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

by Colleen Gleason

  In a flash, Dylan dashed away and was back with a cup of water, which she drank thirstily. “I’m going to call the police,” he said, heading for the desk phone as she gulped the water.

  Fiona nodded, and, setting the cup aside, began to rub her ankles with numb fingers. “What are you doing here?” she croaked as he hung up the phone.

  “I saw your car out front—I was on my way home—and when I realized that none of the lights were on in here, I thought that was funny because I knew you always left something on. When I opened the door, I nearly tripped over that big-ass bag of yours, so I knew something was wrong.”

  She nodded wearily. “Thank God, or I’d have been stuck here all night.” Her voice was a little better now. “What time is it?”

  He didn’t need to look at his watch. “About two-thirty.” He must have seen the surprise in her face, and the way she looked down over his coat. “The bars close at two, you know,” was all he said, and pulled away to stand up. “Let me take a look around and see if anything’s been taken.”

  The police arrived, again, with screaming sirens, flashing badges, and official-looking clipboards. Fiona described her experience, acknowledging the fact that she was lucky to be relatively unhurt.

  “But I will take her over to the emergency room to have her looked at,” Dylan said, giving her a defiant look that was very unlike him. “And she’s not coming to work tomorrow.”

  Fiona did not protest, for she was no martyr—and her head still made the room spin when she tried to stand. In fact, she was more than glad to rest herself against Dylan’s solid body, his arm around her waist, as he helped her to his car.

  “Ms. Murphy.” One of the officers hurried out after them, just as Dylan was ready to slam the door shut. “Ms. Murphy, have you seen this before?”

  He handed her a white sheet of paper—it was the back of one of her invoices—and on it, someone had scrawled three ugly words: You’ll be next.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nancy Drew never fainted, Fiona rebuked herself. No matter what she went through—whether it was being tied up and left in the path of a black widow spider or a scorpion, or thrown in an abandoned ski lodge—she never lost her consciousness…or her cookies.

  Fiona rolled her eyes, crimping her mouth, disgusted with her own weakness. Having done both last night after seeing that note the police had found, she knew she was no Nancy Drew—nor did she want to be.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

  Fiona turned her head around on her pillow to see Chris walk into the bedroom with a steaming pot of tea. “Not too bad,” she replied, struggling to sit upright. Crashing waves of pain in her temples slowed her movements, and she stifled a groan. “Actually, I feel like shit. Thanks.” She forced a wan smile.

  “You don’t look much better either.” Chris gave her a sunny smile laced with concern. Dylan had insisted on calling someone to stay with Fiona last night—and although her first thought had been Gideon, she’d pushed that possibility away. It wouldn’t do to begin to rely on him at all. Besides, he might not even be at home.

  She didn’t want to find out that he wasn’t at home at four in the morning.

  “I’m sure I don’t.” The skin at her wrists, ankles, and jaw was raw and chapped, and she knew from when she was at the emergency room that the welt on her head gave her forehead an off-balance tilt. No doubt her hair was its usual scraggly mess, and God only knew what the rest of her face looked like.

  “There was a message on your machine,” Chris said, pouring a cup of tea for her friend. “From Gideon?”

  Fiona’s eyelids fluttered, but she held her hands steady when she took the teacup. “And?”

  “He must have called last night and left a message for you to call him if you got home before midnight. I’m guessing he knew better than to try your cell, which, by the way, Dylan said was in one of the desk drawers in the shop with its battery dead.”

  But Fiona wasn’t listening to her friend’s criticism. She felt a swell of something warm bubble in her stomach. Gideon hadn’t spent the night with Leslie. And he’d called her. She couldn’t help a smile as she sipped from the tea—chamomile, from the smell of it—as relief coursed through her.

  “Is this Mr. Stiff-Ass, Gideon Nath the Third?” asked Chris, sitting on the edge of the bed with a curl of a smile about her bow-shaped lips.

  “Yes.” Fiona couldn’t keep her own matching smile at bay. “And I guess he isn’t as stiff-assed as I first thought. Not at all.”

  Just then, a loud pounding drew their attention. “I’ll find out who it is,” said Chris, starting out of the room. “Are you up for visitors?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Depends who it is.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She drank her tea, staring out the window onto the streets of trendy Manayunk, willing the pain in her head to subside. She heard the front door slam shut, the sound of voices, then the heavy, purposeful footsteps heading toward her room.

  “Fiona!” It was Gideon, and by the looks of it, he was furious.

  “Speak of the devil,” Chris said dryly from the doorway.

  “Well look who the cat dragged in.” Fiona tried for a nonchalant drawl, but with her raspy voice and surprise at seeing him, it sounded more like a husky invitation to join her in her bed. “Hello Gideon.” She saw Chris wink and back out of the room.

  “For Christ’s sake, I leave you alone for two minutes and look what happens. I thought you were going home. What the hell were you thinking, going back in there alone?”

