"Blood Seduction"

Ringing; loud ringing in his ears. “I stopped that damn noise once before,” Ian thought crankily, stretching out his hand blindly, eyes still shut. His questing fingers connected with the clock to find the alarm button already pushed down. The ringing continued. Ian grunted and blearily opened his eyes. It must be the phone. His eyes dropped to Sara, who hadn’t woken but had pulled the pillow half over her head to escape the intrusive sound. His lips curved as he made a grab for the ringing phone on the bedside table. He blinked when he realized that it wasn’t there. The ringing continued. Ian experienced a strong desire to strangle the persistent caller. The phone must have been knocked off the table during their early morning struggles with the Witchblade. “Shit,” he cursed roundly, clambering across Sara to dig around on the floor below her side of the bed. His hand finally connected with the offensive instrument, which he felt vibrating against his fingers. Still leaning across the sleeping Wielder, Ian flipped open the ringing cell phone and raised it to his ear. He barked, “What?” Annoyance was blatantly obvious in his gruff voice. Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line.

Ian was not amused. “Who the fuck is this and what the hell do you want?” he growled rudely, still not fully awake and already feeling a doozy of a headache coming on. This was his personal cell phone, not the number that Irons used. There was a brief pause and then an equally annoyed voice asked, “Nottingham?” Ian blinked again, his head really starting to hurt now. “Detective Woo,” Ian answered, recognizing the voice, “How did you get this number?” Danny completely ignored the question to ask, “Is Sara with you?” Ian’s eyes automatically fell to his naked, sleeping lover, who was draped seductively across his legs. He shut his eyes, trying to focus the thoughts scattered by the throbbing in his head. Sara probably wouldn’t want her partner to know that they were together, he decided. “Why?” he stalled, “Is she missing?” A sound suspiciously like a disgusted snort traveled across the wire. “Put her on the phone, Nottingham,” Danny demanded, “Now.” Ian sighed, rubbing his forehead with his other hand. If he didn’t put Sara on the phone, Ian thought, her partner would probably be on his way to the loft before she could even get out of bed. “Hang on a minute,” he said into the phone. As Danny started to protest, Ian dropped the phone among the sheets.

Ian shifted on the bed to lie down beside her again. He lifted the pillow now fully covering her head. Stretching out two long fingers, he pushed her hair back from her forehead and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss between her closed eyes. She responded with a soft, sleepy sigh, before she mumbled, “Go away.” He smiled and moved his hand to her bare shoulder, rubbing it sensually. “I can’t, love,” he said, “I’m sorry. Your partner is on the phone and he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” That got her attention. One green eye opened halfway. “Danny?” she asked hoarsely. Ian looked back at her and nodded. “That’s the one,” he agreed. She let out a muffled groan and struggled to a sitting position, pulling the sheet up with her. “What time is it?” she asked. Ian glanced at the clock. His eyes went wide. He picked up the phone and tossed it to her, vaulting off the bed and heading for the bathroom. “It’s ten thirty,” he called back over his shoulder. Now, Sara’s eyes went wide too. “Oh shit,” she murmured, picking up the discarded instrument. She cleared her throat, raising the phone to her ear. “Danny?” she said. She pulled the phone away from her ear and winced as he bellowed, “Where the hell are you, Pez? What the hell is going on?” Just that quickly, Sara decided that she was not up to this today. She needed a breather.

Feeling only slightly guilty for tiptoeing around the truth, Sara moaned, “Could you lower the decibel level a notch please, partner? I’m not feeling very well. I got really sick last night – food poisoning, I think. I was exhausted when I finally fell asleep. I guess I overslept this morning.” Danny responded with another skeptical snort. “Did Nottingham get sick too?” he asked. She suddenly heard the shower turn on full blast. A vivid image of naked, wet Ian filled her mind. She hoped her voice was under control when she replied, “Ian took care of me. He was up late too. Neither one of us heard the alarm this morning. I’m still pretty shaky and need a sick day. Can you manage without me today, do you think?” Now, she heard the first hint of genuine concern in his voice. Sara never took a sick day. She even came in when she was miserable with a raging head cold, giving it to everyone around her. “Are you okay, Pez?” he asked, “Do you need me to take you to the doctor or the ER?” Whoa, she thought, now he was headed too far in the other direction. “Nah,” she said, voice weak, “I just feel like shit; nothing life-threatening. I’ll be back on the job tomorrow.” She felt his hesitation. “Are you sure?” he asked suspiciously, “How is Nottingham involved in all this?” Sara smiled wryly. “Now there’s a good question,” she thought. Aloud, she replied, “Like I said, he took care of me. He overslept and is late for work too.” Danny made a rude sound. “Yeah, well his boss doesn’t look like he’d be as understanding of such lapses as we are around here,” he replied.

