and then watched agog as she filled it to capacity. When she had finished, he filled his own plate sparingly, noting quietly, “When you finish, you’re going to want to go back to sleep. All your blood is going to rush to your stomach.” Sara studied him from under lowered lashes as she forked in a heaping helping of couscous. “Not if you give it a better location to rush to,” she countered. That observation perked him right up and he added a little more food to his own plate. They dawdled over a long, leisurely dinner, sampling the many different exotic foods and feeding each other playfully. The bottle that was chilling in the ice bucket turned out to be cider; so Sara wasn’t tempted by having to pass up a favorite wine. Afterwards, she got to top off the meal with two pieces of baklava and some of her own rich, decaf French Roast that was fresh and steamy in an enormous samovar. Stuffed, she curled on her side amid a plethora of pillows, her head resting on Ian’s hard-muscled thigh. “God,” she moaned, hand rubbing her stomach, “I’ll never eat again.” Ian smiled, similarly sated, as he absently stroked her hair, pulling out the pins to let it tumble around her shoulders. “I guess that I can loose the waiting dogs of war on our spoils then,” he murmured, adding, “That is, if I can manage to get up.”

She made a sleepy sound of protest and begged, “Don’t take away my pillow yet.” He left his thigh where it was and continued to stroke her honey-brown locks. “And hide the rest of the baklava,” she whispered, as if she were afraid that one of her housemates might hear, “Gabe and Dev will snarf that up in the wink of an eye. I might get a yen in the middle of the night and the leftover baklava would sure taste good then.” Knowing the olfactory prowess of the terrible two, Ian protested, “Hide it where? Can you suggest a place that I might put it where they won’t find it?” Sara snorted and replied, “Just on principle, I’m not going to touch that statement. It’s way too easy.” He looked down at her quizzically and she sighed. “Don’t take the pastries upstairs with the rest of the food,” she suggested, “We’ll take them up with us when we’re done down here; maybe by then they’ll be safely tucked away in bed.” Ian slid his warm hand under her hair and began massaging the tight muscles of her neck. Sara stretched and emitted an appreciative purr. “I wouldn’t count on Dev getting much sleep tonight,” he reminded her, “He’ll be trying to block out what we’re enjoying.” He felt her stiffen under his hand. A moment later, she abruptly sat up. Turning her head away, Sara pushed a rough hand through her thick hair. “Shit,” she mumbled, “I’d forgotten about the connection.” She turned back to look at Ian, her green eyes dark and stormy. “I hate that he shares this with us, Ian,” she hissed, “That we don’t get to keep it to ourselves.”

Ian studied her briefly, then he began putting the covers back on the chafing dishes and organizing the food to take it upstairs. While he did that, Sara sat hunched over and quiet, turned in on herself. He finally stopped and stretched out two long fingers to lift her lowered head. “It’s not as if he can help it, Sara,” he said softly, “It’s not his choice either.” She let out an annoyed puff of air before she conceded, “I know, I know. It’s just creepy to think that he’ll be feeling us touch each other; kind of like performing a sex show for an audience.” Ian stood, managing to shrug while he balanced a serving dish in each hand. “Then don’t think about it,” he said, the essence of practicality, “Concentrate on something else.” When she made a face, he gave her a slow, seductive smile. “I think that I can help you there,” he offered in a husky growl that rubbed against her like velvet, “I have some things planned that I think will keep both your body and mind well occupied.” That managed to bring her smile back out of hiding. “Oh yeah?” she challenged him, “Put up or shut up, Nottingham.” His smile metamorphosed into a decidedly wicked grin. “Just let me push this food through the door into the kitchen and I’ll not only put up; I’ll put out,” he promised.
Sara eyed those white, flowing robes again. The outline of his long, hard body was just a tantalizing hint within them. She licked her lips like a cat contemplating cream. “You’re on. Make it snappy,” she ordered.

Ian had all the food, except for the baklava and the samovar, up the steps and into the kitchen in five minutes flat. Even from her position among the pillows at the far end of the basement, she could hear the mad scramble for the Moroccan leftovers in the kitchen beyond the locked door. When Ian returned, he was chuckling and shaking his head. As he dropped back down beside her, she asked, “Were the sharks circling? Do you still have all your body parts? Do I need to count fingers?” She let out a startled yelp when he languidly settled back into the pile of pillows, then suddenly rolled her into his arms. “Why don’t I just show you that my fingers are in good working order?” he suggested; his voice a throaty purr as his lips nuzzled against her neck and his hand insinuated itself under the hem of her long dress. Sara allowed her head to fall back, exposing the arched column of her throat to give him more room to work. His lips had reached her collarbone by the time his hand had meandered slowly up the inside of her thigh to her throbbing center of sensation.
With her eyes shut, she felt him lift his head, his silky curls brushing erotically across her bare shoulder. She opened her eyes and smiled, acknowledging the cool amusement in his tawny, golden gaze. Sara lowered her eyes to the lump where his large, warm hand rested under her dress. “What?” she asked slyly, “Was I supposed to put on underwear?” Ian laughed. It was a deep, sexy sound that made things low in her belly clench. “Not on my account,” was his hoarse assurance.

The heat of his hand where it rested motionless on her mound was driving her crazy. Running out of patience, Sara cocked her knee and spread her legs for him in open invitation. Ian tilted his head and watched her from heavy-lidded eyes, glowing rich, dark amber. “Is there something that you want from me?” he asked. Starting to pant and struggling to hide it, she arched her hips, pushing herself against the heavy weight of his callused palm. He watched her with that predatory gleam in his golden eyes and his long, artist’s fingers still didn’t move. She was now so wet that she was afraid that she would soak the filmy fabric of the gown. “Touch me?” she whispered hopefully. His sensual lips twitched. “Where?” he asked, his voice a husky murmur. Sara felt heat rising in her cheeks as she blushed. “Ian…” she warned. His smile got a little roguish and one broad shoulder gave a tiny hitch. “C’mon, big boy,” she wheedled. In answer, he rolled one long, stiff finger hard around her clit once and stopped.
After the anticipation, the sudden, sharp sensation was electric. Her whole body went rigid and a high, piercing wail was dragged out of her.

