The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (11 page)

A soft groan rose in his throat and sighed against her lips as they became insistent, almost rough. Then, drawing in a ragged breath, he pulled away just enough to sweep her onto the desk. The phone crashed to the floor, scattering papers and the cup filled with pens, but Fiona didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except touching Gideon—smelling his spicy, male smell, hearing the rasp of his breath, feasting on him—becoming enraptured.

He stood between her knees and she tilted her head, allowing his mouth to trail along her bare neck as she pulled the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it to the floor and her hands became free to mold over the hard planes of his chest.

Finally, he broke the kiss. Gently and delicately, he caressed her upper, then her lower, lip with his, gave her one last full-mouthed buss, and pulled away. Her hands were still planted on either side of the placket of buttons on his shirt, and she felt the rapid beat of his heart and steady warmth beneath her fingers while his chest rose and fell with heavy breathing.

“That kiss,” he murmured.

He smiled a sensual smile and Fiona became more lightheaded. “Ah. I see your point.” The room was spinning, but she had the wherewithal to echo his earlier words in hopes of hiding the devastation their embrace had wrought.

Dark hair shadowed his forehead and the planes of his cheekbones stood out in relief, as though he’d sucked in his breath. His eyes were dark and fierce, but the words that came out of his full mouth were surprisingly gentle. “Apparently you see some value in finding out what should lie beyond a mere kiss.”

She dropped her hands from his shirt and looked up at him. Although she was still trembling with the aftershock of their embrace, she knew she must be honest. “I don’t go in for casual sex, Gideon.” She gave a short laugh, almost in derision. “I don’t go in for sex much at all.” Which was why, she thought in shock, it was so overwhelming that a simple kiss should turn her into a shuddering mass of skin and bones.

The surprise that washed over his face was quickly masked behind that stony, lawyer-like countenance. “The evidence speaks otherwise.”

Fiona struggled for a moment, but her innate honesty won out. “What I mean is, I don’t sleep around…and I don’t very often find someone I choose to have sex with. It…complicates things.”

It scared the shit out of her.

“It doesn’t have to.” He slipped a finger under one of her loose, wild curls and flipped it behind her ear, allowing the tip of his thumb to trace along her jaw line, leaving her skin jumping in its wake.

“Hmm.” She cocked her head and looked up at him, aware that the sound of her thundering heart was deafening only to her, and considered.

Her mother never let sex complicate things in her life—Fiona and her half-brother Ethan were living proof of that. Each of them had been born of a different father, neither of whom her mother married, or even knew for any length of time. A child of the ‘Sixties, Fiona’s mother Haley lived a carefree life, even to this day. She had instilled in her children a love for fun and mysticism and all things natural, but not a moving sense of responsibility or taste for authority.

Fiona’s hands clenched tightly in her lap, pressing six rings into her fingers, and her throat was dry and tight. The ridge of the desk on which she sat bit into her upper calves as her fingers curled around the same sharp edge, clenching the wood to keep them from touching him again. She did want him…there was no doubt about that…but—

The thoughts froze in her mind as her heart plummeted to her belly. A glow of a light flickered at the back of the shop.

With a muffled shriek, she launched herself off the desk into Gideon’s arms. “The light! It’s the light!”

“What?” His arms slid around her, but then she pulled just as quickly away. Bewildered, he peered down at her as Fiona tried to keep herself from running headlong out of the shop.

“
The light is back on.
”
She pointed behind him with a finger that trembled even as she clutched the sleeve of his shirt with a death grip. “See it?”

Gideon took a hesitant step toward the back of the shop, then, when she started to follow, he lengthened his strides.

“It’s not plugged in,” she babbled, feeling lightheaded and confused. “And it keeps coming on.”

When they came around a tall escritoire and full-faced into the alcove, Fiona stopped short. The tension flooded from her, leaving her limbs weightless and numb, and immediately, embarrassment replaced her fear.

On the mammoth walnut desk, where the three lamps stood like a row of gateposts, Gretchen sat calmly cleaning her paw. She was, no doubt, cleaning the paw that had just batted at the dangling chain-switch for the Tiffany-like glass lamp of red and blue…the light which now glowed there in the alcove.

Gideon shot her a confused look, but, thankfully, he didn’t say anything. Fiona wanted to sink into the floor. How much more of a madwoman was she going to be around him?

Gamely, he reached around behind the lamp, pulling its cord and following it down into the dark recesses of the corner as Fiona had done with the other lamp shortly before.

“It’s plugged in,” he said, straightening, looking at her closely.

Fiona darted a glance at the other lamp, which sat so innocently in the far corner of the desk and didn’t even hint at being alit. She forced herself to give a short laugh and turned away—wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. “Oh. Must’ve been the cat,” she said lamely, curling her fingers into the palms of her hands. It was a good thing she had no nails to speak of, or she would have drawn blood.

“Yes, it must have been the cat.” Gideon’s voice was carefully level and neutral. He gave her a long, steady look, then turned away, starting back toward the front of the shop.

