The Immortal Highlander by Karen Marie Moning

handling personal injury cases, after only a few hours of working on them, that she couldn’t help it. A little snort escaped her. And it turned into a laugh. And she might have continued laughing except a slow smile curved his lips and his dark eyes glittered. He stalked toward her, caught her by the waist with his big hands, and stared down at her.
    “This is the first time I’ve seen you laugh, Gabrielle. You’re even more beautiful when you laugh. I hadn’t thought it possible.”
    Her laughter died abruptly and she jerked away from him. But it was too late, his hands had already left their fiery imprint on her body, like a heated, erotic brand. “Don’t flatter me. Don’t be nice to me,” she gritted. “And do
not
do any more of my work for me.”
    “I was merely trying to help. You looked so weary last night.”
    “As if you care. Stay out of my life.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “Because I refuse to sacrifice my whole world just to help you regain yours,” she snapped bitterly.
    “No,” he said evenly, eyes narrowing. “Because I don’t like your boss. I don’t like the way he looks at you. I don’t like the way he treats you. I don’t bloody like a bloody frigging thing about the prick. And when I’m myself again, I will rectify the situation.”
    Gabby went still. Adam Black looked and sounded angry. Genuinely angry. About how she was being treated. His face was dark and thunderous, his eyes snapping with golden sparks.
    Oh, that was deadly. That was cruel. Acting like he had feelings. Like he gave a damn. Especially when she really didn’t have anybody else in her life that did. Clearly he would do anything in order to seduce her to his aim—even mimic emotion and pretend concern. After all, wasn’t that why it was called seduction? Because the victim was lulled into a feeling of false safety and well-being? And how could that be engendered except through the pretense of caring?
    No soul. No heart. Ergo, no emotions,
she reminded herself.
    Snatching up her purse, she flipped off her computer and stomped out of her cubicle.
     
    They’d even been really
good
contentions, she was still brooding irritably, an hour and a half later, as she dumped the laundry basket on her bed and began sorting her clothes into loads. Immersing herself in routine helped her pretend the
sin siriche du
himself wasn’t currently downstairs in her kitchen, drinking single-malt scotch straight from the bottle (fifty-year-old Macallan, no less) and typing away on her laptop, surfing the Net.
    By the time she’d gotten home, he’d already been there, with the stage lavishly set for his next seduction. Five-star dinner spread out on her dining room table, a vase of long-stemmed roses perfuming the air, drapes drawn and candles lit. Fine crystal sparkled on the table, crystal she
knew
she didn’t own. Silverware she’d never seen before, fine china too.
    She’d tipped her nose skyward and started to stalk past him toward the stairs. He’d moved into her path, brushing his body against hers. Then caught her by one arm.
    He’d turned her to face him and just stared down at her in silence for the longest time before finally releasing her. She’d said nothing, not about to give an inch. Not even when he’d dropped his dark chiseled face forward until his lips had been a mere breath from hers, using his blatant masculinity in an attempt to cow her. Stoically resisting the overpowering temptation to wet her lips in a timeless invitation, she’d stood her ground, levelly meeting that dark gaze, refusing to believe that there might be anything other than cold-blooded calculation in his eyes. And if, for a moment, she’d thought she’d seen a hint of humanity, of male frustration, of genuine desire, of tempered impatience in their gold-sparked depths, it had been a trick of the flickering candlelight.
    Nothing more.
    His legal briefs had been better than anything she’d ever written. Brilliant, charismatically