The Rogue Hunter (35 page)

Despite her late hours, Sam usually woke around eleven. Exhausted and spent, she dragged herself through the day, her thoughts running around inside her mind like a rat trapped in a maze, searching for the right direction to take.

Sam's eyes narrowed on Decker's kitchen door. She'd thought she'd spotted movement beyond the window. For one moment, she allowed her heart to hope that Mortimer might slip over to see her tonight before the men went on the hunt, but then she quashed that hope, knowing it wasn't going to happen. He would leave her to her decision until tomorrow morning as promised. Mortimer had said she had to give him her decision before leaving with her sisters to return to the city.

Sam still hadn't made up her mind. She turned away from the window with exasperation, her gaze sliding desperately around the cottage in search of a distraction. But it was silent and empty. Alex and Jo had gone to the Andersons'. The couple were having their usual Saturday night party, and since it was their last night, her sisters had decided to attend. They'd tried to convince her to go too, but not too hard because they were still under the mistaken belief that she was enjoying her evenings with Mortimer.

If they only knew, Sam thought bitterly, and wished that they did, and that she could explain things to them and—Alex and Jo would have understood, she was sure, and would have kept the secret, and then she wouldn't have had to choose between them or Mortimer, but he'd said that wasn't allowed. The more who knew the secret, the more risk there was of the knowledge getting out and his people being hunted down and slaughtered out of fear.

Sighing, Sam forced herself to calm down and think things through logically. There were a lot of pluses to choosing Mortimer. She would remain young, never get sick, etc. Of course the whole blood thing was a bit of an issue. She found the idea rather gross, but could get past that if she just thought of it as medicine like cod liver oil or something. Mortimer had said they didn't taste it when they "bit the bag" anyway. Mind you, she wasn't pleased with the idea of being stuck with her scrawny body for centuries, and suspected breast implants wouldn't be a possibility, but…

Sam made a cluck of disgust. None of that was important to her. She'd never dreamed of living forever, or feared losing her youth, and thinking about it was just a way to avoid the real issues. The true issue was the people involved. People she loved. Did she choose him and lose her sisters, as well as her career, one she'd worked long and hard for? Or did she choose her sisters, keep her career, and lose Mortimer? It was an impossible choice. She and her sisters only had one another. They weren't close with their one remaining aunt and uncle, but spent all their special occasions alone. Christmas, birthdays, Thanksgiving, and Easter all were spent with the three of them together. And they called one another all the time, and…

How could Sam remove herself from that equation and leave the two alone to fend for themselves? On the other hand, how could she give up Mortimer? She might not suffer so much, she reminded herself. He'd explained that they would erase her memories so at least she wouldn't remember what she was missing. But he would… And he'd explained that life mates were rare and special and sometimes once-in-a-lifetime occurrences, although he did know of a few who had been fortunate enough to find another after losing their first. She was the first Mortimer had encountered in eight hundred years. If she chose her sisters, while she might not recall what she had given up, he would, and it might be centuries before he found another to take her place, if ever. Sam loved Mortimer too much to do that to him. And despite the fact that she might not remember it, she didn't want to do that to herself either. He might be her only chance at love too. The idea of giving him up was unbearable, but so was the idea of having to leave her sisters.

She ran her hands into her hair and tugged viciously at the strands, frustration roiling through her. Sam didn't know what to do. She simply couldn't decide. She didn't want to leave any of them. The whole matter was making her hate the idea of not aging. If she just didn't stay young, but continued to age, she could have Mortimer and stay with her sisters too.

Sam paused abruptly as that thought claimed her. Mortimer had said she had to decide if she wished to be his life mate, and then whether she wished to be turned and become one of them. That meant she didn't
have
to turn to be with him, Sam realized, and if she didn't, she wouldn't have to abandon her sisters.

Not turning brought its own issues, of course. She would age while Mortimer wouldn't and so on, but at least she wouldn't have to leave her sisters after ten years. She could stay and see Alex and Jo settled and maybe allow him to turn her later or something.

