Storm of Shadows

by Christina Dodd

  “I do know.” She completely understood. Aleksandr loved a girl who was like Lance, only female.

  “I wanted to kiss her,” he said, “but she’s not like the other girls. She’s younger than me, and shy. I didn’t want to scare her away, you know?”

  She looked at Aleksandr. He was handsome, twenty-one, with the assurance of a much older man. He was obviously experienced and knew his way around women, yet with this girl, he was awed and careful. “She’s special,” Rosamund said.

  “She sure is.”

  They rounded the corner, and the front door of the mansion was hanging open. “Uh-oh.” She tugged at Aleksandr. “Come on, hurry! If McKenna finds out I left the door open, he’ll kill me, and if Aaron finds out I left my work, he’ll be cranky.”

  They rushed up the steps, tiptoed into the foyer, and looked around.

  No one was there.

  She gave a sigh of relief, and started to trudge toward the stairs. “Listen, Aleksandr, about your girlfriend—I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me.”

  “Thank you. Yes.” He put out his hand, and she shook it. “Agreed.”

  Chapter 17

  The door of Irving’s private study slammed open, smacking the wall behind it.

  Rosamund jumped, and looked up from her scroll to see Aaron posed in the doorway, jacket over his shoulder and hooked to one finger, tie loosened, hair rakishly askew, a half smile crooking his mouth.

  She hadn’t seen him smile since that time in the basement of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library when he was trying to convince her to tell him about Lance. She glanced out the window. It was dark now. He’d been gone all day. When she thought about Lance, she was glad of that, but . . . where had Aaron been?

  And why did she care?

  He swaggered in. “Rosamund. Hello.” His voice sounded very deep, very suave, very sure.

  “Hello.” She waited for him to say something else, but he stood there staring at her, that crooked smile on his lips, so she ventured, “Did you need something?”

  He took a long breath. Tossed his jacket on Irving’s leather chair. Turned to face her. “How would you know if I did?”

  “You’d . . . tell me?”

  “I’d have to, wouldn’t I? Because you wouldn’t recognize a signal if it was blinking on an oncoming semi.”

  “Since I’ve lived in New York City most of my life, I don’t drive, but as a pedestrian, I certainly know to avoid a, um . . .”

  His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed. He looked as if he were restraining a vast annoyance. “I didn’t mean that about the signal literally.”

  “Right.” Talking to him was like trying to decipher a lost language. But she was a linguist of no small talent. If she questioned him, she would surely get him figured out. “Did you want to discuss the prophecy?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “B-because that’s all you ever ask me about?”

  Perching his hip on the table, he slid close to her. “But that’s not what I’m really saying, is it?”

  “I’m trying to ascertain what you’re really saying right now.”

  Cupping her chin in his hand, he smiled into her face. “You should listen . . . with your womanly instincts.”

  “My womanly instincts?” Occasionally, someone—Jessica—would make fun of her for being a nerd. Rosamund didn’t like it, yet she didn’t usually care much, either. But she was pretty sure Aaron was making fun of her right now, and for some reason, that made her mad. “I don’t know what I’ve done to you to make you be so rude to me.”

  He drew back. “Rude? I’m not being rude.”

  “You just said to listen with my womanly instincts. I suppose you don’t think I have any.”

  “They could use a little polishing, because I’m trying to tell you . . . oh, let’s try it this way.” With his hand still under her chin, he removed her glasses and placed them off to the side. Leaning over, he put his lips on hers. And kissed her.

  She didn’t know what to do. Was he making fun of her again? It seemed an odd way to do it. Yet for all that she didn’t believe he really wanted to kiss her—after all, he spent all his time scowling at her and asking how the translations were going—it was a nice kiss. His lips had a soft, smooth texture, and at the same time, he moved them firmly on hers, taking the time to explore the outline of her mouth and the seam where her lips met.

  So what was the harm?

  On the other hand, Jessica had told her men weren’t discriminating in their attentions—can’t walk past a knothole in a tree were her exact words.

  But Aaron didn’t seem the type who would be in-discriminating. He seemed like the kind of guy who could have any woman he wanted. So why—

  He lifted his head. He looked down at her. “Close your eyes.”

  She did.

  “Pay attention.”

  How had he known she hadn’t been . . . ?

  He swept her out of her seat and into his arms. Thrust his tongue into her mouth and tasted her as if she were an hors d’oeuvre and he a starving man. Kissed her. Really kissed her.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  She groped at his shirt, managed to grab handfuls in her fists, then walked her fingers up to his shoulders and dug them into the muscles, trying to hold on while his passion buffeted her, then swept her along like a great storm. Everything about this kiss was bigger than anything she’d experienced before—the way he strained her body against his, the passion with which he devoured her, his groan when she responded, the dancelike move he used to turn her so her back was to the table.

