Chosen by Desire (16 page)

With a shiver, Carrie hurried out of the room and away from temptation.

Tangled in her thoughts, she stole through the house and out the back to the steps that led down to the beach. She walked straight to the edge of the water, letting its coldness lap at her ankles like an eager puppy. She matched her breathing to the tide, a slow in and out until all the tension—sexual and otherwise—melted from her body.

Be not lulled by its beauty, for as it soothes, so does it sting. So is the nature of all things.

“Strange.” She started walking slowly, hands in her pockets. Why did that verse from the scroll come back to her now?

And why did it leave her feeling like something wasn’t right? Huddling in her coat, she tried to pinpoint what was wrong.

Someone was out there.

She lifted her head and looked around. It wasn’t Max. It didn’t feel like his stare—he’d stared at her enough that she’d know if it were him. He always left her feeling a little weak, kind of shaky, and a lot turned on.

That wasn’t what she was feeling now. Not even close.

Go back to the house.
The urge was sudden and irrefutable. Picking up the pace, she hurried back to the stairs.

In high school, her friend Marie always dragged her to horror movies. Carrie used to make fun of them—the heroines were so stupid. But suddenly she felt like one of those idiot heroines. She knew that if she didn’t make it to those stairs she was a goner.

So she ran. The sand made her legs feel like lead, and the steps to the house seemed never-ending. She ran through the garden, past the pool, and straight in through the door she’d gone out from.

Shoving it closed, she rammed the deadbolt shut and sagged against it, trying to catch her breath. Only she didn’t feel safe—like whatever was out there followed her inside.

“Is everything okay?”

With a small yelp, she whirled around.

Francesca stood there, that faint disapproving frown lining her widow’s peak.

Pressing a hand to her chest, Carrie wilted back against the door. “You scared the
crap
out of me.”

The woman looked outside, beyond her, her frown deepening. Lifting her hand, she played with the pearls of her necklace. “Were you out walking?”

“Yeah. I—” She shut her mouth, her gut telling her not to let on about the creepy feeling she’d had out there. Trying to smile, she slipped past the woman. “I’m going back to my room now.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She waved a hand over her shoulder and practically jogged through the house, up the stairs, and to her room. When she got there, she locked her door, too—the first time she’d bothered since she moved in—and turned on all the lights.

Someone had been in here. She felt it like the residual ripples from an unseen disturbance in a pond.

Something was wrong.

She shimmied out of her jacket and let it drop. Grabbing a figurine from the dresser, she inspected every nook and cranny where someone could be hiding.

Nothing.

The documents.
The scroll.

Kneeling by the bed, she pulled out her suitcase and exhaled in relief when she found the texts safe and sound inside. Except were they in a different spot inside her bag, or was she hallucinating?

“You’re being silly,” she told herself. She zipped it up, tucked it back deep under the mattress, and stood up. “It’s just your imagination.”

But she couldn’t make herself believe it. Her imagination wasn’t
that
active, and she certainly hadn’t imagined the threatening calls. Plus, she knew what she felt. Someone had followed her outside, and someone had been in her room, too.

T
he next morning, Carrie walked into the library and straight to Francesca, who perched primly on the edge of the couch, a laptop balanced on her legs. “One question,” she said.

“Good morning, Carrie,” Francesca said without taking her eyes from the screen. “How are you this morning?”

“Puzzled, which leads me to my question. Why was someone in my room last night?”

Francesca looked up, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“That I think someone’s been through my stuff.”
Specifically you,
she wanted to add.

“It was probably just the housekeeper.” She arched an elegant eyebrow. “You do know there is a housekeeper, don’t you? It was probably her.”

“Yeah.” She’d considered the housekeeper, but why would the housekeeper wait until she left the house and then enter her room? That late at night? Didn’t make sense.

Of course, she was hearing a several-hundred-year-old piece of parchment talk to her, too, which made even less sense.

What did make sense: that Francesca had been in her room. She had, after all, been roaming the halls last night. Carrie didn’t put it past her to go through her things, looking for stolen silverware or anything else incriminating that would get her in trouble. Despite Francesca’s recent attempt to be friends, she’d probably jump at the chance to have Max to herself again.

Probably? Most likely.

“Was anything taken?” the object of her suspicions asked.

“No.” That was the weird part. It wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to find the scroll. The thing was hidden under her bed, for goodness’ sakes. And a poor doctoral candidate with ancient texts under her bed? Total red flag.

“It was the housekeeper, and I assure you that the staff is highly screened and would never take anything that didn’t belong to them.”

Right. Carrie knew that. And if it weren’t for the calls, she would have agreed. But, as much as she could see Francesca going through her things, she couldn’t picture the woman threatening her with anonymous phone calls.

She studied Francesca, who was engrossed with her Blackberry. There was more going on here—Carrie felt it in her gut. She just hoped she’d figure out what before anything bad happened.

The rest of the week was uneventful. Carrie got up, went for her walk, worked on the translation, and then retired to her room to hammer out her thesis. There were no phone calls, no feelings of someone invading her privacy, and no sensations of being watched. Francesca was scarce, probably doing Max’s bidding. And God knew where Max had gone.

