The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (12 page)

Sex only complicates things.
He frowned at the memory of her words, her lame excuse for not pursuing what they obviously both wanted. He didn’t want complications any more than the next guy, but, hell, he was attracted to her—that sexy, sensual, fruitcake of a woman who was always giddy and openly, shamelessly honest. He hadn’t been able to keep from thinking about her all week. For Christ’s sake, she’d even intruded in one of his memos. He’d written the name Fiona instead of Finley.

Claire had returned the memo for his review with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look that annoyed him so much that he typed the required edits himself and filed it away without letting her see it again.

Even now, he felt more than a bit uncomfortable with the amount of energy he’d spent trying not to think about her—and the fact that she had turned him down flat.

Truth be told, his pride was more than a bit wounded, and, if he were to be honest himself, showing up at this fundraiser with a beautiful, powerful, sophisticated woman was a balm to that bruised ego.

To placate himself further, he tried to picture Fiona here, at a black-tie event such as this, surrounded by the richest, most powerful conservatives in the Tri-State area. She, with her unruly cinnamon hair, casual flowing manner and unabashed openness, would be nothing if an anomaly in this urbane environment. She’d be a fish out of water—fruit punch mixed in with champagne—at a function as conservative as this.

She would smile and chatter and ask interesting, naïve questions, and look up at a man like he was the only person in the room as he expounded on everything she wanted to know….

With a grunt of disgust, Gideon brought the glass of wine to his lips and tasted it. She would make a fool out of herself, he amended brusquely, and turned his attention to Leslie.

But as he shifted to look at his date, his gaze wandered past her sleek, black head, glanced over a cluster of people across the room…and then jerked back in disbelief.

Impossible, he told himself, staring without trying to be too obvious at a figure with a mass of crazy, curling auburn hair. He almost rose from his chair before catching himself. Settling back into it, he slid a hand over to cup over Leslie’s cool fingers.

She turned a small smile on him, which he answered absently, still scrutinizing the clique of people that seemed to be surrounding the auburn-haired woman. He had made a similar mistake before, he reminded himself. What was wrong with him, seeing Fiona wherever he happened to be?

“What is it, darling?” Leslie asked in her well-modulated, even tones—a voice that, while pleasing to the ear, had little inflection or emotion, and seemed always to carry the stiffness of a cold-blooded businesswoman.

“I believe…” Gideon began, then paused when the woman shifted and he could clearly see her face.
Hell.
“I just noticed that a client of my grandfather is here.”

“Shall we go speak with him?”

He nodded, rising to his feet before he could think twice about it. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for Miss Fiona Murphy to see that he hadn’t slunk off like a dog just because she wasn’t interested in pursuing matters with him. “Her. Yes, I think I will—would you like to join me?”

Leslie rose gracefully to her feet, retrieving her small, beaded black bag from the table, and smoothing her very short dress. “Please excuse us,” she said with a smile. “Duty calls.”

As they drew nearer, Gideon noticed that the cluster of people seemed to be formed around Fiona, who appeared to be examining the hand of a senior partner of Laslow, Yonke and Greiber—one of the oldest, most conservative law firms in Philly. She said something that caused the small group to explode with laughter while she merely looked up at the distinguished, white-haired man and grinned a meaningful grin.

The man withdrew his hand, still chuckling, just as Gideon and Leslie approached the crowd. “So there
is
more than one meaning to having your left hand knowing what your right hand is doing, eh, my dear?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded once, emphatically, and just then, noticed Gideon and Leslie. A flare of surprise lit her face, then receded immediately as she gave them a friendly smile. “Why, Gideon, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Words stuck in his throat when she turned to face him. Jesus. Someone—probably an engineer—had taken on the task of piling that glorious mass of coppery curls on the crown of her head, leaving thick, corkscrew wisps trailing down the nape of her neck, and a few locks framing her face. Her features were flawless, colored faintly by all shades of cinnamon and nutmeg, peaches and cream, with thick, dark lashes and gracefully-winged brows. The silky halter dress she wore—a simple black affair so different from Leslie’s elegant, sexy, short-skirted one—revealed alabaster shoulders and arms dusted generously with tiny, pale freckles. The bodice cupped her curves, then fell in graceful folds from hips to floor.

Then, to top it off, he noticed for the first time that Barnaby Forth stood behind her, watching her with a possessive demeanor.

Forth’s presence was enough for Gideon to find his voice, but the words came out stilted and flat. “It is a surprise to see you as well.” He shifted his glance to the other man and offered his hand. “Forth. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here—with the election only four months away.”

Leslie interrupted the odd moment with the tact of someone used to all aspects of social situations. “Barnaby Forth, I’m Leslie van Dorn. I am so very pleased to meet you at last. I’ve been very interested in your candidacy.” She extended her hand, following it with a warm smile, then transferred it to Fiona. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, “and I suppose I could wait for Gideon to introduce us…but that doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. Leslie van Dorn.”

“Fiona Murphy,” Fiona replied, shaking the proffered hand and trying heartily to suppress the surprise and…well…annoyance that Gideon should have shown up here with this gorgeous babe on his arm after propositioning her only a week ago.

