Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Read Free

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