“Hello, Paul.”
“Isabelle! You arrived safely then?” His warm voice drifted through the line, full of his usual good humor.
She couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. I’m here. Got in about three hours ago.”
“Your flight went well?”
“Slept like a baby all the way.” Spying a cushioned bench beside a large potted lemon plant, she took a seat.
Enthusiasm crept into his voice. “Tell me about the necklace.”
“It’s even more beautiful in person. The diamonds have a slight bluish cast I hadn’t noticed before. I’d love to put my loop to them, but they’re locked up tight.”
“Are they drawing a lot of attention?”
“About what I expected.”
A moment of silence passed where Isabelle heard an unintelligible voice in the background. Crackling drifted through the receiver, indicating Paul had covered the phone. His voice came through, muffled and unclear. She worked her shoe on and off her foot as she waited.
“Apologies, Isabelle.” Paul returned, the lightness in his voice absent. “I phoned to tell you I found it necessary to take out insurance on the diamonds.”
“Insurance? Well, that’s a great idea, but how’d you manage it without owning the piece?” A frown tugged at her brow. No company she knew of would insure under those circumstances. Unless Paul’s vast connections afforded him special privilege, he was talking impossibilities.
“Not that kind of insurance.”
Queasiness set in, the same kind that had infiltrated her stomach every time her father had left the house claiming he had a job to do. She sat up taller, lowered her voice. “What kind?”
“Something I believe you can relate to a little better. Just a token to make sure the diamonds come back to me.”
She’d heard the same veiled threats drift from her father’s office one too many times for comfort. Her pulse kicked up a notch. A brittle edge crept into her voice. “What are you talking about, Paul?”
“Here, someone wants to say hello.”
Every instinct Isabelle possessed rose on high alert. She twisted sideways, hiding her face from the crowd and curled into her body to further damper her voice. “Paul, what’s—”
“Mommy?”
Shock rocketed through Isabelle. September! Holy shit, he had her daughter! Her chest seized and breathing became impossible. Through a tight throat, she choked out, “September are you okay?”
“Mommy, the shadow—”
“I assure you she’s unharmed,” Paul cut in. “I want the diamonds, Isabelle.”
“Paul, listen, this isn’t necessary.” Desperate to somehow protect her child despite the ocean that distanced them, she hurried to ease his concerns. “I gave you my word. Don’t drag her into this; she’s just a child. Take her back to Rosa. I’ll bring you your necklace. I swear it.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Rosa experienced a bit of an…accident.”
Ice ran through Isabelle’s veins. God damn it, she should have known better than to accept Paul Reid’s offer. Then again, nothing about the man identified him as mafia. She’d witnessed enough of her father’s business to recognize the signs from the get go. Paul exhibited none of them. For all intents and purposes, he was every bit the spotless, high-powered business tycoon the media portrayed him as. Shrewd of mind. Ethical in practice.
“What kind of accident?” She heard the question tumble off her lips, though she was absolutely certain she didn’t want to hear the answer.
“It seems she had a bit of a struggle the night September left. Now, do you understand what will happen if you should decide to keep those jewels for yourself, or if someone out bids you?”
Isabelle blinked back tears. Unable to answer in words, she nodded dumbly. She understood all right—she’d kill Paul Reid the minute she got back into the states if one single hair on September’s head had been split. Though she’d sworn off her father’s connections, she would call every single one of them and cash in every favor owed to the once-powerful don.
“If you hurt her—”
“Bring me the diamonds, Isabelle.”
Before she could say more, the line went dead.
Clutching her phone in a death grip, Isabelle slowly turned around and lifted her gaze to the distant case that held Paul’s sick obsession. Caradoc still stood nearby, the woman glued against his side. Compared to her daughter’s safety, the man who had ripped her heart in two no longer seemed so threatening. He had her notes, and she needed them. Most especially the program that Paul had marked up, identifying the other items he wanted.
He’d have his diamonds, along with everything else. Nothing, no one, would stop her from securing them all.
