Storm of Shadows

by Christina Dodd

  “If that made any sense, you’d be a tree by birth, too.”

  “You were always too smart for me.” Philippe cupped his hands around Aaron’s head and looked into his eyes. In a totally different tone, one that only carried to Aaron’s ears, he asked, “Who kicked the shit out of you?”

  “Four guys jumped me last night in Casablanca and tried to kill me.”

  “I wish I’d been there.”

  “I wish you had been, too.” Because a gay man growing up in Boise, Idaho, learned to fight, and fight dirty.

  “Did you make them sorry?”

  “A couple of them.”

  “How about some first aid?”

  “I could use a sterile gauze wrap for my leg.”

  “I can get you that. And maybe some antibiotics?”

  “Bon.”

  Philippe laughed, as Aaron intended.

  Then Aaron said, “But first, let me introduce you to my partner, Dr. Rosamund Hall.”

  Philippe turned, and magically he was the gay fashion designer once more. “Darling, you have come to the right place. We will be everything you ever wanted from a Paris salon!”

  “I never wanted to be in a Paris salon,” Rosamund said, eyes wide.

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear. That’s awful!” Philippe threw his arms up into the air in an excess of horror. “You’ll give me a complex!”

  If possible, Rosamund looked even more dismayed.

  “Come back to my office and we’ll talk.” With a swish, he led the way to the back.

  Aaron took Rosamund’s hand and helped her to her feet. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “He does the drama queen act for effect, but he’s a genius, a top-notch designer, and rich as Hades.”

  “And I’m cute as all get-out, too!” Philippe called. Leading them through the pink and white showroom and into his office, he shut the door behind them. Contrary to every other part of the salon, his office was dark paneled walls, a serviceable desk, a killer computer, and rows of file cabinets.

  “Sit down.” He waved them toward chairs in front of his desk. “After you called, Aaron, I did a little checking around. The man you want is Louis Fournier.”

  Aaron groaned. “No, I really don’t.”

  “Yes, you really do. He’s a fanatical collector of pre- World War One manuscripts, scrolls, and codices, and just a few weeks ago he acquired the journal of one Sacmis, the prophetess of Casablanca.”

  Rosamund clasped her hands in delight. “You’re sure of this?”

  In a tone that was a direct contrast to hers, Aaron said, “You’re absolutely sure?”

  Philippe leaned against his desk, crossed his arms, and viewed them both with amusement. “Of course I am sure.”

  “Can we ask him if we can look at the text?” Rosamund turned to Aaron. “Honestly, Dr. Al-Ruwaili is not typical of collectors. Most of them like to show off their acquisitions.”

  “I do know quite a bit about collectors. Some of them are quite uncooperative. Fournier has that reputation. He’s also wealthy beyond belief and a lecherous old beast.” Aaron lifted his eyebrows at Philippe. “Where does he keep his collection?”

  “In his home.”

  “Can we somehow get in?”

  “I anticipated your wish.” Philippe lifted two embossed cards off his desk. “Voilà! Invitations to his party tomorrow night.”

  “Society party?” Aaron asked.

  “The highest,” Philippe answered.

  “I’ll need a tuxedo. And . . .” Aaron waved a hand at Rosamund.

  She sat frozen in alarm as the two men turned and looked her over from head to toe.

  “Can you do it in one day?” Aaron looked worried.

  “Do what?” She looked from Aaron to Philippe and to Aaron again.

  “It will take a lot of effort, but I think so.” Philippe stroked his chin.

  “Do what?” They were making her very nervous.

  Philippe plucked the glasses off her nose.

  “What are you doing?” She blindly made a grab for them—and missed.

  “Do you have contact lenses?” Philippe asked.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Have you considered laser eye surgery?” he asked.

  “No,” she said more emphatically.

  “Why not? Dorothy Parker said, ‘Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.’ ”

  Tartly, Rosamund replied, “Letty Cottin Pogrebin said, ‘Men who never make passes at women with glasses are asses.’ ”

  Philippe turned to Aaron. “I like this one. You’ve done well, my friend. Now—let’s get to work.”

  Chapter 22

  Early the next evening, Aaron sat in the lobby of Philippe’s polished Paris salon, drinking coffee, flipping through French fashion magazines, and waiting impatiently for Philippe to finish transforming Rosamund into a society beauty. Aaron was pretty sure it could be done; he’d seen enough loveliness peek through that clueless, uninterested facade to make him want to kiss her senseless. Or maybe it wasn’t so much the loveliness that made him want to kiss her, but her continued cluelessness to his interest.

  He glanced toward the gauze curtains where occasionally squeaks of dismay made him think Philippe was either torturing a kitten or waxing Rosamund’s brows.

  How could a woman live with a man, travel with him, spend every minute of the day in his presence, and not pick up on any of the lures he sent out? She liked men. Obviously. She was enamored of that limp prick Lance Mathews.

