Storm of Shadows

  “You didn’t have me,” she said.

  He cast her a sharp glance. “Good for you. I like a woman who knows her value.”

  But one detail had caught her attention. “How did you know I worked at the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library?”

  “I was watching you on the security monitor, realized I was not only interested in your background as a linguist but also in you as a woman, and had you investigated.”

  “You said you had me investigated before the party!”

  “Not as thoroughly as I would have liked.”

  “So you’ve made more inquiries about me since I got to the party?” His gall took her breath away.

  “Great wealth does have its advantages.”

  She stared at him, for the first time seeing beyond the charm. He was a man with too much power, used to having his own way, no matter what the means, and with a jolt, she remembered the warnings Aaron had given her as they walked up the stairs to the château.

  He had warned her about Louis Fournier, called him Caligula, the ultimate debaucher of innocents.

  She was a librarian, a talented one, but a librarian nevertheless. What was she doing in Paris at a high society party? Why were men suddenly surrounding her, flattering her, wanting to whisk her away into a corner?

  Why had Aaron done everything in his power to seduce her in the back of the limousine?

  She knew the answer—because she wore a designer outfit, had her hair styled by a professional, wore makeup applied by an expert.

  With abrupt uneasiness, she realized—she was out of place, an imposter. This was not who she was.

  With the perspicacity that made Louis who he was, he observed her sudden wariness and said, “You’re not in danger. You can’t find a man who has more respect for a paleographer of your talent than me.”

  True. And perhaps he could be a danger to her, but she was young and strong. He wouldn’t easily subdue her.

  And anyway . . . it wasn’t Louis Fournier who put her on edge.

  It was Aaron. Something about Aaron, about the way he’d found her in the library, about how easily he had coerced her to leave with him and never go back . . . It was as if he had hypnotized her. And the way he brought her whatever texts she needed . . . She had accused him of being an enforcer, and he hadn’t denied that. But how did any man get through security like at the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library? Or the university library in Casablanca? His skills were spooky.

  Aaron wanted her, yes. In the limo, he had seduced her with passion and intensity . . . now that she looked like he wanted her to look. Now that she’d left the real Rosamund far behind.

  Then like a burst of light, she remembered Lance. Lance, who wanted her when she was working in the library. Lance, who liked her as she truly was, plain and unadorned.

  She wasn’t afraid that Lance would disrupt her life and make her feel things she didn’t want to feel, like . . . like out-of-control passion in the back of a limousine. Lance didn’t look deep into her eyes, trying to see into her soul, and he never made her want to expose the fear with which she’d grown up.

  Lance was dressed in normal clothes. No tuxedos for him. No silk ties or shoes polished to a high gleam. Sure, he was handsome, even more handsome than Aaron, but he wore jeans and a golf shirt. He was merely a normal guy.

  “Do you have a restroom in here?” As she looked around, she was proud of her assumption of ease. “It’s been a long evening and I’ve had a lot of . . . champagne.” She willed herself to meet Louis’s gaze and not blush, and she must have convinced him—or maybe it was a subject he didn’t want to argue—because he waved her toward a closed door.

  “Thanks.” She headed toward the lavatory and locked the door after her. She turned on the water, pulled out her phone, typed in, Paris is lovely, party at Louis Fournier’s, wish u were here, and sent it winging its way to New York City and Lance.

  And collapsed against the sink and burst into tears, half afraid she’d been stupid beyond measure—because she was falling in love with Aaron Eagle.

  In New York City, in Osgood’s office, Lance looked up at the man who owned his soul. “She’s at Louis Fournier’s. Do you have men in position there?”

  “I have men in position everywhere.” Osgood picked up his phone and spoke into the receiver. “Louis Fournier. Rosamund Hall. Aaron Eagle. Make it look good.”

  Chapter 27

  Aaron paced the darkened corridor outside Fournier’s library, wondering if he should break in and save Rosamund from that licentious old man. Sure, she was strong and healthy; Fournier was old and weak. But look at the way D’Alessandri and the other men had trailed her, wanted her, listened to her when Aaron knew she must be boring the shit out of them because they were too dumb to comprehend her conversation and the breadth of her knowledge.

  Aaron knew her. Aaron understood her interests, because those were his interests, too. But had he ever really told her how fascinating he found her?

  No, of course not. He hadn’t realized she was going to run into Louis Fournier.

  She wouldn’t bore Fournier; Fournier would actually be interested in what she had to say, and Aaron knew how seductive a smidgen of knowledge and a little true interest could be to his librarian. Not to mention Fournier had that reputation as being irresistible to women, even women who should know better, even women who were miles more worldly than Rosamund, even women who were wealthy in their own right.

  Aaron should break in. He should.

  But if Rosamund was actually reading the journal of the prophetess of Casablanca, she would be furious at him for interrupting. And if he suddenly materialized in the library, he’d be busted, not only with Fournier and the rest of the art world, but with Rosamund.

