Then, those deep blue eyes that taunted him each time he slept narrowed to mere slivers of indigo light and filled with condemnation.
The hatred emanating in her stare flayed him open. He had put that vile gleam there. Had asked for naught less when he fled the rooms they shared three years prior without so much as a goodbye. He deserved every bit of it. Mayhap more. And yet, the knowledge he had crushed the love he had so cherished, cleaved his heart in half.
She had been the only woman he had ever even considered spending eternity with. That he could not, that some day he would be forced to pledge himself to a seraph, drove him away. He could no more bear the thought of telling her he must join with another, than he could bear the idea of her eventual mortal death.
Caradoc looked away with effort. He could not stand here a moment longer.
Shouldering his way past Tane, he struck off across the marble floor toward a distant table of jewelry and antiquities. ’Twould be a better purpose to focus on their mission. Identify the necklace, locate its number in their program, and appear only when the auctioneer placed it on the podium. Gareth or Tane could claim the urn and the other minor relics of interest to the Church that Antonio Shapiro had amassed throughout his life. The less time Caradoc spent where he must confront Isabelle’s presence, the better.
He reached the row of glass cases, set his hand on one, bowed his head, and took a shaky breath. Isabelle here. Damnation, no greater torture could exist.
Footsteps approached his side. “Caradoc,” Tane prompted. “What did you see? You look as if you witnessed a ghost.”
A ghost indeed. One he had desperately tried to bury.
Caradoc shook his head. “’Tis naught.”
“Naught, my arse!” Behind him, Gareth let out a hearty laugh. “Did you not see the woman, Tane? ’Twould seem as if our brother was besieged with lust.”
As Caradoc lifted his head, he met Tane’s widening eyes. What had just occurred was lost on the European knight, but the five whom Caradoc had spent nine centuries with knew his struggle. The shared knowledge, the brief pity that reflected in Tane’s eyes, was too great for Caradoc to shoulder. He scowled to ward it off. “Leave me. See to the urn, to the painting. I care not.”
Tane answered with a deferential nod. But as he took a step back, the sweet scent of honeysuckled wafted to Caradoc’s nose once more. Before he could turn around, the delightfully feminine voice he could not hope to forget rang over the surrounding hum of activity.
“Please stay. I’d love to have an audience while I tell your friend to go to hell.”
* * *
Every fiber of Isabelle Speranza’s body vibrated with unspent anger. She glowered at Caradoc’s stiffened shoulders, silently daring him to turn around and confront her wrath. She’d known one day they would meet—her dreams promised nothing less—and for three years she’d rehearsed the glory of this moment—what she would say, how she would say it. If she could get away with driving her knee into his groin, she’d do so in a heartbeat. He deserved far more. More her father had promised Caradoc would receive, before his heart suddenly gave out.
“Or are you too cowardly to look me in the eye?” she challenged.
Conscious of the way the two men who flanked him tensed, she tipped her chin up, determined not to be dissuaded by the fact she had company. She’d tell Caradoc the things she’d longed to once heartbreak morphed to fury and be gone before he could think of a protest. His pretty words meant nothing to her anymore.
Slowly his head turned, then his broad shoulders. Words rose to the tip of her tongue, anxious for freedom. Fuck you. But when those hazel eyes met hers, and remorse washed over the noble lines of his face, her courage faltered. Against her will, her gaze dropped to take in the magnificence of the man she’d once believed in. Beneath the starched white shirt and the open front of an exquisitely tailored suit jacket, his chest was every bit as broad as she remembered. Crisply pleated pants accented the trimness of his waist, and though loose, the fine Italian fabric couldn’t hide his muscular thighs.
Memory supplied all the rest as visions leapt to life of the two of them tangled in the bed sheets, laughter rumbling in her ear, his bronzed body meshing perfectly with hers. At once, heat fanned through her limbs. Her stomach pitched to her toes.
God, she hated him. Hated how he could turn her into putty even after the despicable way he’d tossed her aside without so much as a word of explanation.