After glancing over her shoulder at the lamps again, Fiona followed, feeling like a complete idiot…but at the same time, frightened and disconcerted. She was not crazy!

When she rejoined Gideon, he was pulling on his jacket. Flipping the collar down and smoothing the sleeves, he looked up at her. “So, when are you planning to open for business?”

“The plan is to do a grand re-opening in two weeks. The
Inquirer
is going to feature the shop in its weekend section, and hopefully that will spur lots of folks to come and check it out.”

“The
Inquirer
?” He looked interested. “How did that happen?”

Fiona forced a smile, feeling awkward and restless—knowing he was just making small talk until he could fly the coop. “My friend Rob is a features editor there. It helps to have friends in high places.” She decided to make it easy on him. “I’ve got to get going, Gideon—I’ve got to get home and take care of some things. I’m glad you stopped by.”

She started to walk toward the front door, hoping he would take the hint. She couldn’t stand to have him look at her like he was afraid she’d turn into a screaming idiot at any given moment.

“Ah, yes. Well, let me know if there’s—er—anything I can do. If you have any other problems with the—lights.”

Fiona’s cheeks warmed. “Certainly. Thanks again, Gideon.” She nearly pushed him out the door, and watched covertly as he started down the street. As soon as he rounded the corner out of sight, she grabbed her leather bag, shot out of the store, and slammed the door behind her.

He was beginning to get worried.

In four weeks, he’d found no sign of old Valente’s journal or the bank statements he knew existed.

Fiddling with his gold-plated fountain pen, he pursed his lips and tried to quell the nervousness that roiled deep within. If he didn’t know for certain the journal existed, he wouldn’t be so damned concerned—but Valente had mentioned it more than once, so he knew all of the old man’s dirty secrets were written somewhere. His nostrils flared as if he smelled something rank.

Why the hell had the bastard insisted on writing everything down anyway?

He slammed his hand onto the heavy desk, and the heavy pen flew from his hand and clattered onto the floor. What kind of fool would leave a paper trail of sins behind him?

He’d torn apart every file, bookshelf, box, and drawer in Valente’s home since his death—very carefully, of course, for the others knew nothing about the old man’s secrets or his egotistical need to write them down. He had only learned about it by chance…but once Valente found out he knew, the old man seemed to feel the need to divulge every aspect of his sordid life—as if he was unburdening himself.

That was the best thing Valente had ever done for him, besides leaving him pots of money—for if he didn’t know enough to be concerned about that damn journal showing up, he wouldn’t be looking for it. And then, when it did appear someday, as it was bound to, he would be broadsided and lose everything.

That could not happen. He’d worked too hard to get where he was to allow the old man to bring it tumbling down around him—especially after the bastard was dead.

There was only one more place left to look.

His hand sidled over to the well-creased
Philadelphia Inquirer
and picked up the weekend section, where there was quite an admirable spread about that little antiques shop and the woman who now owned it.

A grand re-opening. What a perfect excuse.

The smile that twisted his mouth was not an attractive one.

~*~

The food was excellent, the wine beyond compare, the music perfect…and the woman at his side enough to garner stares from men in every direction.

Given all of these assets, Gideon should have been having a wonderful time. However, he detested political fundraisers as a rule, and attended them only under duress.

His duress this night was in the form of the very lovely Leslie van Dorn.

While she did not hang on his arm, for Leslie van Dorn, President and CEO of Interworks, was in no way a clinger, she did hover near him. That made it quite evident to the other men that the tall, elegant beauty was with Gideon and quite happy to be so.

He sidled his glance over the black dress with the plunging neckline, down past the table to admire her long legs, and back up to the ink-black hair pulled into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. There it would stay—those shiny strands of black a sleek cap until late tonight when she—or he—would loosen it into the straight, heavy curtain that fell to her shoulders.

He glanced over the others at their table, knowing that pretty much every man around it was fantasizing about doing just that, and wondered why he was going home to his place, alone, tonight.

Leslie laughed at a joke made by an elderly man—one of the biggest political contributors to the party—who was drooling down her décolletage. She brushed her arm against Gideon’s shoulder in a casual manner, sending a waft of the expensive, woodsy scent she wore. No florals or sweets for Leslie. Only fragrances that hinted of the Orient, or the subtleties of sophistication. She glanced up at him, her red lips glistening and blue eyes dancing as she shot him a look that suggested she was not interested in going home alone tonight.

Warmth slid over him at the blatant heat in her eyes and he responded with a subtle curl of his lips. It had been awhile, and he had been feeling rather on-edge lately. Ever since he’d fallen into Fiona Murphy’s dank, dusty closet.

Before he could push it away, the fleeting thought of Fiona Murphy—the one that had been hovering in the back of his mind all week, since she’d practically chased him out of her shop on Thursday—descended upon him and planted itself in the forefront of his mind. Along with the image of her wild eyes and strange babbling about lights and unplugged lamps came the searing memory of the kisses they’d shared in that musty old shop.