Chosen by Desire (2 page)

Five scrolls, each based on a Chinese element.

To save the scrolls from a greedy warlord, Wei Lin stole them and marked five worthy people as their Guardians.

The Guardianship passes on through each family to the next marked person.

Whoever possesses the scrolls possesses the elements’ powers.

Wei Lin was Keeper of the Guardians, but he broke his own rule, despite the danger of reuniting the scrolls.

He brought together all the Guardians to help the Yongle Emperor.

Bingo.
All Chinese scholars knew the myth about how a monk named Wei Lin, in giving support to Yongle, brought twenty years of peace to the kingdom through mystical means.
With the aid of the elements,
it was said.

Only it wasn’t a myth. It was real.

She’d just found her holy grail.

Instead of jumping up and doing a triumphant dance, Carrie pulled out her digital camera and began methodically photographing the journal. She glanced at the shelf. There had to be a few bound texts there, plus another dozen scrolls. Installments of Wei Lin’s journal? Made sense. She checked the time. She needed to hustle.

Even as she thought it, Carrie heard the tour guide’s carrying voice. It sounded like the group was down the hall, which meant they were headed for the archives room, because Carrie knew for certain that nothing else in this wing of the monastery was shown on the tour.

Crap.
She hadn’t even finished copying this book, much less the rest. She took a hasty picture of the end and closed it. Her hands fumbled as she tried to fit it back onto the shelf, not able to make the scrolls scoot back enough to make space.

The tour guide’s muffled voice seeped through the walls. “And this is the archives room, containing the writings of centuries of monks as well as recordings of the region’s history.”

Carrie shoved the other documents aside and pushed the journal back in its spot. But as she retracted her hand, her sleeve caught on the scrolls and a few fell onto her lap.

“Because of the delicacy of the documentation,” the tour guide continued, “touching the texts is not allowed. But the library is impressive nonetheless.”

The door creaked.

Carrie watched in horror as the door slowly swung open.
No time.
She grabbed the scrolls and tried to shove them back on the shelf, wincing at how brutally she was handling them.

But they just tumbled back down into her lap.

“
Crap,
” she mouthed, panic choking her. She looked over her shoulder to see the tour guide’s calves as she backed into the room.

She couldn’t get caught. Her mom would
kill
her if she got thrown in jail for stealing from monks, and she could kiss that teaching position goodbye.

No choice. She opened her bag and stuffed the scrolls in. Then, not able to help herself, she grabbed Wei Lin’s journal and scuttled to the back of the room to duck under the only table. She could pop up and rejoin the group as they were leaving, no one the wiser. She hoped.

And she’d have the journal to study.

She grimaced. She’d just borrow it. She’d send everything back as soon as she copied their information. She swore it. And she’d treat them very carefully.

Her heart thundered so loudly it was a miracle no one heard her. She couldn’t relax even when the tour guide began her spiel. Holding her breath, Carrie waited. Every second stretched like hours.

A white Reebok stepped dangerously close to her hand, and she retreated farther under the desk. God, she hoped no one noticed her stowed away there.

The guide began shepherding the small crowd out. Finally. Carrie peeked from under the table as they shuffled slowly out the door. Seeing her chance, she jumped up and quickly rejoined the group.

No one said anything to her, but that didn’t ease her nerves. She ducked her head and slid the elastic band from her hair so the curls bounced forward and covered her face. Huddling her shoulders, she hoped she looked unremarkable and guilt-free, but that seemed a tall order. In China, her blond hair was like a beacon. Fortunately, the tour was almost over. All she had to do was hang in there for the walk through the garden, and then she could rush back to her hotel and lock herself in her room. With her stolen booty.

Oh, God, what was she
doing?

No one saw,
she reassured herself as she trailed behind the group.
No one knows. Just be casual.

They stepped out into the garden, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Almost home free. Just a few more minutes.

But as she had the thought, she felt an accusing gaze at her back—penetrating and cold. Her shoulders twitched with the need to whirl around to see who stared and why.

Silly, because no one knew what she’d done. It wasn’t like the monastery was outfitted with spy cams. At least she didn’t think so.

She was
so
not cut out for a life of crime. She even hated keeping library books past their due dates—what made her think she could do
this?
From now on she was walking a straight and narrow path.

The person watching her turned up the intensity.

Maybe she should drop the documents and run.

No—she’d bankrupted herself for this. Her future was on the line, and she was so close. Yeah, she was breaking the law, but she was doing it with pure motives—if that counted for anything. She was going to return them. And if someone had seen what she’d done, she would have been apprehended already.

Stop being a wimp.
Whoever was staring was probably only entranced with her blond curls. The past ten days should have taught her how mesmerized the Chinese were by them.

Can’t take this.
She’d never been good at burying her head and hiding—she had to look. Wiping her clammy palms on her jeans, she turned to face her watcher.

Her heart gave a quick thud.

A man in monk’s robes was at the end of the garden. He looked Western, with rough-hewn, carved-in-stone features and blond hair that fell in shaggy layers around his severe face.

No way was he a monk.

She stared, not sure why she was so certain of that. It wasn’t as if it was against the rules for a monk to be all intense. Or hot. Or to inspire wicked thoughts instead of peaceful ones.

