Desire Me (12 page)

“Proof,” Max repeated. “I’ll be in touch, Marcus.”

Without use of that submersible boat, Max would not be able to actually locate the lost continent. But to float above the
sunken land, to get close enough to see the remnants of the buildings and the mountains, everything he’d seen illustrated
in his map… That’s what he needed to do. He had to find some kind of proof, something Marcus could use that would convince
him Atlantis wasn’t a lost cause.

S
abine sat quietly in the rented carriage. She took several deep breaths and waited for something to calm her rattled insides.
Nothing did. She did not even know what had her so agitated. A healer should always check on her patients, and this man should
be no different. Of course that wasn’t her true purpose, and he’d know that. Max Barrett was no fool. He’d see through her
guise. Still, she didn’t know if he’d allow her to see the map otherwise.

She was out of time. Her nerves be damned; she had responsibilities. Without another thought, she opened the door and stepped
down from the carriage onto the tree-lined street. Her gaze drifted down one side of the street and then the other. The houses
were uniformly elegant and oversized. No doubt they were all as well appointed within as they were without. In the middle
of all this ostentatious wealth sat the home of Maxwell Barrett. One of three residences, if Madigan’s research had been correct.
He might be ridiculously wealthy and powerful by Society’s standards, but she would not allow this man to
intimidate her.
She was not without power herself, though hers was of a vastly different nature.

Dusk was settling as she climbed the stairs to the front entrance. The hazy blues and pinks of the sunset lit the horizon.
She squared her shoulders, then slammed the large knocker against the black wooden door. The echoing sound seemed to mimic
the pounding of her heart.

Before she knew it, she stood in the marquess’s foyer while his butler went to fetch him. She tried her best not to ogle the
entryway with its high, painted Venetian ceiling and shiny marble floor. It was nothing short of breathtaking, and if she’d
had any doubts before, this entryway spoke volumes about the marquess’s wealth.

One pat to her hair and then she smoothed her hand down the front of her bodice. Her new London attire was still a little
unfamiliar to her, the way it molded to her body. She and her aunts had changed their dress when they’d moved here to better
blend with the people. Her hand rose to her hair again, but she jerked it away. There was no need to preen for him, she reminded
herself. It mattered not what he thought of her.

Still, as he entered the foyer, her heart leaped in her chest. The mere sight of him made her breath quicken and her pulse
race. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she found herself utterly drawn to him.

“Miss Tobias.” Max’s sultry voice warmed her.

Annoyed, she brushed at her right sleeve, as if doing so would remove the effect his voice had on her.

It would do her no good to notice how handsome he looked in his starched white shirt and black coat. Nor the way his black
trousers fit his long legs so well.

“I could make plenty of assumptions as to why you’ve come to visit me here at my home,” he said. “But perhaps
you want to
merely tell me so I won’t have to guess. It would go against the precedent we’ve set for our relationship, but let’s be daring,
shall we?”

Her cheeks warmed in response to his effort to disarm her, but she refused to be charmed by him. She was not here to flirt
or be wooed. “I came to check on your injury. How are you feeling?”

“You came all the way down here to inquire about my well-being? I’m touched, truly.” He flashed a knowing smile. “Well, if
I must disrobe, we had best get out of the hall.”

She followed him into what she assumed was his study. It was obviously a man’s room, and the furnishings and fabrics stood
out in dark blues and golds with rich woods. It smelled of brandy and tobacco and what she was coming to recognize as his
scent. Hanging on the wall behind his desk was the map, huge and glorious. She longed to walk up to it and examine every tiny
mark. The vibrant blues and greens of the alternating rings of water and land called to her, but she forced herself to look
away.

“This is twice now you’ve gotten me to undress,” he said as he finished unbuttoning his shirt.

“You are incorrigible,” she said.

“Are you always so dedicated to your patients?” He shrugged out of the shirt and tossed it on the high-backed leather chair
behind him.

She stepped up to him, ignoring his question, and touched near his injury. His skin was warm, but not feverish, and the stitches
looked healthy, with the wound already beginning to close.

He moved his arm back and forth, then frowned. “It doesn’t hurt. I don’t think I noticed that all day.” He shook his head.
“It hasn’t hurt all day. How is that even possible?”

She pretended to examine the wound further. “I told you it wasn’t very deep.”

“It hurt like the devil last night. Kept me up.” He looked down at his chest and ran his hand over the affected area. “Yet
today it’s as if it were nothing more than a scratch.” He eyed her suspiciously. “My last gunshot took more than a week to
heal, and it was little more than a grazing.”

“I gave you proper care. Those stitches are perfect,” she pointed out. “And you are in good health, so it stands to reason
that you would heal quickly.”

“Not this quickly. What of that poultice you put in it? What’s in that?”

She shrugged and stepped away from him. “Herbs and other ingredients. It’s an old family recipe.”

“You always have an answer,” he said. It was quite evident he didn’t believe her. He grabbed her shoulder. “But that’s not
why you really came here tonight.” He paused for several beats, and she felt very much like the mouse cornered by the cat.
“You want to see my map?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, hoping she sounded casual.

“It is indeed a work of art.”

But the rogue didn’t so much as glance at the map as he spoke, instead choosing to stare boldly at her.

“The wager the other night, was I supposed to take that in stride? Not allow myself to become curious?” he asked.

“I told you everything you needed to know.”

He leaned against his desk, stretching his legs out in front of him. “No, you told me the absolute minimum.”

