Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars by Claire Ashgrove Page A

of threat didn’t relate to the necklace. Paul wanted power, and he was intent on making Isabelle submit. Which conjured a whole new series of atrocious thoughts about what he might be doing to her daughter. What if September cried too loud? What if she talked back to him, as she was prone to do?
    Oh, God, help me.
    Fighting back hysterics, she tried to convince herself that Paul’s threats weren’t unlike those of any other kidnapper in the world. They all warned about the authorities. The statement was so cliché she should have expected him to say it earlier. But no matter how she tried to reason with her panicked brain, it did no good. Her pulse refused to stop tap-dancing, and the vise around her lungs wouldn’t let go.
    The doors rolled open onto her floor, and she rushed out, desperate to escape into her room. There, she’d call Paul back. Reassure him she’d bring back the necklace. Tell him, as she’d planned to do originally, that the ring was already on its way. Then, just maybe, he’d let her talk to September and she could assure herself that her daughter was okay.
    Two steps away from her door, strong fingers caught her by the elbow. Certain Paul had instructed his spy to insure she wouldn’t cause trouble, she spun around, her fist raised. Sheer terror compelled her to strike.
    A muffled grunt dimly filtered into her awareness before another hand latched onto her unbound wrist and stilled her arm at her side. “Isabelle, easy.”
    Through her bleary vision, she recognized Caradoc’s handsome face.
    * * *
    At the sight of Isabelle’s wide-eyed fright, everything inside Caradoc ground to a sudden halt. The words that had been on the tip of his tongue, firm instruction that they would now discuss what lay between them, vanished. His concerns meant naught. Something plagued her, enough that she had not heard his footfalls, and she had felt the need for self-defense.
    When she stilled in his hands, he searched her ashen expression. His stomach turned in on itself as he observed ’twas not only fear that brightened her eyes, but unshed tears as well. “What troubles you, Isa?” he whispered as he brought a hand up to sweep the loose tendrils of her hair aside.
    Her sob struck daggers into his heart.
    Winding his arms around her slender shoulders, he drew her cheek to his chest and held her close. “Shh, my sweet.”
    In three weeks of life with her, he had seen her cry only once before, and that powerful emotion came from joy. He had never witnessed such sorrow, nor experienced such helplessness at the feel of her trembling shoulders. His throat closed with emotion of his own, the need to take whatever this was from her, stronger than any other desire.
    When her fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, and she held on tight, something inside him broke apart. This was his Isabelle, the vibrant woman who knew naught but a love for life and the meaning of laughter. He could not bear to see her in such distress.
    Guiding her gently backward , he urged her toward the door to his suite. They would talk inside, where no one could overhear their words. As he shuffled forward, he slipped one hand into his pocket for his key. She made no move to protest whilst he fiddled awkwardly with the lock.
    When the handle gave, he pushed the door open with his foot and led her inside. At a flip of the light switch, the dusky grey of twilight faded. He glanced over her head in search of an appropriate place they could talk, but the stout armchairs did not offer the closeness he desired, or that she needed. With no other option present, he led her to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her.
    Gathering her hands in his, he gazed into her watery eyes. “Talk to me, Isa.”
    She gave him a violent shake of her head. As he braced for harsh words of refusal, however, she whispered, “Just hold me.”
    Aye, that he could do, and would without hesitation. His arms ached for the feel of her. He let out a tremulous sigh