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

by Colleen Gleason

  Fiona turned the bracelet over in her hand and saw the faint engraving on what looked like an old-fashioned identification bracelet. Stepping toward one of the fluorescent lights that spilled into the back room in a decidedly un-designer-like fashion, she peered at the plain, neat letters and read: “GJF liebe NV 17/6/40.”

  Fiona felt a swell of sadness rise within, and, without truly being conscious of why she did so, she looked out toward the main shop—toward The Lamp—and spoke very softly. “Is this yours? GJF?”

  The sudden rush of wind past her face made her nape-hair stand on end and brought sourness to her mouth, but Fiona stood there, unmoving. Tears filled her eyes even as chills shivered over her skin, and her hands trembled while her stomach surged sickeningly.

  “It is yours.” Sadness washed over her, slowly, almost lovingly, as she held the bracelet. “Who are you?”

  The tinkle of the chandelier above the heavy walnut desk was the only answer. She sifted the cool links through her fingers, smoothing the pad of her thumb over the engraved gold plate.

  “Fiona?” Dylan’s voice rang from the front of the shop, where he’d been waiting on a customer. He came around the corner, a questioning look on his face. “Did you say something?”

  Before she could answer, he frowned and rubbed his arms. “Feels like a bad draft in here somewhere; although I don’t know why it’s so cold. It’s still eighty degrees outside.”

  “Look what I found,” she said, with a quick glance up at the still chandelier. Gretchen the cat sat up on her regular perch—on the rail at the top of the stairs, her tail twitching like a thick whip. “It must belong to the skeleton, because I found it caught up in that garbage you were going to take outside.”

  Dylan took it and read the engraving aloud. “GJF—something—NV?” He looked at her. “What’s the middle word?”

  “Liebe. You know, love. And—NV…that must be Nevio Valente.” She looked up just as The Lamp, behind Dylan, flickered twice. “Oh!” She swallowed the startled exclamation as her companion looked at her with raised eyebrows, then whirled to look behind him.

  “What is it?”

  “N-nothing.” Fiona’s heart thumped rapidly, but she smiled at him. “I’m sure the NV must stand for Nevio Valente.” Then, her pleasure at the discovery faded as she realized what that could mean. “If he knew her…if it was him…then he probably knew she was here.” Her stomach pitched.

  Dylan looked up, smoothing a hand over his perfect blond hair. “What?” Confusion dotted his expression. “What’s this after it? A date, I bet. Written in European format—makes sense because of the German. June seventeenth, nineteen-forty.”

  “Hmm. Yes, it must be.” Fiona tried to push away the heaviness that had settled over her shoulders, and she held out her hand for him to return the bracelet. “I guess I’ll need to let Detective Hinkle know about this. It might help them identify the body.” She shivered suddenly. Could Valente have known about the woman all this time? Could he have put her there?

  Had he killed her?

  She stopped the thought and refocused her attention on Dylan. “What did you say?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Gideon should be here pretty soon, hmm?” He winked and curved his lips into what was, for him, a wolfish smile, but looked more like a silly grin.

  She started to reply in the affirmative, but stopped to glare at him. “Why would you think that?” she asked, starting to feel uneasy. She knew exactly why he thought that.

  “Because ever since you spent the night with him, he’s come by here every evening, just like clockwork, to take you home.” His face crinkled into a warm smile. “I’m glad you two are getting along so well. Although he is a little tight-assed at times, he seems like a good guy. He came by and thanked me for taking care of you the night you were attacked.”

  She hadn’t known that Gideon came by. Knowing that made her insides move around like a little Ferris wheel.

  Then Fiona’s lips firmed. Dylan was right—she and Gideon had spent just about every evening together for the last week, either at her house or his, sometimes spending the night together, other times not.

  She smiled at the memory of last evening, when he’d shown up with an outrageous bouquet of Birds of Paradise for her. In the last week, she’d hardly thought of him as stuffy or anal-retentive at all. She’d thought of him as the most romantic, tender of lovers.

  She didn’t understand why irritation flitted through her, then, at the soft look on Dylan’s face. “Yes, well, he’s been kind enough to make sure I don’t have to leave by myself. He’s just making sure I get home all right.” And making sure I get a very good night’s sleep.

  A smug grin tickled the corners of her mouth at the thought. Yes, Gideon definitely knew how to put her in the most relaxed, lazy, satisfied moods.

  The bells above the front door tinkled, and Dylan craned his neck to look around the corner. “Speak of the devil,” he said with that same golly-gee grin that was supposed to look like a lascivious leer. “Why don’t you run along—I’ll close up here.”

  “Thanks, Dylan—you’re a darling.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then turned to greet Gideon.

  “Just don’t forget you promised to go with me to that show at the Art Museum,” he reminded her, glancing at the attorney—who wore an annoyed expression.

