Storm of Shadows by Christina Dodd

she liked him, and she was almost sure he didn’t like her, yet something about his presence comforted her. She knew, without a word from him, that he would never let anything happen to her. And not just because he wanted her to translate a prophecy, either. He seemed to understand her father had felt guilty about her mother’s death, and in a weird way, he’d almost seemed to think her father should feel guilty. Because Aaron was the kind of man who, regardless of the odds, would protect his woman from harm.

    Not that she was his woman, of course, but . . .

    “Here we are.” Irving guided her along the upstairs corridor to a tall, wide, hardwood door. He opened it and said with self-deprecating humor, “My private library is attached to my bedroom with a connecting door. At night, when I can’t sleep, I enjoy being able to rise and sit among the detritus of the ages.”

    She stepped inside and realized Irving’s private library was more than a library; it was a repository of relics. Leather-bound texts and parchment scrolls shared the shelves with ornate antique fans and pottery. A complete and yellowed human skeleton hung on a stand in the corner. An African war mask grinned at her from one wall. A gracefully rendered copy of some unknown da Vinci painting hung on another. A worn leather chair sat between an illuminated world globe in a tall maple stand and a long library table stacked with books, scrolls, a Mesopotamian fertility goddess, and a crystal ball—a beautifully rounded glass ball sitting on a primitive carved wood base.

    “Do you like it?” Irving was as eager as a boy.

    “How spectacular! And peculiar.” She prowled deeper into the room. “It reminds me of a medieval alchemist’s library.” She sank down into one of the three leather office chairs located by the library table. “Only comfortable.”

    “Thank you! When the Cho—children”—Irving stammered over the word—“came to live with me, I ordered some comfortable seating for them in case they wished to study the history of their . . . of the Gypsy Travel Agency.” He swallowed, and his brown eyes glistened with tears.

    His grief broke her heart. “I was sorry to hear about the devastation of the company. I know how much that must have grieved you.”

    In this she struck a chord, for the old man looked both fierce and anguished. “So many friends and associates gone, killed by an ancient enmity. When I think of the knowledge and experience destroyed in that blast—”

    Aaron put his hand on Irving’s shoulder. “It was a tragedy, but we’ve got to look to the future.”

    A woman’s voice spoke. “Isn’t that why Rosamund is here?”

    In unison, Irving, Aaron, and Rosamund turned toward the door. A buff, handsome, grim-faced man stood there, but it was the tall, gorgeous, platinum blonde beside him who drew Rosamund’s gaze. The blonde wore leather gloves with the fingers exposed, and had the most peculiar amber brown eyes. . . .

    She walked in slowly, holding her ribs as if she was in pain, and Rosamund saw a ring of bruises around her throat. Sometime in the very recent past, she had been attacked and hurt badly. Yet she scrutinized Rosamund so acutely, Rosamund was mesmerized.

    Aaron said, “Rosamund Hall, this is Jacqueline Vargha and her fiancé, Caleb D’Angelo.”

    “How do you do?” Jacqueline stripped off her gloves, then offered her bared hand. When Rosamund took it, Jacqueline placed her other hand on the crystal ball.

    Rosamund felt a warmth flow to her from Jacqueline, a comfort, a confirmation. Without volition, she relaxed back into the chair.

    In a tone of surprise, Jacqueline said, “Rosamund! You have come to find the prophetess.”

    “Has she?” Irving seated himself in his leather easy chair and smirked at Aaron in ill-concealed satisfaction.

    “She has,” Jacqueline assured him.

    “The prophetess? The prophet is a woman?” Rosamund looked at Aaron in reproach. “You