Chapter Seven

The flight to Los Angeles was short and uneventful, landing on time. Francesca picked her up from LAX, looking like a Wall Street princess with her immaculate suit, huge Coach bag, and ever-present Blackberry.

The woman was as chilly as ever, so instead of trying to make conversation with her, Carrie sat back to enjoy the scenery. At least she tried, but she kept getting distracted by the tug of the ocean. It reminded her of the dream she had last night—yeah, another one. More vivid than the one before and starring the monk—again.

In the dream, she swam out to him and anchored her legs around his waist, his erection rubbing against her intimately. The water seemed to join in their play, and it created this weird, erotically charged threesome. She woke up moaning, the sheets tangled around her legs.

What was her problem? Why couldn’t she be normal and dream about Brad Pitt? On dry land. Heck, in a bed, even. Maybe her mom was right—maybe she really did need to get lucky.

Of course, she’d been obsessed with water lately. It didn’t escape her that her strange water fixation could be tied to finding the Book of Water. Probably a subconscious acting-out of her guilt.

She’d return it. As soon as she studied it a little. She’d tried taking photos of it, but every attempt came out blurry. She couldn’t send it back without reading it. They probably wouldn’t notice its disappearance as long as she didn’t keep it overly long.

She clutched her bag, where she’d tucked the scroll away. There hadn’t been any record of anyone documenting one of the Scrolls of Destiny. Ever. This could be huge for her.

They drove through Santa Monica and up the coast, turning off Highway 1 and onto a scenic drive. Traffic became sparser as the houses dotting the gentle hills became larger.

They stopped at one of those houses.

Though house seemed an inadequate description. Small mansion maybe. It was a Mediterranean style home, something you’d expect in Greece. Or Southern California.

“Not in Kansas anymore,” Carrie murmured to herself, opening the car door. The ocean stretched vast just beyond the house. She inhaled its salty tang and started toward it.

“Ms. Woods,” Francesca called crisply.

Oh, right. Maybe later. She could go for walks on the beach every day—anything to keep her butt from reaching epic proportions (drat her love of carbs). She glanced at the water longingly again before turning around.

Francesca was already clacking up the wide porch steps to the front door. “We’re behind schedule. He expected us fourteen minutes ago.”

“Fourteen minutes should be forgivable,” Carrie said, hurrying to catch up.

The woman stopped and frowned at her.

Carrie practically tripped over her feet to keep from running into Francesca. “I mean, neither air travel nor LA traffic is predictable.”

Does not compute was written clearly on her face. But she didn’t say anything, instead pulling out her keys and continuing for the door.

Carrie sighed and skipped up the steps.

The door opened before Francesca reached it. Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad, barefoot man in jeans and a flowy white linen shirt. He had wild blond hair that needed a cut—

She froze on the top porch step. The monk.

Woo-hoo—it was him! Her girly parts tingled in anticipation. Maybe her sex dreams didn’t have to be just dreams. Thank goodness she packed her sexy undies.

Oh, God—wait. Why was he here? Did he know about the journal and scrolls?

What was she thinking? He had to know she’d stolen from the monastery. She bit her lip. Would he believe her if she handed over her bag and told him she didn’t mean to do it?

She studied him, but she couldn’t read anything from his gaze. Maybe he was waiting for the police to show up before he made a move.

Oh, God—her mom was going to flip out if she ended up in jail.

Stop acting like a spaz. She drew in a deep breath, and the smell of the ocean soothed her.

And cleared her mind enough to think logically. If he thought she’d taken something, he would have just found her and demanded it back—he didn’t have to hire her. This had to be a coincidence. So she relaxed.

Only then she remembered her dreams and tensed again. It didn’t help that he was watching her so closely.

Shifting her bag, she glanced at Francesca, hoping the woman would break the awkward moment with an introduction, but Francesca just stared at him with single-minded focus.

He didn’t seem aware of the woman whatsoever. She wondered if he was gay, because Francesca was the kind of beautiful that deserved to be on the silver screen.

Carrie looked at him, at the intense way he watched her with his hooded gaze, and shivered. Definitely not gay. The guy had woman-attracting pheromones oozing from every pore.

Which was going to make sticking to her all-work/no-play philosophy over the next four weeks that much more difficult.

