Marked by Passion (38 page)

She was a scholar of Chinese at UC Berkeley, for God's sake—studying manuscripts was her job. And the fact that the monks had turned her down was a good indication they had something to hide.

Carrie bet that mysterious something was what she wanted. And since she'd blown her entire savings to fly six thousand miles, she was determined to get what she came for. But her return flight was tomorrow.

The room looked just like it had the other nine times she'd been in it. A long rectangle, dim but with enough light for reading. It had that musty smell she always associated with old libraries. She imagined generations of monks sitting at the table at the end of the room, carefully working on their calligraphy. The walls were lined with shelves filled with the fruits of their labor: thousands of rolled parchments and bound tomes.

One of them was Wei Lin's journal.

She hadn't been sure what to look for—there were literally thousands of rolled parchments and old bound texts on the shelves. It could be anywhere. She bit her lip, willing her nerves to calm. She was getting close. On her sixth visit, she'd noticed one shelf that looked different from the others.

Her eyes zoomed to it. The one shelf in the room suspiciously free of dust, as if someone cared for it or accessed its contents on a regular basis. The scrolls that lined it were different from the ones on the other shelves: thicker, tightly bound, and a third as wide.

Her fingertips tingled as she headed straight for the shelf. One of its scrolls had to be the one.

She'd tried to get a closer look the last three times she'd taken the tour, but it'd been impossible under the tour guide's hawklike vigilance. Which was why she'd had to take matters into her own hands today. She ran her finger along the shelf's smooth wood. Breaking away from the tour had been risky, but giving up wasn't in her makeup. And truthfully, she felt a rush at her own daring, too. She kind of felt like Indiana Jones.

Carrie slung her bag across her body and kneeled on the floor in front of the scrolls. Her blood raced in anticipation.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, girl," she muttered. She was operating on a hunch here. She didn't know for certain that the monastery had a copy of the journal—it just made sense that it would, as Wei Lin had spent his life here seven hundred years ago.

She bit her lip, helplessness combining with her nerves to create a nauseous cocktail in her stomach. She had to find it. Her future depended on it. She'd worked her butt off for a tenured position at UC Berkeley, only now her advisor, Leonora, said the board didn't believe her doctoral thesis was "sexy" enough.

Sexy enough
. Squaring her shoulders, Carrie picked up one of the scrolls. She'd show them sexy.

Untying its leather thong, she started to gently unroll the fragile paper. The other scrolls on the shelf shifted, and another scroll caught her gaze. It didn't look as old or brittle as the rest.

Did monks still write on parchment? Oddly drawn to it, she ran a finger over the newer-looking scroll and felt as though her fingertip trailed in icy water. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

"Weird," she mumbled. She felt oddly compelled to unfurl it. She reached for it—

Wait—she had one in her hand already. Might as well start there. Shaking her head, she sat back on her heels and unrolled enough to read a few lines. She read the first line of the tiny but beautiful black script.

My name is Wei Lin, and I have appointed myself Keeper of the Scrolls of Destiny.

"
Yes
." Relaxing her grip so she wouldn't crush it in her excitement, she scanned it. Her heart beat faster with every word.

Five scrolls, each based on a Chinese element.

To save them 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.

He brought together all the Guardians to help the emperor.

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

But 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 another dozen scrolls there, plus a few bound texts. 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 resonant voice. It sounded like the group was just down the hall. Which meant they were headed for the archives room, because Carrie knew for certain nothing else in this wing of the monastery was shown on the tour.

Crap
. She hadn't even finished photographing this one scroll, much less the rest. She took a hasty picture of the end and rolled it back up. Her hands fumbled with the little leather strip, dropping it as she tried to retie it. "Goshdarnit."

The tour guide's 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 retrieved the strip, haphazardly retied the scroll, and shoved it on the shelf. Unfortunately, as she retracted her hand, her sleeve must have caught on another scroll, because about six of them tumbled into 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. She grabbed the scrolls and tried to shove them back on the shelf, wincing at how brutally she was handling ancient artifacts.

But the scrolls just tumbled back down into her lap.

"
Crap
," she mouthed, panic choking her. She looked over her shoulder to see one of 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 tenured position good-bye.

No choice. She opened her bag, stuffed the scrolls in, and ducked under the table in the back. She could pop up and rejoin the group as they were leaving, no one the wiser. She hoped.

And she'd have the journals to study.

She grimaced. She'd just borrow them. She'd send them 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 even relax 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. Gosh, she hoped no one noticed her stowed away under the desk.

The guide began shepherding the small crowd out. Finally. Carrie peeked out from under the table. 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 her 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, gosh, 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 it was.

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 scrolls 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 the fact of the matter was, 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 with her hair.

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. A Western man with rough-hewn, carved-in-stone features and silvery 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 eyes of the other robed men. Their gray depths 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 back 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.

Still there.

Why he was staring at her like she was an apple fritter and he was on Atkins? He couldn't know she had the scrolls—logically, 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. She wished.

"This concludes our tour," the guide said in her singsong voice. Carrie's attention snapped back to the woman, and she exhaled in relief. "On behalf of the monks, I bid you farewell. Walk in peace."

Carrie sneaked one last glance at the supposed 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.

Taking care to hide himself, Max watched the tour group emerge from the archives room. In his seven years at the monastery 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 this time. 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 knew he couldn't let her get away, but 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.

Damn it—he'd forgotten what a turn-on innocence was. He hated himself for wondering if she'd taste as sweet as she looked. Or if she'd feel as soft. He shifted, uncomfortably aware of his groin tightening.

She gave him one more sweet smile before she followed the dispersing tour back to the bus, unaware of the havoc she'd wreaked in him.

Should he go after her? His soul answered
yes
, but he doubted it was for moral reasons. Frankly, if he got his hands on her, he didn't trust himself not to strip her bare and sink in deep. He told himself it was because he'd been without a woman for seven years—such long abstinence did something to a man.

His conscience pointed out that he'd seen other women in the 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 several steps before a strong hand clutched his arm. Caught off guard, he trapped the hand and automatically arced the wrist in a leverage.