When she finally came back down, Sara was left panting and aching for more. Her hand snaked down to grip his; to try to force his fingers back to where she needed them. It was like trying to bend steel. Ian shook his head and repeated, “Tell me what you want, Sara.” She loosed a long sigh and capitulated. “I want you to touch my pussy, Ian,” she whispered raggedly, “I want you to suck me.” As she said it, her cheeks flamed scarlet but, at the same time, she felt a perverse, wildly erotic thrill. She was really turned on. Ian gave her a sweet smile and responded, “Of course. As you wish. Lift your arms, love.” Sliding his warm hands slowly up the sides of her body, never losing contact with her skin, he pushed the filmy gown up and off, over her head. He stretched his long body out beside her, still fully clothed. Sara was so ready that she was almost vibrating with desire. When Ian bent his dark, shaggy head and sucked her nipple into his hot mouth, nipping it gently with his sharp teeth, such a jolt of molten heat shot through her that she had to stifle a scream. A moment later, when two of his long fingers plunged deep inside her and the rough pad of his thumb began massaging her clit, she lost the battle. Out of control, she thrust her hips up off the floor in her need to get closer to him. She pushed her face into the pile of pillows as a soft continuous string of moans escaped her.

Once he had been invited to touch, Ian gave her no respite. He gradually increased his assault on her senses until she was caught in the tight spiral of an orgasm. When her climax came, it was impressive, leaving her limp and gasping for breath in its wake. Ian held her gently in his arms while she slowly recovered. When her eyes finally opened again, she pushed a shaky hand through her now-sweaty locks and sucked in a deep breath. He gave her a satisfied smile that was very male. Sara saw that as a challenge. When he noticed that her eyes had narrowed and her lips had curved tightly, his own smile suddenly faltered. “Sara?” he asked hesitantly. Her grin went predatory. “Time to lose those robes, ace,” she demanded. Ian studied her a little doubtfully before he stretched out full length on the mounded pillows beside her. “Okay,” he agreed, then added, “Be kind.” She chuckled, amused at his trepidation. “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I won’t hurt anything that I intend to use.” He couldn’t help but smile back at her as he replied, “That’s a comfort.” Once she delved into them, as he had told her, Sara found that his robes were not difficult to unravel. She soon had his chest and arms bared. Drawing her nails lightly down the sculpted muscles to his hard belly, she enjoyed watching taut muscles twitch and jump. He sucked in a sudden, sharp breath when her fingernail grazed one of his nipples. Sara grinned impishly and froze. Ian watched her warily from heavy-lidded, golden eyes. Without warning, she again flicked his nipple hard with her fingernail. He grunted softly as his body arched toward her uncontrollably. She glanced up at his face. His eyes were shut and a single drop of sweat escaped from his dark curls to roll lazily down his forehead.

Resting one hand on his rock-hard abs for leverage, Sara bent down to suck that small, sensitive nub into her mouth. As she rubbed his quivering stomach muscles, she slowly worried his nipple between her tongue and teeth until he groaned deep in his throat. Eyes still shut, Ian gasped, “Sara, stop. I can’t…” She smiled triumphantly as she lifted her head from his chest. Giving his frayed senses a rest, Sara turned her attention to getting Ian out of the remaining robes that covered his hips and legs. Once she exposed the rest of his body, she wasn’t at all surprised to find that he was so hard that he was almost flush against his flat stomach. “Hmm. What’s this?” she asked, as she dragged her fingernails slowly up the long length of his swollen shaft from balls to tip. Ian shuddered. His eyes opened, shining dark amber and slightly feral. He pushed himself up to rest back on his elbows, watching her heatedly from behind some tousled curls that had fallen across his flushed face. “Are you looking for an answer to that question?” he asked, “Would you like me to show you?”
The look on his face made something flutter low in her belly. Rather than answer, she shrugged and smirked just enough to goad him.

That was all Ian needed. Sara had just begun to feel that she was controlling the action. Now, as she watched him pull his long body up off the pillows to loom over her, she was reminded of a sleek, black panther stalking its prey and she felt the power between them shift once again. Her breath caught when the candlelight caressed his naked body and made his jungle-cat eyes gleam. He was so beautiful that her throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears. She suddenly wanted him so desperately that her mouth went dry. She stretched out a shaking hand to stroke his bearded jaw. “God, Ian,” she managed in a choked whisper, “I love you so much.” He stopped in mid-motion, eyes wide and face blank with surprise. She had caught him off guard; something it wasn’t easy to do with Ian Nottingham. As he hovered just above her body, the sharp planes of his face softened and his smoldering eyes mellowed to loving warmth. “I love you too, my darling,” he whispered, “You are the love of all my lives and the mother of our child, my beautiful Sara.” The entity in question shifted in response. Her eyes widened and she exhaled a soft, surprised, “Oh,” as her hand dropped to her stomach. Ian bent to press a soft kiss to the smooth skin next to her hand. “Did he move again?” he asked. She nodded, eyes still dazed. “There,” she exclaimed, as their son pushed against his mother’s hand and his father’s lips. Ian lifted his head and their eyes met. “Aggressive,” he said, grinning, “He must get that from his mother.”

“Hey!” she protested, “Are you just going to lie there tempting me or are you going to kiss me?” He shook his head, still grinning. “See?” he responded, “Bossy.” But he angled his long, warm body half on top of her, creating delicious sensations wherever skin touched skin. She felt one large, strong hand slide under her to grip the cheek of her butt and pull her even closer. His other hand slipped beneath her shoulder and stretched upward to cup the back of her head. Sara suddenly found her mouth a breath away from his. “I’m going to kiss you alright,” he agreed. Before she could give him the snarky retort that was on the tip of her tongue, that tongue was tangled with his while they tried to swallow each other whole. The kiss was so torrid that her toes literally curled. As their lips parted and they rested, forehead to forehead, panting, she felt his hand edge around her hip to settle between her legs. He began to stroke her delicately with one long, stiff finger. She moaned softly and pushed herself against his hand. “Now?” he whispered. Looking into his mesmerizing eyes, she flicked out her tongue to slowly lick his full, lower lip. “Oh, yes. Yes,” she begged. A moment later, she felt the thick, hot length of him push into her deeply, filling her completely with one hard thrust.

