The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (8 page)

Fiona stopped what she was about to say and stared at the woman. “Gretchen?”

“That’s her name. She’s the shop cat, as I was trying to explain before she gouged me.”

Gideon stepped in. “How did you come to have her, Miss—uh—?”

“Betsey. Betsey Gregor. I run the boutique next door, Glad’s Rags—sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself, but—well—you know,” she waved her pale arm with the scratch marks on it. “When I heard Mr. Valente died, I came over and got Gretchen for the time being. I guess one of you is the new owner?”

“I am,” Fiona replied.

“How did you get into the shop?” asked Gideon.

“I had a key. I used to take care of Gretchen when he’d go out of town, because I’m here all the time.” She dug in the pocket of her loose black dress and produced a gold key, which she gave to Fiona. “Here it is. If you need anyone to cat-sit for you, just let me know. Gretchen doesn’t much like strangers, but she’s used to me—at least, as used to me as she is to anyone. Well, gotta run back next door—I’m the only one here today. If you need anything, holler.” And with that, she was gone in a flurry of black and jingling earrings.

“Well, the mystery of Gretchen is solved,” Fiona murmured, stooping to look under the chest of drawers where the cat had vanished.

Gideon heard a fierce hiss, but Fiona didn’t back away. “Come here, kitty,” she crooned. She hunkered onto her elbows, heedless of the fact that her very attractive rear-end lifted enticingly, and practically rested her cheek on the floor in her efforts to look under the chest. Her thick, auburn hair spilled over her shoulders and onto the dusty floorboards, and she pushed it out of her face with the palm of her hand. “Come on, Gretchen, honey,” she called.

Gideon felt foolish standing there, watching her crouch on the floor, and he flickered his gaze at the silent Barnaby Forth. He was annoyed that the other man seemed to have just as much interest in the view of her tight derrière. The fact that Gideon was the one who’d had his hands on it only a short time ago mollified him only slightly.

Yet it was ridiculous to consider the possibility of Fiona and Barnaby together—they were even less-suited for each other than he and Fiona would be. The conservative politician would never make it in the polls with a flighty, ditzy, free spirit like Fiona on his arm.

“Well,” Fiona said finally, scrambling to her feet. “I guess Gretchen’s not coming out.”

She brushed off her skirt and used two hands to scoop up the mass of hair off of her face and neck. Absently, she let it spill from her hands, and the thick curls cascaded down around her face and neck.

Gideon felt the heat rise in him as he noticed the way her light sweater fit to her curves when her arms were raised.

Then she dropped her arms, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Maybe I’ll be able to bribe her with some cat food—I wonder what kind she eats. I’ve got to run out for some lunch myself—either of you want to join me?”

Gideon had a hearing, and knew he had to decline. He was thus annoyed when Barnaby Forth replied with enthusiasm that he would love to join her.

So much for getting to read that mysterious letter
. Then, he realized the time, looking at his watch in dismay. “I need to run.” How was he going to get home and change his suit before court in thirty minutes? But, still, he hesitated to leave without being able to talk to Fiona privately—after all, that had been one hell of a kiss, and he wanted to know where they were going to go from there.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Fiona said with a warm smile. He looked for another message in her eyes—something that indicated she wanted to speak with him also—but there was nothing but the same warm amber sparkle there. “I really appreciate you returning that compact.”

Gideon shook Forth’s hand and reluctantly took his leave, hurrying to make his appointment.

~*~

It was after three when Fiona returned to the shop. She struggled through the front door, lugging a ten-pound bag of cat food, another bag which contained a catnip-scented mouse, a ball with a jingly bell inside, a collar, kitty snacks, and a ten-pound bag of kitty litter.

She dumped her packages on the floor and closed the front door behind her. When she turned back around, she started when she noticed Gretchen sitting on the floor in the center of the shop, regarding her with cool greenish-grey eyes. The very tip of her tail twitched slightly, curling and uncurling like a little finger as Gretchen leveled her an accusing look.

Fiona gave a little laugh. “Well, I’m sorry it took so long to get back with your food,” she explained, planting her hands on her hips. “Barnaby wanted to eat at Munch’s, and it was a long wait for a table.”

Gretchen continued to look at her accusingly, and Fiona shrugged. “Yes, it’s Barnaby, not Mr. Forth, and no, I was not ignoring the fact that you were waiting for your food.” She opened the bag and pulled out the pouch of kitty treats. “But look what I brought you to make up for the wait,” she added in an enthusiastic, sing-song voice. When she held one of the tiny, moist triangles toward Gretchen, the feline deigned to sniff delicately in its general direction, but made no attempt to move.

Fiona raised her eyebrow and placed the treat just out of range of the cat’s paw. “Well, then, my dear, whenever you feel up to it, you can help yourself.” She pulled to her feet, and, gathering up the bags, started back to the rear of the shop.

The silence of the place suddenly yawned over her.
We need some music in here
. Maybe some Celtic instrumentals—harps and flutes and such.

