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

by Colleen Gleason

  “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.

  ~*~

  “Not only did I tell him where to stick his stiff rump after he admitted they weren’t exactly platonic,” Fiona told her friend Dylan Behrbalm, “but I also had to shut down Mr. Kiss-as-Many-Babies-As-Possible when we got back to my place.”

  Dylan’s deep laugh rumbled through the telephone. “I’m sure you had no problem whatsoever doing that. Fiona, you are the Master—er, I mean Mistress—of Shut-Down. The poor bastard probably didn’t have a chance.”

  “Well, you know power doesn’t do a thing for me, and the guy’s good looking—in a politician-y sort of way…but so not my type.”

  “Did you even let him in for a nightcap?”

  Fiona snorted. “No. I figured once he stepped foot in my house, I’d be fighting off Mr. Octopus, based on the way he’d been gawking all night. You should have seen his face when H. Gideon dragged me off to read me the riot act.”

  “Ahh, H. Gideon. Have you found out yet what the H is for? And is he really that much of a jerk?”

  “I don’t know about the H yet. I should ask him. But I can’t deny he’s a good kisser. I mean…a really good, knock-your-socks-off, seeing-shooting-stars kisser. And he seems to be loosening up a little. I think he actually smiled at me once the other day.” He sure had…and it had sent her veins tingling all the way to her fingers.

  “But, Dyl, you know me…I’m not into any kind of relationship or responsibility.” As she said the words she’d said so many times before, Fiona suddenly realized she didn’t feel any power behind them any more. Her stomach felt heavy at the thought. When had that happened?

  “Yep. I know. You just like to hang around with the guys. No responsibility, no ties, no commitment—hell, you sound just like one of us. Wanna come over and watch some football?” Dylan chuckled into the phone. “I promise not to make you cook for us this time.”

  Fiona tried to laugh back, but it stuck somewhere between her lungs and throat. Was she really that transparent? That shallow?

  “Hey, Fi, you still there?” Dylan, one of her oldest and dearest friends—which was why he could be so blunt with her and she’d still love him—sounded concerned. “Hey, you know I’m just giving you shit, you know. Fi?”

  “Just like I do to you, I know. It’s just that…well, with this shop thing…I feel like I might want to turn over a new leaf. Make something worthwhile out of my life—something long-term.” She hadn’t known she felt that way until the words came jumbling out. “I think I never wanted permanency because I hadn’t found a place or thing that called me. But there’s something about this little shop that calls to me…that really makes me want to be there.” Despite the weird and creepy light.

  “There’s one thing about you, Fi. Once you set your mind to something—once you actually commit to putting your all into it—you do it. If you’ve got your mind made up that you want to make the shop work, then I’ve no doubt you will.”

  She smiled, her cheek moving against the phone receiver. He was right. She might be flighty and noncommittal, but once she jumped, she was in all the way. “Yeah…just like the time I decided to get the neighborhood in Manayunk to get rid of all the graffiti on the first block…it took awhile, but I got it done—and done right.”

  “Honey, you rocked. You did it. And there were more than a few guys there who would have loved to celebrate with you, you know. By the way, did you tell your lawyer guy about your no-sex moratorium?”

  “Yep. Went over like a lead balloon, to quote Robert Plant.”

  “Keith Moon, you mean.”

  “Whatever.” Fiona tapped her fingernails on the table. “Anyway, he didn’t understand, of course, but then, he’s a guy.”

  “Yep. Guys don’t understand not wanting to have sex if the kissing’s as good as you said it was. Probably shocked the hell out of him.”

  “Oh yeah.” Fiona smiled again at the thought, then sobered as a rash of heat flashed through her. The chemistry between them had been amazing.

  But she had no intention of being tied down, responsible for, or committed to a man at this point in her life—and, she realized, she might never feel that urge. Her mother certainly never had.