Her muted cry, somewhere between a sob and a sigh, was lost under the sound of his soft, erotically evocative grunt of exertion. She wrapped her arms and legs tight around his hot, hard body when he began to move inside her; sweet, smooth strokes as his hips pistoned like a well-oiled machine and his long butt muscles clenched and released. With her face buried in the shining waves of his fragrant hair, Sara gave herself over to glorious sensation. “God,” she croaked, “That feels soooo good.” Balancing his weight on his arms to keep them locked only sex to sex, Ian turned his head to give her ear lobe a sharp nip. “You’re like a furnace with velvet walls,” he growled in her ear. Sara let out a breathless giggle. “Is that good?” she asked. He loosed a low, indescribable sound from way back in his throat. “Oh, yeah,” he assured her, “That’s good.” He growled against her neck, his hot breath raising goose bumps, as he picked up the pace and pounded into her. She shifted, pushing her legs up even higher against his pumping hips, and, impossibly, he drove even deeper into her. The feeling was unbelievable and they both cried out in response to the ecstatic sensation. Completely unaware of what she was doing, Sara dug sharp nails into Ian’s shoulders and back, drawing blood. “Ian. I can’t…much longer,” she gasped raggedly, “I’m so close…” She felt him bite her neck lightly at the smooth juncture with her shoulder. “I know…,” he groaned, voice hoarse, “I know. Me too.”

Sara came first; the orgasm slamming into her so hard that for several seconds there was nothing but pure, mind-curdling, heart-stopping pleasure. She returned to herself with brilliant red lights exploding behind her closed eyes and magenta swirls roiling wildly inside the Witchblade. Ian’s release followed a moment later as his hot seed shot into her; his body bowed with the intensity of the ejaculation. The sound that erupted from him was almost a howl. Knowing his body was about to collapse and not wanting to lower his weight on her, Ian clutched Sara to him and rolled on to his back so that she was now draped above him. Their labored panting echoed loudly in the heavily scented air of the basement. Eyes shut, Ian lifted a trembling hand and gently stroked Sara’s sweat-damp hair. “Are you cold?” he croaked, voice husky. She could only manage a tiny nod. By stretching one long arm to its full length, he was just able to snag the rim of one of the fake fur throws on his second try. He dragged it to them and pulled it up and over her back to cover them both. “Better?” he whispered. Sara lifted her head to look down at him; the long, hard body beneath her was still trembling. She looked into half-open eyes that had darkened to rich caramel. “Much,” she replied, “How are you doing?” He chuckled and responded weakly, “I think some parts of me may have fused together. We may never be able to separate again.”

Sara folded her arms under her on his chest and grinned down at him. “Okay,” she agreed, “Then you can have the babies. How about that?” He frowned and cleared his throat before he gently eased her to the pillows beside him and pulled out of her with a soft, wet sound. She giggled and remarked, “Worried you for a minute there, didn’t I?” He denied it unconvincingly, protesting, “No. Not at all.” Stretching out a hand, she brushed an errant curl back from his damp forehead. “Sure,” she responded, smirking. Then, abruptly, she sobered. Watching his face carefully, she asked, “So. How do you really feel about becoming a father?” He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. Eyes lowered, he murmured, “I’m not sure that I have the words to describe it. I’m excited, thrilled, scared, awed, and overwhelmed, of course, with love for my son and his mother.” Sara cuddled close to him, snuggling under his arm, which he’d slipped around her. Resting her head on his chest, she said, “I guess I officially have to become a grownup now. I’m going to be responsible for bringing two new lives into the world. I think I’m a little scared.” He rubbed her shoulder soothingly and lowered his face to kiss the top of her head. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured into her soft hair, “You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

Sara blinked and lifted her head, trying to see the expression on his face; wondering whether Ian was teasing her. “I am?” she asked hesitantly. His voice was as warm and rich as hot, buttered rum, even muffled in her hair. “Of course, you are,” he assured her, “You’re a loving, caring person, Sara. You care about what’s right and just. Those are the things that make you who you are. Your children will be blessed to have a mother, let alone the kind of mother that you will be.” She felt her throat tighten as she remembered that Ian had grown up without ever knowing a mother’s touch; without much of a father’s touch either, for that matter. “And you’re going to be a terrific dad,” she countered, voice tight with emotion. There was a long pause before he replied, “I’m going to be the best father that I know how to be. He is going to know that he’s loved.” She could tell that Ian was thinking of Irons and about how differently he would treat his son than he himself had been treated. Whatever Machiavellian plan the Witchblade had in store, Sara made a promise to herself that now Ian would get to know the joy of being part of a real family; the kind of family that first her father and then Joe and Marie Siri had allowed her to share. In tandem with their son, that would be her gift to him. With that vow bright in her mind, she fell asleep warm and safe in the circle of Ian’s strong arms.

After Gabriel transferred the remains of Ian’s Moroccan dinner for Sara to several plastic containers and arranged them on a tray with a couple of forks and spoons, he carried the portable feast upstairs to the master bedroom where Dev was still confined to bed. They had spent the afternoon at the chessboard. As a means of keeping him occupied during his recovery, Gabe had taught the clone how to play. After the first couple of games, during which Dev learned the rules and got a feel for finessing a strategy, he began to routinely beat his teacher. Now, no matter what technique or ruse Gabriel tried, Devian checkmated him with alacrity. While he found it frustrating, Gabe had to admire the clone’s impressive and agile intellect. Beyond that, his friend’s affable personality made Gabriel’s growing string of defeats easier to take. Devian didn’t condescend by allowing him to win nor did he lord it over Gabe when he suffered another loss; he just enjoyed the game and the challenge that it presented.

