The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) Read Free Page A

yanked out the earbuds and glanced at the closed French doors.
    Before her brain could register what was happening, the glass door flung open and a mustachioed man, dressed all in black, entered her bedroom. Spinning in her direction, he charged towards the desk. His narrowed gaze and harshly set facial features screamed malevolent intent.
    Yelping with fear, Anala lurched to her feet. Too stunned to remember what she’d learned in her self-defense class, she grabbed her laptop computer and hurled it at the intruder. The man nimbly ducked to one side, completely avoiding the missile attack.
    Not about to abandon the fight, Anala snatched the nearest items within reach – a lamp, a bronze elephant paperweight and a framed photograph – flinging them in quick succession. She scored two hits and one miss. None of which deterred the mustachioed interloper, the man simply raising his arm and deflecting the blows.
    Quickly running out of ammo, she reached for her office chair . . . just as the intruder clasped her by the waist. Pinning her arms to her sides, he forcefully yanked her away from the desk. The chair toppled over as Anala frantically began to kick him in the shins.
    ‘You bitch!’
    ‘You bastard!’ she screeched, lifting both of her feet off the ground, finally recalling a self-defense tactic.
    In the next instant the two of them hit the floor with a spine-jarring impact.
    Managing to break free of the intruder’s violent embrace, Anala scrambled to her feet and ran towards the bedroom door. No sooner did she reach for the doorknob than she was again seized, this time the brute cinching his fingers around her neck, slamming her against the closed door. As her vision blurred, her lungs screaming for oxygen, she instinctively clawed at his hands.
    To her surprise, the assailant suddenly let go of her throat. Gasping for air, Anala felt a sharp, jabbing pain in her upper arm.
    Rather than clearing, her vision immediately became more blurry, the room spinning off-kilter. Woozy, she opened her mouth to scream. Only to discover that –
    S he . . . couldn’t . . . remember . . . how . . .

3
     
    Paris, France
    19 August
     
    ‘. . . and I still think you should rename it “The Abduction of the Divine Bride”. That’s a much catchier title than “The Sacred and the Profane”.’
    ‘It’s a PowerPoint presentation about the medieval Cathars,’ the tall red-headed Englishman retorted, clearly appalled at the suggestion. ‘Not a bloody romance novel.’
    Getting up from the Edwardian sofa, Edie Miller wagged a finger at the man she teasingly referred to as her ‘part-time paramour’. ‘Yeah, but sex sells. Trust me, Caedmon. Change the title and you’ll pack ’em in like sardines at the Avignon symposium.’ She paused a moment before dangling a very enticing carrot. ‘And it could boost your book sales.’
    ‘So you think I should sex up my lecture, eh?’ Having followed her into the hallway, Caedmon Aisquith cocked his head to one side and struck a thoughtful pose. ‘Hmm . . . perhaps I could add a few naughty bits to the section on Isis Mystery cults. Although it’ll require considerable rehearsal time with my research assistant,’ he added, rakishly raising an auburn brow.
    ‘I hate to douse your lurid fantasy, but rehearsal will have to wait until I get some food in me. I’m utterly famished.’ Edie pointedly looked over at her luggage still piled in the middle of the hall. Since she and Caedmon were leaving tomorrow for Avignon – and from there, heading to the Côte d’Azur – she didn’t see the point of unpacking. ‘They served Chicken Cordon Blah on the flight from Guatemala City. Two bites were all I could manage.’
    ‘I’ve been meaning to ask: h ow did the photo shoot go?’
    ‘ Great pictures,’ she told him with a satisfied nod. ‘The women weavers at Santiago Atitlán are an inspiring example of girl power at its very best. On the downside, the poverty in Guatemala is