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

by Colleen Gleason

  Gideon sauntered casually up to Barnaby Forth. “Well, now, Forth, fancy seeing you here. I thought you’d be out fund-raising.”

  The other man was holding a glass of red wine, and he frowned, moving it in the barest of greetings toward him. “Nath.” His gaze flickered toward Fiona, who was still chatting with Iva, then back around the room. “She’s done a nice job with the place,” he commented. “I told her the music and food would be a nice touch—it adds a bit of elegance to the affair.”

  Gideon struggled with further irritation that Fiona had obviously asked for and taken advice from Forth once again, and belatedly took in the atmosphere of the shop. It was, indeed, more inviting now, and the people milling about seemed to be enjoying themselves as they sipped wine or coffee and nibbled on food. Then, he noticed a large, brightly-colored object descending from the stairway at the back of the shop.

  “Isn’t that Mrs. Ruthven?” he asked Forth. “Your cousin, Viola?”

  Barnaby turned just as the object materialized into the carrot-red hair of a woman sheathed in what appeared to be a multi-colored quilt, followed by the just-as-large figure of a man. “I hadn’t noticed them.”

  “It’s hard to miss that,” Gideon muttered, eying the couple. As they had been at the reading of the will, and their subsequent meetings with him, the two were dressed in clothing of screaming colors and unusual design. He’d learned through their conversations that they owned a small boutique on the Main Line that carried such items as the ones they wore today. Viola’s dress appeared to be little more than a bedspread with beads and fluorescent embroidery embellishing its hem, and Rudy wore a man’s vest of ornate damask pieces patchworked together.

  “Why hello, Mr. Nath!” Viola trilled as she waddled her way over to them. “And Barney. Why I didn’t even see you here.” She seemed a bit out of breath and fluttered a plump, lily-white hand at her throat. “We just had to see what was hiding upstairs,” she gushed.

  Her husband came up behind her a bit too fast, jostling her slightly, and she glanced back at him in surprise, then back at Barnaby—no, Barney. Gideon suppressed a smile. He liked the nickname, though it was obvious Forth did not.

  “Nothing up there but a bunch of dust and an old table or two,” Rudy Ruthven interjected. “Don’t know why we had to waste our time up there, but you know how women are.” His chuckle sounded too hearty. “What are you doing here, Barnaby?”

  “And there’s Uncle Arnold,” Forth pointed out, neatly avoiding answering the question.

  Gideon turned, and sure enough, there was the portly gentleman with the gelled-back hair, emerging from the rear of the shop.

  They were all here. For some reason, that bothered him.

  He glanced over at his grandfather, and saw Fiona leaning toward Iva while Gideon Senior looked on. He wondered, for the first time, if his grandfather wasn’t too far off in his concern about Valente’s estate.

  Then, just as quickly, the uneasiness left and he berated himself for allowing his grandfather to put wild ideas into his head. The remaining family of Nevio Valente was most likely simply interested in seeing what had become of their relative’s shop.

  “Well, we’ll be going now,” Rudy said, extending a hand to Arnold.

  “What? No purchases?” Arnold lifted a thick black brow as he deigned to accept the handshake. “You didn’t find anything worthwhile up there in the attic?”

  “No, no–just some junk up there. You know how Nevio was.” Rudy appeared a little flushed, but he gamely smiled all around the little cluster. Perhaps he was still out of breath. It would take quite a bit of effort to move that bulk up and down the stairs.

  “Oh, but I wish we’d found something to buy,” Viola chimed in as though to ease some building tension. “I’d give anything to get the personal attention of that shop clerk for just a few moments.”

  Gideon followed her gaze to the man in question and felt himself go cold. That guy was a shop clerk? Fiona’s shop clerk? The man looked more like Adonis than a minimum-wage smurf. Christ. The ladies were hanging all over him, cooing, and listening to his every word.

  “He’s the best piece in this shop, at any rate,” muttered Viola unabashedly. Her husband must have elbowed her, for she shifted away. “Well, he is!”

  “Come on Viola, let’s get out of here.” Rudy took his wife’s arm and directed her through the crowd.

  As they brushed past Fiona, she looked up to say good-bye, and Iva happened to look toward Gideon.

  The jig was up.

  “Gideon!” Iva cried in ingenuous surprise. “Why, I didn’t know you were here. Come on over and say hello to Fiona.”

  “Hello Fiona.” Even to his ears, there was a rich layer of warmth to his voice, and he saw her eyes widen slightly as she returned his greeting.

  “What a nice surprise to see you, Gideon.” She actually sounded like she meant it. “Thanks for coming.” She looked at Iva. “You know each other?”

  As Iva explained, Gideon looked at Fiona without trying to be too obvious about it. She’d pulled back the front of her hair, away from her porcelain face, and the rest of the cinnamon tangle fell in crazy curls around her shoulders. She wore a sophisticated black pantsuit, sleeveless, with wide-legged pants—a departure from her usual gypsy garments—and it did amazing things to her body. Huge, jangling, gold earrings and a matching necklace depicting a Celtic design set off the outfit…along with some incredible, musky scent that seemed to head straight for his nose.

