“I wanted to—to thank you. I found the little bag, the charm, under my pillow. And this.” She touched the necklace.
“They helped?”
“They helped.”
“This.” He stepped over, tapped one of the stones on the necklace. “Cobbled together a bit hastily.”
“I like it. I wanted to give you this.” Taking the leap, she opened her bag, and the sketchbook, to take out the sketch she’d laid inside.
His easy smile faded; his eyes sharpened as he took it. “When did you draw this?”
“Before I met you. It was one of the strongest dreams, recurring. I even painted it, felt I had to. I know things can be changed. A different choice, a different outcome. At least some of the time. And I realized by not showing you, I wasn’t giving you that choice.”
“And what of your choice?”
“I made mine. I guess I made mine by giving that to you.” Gathering her courage, she framed his face with her hands, touched her lips to his. “They’ll be waiting for us,” she said, and turned for the doors.
He closed them with a thought before she reached them.
“Do you think I need a sketch to decide if I want you?”
“I thought you should know that, just like the six of us being here . . . It’s all part of it. And you shouldn’t be bound by that, not for something so personal.”
Nerves frayed, she reached behind her, twisted the knob. “Would you open the doors?”
“No.”
“They’ll be waiting for us.”
“They can bloody well wait.” He crossed to her, laid his hands on the glass on either side of her head. “Nervous, are you?”
“You’re deliberately making me nervous.”
“You should be nervous. Be a little afraid as well, of what the man you drew is able to do.”
“You won’t hurt me that way, and I’m not helpless. Not anymore.”
“You’ve never been. My choice? That’s what you’re asking?”
He took her mouth, hard and fast, trapping her against the door with his body, letting his hands mold hers. “That’s my choice. That’s been my choice since you came knocking on my door, eyes dream-struck. It’s not your dreams binding me. It’s you.”
His lips came back to hers, but this time she held on, this time she poured herself into the kiss. “I’ve wanted you since before I met you. I want—”
She broke off at the pounding on the door. “We’re rolling!” Doyle called.
“All right.” But he kissed her again. “We’ll be finishing what we’ve started here, fáidh.”
“Yes.” The laugh fluttered up from her heart. “We will. But now you have to open the doors.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It didn’t look like an inflatable boat. As Sasha’s imagination had formed a big yellow life raft with paddles, seeing an actual boat with motor, covered cabin, benches—and one that remained reasonably steady when she stepped on board—flooded her with relief.
Until she saw the diving equipment.
“Buck up.” Riley slapped her shoulder. “You’ll do fine. What about you, Irish, and the bit about sorcerers not being able to cross water?”
“It’s not can’t so much as would rather not.” He took a small vial from his pocket, downed the contents. “I’ll do fine as well. Who’ll be piloting this thing?”