Free Storm of Shadows by Christina Dodd Page A

she divorced her husband, she chose her own last name, and mine.” Charisma took Rosamund’s hand and led her to one of the sofas. “You’d better sit. This could be a long wait.”

    Rosamund looked at her watch again. “I have a date. With Lance Mathews. I really need to get ready early because . . . um, I don’t usually use makeup and stuff and I don’t do a very good job.”

    “Don’t worry about the makeup,” Charisma said. “I’ll help, and when I’m done, you’ll look great.”

    Rosamund looked at her in alarm.

    From the top of her black and purple dyed hair to her purple-painted toenails, Charisma was an original. Her black eyeliner and dark red lipstick had been tattooed on, and another tattoo curled along her spine to bloom by her left ear. Yet for all the artifice, she was smart and strong and determined. If any of them survived the challenges ahead, it would be Charisma.

    “Don’t worry,” Charisma said in a soothing tone. “I can do librarian makeup, too. But really, you’d better sit down.” Charisma plopped down on the couch. “At his age, Irving doesn’t move any too quickly.”

    “Of course.” Rosamund sat beside Charisma. She reached for the nearest book, the one Isabelle had so carefully placed on top of the stacked papers.

    Isabelle jumped a little.

    Rosamund didn’t notice, of course. Instead she picked up the book and asked, “What are you reading?”

    “ The Historian. ” Isabelle smoothly picked up the stack of papers. “It’s one of my favorites. Have you read it?”

    Aaron took them, glanced at the top one, read Chosen Procedures written in scrawled, old-fashioned handwriting, and placed them on the computer desk away from Rosamund’s easy reach.

    “No. I think it’s about vampires, right?” Rosamund decisively shook her head. “I don’t believe in the occult.”

    Charisma’s eyebrows lifted. “Sucks to be you,” she muttered.

    Aaron put a brotherly arm around her and squeezed—hard. “Charisma’s our comedian.”

    Charisma elbowed him in the ribs.

    “Really, who does believe in the occult?” Isabelle laughed indulgently, and met Aaron’s gaze. “Yet that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the story.”

    “I suppose not.” Rosamund smoothed her hand across the dark cover. “But my father so strongly disapproved of anything involving the paranormal, he even yelled at me when I read Dracula .” She shuddered as if at a horrible memory.

    “If you want to borrow The Historian , I won’t yell at you,” Isabelle said gently. She was beautiful in an exotic way, with delicate bones and faintly slanted eyes. She’d been adopted and raised by one of the best families in Boston, and Aaron speculated that somewhere in her unknown bloodlines, she boasted an Asian ancestor. She spoke in a high-class, Boston accent and wore platinum-set, one-carat diamond studs, a classic Chanel watch, and a three-carat platinum-set diamond ring. Sometime while Aaron had been out of the house, she had received replacements for the clothes that had been destroyed in the Gypsy Travel Agency explosion, for instead of jeans and a T-shirt, she wore what Aaron’s expert eye identified as a Tory Burch blue linen dress.

    In his business, it paid to recognize the difference between a designer and a knockoff.

    Yet Isabelle was barefoot; apparently, Charisma was not without her influence.

    And neither was Isabelle.

    Charisma must have plundered Isabelle’s wardrobe. Seeing Aaron eye her kilt-style pleated skirt, she bobbed up and into a little curtsy. “Like it?”

    “Very nice,” he said. “Burberry, right?”

    She sighed. “You know the weirdest things for a straight guy.”

    “Isn’t that the truth?” Sam stood in the doorway, examining Aaron in overdone masculine horror.

    Aaron flipped him the bird.

    Charisma plucked at her blue stretch camisole. “Can you guess this?”

    “Armani’s spring collection.” He’d been at the showing, stalking Mrs.