It all made Carrie quite nervous.

After another restless night, Carrie got up early Saturday morning, dressed, and quietly left her room for her morning walk.

She paused outside Max’s door. Was he in there? Hovering, tempted to check, she hurried down the stairs and outside before she could give in to temptation.

The salty sea air greeted her. Alert, she walked through the yard and down the wooden stairs to the beach, relaxing once she realized she didn’t feel anything strange. She glanced at the spot where Max had been practicing with his sword, disappointment stabbing her. He wasn’t there.

“Silly.” She shook her head and began to trek. She wished she’d stop thinking about him so much. She should be concentrating on her work. Editing her thesis to include her new findings on the Scrolls of Destiny required total focus.

She was focused, all right—not on her work but on Max.

The kiss by the pool should have soured her fascination with him, but it’d only added fuel to the fantasies inspired by her dreams. She hadn’t thought reality could compare to the lush eroticism of her dreams, but that kiss had proved her wrong.

If he could do that with just a kiss, maybe her dreams weren’t so far-fetched.

She trudged unhappily through the sand. That was just what she didn’t need—some insanely great kiss that was going to mess with her and her future.

“I won’t let that happen,” she promised herself, kicking a hunk of seaweed. She knew what she wanted, and a distracting man wasn’t part of the equation.

Assuming Max even wanted her. Note that he’d disappeared this week.

Her frown turned into a scowl, and she walked faster to work out her frustrations. By the time she reached the other end of Max’s beach, she had a sweat going but didn’t feel any more tranquil.

Wiping her forehead and readjusting her ponytail, she headed to the pier. The sturdy wood platform extended well into the ocean, but no boats were moored to it. It seemed to serve no practical use except as a place where she could sit and think. Odd, since it appeared to have been recently built.

“Maybe Max’s boat is in the shop,” she mumbled as she stepped onto it. The planks were so solid, they barely even creaked. The sea rolled violently today—as restless and gray as she felt. She watched the waves break below, large and aggressive, spraying her with a thick mist.

Halfway down the pier, a loud crack sounded.

And then she fell.

Carrie screamed, her hands scrabbling to grab hold of something. Her fingers hooked on the part of the pier that was intact. Her feet dangled, as heavy as lead.

“Don’t look down,” she told herself. But she couldn’t help it.

Churning waves swept over craggy rocks ten feet below her. One wave rose up, soaking her jeans, trying to drag her under.

“Oh, God.” Her body began to shake, her muscles both freezing and twitching uncontrollably.

Stop. You can get back up.

In her head, she heard

Water is ever-determined. It yields, yet still moves forward, undeterred from its path. It does not understand defeat, but searches another course to advance its flow.

“Doesn’t understand defeat,” she said through gritted teeth. She took a deep breath, concentrating on the ebb and flow of the water. She stilled her shaking limbs and swung her legs.
Gain momentum. Hook them back onto the pier.

But each sway of her legs caused her hands to slip. Her palms burned, and her fingers fought for purchase. Afraid she’d fall, she stopped moving and tried to pull herself up with her arms.

They quivered with the effort. She yelled, hoping her cry would give her extra oomph.

Her muscles gave out. Hanging by the tips of her fingers, she looked down again.

Big mistake.

Her shoulders and back screamed in protest. She started to feel them giving out. “
No.
”

Suddenly, hands gripped her wrists and yanked up.

Instinctively, she struggled against them.

“Stop, damn it, or we’ll both fall in.”

Max.
She looked up to find him standing above her, his chiseled jaw set with determination. She relaxed her body and let him pull her up.

Her arms wrenched, and her body scraped against the jagged edges of splintered wood. She heard a tear and hoped it was her clothing and not a muscle.

Max hauled her up and back until she sat with her legs dangling through the broken planks. She scrambled back, wanting to put as much distance as possible between her and the crashing waves below.

Raking his hair back, Max inspected the broken slats. His shoulders tensed as his fingers ran over one edge. He muttered something under his breath and returned his attention to her.

“Are you okay?” He leaned over her, his hand brushing her hair so her head tilted back and he could look into her eyes. His gray gaze was searching and cold with anger.

“Why are
you
angry?” Her teeth chattered so strongly she could barely get the words out. “I’m the one who almost plummeted to a certain death.”

“I’m not angry at you.” Then he cursed—quite audibly—and hauled her up into his arms.

“What are you doing?” God, his body heat felt good. She curled into him despite herself.

He glanced down at her with a fierce scowl. She didn’t think he was going to reply, but then he said, “You’re in no shape to walk.”

She would have liked to argue, but she didn’t think she could be convincing—not with the way she was shaking.

The sand didn’t seem to impede his strong stride, and he made it back to his house in no time. He rounded the corner of his home and took her inside through an entrance she’d never seen.

It led straight into the kitchen. Max set her down on a cold marble counter and pointed a finger at her. “Stay.”