He looked down, then looked up, his eyes filled with tears.
“You’re right. I don’t know you. But I do love you. And I would happily give up my life for you. I know it sounds crazy. But that’s how I feel.”
Scarlet was overwhelmed with emotion. She hardly knew what to say. She’d never met anyone as intense as Sage. And never met anyone who loved her as much. It was crazy. But somehow, she understood. Somehow, she felt the same amount of love for him. And she didn’t want him to die.
She reached up and took off her necklace and pushed it into his palm.
“I don’t want you to die,” she said, crying. “Please. Take it.”
He pushed it back into her palm, as his eyes welled up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I never would.”
Scarlet leaned in and embraced Sage, and he hugged her back. She hugged him tightly, not wanting to let him go, overwhelmed with grief, love, longing. Anger at fate. She couldn’t understand why the world had brought them together only to tear them apart. She clung to him, crying, willing for the universe to change their destiny—and knowing somehow that it would not. As he hugged her back, his muscles rippling, she felt so safe in his arms, and yet so sad, knowing that in just a few weeks, she would never be in those arms again.
Did fate have to be so cruel?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Caitlin sat in the back of the foreign taxi as it wound its way through the narrow streets of Paris in the pouring rain. It had been a long, rough taxi ride from the airport, and she hadn’t slept a wink on the plane. She had dozed off once or twice, but to fast, rapid nightmares which forced her to wake instantly, determined not to fall asleep again.
Now she was exhausted as they went block to block, combing the streets, searching for the bookstore. It was daybreak, and she could barely see out the window. They had been circling this small group of blocks for nearly an hour now, and Caitlin was beginning to feel hopeless. She’d been arguing back and forth with the taxi driver, he speaking French and she English, and neither understanding each other.
“Six rue Charlemagne!” Caitlin yelled again, enunciating each syllable.
He screamed something back in French, which she did not understand. They were both at the end of each other’s ropes.
As they circled the block yet again, she looked out and again caught a glimpse of the sign. Clearly, this was the right street. Then she watched the numbers, saw them climb from one to ten. But for some reason, there was no number six. She couldn’t understand it. They had been around this block again and again, with always the same result. She knew it was the right block—there was no other block by this name in Paris. It had to be it. Maybe she was just missing it from the back of the taxicab. She had no choice. She had to get out and see for herself.
“Pull over!” she yelled out.
She paid the driver, gathered her briefcase and jumped out of the cab into the pouring rain. The rain came down in sheets, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. In seconds, she was soaked.
Caitlin ran down the deserted, cobblestone block, taking shelter beneath an awning jutting out from one of the old buildings. She stood flush against the wall, just barely getting out of the rain, and wiped the water from her hair and eyes. She looked down at the handwritten street name and number again, but now the ink was running with water.
She put it away. No matter. She’d memorized the address. Six rue Charlemagne.
Caitlin looked out and from where she was standing and scrutinized the numbers on all the buildings. She was on the even side of the street—it had to be on the other side.
She ran out into the rain, everything so loud from the pouring water, getting completely doused again, and crossed over to the other side of the street. She peered closely at the numbers. She saw an eight, but no six. As she looked closely, though, she realized she’d overlooked something: a tiny, narrow staircase, leading down. Between the buildings. On the door, below street level, was a faded number. She peered carefully, and her heart fluttered. Six.
There was no storefront, but then again, that made sense: the old lady wanted no visitors.
Caitlin took two steps down, reached out, grabbed the ancient lion’s head knocker, and slammed it several times against the door. The sound reverberated in the empty block.
Caitlin stood there and looked at her watch: 6 AM local time. Aiden had warned her that the woman may not answer, even if she were in. But now, at this time of day, in this weather, what were the odds?
Caitlin had a sinking feeling this would not go well. She couldn’t stand to contemplate her options: she had crossed half the world for this, and the woman might not even answer.
Caitlin slammed the knocker again and again, her clothes completely soaked as she stood there. After several more minutes of waiting, she finally turned and examined the streets, looking for any sign of a café, any place where she could wait, and rest, and get a cup of coffee, and warm up. But all the storefronts were closed this time of day, their gates down. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
Caitlin stood there, shivering, wondering what to do next. Suddenly, to her shock, she heard a noise at the door. There was the sound of several heavy bolts unlocking, and to her amazement, the door opened.
There stood a small, petite woman, who looked to be in her 90s. She stood there proudly, standing erect, staring up at Caitlin disapprovingly with her sea-blue French eyes. They looked as if they’d witness the creation of the world.
The old woman snapped at her. It was something in French, which Caitlin did not understand.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlin replied. “But I don’t speak French.”
The woman merely stared back, cooly.
Caitlin worried she might close the door, and thought quick.
“I’m a friend of Aiden’s. He sent me here,” she said in a rush.
The woman stared back coolly, expressionless, with a slight frown.
Then, suddenly, she took a half step back, and began to shut the door.
Caitlin could not believe it. She was not going to let her in.
Desperate, she stepped forward and stuck her foot in the crack before the door could close.
“Please. You don’t understand. I just traveled half the world to get here. I’m just a mother who loves her daughter very much. Who’s concerned for her. You have a book I need. A very rare book. Please. I have nowhere else to turn.”
The woman stared back at her for what felt like forever, then slowly, her expression softened. The woman looked warily both ways herself, then gestured her in.