She jerked her gaze back to his. Not remorse. Regret. He regretted she’d finally caught up with him. He knew he’d been a bastard, and now he didn’t want to face the proverbial music.
“Isabelle,” he murmured.
The velvety baritone washed over her, intensifying the trembling in her hands. She opened her mouth, prepared to spit the rehearsed speech out. But to her absolute shame, words remained lodged in her throat.
Isabelle cleared her voice, determined to get the nightmare over with. Once she had, she could focus on accomplishing the job Paul Reid sent her to do. In four days, she’d never again see Caradoc Asterleigh. She’d never forget him, but she’d never see his handsome face looming a scant few inches from hers.
“You’re an asshole,” she muttered.
His wince rattled her beyond repair. Damn it all, this wasn’t how the fantasy played out. He was supposed to be standing behind her, touching her shoulder, pushing her hair aside so he could kiss the side of her neck. The scene had driven every speech she’d crafted until she’d come up with the exact words she intended to use. She’d twist aside, tell him to fuck off. He’d spew petty excuses. She’d laugh in his face and stride away.
But Caradoc didn’t look at all prepared to grovel, and her nerves of steel were rapidly turning into spaghetti.
Touch me.
The traitorous plea of her heart surprised her so monumentally that the papers she held in her left hand slipped free. They scattered to the floor in front of her high heels in a jumbled mess of programs, flight itineraries, hotel reservations, and pages of research she’d conducted on the priceless diamond necklace Paul wanted.
Before she could bend her knees to pick the mess up, Caradoc bent over and grabbed at the papers. A whiff of sandalwood and sage assaulted her senses. How many times had she buried her face into her pillow and fancied she could smell him on the sheets?
Oh dear Lord, she needed to get out of here fast. She was unraveling by the second. Any minute now, what she longed to ask would tumble free—Why did you leave me?
The feel of his strong fingers locking around her left ankle froze her frantic heart. Heat seeped into her skin, blending with the already present warmth and making her palms sweat. An all too familiar ache spread through her womb. She closed her eyes with a grimace. No, no, no! She would not forget the utter sense of betrayal she experienced when she’d woken up in the cottage they’d shared in England and found it empty.
Three weeks might have opened her to love. He might have said the same things. But this man had never truly loved her. She’d been nothing more than a fleeting excursion, and his words were empty lies.
She tensed her leg, prepared to kick off his hand.
“Isabelle, what is this?” Caradoc’s thumb caressed the tattoo on the outside of her ankle.
Fringed with a touch of disbelief, his question slammed into her. In one swift stroke, the already budding nightmare of confronting him transformed into a living horror. Caradoc wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be gallantly picking up her papers, and he damn sure wasn’t supposed to notice the tattoo she’d designed in a moment of uncontrolled yearning, a year after he’d abandoned her.
A tattoo that identically matched the colorful family crest on Caradoc’s right shoulder blade.
Chapter 2
If such were possible, Caradoc’s throat closed even more. One knee touching the marble floor, he remained motionless, his gaze riveted on the majestic gryphon beneath the pad of his thumb. Through four generations, the regal
creature had identified the Asterleigh holdings, but the beast on Isabelle’s ankle, the same beast that adorned Caradoc’s shoulder blade, had been embellished by his father. She had not possessed it before, yet somehow, she had reproduced it to perfection. From the tip of its sinewy tail, to its gold-fringed wings and razor sharp talons, every detail was a precise match. As if he had sketched it for her.
An invisible fist thumped into his gut as another, more powerful, understanding registered. His mark. His seraph.
Christ’s blood, he had turned away from the one woman who held his destiny in her hands. Shattered her faith in him, destroyed their love, and forced her out of his life.
He would like to believe otherwise. Would like the ability to convince himself that the colorful ink had nothing to do with the prophecy of seraphs. ’Twould be a simpler act, despite the anguish it brought, if she were naught but a mortal woman. For if she were, he would not be confronted with the very real possibility he had doomed himself needlessly and subjected the Order to failure. For without her oath, the Templar prophecy would crack.