  Aaron clearly heard Rosamund’s panicked voice say, “But I’ve only had those glasses for five years!” followed by Philippe’s reassuring murmur.

  Even after Aaron had kissed her, Rosamund looked at him blankly when he smiled at her, stared at him in confusion when he scowled at her, let him take her hand but left it limp in his, let him guide her with his hand at the small of her back, yet never turned into his embrace—

  One of the tall, leggy models dressed in black walked out, leaned over Aaron, and in a voice no louder than a whisper said, “Philippe asked that I assure you we’re almost done.”

  “Great,” he said absently, and picked up another magazine.

  When he looked up again, she was gone. Behind the curtain, he supposed, to work on Rosamund . . .

  Rosamund. Did the woman not know how to flirt? At all?

  Or was she just not interested in him?

  He found himself staring at a fashion layout and scowling. He needed to relax. Philippe knew what Aaron wanted. All Aaron had to do was have a little patience. . . .

  He caught sight of himself in the mirrors that stretched from one wall to the other.

  For a guy who’d been beaten and stabbed two nights ago, he looked pretty good. Most of the bruising had faded to yellow, he had full range of motion in his jaw, his finger hurt, but it was knitting, his breastbone only ached when he took a big breath or when he twisted wrong, and his thigh . . . his thigh was ugly. The site of the stab wound still ached and burned, even with the antibiotics Philippe had procured. If healing quickly was the benefit for being one of the Chosen Ones, then he was all for it.

  Two of Philippe’s tallest, most fashionable models stepped out from behind the gauzy curtain at the back of the showroom, parted it in the middle, and held it in an expectant hush.

  Aaron put his coffee aside, flung the magazine on the table, and stood.

  Philippe stepped out with a flourish. “I am a genius,” he proclaimed.

  “I know.” Aaron was willing to give him his due. “That’s why I brought Rosamund here.”

  “But no. You don’t understand. I am a genius.”

  By that, Aaron concluded Philippe had been wildly creative and extravagant, and Aaron would have a huge bill with which to contend. Aaron could only hope his bank account held up under this continued drought of income. “So . . . you used the raw material that is Rosamund and made . . . ?”

  Philippe turned back toward the curtained entrance and spread his arms wide. “I
give you . . . the librarian!” Turning back to Aaron he added in an undertone, “The librarian everyone wants to fuck.”

  Aaron did a double take.

  The woman who walked into the waiting room was not at all what Aaron had envisioned. Instead of glamour, instead of silk and velvet, Rosamund was . . . she was . . .

  She wore a suit of gray wool, with a long-sleeved, formfitting jacket that buttoned up the front, tucked in at the waist, and showed just a hint of creamy cleavage. The knee-length hem of the pencil-thin skirt was right-wing conservative, as were the gray patent pumps with the two-inch heels.

  Her curly, carroty hair had been cut to shoulder length and tamed into a smooth wave that flowed around her face and over one eye. Her makeup was so discreet as to be almost invisible, doing nothing more than accenting the lines and curves of her face.

  Most important, her tortoiseshell glasses had been replaced with a square, black, severe style that made her violet eyes the focus of the whole package. Her eyes . . . and her lips, which were a glorious, bright red.

  Wordless, Aaron gestured for her to turn.

  The back of the gray wool suit cupped her rear like a glove, and a gathered kick pleat pointed like an arrow at the crack of her ass.

  Philippe was right. She was the librarian everybody wanted to fuck—and Aaron wanted to fuck her.

  Now.

  “That is not what I told you to do,” Aaron said furiously. With her dressed like that, how were they supposed to fit in at Louis Fournier’s party? More important, how the hell was he supposed to keep it in his pants? “That’s not high society party wear!”

  “I told you so.” Rosamund stood, wringing her hands, looking wretched. “Philippe, I told you this was a mistake.”

  “Oh, honey.” Philippe patted her cheek. “This is not a mistake. This is the most glorious creation of my career, and Aaron, I have you and the fair Rosamund to thank for it. Relax. You’ll see what a success this will be. All I ask in payment is that you tell every woman who asks that Philippe designed the outfit.”

  “She’s going to stand out in the crowd.” Which was the last thing Aaron had wanted. He wanted to blend in, to be invisible, to be like everyone else at the party.

  “Mais oui! I’m already calling in extra staff to deal with the rush.” Philippe gestured to his models, who at once rushed behind the curtains. “As for you”—Philippe turned to Rosamund—“you stroll into that party and be yourself. These people are so bored, they never meet an original, and you are going to be the most popular woman there.”

  “Aaron doesn’t like it,” Rosamund said.

  “Trust me.” Philippe’s gaze dropped to Aaron’s groin. “He does. Now, Cinderella”—he clapped his hands—“my limousine is here to take you to the ball. Let’s go!”

  Philippe talked all the way to the limo, holding her hand, reassuring her, while Aaron stalked behind them and the models, laden with paraphernalia, walked behind him.