When he entered the bedroom and Dev scanned the tray with its several containers, Gabe saw the fleeting expression of sadness cross the clone’s face before he was able to hide it. Gabriel cleared his throat, wondering if it might help his friend to talk; wondering if it might be disloyal to his other friend, who was the cause of Dev’s pain, to listen. Gabe sighed, halting just inside the door holding the laden tray, and his ever-sensitive buddy asked, “Is everything okay?” The conflicted young man blinked and then suddenly grinned. “Hey!” Gabe exclaimed with enthusiasm, “We have here a heaping tray full of primo Moroccan cuisine. What could possibly be wrong?” Devian responded with his own tentative grin. “Damn straight!” he replied, trying to match his friend’s excitement, “Bring on the couscous!” Gabe set the tray down on the bed, and passed Dev a napkin and a fork before he started to open the containers. Sensing sudden, hidden currents in the air, Gabriel froze with a half-removed lid gripped in his fingers. He glanced up to find Devian sitting still as a statue, his beautiful face tilted at a high, rigid angle as if he were listening to music that only he could hear. A frisson of unease skipped over Gabe’s nerve-endings. “What is it?” he asked the transfixed clone. Dev closed his eyes. His thick, black lashes rested like raven wings on snow-pale cheeks. “They’ve finished dinner,” he murmured. Gabriel frowned. “Yeah,” he responded, “So?”

Devian gave his head a tiny shake, barely a movement at all. He suddenly gasped and bent forward, his face contorting in an expression that hovered somewhere between passion and pain. Gabe shot to his feet, startled. “What the hell?” he asked, “Did you hurt your ribs? Are you having a relapse? What is it?” Both of the clone’s hands had clenched into fists. A thin line of blood emerged from beneath the tight fingers of his right hand where his nails had pierced the palm. Gabriel felt a feather brush of panic as he watched a bright drop of blood stain the bed cover. “Jesus!” he hissed, “What is it?” When Dev lifted his face, his wan cheeks were suddenly flushed with color. He opened eyes that were deep glowing amber and glazed. “I’m fine,” he croaked hoarsely. It was obviously difficult for him to speak. “Please,” he whispered, “I need to be alone. Could you leave me alone now. Please?”
Gabriel tilted his head, confused, trying to understand what was happening to his friend. “What about dinner?” he asked, “You haven’t eaten all day.” Devian sucked in another harsh gulp of air and shut his eyes again, his face crumpling. “Please, Gabe,” he gasped, “Go ahead and eat. I’m not hungry. Please. Just go now.” Gabriel desperately started slipping lids on containers and stacking them on the tray. All the while, his dark eyes kept sliding back to study the strained visage of his friend. As he quickly headed for the door with the heavy tray in his hands, Gabe mumbled, “I’ll get Immo. Hang on, buddy.” Dev’s voice, suddenly sharp as a whipcrack, stopped him: “NO!”

Gabriel stopped and turned back. “You need help,” he protested. Devian stiffly shook his shaggy head. “Immo can’t help me with this,” he grated, “No one can. I need to get myself through it; that’s all. Just leave me be. I’ll be okay. Please don’t tell anyone. Please. Promise me, Gabe.” Gabriel frowned. He didn’t feel right about leaving Dev alone with this. At that same time, he could sense Devian’s desperate desire for him to keep silent. Still feeling pulled in opposing directions, Gabriel acquiesced to his friend’s request. “Okay,” he agreed, “I promise that I won’t tell anyone; but I’m close by if you need me, Dev. You make me a promise. You’ll call me if I can help you with whatever this is. Do you promise?” A strong shudder visibly shook the clone’s long body. Head down, thick, wavy hair obscuring his face, Devian’s voice was a tight, husky whisper: “I promise. Goodnight, my friend.” His fine features drawn with worry, Gabe mumbled, “Night, buddy. I hope you feel better in the morning. Call me if you need me.” Juggling the heavy tray, he left Dev alone, awkwardly pulling the door shut behind him. Gabriel took the food back down to the kitchen where he spread it out on the table. After he had filled a plate, however, he just picked at the food listlessly, his appetite gone.

When Dr. Immo poked his gray head in the kitchen doorway, drawn from the laboratory by the rich smell of the Moroccan food, he found Gabriel hunched over a half-filled plate making designs in some rich sauce with his fork. The young man started when the doctor asked from directly behind him, “Is there more perhaps of whatever it is that smells so good?” Gabe looked up and pointed to the chair across from him. “There’s lots left, doc,” he replied, “I’m sure that we can find something here to make your taste buds happy.” Immo settled himself at the table, accepting the plate that Gabriel passed to him. The old man began lifting lids from containers and delicately sniffing the contents. He took a little from several selections to create a sparing but rich meal. Unlike Gabe, the doctor dove into his impromptu meal with considerable gusto. After several minutes of concentrated eating, he lifted his head to fix the younger man with discerning gray eyes. Head down and silent, Gabe still pushed food slowly around on his plate. “Is something troubling you, my boy?” Immo asked. Gabriel frowned, torn between the promise that he had made to Devian and his need to help his friend.

Gabriel finally settled on the time-honored method of describing the problems of an anonymous protagonist. “I have a friend,” he began, glancing piercingly at Immo and silently challenging him to speak. The doctor merely shrugged. “Go on,” he suggested mildly. Gabe worried his lower lip between his teeth and struggled for a moment with how to proceed. “My friend is suffering from something,” he explained softly, “He’s in pain, though I’m not sure that it’s strictly physical. I want to help him but I don’t know how and it bothers me.” He stopped, exhaling a long sigh before he added, “It bothers me a lot.” Dr. Immo nodded sagely. When no response was forthcoming, Gabe turned his head to look at the old man. “Well?” he asked pointedly. Immo paused with his fork halfway to his lips. He studied the younger man quizzically. “Well what?” the old man countered. Gabriel sighed again, this time with frustration. “What can I do to help him?” he asked. The doctor gave Gabe a sad, whimsical smile. “You have done all that you can for Devian, Mr. Bowman,” he offered, “There is only one person who can ease his pain and she will do what she will. You have done the best that you are able to do; that is to be his friend. In the greater struggle, in learning how to deal with life and love and their inherent disappointments, in these, the clone must find his own way; he must make his own compromises with the pain of accepting harsh realities. It is so with us all, is it not?”
Gabriel frowned, lost in thought, as he vaguely replied, “Call me ‘Gabriel’.”