  Gideon shifted his stance in order to get a stronger nuance of her perfume, and realized Iva was prattling on excitedly about something. “Did you know that?” she was asking him.

  “Know what?”

  “Fiona reads palms, Gideon—and she was right on when she looked at mine!” Iva’s eyes danced and she slipped her hands around Gideon’s upper arm.

  His heart sank. He knew Fiona was odd, but this took the cake. “You what?” He couldn’t quite keep the disdain from his voice. There was no way he could even think about getting involved with her. He’d be a laughing stock. And besides…no one knew better than he how unreliable and irresponsible artsy people could be.

  A smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth, as if she knew what he was thinking. “My mother does a better job than I do, but I can make my way around a hand if I need to.” For some reason, although the words blared innocence, they caused a strange frisson to run across his shoulder.

  “Hollis, let her look at yours,” Iva was insisting.

  “Now, Iva—”

  “Iva, Fiona needs to attend to her guests,” Gideon began, then, too late, he saw the trap into which he’d been led.

  “Oh, dear, of course she does! I’m so sorry, Fiona, I realize your guests come first. But the shop closes in just a few minutes, doesn’t it? Then, why don’t you join us for dinner as our guest—we’re going to eat at Blackthorne’s. I would just love your company. We have so much in common!”

  Gideon swore to himself, cursing meddling step-grandmothers, and then swore again, nearly aloud, when Fiona agreed to join them. Now why would she do that?

  Fiona didn’t know herself why she agreed to join the senior Naths for dinner. Perhaps it was because she really had been enjoying her conversation with Iva, as she’d been told to call her. Or maybe it was because she knew Dylan had to leave right at eight o’clock, and she didn’t want to be in the shop alone, especially at night….

  Or, perhaps it was because the moment she’d seen Gideon, standing there so dark and handsome—and glowering—she’d become very much aware of him, and the fact that he was positioned just in front of the desk where she’d been sprawled beneath him two weeks ago.

  Regardless of the reason for her capitulation, Fiona was even more unsettled when H. Gideon the Third also agreed to join them for dinner. (At least now she suspected she knew what the H stood for.) The knowing grin Iva sent him caused him to reply with a muttered comment that sounded like, “Just so I can keep an eye on you.”
>
  It was only later that Fiona realized another, unexpected benefit of accepting Iva’s invitation as she escorted her last guest—Barnaby Forth—to the door. “How about dashing off with me to grab a bite?” he asked, his gaze flickering toward the Naths, who stood near the desk, chatting in low voices. Actually, it looked as if Gideon the Third was doing all of the speaking. He had a lecture-ish expression on his face.

  “Thank you so much, Barnaby, but I have a previous engagement. Maybe another time?” she asked, fervently hoping that he would start his campaigning in earnest and have no more time to pursue her.

  Then, Dylan saved her, as he called from the back of the shop, “Fiona, I have to run—but could I see you before I go?”

  Giving Barnaby a last, distracted farewell, she hurried past Gideon and his grandparents to meet Dylan at the back of the store. “Tonight went really well, don’t you think?”

  “It went very well,” he smiled down at her. Then, his grin faded. “I want to show you something I just noticed.” He propelled her to a far corner of the back room, near the little closet where Gideon had taken his tumble and kissed her for the first time. “Looks like someone was a little too nosy.”

  Fiona peered closer, ducking her head under a low shelf, and saw what he meant: several boxes that had been stacked neatly were misaligned, and one flap was open. Beyond them, an old rusty file cabinet’s bottom drawer was ajar. These were items they hadn’t had time to sift through yet, but had moved back into the corner to get them out of the way. She certainly had not left the bottom drawer ajar.

  “Hmm. Must have been a customer,” Fiona said, dismissing the uneasy prickle going down her spine. She pulled back out of the corner and her head bumped into the bottom of the shelf, knocking the combs that held her hair away from her face askew.

  “A very nosy one,” Dylan pointed out to her. “Well,” he said, casting a look at his watch, “I really have to get going—I’m supposed to play basketball in thirty minutes, and I’m twenty minutes away.”

  A vision of the muscular Dylan dribbling a ball up a court, dripping sweat, and garbed in loose shorts that would show off his rear still had little effect on Fiona’s hormones, and she sighed mentally. By all rights, she should be drooling over the man.

  “Hope you win. See you tomorrow,” she smiled, fumbling to readjust her loosened hair combs as he turned to leave. She walked back out to the main area of the shop, still stabbing the comb into the back of her hair.

  Fiona and the Naths walked the three blocks to Blackthorne’s, a well-known, five-star restaurant that Fiona would never have been able to afford. Inside, the party of four was seated almost immediately by a hostess who seemed to know the Gideons quite well, if the way she flirted with them was any indication.

  “Now, do take a look at Hollis’s hand for me, will you,” Iva said, leaning toward Fiona just after their round of drinks was delivered. Her grin sparkled. “He doesn’t put any credence into any of this, and I want you to tell him something that will change his mind.”

