Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General
Storm of Shadows (42 page)
“But Aaron’s not going with you.” Rosamund wanted that confirmation.
“As much as I would like to help, right now I’m afraid I’d be a hindrance,” Aaron told her gently. “Besides, this is Isabelle’s decision to make, and she said no.”
“That’s right. We can’t use a dead guy, or even an almost dead guy,” Samuel said.
Isabelle turned on him and pointed toward the shadows. “Information from Davidov. Now.”
“No. First—group hug!” Charisma extended her arms.
Isabelle hesitated, then nodded decisively. “Yes. First, we need a group hug.”
Samuel turned back and looked at her. Just looked at her.
“Just this once, I will explain.” Isabelle spoke right to him, then to everyone. “We’re breaking down. We’re complaining about Aleksandr drinking milk out of the jug, Samuel leaving water rings on the wooden tables, every guy here leaving the toilet paper unchanged, Charisma’s shoes thrown on the floor, my papers scattered everywhere. We need to rebuild our unity and remember who has our backs.”
Samuel sighed loudly, with exasperation, but when he spoke, it almost sounded like humor. “I knew there would be a group hug. There’s never any getting out of it.”
The Chosen Ones, and Irving, and McKenna, and Martha, moved quickly to stand in a circle in the middle of the kitchen. When Rosamund shook her head, they called her until she had no choice but to join them. Then Aaron joined them, too, taking his place beside Rosamund.
“Mr. Davidov?” Isabelle looked toward the shadows with a shy smile.
“No. Thank you.” The voice was so distinctive, Rosamund knew she would recognize it anywhere. “I am not one of your group.”
Rosamund still couldn’t see Davidov, but she knew from the slight relaxation of Aaron’s body that he was relieved.
On the other side of her, Jacqueline wrapped her arm around Rosamund’s waist, and Rosamund did the same with her. Like a braid, the Chosen and their friends joined together, shoulder to shoulder, arms intertwined. They looked in one another’s eyes. They nodded as if exchanging words unspoken yet understood.
And to Rosamund’s astonishment, something zapped them, flashing through the circle. It was an electrical current, hot and bright, or maybe a feeling so strong and vibrant they felt it in unison.
Everybody jumped.
Rosamund cried out in shock.
Aaron laughed.
Charisma nodded her head over and over. “That’s what I’m tellin’ ya. Rosamund is the right choice, and we’ve got our feet on the right path.”
Rosamund looked from one to another, bewildered by the flash and confused by their reaction. “What
was
that?”
was
that?”
“It’s approval,” Irving told her. “As Charisma said, this is the right group, and we’ve got our feet on the right path.”
“Now,” Isabelle said, “let’s go rescue the child.”
Chapter 42
A
t once, the atmosphere in the kitchen grew somber. Samuel joined Davidov. Caleb, Jacqueline, Aleksandr, and McKenna strode toward the stairs. Martha disappeared into the darkest corner of the kitchen, and Rosamund heard a door open and shut.
t once, the atmosphere in the kitchen grew somber. Samuel joined Davidov. Caleb, Jacqueline, Aleksandr, and McKenna strode toward the stairs. Martha disappeared into the darkest corner of the kitchen, and Rosamund heard a door open and shut.
Aaron put his hand in the small of Rosamund’s back. “Let’s go. I have to show you something.”
She stumbled along under his guidance, feeling miserable and wishing she were someone else, somewhere else, hoping they could make love one more time before she had to leave him, knowing he suspected a problem and would never let her get away with evading his questions.
Leading her to the bathroom off the kitchen, he flipped on the light. He looked into her eyes and said, “You say I don’t love you unless you’re pretty. Well, here.” He pushed her in front of the mirror.
“Oh.” Surprised and dismayed, Rosamund stared at her reflection: windblown hair, dust-smudged cheek, mascara rings beneath the eyes. “But . . . I don’t understand. Philippe told me the makeup was waterproof and resistant to wear.”
