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

by Colleen Gleason

  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.

  Chapter Six

  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.

  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.