Gideon would have refused, but he felt more than a bit guilty about his distraction this evening—it was such an important night for her, and he’d been barely there. And it was early yet. Hardly past ten. “A quick one would be nice.”
Les was unusually silent in the elevator, and Gideon stood with his hands plunged into his pockets, staring at his gleaming black shoes as the car rose to the twenty-third floor, again, feeling the familiarity of the situation. Once inside her spacious condo, Gideon stripped off his tux jacket and loosened the hand-tied bow tie around his neck, stuffing it into one of his pockets.
Leslie was more deliberate: she slipped off her shoes and, tucking them under her arm, took off the one-carat diamond earrings she wore, gathering them into the palm of her hand. “Help yourself,” she said unnecessarily—for Gideon had already made his way to the gleaming glass-topped bar to pour a short whiskey. He made her a drink as well—her usual gin and tonic with an olive garnish.
As he turned back, absorbing the scene in which he was in the midst, realization zipped through him. They moved about with the ease and familiarity of an old married couple—he flinging his clothing on the sofa, she divesting herself of earrings and shoes without a thought for him as a guest. He helped himself to her bar, even going to far as to pour her regular drink. It was a routine. It felt natural…yet it did not. If he hadn’t met Fiona, would he have gone on along with this arrangement until his five-year-plan indicated it was time to get married?
Gideon took a large sip of whiskey, suddenly very uncomfortable. Wordlessly, he handed Leslie her drink, then sank onto a thick leather chair, hanging his hands over his knees.
She took the glass, stirred it with her finger, then took a quick sip and set it on a nearby table. “I’m glad you came up,” she said, looking at him with a sudden intensity. “We need to talk.”
Oh Jesus. Gideon felt his head begin to pound and he took another drink. “Oh?” he replied belatedly, trying to keep an even expression on his face.
She raised her glass to her lips, sipped, and then, frowning, pulled it away. “Are you still seeing that redhead—Fiona? How is it going, Gideon?”
Gideon swallowed. What was she up to? “Things are fine. We’re seeing each other. Occasionally.” Why he felt the need to downplay their relationship wasn’t clear to him in that hazy moment, but perhaps it was merely an attempt to keep Les from feeling bad. “How about you?” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Of course she wasn’t seeing anyone—or else why would she need him for an escort tonight?
“I need to talk to you about something.”
The look on her face was weary, resigned, and a bit fearful. Leslie van Dorn, woman warrior, fearful? It made him distinctly uncomfortable. “Go ahead.”
“I know this is something you’re not going to want to hear,” she began, looking down at her perfectly manicured fingernails, “but I felt it only right to be perfectly honest. We had an arrangement for years, and…well, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gideon silently opened the door to Fiona’s room, stepping in with care. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up and want to talk.
Like a wraith, he moved about the room without a sound, slipping his shoes off, unbuttoning his shirt, folding it and his tux trousers over a chair. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to talk…he just wanted Fiona.
A very heavy sleeper, she lay unmoving in an embryo-like lump under a patchwork quilt in the middle of her bed. The faint scent of some pleasing fragrance hung in the air, and he noticed two candles that had burned low next to her side of the bed.
Gideon slid under the covers, reaching for her, needing her. She sensed him, turning in her sleep, and rolled into his arms. Her soft hair amassed under his chin, and he tilted his head to bury his lips and his nose in its warm comfort.
His body, his mind, his emotions—all were numb, stuck, frozen back in that moment at Leslie’s house.
He shouldn’t be here—that one thing was certain…but when he’d left Leslie’s, after downing a second whiskey, he found himself unable to keep away from the one thing he was clear about.
Fiona sighed in her sleep, adjusting her warm body, brushing against the hair on his chest. He held her closer, breathing in her scent, staring into the darkness over her head. Trying not to think.
When he moved to drop a kiss onto her cheek, Fiona sighed and wriggled slightly in his arms. “Gideon?” she murmured, half asleep. “Mmmm.” She moved, shifting against him, brushing her breasts over his chest, and sliding her knee up between his legs.
Gideon pulled back, still holding her, but away so that he wouldn’t be tempted into the web she spun. He swallowed a hard lump, throat convulsing against her head, and closed his eyes.
She rolled toward him, and her hand moved into the hair on his chest, then she smoothed slim fingers over his shoulder as she nuzzled against his throat. His body, numb though it was, began to respond to her touch and he couldn’t still his fingers from brushing over the mounds of hair and across her soft cheek. Fiona arched against him, sighing, still half-asleep, but with a small moan that sent a pang of arousal straight into his belly.
Even as he knew he shouldn’t, he did: he slid his hands to cover her breasts, one thumb brushing over a nipple that tautened beneath it like a flower awakening. He covered her mouth with his, he pulled her hips tightly against him. The moan from the back of her throat was louder this time, and he could see her eyes flutter in the dim light as she tipped her head back to leave her neck bare to him.