Immo inclined his head, murmuring, “Thank you…Gabriel,” before he lowered his head to begin eating again. Gabe joined him, silently forking up the excellent Moroccan carryout. “It’s more than just that Sara still tends to treat him like shit,” he continued bluntly, “Although I imagine that her lack of regard for him could be somewhere at the heart of his pain. There’s also this other reaction – like an emotional mauling, a sensual beating – every time she spends the night with Ian. The drain of that is wearing him down more than the lashing that albino bastard gave him.” Immo nodded again. “The effect of the connection that the Witchblade has formed among them,” he said, “The boy is no fool. He senses how the Wielder responds to Ian and compares it with her response to him. It is not the same regardless of what she tells him.” They ate in companionable silence for a few more minutes. Soft, but unmistakable sounds of passion funneled upward from behind the closed basement door. The younger man sent a concerned glance toward the ceiling above him. His gesture was accompanied by a soft sound and Immo raised his eyes expectantly. “But they’re virtually the same,” Gabriel protested softly, at a loss, “Ian and Dev. Why wouldn’t she feel the same way about them both?” Immo shook his head, resting his fork on the side of his empty plate. He had finished. “That, my boy, is something that you would have to ask the Wielder,” he replied, “My life has been spent in the company of test tubes, not the female of the species. I freely confess that I do not understand them.”

While Ian and Sara made love in the basement of the safe house; Gabriel and Immo discussed love’s inequities in the kitchen; and Devian grappled with love’s pain alone upstairs; Vicki Po, soared above them all on the roof of the building. She had just come to the stunning realization that she had finally found the real thing. In the past, she had enjoyed the company of Jake McCarty, as she had a dozen men before him. She had, for a time, been infatuated with Devian. Since genuine love had knocked her upside the head, she finally recognized her obsession with Dev for what it was. Now that she had a basis for comparison, she could easily see the difference. Hector Mobius – the Black Dragon with a body that put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame and a voice sexier than Barry White – was the one for whom she had been waiting. He was, without a doubt, the real thing. She had spent the late morning and early afternoon in his company showing him her laboratory and talking about her work. Although he made no claim to a scientific background, he appeared neither bored nor confused by her explanations. Without flaunting his intellect, Moby had impressed her with both the range and depth of his knowledge. Using her work as a fulcrum, they had spent several pleasant hours getting to know each other better.

When Immo had brought Sara to the lab to do his testing, Vicki and Mobius had ceded the room to them to offer the Wielder some privacy. They had returned to the kitchen and talked some more, sitting across from each other at the table until Ian had poked his head in the room to let Mobius know that he was ready to leave. The two men had scheduled a series of meetings with various Notties to set in motion their plans for bringing down Kendall Irons and delivering him to the clutches of the shadow government. At that point, Moby had reluctantly said goodbye, extracting from Vicki a promise to join him for dinner that evening. She was to meet him again at seven on the roof of the building. The mesmerizing appeal of the big man was so great that she didn’t even question why she was to meet him on the roof or what they were going to do there. Since they had landed in this second safe house after Irons’ minions had captured Dev, she had not been curious enough to explore much beyond the lab, the kitchen, and the bed and bath that she had appropriated as her own. She had seen no need to traverse either pole of the house; both the basement and the roof remained a mystery. When the date was made, Vicki briefly wondered what revelation awaited her on the roof. A moment later, she knew that she didn’t care. If Mobius was waiting for her, it was more than enough incentive to lure her there.

Left to her own devices again, Vicki had given over the lab to Dr. Immo and had returned to her room to take a long, luxurious bath. She had spent another hour sifting through her fugitive’s wardrobe to try to pull together a fetching ensemble from the meager articles in her closet. By then, it was a little after six, so she just sat quietly trying to rein in her raging libido and jangled nerves. She was ridiculously excited at the prospect of seeing the charismatic Black Dragon again in less than an hour. After doing some deep breathing to try to calm down, Vicki dressed in simple black pants and a black, silk shirt that she had, at some point, borrowed from Sara. In an attempt to seem more exotic, she put big, gold hoops in her ears. When she studied herself in the still foggy bathroom mirror, she looked more like a dark, pixie child playing dress-up in mommy’s jewelry. Vicki sighed, but left the earrings where they were. What could someone like him possibly see in her, she wondered. Whatever it was, it escaped her. And, yet, it was a gift that she would gratefully accept. She just prayed that it was more than a passing interest and that he might want to stay with her for a while. In the next breath, she had to laugh at herself for that thought. Here she was already contemplating a future when they had just met. “Slow down, girl,” she cautioned herself, “Take it as it comes and be happy for each moment you get.”

At seven precisely, she climbed the dimly-lit stairway to the roof and pushed open the heavy door. In deference to the chilly night air, she had worn her coat. With a soft gasp of delight, she discovered that she didn’t need it. While Ian had been turning the basement into a seraglio from the Arabian Nights, Mobius had been constructing a gazebo on the roof. The enclosed structure took up a good portion of the flat top of the building. She imagined that it was built from prefabricated materials; still, it had taken considerable ingenuity and effort to create this unique setting for their rendezvous. Vicki was impressed. Although the gazebo was lighted, emitting a soft glow against the dark night, its walls were covered with curtains so that she couldn’t see the interior from where she stood. Feeling just the slightest touch of the absurd – crossing the roof of a brownstone in a dense urban neighborhood to reach a structure that belonged in the lush garden of some weekend estate in the Hamptons – Vicki went to the closed door of the gazebo and knocked politely. “Who is there?” came the response in that familiar rich baritone. Vicki grinned, appreciating his sense of whimsy. She replied in kind. “It’s Alice,” she said, “This is Wonderland. Right?”