  Fiona linked her arm through Gideon’s, drawing him to her for a full-body embrace. She knew he’d seen her kiss Dylan, and it gave her the smallest, admittedly immature, thrill to know that it irritated him. To make up for it and for her superficial thoughts, she tipped her face up to meet Gideon’s mouth in a slow, sensual, it’s-you-I’m-involved-with kiss.

  “Hello baby,” she said, smiling against his mouth. He felt good.

  His expression softened as he looked down at her. “How was your day?” He smoothed a hand over her mass of thick hair, down her back, rubbing and caressing as he kept her close to his side.

  She told him, and showed him the bracelet, which he examined carefully. “Yes, it’s a good assumption that NV is Valente. It’s not as if those are common initials.” He glanced out toward the front of the shop where Dylan was doing a poor job of using a feather duster, then looked back down at Fiona. “Did I hear him tell you to take off? Let’s get out of here…I’m hungry and I missed you today.”

  Warmth bubbled through her and she smiled up at him. “I just need to grab my bag.” She slipped out of his embrace and hurried back to get the leather abomination she called a purse.

  The night breeze was still warm, and it caressed her face with light coils of hair. She slipped her arm through his, hugging close to his side, as they walked toward his car.

  “Why don’t you get a smaller pocketbook,” he suggested as the bag bumped between them. “That thing could be dangerous.”

  “I need a big bag to hold all my stuff,” she replied, adjusting the heavy tote on her shoulder. “What do you want to do about dinner? I can make something at my house, or we can grab a bite somewhere else.”

  “Let’s go back to your house.” His eyes smoldered.

  A shiver raced up Fiona’s spine, curling around into a pang in her belly. “Sounds good.” Her voice came out husky. “I don’t have anything exciting to eat—we can order pizza, or stop and pick up something to cook.”

  “Let’s cook.”

  By the time they stopped at the market and got back to Fiona’s rowhouse in Manayunk, it was after nine o’clock. Gideon carried the groceries in while she turned on the lights, checked her answering machine, flipped through the mail, and did the rest of the things one does when getting home from work.

  They met in the small, corner kitchen that was whimsically decorated in splashes of lemon, cherry, and lime hues, with stainless steel accessories. From the first time he’d been in her home—the day after the attack at the shop—Gideon had felt completely at ease and welcomed there.

  Fiona bustled about, unpacking groceries and grouping them on the
counter in the places they would be used. Then she disappeared into her bedroom to change. Gideon snagged loose his tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his starched shirt, and thought about the t-shirt and cut-off sweatpants he’d left in the car.

  He’d put them there last week, planning to change into them at Fiona’s house…but somehow, even though they’d been almost inseparable after working hours, he was a bit apprehensive about letting her know he’d planned to be there…planned to stay overnight.

  Perhaps his uneasiness wasn’t unfounded. After all, on the three occasions he’d spent the night there, when he went into the bathroom in the morning, there was a new, wrapped toothbrush on the counter by the sink—three different times. She didn’t even recycle the ones he’d used previously. Was she just trying to be a good hostess—or was she trying to keep him at arm’s length?

  Gideon smiled wryly as he worked the cork out of the bottle of Chenin Blanc. For the first time in his life, he was worried that he might be moving too fast for a woman…rather than the other way around. He wasn’t a fool by any means. He knew Fiona was skittish about getting involved on a regular basis with a man…and in the last week, he’d realized that the last thing he wanted to do was to scare her off.

  It struck him more solidly than it had in the last week, and in the months since they’d met: he was falling—hard.

  He glanced up, trying to remain nonchalant as he poured two glasses of wine, and noted that she’d returned, fussing with a small gadget that looked like something Iva had in her bathroom. Fiona snicked a match over the sandpaper on its cover and it flared into light, leaving an acrid scent trailing in the air after she lit a small candle and extinguished the match.

  That was something else he liked about her that he never realized he would: she was always fussing with something, setting up some kind of mood or environment, turning on music, talking about gobbledy-gook like numerology or reflexology, or palmistry.

  His head snapped up from where he watched the crystal wine surge into one goblet after the other. Palmistry…that reminded him of her prediction when she’d read his palm those weeks ago. That he’d get married soon, and have at least one child.

  Suddenly, those said palms became damp and he needed a good-sized sip of the wine. He took it too fast and began to cough and sputter.

  “Are you all right? Not a good one?” she asked, looking up with her fine brows raised in question.

  Gideon took another drink of wine to smooth his throat, and managed to respond, “Went down the wrong way.

  “Mm. Let me try?” Could she know how much that huskiness in her voice turned him on?

  Gideon handed her a glass, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly happy. And what was wrong with the woman he was involved with being so sexy, so interesting, so warm and caring?

  Her eyes covered him from over the rim of her glass. Amber tiger eyes with a glint of humor and the depth of passion: a combination he’d never expected to find—or to want—in a woman. In that moment, he almost took the plunge…he almost mentioned the clothes he had waiting in the car. But that would open up too much, lay too much out on the table…and if she wasn’t ready for it, then he’d be facing a setback that he had no patience for. No, better to just enjoy the evening.

