Storm of Shadows by Christina Dodd

ash.”

    “And yet as you looked, there was such a sense of loss.” Aaron slid his arm around her and gathered her into his body, under his jacket.

    He was hugging her.

    For a long moment, she stood with her arms between them, her fists clutched tightly, not knowing what to do.

    When he didn’t move, she relaxed, inch by inch, loosening her fists, sliding her arms around him, burying her nose in his chest. . . . She closed her eyes. He was warm.

    Did he understand how abandoned she had felt when her mother died? When she looked back on the child she had been, all unknowing as they brought her mother’s limp body up from the cenote, she felt sorry for that girl. Because she had waited for someone to tell her it was all right, that her mother would come back to her, hold her in her arms again, be with her. She hadn’t understood what that loss meant, or the anguish that would tear at her, or what it would mean in the future.

    She hadn’t understood that on that same day, she would lose her father, too, or at least the father he had been. For the Elijah Hall she had known was gone, replaced by a strict teacher who kept her at a distance, taught her only what he thought she should know, occasionally disparaged her natural abilities. In all the years since, he had hugged her only once, right before he left to go back to Central America, and even then he had been stern, warning her to take care in a way that made it clear he had his doubts she could manage to tie her shoes. And she wasn’t that inept. Not usually.

    Rosamund turned her head and spoke, and revealed the tiniest bit of her pain to a man she barely knew . . . yet he would understand. This man knew loss. “I remember when my mother would translate languages—she was so good, it was like magic—and my father would look at her with such delight and love in his eyes. Her death broke something in him, and I don’t know what, or why.”

    “Maybe he blamed himself.” Aaron’s voice was a rumble in his chest under her ear.

    “No, she was always the one who decided where we would go and what we would do. Father and I both rode along on the floodwaters of her passion for learning . . . and for life.”

    “Yes, and maybe he knew of the danger and let her go because he couldn’t bear to tell her no.”

    Rosamund laughed a little. “No one could tell my mother no. She was like a hurricane of enthusiasm, sweeping everything away before her.”

    “He was her husband. He was responsible for her safety.”

    She looked up at Aaron. He looked completely serious. “That’s archaic!”

    “Men are archaic.” Aaron sounded very sure. “To see the one you love killed, knowing you didn’t protect her . . . that will break any man’s spirit.”

    She didn’t agree with him. Not really. Why would her father feel responsible for her mother’s death? It wasn’t his fault.

    “It’s hard to be alone in the world,” Aaron said.

    She didn’t know if he was talking about her father or her . . . or himself. She only knew he smelled good. Very manly, with hints of spice—cloves?—and citrus. Soap and clean human skin . . . nice . . .

    He was nice, cradling her and giving her comfort as no one had since . . . since her mother’s death.

    That was why she was so startled when, without warning, he pushed her away.

Chapter 6

    G ive Irving my regards. A woman’s voice, clear and husky, whispered the words— into Aaron’s mind.

    Aaron stood stiff and still, breathing deeply.

    Nothing panicked him. He prided himself on his cool analysis of any situation, on his quick thinking, and those qualities had saved his life in more than one tough situation. Yet this . . . this violation of his being made him want to run, to hide, to vanish in broad daylight.

    Where had those words come from?

    He scanned the crowd around the sea lion pool.

    A handsome woman in her sixties sat on a wooden bench in the shade in the Central Garden. She was watching him, a knowing