  He stood at the edge of her bed, fists planted on his neat, designer suit. Dark silvery eyes flashed as he glowered down at her, as though expecting that she would actually respond to such outrageous accusations. His conservative navy tie, half twisted so that its Versace tag showed, was another sign that he was agitated.

  Fiona couldn’t resist. She reached out to flip it back into place, and responded, “Better fix that before you get to court. And, by the way, I feel fine, thanks for asking, Gideon.”

  “You look terrible,” he commented, but his voice softened. “Are you all right?” He looked around in confusion, then, with a shrug, settled on the very edge of her bed.

  She nodded, warmth swimming through her at the concern in his eyes. “My head hurts, but otherwise I’m doing fine.”

  “I called the shop this morning and Dylan told me what happened—that he found you there and took you in to the hospital. And about the note.” An angry line creased between his heavy brows as he looked down at her. “Fiona, this isn’t good.”

  “Do you think you need to tell me that?” Her voice was mild, but she clutched the sheets. That black, scrawling threat still made her stomach churn.

  “I called the police department on my way over here, but they didn’t have anything to report about last night’s break-in. I did talk to Detective Hinkle about the skeleton, and the only news he had was that they found traces of lime in the fabric of the woman’s clothes. He wanted me to ask you if you’d had any, or seen any lime anywhere else in the shop.”

  “Lime?” Fiona would have frowned, but her head hurt too much.

  “Yes—you know, limestone.”

  The fog cleared. “Oh, limestone.” She sighed and gave a rueful chuckle. “I guess my mind is more addled than I thought. No, I haven’t seen anything like that around.”

  Gideon took her hand and fumbled with her fingers between his own, touching each of the three rings she wore, and smoothing over the freckled skin on the back of her hand. His breath hissed out when he saw the red roughness around her wrists, and he touched that too. “I should have taken you home last night,” he said finally. “I’m afraid I just didn’t see any reason that a fifty-year-old skeleton would be the cause of anyone’s concern. But apparently it is.”

  Fiona swallowed and reached for the tea to moisten her throat. The stiffness and arrogance she equated with him seemed to have faded, and the warmth that emanated from h
im now was so unlike the cool, business-like attorney that it threatened to work its way past her barriers.

  “Do you think…could it be Barnaby?” she said, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  Still holding her hand, he shrugged, and she felt the gentle jolt. “He’s been sniffing around ever since you opened the place…but he’s also been pretty obvious about his concern with the skeleton. I don’t think he’d do anything to jeopardize the election.”

  Fiona felt sick. If it wasn’t Barnaby—a somewhat known evil—then who could it be? What did they want? “If someone’s broken in twice, they’re looking for something,” she said. “It’s not just a thief. And the first break-in was before I found the skeleton…is it possible they’re not related?”

  Gideon reached up to tuck a coiling curl behind her ear, hesitating before he replied. He didn’t want to say anything that would put an even greater edge of fear in her eyes, but at the same time, he wasn’t about to downplay her safety. If she was concerned about the situation, she would take more care than to be in the store alone at night.

  He gritted his teeth at the thought of her bound and gagged on the floor of the shop, then forced himself to relax. “It’s possible the first break-in was a random thief. Last night, though…well, you must have surprised the intruder and we don’t know whether he got what he came for.”

  He stroked the back of her hand, silently berating himself for leaving her alone last night. If he hadn’t leapt to answer Leslie’s call…. His lips tightened and he thrust the thought away. There was no way he could have known she’d return to the shop, and absolutely no indication that she would interrupt another burglar. Still…if he’d listened to the message his heart had been telling him, he’d never have gone to Leslie.

  Gideon’s stomach churned at the memory of the terrible, heart-rending scene that had ensued with Leslie collapsing in tears, and him unable to comfort her…and all the while, he’d been thinking about Fiona.

  “I suppose the reason he tied me up and left me was to scare the hell out of me,” Fiona said in a small voice, breaking into his thoughts and jerking him back to their conversation. “Well, it worked.” Her eyes, enclosed by thick, winged lashes, carried the shine of fear, and she fluttered her lids down as though to hide it. “But why scare me? I haven’t done anything.”

  “That you know of, anyway,” Gideon agreed. “Fiona, we don’t know what’s going on here—so I want you to promise me that you won’t be in the shop by yourself in the evening, or at night—or even early in the morning. Not until we figure out what’s going on, and why you seem to be a target.” The very thought was enough to make his throat close up.

  She struggled to sit upright in her bed, exasperation showing in her tired features. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gideon. I’m not going to be stupid about things—especially now, after this—but I can’t schedule Dylan to be there with me every waking hour.”