  Steering his thoughts firmly away from clothes—either getting into them, or getting out of them—he sniffed delicately at the faintly citrusy air. “What’s that?” he asked, looking at the little gadget under which she’d lit a tea candle.

  “An aromatherapy diffuser,” she replied, brushing past him to pull a large chunk of gingerroot out of a bag.

  Gideon looked more closely at the object, which appeared to be a large crystal rock, cut in half so that the insides showed the pale lavender crystals in a small, cup-like shape. The outside of the stone was rough and grey, but the inside had a small hollow in which the smallest bit of liquid glistened. It sat on a small metal stand, and the tea light burned merrily under it. The room had begun to smell like…citrus and cinnamon. “What is that smell?” he asked.

  Fiona had begun to peel the ginger, and its pungency tinged the air now too. “It’s a mixture of essential oils used for relaxation and calming—bergamot and cinnamon.” She looked up at him from under her lashes with a decidedly hot, meaningful expression and added, “Well, actually, the cinnamon is for something else.”

  A pang twisted deep in his middle and he became breathless with the intensity of emotion that swamped him. Jesus, but she always manages to get me off-guard. “And what might that be for?” he asked, knowing full well what that coy, sensual look on her face meant.

  “Well, cinnamon is also a wonderful massage oil—it has warming elements, and it has antiseptic purposes as well.”

  Cinnamon—like her hair, her lips, her eyes, the faint freckles on her creamy skin…. Cinnamon wasn’t just warming to him. It burned him.

  “Oh?” he asked, deftly unwrapping the thick tuna steaks they’d purchased and trying to hide the fact that he was just in a maze of desire and some other deep-seated emotion that he would not name.

  Fiona scooped the ginger into a haphazard pile and went to work on peeling and chopping garlic cloves. Ginger, cinnamon, citrus, and Fiona all combined—along with the wine—to make his senses sharp and hazy at the same time. His mouth watered, thinking about the meal they were preparing together, and about tumbling her onto the old-fashioned, white, wrought-iron bed she kept piled with pillows…and about waking up next to her in the morning.

  “It’s also good for other things.” She still had that look on her face—that slight smirk that tipped her mouth to one side. She turned to pour a bit of oil into a pan, then pivoted back toward him and the tuna steaks. “Brush these with the oil,” she directed, handing him the bottle.

  “What other thing?”

  “Oh…dry heaves….” She shot him a look that told him she was enjoying this keeping him in suspense, even though they both knew where it was leading. When she reached up past him to pull a jar of sesame seeds from the cupboard, he slipped his free hand around her waist and pulled her up against him.

  “And what else?” he murmured, tasting her lips, savoring the hint of wine on them.

  A ginger-and-garlic-scented hand reached up to stroke his cheek as she kissed him back. “Foot fungus,” she gasped a laugh against his mouth and he smiled too.

  “How appropriate, since I ran out of foot powder yesterday. Aren’t you sweet—always thinking of me.”

  “Sexual stimulation.”

  She started to pull away, but he held her tightly with the one hand. “What? Should I be offended that you think we’re in need of that,” he said with mock indignation. “And I know you certainly don’t need that. Unless…” some of the teasing note crept from his voice as a bit of insecurity wafted in, “you do need it.”

  “Gideon—” She snapped her gaze up at him, surprise lighting her eyes, and he felt better—and foolish for his moment of nerves.

  “Just kidding,” he said, smiling. He released her and she slipped away to continue making their dinner.

  But all the rest of the evening, all during the wonderful meal of broiled tuna steaks with spicy Asian noodles, sesame seeds, and green beans sautéed in garlic and ginger, and even that night as he tenderly undressed her and made her cry and keen with passion, he wondered.

  He wondered why he’d worried so. Everything was fine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “So, what about that new Thai restaurant for dinner tonight?” Gideon spoke into the phone as he scrolled through his latest batch of email. “That new one over on Locust? One of the guys at the gym said it was great.” Another email from Gordon Borowy? Did that man ever let up?

  “Oh, no thanks,” Fiona replied.

  “All right. Well, we could just stay in, make something at my place. I saw some great-looking crab legs at Reading Terminal yesterday. How about surf and turf? I’ll do the turf, you do the surf? You can pick up some wine on your way over.” He opened ano
ther email, scanned it, and deleted it. Then, he froze as her words sunk in.

  “I have plans tonight,” she was saying casually…very casually.

  “Oh.” He paused then asked, “Well, are you going to be late? You could come by afterward.”

  There was a short silence, then she replied steadily. “I’m not sure how late I’ll be—but, anyway, Gideon, I think I’m just going to head home afterward.”

  He let out a long breath—silently so that she wouldn’t hear—and told himself to ignore the unease rising in him. It was, after all, Friday night. “All right, then, darling,” he said with forced casualness. “Have a good time tonight, whatever you’re up to, and I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

  There was obvious relief in her voice when she replied. “You too, Gideon. Good-bye.”

  He placed the phone deliberately back on its cradle and swiped a hand over his hair.