  The chauffeur stood in uniform beside the open door, and one glance from him proved Philippe was even more correct than Aaron had feared.

  The chauffeur wanted to fuck her.

  Aaron was tempted to swear viciously and with all the languages at his disposal. But he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would give a roar like a wild beast defending his mate. So he contented himself with glaring at the chauffeur with such malicious intent that the man paled and stepped away.

  Philippe, of course, saw it all. “Stop frightening Claude. He can’t help it if he’s heterosexual.”

  Aaron bared his teeth at the hapless Claude.

  “There we go.” Philippe handed Rosamund into the limo, then slid in beside her. “Zelda!” he called.

  The first tall model leaned into the limo, offering a silver tray laden with fashion trappings.

  “Here’s your purse.” Philippe handed Rosamund a small gray patent clutch. He opened it and showed her the inside. “See? There’s your magnifying glass, just as I promised.”

  Rosamund plucked Bala’s Glass from its depths, looked at it, looked at Aaron, nodded, and put it back.

  “The purse has a chain handle in case you want to sling it over your shoulder.” Philippe extracted the chain from the interior of the purse and showed it to her. “Please try not to do that. It will ruin the line of your jacket.”

  “Don’t use the chain. It’ll ruin the line of my jacket,” Rosamund repeated obediently.

  Pulling a red ceramic compact out of his pocket, Philippe opened it and showed her the contents. “Here’s your powder foundation for touch-ups. Here’s your lipstick. I showed you how to put them on. Make sure you refresh before you go into the party.” He tucked it in the purse with the glass. Without looking away from Rosamund, he snapped his fingers and called, “Nadia!”

  Zelda backed out, and the second tall model leaned in and offered her silver tray.

  “Here’s your champagne.” Philippe expertly popped the cork. “Here’s your glass.” He poured two crystal stems, handed one to Rosamund and placed the other in the built-in bar. He buried the champagne bottle in the ice bucket in the side of the car, then kissed Rosamund on both cheeks. “Have fun, and remember, Cinderella, try not to lose your shoe!” He laughed merrily, then got out of the limo and clapped his hand to Aaron’s shoulder. In a low voice, he said, “Although from the look on your face, I really ought to warn her about losing her panties. You’re giving off pheromones enough to bring every woman in Paris to orgasm.”

  “Apparently . . . not.” Aaron looked into the luxurious interior of the limo.

  Rosamund sat stiff and still, staring at the champagne flute held between her beautifully manicured fingers.

  Philippe chuckled. “You’re closer than you think. Just in case you’re wondering, it’s an hour drive to Louis’s château. The glass between the driver and the backseat is soundproof and completely opaque. I have tested it myself. But do be careful with the fair Rosamund, Aaron. If she’s not a virgin, she’s the closest thing to it, and to top it all off, she’s clueless.”

  “That I do know.” Aaron started to get in, then turned back to Philippe. “I ought to kill you for this.”

  “Just name the first baby after me!” Philippe evaded Aaron’s grab for his shirtfront, stepped back, and waved as Claude shut the door and drove them into the rainy Paris streets.

  Chapter 23

  “Philippe’s fast on his feet,” Aaron muttered, and turned to Rosamund.

  She looked on the verge of tears. “I told him you’d hate this. I told him I wasn’t pretty like this. I begged him to do something different, but he insisted that this was exactly me. But I don’t want it to be me. I wanted to be pretty. For once in my life, I wanted to be pretty.”

  While she talked, Aaron leaned forward and pressed the button to close the window between the driver and the backseat. When they were sealed inside, surrounded by black leather and dim light, with the sound of the motor purring in the front and the rainy Paris streets passing outside, he turned to her. Grasping the champagne flute, he placed it beside his in the bar. Removing her glasses, he carefully slid them into the door pocket. He took her into his arms, and in a fury of frustration and desire, he said, “You are so much more than pretty.”

  And he kissed her. Kissed her with all the pent-up anguish of a man who had seen and touched and traveled with the woman he wanted. Ruthlessly, he opened her lips, tasting mint toothpaste and all the while wondering what that soft, red mouth would feel like wrapped around his dick. He thrust his tongue inside, pretending he had entered her body with his. He handled her struggles impatiently, moving her hands off his chest and up around his shoulders.

  He couldn’t bear for her to push him away. Not now. Not when she had just become everything he had never dared to imagine she could be—a sensual creature living in this moment and aware of her own self.

  When he pulled his lips away—the girl needed to breathe, after all—she clutched her fingers in his hair and held him still. “Don
’t kiss me because you feel sorry for me.”

  He wanted to laugh, but it would have hurt his still-sore ribs. “Pull down my fly and tell me if that feels like pity to you.”

  “Your fly? You mean, the zipper in your trousers?” Rosamund twisted in his arms.

  Aaron knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to regain her equilibrium, be the rational, sensible, unyielding librarian.