Sara frowned. Her partner had a point. Irons was hardly the soul of patience. Why hadn’t they heard from him? Why hadn’t he been on the phone rattling Ian’s cage at one minute past eight? That thought fled from her mind when Ian came out of the bathroom wrapped in a cloud of steam and a skimpy towel. “Uh,” Sara said, mind suddenly sluggish, “I have to go, Dan. I’ll be back in tomorrow. Thanks for the concern. Bye.” She heard Danny protesting when she pushed the button to disconnect the call. Ian hadn’t even glanced at her. He was busy drying his hair with another towel and she could tell that he was distracted. Sara licked her lips. “Hey, hot stuff,” she growled, “Come over here.” Ian stopped dead, his hand midway to the bureau drawer. He turned back to look at her, head cocked, a sexy little smile teasing the corners of his lips. “I don’t have time for this now, love,” he said, “I was due at the mansion two and a half hours ago. I have never been late for a meeting with my master before. I would love to come and play with you but I can’t. It’s already too late but delaying even more would make things worse.” Sara frowned, worried now. “What will he do to you?” she asked, her fears from the previous night reignited. Ian shook his head as he pulled some assassin’s drag from the drawer and headed toward the closet. “I do not know,” he responded glumly as he pulled out clothing and started to dress. They were both vividly aware that, whatever it was, it would not be pleasant.

Another phone began ringing elsewhere in the loft. Sara lifted her head and said, “Where?” Ian was already moving. He vaulted off of the sleeping platform and landed running. “It’s my line to Mr. Irons,” he called back, “The cell on the hall table.” Sara tried to keep her expression neutral. “Sure,” she thought, “Bastard is listening to everything that we say, watching everything that we do. He had to join in the conversation. Miserable old perv!” Best not to let her mind move in that direction. Sara wasn’t sure that she could hide her revulsion for Ian’s employer. She figured that it obviously covered her like an ill-fitting second skin. “Time for a shower,” she thought, heading for the bathroom, wishing she had a mug of coffee to take with her. Just as she reached the doorway, she heard him whisper her name. Sara turned as Ian slid a full mug of steaming coffee toward her across the floor. The phone was to his ear and he was apparently listening to instructions. Sara bent to pick up the mug; not a drop of coffee had spilled. She straightened up, mug in hand. Their eyes met and she gave him a big smile, which he returned. She blew him a kiss as she disappeared into the bathroom for her shower. Ian lifted his free hand to catch the kiss, still smiling.

“Oh, you kids,” Irons observed sourly into the phone. Ian’s smile abruptly faded. He stifled a sigh and reluctantly brought his attention back to the conversation he had been having with Irons. Ian reviewed what had been said. His master was in a good mood, having witnessed their Iunctura. Irons’ connection to the Witchblade, broken since the showdown at Talismaniac, had suddenly been reactivated. The enigmatic Object of Power had alerted his master that the Wielder had chosen her mate. Then, It had once again broken the connection to Kenneth Irons. What did it mean? Ian absently rubbed his forehead. His head was pounding. There were questions wrapped in mysteries. Why had the Witchblade made his master party to his ritual joining with Sara? Ian hated that Irons had watched them. It sullied the experience somehow. He knew that he had to let that feeling go because he didn’t want to transmit it to Sara. Let her think that they had only shared it with each other. Ian blinked. His master had said something to him and he had missed it, his mind rambling. Ian cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir,” he murmured, “What did you just say?”

Annoyance was evident in his master’s cultured tones. “I said: ‘There’s no need for you to come to the mansion today; stay with the Wielder.’ Enjoy each other. I’ve sent someone to pick up the blood. He should be there at any moment.” Ian frowned. “Sara will be going in to work,” Ian replied. Irons laughed slyly, enjoying himself. “I think not, my boy,” he said, “She told her partner that she was taking the day off.” Ian glanced back at the closed bathroom door, surprised. “I see,” he responded. Irons sighed. “Do you, Ian?” he asked. Ian frowned, sick of his master and tired of this pointless conversation. “Excuse me, sir?” he needled Irons. Kenneth sighed loudly. “Never mind,” he hissed, “Come in tomorrow. I want Immo to test your blood. I want confirmation that you now carry the Witchblade in your DNA. Do you understand?” Ian stifled the snide response that wanted to escape him. Instead, he agreed blandly, “Yes, sir.” The buzzer sounded. “Very well,” Irons said, “Give Stephens the Wielder’s blood. I’ll see you in the morning.” The line went dead. Ian gave the phone a disgusted look and dropped it on the hall table as if it were a serpent. He pressed the button for the front door intercom and asked, “Stephens?” A muffled voice replied, “Yeah. What floor?” Ian pressed the release for the front door and said, “Top.”

