Chosen by Desire (13 page)

“I’ve got two hands.” She stood up, bounced back and forth on her toes, and swiped her fists around like she was a boxer. “I learn fast.”

Unable to help himself, he stood up, too, and walked to her. “You’re too—”

“What?” She stopped moving and eyed him with pursed lips. “Old?”

Hardly. He shook his head.

“What, then?”

Knowing he shouldn’t—but damn it, he couldn’t help himself—he stepped in close. He inhaled her strawberry scent, and his gaze fell on that vulnerable soft spot at the crook of her neck that her upswept hair revealed.

She swallowed audibly. “Am I too uncoordinated?”

“No.” The cold metal in and around him went molten. Against his will, he brushed that creamy skin with one finger. The iron in her blood reacted to
j
n ch’i,
her cheeks flushing pink. “Too soft.”

He heard her gasp, and he couldn’t mistake the heat in her eyes or the way she swayed toward him.

Her gaze fell to his lips. “Is that a bad thing?”

He reminded himself that she was the enemy—in league with Rhys. She’d stolen the Book of Water. God knew what she planned inside that beautiful head of hers.

But it would be strategically wise to use her attraction to draw her into his confidence. “It could be a very bad thing.”

“Do you do bad things?” she asked.

He wanted to—dark, illicit things that would make her writhe in pleasure. That would make her moan the way she had that first night. This time for him.

For a moment, he wondered what taking her would be like. Sweet. Exquisite.

Dangerous. Given the opportunity, he knew he could lose himself in her—and that wasn’t something he could afford.

He reinforced
j
n ch’i
like a barrier around him and stepped back. “I don’t. Do you?”

“Sometimes doing a bad thing is necessary for the best outcome.”

“The best outcome for whom?”

She shrugged and settled back on the chair, her knees drawn up against her chest. “We’re just speaking hypothetically, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” He headed for the door, not unaware that he was trying to outrun temptation. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You’re working with me?”

Hearing the nerves in her voice, he glanced over his shoulder. “Is that a problem?”

She swallowed. “No. I just thought Francesca—”

“Francesca is busy tomorrow.” Yes, she was definitely nervous. Hiding something? Without a doubt. Disappointment clung to him as he nodded at her and left.

He was doing the right thing. He pulled out his cell phone and texted Francesca to meet him ASAP. It was time to press his advantage. And he knew just how to do it.

I
need you to befriend Carrie Woods.”

Max knew he must have shocked Francesca with his request, because her usual blankness slipped to reveal surprise. He settled on the corner of the desk in his private study, watching her as she sat primly on the couch, wearing her signature suit. She worried the strand of pearls his family had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

But her hand stilled and lowered to her lap, her expression returning to its normally placid state. “May I ask why?”

“I need information from her.”

“And you believe that if I deceive her into friendship, she’ll reveal all to me?”

Max frowned at the sharp edge to her tone. “Specifically, I want to know how she knows a man named Rhys Llewellyn. But I don’t want her to suspect you know of her association with him.”

“Hm.”

He shifted on the desk, eyes narrowing. “Is this assignment going to be a problem?”

Francesca opened her mouth and closed it, her mouth forming a firm line. She shook her head. “Not at all. When haven’t I done what you wanted?”

Before he would question her, she stood up. “Will that be all?”

For a moment, anger made her eyes sparkle and her face flush, but then her usual placid mask was back in place. Max blinked, remembering the vivid little girl who used to follow him around. It hadn’t occurred to him how she’d changed over the years. He wondered why he noticed it now.

“Sir?”

He shook his head. “That’s all.”

With a tip of her head, she stalked out of the room.

Odd. She’d never balked at one of his requests before, no matter how unorthodox.

He frowned. She’d never failed him. That was all that mattered.

Max decided that the best way to increase Carrie’s longing for him was to make himself scarce, so he stayed in his office all day. He needed to study the dossier his private investigator put together on Rhys, as well as review the reports on his holdings.

It appeared to be true—Rhys was living with a woman. Gabrielle Sansouci Chin, an artist who bartended with Carrie.

Did Carrie introduce her to Rhys, or vice versa? He e-mailed some questions to his PI, including a request for a background check on Gabrielle Chin.

It was late when he finally quit for the day. He left the office, intending to go to his room to meditate before bed. His intentions went out the window when he saw the light seeping from under Carrie’s door.

He stared at the thin line of illumination. She was in her room. Awake.

He pictured her, lying across the top of her bed, wearing nothing more than one of the scraps of lace he’d found in her drawer. He imagined her luscious ass, her curves barely covered. The way she’d look over her shoulder and lick her lips—beckoning. She’d be warm and accepting, taking all of him in—including the broken bits.

His cock stirred, and he stepped toward her door.

No.
He stopped abruptly, fists clenched. He couldn’t. With a growl, he turned around, jogged down the stairs, and headed outside to the beach.

The vigorous walk did him no good. He still throbbed with need—physically and mentally—so he stripped his clothes and dove into the ocean. He cursed as the chilled water closed over his head. Stupid, going swimming in the Pacific alone at night. A pathetic act of desperation.

Max let himself flow with the current before he propelled himself forward at his own pace. Forcing the thoughts from his mind, he let
j
n ch’i
warm him as he dove in and out of the waves. When he felt his muscles tire, he dragged himself out of the water and back to shore.

Using his shirt to dry himself off, he slipped on his underwear and carried the rest of his clothes back to the house. With any luck, she’d be asleep, and he could rest in peace.

Only as he reached the stairs from the beach up to the house, something felt wrong. He stilled, looking up at the house.

Nothing.

No. Max shook his head. Something wasn’t right.

Then he saw the person, clinging to the side of the house. Climbing up.

To Carrie’s room.

His eyes narrowed. An accomplice, or an intruder?

What was he thinking? It had to be an accomplice, going to meet with her. Was that what she was waiting for, still awake? Was it Rhys?

Fury riled
j
n ch’i.
It took a moment to get himself under control and back into a logical state. If it were Rhys, he would have felt it.

If it wasn’t Rhys, then who was it?

“One way to find out,” he muttered under his breath, running silently up the steps.

Stopping at the edge of the garden, Max focused his chi. He envisioned it sharp as his sword’s blade, cutting through the intruder’s layers of dark clothing. With his hand, he made a swiping motion.

The prowler grabbed his leg and lost his footing. He quickly corrected, holding firm to the railing of Carrie’s balcony, and looked down.

Max unleashed another razor-sharp burst of energy.

A low moan of pain. Part of his pant leg shredded, revealing lacerated white skin. He lost his grip again, dangling precariously, but regained control and quickly shimmied back down the side of the house.

Dropping his clothes, Max ran to intercept him. Damn, the guy was nimble. Even having the two wounds didn’t stop him from jumping the last ten feet from the house and hopping over bushes to make his escape.

The bastard wasn’t getting away. Steeling himself, Max aimed his chi for a stunning blow guaranteed to drop the person. Chasing him around the corner of the house, he let
j
n ch’i
burst forward.