  He lifted her until her bottom rested on the wooden surface, then bent her until she was prone, the cool wood surface against her back.

  She stiffened.

  Lifting his head, he whispered, “Don’t worry. No valuable manuscripts in the way.”

  “Right.” She stared into his face. His straight, blue-black hair glistened in the light. His dark eyes were shadowy with desire. Strain stretched the skin across his broad cheekbones, and his mouth was damp from hers.

  He was as different from Lance as it was possible for a man to be . . . yet when he bent his head to hers again, she opened her mouth to him.

  As he licked at her, sucked her tongue, used his to arouse her, her blood pulsed warm and fast in her veins. She was breathing so fast, her chest felt as if it would burst, and when he slid his hands under her plaid flannel pajama top and held her rib cage, she groaned. “Please. Oh, please.” She didn’t recognize her own voice. She sounded so vibrant, so strong and yet so needy.

  He looked into her eyes. “Do you want me to do this?” His thumbs caressed the lower curves of her breasts.

  “Yes.” She lifted one knee, rubbed the table with her stockinged foot.

  “Or this?” His hands moved up to cup her, and those wicked, knowing thumbs moved in slow, light, constant circles on her nipples.

  Her back snapped into an arch, and she pressed herself into his palms.

  He laughed shortly, triumphantly. Then he kissed her again, leaning so his chest pressed against hers, his hands were between their two bodies, and all she could feel was . . . everything. The table beneath her back, his muscles beneath her grip, the caress of his hands on her breasts, the need to demand more, to beg for him to lift her skirt, to press himself between her legs, to relieve this awful, wonderful yearning . . .

  With a sigh that sounded as if it had been dragged from his depths, he pulled his lips away from hers. He straightened, slipped his hands from underneath her shirt, and helped her to sit up. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her off the table and propelled her toward her cot. Throwing back her covers, he put his hands on her shoulders and seated her.

  For one moment, her imagination went wild. He was going to take her clothes off. Take his clothes off. Get under the covers with her and satisfy her in a way only Aaron Eagle could do.

  He did lift her feet onto the mattress. . . . Then he tucked her arms by her
side, covered her, and leaned against the blankets so she couldn’t move. “Go to sleep, Rosamund, and maybe after this, you won’t look at me like you can’t quite place my name.”

  “I know your name!” He wasn’t making sense again, and she struggled to free herself.

  He let go and stepped away. He gathered up his coat. He walked to the door, turned, and in that deep, suave voice said, “Watch out for signals.”

  And he left.

  She sat up, her crossness swamping all those lovely feelings he had created with his kiss, his touch.

  What had gotten into him?

  She licked her lower lip and realized—he tasted like ale. Good, rich, yeasty, dark ale.

  Aaron had kissed her because he was drunk.

  Aaron woke the next morning and lay there with his eyes closed, waiting for the pounding headache to begin.

  No headache.

  In fact, considering how much he’d had to drink yesterday, he didn’t feel too bad. The Chosen Ones had sat in Davidov’s Pub all afternoon, drinking whatever beer or ale or weird pink liquor Vidar had placed in front of them. By the time they’d left that evening, every one of them had been so sozzled they had barely noticed the scuttling roaches and rats and people in the tunnels, although Aaron retained enough sense to be grateful for Martha, who had returned to lead them back to the mansion.

  There they had faced an irritated Irving, who spoke to them severely about their duty to the traditions of the Chosen Ones, and when he was done lecturing them, they had nodded, tiptoed off, and broken into embarrassed giggles as soon as they were out of sight. Then Aaron had gone to check on Rosamund and—

  “Oh, my God!” He sat straight up in bed.

  He’d kissed her. French-kissed her. On the library table.

  He looked down at his hand, cupped in the shape of her breast. He had more than kissed her; he’d groped her. Groped her until her nipple had thrust its way into his palm and made him realize, even in his drunken state, that if he didn’t stop, he wasn’t going to stop.

  “Shit.” He pressed his hands on his eyes.

  His little librarian was probably indignant, and who could blame her? She hadn’t said no, but he hadn’t given her the chance, either. If she was mad enough . . . oh, no. If she was mad enough, she was probably out the door right now. Or getting ready to leave.

  He had to stop her.

  He flung the covers back, grabbed pants and a shirt, and dressed so fast he pulled a button off his shirt. He started to sprint for Irving’s library, did an abrupt about-face, headed for the bathroom, and brushed his teeth.

  Then he was back out the door, running down the corridor, hoping and praying Rosamund was still there, still working on the prophecy. If she was, he would beg her pardon, promise never to kiss her again. . . .

  Well, never to kiss her again without her permission. Because her mouth had been sweet and warm and surprised, and as he heated up the space between them, she had responded with charming passion.