  “Now, Iva, really, I—”

  “Please, dear, just indulge me, won’t you?” Iva patted his hand and gazed up at him with such an endearing expression that Fiona could see him melt into a puddle of wax right before her eyes.

  They must have been married a long time. An uncomfortable feeling jetted through her mind. What would it be like to be attached to—responsible to—another person for decades?

  She risked a glance at Gideon, and found that instead of paying attention to his grandparents’ byplays, he was staring at her with a cool look in his eyes. Their eyes clashed for a mere second, then he quirked a grin and raised his short glass as though to say, “You asked for it.”

  “It’s been around for centuries, you know,” Iva was saying earnestly to Gideon Senior. “And there is some scientific proof to it. The Hindus are credited with its inception—and it’s believed that the people we know of as gypsies originally came from India.” When she caught Fiona looking at her in surprise, Iva shrugged. “I’m a librarian,” she explained.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Nath, I would like to take a look at your hands. I’ve been admiring them all evening,” she said truthfully.

  They were the kind of hands she loved, with long, well-shaped fingers, well-defined lines, and a solid, square palm—easy to read and interpret. “And never fear, Mr. Nath—I don’t tell fortunes. One’s hands are merely an insight into the personality of a person, and, sometimes, their potentials—or lost potentials. Now, if you’re right-handed, I’ll need to see that hand.”

  The blustery man was really a soft old teddy bear, as Fiona was beginning to learn, and he set his glass down to extend his hand across the table toward her. It rested in the center of the round table, and Iva hastily moved the vase of astromeria out of the way.

  “You have a generous nature, but an ambitious strain as well,” she commented, smoothing her thumb along his palm. She was surprised when she saw the marriage lines on the side of his little finger and looked up at him suddenly. “How long have you two been married?”

  “Less than a month,” the older man replied, and moved his free hand to pat Iva’s. “She’s the love of my life—but I didn’t find her until I was seventy.”

  “And this is your—what marriage?” Fiona asked.

  “I thought you were supposed to be able to tell that from looking at his hand,” Gideon said snidely.

  “I’m his fourth wife,” Iva replied, giving her grandson a glare.

  Fiona relaxed—there were only four marriage lines. “And you’ll be his last,” she said. “And only one child? A son?”

  He nodded, although some of the light went out of his face. “Yes, that’s right.” Then he smiled at his wife. “I doubt we’ll be having any of our own, hmm, dear?”

  Fiona looked at his thumb—how it angled away from the rest of the hand, its length, and the way the top curved back from the nail. Many palmists felt that the thumb was the best indicator of personality, overall, and she liked what she saw. “You’re ambitious and organized, not willing to take too many risks. You’re not easily influenced.”

  She was murmuring to herself more than anything now. She moved her attention to his long middle finger, the Saturn finger, and continued. “This indicates that you’re serious and down to earth—but not overly inclined to pessimism. It’s slightly inclined toward your forefinger, the Jupiter, indicating your assertive personality toward business…but,” she looked up at him, “you’re much more tentative about your emotional life.”

  She could tell by the his expression—and Iva’s—that she was accurate in her suppositions. But, feeling the heavy, sarcastic weight of Gideon’s gaze on hers, Fiona forbore to continue her thoughts and released Gideon Senior’s hand.

  “Well,” she said lightly, “that was just a quick look. Hope I didn’t spook anyone.” She gave a pointed look toward Gideon, who was all but glaring at her. Yet, heat simmered beneath his look and caused her stomach to flip slowly over and around like a lava lamp.

  “Why don’t you take a look at Gideon’s hand?” Iva suggested.

  Gideon snorted, but Fiona, feeling the devilish imp prodding her once again, turned to look at him. “I’d be happy to see what secrets he’s hiding.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Absolutely not.” Gideon tightened his fingers around his drink as though she was trying to pry them open.

  “But why not?” Fiona looked at him, training her big, brandy-colored eyes on him in such a fashion that he became warm all over. “I’d love to look at your hands.”

  Her voice was a purr: intimate without being too suggestive, the depth of it meant for his ears only. He felt himself drowning in her gaze—right there, in front of his grandfather and grandmother, in the middle of Blackthorne’s—frozen, enraptured.

  Never mind that she was nearly begging to read his palm, for Christ’s sake, like some charlatan gypsy. Never mind that she’d come from the back of the shop with Dylan, t
he god, with her hair all mussed. Never mind that she’d probably had fewer serious thoughts in her lifetime than his screwed-up father…he couldn’t resist her.

  He set his drink down and extended his hand.

  “You’re left-handed, yes?” she asked as her fingers closed over that hand. When he nodded, she continued, “Good.”

  She held his hand, brushing her thumbs over the inside of his palm, right there in the restaurant…and he felt as though she were undressing him. There was something about the intimacy of fingers slowly, carefully touching fingers…. Even though they’d kissed—their bodies smashed up against each other, every curve and hard plane outlined against the other…this was different. It was as though they’d never touched before.

  She wasn’t unaffected either, if the faint trembling of her fingers was any indication. He felt the ridges of her fingertips, the finger pad whorls that made her Fiona—unique, odd, exciting Fiona—as they brushed over his own.