Storm of Shadows (27 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General

BOOK: Storm of Shadows
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Fournier indicated the microscope. “Go ahead and unroll it. I keep the best restoration team in the world on retainer, and they have done marvelous work with this gospel.”
With the instruments at hand, she peeled back the edges and examined them, then slid the document under the microscope. The media was parchment, a
volumen
of great age. As the Latin words came into focus, she realized Louis was right. He had an authentic copy of the Seventh Gospel.
She looked up, troubled. “This is not just rare. This is a legend. No one knows that it really exists, yet you have it. It deserves to be studied, translated, a gift to the modern world.”
“How very Indiana Jones of you. You think it should be in a museum.” He was openly amused.
“Or a library.”
“Do you know how much I spent on keeping the manuscripts and scrolls in my possession preserved? This system, with its vacuum seal, its special lighting, its perfect climate control, cost me over six hundred and fifty million dollars. How much does the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library spend to protect its collection?”
She shook her head. “Nothing even close.”
“In the last five years, I’ve paid the team who does my restoration over seventy-five million to work in my library.”IT
“Seventy-five million? That’s absurd. How big is your team?”
“Eight people, the best in the world. But I don’t pay that much for their work. I pay for their silence.” Louis rested his hand on one of the marble bookends carved into the shape of a gargoyle’s head. “Have you heard any rumor of the Seventh Gospel?”
“No.” She searched her memory. “Not even in restoration circles.”
He inclined his head.
“But I did hear that you’d purchased the prophetess of Casablanca’s journal.”
“I bought it at a private auction. Others were involved. The seller. The other buyers.” He shrugged with Gallic fatalism. “Those people cannot be silenced, at least not without bloodletting. And while the prophetess manuscript is of interest to collectors like me, it’s not that valuable.”
“Why not?”
“It’s indecipherable. Some people say it’s a hoax, that the prophetess was not literate.”
“Or that she wasn’t a real prophetess,” Rosamund reminded him.
“Ah, but I believe that the prophetess wrote in the language of her tribe, an obscure script that has proved impossible to translate—and believe me, I’ve had the best linguists here to try.”
“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
A
aron 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. Fournier 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.

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