Chosen by Desire (11 page)

“I see.”

She set the book down and carefully flipped through some of the pages. She started to get excited as she touched the crinkled vellum. She loved old texts. “I’m looking forward to this project.”

Francesca didn’t look like she believed Carrie, but she nodded. “Supplies are in the other desk. Help yourself to anything you need. I’ll have Don bring in a tray for lunch. Is there anything you’d prefer?”

A bacon cheeseburger. Or fried chicken and mashed potatoes. She sighed as she pulled out a stool to perch on. “Maybe just some cottage cheese and fruit.”

“The cook is an experienced French chef. You can have anything you like.”

She shook her head. “But my butt can’t.”

“Oh.” Max’s assistant frowned like she couldn’t comprehend such a thing. Then her expression went back to its normal placid blankness. “If you need anything else, I can be reached through the house phone.”

“Great. Thanks.” She watched Francesca glide out of the room, wondering if the woman would ever warm to her.

Seemed unlikely. But if someone had told her she’d find one of the Scrolls of Destiny and end up working for the famous Bái H
, she’d have scoffed at that too.

T
he apple pastry was ogling her, she just knew it.

Carrie glared at the tray of food. Each morning Max’s butler Don delivered breakfast for her, and each morning the tray included that killer apple pastry. Tuesday, she’d broken down and tried one. She’d had one every morning since. Three in total.

Okay, four, because she had two on Thursday.

Her butt couldn’t withstand another twenty-five days of fatty carbs. This morning, she’d been determined to resist and had a piece of whole-grain bread instead. When the cinnamon aroma of the apple pastry taunted her, she’d moved the tray to a table across the room.

But the smell still wafted over to her.

Like she wasn’t having a hard enough time concentrating as it was. She set Max’s ancient text aside and stretched her arms over her head.

She never knew she had such a problem with temptation. Probably because she’d never come across anything so tempting.

Nor
anyone.

Her problem wasn’t temptation—it was Max. He was not only fattening her up but weakening her will. Not that she’d seen him in person since that first morning on the beach. But, man, had she seen him in her dreams. Every night. In living color and tumescent flesh.

Not only did her dreams interrupt her sleep, but they made her restless in a way she’d never been before. Working on her dissertation didn’t even soothe her anymore.

“Rather annoying, really,” she muttered, pushing her things aside. She ambled around the room.

And ended up in front of the food tray.

“One more won’t hurt,” she told herself. She wouldn’t eat any after this. Plus she’d gotten into the habit of taking a walk on the beach each morning. There was a pier at the end of Max’s property where she liked to sit and think. Or, these days, sigh over her boss.

“Pathetic.” She reached for the apple pastry and paused. Thinking of her thighs, she turned her back on the tray and headed to the kitchen for a banana.

At least that’s what she’d planned—until she heard a rhythmic
whack-grunt-whack
farther down the hall. A female someone, by the tenor of the grunt.

Curious, Carrie went to investigate. The noise came from the last room down the hall. She peeked around the corner.

A rec room, bright with sunlight and airy because of the high ceiling. Instruments of torture, otherwise known as workout equipment, were arranged in half the room. The other half was covered with a series of interlocking, thick mats. A super-long piece of blue silk dangled down from over one end of the matted area.

A punching bag hung in one corner, and beating the bag was Francesca. She wore a sleek sleeveless catsuit that didn’t leave anything to the imagination, its femininity incongruous with the ferocious attack. She rained a series of left–right punches that set the bag spinning. Then she backed up and delivered several kicks for good measure.

Carrie meant to leave Francesca to her workout—really, she did—but when the woman turned, running and launching herself onto the silk, she had to watch.

Catching the fabric a few feet off the ground, Francesca maneuvered it until it wrapped around her leg, the silk a bright contrast to her fair skin. She anchored it at her ankle with her other foot, reached higher overhead, and pulled herself up like it was a rope. Higher and higher until she was almost to the ceiling.

Francesca stopped and began a complicated series of twists and turns that resulted in the silk wrapped around her waist, her body a straight plank perpendicular to the fabric. Slowly, with utter control, she opened her legs into the splits.

Awesome.
Carrie wondered if the woman would show her how to do that. She studied the move. It didn’t look too hard.

Then Francesca dropped, her legs spinning like a windmill as her body rolled down the silk.

Carrie gasped and stepped forward to help.

But despite the crazy speed, Francesca was still in total control, her grip secure. Several feet from the bottom, she let her hands go and dropped backward, suspended from the silk by her legs. Her upside-down gaze zipped directly to Carrie.