Ian went to get the vial of Sara’s blood from the refrigerator. He was leaning in the open doorway, holding Hannibal back with one hand, when a stocky older man trudged puffing up the stairs. Stephens stopped on the top step, eyeing Hannibal warily. “Big dog,” he said softly. Ian’s lips twitched. He held out the small glass container and said, “He won’t hurt you. He’s a pushover. Here you are.” The man edged forward, his eyes never leaving the Rottie. He stretched his arm out full length to take the vial from Ian. Smile blooming into a grin, Ian grabbed Hannibal’s collar as the dog made an aborted attempt to lunge through the door at the intruder. Stephens loosed a little shriek, grabbed the vial, and flew back toward the stairs. Ian shrugged negligently as he manhandled Hannibal back into the loft. “Sorry,” he called at the retreating back of the terrified minion. Ian was laughing softly as he got the big dog a treat. “Want to go for a walk, boy?” he asked Hannibal. Hannibal tried to turn himself inside out to show how much he liked that idea. Ian leashed the dog and grabbed his jacket, casting one quick glance at the closed bathroom door. Sara was still in the shower. He briefly considered knocking on the door to let her know he was taking Hannibal for a walk but decided not to bother her. He’d probably be back before she came out.

When Sara came out of the bathroom, she immediately knew that she was alone in the loft – except for Clarice, that is. The Siamese was stretched full length on the bed, languidly licking an elegant paw. “Hannibal?” she called. There was no sound of nails frantically clicking across the hardwood floor. The dog was gone. “Okay,” she thought, “Ian must have taken him for his walk.” She wrapped her wet hair in a towel and went to the bureau to borrow one of Ian’s tee shirts. She pulled a black tee shirt from the drawer and shook it out. It had a photo of John Cleese twisted in an absurd position and the words “Ministry of Silly Walks” printed in white across the top. Sara grinned and pulled it over her head. It dropped down to hit her mid-thigh. She climbed down the ladder from the sleeping platform and headed to the kitchen to get more coffee. As she put the empty coffeepot in the sink after refilling her mug, Sara heard the front door open and shut, followed by the click of Hannibal’s nails on the floor. He shot into the kitchen to say hello like a furry missile. She put her mug on the counter and dropped down to hug the big dog, who licked her wherever he could find bare skin. His fur smelled clean and fresh from his walk outside. Sara looked up to lock eyes with Hannibal’s master. He grinned at her, dropping a large pastry box on the counter. “That shirt looks much better on you than it ever did on me,” he observed.

Sara picked up her mug and took a healthy sip. “What’s in the box?” she asked. The wide golden cat eyes sparkled. “Goodies,” he tempted. She moved closer, her finger playing with the string tying down the lid. “Oh yeah?” she said, “What kind of goodies?” He chuckled. “The best kind,” he replied. Her fingers moved past the pastry box to slide down the back of his hand. “Are you on your way out?” she asked. He shook his head. “I got a reprieve,” he explained, “I don’t have to go to the mansion until tomorrow.” Her eyes widened. “Really?” she said, “How come?” He shrugged and asked, “Work?” She shrugged now too. “I decided that I needed a mental health day,” she said, “I took the day off.” Ian gave her a devastating smile and her stomach did a subtle flip. “Looks like it’s just you and me and the pastries,” he purred. She nodded, agreeing, “Looks that way.” After studying him more carefully, she observed, “You have way too many clothes on. Want a cup of tea?” He tilted his head to the side and answered, “I’d love some tea. Thanks.” She touched his hand again, running her nails across the scratches that she had put there the night before, then shifted to turn the heat on under the kettle. “Want me to make more coffee?” he asked. She nodded again, then watched him as he got the empty pot from the sink and set about brewing a fresh pot of coffee for her.