  “I’ve got a hard enough time managing my own life. You know I’m as low-maintenance as they come.” She ignored Dylan’s scoff from
the other end of the phone line.

  “Yeah, well, you know, some day you’re going to be eating those words, Fioney-pony. You’re going to fall flat on your face for some guy who’s the exact opposite of every one you’ve ever dated. It happens to all of us. I just hope yours works out better than mine did.”

  Fiona wished he was there with her, because she knew he needed a big hug. “I know you miss Melissa, Dyl. It still hurts. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’ve been so adamant about staying away from anything so…committal. I saw what you went through—and what my mom went through with some of her guys. She’d preach to me about not getting involved—then she’d go ahead and do so, and then she’d get hurt.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was still sad. “Well, listen, Fi, I’ll see you in about an hour for the party at the shop. I’ll have my best suit on, plus my charm, and be ready to woo those lady customers of yours.” She was glad to notice a lighter inflection in his voice.

  “Thanks so much for agreeing to help out, and for listening today. See you in a bit.”

  It was Saturday morning, a week after the political fundraiser where she’d seen Gideon and Leslie van Dorn, and she stood in the middle of her shop. As she hung up the phone, Fiona looked around with eagle eyes and a churning stomach. She would open the doors for business as “Charmed Antiquity” in less than two hours, hopefully welcoming in a new, refurbished clientele.

  In the last two weeks, since the incident with the lamp, Fiona had spent much of her waking moments in the shop—cleaning it, rearranging the furniture, clearing out boxes, sorting files—but never alone. No, she’d refused to be in there alone. Perhaps, she told herself, after the re-opening, after people began to rediscover the store, whatever it was that made those odd things happen would not, and she wouldn’t feel such eeriness when alone in the shop.

  Thank goodness for Dylan. One of her old friends from school, he had remained a perpetual student, and was now in grad school at Drexel, working on a dissertation concerning early 20th-century households. He knew an abundance about antique furnishings and Fiona had pounced on the opportunity to snag him for a part-time job—especially since his charm and good looks matched his knowledge of antiques.

  She fussed and fretted away the next hour and a half, rearranging the displays, trying not to think about how much money she’d spent on the catering (although it would have been more if it hadn’t been the company Chris worked for), welcoming Dylan when he arrived and just generally driving herself crazy.

  Now, she flicked a dust rag over the top of a grandfather clock for the umpteenth time and glanced nervously at its face.

  It was already two-thirty—the shop officially opened in thirty minutes, late in the day for its first day under its new name: Charmed Antiquity.

  Just then, Dylan wandered from the back of the shop, which had been put into order in the last week. “Chris’s caterers are here. Do you want them to put the food in the back, or out in front?”

  “Out here is fine—I thought we could put the wine on that table over there and the cheese and fruit on that—er—what did you call it?”

  Dylan had a pained look on his handsome, tanned face as he replied, “A Hepplewhite lowboy, circa 1793, in near-mint condition, and…is it possible you’d reconsider? I don’t think…you really wouldn’t want to…uh…take a chance on having an accident on it.”

  “Fine with me,” she replied, gesturing widely through the shop. “Knock yourself out and find somewhere safe to put the food. I’m going to turn on some music.” She’d wanted to have a live harpist for the day, but it hadn’t fit in her budget, so the customers would have to settle for excellent hors d’oeuvres, decent wine, and canned music.

  By the time the new-age instrumentals of Enya were filtering through the shop, and Fiona had checked her image in the spotty bathroom mirror in the back then breezed to the front of the store, the bell had tinkled three times and guests—customers—were strolling about.

  Her nervousness faded as she became busy welcoming people, offering them wine and coffee, and half-listening to Dylan as he chatted about various pieces of furnishings throughout the store. He always seemed to have at least two women, if not more, clustered around him, daintily holding their wineglasses and looking up at him from under their thick lashes. Fiona suspected it wouldn’t matter what the conversation was about—as long as he was standing there—for Dylan Behrbalm had been blessed with incredible good looks, an unassuming personality, and the ability to listen.