Aaron grinned, then hastily straightened his face into gravity. “I don’t know a lot about makeup, but I can say with a great deal of certainty that ‘resistant’ doesn’t mean it’s going to stay in place for more than forty-eight hours.”
“When . . . when did the Paris magic disappear?” In the coat closet? In the Sacred Cave? On the airplane on the flight back to New York?
Yet Aaron said he loved her. . . .
Over her head, he watched her knowingly.
He was sculpted and bronzed, handsome even with bruises and cuts, and the contrast with her made her miserably aware that he was so debonair and urbane, and she was so not. She had to make herself clear. “The thing is, I liked being pretty, but it took hours. It was okay to do once, but it’s not me. I mean, of course, I put on lipstick. . . .” She almost said
every day
, but she couldn’t lie. “I do put on lipstick every once in a while and I comb my hair every day.”
every day
, but she couldn’t lie. “I do put on lipstick every once in a while and I comb my hair every day.”
She didn’t know why, but he chuckled.
Dauntless, she plowed on. “But this is the real me.” She pointed at her reflection in the mirror.
He turned her to face him. “This is exactly the woman I want—intense, intelligent, fascinating, and not at all pretty.”
She stiffened. She knew it was true, that she wasn’t pretty, but he didn’t have to say so.
She knew that he wanted her, too, but what they had could never work . . . because she was a coward.
Capturing her chin with his cupped hand, he lifted her face to his. “You are the most
beautiful
woman I’ve ever seen, and all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you.” Sliding his arm around her waist, he pulled her close and kissed her with such passion and heat, she forgot her qualms, her fears. With his lips on hers, she thought of only one thing. Having him. Mating with him. Giving him pleasure, learning passion from him.
beautiful
woman I’ve ever seen, and all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you.” Sliding his arm around her waist, he pulled her close and kissed her with such passion and heat, she forgot her qualms, her fears. With his lips on hers, she thought of only one thing. Having him. Mating with him. Giving him pleasure, learning passion from him.
But as soon as he stopped kissing her, the truth came flooding back.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
And he knew. He scrutinized with those deep, dark eyes, and he just knew. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, not wanting to ruin this moment.
“No. Don’t pretend with me. You loved me, I know you did, and I’m just a guy with no sensitivity, but you’re on the verge of crying.” He used his thumb to catch the tear that spilled over and trickled down her cheek. “After the fight in your library, you said you loved me, but ever since Samuel got us out of the hospital, you’ve been . . . distant. Why? Did I say something wrong?”
“Say something wrong?” She tore herself out of his arms, wrapped her good arm around her stomach, tried to contain the agony that bubbled inside her. “It’s not what you said. It’s what you did.”
“What did I do?” He tried to embrace her.
“You
died
.” She evaded him.
died
.” She evaded him.
As if he were startled, he laughed a little. “But I’m okay!” He spread his arms as if to show her. “You heard what I said in the kitchen. I’m more than okay. I’m great!”
“No. No! It doesn’t matter. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Hm.” He took her hands, uncurled her clenched fingers, and held them. “You know, I just don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.” He
had
to believe her, because she was going to make herself believe it.
had
to believe her, because she was going to make herself believe it.
“All right. Why don’t you tell why you don’t love me anymore?” He walked her toward the stairway that led to the mansion’s impressive foyer.
“I told you. You died.” She grabbed for her composure again, and found it, never mind that it rocked like an ice floe on the arctic waters. “I have too much experience with that kind of loss. I lost my mother when I was a girl, but I was a kid. I didn’t understand then. I thought that somehow, someday, I’d see her again, hear her voice, somehow touch her spirit. Or something! I didn’t understand forever, the emptiness that weighs more than love, that like a glacier grinds you a different path so that you become someone who doesn’t dare hope. Because hopes are destined to be dashed. My father’s gone now, too. Both of my parents gone . . . because they were scholars seeking knowledge, and the Others . . . the Others wanted to hoard the knowledge for themselves.”
They reached the foyer, and Aaron turned her. “I would understand if you declared you didn’t love the Others. But your parents’ deaths are not my fault.”