The door opened and Moby’s very tall silhouette was backlit in the glow of many candles. The lush fragrance of fresh flowers teased her nostrils. It again struck Vicki that he had gone to a ridiculous amount of trouble to make this special for her. It didn’t matter that he had already won her over before he had lit the first candle or arranged the first orchid; that he was preaching to the choir, his effort to give her magic touched her soul in ways that were new to her. She suddenly felt incredibly special. He stretched out a large hand to help her over a high step into what was essentially a single, large room. As Moby removed her coat, Vicki studied her surroundings with awed appreciation. Many of the furnishings within the gazebo were actually similar to what Sara had found decorating Ian’s desert fantasy in the basement.
Pressed for time, the two Black Dragons had collaborated in creating the settings for their separate fantasy dates with their ladies. The interior of the gazebo was shrouded in gauzy silk drapes. The floor was covered with rugs and pillows for comfortable reclining. A low table, set with steaming dishes of Moroccan carryout was a virtual duplicate for what Ian was serving to Sara at the other extremity of the building. The overall effect was as devastating on the roof as it was in the basement. Vicki was enthralled.

They had a relaxed, lovely dinner. While Sara and Ian had cider in deference to her pregnancy, Vicki and Mobius drank champagne. By the baklava, she was slightly tipsy. When he rose fluidly from their mound of pillows to cross to a sideboard against the wall for coffee, Vicki watched him with avid, dark eyes before she lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle giggles. He turned, cups in hands, and squinted down at her. It was difficult to discern her expression in the flickering candlelight. Moby returned, dropping back down on to the pillows and handing her one of the coffee cups. He tilted his shining pate and asked, “What is it that amuses you, Po?” Vicki took a sip of coffee and struggled to rein in her errant fit of mirth. Like Ian, Mobius had opted for exotic dress for a bit more drama. While Nottingham had indulged his fascination with Valentino’s sheik, Mobius had settled on a long, loose Moroccan robe in white that offered a startling contrast against his rich, chocolate skin tones. The complete incongruity of where they really were had just suddenly struck Vicki again. That, combined with the effect of too much excellent champagne, initiated her inopportune bout of giggles. Now, she shook her head. The large, golden hoops bounced against her wildly disarrayed dark curls, sparkling in the glow of the candles. “It’s just hard to believe that we’re still in the safe house,” she explained, “I feel like I’ve been transported to some strange, vaguely Middle Eastern resort.”

Ever the scientist, Vicki suddenly frowned and squinted at the dark corners of the large room. “How are you heating this place anyway?” she asked. The temperature in the room was quite comfortable and the weather forecast when last she’d heard it had threatened the first snow of the season. Mobius smiled. There was a devastatingly sensual twist to his lips and warmth in his dark gaze that took her breath away. He reached over to lift the empty coffee cup from her nerveless fingers. After setting it down, he bent forward to slant his warm lips across hers in a brief, tantalizing promise of deeper delights to come. When he pulled back slightly, he rumbled, in that throaty purr, “I am heating it with my intentions, Po. I trust that I have not made you too warm. Do I need to turn down the temperature a bit?” Vicki graced him with a singularly seductive smile of her own. Her own darkly smoldering eyes locking with his, she replied, “Actually, it’s still a touch too cool in here for my taste. You might want to crank the heat up a notch.” He laughed – a sexy chuckle that made the muscles low in her belly quiver – and set his own cup down on the table. Eying her speculatively, he moved in.
His weight gently carried her backward into the mounded pillows as his mouth bore down on hers. This time, both lips and tongue were engaged and all remaining coherent thoughts in Vicki’s head evaporated in the cloud of steam that seemed to visibly rise between them.

Even after he released her lips to catch his breath, Vicki continued to cling to him, eyes shut, her fingers clutching the thick muscles of his broad shoulders. She was panting as if she had just run a mile. When her eyelids lifted, she found herself looking directly into eyes that glowed like hot, dark embers. A glint of humor joined the passion that she saw there. “Any warmer?” he asked. She laughed again, this time at herself; a weak, breathy giggle. Vicki nodded and confessed, “I think the soles of my shoes may have melted.” Mobius flashed back his killer grin. “Then why not simply kick them off?” he suggested, the essence of practicality. She did; then wiggled her toes luxuriously against the fake fur throw beneath them, grateful that she had decided against pantyhose. She grew even happier with that decision when Moby drew her bare foot between his large, warm hands and began to massage it. Vicki groaned softly with pleasure as he gave his full attention to manipulating first one small bare foot and then the other. When he finally released her limp appendage, she sighed and begged, “Don’t stop!” Mobius tilted his head, lifting one dark brow. “This is where things get truly interesting, Po,” he pointed out, “What would you have me massage now?” She dropped her head, not wanting to appear too bold. Her fingers stroked the golden hoop in her ear nervously.

His fingers closed over hers to stop her fidgeting. When Vicki went quiet and lifted her head, Moby added, “There is no need for coyness. I am able to appreciate a woman who knows what she wants and pursues it.” She pulled in a long, steadying breath. “I’m going to take you at your word, Big Boy,” she decided, “I know that this probably seems wanton. I know that propriety suggests that I wait until we know each other better; but simple existence has been so precarious for so long. I think that I’d rather throw convention to the wind and do as you suggest; ask for what I want when I see it before me. Who knows where we’ll all be tomorrow, let alone next week.” The silence grew between them then until Moby smiled and pointed out, “You still have not said what it is that you want, Po.” She blushed attractively and shrugged. “I would have thought that would have been self-evident,” she replied, “I want you.” His large hand drew slowly up her side from her ankle to her chin, leaving slow shivers in its wake. Gripping her face gently, he tipped it upward. “And I want you, beautiful Po,” he responded in a husky growl, “Badly.” Her stomach fluttered. “Oh my,” she breathed, eyes wide, “Then, take me.” His rich, chocolate eyes sparkled with a very masculine appreciation for the charms of the small woman before him. Giving her that slow smile, he reached out long, callused fingers and began to unbutton Sara’s borrowed silk shirt.

The house was dead silent when Devian appeared in the kitchen the following morning. Everyone else was still asleep; at least, he assumed that they were. He had had another bad night of fitful sleep plagued by turbulent dreams and solitary anxiety in the wee hours of the morning. It was barely 6:00 A.M. and, unable to stand being confined to his sick room any longer, Dev had decided to come downstairs while no one was awake to stop him. He needed to do something useful. His enforced inactivity had given him too much time to think and he had fallen prey to the dark thoughts that invaded his convalescent musings. He was sick to death of his own company. Moved by a sudden need to connect with Sara in any way that he could, the clone had ventured downstairs to make her morning pot of decaf for her. He didn’t do it to elicit a response; he expected to be safely in his room before she showed up for her requisite morning cuppa. Dev just needed to connect with her in some way; to do something that she would value, even though she would never know that he had done it. It suddenly occurred to him that, if she knew that he had made the coffee for her, she might not want it any longer. That thought prompted another wave of black depression. He sighed deeply and tried to shrug it off, busying himself with the mundane mechanics of making the coffee.