  He stopped, leaned his hand against the wall, and took a long breath.

  If he didn’t stop thinking about that, he was going to pop a boner, and that wouldn’t be reassuring to a frightened, angry woman.

  He started off again.

  If she would just be in the library, he would promise to behave like a gentleman and not like the basically uncivilized Indian he knew himself to be. Because she might not realize it, but beneath his Armani suits, he was every inch the savage of legend. He prided himself on controlling that side of himself, but somehow, with her rosy lips, large violet eyes, and absolute cluelessness, Rosamund Hall slipped under his guard.

  Because he’d seen what hid behind her eyes. Because he recognized that well of guilt and sadness; he’d found the same well within himself. But while he understood what events drove him to transform himself from a young mountain-dwelling savage into a man at home with the finest society, a man who could talk about fashion and antiquities with the same panache, he didn’t know what had happened in Rosamund’s life to frighten her enough to hide in the depths of a research library.

  He stopped before the door of her current hiding place. Checked himself to make sure he was zipped and buttoned, mostly, then raised his hand to knock. Just a little knock so he didn’t startle her.

  Before he made contact, the door flung open, and Rosamund walked out.

  Her cheeks were bright with color, her eyes sparkled, and she smiled with vivacious joy. She was alive as he had never seen her, irresistible as he had never imagined.

  With a glance at him, she said, “What are you doing standing there? Get ready!” She brushed past him and hurried toward the stairway.

  “Get ready?” He watched her turn and walk backward. “For what?”

  “I found the prophetess. She was a black slave in Casablanca.” Rosamund grinned at him without a shred of self-consciousness. “Do you know what Casablanca means in Spanish?”

  Of course he did. “White house. White house!” That was it—that was what Jacqueline had said—that their prophecy would come from a black female slave in a white house.

  “Are you sure that’s it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Rosamund had done it—but she didn’t act as if she even remembered they’d shared a kiss.

  “Pack your bags,” she said. “We’re going to Casablanca.”

  Lance Mathews sat in his tiny apartment and trembled. If he were a praying man, he would pray that his carefully planned encounter yesterday would bear fruit. But in his situation, praying seemed hypocritical and frankly useless. Yet as he’d told Osgood, he hadn’t gotten to remove Rosamund from the Chosen Ones, but this was even better. He’d extracted her promise to keep him apprised of her progress in finding the prophecy. He’d already received one text last evening: Hi. Glad u’re u.

  He had supposed she imagined she was flirting, so he wrote back, U’re funny n sweet.

  They might as well be exchanging those Valentine candy hearts, and he felt vaguely nauseated.

  Then she’d asked, U drink?

  He’d looked down at the thin line of cocaine he’d lined up to take the edge off his fear and texted back, No. Why?

  Good, came back from her. Then nothing.

  Then his fear of Osgood fought with his instincts about Rosamund. He had set the bait well yesterday afternoon. If he left her alone, she’d keep coming back.

  But it had been twenty-four hours since their last encounter. Osgood would want a report. . . . Lance’s hand hovered over his phone.

  No. If he bugged her about the research, she might get suspicious, might have second thoughts.

  A pain stabbed at his chest. “Wait,” he said. “Damn you, wait. I know I’m right.”

  He’d better be right.

  Then the phone sang out the rap lyrics, “Lucifer ripped my soul from my body and I smiled because I knew. . . .”

  Lance grabbed his cell and looked.

  It was from Rosamund. Off 2 Casablanca. Prophetess found!

  Throwing back his head, he laughed long and hard.

  The bitch fell for it. She fell for it! She was reporting her every movement, her every success, to him.

  Leaning over, he snorted the first line of coke, and for the first time in days, relaxed.

  Osgood would be pleased.

  Chapter 18

  A aron had visited Casablanca before, and knew it to be a cosmopolitan city of bright lights, broad boulevards, and stylish shops.

  Unfortunately, Rosamund needed to go into the old town.

  So they checked into their hotel, and headed out into the walled medina constructed long ago by the Bedouins who founded the city.

  “The prophetess came here when she was sold by the chief of her tribe for predicting his violent death. Of course, he did die when his tribe killed him for selling her, but it was too late. She was far away, destined to live out her life in a place far from her small village.” Rosamund plunged through the dark, twisting streets filled with secrets of
the long-ago slave trade.

  He followed, wondering how a woman who was so awkward in New York City could be so relaxed in exotic Casablanca. Morocco had been a French protectorate, French was heard in their hotel and on the streets, and while Rosamund spoke the language, she spoke haltingly and with rusty awkwardness. She was red-haired and freckled in a place where women had dark hair and clear complexions. She dressed carefully in a long-sleeved ankle-length gown, and tied a scarf around her hair, but she stood out in a land of women dressed in modest abayas and high-necked, hair-covering hijabs.