As Ian finished, putting the pot back in the coffeemaker, Sara came up behind him. She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her front to his back. He stood still and shut his eyes as she pressed her lips against the back of his ear. “You’re a bad influence on me,” she said softly, “I told Danny that I was sick so that I could stay home today, hoping that you could come back early from the mansion. I’ve never blown off work before.” He opened his eyes and turned to face her, lifting his own arms to press her tightly against him. He dropped his head to lick the tip of her ear and whisper, “You’re a bad influence on me as well. I almost told my master to go fuck himself.” She gave a delighted, startled snort and whispered, “You didn’t!” He pulled back to look down at her, nodding solemnly, golden eyes dancing with devilish light. Sara lifted her hand to push a stray chocolate curl back behind his ear. “How come you didn’t have to go there?” she asked curiously. She knew how hot Irons was to get the blood Ian had taken from her. The teasing glint disappeared from his eyes as if a switch had been thrown and his mind went into overdrive. Although Ian hated to let Sara know that Irons had witnessed their joining, which was the reason for his change of heart, he had given her his word not to lie to her again. He knew exactly how she would react to that news. It would diminish the experience for her to know that his master had watched them. Ian struggled for a moment more, in a quandary. He sighed and came to a decision. He had given her his word.

“The Witchblade renewed its connection to my master just long enough to give him a taste of what was happening between us,” Ian said, studying her carefully. Sara’s eyes flashed and she pulled herself roughly from his embrace. “What?” she barked. Without uttering a sound, he tried to warn her to be careful of what she said. She got the message. Sara pulled in a deep breath, trying to get herself back under control. At the moment, even more than usual, she wanted to disembowel Kenneth Irons with a rusty spoon. She felt Ian’s appreciative commiseration with the sentiment. Within her, she sensed his gentle stroke of regret that their very special and private mating could not have been kept just between them. This new, intimate contact that reached spirit to spirit, mind to mind, startled them both. They stared at each other, wide eyed. “Wow,” she said, awed. A fleeting smile touched the corners of Ian’s lips. “Wow indeed,” he replied. The kettle let out a piercing whistle and they both jumped. With almost inhuman speed, his hand shot over to turn off the heat. His eyes never left hers. Sara cleared her throat. “So,” she said carefully, “Irons knows that the Witchblade has linked us, connected us blood to blood.” She had studiously avoided any allusion to sight or sound. She had to be wary about giving Irons any hint that she knew about the viewing and listening devices secreted everywhere. She had to let him think that she assumed his knowledge of the Iunctura had been purely mystic.

Ian nodded. “Something like that,” he agreed. Sara frowned as another thought occurred to her. “What’s the Blade up to?” she wondered, “Why would it relink to Irons like that? What’s Its purpose?” Ian turned to refill her mug with fresh coffee. “Good questions,” he murmured, “To which I have no answers. It’s very troubling.” He handed her the coffee and turned to pour his tea. She suddenly remembered something. “Who was at the door?” she asked, “I heard the buzzer when I was in the shower?” Ian picked up the pastry box and his tea. “Let’s go into the Library,” he said, heading in that direction. Holding her coffee and grabbing some napkins, she followed him. Hannibal trailed after them both like a big, furry shadow. When they got there, Sara curled up in one of the big chairs and Ian dropped the pastry box to the table beside her. While he built up the fire, she unknotted the string securing the box and dove into the contents. By the time he rose from his haunches, a blazing fire going in the hearth, Sara’s mouth was stuffed full of cheese Danish. Ian grinned and stretched out one long finger to wipe a tiny gob of cream from the corner of her lip. He lifted the finger to his mouth and licked it clean. She stopped breathing for a moment feeling that now familiar erotic clench in her gut. He cleared his throat and reached into the pastry box for a croissant. She observed his choice and said, “Boring.” Still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he shot back, “Simple. Basic.”

Ian settled into the chair opposite her and nibbled at his croissant. Sara lifted the Pezzini eyebrow. He hadn’t answered her question. Ian nodded. He hadn’t forgotten. “Considering what he had been shown by the Witchblade, Mr. Irons excused my absence from our arranged meeting,” he explained, “He decided to allow us to sleep in and sent a messenger for the material we were planning to discuss when he assumed we would be awake.” So, Sara thought, Irons had sent a messenger to pick up the blood. “How considerate of him,” she observed dryly. The hint of a wry chuckle whispered through her mind, followed by his soft, psychic admonition, “He’s listening. Be nice.” She studied her lover with a bemused smile. He was quickly mastering this new form of communication. Aloud, he purred, “We have a whole day to ourselves now, to spend together.” She ogled the clean lines of his long legs, stretched out straight in front of him and crossed at the ankles. “Whatever will we do with all that free time?” she wondered. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he observed her over the rim of his teacup. “Why don’t we go out?” he suggested, “Have lunch, visit a museum. Make a day of it.” She nodded, catching his drift. Get away from the cameras and microphones, she thought. “Good idea,” she said, “I’m game,” mentally adding, “But I want to visit a motel instead of a museum, pal.”