He was lounging against the counter, eyes fixed on the nearly full pot in the coffeemaker, when a slight click made him whirl around. He hissed softly, his hand reflexively moving to support his bound ribs as the sudden movement put a strain on the still tender area. Tawny eyes widened and his long body tensed when he saw Sara standing frozen just inside the kitchen, her hand still clutching the knob of the basement door that she had shut behind her. The look in her startled green eyes said that he was the last person she had expected to see and that the surprise was not a pleasant one. The clone blinked rapidly and dropped his eyes. He cleared his throat nervously, sensing her discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not really sure why he was apologizing but feeling like it was required, “I was just on my way back to my room.” His eyes were still fixed on the floor and the lack of contact allowed Sara to edge her way to the table. She sat down carefully. “You shouldn’t be up,” she accused softly. He nodded, accepting the slight rebuke as his due and headed toward the door into the living room. She glanced from the full coffeepot to his broad back, badly disfigured now with its intricate design of barely healed scar tissue, as he prepared to leave the room. Her nails clicked against the table as she clutched it convulsively. “Dev, wait!” she called.

Devian stopped in the doorway, his back still to her. He turned and tilted his head curiously. “Why?” he asked. Sara studied the clone. He wore only the pants of the black, silk pajamas that Ian had left with him. They rode very low on his hips because he was thinner than Ian; too thin, she thought. And the dark circles under his eyes were quite pronounced. His chest and abs were still swathed in a cocoon of white gauze and he was using his left hand awkwardly, disabled by its splints and bandages. All in all, he was a mess – but a stunning one. Even banged up like this, the clone was gorgeous. He had pulled his dark curls back in a tight tail, accentuating the now prominent bone structure of his gaunt face. A tiny gold ball sparkled in his right ear, while a little golden hoop caught the light where it pierced his left lobe. Ian was, of course, just as beautiful as the clone, but Devian had a wild, dangerous, indefinable quality to his beauty that was distinctive. It was a primary element of the allure that had struck such a strong, sexual chord with her. She was discomfited to realize that it still did. Sara shifted a little in her chair and said, “Sit down with me for a minute.”
He glanced at the full coffeepot and asked, “Want some coffee?” She nodded. Dev poured them both a mug, placed hers by her hand being careful not to touch, and then sat across from her at the table. He stayed silent, head lowered; all she could see clearly were thick lashes, high cheekbones, and tightly-drawn, chocolate-streaked curls. His long fingers had a death grip on the full mug in front of him. Sara shook her head, trying to clear it, and took a big sip of coffee. It was strong, rich, and hot, giving her a psychological jolt and, conversely, settling her. She sighed and, when she did, the clone’s long frame went just a bit more rigid. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a dull knife. “Hey, Sparky,” she said. The wide, tawny eyes lifted warily. “Yeah?” he replied. She frowned, reaching across the table to brush his fingers with hers. He wasn’t looking at her again and, when she touched him, it was unexpected and he flinched.
She pulled her hand back immediately. His fingers started to follow hers; then, he caught himself and stopped the gesture. Sara pushed her hand through her mussed, morning hair. She shook her head again, not really understanding why it was so difficult for them to talk to each other. “Why is this so awkward?” she asked. His shoulder hitched but he still didn’t look up to meet her eyes. “I don’t know,” he lied. He wasn’t ready to deal with the answer to that question.

Sara decided to dive right in. “Was last night hard for you?” she asked. They both knew that she was referring to the connection. Dev’s shoulder twitched but he still didn’t look at her. “What do you want me to say?” he murmured. She frowned, the usual annoyance starting to kick in. “The truth,” she replied, a sharp edge in her tone. Now, his eyes lifted, dark amber and wounded. “Yes,” he responded simply. She didn’t feel any accusation from the clone, however, and that puzzled her. She would have thought that he would want her to be mired in guilt for bringing him more pain. Devian took another sip of coffee while he gathered his thoughts. When he had it under control, he again raised shining eyes that were brimming with complex emotions. “We’re in a difficult situation, Sara,” he said softly, “There are no easy answers and, in the end, somebody is probably going to get hurt. I’m not a fool. I understand that.” She nodded. They both knew who was likely to be the damaged party in their trio of lovers, though neither of them acknowledged it out loud. She saw him draw in a quick, hard breath before he continued, “I won’t force myself on you when you stop wanting me.” She noticed that he had said “when,” not “if.” She felt the pause and prompted, “But?” He pulled in another deep breath that looked like it hurt before he growled, “But I won’t give up my daughter to Ian to raise. I want her to know that I’m her father. I want to take an active role in her life even if her mother has cut me loose. Do you understand that?”

From across the room, a deep voice responded, “Yes, of course. We both understand that. We would never try to take your daughter away from you.” Their heads swiveled toward the open basement door. Typically, neither of them had heard Ian enter the room. Dev blinked and nodded, accepting his brother’s assurance as a promise. The clone stood awkwardly, ready to leave them alone together; automatically assuming that he no longer had a place in the room. Ian stopped him, calling “Dev, wait.” The clone stopped a step away from his chair, looking at Ian with a raised brow in a carefully blank face. Ian waived his hand at the chair his brother had just vacated. “Sit down,” Ian suggested, “Would you like more coffee?” Devian frowned, wondering what was coming now; but he sat back down in the chair he had just left and nodded. The image of congeniality, Ian poured fresh coffee for them all. She watched Ian as he took a seat with them at the table. She, too, wondered where this was going. He turned to Sara and grinned before he said, “There’s some leftover baklava. Want me to get it?” She shook her head and responded, “Maybe later.” Ian gathered his thoughts as the other two studied him expectantly. This conversation was long overdue.

