Tempted by Elisabeth Naughton Page B

one of the limbs he’d brought back with him, stripped off the foliage, and looked around for a rock to use to sharpen the end into a point so he could go fishing. That’s when he heard the howl.
    He froze, lifted his head, turned to look back into the trees growing darker by the second as dusk crept in.
    No, not a howl, he realized, dread racing down his spine. That was a scream. But not the kind that came from man or animal. This scream was made by a beast, and the roars that erupted around it were the sort that lived in nightmares.
    His fingers tightened around the limb in his hand. He looked to Isadora, still asleep in the shelter. And knew—damn it—he’d been right. They really were in hell, and the first part of Atalanta’s plan was coming true. He couldn’t leave Isadora now, not even for a second. And that meant if he wasn’t careful, Atalanta just might get exactly what she wanted.
    ***

    Isadora was floating again. The gentle push and pull echoed in her mind, tugged at her consciousness, dragged her from the depths of something murky and dark.
    Images drifted through the haze, ones that made no sense and couldn’t be real. A seven-foot glowing blue man with floor-length hair. Yellow acid hitting her in the face. A field of daemons and a woman with soulless black eyes wearing a long bloodred robe. And then there was him .
    Her blood warmed and a tingle ran along her skin as the image morphed and shifted. This male most definitely wasn’t blue. He was tall, muscular, powerful. With short jet-black hair and hands that seemed to span the width of her rib cage. She couldn’t make out his face, but his voice was familiar when it whispered in her ear. And when his arms came around her, his body was hotter than anything she’d ever felt.
    She shifted, tried to reach for him because his touch felt so wickedly good she wanted it all over again. Anywhere. Everywhere. Only as she held out her hand, the image swirled and dissolved, leaving behind only the swish and sway of the wind.
    No, not wind. Water.
    Isadora listened closer. A strange sense of foreboding washed through her, pushing out all that heat from before.
    She rolled to her stomach, groaned because every muscle in her body ached, then drew in a mouthful of sand. Pushing up on her hands, she coughed as she dragged her eyes open.
    Blinding light burned her retinas. She dropped back onto her butt and winced as pain shot up her spine and down her legs. Holding up her hand to block the glare, she forced her eyes open again.
    Her surroundings slowly came into view. She was sitting on a beach. The sound she’d heard was indeed water, but nothing seemed familiar.
    Her mind spun and tendrils of panic wedged their way into her chest. Where was she? And how in Hades had she gotten here?
    A figure moved to her right, and she looked that way only to be blinded all over again by the setting sun. She winced and squinted at the shadow coming toward her.
    The mystery face was shrouded in shadow, dark hair wreathed in a halo of light from the sun behind. But even from this distance she could tell he was male. Male and massive and very impressive, especially wearing next to nothing as he was.
    Tingles rushed over her as he drew closer. A smattering of dark hair covered his olive skin and impressive chest, catching the light as he moved. Her eyes drifted lower to chiseled six—no, eight—pack abs, to black pants that rode low on lean hips and were rolled up at the calves, to strong, perfect bare feet throwing sand as he moved with the grace of an Olympian.
    For a fleeting moment she had the feeling she was in the presence of a god. She held her breath as he stopped feet from her, and though she tipped her head back and squinted to see more clearly, his face was still cast in shadows.
    He dropped a rope on the sand at her side, one she now realized had been hooked over his shoulder as he’d dragged something behind him. Sunlight glinted off his muscular arms and chest,