With a fierceness that still surprised him, Gideon bent to her, covering her body with his, sliding his fingers into and around the deepest, warmest part of her. He closed his eyes and coaxed from Fiona the deepest, most shattering response he’d ever done with any woman.
And when it was over, he felt, rather than heard, her lips move against him.
I love you, Gideon.
~*~
Fiona hummed as she dumped a cup of fresh blueberries into the bowl, carefully folding the batter over them with a spatula.
“Good morning,” came Gideon’s scratchy voice.
She looked up at him, tossing a coil of hair out of her face, and smiled. “Hello, love. Sleep well?”
“What are you making?”
“Whole wheat blueberry muffins. My specialty…one of them, anyway.” She flashed him a coy smile, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Coffee?”
He grunted an assent as he sank onto a chair at the small breakfast-nook-like table.
She poured him coffee, then returned to her muffin batter—dropping healthy spoonfuls into the battered muffin pan her mother had given her. “How was the party?”
“Boring.”
Fiona flashed him a glance. It wasn’t like him to be so reticent. Maybe he was just tired. She slid the muffin pan into the oven and came over to the table, sliding onto Gideon’s lap and wrapping her arms around his sleep-scented body, burying her face in his neck. His hands moved to caress her back for only a moment before dropping away.
“You know, Gideon,” she murmured into his shoulder, her heart thumping madly at the suggestion she was about to make, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
She pressed a light kiss onto his warm, smooth shoulder and allowed her lips to curve into a smile there. “We’ve been seeing a lot of each other, lately…and….”
He shifted so that she was forced to sit up, away from him. “Fiona, could you get me some sugar?”
“Sugar?” she looked at him in surprise.
“For my coffee?” He stared intently at the cup of sable liquid, not meeting her eyes.
“Sure.” She got up, mentally shaking her head. Gideon always took his coffee black. Ah well, maybe it would be easier to say it when she wasn’t cuddled in his arms. “Anyway, I was thinking…you’ve been staying over so much lately that I though
t you might want to…leave a toothbrush here.”
“A toothbrush?” The moment he’d been waiting for for weeks now had finally come…and he would have to say no.
~*~
Fiona banged into the corner of the big oaken desk, and winced and swore, tears springing to her eyes. Her thigh screamed with pain where the edge—though dull and rounded, but lethal nevertheless—met her tender skin.
She dropped the bundle of dust rags that she’d been carrying and stood there, soundly rubbing the sore spot while moaning in frustration. “For crying out loud!” she groaned, glaring at the monstrosity of the desk on which The Lamp sat. “I should have moved your big butt much earlier instead of letting you block my aisle way.”
The pain ebbed and she stooped to pick up the rags. Just as she stood, she saw a flicker from The Lamp on top of the desk…and saw the fringe on its shade shift and sway as though someone had run a single finger through it.
As always, a prickle of coolness shimmered up her neck, but Fiona felt too annoyed and ornery to even care. Of course, it didn’t help that Gideon had been acting remote and distracted for the last few days, either. He’d been really busy with work, and they hadn’t seen each other since the morning she made blueberry muffins for him. She tried not to worry about it, so for now she focused her irritation on the lamp.
Thus far the ghost—or whatever it was—hadn’t caused her any harm other than a few startles, and she wasn’t about to let it start bothering her now—especially when she was going to have the mother lode of bruises on her thigh.
“What do you want?” she snapped at The Lamp. “I sure wish you’d do something other than flicker at me. If you’re trying to tell me something, why don’t you find some other way to communicate?”
Abruptly, everything went still.
The fringe stopped in mid-sway, every light in the shop went black—even the constant hum of the air conditioning ceased as though strangled into silence.
Fiona swallowed and looked above her, half-expecting to see some specter-like apparition hovering overhead—but there was nothing to see except the railing of the balcony above…and Gretchen—sitting in her spot, tail twitching, green eyes gazing coldly down at Fiona.
The room became cooler, and then the stillness began to soften as a faint whisper of rose-scented breeze brushed her cheek.
“What?” she whispered. “What is it? What can I do?”
She looked around, but there was nothing to direct her. Then, as though the spirit gave one last sigh and succumbed to the effort its activity had caused, the breeze disappeared and everything stilled once again.
Fiona remained frozen for a moment, but nothing else happened to stir the air. The lights remained dark and the shop silent. The heavy stillness was punctuated only by the sounds of slamming car doors and voices from out on the street.
She turned toward the back of the shop where the circuit breaker was and took two steps before tripping and stumbling into a heap on the hardwood floor. Even as she swore in an extremely lewd manner, she reached out to touch what had tripped her, and felt something solid protruding from the bottom of the mammoth desk. It was too dark in that small bend of the aisle to see what it was—but one thing was certain: it hadn’t been there when she walked by moments earlier.
A prickle danced up her spine. Ghosts couldn’t actually move things, could they?