  She didn’t believe in the Chosen Ones. She insisted they could not exist, probably because, for whatever reason, her old man had been so adamantly against the possibility of the paranormal. So in New York, at Irving’s, she’d been oblivious to the proof that had been right before her face. And when she found out Aaron was a member of that all-too-exclusive group . . . well. He feared she wasn’t going to take it well.

  No. He had to trust her to do her work, and he had to do his. When working a house, he always made sure to discover an alternate escape route . . . just in case things went sour.

  He glanced toward the velvet rope that marked the boundary between the ballroom, with its music and frivolity, and Fournier’s world, quiet, dark and elegant. The goon who guarded the boundary stood placidly, seemingly without a thought in his well-muscled head. Yet Aaron wasn’t dumb enough to believe that Fournier employed anyone who wasn’t fast on his feet and deceptively intelligent. Casually he wandered close, and when the cruel little eyes had fixed themselves on him, he looked at the goon’s name tag and asked, “Marcus, is there a bathroom somewhere back here?”

  “Sure. Right in there.” Marcus nodded toward a door down the corridor.

  Aaron headed toward it, counting doors as he walked, glancing inside the rooms, figuring which passages led out and which passages led deeper into the château. If this place was like most European noble homes, it was a rabbit warren of rooms. That could be an advantage or a disadvantage; it all depended on him.

  The bathroom was a very nice powder room, window-less, and apparently without any survey equipment.

  Aaron didn’t believe that for a minute.

  He used the facilities, washed his hands; then for the benefit of whoever was watching, he pressed on the bruises on his face and winced. Then he fussed with his hair.

  There was something about a man fussing with his hair that made him appear harmless, and Aaron very badly wanted to appear harmless.

  When he had finished, he walked out and back to the goon. “Marcus, is there somewhere I can sit and wait until Fournier comes out with my girlfriend?”

  “Let me find out.” Marcus opened the narrow door behind him and asked, “Is there somewhere the guy with the pretty hair can wait until Mr. Fou
rnier is done with his girlfriend?”

  Aaron had just learned two things: There was video in the bathroom, and he wanted to kick Marcus until he screamed like a little girl. But that would get Aaron thrown out onto the street or into the gutter or, if the rumors were true, into the deepest coalpit in Europe.

  So instead he slipped past the goon and into the security room.

  “Hey!” Marcus grabbed for his arm and should have had it, but Aaron tried a trick—he let his flesh dissolve so the goon’s hand passed right through it.

  Usually that maneuver didn’t work worth a damn. Tonight, it worked like a dream. Something was happening to him since he’d met Rosamund, something powerful and pervasive. He was gaining perfect control over his gift.

  Inside the narrow room, two uniformed security pinheads sat in front of a bank of monitors. Each monitor scanned a corridor or a room; each was carefully labeled.

  Marcus made another grab for Aaron; this time Aaron caught the guard’s hand and broke his finger. Because it wouldn’t be wise to do that fade trick too often. Someone might notice. And to pay him back for that jibe about Rosamund.

  To Aaron’s intense enjoyment, Marcus did indeed scream like a little girl. Lifting his hand, he looked at the broken joint incredulously. “You American pig. I’m going to throw you so far out of here, you’ll bounce like a rubber ball.”

  Without looking away from the wall of monitors before him, Pinhead Number One said, “Let him stay. If he’s planning on robbing Mr. Fournier, he might as well see what he’s up against.”

  “I’m not on the list of guests who are thieves, am I?” Aaron asked mildly.

  “You look like a guy who has aspirations.”

  That was not an answer.

  Pinhead Number One glanced at Marcus. “Get out. Man the rope.”

  With a resentful glance at Aaron, the guard took his crooked finger out and shut the door behind him.

  “Not much of a fighter,” Aaron observed.

  “That’s why he’s in charge of the rope. We don’t need much there except for the ability to string words together and if necessary, mix it up with a few drunk guests,” Pinhead Number One said.

  The château’s floor plan was on one big monitor on the wall. Aaron moved closer and stared. The ballroom was full of red dots that moved—the guests.

  “Infrared?” Aaron asked.

  “That’s right.” Pinhead Number One was apparently the chatty one.

  Pinhead Number Two didn’t move, didn’t speak; yet somehow he seemed aware, like a crocodile waiting for his victim to move close.

  As Aaron walked to the wall of room monitors, he gave Number Two a wide berth.

  One guest had wandered into the upstairs, tripping a silent alarm. Pinhead Number One spoke into a microphone. “Remove Mr. Wilson.” As Aaron watched, a uniformed security pinhead walked out of a bedroom, apprehended Mr. Wilson, and after a brief scuffle, escorted him out the back door and to his car.

  “Reporter. He thought we didn’t know. But we know everything.” Pinhead Number Two turned his reptilian head and looked at Aaron, his cold eyes satisfied with his demonstration. “He could have stayed if he had behaved.” Still staring at Aaron, he spoke into the microphone. “Escort the lady with Mr. Wilson to their car.”