Yet even as he struggled to accept what lay before his eyes, a strange, unexpected peace descended around him. The knifing ache that had so long lingered in his bones ebbed to a dull throb. As it had the first moment he had taken Isabelle Speranza in his arms and lost himself to the heady flavor of her kiss.
His breath came out in a low hiss. Damnation, he should have known then! Should have recognized she possessed the light his dying soul required.
Mystified, he ran his thumb down the gryphon’s lion-like back. His seraph.
Isabelle jerked her foot out of his grasp and answered the question he had forgotten about. “It’s nothing but youthful stupidity.”
Her words lanced through him, and he winced again. Before he could lift his gaze to hers and beg her to wait, she turned and stalked away, her papers forgotten.
In her absence, the dull throb roared to intolerable limits. Caradoc’s joints screamed in protest as he struggled to right himself. Youthful stupidity—aye, his seraph she might be, but whatever they had shared was lost. What union they might experience now would be naught less than duty.
A misery he could blame only on himself.
He glanced down at the papers in his hands and expelled a heavy sigh. The Almighty could be no more cruel.
“So that is Isabelle,” Tane murmured. “’Tis no wonder she holds you in chains.”
Jarred from his thoughts, Caradoc became aware of his brothers’ curious stares. Had they too seen the tattoo? Surely they could not have witnessed it—his hand had covered most of the fanciful design.
Unwilling to discuss the many questions that would follow should he mention their shared marks, he tapped the glass case that contained the necklace. “This is our purpose here. For now, ’tis safe.” He lifted his hand to indicate the network of cameras and motion detectors that clung to the ceiling.
Gareth frowned. “You believe technology would thwart Azazel?”
“Nay. I believe Raphael would. For if the Dark One should make his presence known, he is not yet strong enough to defeat Raphael’s terrific sword.”
“And the rest of the relics?” Tane flicked the sheet of paper the Church had provided.
“Find them, find their numbers, discover which day they shall be auctioned. I will meet you on the terrace.”
Gareth departed with a curt nod, but Tane lingered. Concern tightened his dark brow and pulled at the corners of his eyes. “Much has passed between us, Caradoc, through the centuries. Do not let my recent failures color the bonds of friendship we have shared. Should you need to speak, I shall listen.”
Speak? There was naught to say. Naught that did not sound like nonsense. Besides, he could not yet bring himself to tell the one who had been so possessed by jealousy that he had stolen another brother’s seraph, of Isabelle’s status.
He shook his head and forced a slight smile. His gaze flicked above Tane’s head, landing once more on Isabelle’s sun-kissed hair. He closed his eyes to the vibrant memory of their first meeting. She had worn her hair knotted at her neck in a dignified bun. As they walked beneath the stars, he had plucked the pins free. As those long thick lengths cascaded around her shoulders, the scent of honeysuckle drew him close enough he could not help but slide his fingers through the silken strands.
Moments later, he had kissed her. An embrace that led to a paradise he had never before known.
“Leave me, Tane,” he choked out as emotion clogged his throat.
A sturdy hand clapped his shoulder before Caradoc sensed his brother no longer stood at his side. He opened his eyes, grateful for the solitude. The ancient prophecy’s words echoed in his head: The one who digs in dust precedes the finding of the jewel. How had he failed to recognize Isabelle’s importance? It all seemed so obvious now. Isabelle’s renowned status as jeweler to the American elite, the way his body ceased to ache when he touched her—all along she had been right before his eyes. Yet he had walked away, too afraid to confess his purpose, certain she would never believe.
He pulled in a shuddering breath as she pivoted on a high heel and revealed her delicate profile. A fierce rush of anger coursed through his veins as he recalled the brief letter Mikhail had composed that ordered him to Italy. The archangel could have warned him. If Mikhail had mentioned one solitary word about Isabelle, this first meeting would not have been such a disaster. He might have known what to say. Might have been given time enough to develop an apology worthy of the wrongs he had committed. Instead, he had spent the last three weeks chasing death and preparing for an auction he no longer cared about.