Rising, she took a deep breath to quell the trembling of her insides and strode purposefully toward the case that held the ring Paul wanted. The crowd had dispersed. She’d take a moment longer then reclaim her necessary papers.
Chapter 3
Tane shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the number of people crowding around the gold-gilt urn atop a platform barely wide enough to support its wide base. Though thick velvet ropes barred the respectful crowd from coming more than three feet close to it, one stumble, one inconsiderate, exuberant viewer, and it could topple. If it fell, the false lid would break open, revealing the Church’s sacred treasure. Bones and teeth of St. John the Baptist—matched fragments to those hidden away in Sozopol, Bulgaria—would scatter all over the floor, forever lost.
His hand fell reflexively to his hip, searching for the sword daylight forced him to leave behind, and he muttered a curse. How in the name of the saints were they supposed to safeguard relics when they were denied the very means of protecting themselves?
He flexed his fingers and tempered the rush of annoyance. ’Twas his duty to guard. To do no more than bid on these items. He could not fail, nor did he dare sway from orders. Mikhail and Merrick granted him the opportunity to prove his worth in this assignment, and if he wished to reclaim his place within the Order, he must succeed. Still, he felt as naked as a babe without his blade.
To curb the agitation in his hands, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against a tall marble column. Across the narrow hall, another group of curious spectators crowded around the urn. His gaze latched onto a youth, a lad no more than fifteen years who trailed behind his parents, obviously bored. Tane’s mind wandered to Marie and her brother, David, and the safehouse in Kansas City. While he was certain Iain and Catherine had things under control, he missed the time he spent with the homeless teens. There, he did not struggle with the need to prove himself, nor did the infernal jealousy simmer in his veins. Mayhap, if Azazel’s minions kept their distance, he could find a similar shelter within Sicily and donate his time.
His thoughts slowed to a halt as a fetid stench drifted to his nose. Surely, Azazel had not become aware of their presence so quickly and sent his foul fiends. ’Twas naught he could do here with the artifacts so well guarded—most particularly the tears. ’Twould be possible to claim the relics only when they changed hands.
Tane straightened, his hand once again falling to his hip. Breathing more deeply, he confirmed the foul scent of decay, and the hair at the nape of his neck lifted. Nay, he was not imagining the smell. It lingered, faint, but present none-the-less. Demons or another despicable creation lurked nearby.
Every instinct on alert, Tane pushed off the column and scanned the sea of bodies for Gareth and Caradoc. He spied them both, standing not on the terrace as Caradoc had mentioned, but still near the diamond-encrusted tears. From the corner of his eye, he caught Isabelle’s approaching figure.
’Twas sheer will power that allowed him to unclench the knot of jealousy that clamped his gut together. A beauty she might be, one certainly worth any man’s envy, but not once had her eyes strayed from Caradoc. She had not noticed Tane, nor Gareth, much to Tane’s surprise. ’Twas the same way Anne looked at Merrick, and Tane would barter the remain
ing light in his soul, that though Caradoc may not know it, fair Isabelle was meant for him.
He took a deep breath and marched toward his brothers. Seraphs and relics aside, Azazel lay in wait. ’Twas time to sound an alarm.
Gareth looked up as Tane arrived, but Caradoc’s gaze did not leave the approaching blonde. Careful to keep his words quiet, Tane asked, “Do you recognize the smell?”
Squinting, Gareth expressed confusion. “What smell?”
Caradoc spared only a brief glance over his shoulder to lift an inquisitive eyebrow.
“You cannot smell the stench?” Tane frowned. Momentarily doubting his own nose, he lifted his chin and inhaled the air again. Aye, the scent still clung to the breeze that wafted through the open windows and swirled around the vast hall. “’Tis here. I swear it to you.”
How could they not recognize the smell? They had been combating these evils for centuries. By now, the putrid aroma was second nature.
Tane looked to their leader and choked back a groan. ’Twas one thing to follow a distracted man. Another when the distraction bore the form of a woman. Recognizing that conversing with Caradoc right now would be a fruitless pursuit, he directed his inquiry to Gareth. “You truly cannot smell it?”
