“I don’t know how Cassandra found out about the prophecy,” Max said. “Maybe I told her once.” He turned to look at the map. “I can’t imagine she saw it in there, though she has been in this very room many times. Hell, I don’t even think she can read Greek.” He rubbed his hand across his neck. “I know we talked about Atlantis a lot back then, it was nearly all I ever talked about. I was young and stupid and not very discreet.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Sabine said. Somehow, she’d known he would blame himself.
His eyes met hers, and gone was any hint of humor or charm. This Max looked intense, almost deadly. “Yes, it is. She would never have found you had it not been for me.” He swore loudly. “She could have killed you.”
“But she didn’t.” She touched his arm. He didn’t push her away, but he didn’t turn in to her touch either.
“She came into my shop the first time the day you did. After the poker game. I don’t believe she was following you. Vanity does cruel and terrible things to people,” Sabine said. But she knew he did not hear her. At least he did not believe her.
There was no point in arguing with him. There would be no consoling him. Frankly, she couldn’t blame him.
But Agnes was safe. The elixir was safe, and Sabine should feel enormous relief. Yet anxiety still flowed like water through her veins.
She set her glass down, then made her way over to him. Quickly, before she could lose her nerve, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “I just wanted to say thank you. You’ve done so much for my aunts and me, and you didn’t have to.” It was one thing to seduce a man, to touch him as a lover would, but to embrace a man with no other intention than to console him, that was an entirely different matter.
His arms tightened around her and pulled her closer to his body. He nuzzled her neck. Before Sabine knew it, they were kissing. Slow and gentle at first, like lovers kissing after a long time apart. Then their hunger increased, and the kisses became hotter, wetter, more intense.
Desire bubbled in her abdomen and radiated down between her legs. She felt herself grow wet for him.
Sabine tore at Max’s shirt, ripping it open. Buttons flew in several directions. She didn’t care, though; she needed to touch him, feel his strength. Next were his trousers. The other time he’d been nude with her, she hadn’t paid close attention; she’d been so focused on her own feelings and sensations. Now she looked, took in her fill. Long and rigid with muscles, his sculpted thighs looked like a statue of Adonis.
They couldn’t wait to move to the bedroom, so instead she pushed him down on his sofa. He sat and smiled up at her, raw desire apparent on his face. And she would have sworn there was something else, something far more tender, but she shoved the thought aside. Wanting more from Max would only lead to a broken heart. But for now, she was finished trying to resist him. Their affair would be brief, he would tire of her after too long, but at least she would have experienced this kind of passion.
She straddled him, and the rock-hard sinew of his thigh twitched under her touch. She reached under her skirt, pulled aside the hole in her drawers, and glided down on top of him.
His hands encircled her waist as she began to move. Then he cradled her face with his hands and kissed her. Kissed her as if he loved her. Her heart soared. She tried to remind herself that actions could be deceiving, and no matter how it might seem in this very moment, Max did not love her. But she realized with a sudden, fierce certainty that she loved him.
She did not need him to love her. She said the words again and again in her mind, trying to brand them on her soul. Still, tears pricked her eyes as she made love to him. When they climaxed together, the world seemed at peace, in perfect union. She kept her eyes closed and laid her head on his shoulder.
This was a moment out of time for both of them. Merely an adventure for him, and for her, the last time she’d devote totally to herself.
As much as she’d tried to avoid it, she wanted more. Wanted Max. With his sharp tongue and wicked sense of humor, he was everything she never knew she wanted in a man. He made her laugh, and he made her feel secure.
But she would not repeat her mother’s mistakes. Loving Max did not mean she would build a life with him.
CHAPTER22
Sabine Tobias.
She was the third and final guardian. Spencer had followed her and the marquess back to his townhome in Mayfield. Now he knew where to find her, and how to get to her. All along, she’d been there, safe with her lover, Maxwell Barrett. If only Spencer had paid closer attention that day when Max and the detective had come around to ask questions. He’d known that the marquess was involved in some capacity, he’d simply picked the wrong woman.
But the timing was perfect. He had one more general to take care of, then he could pay Miss Tobias a visit. And he’d make certain that Max had other plans.
Now, though, it was time to retire poor General Radcliffe. Spencer had been waiting several hours for this last and final kill. The officer had been expected home hours before, but here it was nearly five in the morning and he was only now arriving home. Spencer was unfamiliar with this man, having never met him before, but he knew he was younger than most other officers of his rank and exceedingly headstrong.
Spencer could tell by the man’s wavering walk that he was drunk. Perhaps this would be easier than he anticipated, an unexpected benefit, considering how long he’d been sitting here in the dark. He stood now and moved to the darkened corner as the drunken officer entered his study.
Men were so predictable. He’d come in here and pour himself another drink, then probably pass out on the sofa. And hours later, his wife would find him in here, only to assume he’d been here all evening, working on some high military secret. They were all fools.
Unlike all those previous mornings, this time when his wife found him, she’d find him dead.
The officer made his way into the study, and after lighting the lamp on his desk, moved to the sideboard and poured himself a hearty glass of scotch. He took a swig, then turned and came face to face with Spencer.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked, his speech not altered by the drink.
“Who I am does not matter. Only who I will become.”
The man blinked at him. “Damned crazed bedlamite.”