Ian turned to Devian. “Am I reading you wrong or have you given up?” he asked the clone. Dev immediately bristled, pulling himself up in the chair. The sudden movement obviously caused him pain, which took some of the aggression right back out of him. “The choice wasn’t mine,” Dev hissed softly, “My feelings haven’t changed. Talk to the Wielder.” Ian tilted his head; golden eyes challenged eerily identical golden eyes. “I’ll talk to Sara in a moment,” Ian countered, “Right now I’m talking to you, Dev. Have you given up?” The clone’s shoulders slumped in defeat and his head dropped again. “No,” he mumbled, “I haven’t given up. I can’t. I’m too much in love with her to ever let go that easily. But I can see it coming. I sense what she feels for you and I sense what she feels for me. I can tell the difference.” He shivered, adding softly, “I don’t want to talk about this any more. What’s the point? It changes nothing.” Ian made a soft sound that brought Dev’s head back up. “You can call it what you want,” Ian disputed, “But it certainly sounds to me like you’ve given up.” The clone visibly pulled himself together; his expression hardening as he folded his hands into tight fists on the table. “Fuck you, Ian,” he grated, “It’s easy to make bland pronouncements like that when you’ve won the prize, but you don’t know shit about what I feel.”

Ian didn’t take offense. He smiled. “You’re wrong,” he replied, “In point of fact, I know exactly what you are feeling.” Dev made a rude sound that effectively indicated what he thought of that statement. Having managed to hold her piece with admirable restraint up to this point, Sara could keep quiet no longer. “I’m not a goddamn prize,” she growled, “The Nottingham perspective had better undergo a reality adjustment here or both of you are going to be sleeping alone.” Ian reached across the table to gently squeeze her hand. “Sorry, love,” he apologized. But Devian just shrugged, still not meeting her eyes. “No skin off my nose,” he mumbled, “It’s an empty threat to warn me that you’ll take away from me what I’ve never really had.” She squinted at the clone, green eyes flinty and dangerous. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
Devian shook his head, pulling back, shutting down. He realized that he might have gone too far. “Forget it,” he backpedaled. Sara leaned forward aggressively. “Not a chance,” she barked, “I want to know what you meant by that statement, Sparky. Now!” Dev sighed and lifted his head to look at her directly. “Okay,” he shot back, “You asked for it. I’m not sure that you ever made love to me, Sara; not once. I made love to you. You fucked me.” Ian winced, his head turning to look from one of them to the other. “That’s pretty harsh,” Ian observed, finally fixing his gaze on Devian. The clone shrugged. “That’s pretty honest,” he responded.

“You’re full of shit, Dev,” Sara challenged. Before the clone could answer, Ian said, “Then prove him wrong.” There was a brief, charged pause. Ian had their full attention now. Sara studied her lover, shocked. “What?” she asked Ian. He reached across the table to take her hand again. “Prove to him that it’s more than lust,” Ian clarified, “We were going to share our bed with him, our love with him, before he got hurt. Am I the only one of us that still feels driven to do that?” Devian cleared his throat self-consciously. Now, the other two turned to look at him. “No,” he said, “You’re not. I feel it too.” Ian narrowed his eyes, studying his brother curiously. “You haven’t been very vocal about it,” he pointed out, “Why not?” Dev’s expression finally relaxed a bit. He chuckled, amused. Waving a negligent hand, the clone replied, “Even I question my motives in wanting to be welcomed freely into Sara’s bed, with or without you along for the ride, Ian. If it is instigated by more than my need for her love, where’s the impetus coming from – the Witchblade?” Ian shrugged. “The thought had crossed my mind,” he agreed. Sara held up both hands and interjected a loud, “Whoa! Back up there just a minute, ace. What are you saying? The Blade wants us to have a ménage a trios now?” Looking back at her, Ian shrugged again.

“Why?” Sara asked. Ian shook his head. “Why has any of this happened” he countered, “The Witchblade’s reasons are Its own. We can’t begin to fathom Its motives unless we take a chance and act.” Sara shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand any of this,” she murmured, before she turned to Ian to add, “I’ve sensed the jealousy that you feel, Ian. I can’t believe that you’re pushing for this. Is it really what you want?” He reached across the table to take her hand again. “This is bigger than my jealousy, Sara,” he replied, “Or your misgivings; or Dev’s pain. There may be something at stake here that will impact the future of the babies; maybe even the future of us all.” She frowned and opened her mouth to speak but both of them turned at the soft gasp from the other side of the table. “Babies?” Devian asked, “As in plural?” Ian smiled and nodded. “Your daughter, the Wielder,” he explained, “And my son, her Protector.” Dev looked flummoxed. “Well, shit,” he murmured. They both studied the shocked clone for a moment before Sara snorted. “Yeah,” she agreed sourly, “The Witchblade has taken a page from the joke book of that famous genetic comedy team Immo and Irons. It’s gone into the business of creating its own dynasty and I’m, apparently, the incubator.”

The clone lounged back in his chair, his long body slanted at a rakish angle as he watched Sara from glittering eyes. “Maybe we’re looking at this in the wrong way,” he suggested with a wicked glint in his those tawny orbs, “This doesn’t have to be an ordeal. There’s no reason that it can’t be fun; highly enjoyable, in fact.” She turned to him, her own green gaze narrowed dangerously but, when their eyes locked, her thoughts suddenly turned traitor. One carnal image after another ran languorously across her mind’s eye. She saw herself bent over the desk in the Observatory with the clone draped over her back, ramming himself into her. That image was followed by a picture of her poised precariously on a bathroom vanity while Devian pumped into her from the opposite angle. Heat rising in her cheeks, she abruptly shut down the projector. But not before the clone’s knowing eyes had divined her thoughts. He gave her that lazy, sexy smile that made her short hairs curl. Her color deepened. Then, as she watched, his expressive, golden eyes gradually grew first thoughtful, and then sad. Sara cleared her throat as she came to a decision. “Alright,” she capitulated, “I can’t fight you both. I’ll give it a try. But if nothing happens, if there are no stunning revelations forthcoming, then that’s the end of it. Agreed?” There was a moment of silence before both Nottinghams responded simultaneously, “Agreed.”