Sara’s eyes narrowed. Oh yeah, he was getting way too good at reading her. Ian had quite obviously picked up her preferred choice of venues for their busman’s holiday. He was now devouring her with hungry eyes and a deliciously wicked, sexy as hell, grin. Ian was as eager as she was to have time with his lady beyond the reach of Big Brother. And, while she slept after they made love, he would still have time to plan the assault on the mansion and the destruction of the clones that had to be done the following day. It would now be more dangerous to stick to his schedule because Irons wanted him at the mansion tomorrow. He had been hoping that both he and Sara could be obviously elsewhere when he put his plan into action. That would help to alleviate suspicion in their complicity. Irons would still suspect him, of course, but it would be harder to prove. Still, it couldn’t be helped. There was even greater danger in delaying his plans. While the clones existed, as long as Immo maintained them at the ready in their stasis chambers, they could be activated. He had to remove that dangerous threat to his Wielder. Sara watched him, wondering what was going on in that Machiavellian brain. He was closed to her now and the seductive fire in his golden eyes had been replaced by a steely glint. “Where did you go, Mr. Nottingham?” she wondered, “And can I come with you?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you when you’re dressed like that,” Sara said, eyeing Ian in his full assassin’s drag. He was standing by the fireplace, lanky body relaxed, nibbling on a second croissant. Ian stopped chewing and glanced down at himself. He looked a bit surprised, as if he had suddenly remembered that he was tricked out to please his master. She had that stubborn look on her face that brooked no argument. The clothing was of no importance to him. This was an easy way to make her happy. Grinning, Ian dropped his half-eaten pastry back into the bakery box on the table. Sara made a face at his culinary faux pas. He ignored it and held out his now empty hands in surrender. “Fine,” he agreed, “Dress me however you like.” She studied him. His grin got wicked. “Or don’t,” he added playfully. Sara lifted the remains of Ian’s croissant from the box with two fingers and slipped it to Hannibal, who rolled onto his back and exposed his belly to show his appreciation. She raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t you be this agreeable?” she asked Ian. His eyes slowly darkened to that rich amber that indicated sexual smolder. “Because I’m a bit harder to please,” he replied, then added slyly, “But just a bit.” Looking at his dog rolling about at his lady’s feet, he frowned. “Is that what you want from me?” he asked, abruptly serious, “That kind of blind adoration?”

Startled by her new abilities, Sara immediately sensed his mood change. She bit her tongue and stifled the casual reply she had been about to throw back at him. Instead, she thought about it. What did she want from Ian? After all, their relationship had gone through a life-altering change only a few hours earlier. It was a valid question and deserved her consideration. “I need to think about that,” she stalled because those golden eyes were fixed on her with daunting intensity. “Don’t think about it,” he suggested, “Just answer me with your gut.” Sara smiled wryly. “My gut usually gets me into trouble,” she said, “I think that I better use my head this time.” He dropped his eyes and sighed, thick lashes attempting to mask his disappointment at her evasion. The characteristic gesture was useless now. Thanks to the Witchblade, Sara knew exactly what Ian was feeling. They were going to have to find some way to come to terms with this new connection of theirs and soon or they were going to lacerate each other all to hell, she thought. She sighed too and measuring golden eyes lifted quickly to meet wary green ones. “You’re right,” she conceded, “We need to talk.” She felt a slight lessening of the tension within him. “But not now, not here,” she added, hoping that he would understand. He did, nodding his agreement. Ian may have lived uneasily under the scrutiny of Irons’ eye his whole life but Sara hadn’t and he was very aware of the effect that it was having on her.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ian said. Sara smiled, thinking that Irons must be royally pissed that he wouldn’t get to listen in while she and Ian wrestled with their feelings for each other – both literally and figuratively. Ian cocked his head and asked, “What?” She shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied, not wanting to get into it, “I’ll go get dressed. Then, I want to take you shopping.” He looked at her quizzically as he picked up the half-empty pastry box to stow it out of Hannibal’s reach. She was already on her way to the door. “I have plans,” she continued, “I’ll tell you on the way. Give me fifteen minutes to throw on some clothes. Stop by my door on the way out.” She was half through the front door when he called after her, glancing down at himself again, “Do you want me to change?” Sara stuck her head back in, a devilish grin on her face. “No need,” she said, “Stay as you are. We’ll take care of it.” He frowned, wondering what she was up to. But, with a last, quick wave, she disappeared and he was left to cope with his vague sense of unease alone. Afraid that if he lingered in the loft, he would be drawn into a pointless discussion with the hall mirror, Ian didn’t waste any time getting ready to leave.