Of course, Mortimer would have to bow out of their lives in ten years. Or maybe twenty, she thought. If they dyed his sideburns gray, and dressed him a little frumpy, they might be able to squeeze another ten years in before he had to stop seeing them. Maybe more; after all, there were breakthroughs every day in cosmetic advances. They might manage twenty-five or even thirty years before he had to stop seeing her sisters. But Sam could still see them if she did age, and could make up excuses for why Mortimer couldn't, or even claim to divorce him or something. She knew she'd eventually have to give them up, but hoped it would be easier if they were better settled with families of their own.

It was a risk, though, and Sam knew it. There was the chance she could have a heart attack or stroke, or be in an accident, but really even as an immortal there was the possibility of being in a car accident and getting decapitated, or trapped in the vehicle and burning alive. Life was full of risks.

She released a long, slow breath of relief at having come to a decision she could live with, and then frowned as the next issue then cropped up in her mind. That was that, while she knew she loved him, Mortimer—unfortunately—hadn't used the word
love
himself. Instead he'd said he liked her with the "ever-after kind of like."

What the heck was that, exactly? she wondered unhappily. And why hadn't he used the word
love
? Sam was a lawyer, and to her the fact that he hadn't said
I love you
was probably because he didn't. She feared he was merely settling for her because he couldn't read her mind or control her and those were considered signs of a life mate to his kind. Mortimer seemed to think that was the same thing as love, but Sam wasn't sure. She didn't want to be his I'll-settle-for-her girl. On the other hand, if there was a possibility that he did love her, or might even come to love her, she didn't want to give him up and have her mind wiped.

She paused by the window as the sound of an engine drew her gaze to the lake, and a boat cruised into view. It rode by, turning inland just as it passed their dock, and that's when she realized it was Grant returning home from an outing. Sam's eyes immediately shifted to the table and the pie waiting beside the check for his work.

The pie was the third one Alex had made this week. Unfortunately, their neighbor never seemed to be home to accept delivery, and rather than risk giving him a pie that had gone bad, Alex had made another on Tuesday and then another that morning. Of course, she, Jo, and Alex had been forced to eat the other pies rather than see them go to waste. It appeared that they wouldn't have to eat this one though. Alex had asked Sam to keep an eye out and deliver it should Grant make an appearance, and there he was.

She might as well do it now and get that chore out of her hair, Sam thought. The short walk and fresh air might help clear her thoughts.

Nodding, she picked up the pie and then headed out the door.

There was no path from their property to Grant's. His house was on something of a raised cliff. It was only about three and a half feet high, but it was lined with boulders and waist-high weeds. She had to walk up to the lane and along the gravel road to get to his driveway. Sam had to pay attention and go slow as she walked the rutted driveway to keep from stumbling or twisting an ankle, so it took a few moments for her to reach the little house on the small cliff.

Her gaze slid over the building as she moved to the small front deck. Grant was a year-round resident, and the house showed that, with a Ski-Doo parked next to a Sea-Doo under the wide awning beside the garage.

Sam turned her attention to the dock then, noting that the boat was tied up, and the dock empty. Her gaze then slid to the door of the house to see it was open. Sam walked up the steps to the yawning entrance and peered inside.

"Grant?" she called, and thought she heard him answer from somewhere inside. At least she heard him say something, and stepped cautiously over the threshold. Pausing in the unlit and shadowed kitchen inside the door, she called uncertainly, "Grant? Alex sent me with a pie and your check."

A loud crash sounded, followed by a curse, and Sam glanced toward an open door and then moved quickly to it and found herself at the top of a set of stairs leading down. Worried that the man had hurt himself, she hurried down and toward the only open door with a light on inside.

"Grant? Did you hurt yourself?" Sam asked, rushing to the door, and then froze at the entrance, her eyes widening at the sight before her. Grant stood in front of an open refrigerator, a cooler lying on its side at his feet. It had obviously fallen and crashed open, but its contents were what had brought her to an abrupt halt. Half a dozen blood bags had spilled out, at least one of them breaking in the fall. Blood was gushing from the punctured bag and running in rivulets across the white tiles.