  He began to talk, but stopped when she pressed two firm fingers to his mouth. “I promise I won’t be in the shop after hours by myself. And, I’ve already scheduled to have the security system updated, so I’ll turn the alarms on when I’m there alone. Customers will just have to knock to be let in when I’m alone. Plus, I’m going to get some Mace and have it with me all the time. Unlike my cell phone. Okay?”

  What else could he say? She made sense, even though it left him with a nervousness that would not abate. However, her fingers were still pressed to his lips…and it was rather distracting….

  He smiled under her touch, then, with a quick movement, he opened his mouth and let a finger slip in. He nipped it lightly, quickly, and pulled away, grinning at the shocked look on her face. Gideon leaned to press her back into her pillows, covering her lips with his in a gentle, sensual kiss. She tasted wonderful…like Fiona.

  A wave of desire washed over him, surging to his groin, and he slid a hand along the length of her neck, tracing over her shoulder to the curve of her breast. Oh…yes….

  The low rumble of a throat clearing behind him froze Gideon, half-sprawled on Fiona, and he swallowed deeply. Giving a half-smile to the woman he’d been unable to get out of his mind for three weeks, he deliberately pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed as Fiona’s friend—he couldn’t remember her name—entered the room.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, a smile quirking her full lips, “but I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to take off, now that you…er…have things under control.” Her eyes danced, flickering to Gideon in what could only be described as an overt approval, then back to her friend.

  “Thanks a lot for coming over, Chris,” Fiona, appearing completely composed and unembarrassed, replied. “I really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll stop by the shop later tonight, okay?”

  “See you then.”

  “What do you mean, see you then?” Gideon exploded. Chris darted a look at him, raising her eyebrows at Fiona, then, with a little wave, sailed from the room.

  To his utter amazement, she blew a kiss after Chris and, giving him a little push away from the bed, slid from beneath the covers. “I should think it’s perfectly clear—she’ll see me this afternoon. At work. My shop.”

  Fiona padded over to the largest armoire he’d ever seen and opened its weathered pine door to expose a bulging closet. A heavy shoe fell out, landing with a clunk, and a hot pink and lime green scarf fluttered to the floor in its wake

  Gideon tried to keep his irritation in place, but seeing her floating around the room in two little scraps of brilliant blue silk—a little strappy top and some very brief shorts—was enough to get his heart racing again. The tone of her voice indicated that she wasn’t about to capitulate to his demands that she get back into bed, unless…. He shifted gears and decided to try a different, more rewarding tactic.

  He slipped up behind her, resting his hands lightly on her bare shoulders as she flipped through the myriad of dresses and flowing skirts that crowded her wardrobe.

  “What’s the hurry?” he murmured into her ear, trying not to wince when he saw her hand pause over a flame-red dress with bead-studded fringe that looked like something a cowgirl/gypsy would wear.

  “No hurry,” she said crisply, and chose a long blue linen skirt, pulling it from its hanger. She turned right into him, and that was a very fortuitous event.

  He slid his arms around her waist, his hands slipping sensuously over her skin with the shift of blue silk. The dark circles under her eyes solidified his decision that keeping her in bed would be the best thing for her, and that was all he needed to justify the way his mouth covered hers—telling her what would happen next.

  ~*~

  He sat outside, trying to enjoy the musky, musty taste of a Puerto Rican cigar and a tumbler of golden brandy. Sucking hard on the smoke, he held the taste in his mouth for a count of ten, then expelled it in a straight shot toward the twilight sky.

  God damn Nevio Valente.

  He clenched his teeth, then forced himself to relax. He would find the papers if it killed him…or someone else.

  His lips tightened as he thought of that idiot bitch who’d interrupted him last night—again. She always seemed to find a way to interfere. The hardness relented into a nasty smile and he set the cigar on the edge of a marble ashtray.

  He doubted she’d be around to bother him for much longer. He hoped he’d succeeded in scaring her so much she sold the shop—or at least closed it for a while. All he needed was some time to do a good, uninterrupted search, and he’d be able to find what Valente tried to hide from the world.

  Then when he found it, he’d keep it hidden too, of course, except for the money. The money would be his. After all, it was his due.

  He tapped his well-manicured fingernails on the table and imagined how much those bank accounts would be worth now…and his heart began to race. Valente owed him…for all he’d put up with over the years, Valente owed him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following Tuesday—a week
after Fiona had discovered a skeleton in her shop’s closet and that a stuffy lawyer could take her to the moon—she found a bracelet belonging to the skeleton.

  It had to belong to the skeleton, she reasoned, staring at the delicate gold links that clasped a heavy oval plate, because it had somehow got caught up on the inside of the wall she’d broken through.

  She’d forgotten about the debris that she’d removed before finding the skeleton, and only now had she enlisted Dylan’s help in moving it from the back room out to the Dumpster. The detectives had missed it too—although they’d gone over every other inch of the small closet under the stairs with a fine-toothed comb. Now she understood how some of the celebrated errors in police investigations happened.