He made sure that the animals had enough food and water, and grabbed his backpack from the hall closet before heading to the front door. He was almost clear when the mirror hissed, “What new game is this that we’re playing, Nottingham?” Ian froze, his hand on the door knob, his shoulders hunched with instant tension. He turned back to face his reflection in the pane of glass, dropping the backpack at his feet. “Sir?” he asked politely. “Sir?” the mirror mimicked with vicious accuracy. Ian felt a tiny flame of fury ignite deep inside him. He carefully damped it. “I don’t understand your question, sir,” he blandly replied. “What seems to be the problem, my boy?” Irons asked, “Did you lose your wits along with your virginity? I asked a simple question. Where are you and the Wielder going and why?” Ian hoped that he looked more innocent than he felt. He had been trained to have difficulty lying to his master. He dropped his head in an attempt to look more subservient. “Sara wanted us to have a day out together,” he said softly, reasonably, “Lunch at a nice restaurant, perhaps a visit to a museum. It seemed harmless. It never occurred to me that you would mind, sir.” There was a long pause. Ian started to shift nervously and immediately caught himself, stilling the slight motion. Unconsciously, his body went into a parade rest stance. The pause lengthened.

“Very well,” Irons finally said petulantly, “Don’t keep her waiting.” Ian nodded, quickly picking up the backpack and heading toward the door. He was almost home free when the mirror asked, “What’s in the backpack, Ian?” Ian stopped and turned around to face the mirror. “My laptop,” he replied. Always best to stay with the truth when possible. “And why do you feel the need to bring a laptop along on a purely social day on the town with our lovely Sara?” Irons wondered, suspicion clear in his tone. Ian shrugged. He was the picture of innocence. “To have something to keep me occupied while she shops,” he explained, blithely skating around the truth. Kenneth Irons considered that. In his long life, he had occasionally been the companion of a lady on a shopping excursion. He understood Ian’s line of reasoning and accepted it. “Go on then,” he said, dismissing his minion. Ian barely smothered his sigh of relief. “He bought it,” he thought, escaping quickly now that he had been released. On his way to Sara, Ian stopped at his downstairs neighbor’s door to ask the elderly lady if she would take Hannibal for his evening walk. The retired teacher had a soft spot for her dashing landlord and his sweet dog so she didn’t mind the belated request. She did, however, keep Ian another five minutes talking before he could politely extricate himself from the woman’s velvet clutches.

When Ian got to the second floor, Sara was leaning against her closed front door, tapping her foot impatiently. He speeded up as soon as he saw her. “Sorry,” he apologized, catching her hand and lifting it to his lips for a quick kiss, “I got waylaid.” She frowned and asked, “Irons?” He gave a little shake of his head and glanced obliquely toward the hall ceiling. She suddenly realized what Ian was trying to tell her. Irons could track them through the hallways too. With a sinking sensation, she thought about their sexual marathon in the freight elevator. Had he witnessed that too? God, she hoped not. Ian still held her hand in his. He gave it a gentle squeeze and said, “Let it go. We’ve got the whole day together – just the two of us. Let’s not spoil it. Okay?” She looked up at him and felt his warmth seep through her. “Okay,” she replied, smiling back at him in spite of herself. Holding hands, they left the building. He had the black jaguar again. It was parked in front of the building. Sara stopped, scanning the car with the narrowed eyes of a seasoned cop. “Flashy,” she murmured, “Easy to track.” Ian grinned, opening the passenger door for her. He couldn’t refute her observation but he really loved the way the jag handled. “I know,” he agreed, “I swept it for bugs and trackers this morning. Cleaned it out.” She smirked, settling into the comfy leather of the passenger seat. “I didn’t mean that, sport,” she said, “A blind man could spot this vehicle from a mile away.” Ian nodded, sliding gracefully behind the wheel. “His name is ‘Stephens’ and he isn’t blind,” he said, “I’ll let him follow us for a couple of blocks before I lose him.”