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes lifting to Grant's stunned face as he glanced over to see her standing there. For a moment, both of them seemed frozen, and she stared at the man, noting the fact that he looked about twenty-five to thirty, was in peak condition, and there was a silver glint to his blue eyes that reminded her of Mortimer. If that and the blood hadn't convinced her he was an immortal, the fangs sliding out of his mouth made it obvious. Both her neighbors were immortals, it seemed… and unless there were scads of them running around up here, Grant was probably the rogue, she realized with horror.

Dropping the pie, Sam whirled and ran for the stairs, her heart sinking as a scuffling behind her warned that he was giving chase. Immortals were stronger and could run faster than mortals, she recalled Mortimer telling her, and knew she didn't have a chance.

"—love you."

Mortimer turned from pacing the floor in the rec room to glance at Bricker as the younger immortal stared at him impatiently. "What did you say?"

"I knew you weren't listening to me," Bricker said with exasperation.

Mortimer grimaced, acknowledging that he hadn't. He'd been distracted and lost in his own thoughts and worries since his talk with Sam. It had been the hardest thing in the world for him to stay away from her, but he knew he had to. She needed time to think without his distracting her. He was asking her to give up a lot. She was close to her sisters and had worked hard for her career.

"I said, when you talked to Sam the other night, did you say 'I love you,'" he repeated the words that had drawn Mortimer's attention back to him in the first place. "You do love her, right?"

Mortimer stared at him. Yes. He loved her. Dear God, why else would he be such a wreck? He'd been less than useless the last several nights while they were out hunting, mostly just a body following the other two without a single useful suggestion to make to find their rogue. While the other two had been planning and suggesting ways to lay a trap, Mortimer had sat wishing he'd stayed to somehow convince Sam to be his life mate. And berating himself for not simply taking her to bed and not letting her out until she agreed to be with him. She was his, dammit! There was no question of whether she should be his life mate. She simply was.

"You didn't tell her you love her," Bricker said, sounding disappointed as he made it obvious he'd read his mind. Shaking his head he said, "Girls like to hear that stuff, Mortimer."

"I told her I had the ever-after kind of like for her," Mortimer defended himself, but knew that just wasn't the same thing. He probably should have told her he loved her.

"Oh man." Bricker heaved out a sigh of mingled disgust and resignation. "This life mate business must really mess with your head. You used to be the smarter one."

Mortimer frowned. "I'm not smarter."

"Not anymore," Bricker agreed dryly. "Go back and tell the woman you love her. It's the least you can do if you hope she'll choose you over family."

Mortimer hesitated one moment, but then nodded and headed for the stairs. He'd go there right now, tell her he loved her, and then
show
her he loved her too. He'd worship every inch of her body until she couldn't bear the idea of never experiencing such pleasure again. He'd—

"I'll keep the girls busy if they return before you're done so you can do the job properly," Bricker offered, revealing once again that he was eavesdropping in his head. This time Mortimer didn't berate him; he'd appreciate his keeping Jo and Alex away, he decided as he stepped off the top step into the kitchen.

"No problem," Bricker assured him as if he'd spoken the thoughts aloud. He then slammed one hand onto his shoulder, opened the door to the deck with the other, and propelled him firmly through it. "Go get her, tiger."

Nodding, Mortimer strode out and crossed to the stairs at a quick clip. He continued that quick clip as he crossed the yard and traveled the trail through the trees, but his steps slowed as he crossed their yard and he contemplated how he should do this.

Did he just stride in like a conquering hero, sweep her into his arms, make mad passionate love to her, and then confess his love and beg her to be his life mate? Or did he make the confession of love first and then sweep her into his arms and make mad passionate love to her followed by groveling and pleas that she be his life mate?
Should
he plead at all? Maybe demanding or simply asking would be better.