But a monk wouldn’t have such turbulent gray eyes. She met them and shivered. They had none of the gentleness and compassion she’d seen in the other robed men. They glinted, judging and accusing and unforgiving. His gaze seemed to penetrate, stripping aside all her layers to her soul, and found her lacking.

Her arm tightened on her bag. He couldn’t know what she’d done. There had been no one in the hallway to see her enter the room, and she’d left with the group. She needed to get a grip and relax, otherwise she was going to give herself away.

She turned around, pretending to be engrossed in the last of the tour guide’s speech. She told herself not to look back—he’d go away.

Only she couldn’t help herself. As nonchalantly as possible, she glanced over her shoulder again.

Still there.

Why was he staring at her like she was an apple fritter and he was on Atkins? He couldn’t know… it was impossible. Maybe he had a weakness for corn-fed Midwestern girls? And he’d come to China to work it out of his system, only here she was tempting him. She grinned at the thought, looking him over again. In her dreams.

“This concludes our tour,” the guide said in her singsong voice. Carrie’s attention snapped back to the woman, exhaling in relief. “On behalf of the Guanyin monastery, I bid you farewell. Walk in peace.”

Carrie sneaked one last glance at the erstwhile Western monk and hightailed it peacefully out of there. The entire way to the bus, she felt his cold gaze on her back, like a sharp knife across her skin.

T
aking care to hide himself, Max watched the tour group emerge from the archives room. In his seven years there he’d grown accustomed to the daily onslaught of tourists, but something about the blonde drew him.

She had the face of a cherub with big brown eyes, creamy skin, and rosy cheeks. Her strawberry blond hair made a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck. He watched as she undid the ponytail to release a mass of curls that bounced onto her shoulders and into her face. The embodiment of innocence.

Except for her bowed lips. Her lips were pure sin.

But the innocence was a ruse. He stilled, feeling waves of elemental energy emanating from her. The way she clutched her bag to her side like it contained precious treasure confirmed what he already felt.

She’d taken the Book of Water.

He took a step toward her before he stopped himself. This wasn’t his concern—he wouldn’t get involved. Let someone else deal with her. Max looked around for another monk but found no one.

Anger flooded him, cold and steely. It was like fate taunted him. He’d be damned if he had to deal with another less-than-angelic woman with light fingers. No way in hell.

He followed the group silently into the garden, keeping his gaze on the woman, willing another monk to show up and intervene.

Only then she turned around.

Max wasn’t prepared for the shock of her doe-eyed gaze meeting his. She studied him as if she had nothing to hide and everything to offer.

It infuriated him. And then she grinned, and her face lit artlessly.

Inexplicably, his groin tightened.

He shifted, crossing his arms. Damn it—seven years at the monastery should have eradicated these baser needs. And his temper. But it only reinforced Sun Chi’s increasingly repeated statement that Max wasn’t meant to be a monk.

She gave him one more sweet smile before she followed the dispersing tour back to the bus.

He needed to stop her, but frankly, if he got his hands on her, he didn’t trust himself not to strip her bare and sink in deep. His conscience pointed out that he’d seen other women in the past seven years—the tour guide, for example—and not had this strong a reaction.

He told his conscience to shut up.

The bus’s engine growled to life.

Max looked around. Still no one. He glared at the bus.

No choice. Teeth grinding, he went to head it off.

He’d taken only a few steps before a strong hand caught his arm. Caught off guard, he trapped the hand and automatically arced the wrist in a leverage.

The calloused hand reversed the leverage instantly, letting it go almost as quickly. Max spun around, bringing the knife edge of his hand up to chop. He stopped an inch from his mentor’s neck.

The Keeper’s peaceful face shone up at him. Its serenity irritated the hell out of him. How could he be so still when his throat had almost been crushed?

When the Book of Water had been stolen?

Max looked over his shoulder to see the bus winding down the mountain road back to civilization. Angry and frustrated, he scowled at the old monk. “Damn it. The Book of Water is riding away on that bus.”

Sun Chi stared after the bus. Max waited, expecting a barrage of questions, starting with why he hadn’t done anything to stop it. But his mentor just studied him quietly before turning and shuffling away. Motioning with his hand, he said, “Come.”

What the hell? Max stalked after the smaller man, wanting to interrogate but knowing he’d get no answers until the monk was ready. As a teenager, when he’d just become a Guardian and was sent to study with Sun Chi, the man’s stoicism had infuriated him. As the only child of rich bluebloods, Max had always had everything handed to him when he wanted. Since, he’d learned patience.

For the most part.

Following Sun Chi into the archives room, Max closed the door behind him and watched as the monk kneeled before a shelf in the back. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to be wrong about the woman stealing the scroll until he heard Sun Chi’s gasp and had a corresponding sinking feeling in his chest.

“Gone.” Sun Chi looked up at him, his gaze bright. “The Book of Water. The journal of Wei Lin. And more.”

“Why would she take the journal?”

“As a mistake in her haste. For more knowledge of the scrolls. The reasons are numerous.” Sun Chi gazed at him levelly. “This is disastrous. You understand, yes? She must not be allowed to learn the mysteries of the Book of Water or locate the other scrolls.”