Sara studied his chiseled profile, admiring his confidence. She didn’t doubt him for a moment. “Won’t Irons wonder why you ditched his tail?” she asked. Ian shrugged. “I won’t make it obvious,” he said, “Stephens will think he lost us in the midtown traffic snarl. It will seem accidental – nobody’s fault. Where did you want to go first?” She turned a little in the seat so that she could watch him finesse the car. It was sexy as hell and was really turning her on. When she didn’t answer, he turned his head to glance at her. Her eyes were bright, her lips slightly parted. “Sara?” he pressed. She cleared her throat and put a muzzle on her errant libido. Marshaling her thoughts, she asked, “Are you willing to trash those clothes?” He kept his eyes on the heavy traffic, but his lips twitched. “Will I have other clothes to put on?” he countered. She nodded and said, “You will if you’re willing to spend some money. Do you have a favorite men’s clothing store? Will you let me pick out some clothes for you?” Ian was grinning now. “Sure,” he responded easily. A second later, he had maneuvered the car like a bullet across two lanes of traffic and around a corner. When Sara caught her breath again, she realized that Stephens was just an unpleasant memory. They went a few more blocks and then he suddenly angled the car into an impossible spot that had just opened to their right. “Clothing store?” she asked. He tilted his head to the left and said, “Across the street.” She squinted, studying the fancy storefront. It looked expensive.

An hour later, they were crossing the street again. The assassin’s drag was gone. Sara hadn’t convinced Ian to trash it but the black on black ensemble was rolled up and tucked away in the tasteful shopping bag that he carried. His long legs were now encased in snug chocolate brown, corduroy pants. The new pants were paired with a dark gold cashmere pullover sweater that brought out the rich color of his eyes. The outfit was covered with a long, dark brown leather duster. As they walked to the car, hand in hand, she ogled him appreciatively in a sidelong gaze. “Yummy,” she thought, licking her lips. Ian held the passenger door open for her and said, “My turn.” Arranging herself in the seat, Sara looked up quickly, startled. “Excuse me?” she responded. He shut her door and walked around the car, while she waited impatiently for his answer. He settled himself and pulled smoothly out into traffic. She stared at him pointedly until he continued, “I want to buy you something to wear at the hotel.” Sara frowned, pouting a little. “I hate to shop for clothes,” she mumbled. He glanced at her again, a tiny smile playing around the sensuous lips. “Alright,” he said, “You don’t even have to go in. I’ll pick it out for you if you want.” He suddenly pulled to the curb and she looked around. How the hell did he find these parking places in midtown Manhattan? Was it some kind of voodoo? She frowned. They were parked in front of a book store. She scanned the street and gaped when her eyes lit on the Victoria’s Secret one door down. Watching her, Ian thought that the whole day was worth the look on her face at that moment.

Ian sat still, enjoying Sara’s perusal of the lingerie in the window display. “Are you going to let me go in there alone?” he asked a little plaintively. As she studied the store, a stunning salesgirl in incongruously tasteful black leather stopped arranging the provocative window display to stare avidly at the black jaguar. When Ian smoothly slid out of the car in his new brown couture, looking as delicious as a Godiva truffle, the girl’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went huge. Sara’s response was immediate. She was out of the car before he reached her side. “No,” she said firmly, “I’m not.” He lifted a dark, arched brow, wondering what had changed her mind. When Ian was with Sara, his awareness of other women was peripheral at best. His focus was entirely on her. He grinned and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the storefront. “This is going to be fun,” he teased her. Sara glanced back at the window of Victoria’s Secret. Two other salesgirls had now joined the first and all three were looking at Ian like he was the last rest stop before a thousand-mile journey. As usual, he was utterly oblivious to the attention. Her lips twitched. “He may be right,” she thought, “Maybe this will be fun after all.”

Before they were fully through the front door of the store, all three women had scrambled away from the window to meet them, asking simultaneously, “Can I help you?” The question was, of course, not directed at Sara. Ian looked as startled as she had ever seen him. He stepped back from the onslaught, instinctively putting Sara between him and the advancing salesladies. He had obviously not expected to have to fend off an ambush in a lingerie store. Completely at a loss, Ian started to back toward the door. She wasn’t about to let him off that easily. After all, this had been his idea. “Oh no, you don’t,” she said, gripping his hand tighter to effectively stop his escape. Turning to the nearest woman, Sara said, “Yes. You can.” It was the babe in black leather that she had first noticed watching them. “Watching Ian,” she mentally corrected herself. The woman’s eyes had yet to shift to her. Sara shrugged and turned her head to glance at her spooked lover. Ian was still poised to bolt at any moment. The other two saleswomen reluctantly melted away to help other customers. Their regard, however, remained locked on the tall, dark man. Ian apparently functioned like a magnet, attracting the attention of every female in the place. Amused now, Sara asked him, “What did you have in mind?” He cleared his throat. Wary golden eyes fixed on her. “Sorry?” he managed. Sara chuckled. “This was your idea, sport,” she reminded him, tucking her arm through his. He was tense enough to twang. “How were you planning to dress me?” she added mischievously.