“Nay. I sense naught here.”
His frown deepening, Tane surveyed the crowd. ’Twas not fanciful creations of his mind. The unholy prowled here. ’Twas just a matter of defining where.
Caradoc’s muffled curse pulled him out of his quandary. He opened his mouth to inquire, then quickly snapped it shut, eyes widening as Caradoc shook off the woman who held onto his arm and stalked toward Isabelle.
Saints’ blood. This could not bode well. ’Twas unlike his brother to be so easily swayed from their assigned purpose. At this rate, they would be lucky to complete the duties they had been assigned.
As if Gareth sensed his thoughts, he too muttered. With a shake of his head, a glimpse of his usual good humor appeared in his grin. “I do suppose we shall have to attend to business. ’Twould seem Caradoc is preoccupied.”
“Aye.” The damnable jealousy reared its ugly head, twisting Tane’s stomach into knots. He grimaced with the effort of controlling it and forced aside the resentment over his brother’s good fortune. Of all of them, Caradoc deserved salvation. Still, Tane could not help but wish mayhap Isabelle was naught more than mere mortal. A ghost his brother must learn to accept, as opposed to the woman who would take the vile blackness from his soul.
Tane sighed heavily. ’Twould be necessary to find a shelter, if this continued. To succeed in this duty, to keep from failing his Order as he had before, he must find a way to overcome the blackness that threatened to pull him into Azazel’s dark grasp.
* * *
Three feet away from Isabelle, Caradoc came to an abrupt halt. ’Twas foolishness to pursue her, and yet, naught could convince him to remain at his brothers’ sides and allow her to walk away once more. Though he was now convinced their paths would intertwine for the remainder of their stay in Sicily, ’twas the outcome that concerned him. As a mortal, she possessed the ability to denounce her seraph’s status. She could refuse to take the oaths. And his loyalty to the Order refused to allow him to give her the opportunity. No matter the pain it might bring, he must convince her to pledge herself to him, even if they never set eyes upon one another after these few days.
His body, however, demanded he do all he could to insure these few days did not end. Standing so close he could breathe her sweet perfume, every fiber of his being tightened with the need to take her in his arms, speak the words that lay in his heart, and beg her to forgive.
Steeling himself against the inevitable confrontation, he set his teeth together and strode forward, inserting himself between Isabelle and a heavy-set Italian at her right. “Isa, I must speak with you.”
Bent over the case, jeweler’s loop lifted to her eye, she examined a sapphire ring. “Give me my papers. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Nay, mayhap you do not, but I have words to say to you. Dine with me this eve.”
She glanced up, incredulity widening her eyes. A soft laugh slipped off her parted lips. “I don’t think so.”
Caradoc’s heart jumped as the one thing he had yearned to witness surfaced in her indigo eyes. There, he observed not the anger she had spewed on their first meeting, nor the derision her words strove to achieve. Nay, what briefly flashed revealed pain, but more so, a strong glimpse of her heart. She may not like him presently, but she had not grown to hate.
Hope took hold of his soul.
Impulse drove him to reach for her hand. Bringing it away from her face, he set it on the glass case and covered it with his. “Isabelle, I wish to explain. I cannot bear this ice that flows between us. If you would but give me a few moments tonight, I will swear not to ask again, should you find my reasonings unacceptable.”
For a moment, he thought she would agree. Her gaze drifted to their joined hands. Beneath his fingertips, he felt her pulse take flight, and the severe frown etched into her delicate brow smoothed. She looked up, her eyes searching his face. He did not need words to know the questions in her mind; her expression voiced them plainly. Could she? Would he hurt her again?
His chest constricted at the obvious reminder of the grief he had caused her. Could she not recognize he suffered the same? That each day he had thought of naught but her and despised himself for doing what he believed was necessary? If he could but only turn back time, and instead of crawling out of their bed to disappear, crawl out of their bed to kneel at her side and swear his loyalty.
“Isa, please,” he whispered.