He finally spoke, dragging what seemed to be a rather irked silvery gaze from her person, and transferring it to the sleek Ms. van Dorn. Definitely a Ms., Fiona thought, if not a Your Majesty.

“Fiona is a client of my grandfather—as is Barnaby Forth. They’re both heirs of Nevio Valente’s estate.”

“Valente?” One of the other men in the crowd—she thought his name was Harvey Buckright—spoke up in interest, drawing the attention away from her and allowing Fiona an opportunity to compose herself.

It was a sin, she mused as the conversation picked up around her, that anyone should look so good in a tux…especially a man that she knew had a tighter rump than…Al Gore. A little giggle threatened to burst from her lips at the thought and damn if Gideon didn’t happen to look at her at that moment. He fixed that same haughty glare on her that he had the first time they’d met, the one that was so very much like her third grade teacher’s pointed stare. The one that failed, as it had twenty years ago, to have any sobering affect on her whatsoever.

But as she transferred her attention to Ms. Leslie van Dorn, Fiona’s amusement transformed into irritation. How dare that man kiss her like he had and try to get her to sleep with him…then appear with this trophy-woman on his arm less than a week later?

This time, when Gideon looked at her, she caught his eyes with a cold glare of her own, firming her lips and jutting her chin in an unmistakable show of her feelings. Surprise flitted in his eyes, then, to her shock and chagrin, he turned to his escort and said, “Excuse me, my dear, for just a moment. I believe Ms. Murphy needs to speak with me on a confidential matter.”

“Of course,” Leslie replied casually, returning to the conversation and batting nary an eyelash.

As her escort, Barnaby showed faint annoyance, but he didn’t say anything other than, “Don’t be long, Fiona, as there are a few other people I think you should meet.”

Fiona was given no chance to protest as Gideon gestured firmly for her to step away from the group of people. As soon as they were out of sight, he closed his fingers over her wrist and led her out of the Grand Ballroom to the vestibule of the Bryn Mawr Country Club before she shook herself free.

“Let’s step outside,” he suggested, glancing toward the smattering of people milling about. “It’s a beautiful night.”

It was a beautiful July night, but that didn’t deflate Fiona’s sudden, deep anger. She walked brusquely ahead of him down the semi-circle steps that led to a flagstone path meandering through the country club’s gardens.

The rich scent of peonies hung in the balmy air, their creamy petals scattered along the edge of the path. A thatch of gentle lavender grew, enclosed by tiny white alyssum, next to a stone bench. Fiona chose to sit, and did so with a small flourish that caused the skirt of her silk dress to settle over the entirety of the bench—leaving no place for Gideon to place his stiff rump without mussing her skirt. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at him, eyebrow raised with the same slant she imagined Queen Elizabeth would use.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“What are you doing here—with Forth?”

That was the last question she’d expected him to utter, and she frowned. “The same thing you are, I presume—placing myself in an environment where I’ll be induced to contribute money to a political cause. He thought it would be good publicity for my shop’s re-opening.” Then, she realized she was angry with him and the small talk would do nothing to alleviate that. “I can’t believe that you have the nerve to make a pass at me—
twice
—and then show up here with someone you’re obviously involved with.”

“Twice?” he exploded. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fiona. I made a—a pass,” he spat the last word as if it were vulgar, “as you call it, at you, after you kissed the hell out of me and then acted as if nothing happened.”

She stared up at him, a slow smile beginning to creep over her face. “So you do have some emotion in that stiff-necked body after all. Other than related to passion, I mean. I was beginning to wonder.”

Gideon gaped at her, clearly flummoxed. Despite the brainless expression on his face, she had to admit he looked quite delicious there in the moonlight. Tall, dark, his being vibrating with emotion she hadn’t thought he’d possessed, he stood with his hands slung onto his hips. His stance pulled the tux jacket open to reveal a white shirt stretched taut over the defined muscles of chest and abdomen—slabs like iron that Fiona remembered feeling all too well. His thick, wavy hair had obviously been trimmed, as it was close-cropped by his neck, and only one small curl flipped out of line, over his forehead. By now, he was clenching his teeth—she could tell by the way the muscle along his jaw moved—and his brows had drawn together in a frown.

Before he could speak, she seized the opportunity to keep the upper hand. “So you came on to me. Just what would Ms. van Dorn say if she knew about that?”

To her surprise, he relaxed slightly. “Actually, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.” He glanced longingly at the bench, still covered by her dress, but she made no move to accommodate him.

“What is she—your fiancée? Your girlfriend? Don’t tell me she’s your
wife
!”

He was shaking his head. “No, none of those. She’s a friend—that’s all. If neither of us have a date, we often attend functions with the other. That’s it.”

“That’s all? You don’t sleep with her?” Fiona didn’t believe that for a minute—and her suspicion was rewarded when his eyes flitted away, then back to her. He began to make some sort of mumbly noise that she took to be an excuse, and she stopped him. “I don’t sleep with men who sleep with other women—when I do choose to sleep with a man. So, forget it. You’re wasting your time.”

With that, she stood up and stalked past him, brushing close enough to feel the warmth of his arm and the sexy, musky scent that clung to him.

~*~