Brow furrowing, Francesca twisted until she was free from the fabric and flipped into a cat-crouch on the mat. “Did you need me? Is there a problem with your work?”

“No, I was going to the kitchen to get a snack and I heard a noise.” Not able to contain herself, she walked to the mat and fingered the silk. “That was so amazing. You were like Catwoman. Where did you learn to do that?”

“In an aerial dance class.”

“Maybe I’ll try it sometime.” She ignored the woman’s look of doubt. “You looked like you knew what you were doing with the punching bag, too.”

“I’ve studied kung fu,” she said briskly as she picked up her Blackberry from the sidelines.

“I’ve always wanted to study a martial art. Have you trained for a long time?”

Francesca gave a noncommittal grunt that was reminiscent of her boss.

“Well.” Carrie rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to get in your way. I’ll just get back to work.”

Missing the sarcasm in her tone, Francesca nodded. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Cool—something to look forward to.
Shaking her head, Carrie went in search of her banana.

In the kitchen, she pushed aside a mangled stool—how odd—and leaned against the counter to eat her snack, her mind whirring with what she just saw.

Doing something like that would be so cool. How intriguing would a guy find her if she could wrap and unwrap herself with silk at will?

“Not that I have any guy in mind,” she lied to herself.

Francesca’s skills sparked a little flame of jealousy in her. She didn’t have any kind of interesting hobbies. She’d always thought she’d be great at martial arts, but even if she could squeeze classes into her already overfull schedule, she couldn’t afford them. And for some reason Gabe wouldn’t teach her.

Because no one expected little Carrie from Podunk, Iowa, to do anything so awesome. She was only ever supposed to be a housewife with two-point-five kids, have a fluffy dog named Sparky, and drive a station wagon.

Well, she didn’t want a station wagon. She wanted more from life. She wanted to be a professor, teaching arcane Chinese history at a prestigious university. And she wanted to climb the freaking silk.

Carrie dropped the banana peel in a garbage can, strode back to the rec room, and peeked in.

No Francesca.

Excellent.
Anticipation tingled in her belly as Carrie sneaked in, heading straight to the shimmering and enticing length of silk.

Raising up on her toes, she gripped the fabric overhead with both hands. She wiggled to get the silk around her leg. Impossible. She let go, wrapped the silk around with her hands, and grabbed the fabric again. Securing it at her ankle with her free leg, she lifted.

And moved up an inch.

Determined, she tried again. More successful this time, but still nothing like Francesca.

She wasn’t sure how long it took her, but she finally got five feet off the floor. She looked down, hoped the mat was as cushy as it looked, and began to work the silk around her waist.

It was great until something went amiss and she got tangled.

“Not so bad, really,” she assured herself. She was stuck, but she was secure. If only she could get her leg—

“What are you doing?” a gruff voice barked.

She tipped her head back. Max stood in the entrance to the room, wearing white
gi
pants. His chest a chiseled work of art, just like on the beach Monday morning.

She eyed the arrow of golden hair on his six-pack, lost her grip, and yelped as she slipped and the silk yanked her.

Muttering under his breath, Max stalked to her. He spun her several times and then set her on the floor.

“Whoa.” Dizzy, she reached out to steady herself. Except the only handhold she had was his biceps.

Rock solid. She surreptitiously felt them up as she blinked to refocus. She told herself she leaned into him because she was off-balance from the aerial stunt. “Maybe I should have had a spotter.”

Cold anger radiated off him in waves. “At the very least.”

“It didn’t seem that hard.” God—his mouth was
right there.
All she had to do was get up on tiptoes to reach. Even set in an angry line, it was enticing.

She recalled everything those lips had done to her in her dreams, and her face burned. She glanced at his abs, and her mouth went dry with the desire to nibble at the dips and grooves of the muscular ridges.

Not a good idea.
She tried to edge away—from him and the urge to run her hands over his shoulders, down his chest, and into his pants. “I should get back to the library.”

His gaze dropped to her lips, and she swore she felt some of his iciness melt. He took a step toward her. “Next time, come to me.”

“Come to you,” she repeated lamely.

“If you want to try something new,” he said, his voice husky.

That spot between her legs zinged, and her body screamed at her to take him up on his offer.

But she slipped around him and hurried for the door. “Thanks for the offer, but I should keep my feet on the ground from now on.”

She headed back to the library, glancing at him once from the hallway. He watched her. She shivered, tempted to return to him.

Next time, she’d stick with the apple pastries. They were definitely less dangerous to her thighs.