Taking better care now, in the dark, Fiona pulled herself to her feet and limped toward the back of the shop. Fortunately, sunlight streamed through one of the back windows—the one, in fact, that had been smashed and since replaced when the burglar had broken in—enabling her to find and flip the correct switches in the circuit box.
Since she had by no means been certain that action would work and re-illuminate the shop, she breathed a small sigh of relief when the lights came back on and the air conditioner hummed to life.
Hurrying back toward the center of the store, under the balcony in that small cubbyhole where the desk sat brooding like the fat Scottish guy from Austin Powers, Fiona crouched at the spot where she’d tripped and saw that a small drawer had popped from the bottom of the desk.
“A secret drawer!” she squealed, looking up at Gretchen, who had deigned to descend several steps and now sat next to the desk, watching her with condescension.
She pried the drawer completely out of its slot and was elated to find a manila envelope stuffed inside with what felt like a small book. Just as she was tearing the paper to open it, the bells jingled as the front door opened.
Fiona shot to her feet, narrowly missing the lethal desk corner, and hurried out to greet her customer.
“Fiona!” greeted Iva as she started toward her, arms outstretched for an embrace. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m a little early. I wanted to browse a bit before we left for lunch.”
“No problem. You look marvy!” Fiona hugged the soft, sweet-smelling woman as a wash of grief for her own grandmother came over her. But she was too keyed up by her discovery to dwell on that thought.
“I just found a secret drawer in that big old desk,” she told her, knowing that the older woman would appreciate the story of her ghostly direction. They had talked about the odd happenings in the shop several times—out of the hearing of Gideon Senior and his grandson, of course.
Iva clapped her hands together, a little drawstring bag dangling from her wrist, and demanded to see the drawer at once. “What’s in it?”
Fiona produced the manila envelope, tearing it open as she spoke. “I banged myself on the desk and yelled at the ghost—and then the lights went out and this drawer popped open.” The envelope tore and its contents spilled onto the floor. She and Iva stooped, nearly bumping heads, to gather up the sheaf of papers.
Just then, a loud slam from the back of the shop had both their heads popping up.
“That’s just Dylan,” Fiona explained. “Now that he’s here, we can leave whenever you like.”
The older woman dimpled at her, and glanced at the manila folder that Fiona still held. “I think we should leave right away.”
Fiona smiled back, glad she’d read her mind. “Hi, Dyl,” she greeted the tall, blonde man when he appeared. “Iva and I are going to lunch.”
Brandishing his lambs wool duster, he looked like a feminine dream come true, with his handsome face, startling blue eyes, and the obvious intent of doing housekeeping. “Hi Fiona. What’s wrong with that desk back there?”
~*~
The manila envelope contained clues that would make Nancy Drew green with envy.
The two ladies had the contents of the mysterious envelope spread out on the table before the server brought their water.
Since it was one of her favorite cafes, Iva didn’t even need to look at the menu. She ordered while scrounging through a sheaf of papers that were covered with spindly writing that had faded so much it was illegible.
Fiona, too engrossed with some yellowed newspaper clippings, merely waved her hand and said, “Soup and bread, and herbal iced tea. You pick. No meat.” And then, as an after-thought, she added, “Some kind of muffin too, please.”
Smoothing down the curling corners of a newspaper article that had been shoved in an envelope with some kind of letter, Fiona began to read—then stopped cold. “Iva!” she whispered, prickles erupting over her nape. “Listen to this! ‘Woman’s Disappearance Still Unsolved.’ ‘Police still have no leads in the disappearance of Miss Gretchen Freudenhofer, 24, a recent immigrant from Berlin, Germany. Friends with whom she was staying reported her missing after she did not return from a shopping trip on August 25. The woman was last seen disembarking from a bus near Locust and South Street. If anyone has any further information on this woman’s whereabouts, they should report to the 153rd Precinct Office.’”
She raised her eyes to look across the table. “It’s dated August 31, 1948.”
“What were the initials on that bracelet?” Iva asked, her sharp blue eyes gleaming with interest.
“G�
��J…F!” Fiona smacked her hand on the table next to the teacup that had appeared without her notice. Hot tea sloshed onto her hand, splattering onto the carrot muffin she’d thus far ignored. “Gretchen! Our skeleton is Gretchen!”
The people at the next table turned overtly to look at her, and, giddy with her discovery, Fiona waved the small clipping at them. “We just figured it out!”
Then, suddenly, reality slammed into her. “If the skeleton is Gretchen, then….”
Iva was nodding sagely. “Yes, it would seem that your Mr. Valente knew about her…or possibly—quite probably—had something to do with her appearing in that store room.”
Unease flourished in her stomach. Could the old man have been a murderer? “Maybe…maybe something happened and she died in his shop, and he was too afraid to call the authorities, so he hid her body. Or…someone else could have killed her and forced him to hide the body, or even hid it there without him knowing….” Her voice trailed off as she realized she was defending a man she barely knew—and who could very well have been a murderer.
The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) Page 22