She passed the heavy desk in the center of the room, glancing at the slim telephone and answering machine that seemed so out of place amid the aged items that filled the store. The message light wasn’t blinking, so she hurried on past, back toward the rear of the shop where the ceiling was only eight feet above the ground. She passed the staircase and, glancing up into its darkness, shrugged off the nervousness that threatened to creep back over her neck. The bags made thumping and crinkling sounds as she toted them on down the aisle, and the smaller bag that dangled from her wrist almost knocked a small kerosene lantern off a table.

Fiona stopped at the large oaken desk to adjust her load, and noticed that the shade was askew on The Lamp.

She’d come to think of that short, squat, center lamp as The Lamp since that odd happening last Friday. When Gideon had reached to turn it on, she’d felt the rush of cool air brushing over her cheek…then it disintegrated, leaving the dust motes wafting gently to the floor as Gideon plugged in the lamp and switched it on—as if it were just another light.

Now, the shade had been knocked askew.
Gretchen,
she thought, sending a wry glance toward the front. As she fixed the shade and turned back, she noticed the shards of porcelain from her accident three days earlier still scattered on the floor.
I’ve got to find a broom or Gretchen’s going to cut her paw on that.

She continued toward the back, determined to take care of the mess without getting distracted this time, but then she passed by the open doorway into the small room filled with boxes and was assailed by the memory of Gideon sprawled there on the floor in his dark, proper designer suit. She wanted to giggle at the remembrance, but instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to still her suddenly-racing heart.

What a kiss.

A shiver that had nothing to do with chill snaked down her spine, coiling into her middle as sweat sprang to her palms. She did smile—a dreamy one—and brushed her fingertips over her lips. It had been a long time since she’d been kissed like that. So long that she couldn’t even remember being kissed like that.

The smile faded when she remembered how cool he’d been upon his return to the front of the store, where she’d been conversing with Barnaby. Other than the shock of dark hair that fell onto his face in a decidedly un-Gideon fashion, he seemed completely unaffected by their tussle on the dirty floor. He’d retrieve that stick that was up his behind, she thought wryly, and regained the haughty air as he chatted with her and Barnaby. The irritated glower had come back, along with the faint air of condescension and hardness in the planes of his face.

But the fact remained: he had kissed the hell out of her.

Rubbing her belly, where a wave of pleasure fluttered, Fiona peered into the dusty room, hoping to find a broom.

Finally, she located an ancient one, with bent and brittle bristles, hanging in a far corner next to a dustpan. She retrieved them and headed back to the mess on the floor. On the way, she glanced at the big oaken desk and noticed that the shade on the same lamp was off-kilter again.

Frowning, and shooting a glance toward Gretchen’s general vicinity—wherever that might be—she paused and reached to adjust it. The shade was warm to her touch…which was odd because the light wasn’t on.

The hair lifted on the back of her neck just as a cool breeze wafted along, buffing her cheek. It was more than a waft…it was a small
gust
.

Fiona whirled to look behind her and stifled a shriek when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Her heart receded from throat to chest when she saw Gretchen sitting there on a table, calmly washing her paw.

Her hands were trembling, and she started to stumble away from the little alcove by the massive old desk as the breath clogged in her throat. Abruptly, the breeze ceased, just as suddenly as it had come. But in its wake it left a musty, chill, hollow smell that crept into her nostrils and seemed to wrap around her. And then, again…the scent of roses, faint, dusty—but present.

Fiona fought to control the irrational fear that caused her fingers to curl into a nearby table. She was not one to disregard the possibility of something on a different metaphysical plane than her own…but she wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to experience it herself.

Then, a sudden, rational thought struck her, and she turned to look at Gretchen again. The cat had stopped grooming herself, but was merely looking at her with interested gray-green eyes.

Fiona exhaled deeply and swiped a hand over her face in relief. Cats had a sixth sense about the presence of the supernatural.

So if whatever it was didn’t bother Gretchen, it wouldn’t bother her.

~*~

Gideon slashed a thick, dark line with the charcoal pencil, then added hard, short marks with a softer lead to finish the texture of the riverbank. He pursed his lips, looking at the simple drawing that held verve and expression in its black, abrupt strokes and stepped back from the heavy paper. Then, with a grunt—for he saw what it was missing—he scratched with the pencil, cross-hatching the rise of gentle waves, then adding the subtle stroke of a cloud in the sky.

Dropping the pencil with finality, he sipped from his glass of Merlot, all the while staring at the drawing with narrow vision. The river shifted and moved as if before his very eyes, and the stolid homes of Germantown’s old brick twins studded the riverbank. Details were few, just a mere hint, which was true to his style—works that were half-finished, leaving the viewer to complete it with his or her eyes and imagination.

Not bad. You’ve done worse.

Thoughtfully, he pulled another thick, textured paper from a stack—this sheet a deep gold color—and rummaged in the drawer for his white charcoal pencil. Without hesitation—for the image had long been in his mind—he used quick, bold strokes of black to draw the curve of sensual lips and thick-lashed eyes, then the white to add highlights and dimension. He liked to draw women…especially women who intrigued him.

He was just adding a hint of thick, curling hair when the doorbell rang. Jerking around, Gideon scooped up the mass of papers and shoved them into the desk drawer. The charcoal pencil rolled onto the floor, and he stooped quickly to retrieve it, then jammed it into the drawer and slammed it shut.