In the next moment, all hesitation fled her face and stern lines took up residence around her mouth. She pulled her hand from beneath his and tucked it against her hip. “I’m afraid I have plans tonight. My papers please.” She held out her hand.
“Then tomorrow.”
A slow, sad shake of her head sent his hope tail spinning to his feet. Her words cut him open once again.
“No, Caradoc. I’m here for business, not pleasure.”
Three weeks with her taught him many things, not the least of which was her stubborn pride. It had taken him days to convince her he wanted to bear the brunt of their expenses and would not accept her offer to split their cottage’s rent, or their meals, jointly. A trifle matter compared to this. In the era of his birth, the dishonor he cast upon her by leaving was worthy of swords. Had she a brother, a father, even an uncle, Caradoc would have had to answer for his offenses with blood.
No matter how he longed to, he could not force this. He had made his wish clear. ’Twould be her choosing, if or when the conversation would occur. And ’twould be his penance should she choose to deny him completely.
Reluctantly, he answered with a slow nod. “I understand. Should you change your mind, I am staying at the Villa Igiea Hilton, Room 305.”
Her soft mouth twisted into a grimace. “I won’t make that mistake again.” She plucked her papers from his hand, pivoted, and stalked away, head held proud, shoulders erect.
Mistake. Caradoc cringed inwardly. ’Twas one fight he was unprepared for. No matter how he tried, she managed to land felling blows. Lifting his gaze, he searched the frescoed ceiling for a sign of divine inspiration, some signal of how to proceed.
Naught moved amongst the colorful depiction of Bacchus lounging in a Roman vineyard.
Bollocks! He lacked the patience to deal with such a trial. And yet, he could think of naught that would see this resolved more quickly. Isabelle would not tolerate pressure. The relics Caradoc and his men had been assigned to protect inhibited him from taking her to the Temple where she had no choice but to listen. If he thought going there might accomplish something useful, he would do as Merrick had with Anne and toss Isabelle over his shoulder, forcing her to comply.
Why, oh, why, could Gabriel not make this joining of seraphs easy?
Unease sifted into Caradoc’s blood as the thought occurr
ed. Had Gabriel visited Isabelle and delivered the seraphs’ torc? If so, she faced danger she could not begin to fathom. Azazel had already taken one seraph, and whilst Lucan had successfully returned Chloe, the archangels’ suspicion Azazel desired a new mate became clear. If he claimed one who carried the light of the Almighty, her power would combine with his dark purpose and grant him the ability to claim the divine throne.
A whole new sense of urgency rushed through Caradoc’s body. Even worse than the thought of never again knowing Isabelle’s love was the thought she might suffer, mayhap even die. He could not bear the idea, especially not when he could prevent that terrible fate.
Determined to eliminate the possibility, he shoved away from the case, necklace temporarily forgotten, and stalked off to find Tane and Gareth. Tomorrow the bidding began. For four days, a seraph and the tears would inhabit the same building, a recipe guaranteed to bring catastrophe.
Isabelle might want him to disappear, but he had no intentions of complying. He would give her tonight. Tomorrow, however, he would not accept her excuses.
He acknowledged Tane and Gareth with a curt nod. “Come, we must leave. It grows dark, and my belly demands food.” He directed them with a wave of his hand and started for the wide, open arches that led to the villa’s garden and the parking lot beyond. “What did you discover about the other relics?”
“The urn will be auctioned day after tomorrow,” Tane supplied, his quick steps revealing his anxiousness to also leave.
From the corner of his eye, Caradoc observed Gareth lagging behind, his attention sidetracked by a passing redhead in a white tunic-style summer dress. Gareth shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and jogged up to join them once more. “Tomorrow the statue will be auctioned as well as the reliquary cross.”
“Aye, good then. We can take tomorrow to observe who our contenders for the tears are.” As Caradoc let himself inside the silver SUV and slid behind the wheel, another thought rammed into his gut and threatened to steal his air. Saints’ teeth! What if Isabelle had come for a relic they had been charged to acquire? ’Twould not be unlikely; she possessed powerful clients with money to throw away.
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 3