  In fact, she thought idly, he looked like a living, breathing Ken doll, with his perfect blond hair, startling blue eyes, golden tan and well-formed body, and a gentle, calm nature that caused him to appear as if he had no idea the effect he had on women. Most women anyway. Fiona knew that he was very attractive, but he didn’t do a thing—never had—for her hormones. She preferred dark-haired men with a sense of humor. Who weren’t lawyers.

  The afternoon passed very quickly, as there was a steady stream of clientele coming in, out, and through the shop. Fiona greeted and chatted with customers, skillfully turning them over to Dylan whenever they began to sound as though they might be interested in making a purchase or wished to haggle over a price.

  It was early in the evening, just an hour or so before closing. Fiona turned, a glass of wine in her hand for one of the patrons, and she came face to face with Barnaby Forth.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked, smiling down at her. “Me, perhaps?”

  Apparently her brush-off last week hadn’t cooled his jets enough, if the expression in his eyes as they slipped down her figure was any indication. But, now he was a customer—not a date—so Fiona decided to cut him some slack.

  “How did you know?” she smiled back, looking at him from under her eyelashes and thinking of Dylan’s court of flirtatious ladies as she did so. “I wanted to give you this.” She handed him the wine, gave him another very warm smile that made his eyelids flicker, and patted his arm as she turned away. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute, but I need to say hello to that couple over there.”

  Before Barnaby could respond, Fiona slipped off to greet a silver-haired pair who’d just entered the shop. The man was tall and distinguished-looking, and his companion neat and enthusiastic.

  “Welcome,” she smiled at them. “I’m Fiona, the proprietress, and thank you for stopping by. Please feel free to help yourself to refreshments over there, and if you have any questions, or would like to know more about the shop, let me know.”

  The woman rewarded her with a warm smile that curved her apple cheeks, and the man with her—surely her husband—gave Fiona a nod and an appraising glance.

  “Now, Hollis, why don’t you dash over there and get a glass of wine for me—white would be perfect. And, I’m sure I won’t be able to wait until our reservations, so a nip of cheese and fruit would just tide me over.” The lady gave her directives in a well-modulated tone, with just the slightest air of helplessness to it, even though Fiona could see the sparkle of determination in her grey eyes. “I’ll just chat with this young lady here for a moment.”

  The man—Hollis—seemed to hesitate, but one look from the woman prodded him on and he sifted into the small crowd of people around the food.

  “Well, now, this is very nice,” the woman said. She looked as though she was a very young sixty, with silvery-white hair in a short, fashionable cut and round, rosy cheeks. Glancing toward Barnaby, she leaned closer as though to share a confidence. “Is that your young man over there, that I saw you speaking with as we walked in? I wouldn’t want to take you away from him…”

  “No, no,” Fiona shook her head vehemently. How kind of the old lady to be so considerate. “He is just an acquaintance, but it’s very nice of you to be so concerned.”

  “Ah. I see.” Fiona thought she saw a crafty look slip into the woman’s eyes as she slid her frail hand—one that had surprising strength—into the crook of Fiona’s arm and led her over to examine a table.

  ~*~<
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  Gideon couldn’t believe it.

  He’d taken such great pains to not mention to his grandfather and Iva where he intended to go this evening—in fact, he’d made sure not to discuss the Valente case in any detail at all in the last week, and he’d certainly not pointed out the spread in the Inquirer. But it was all for naught, for whom did he see the minute he walked into Charmed Antiquity?

  And with whom was his step-grandmother having, by the looks of it, one hell of an interesting conversation?

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, pausing in the doorway of the shop.

  For a moment, he was actually torn as to whether he should slip out before he was noticed, or brave the tidal wave of questions that was sure to follow. But then he saw another unwanted figure, and his mind was quickly made up.