Chosen by Desire (10 page)

“You go.” He strode to the staircase.

“Excuse me.” Her rapidly tapping heels followed him across the marble. Even in her haste to catch up to him, she sounded perfectly cool. “I don’t understand. What do you want—”

He stopped on the fifth step and faced her again. “What I want is for you to work with her.”

No mistaking her frown now. “But I thought—”

He gazed at her coldly.

Visibly recoiling, she took a step back. “Of course, sir. Excuse me. I’ll work with her until further notice from you.”

He nodded and ran up the rest of the stairs. With Carrie occupied, he could search her room, for both the texts as well as any clue as to what she and Rhys were planning.

The thought of her plotting with Rhys should have been enough to kill the feelings she stirred in him. Should have been, but wasn’t. Probably the reason Rhys had chosen her. Rhys knew his weaknesses. Rhys had always known him better than Max knew himself.

It made Rhys’s betrayal that much more cutting.

After a brief stop to deposit his sword and shirt in his room, he went next door to hers and pushed open the door.

As he stepped in, he was assailed by the scent of strawberries. He looked at the bed and inhaled deeper, trying to catch a hint of the sex redolent in the room last night.

Get a grip.
He shook his head, disgusted with himself, and let his senses search the room to guide him to the Book of Water again.

Nothing.

He frowned. He didn’t feel it in the room. Did she take it with her?

Possible. He continued his search, looking for any information. He started with the bed, in and under it, not allowing himself to wonder whether she slept clothed or if the sheets touched her naked body.

Searching the dresser yielded nothing, as well, unless the knowledge that she haphazardly tossed her clothes in there counted for something. He opened the top drawer of the dresser last.

A sea of black lace.

Max froze. His fingers brushed a pair of panties almost of their own accord. Her pale skin would look creamy in black.

“Stop,” he ordered himself ruthlessly. He slammed the drawer shut and did a cursory search of the bathroom, knowing it wouldn’t yield anything.

And it didn’t. Worse, by the end of his fruitless search, he had a raging erection that ached for attention.

Entering his own suite next door, he slammed the door shut and headed straight for the shower. Half an hour in the icy cold should do it. Maybe.

B
ased on her encounter with Max (she just couldn’t bring herself to refer to him as Mr. Prescott) on the beach, Carrie decided it’d be prudent to go to work, even if it was a little early.

After retrieving her bag from her room, she went in search of the library. It took her a couple tries before she found it. And, really, mostly it was her curiosity that caused her to wander a bit. Curiosity about the Western man who was at home both in a monastery and twirling a sword, had a killer Chinese collection, and was called the White Tiger.

Though the White Tiger part totally made sense. He prowled. And watching him twirl his sword this morning she knew it wasn’t faked.

The library had austere furnishings like the rest of the house. Every room she’d been in was sparsely decorated with modern furniture in cold tones, framed by lots of metal. Even the gold in her room was cool rather than warm. The high ceilings and expansive windows lent to the cavernous feel.

She plopped down on a low chair, setting her messenger bag at her feet, and looked out the window to the spot in the sand where Max had been practicing with his sword.

He didn’t look like a cold, unapproachable billionaire as he’d battled his invisible foe. He’d looked fierce, intense, and so amazingly virile. As he’d swung the sword in an arc around his head, his shoulders and pecs had rippled, and the sweat glistening on his tan skin had highlighted each ropey bit.

His arms had looked elegant despite being so thick. Carrie sighed, then blushed as she remembered the golden line of hair leading down into the waistband of his loose workout pants.

The brown monk’s robe hadn’t done his body any justice. Neither had her dreams, though she’d pictured that golden trail pretty accurately. She didn’t have to try very hard to imagine kissing down that trail. He’d be taut there, his hair would be soft, and she didn’t doubt he’d be pretty impressive just below, just like he’d been in her dreams. She’d started to look, but his surliness distracted her.

Not that she could blame him for being surly. She’d breached his inner sanctum. She had the feeling she’d seen something very, very few people had ever seen.

And—God—she’d
touched
him. What the heck was she thinking? On her first morning here.

Her phone ringing startled her. She answered, still distracted by thoughts of him. “Hello?”

Silence hissed over the line.

“Hello?” When there was no answer, she looked at the screen to check for coverage. Full bars. The call was from a restricted number, so hanging up and calling the person back wasn’t an option. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

There was a crackle and then a buzz. Then an electronic voice said, “You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Carrie froze, the pit of her stomach twisting. “Who is this?”

“I know you have it,” the masked voice said.

The only thing she had that didn’t belong to her was what she’d taken from the monastery. She swallowed. How did anyone know what she’d done? And what did he mean by
it?
The journal, the Book of Water, or one of the other scrolls?

Either way, total denial was in order. She tried to sound unshaken—completely the opposite of how she felt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Holding on to it will be… detrimental… to your health.”

“Are you—”

The call ended.

“—Threatening me,” Carrie finished limply. She looked at her cell phone, as if there’d be some kind of clue as to who the caller was, but that was futile. She tried to tell herself it was a fluke—a wrong number—but she couldn’t convince herself that this was a random crank.

Someone knew what she’d taken.