Grinding his teeth together, he clenched a hand into a fist. The Templar purpose might be to reclaim the necklace and insure Azazel could not touch the sacred tears, but Caradoc’s had just changed. Somehow, he must convince Isabelle to abandon her rightful hate and pledge herself to eternity with him. Yet, how in the name of all things sacred was he supposed to accomplish such a feat? He had wounded Isabelle. Cut her more deeply than he had ever imagined. Her words made it plain she wished naught to do with him.
The greater question remained—what would he do if she refused? His foolishness may have well collapsed the prophecy and doomed the entire Order. Destruction that played right into Azazel’s unholy designs. For if the Templar fell, naught would thwart the dark lord’s ascension to the highest throne.
* * *
Isabelle stared at the collection of priceless oils and willed her hands to quit shaking. The weight of Caradoc’s watchful stare bore heavily into her back, making it that much more difficult to find her composure.
She never should have followed through on the ridiculous urge to tell him off. The theory worked well, but he was just too potent to overcome. Now she’d made a supreme fool out of herself.
She smoothed her pencil skirt and gulped in a deep breath. Why was he here?
Foolish question. Half of Italy and anyone who possessed even a mild interest in antiquities and gemstones had come to Shapiro’s week-long estate sale. His collection brought in big players like Cartier, De Beers, Tiffany, and Steibel, and many were likely to have special interest in the necklace she was to procure. With an appraisal value just over eleven million, the near-perfect diamonds had attracted a following that matched the unknown Monet hanging beside a previously undiscovered Rembrandt of a young peasant girl.
A slight smile drifted to her lips. The big players wouldn’t be leaving with those diamonds. For once, they couldn’t outbid her. Paul had assured he’d pay whatever the diamonds demanded.
Her gaze skimmed toward Caradoc, the power of his presence impossible to ignore. To her immense relief, he’d turned around and was now inspecting the contents of one of the glass cases. Shaggy blond hair dusted wide shoulders that pulled the fine fabric of his suit jacket tight.
In all her fantasies, not once had she ever conjured a vision of him in a suit and tie. If she didn’t know how comfortable he found jeans and casual
shirts, she’d think he wore a suit daily. He certainly knew how to pick one that accented his physique.
A renegade giggle tickled the back of her throat. Isabelle silenced the sound with a sharp frown. She didn’t dare get caught up in Caradoc’s handsomeness again.
While she watched, a woman elbowed her way close to the same case. She must have said something to Caradoc, because he glanced up with a cordial smile. Isabelle didn’t need to see his face to know the way his hazel eyes would twinkle. Like the rare, marra mamba tiger eye, those greenish gems would shine with hints of golden yellow. Priceless. Mesmerizing.
An effect that wasn’t lost on his current companion, Isabelle observed, as the woman’s face flushed pink and she set a hand on Caradoc’s thick forearm.
Three years of longing rose up to swallow Isabelle whole. She should be the one standing at his side making him laugh, not some stranger in a power suit. What she’d give to hear that husky rumble in his chest, to see those eyes that she’d never forgotten light.
She closed one hand into a fist tight enough her nails bit into her palm. Damn him. After all they’d shared, she deserved at least a goodbye. But no, he’d denied her that basic human courtesy, left her to wonder what drove him away in the middle of the night, and left her to raise the child he’d sworn he couldn’t sire.
As September’s cherubic face surfaced to the forefront of Isabelle’s mind, a wave of guilt nearly bowled her over. She should tell him about their daughter, if only for September’s sake. Yet she couldn’t decide which would be worse—being forced to accept he didn’t give a damn, or being forced to interact with him on a regular basis.
The sudden chirrup of her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She thrust her hand into her purse and glanced at the LCD, noting Paul’s number. Turning away from Caradoc, she started for a quieter corner of the vast marble hall.
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 2