“I know that.”
“You haven’t told me why you don’t love me.”
She didn’t want to face him while she talked. She didn’t want to meet his eyes. She pulled away from him, turned her back, stood before a Queen Anne antique side table graced with a green porcelain vase. With her finger, she traced the design cut into the smooth wood. “In a lesser way, I loved Louis, and a few hours after I met him, he was dead.”
“The fact you knew and loved him didn’t make him a target for death.” As Aaron spoke, he moved to one side of her.
“I know that. I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I must have been the cause of my mother’s death. It was the only reason I could imagine that my father would suddenly dislike me so.” She looked up, and realized she faced into a mirror, and Aaron had changed positions so he could observe the expressions that chased across her face. “Okay. I thought that all the way up to the time when Lance admitted he’d killed my father. Then I realized both my parents were killed for knowing too much and poking their noses into a dangerous business.”
Aaron still watched her.
So she still talked. “In a weird way, it was okay to lose my parents. Not good. Not easy. I loved my mother, I loved my father, but my parents were always supposed to die before me. You—I fell in love with you. I didn’t want to. I just couldn’t help it. You were strong and smart. And competent! You handled everything in the world so easily. You could get a cab. You could find my purse. You could fight off a dozen attackers. You could hide me in plain sight to get me out of Fournier’s château. You could make love so beautifully.” She put her hand over her aching heart.
He stood very still, very quiet, his dark eyes intent on her. “Honey, you’re talking about me in the past tense. I am still here. I am still that man.”
“But don’t you see?” She faced him, leaned against the table, said, “You could die again.”
“Yes. That’s true.” He captured her hand, kissed the back of her fingers. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you’re afraid, but what comfort can I offer you?”
She tried to yank her hand back.
He wouldn’t release her. “Listen to me. I’m one of the Chosen Ones. The mark on my back—it’s a gift.”
“A gift you have to pay for.”
“I don’t
have
to. I admit, I had to be blackmailed into joining the Chosen Ones. But when the Gypsy Travel Agency exploded, and so many people were killed, and I realized there was only us, seven people who didn’t know what they were doing . . . well, six now . . . It means I’m someone who has a job to do, and that job is dangerous.” He used his grip on her hands to gather her close to him. “The mark on my back is a target, and when I do what I must do, I’m going to be in peril.”
have
to. I admit, I had to be blackmailed into joining the Chosen Ones. But when the Gypsy Travel Agency exploded, and so many people were killed, and I realized there was only us, seven people who didn’t know what they were doing . . . well, six now . . . It means I’m someone who has a job to do, and that job is dangerous.” He used his grip on her hands to gather her close to him. “The mark on my back is a target, and when I do what I must do, I’m going to be in peril.”
She smelled the scent of him, felt his warmth, listened to his voice, and all the time, she knew she only had this moment with him. She could not depend on tomorrow. “I don’t want to be in love with a man who could die again. The first time . . . the first time almost killed me. I sat there in the ruins of that collapsed cave and held you in my arms, and I knew your spirit had gone from me. You were gone, and I was alone. Forever.”
“Darling . . .” He tried to kiss her.
She fended him off. “No. If you’re going to go off and steal things, to embrace danger, I don’t want to know. If you’re going to be one of the Chosen Ones, I don’t want to be here. I can’t be here. I cannot love a hero.” Her eyes filled with tears. Her voice wobbled.
In a flat tone, he said, “If I can, you can.”
“What?”
Huh? What? Had he lost his mind?
Huh? What? Had he lost his mind?
“You have spent the last week dashing across oceans and up mountains in search of a prophecy. You faced off with men who counterfeit antiques and with assassins and murderous security men. You dealt with hostile French villagers and the collapse of the Sacred Cave.” He held her close and shook her, then wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer, into his chest. “Most terrifying, you emerged triumphant from the dreaded fashion makeover. You beat every challenge—and today, you told Irving you were going to explore a way to corroborate the prophecy you found.”
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