“You show up in my store demanding information.” She jabbed him in the chest. “Break into my store presumably to steal something.
You, you kiss me,” she said indignantly, then added, “and now I’m supposed to
simply answer your questions as if I’m to stand
trial for something.”

“I did not steal anything, nor had I planned to do so. And I only went to your shop because of that wager you made. I am glad
you finally admit you know something,” he said with a smile.

She opened her mouth, then promptly shut it. Damnation. Lydia had always warned her that her quick temper would get her into
trouble.

“You are bloody stubborn, woman.” He held up his arms in defeat. “You came here tonight to see my map. Now you’ve seen it.”
He motioned behind him.

But she needed more than a quick view, and he knew that. She said nothing, though. Instead she quickly tried to decide how
much she could share with him, how much information she could divulge without putting herself or her aunts in more danger
than they were already in. She glanced past his shoulder to the map.

“Answers are my price, Sabine,” he said.

What had she expected? For him to simply step aside and allow her to inspect his prized possession without ever telling him
why? As much as it galled her, she was going to have to tell him something. It was the only way to find the prophecy. She
had no choice.

“How about this?” he continued. “You ask me anything you want to know, I’ll answer. But then you must answer my questions.”

She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin, then met his gaze. It was a decent bargain. She couldn’t deny that she was
curious. “Two questions; I’ll answer two,” she said.

“Fair enough.” His lips tilted in a quick smile.

“Wait, I haven’t decided if I’m curious enough about anything regarding you to make this bargain.” She narrowed
her eyes and
stared at him. Of course she was curious, but she didn’t want him to see her eagerness. Curiosity or not, she had to accept,
but there was no reason to let him know of her desperation. She nodded.

She tried to decide the best questions to ask. Tried to wade past her own interest and instead focus on something that might
assist her and her aunts. “Why do you have that map? What is your curiosity about Atlantis that led you to even search for
it?”

“That’s two questions,” he teased, then he shrugged and answered. “I found that map many years ago after a childhood fascination
with Atlantis. I’ve always had a curiosity about antiquities and myths, stories of lost treasure. The legend of Atlantis was
my favorite. I suppose it simply stuck with me.”

“But why the fascination?” she asked.

“Treasure,” he said simply. “They say that Poseidon’s palace was made entirely of gold.”

She looked about the room—solid mahogany furniture, crystal decanters, fine leather-upholstered chairs. Even the way he dressed,
despite his casual manner. The fabrics were all the best one could purchase. “You have plenty of wealth.”

A smile slid into place, then he winked. “There is always room for more.”

Questions asked and answered, yet she felt completely unsatisfied. She wondered now if she’d asked the right questions. Or
if she should have agreed to three or even four. Perhaps she should have asked about why he had not followed his Society’s
rules and married and produced an heir. Why he had kissed her the other night—but then none of those answers would have given
her any useful information.

Then it occurred to her that he was probably lying. The night they’d played cards, he’d readily walked away from a lucrative
wager to instead request nothing more than a kiss. Chances were he didn’t play at all to acquire wealth, but more for the
sport of it. “Wealth,” she scoffed, then crossed her arms over her chest for added effect. “You could have made up a more
believable excuse. If you want me to be honest, you must be in return.”

A muscle ticked ever so slightly in his jaw. “You are very perceptive, Sabine.”

“I never gave you leave to use my given name,” she said.

“I never have been good at minding my manners,” he countered with an arched brow.

“Answer my question honestly,” she urged.

“Very well. I went after that map to prove the existence of Atlantis.”

“So you admit that you are a scholar?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

He chuckled, and the rich rumble was so authentic, so full of true humor, she fought the desire to smile in response. “Few
would call me that. But I suppose there are less-fitting terms.”

“And did you?” she asked.

“What?” he asked.

“Prove the existence of Atlantis?”

Again she saw the slight muscle tense in his jaw line. “To some perhaps. But not everyone.” He pushed off his desk and crossed
over to the chair where he’d earlier tossed his shirt. He slid his arms through the sleeves, but did not bother to rebutton
it. Instead he left it gaping open. The resulting look was so sensual, so dashing, her mouth went dry. “There are those who
still doubt, still believe
the lost continent is nothing more than a piece of fiction penned by Plato.”

“But the map?” She ventured another peek at the map. “That is not proof enough?”

He made his way to the chair behind his desk. “A map is merely a drawing. I’ve heard rumors that Lewis Carroll has drawn maps
of his fictional worlds, but no one believes those figments of his imagination prove the existence of Wonderland.” He said
the words with such cavalier ease that she could not help but feel they hid great pain. Or perhaps she only imagined it because
it fed her fascination with him.

“Indeed,” she said. She’d never spent much time investigating what it was that the rest of the world believed of her culture.
Up until the last year, she’d lived in a small coastal village surrounded by other descendants of Atlantis, still living in
much the same way as their ancestors had so long ago. Pride swelled inside her to think that there were people out there who
longed to know the truth of the Atlantean people.

“Satisfied?” he asked her, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“For now.”

He smiled broadly. “Now
I
ask the questions. Why are you after that map?” he asked. “The truth,” he reminded her. “I know you’re no map collector.”

It seemed safer to stay broad, see what he would accept, what she could avoid telling him. So she started at the beginning.
“My ancestors were from Atlantis,” she began. “That map”—she pointed to emphasize—“is a family heirloom of sorts, and I only
recently discovered it was here in London. With you.” That was all complete truth.