The salesgirl’s eyes finally moved over Sara. “I bet she’s wondering if I’m a hooker,” Sara thought. She chuckled again. Ian was right, she decided. This was fun. He made a soft, strangled sound that rumbled through his chest before he whispered, “Sara, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I didn’t realize…” She enjoyed his discomfort, eyes dancing. She understood. In his head, he had seen them playfully peruse a panoply of scanty, scintillating lingerie – just the two of them. The reality of the situation exposed that intimate fantasy to strangers. He had no experience in dealing with this sort of thing. He didn’t know how to handle it. “Well,” she thought, “That’s just too damn bad.” She arranged her face in a little girl pout. “Did you want me to wear something special?” she asked, her eyes briefly flicking to the salesgirl before she added, “Maybe something in leather? Or do you prefer lace?” Ian blushed and dropped his eyes. “I don’t know,” he stammered, “I didn’t think…” The salesgirl took pity on him and jumped in. “Why don’t I show you some things?” she suggested suggestively. Sara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She moved closer to Ian and suddenly slipped her hand up under the cashmere to rub his hot, bare abs. Ian gasped as Sara said, “C’mon, baby. Let’s look at some lingerie.” Senses still reeling, he allowed Sara to lead him blindly after the salesgirl, who had taken off into racks of skimpy creations on a mission to find the perfect turn-on for this hottie that had so obligingly wandered into the store in the middle of a dull weekday.

“My name’s Laura,” the salesgirl said to Ian, “What’s your favorite color?” Two can play that game, Sara thought. “Sara,” she replied, introducing herself unasked to the woman. She looked up at the silent Ian and asked, like an interpreter, “What’s your favorite color, sweetie?” Ian stared down into Sara’s eyes, losing himself there for a moment. “Green,” he responded softly. She smiled at him, accepting the compliment gracefully. “Something in green then,” she instructed the woman who was finally studying Sara appraisingly. Her eyes regarded the detective’s fit form with calculating expertise. “I think I have something that you’ll like,” she said, her eyes shifting back to the woman’s tall, silent shadow. The salesgirl slipped away for a moment and when she returned she held a long, silky gown in her arms. It was a dark, forest green and made of heavy silk. The cut was utterly simple, just one long, clean line caught at the shoulders with thin, spaghetti straps. It reminded Sara of something someone like Myrna Loy might have worn in one of those old movies from the forties. It was simple, sophisticated, and incredibly sexy.

Sara turned her head to gauge Ian’s reaction to the gown. Her eyes widened at the look on his face. “Oh, wow,” she thought. The big, golden cat eyes were glazed with nascent passion. In his head, she was obviously already wearing the long spill of green silk and he was already peeling it off of her. “We’ll take it,” she told the woman who was also raptly taking in the look on Ian’s face. Sara had to say it a second time before Laura responded. Her eyes cooled when they came back to Sara. “It’s expensive,” she warned. “That’s irrelevant,” Ian spoke up, his eyes now locked on Sara, “We’ll take it.” Laura cleared her throat and they both looked at her. “There’s a matching robe,” she said. Ian nodded. “We’ll take that too,” he agreed. The salesgirl gave him a cocky grin, smelling a big sale, and asked, “Want to go for the whole ball of wax and spring for some dark green mules with marabou to match?” He had only the faintest hint what “mules with marabou” were but he figured that Sara should have the entire ensemble. “Sure,” he said, “Include them as well.” This guy was rich as well as beautiful, Laura thought, some women just had all the luck. Sara, on the other hand, was belatedly feeling some guilt. She looked up at her magnanimous lover and waffled, “Take it easy, Ian. We don’t have to buy out the store.” He shrugged, finally starting to feel comfortable now that they were almost done. He bent to brush his lips across hers. “This is a present for both of us, love,” he murmured, “Enjoy it. I will.” They left the store laden with packages and every pair of female eyes – and a few male eyes as well – following them.