  On the floor of the ballroom, two men converged on a well-dressed woman holding an animated conversation with the French president. A few words from the guards and she was gone.

  “Very efficient,” Aaron approved blandly. “Every room is monitored?”

  “Every room,” the pinheads confirmed in unison.

  “Not Mr. Fournier’s private library.” Because Aaron had examined each monitor, looking for a glimpse of Fournier and Rosamund, but he saw nothing.

  “It is, most carefully, but not when Mr. Fournier is inside. He prefers not to be observed with his . . . books.” The reptilian head turned toward Aaron again, and its tongue flickered out.

  Shit. The guy was gay. Not like Philippe his fashion designer was gay, but I’m-the-head-prisoner-and-I’m going-to-make-you-my-bitch gay.

  Dangerous. This room and these men were very dangerous.

  But it was too damned late to worry about that. For now, he could only pretend to be oblivious. “The bathrooms are monitored?”

  “Every room,” Pinhead Number One reiterated.

  Mentally Aaron counted up the doors down the corridor. Maybe every room, but not every space. One door was unaccounted for. Fournier’s private can? A closet? A passage out? A stairway down? Or up? Aaron intended to find out.

  “Thanks, guys, I appreciate the tour. It’s boring out there in the hall waiting for Dr. Hall to finish translating for Mr. Fournier.” Aaron eased toward the door, careful not to make eye contact with the crocodile, not to make any sudden moves. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Every time you piss,” said Pinhead Number Two.

  Aaron flinched. “Yeah.” He cast one more glance at the screen that monitored the corridor outside Fournier’s private library—still empty—opened the door and headed out.

  He was safer with an angry, broken Marcus than with the crocodile.

  Chapter 28

  Rosamund splashed water on her face, dried it, and stepped briskly out of the restroom. “All right. May I see the prophetess journal”

  “Direct and to the point.” Louis’s sharp gaze may have recognized the signs of tears but, wise man, he didn’t address the issue.

  “I need to translate the text. Time is not on our side.” Aaron was probably pacing the corridor, and if he decided to try to break in here, he would certainly be arrested, possibly electrocuted. “May I see it now?”

  “Of course.” Louis offered gloves, then removed the journal from an unlocked display case—a sign of its lesser value. He brought it to the table and offered it without any obvious worry as to its frailty. “It was found recently in a box in the attic of a private home in Paris. It’s in very good condition.”

  The book was a slim volume of no more than two dozen pages, bound in leather richly decorated with African tribal symbols etched in gold, and until the moment she recognized them, she hadn’t truly dared believe they had finally found Sacmis’s journal.

  But she knew these symbols, had come in contact with them on an African safari she’d taken with her parents, and now she traced them with her gloved fingertip. “No wonder the family hid it in their attic. These are not praises or good wishes.”

  “You know what they say?”

  “The prophetess put a hex on those who sold her, on those who kept her in slavery, and on all those who hold the spirit of her words.” Rosamund looked at the older man. “If you believe in curses, you might want to unload this.”

  “I don’t.” Then he laughed. “Shall I give it to you?”

  She drew back, instinctively repulsed. “No!”

  “Why, Dr. Hall, it would appear you believe in curses.” He leaned forward, his gaze fixed to hers.

  “Coincidence, my father said, but lately . . .” Lately, so many odd things had happened, she no longer believed the world was safe, easily explained, and logical. “Lately, I have doubts.”

  “Are you speaking of your mother’s death?”

  Jolted by how much Louis knew, she shrugged and nodded. “And my father’s.”

  “Another mysterious death.”

  “Yes, and I fear—” She stopped. “Do you believe that someone could be bad luck?”

  “No. I’ve seen people who constantly fall down stairs or off curbs, but they’re merely clumsy. I’ve seen people who fail at their endeavors time after time, but they’re either careless or gamblers who play regardless of the odds. Believe me, you make your own luck, good or bad.”

  “I suppose you’re right. To believe otherwise is superstition.”

  “And your father taught you to despise superstition.”

  She froze, and tried to remember if she’d told him that. But no. She hadn’t. So how had he known such a trivial detail?
>
  Louis leaned back and sighed. “I should not have pried into your life. I see that now. But I assure you, I meant nothing by it. I had to know that you were genuine before I let you into my library, and more important, I am old. I haven’t the time to get to know someone at a leisurely pace.”

  She tested the thick paper and examined the binding. “But to gobble up all the knowledge about another person—that removes the pleasure of a growing friendship.”

  “You seem so young and fresh, almost childlike in your enthusiasm, yet in your way, you’re wiser than many an old man.” He grimaced. “You’re right. In addition, I have an unfair advantage over you, and it makes you uneasy. I wouldn’t wish that to come between us. I believe we can be friends.”