Impossible. She shook her head. Who would know?

Max. He’d been at the monastery. He’d seen her. Would he stoop to devious terrorizing like this? He seemed more the type to charge forth and take what he wanted. She was in his house, for God’s sake. All he had to do was corner her and use brute force to take them away from her. She wasn’t delusional enough to think she could fight him off.

Or that she’d stop him from strip-searching her. If he wanted to. Ahem.

The library door opened. She startled, jerking to face it.

Just Francesca. “Thank God,” Carrie murmured under her breath.

“Excuse me?” Francesca said in her proper way as she set her big bag at the foot of an upright chair.

“Uh, nothing.” It struck her that this could possibly be one of the few circumstances in which she’d been happy to see the woman. Anyone was better than a stalker. Even chilly, aloof Francesca.

It was just a crank call. Or the wrong number. She shook off her residual skittishness and smiled. “How are you, Francesca?”

“Fine, thank you, Ms. Woods. I trust you slept well.”

She muffled her snort. She hadn’t lied to Max. Last night, after running into him—the object of her desire, live and in glorious, hard flesh—she hadn’t been able to sleep. So she’d stayed up studying the Book of Water. It read in metaphors, but she had a feeling the metaphors were layered to hide some fascinating stuff.

Oddly, the overlaying voice wasn’t a product of her imagination. Whenever she started reading, it started, too. And even more oddly, it said things not written in the scroll.

She tried to rationalize it by jet lag or as some extended dreamlike delusion, but she couldn’t convince herself that she was insane. Except she had to be insane—she was hearing things.

Add the phone call to the mix, and she felt jittery. Like she’d had six straight shots of espresso—intravenously.

She’d meant to photocopy all the documents and send them back. Then no one would have reason to threaten her. But she couldn’t return them—not just yet. Not before knowing the Book of Water’s secrets.

“Ms. Woods?”

Carrie looked up to find Francesca staring at her impatiently. Oh—right. How did she sleep. Not wanting to seem like a princess (or paranoid, for that matter), she decided to avoid the question. “My room is really comfortable, thanks.”

Francesca nodded, seemingly satisfied by that nonanswer. She moved to the sideboard. “Can I get you coffee or tea?”

“I’ll help myself, thank you,” Carrie said, standing up. As she poured her tea, she watched Francesca add a couple cubes of raw sugar to her cup and stir, each rotation careful and precise, before returning to sit properly in her chair.

Carrie looked at the sugar longingly, thought about all the hours she was going to be sedentary, and then sipped her tea. Grimacing at the bitter taste, she reached for a piece of whole-grain toast—plain—and tried to ignore the scones, fresh croissants, and apple pastries.

Pretending her toast was dripping in butter and jam, she sat back down and gestured at Francesca. “So Max said he won’t be joining us.”

“No,
Mr. Prescott
won’t,” the woman said succinctly. “He has other matters to attend to.”

What kind of matters? She’d ask, but she instinctively knew Francesca wouldn’t take kindly to it. She seemed very protective of her employer.

It made Carrie wonder if there was something going on between them. Or if they had history. Sexual history.

She scowled at her dry toast. The picture of them entwined in each other’s arms, naked, was entirely too easy to imagine.

And she didn’t like it at all. Surprising in itself, because she wasn’t one given to fits of jealousy. But even a blind person could see Francesca wasn’t thrilled with Carrie’s presence there. Sure, she’d been hospitable, but it’d been the bare minimum and probably mandated by Max.

Could
she
have made the crank call?

Carrie studied her, frowning. She didn’t look like a woman who’d just made a threatening call, using an electronic device to mask her voice.

Picking up her tea, she hoped her tone was nonchalant. “How long have you known Mr. Prescott?”

“All my life.”

She waited for something more but decided as the woman began tapping at her Blackberry that nothing more was forthcoming. So Carrie said, “You started really young.”

Francesca paused, her gaze full of distrust. “My mother was in the ambassador’s employ.”

“The ambassador?”

“Mr. Prescott’s father,” she said shortly, pulling out her portfolio.

Max’s dad was an ambassador? How could an ambassador spawn someone so antisocial? “So you grew up together?”

She frowned at the papers she sifted through but didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Then they did have history. And now Francesca worked with him, so she must know him inside out.

She wanted to ask if Francesca had ever played doctor with Max. Not that she should care. She was here to work. She cleared her throat. “Where did you grow up? If Max’s dad was an ambassador, I assume you guys lived out of the country.”

“Asia,” was the answer she got. Then the woman stood up, went to a locked drawer, inserted a key (God knows where she pulled that out from—her bra?), and extracted a large, obviously ancient book. She carried it over to the desk closest to the windows overlooking the ocean. “This is what Mr. Prescott wishes to have translated.”

“The whole thing?” Carrie tried not to gape, but she wasn’t sure she was successful. It’d take the better part of a year—maybe two—to translate the whole thing.

“No, there’s a specific chapter.” She consulted her papers and nodded as she found the one she was looking for. “Here are the details.”

Carrie took the proffered page and glanced at it. Then she went to the book and picked it up to move it to the table in the corner. “Not good to have it in direct sunlight,” she explained at Francesca’s puzzled look.