As Max held the door open wide and moved aside to let her into his home, he saw it again—that damned little-girl twinkle in her eyes just like at the monastery.

She hesitated on the threshold, as if debating turning around and walking away. But then she stepped in and grinned—half innocent, half imp, and wholly fallen angel—and said, “If you’re going to offer me an apple, I’ll have to pass.”

Max crossed his arms, suspicious. “An apple?”

“You know, like Eve in the Garden of Eden.”

He studied her, adding a touch of frost to his gaze. “That can mean only one of two things.”

She tipped her head to the side and studied him right back. “What two things?”

“That you’re likening me to the serpent.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “And the second?”

It didn’t escape his notice that she didn’t deny it. “Or that you think I’m offering you temptation.”

A muffled cough made both of them turn around. For the first time he noticed Francesca standing next to Carrie Woods. He leveled a cool stare at her, not pleased that she interrupted before he got an answer.

Francesca took a small step back, paling under his admonishing look. To her credit, she gathered her composure and, as she closed the door, said, “Sir, this is Carrie Woods, the historian who will be working on the translations. Ms. Woods, this is Maximillian Prescott, also known as Bái H.”

The little thief swung her wide-eyed gaze back to him. “You’re Bái H?”

If the situation had been any different, he might have been amused. But there was nothing amusing about this situation. He was here to return what she’d stolen to the monastery and exact his revenge from Rhys. Period. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not.” Her brow furrowed. “I just wasn’t expecting—”

“A white man?”

She grinned again. “Oh, that’s the least of it.”

He would have given anything to know what was going through her head, but then he noticed the bag she clutched onto her shoulder and stilled. A bolt of awareness shot through him—one that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the presence of the scroll. She had it in there. The journal, too, he’d bet.

She must have sensed his scrutiny, because she tightened her hold on the bag.

Too little, too late, he thought. You’re already in my snare. “We should get you situated.”

Francesca rushed forward. “I’ve had Don take her bag to the first-floor guest room. I’ll show her—”

“Have her things transferred to the gold room,” he cut in.

Francesca started in shock. “But—”

He simply stared at her.

Ducking her head, she took a step back. “Of course. I’ll see to it right away.”

He turned to find Carrie Woods frowning at him. He gestured to the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room.”

She opened her luscious mouth to say something but, in the end, closed it and nodded. Without a word, she began up the marble steps.

He followed behind, watching the sway of her hips. She was lush there, too—nothing innocent about the way she filled out her jeans.

Was she trying to lure him on purpose? He’d noticed the attraction in her stare—maybe he could use that to his advantage.

She glanced over her shoulder as if she felt his gaze. The slight frown still marred her forehead.

Max strode past her, wondering who was offering whom the apple now. “Your room is this way.”

Without waiting to see if she followed, he stalked down the hall to the gold room and opened its door. He stood in the doorway and inhaled her as she brushed by him. Fresh, like wild strawberries.

“This is fabulous.” She laughed, a golden tinkle that matched the shimmery drapes covering the windows. “It’s bigger than my studio. I’ll be totally spoiled by the time I leave.”

He watched her drift to the window and run her fingers along the silk before pushing it aside to look out. He knew what she saw: the Pacific Ocean lapping at the isolated beach.

“There’s no one down there,” she said so softly he had to step forward to hear her. “If I lived here I’d be on the beach every chance I got.”

“The beach below is private. But you’re welcome to use it in your free time.” It’d give him the opportunity to search her things.

“Thank you.” She turned a brilliant smile on him.

He stared at her lips, caught by the urge to lay claim to them. His body tensed, desires long buried fighting to rise to the surface.

Puzzled by his reaction, Max took a step back. Distance brought clarity, and he needed that—now. “Your bath is through the double doors to the left. I’ll have Francesca send up a tray for your dinner, as I’m sure you’re tired from your travels.”

“It was only an hour-and-a-half flight.”

Ignoring her protest, he headed for the door. “If you need anything, dial zero on the house phone and you’ll reach Francesca or the housekeeper. I’ll leave you to get settled.”

“Where—”

“I’m sure Francesca left you details on the layout of the house. I’ll see you at eight in the library.” He left before she could say anything else… and before he gave in and found out whether her lips tasted as sinful as they looked.