The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (17 page)

His reply was a snort, but she forgave him his rudeness because she knew he must be in pain.

“Why don’t I just drive you to your place, and then I’ll head home,” she suggested, opening the passenger door of her car. It would be interesting to see how he managed to get all six-foot-plus of himself in the little bucket seat.

She nearly had to shove him into the vehicle, but when he acquiesced with little reluctance, she realized how badly he must feel. “Where do you live?” she asked as she slid behind the steering wheel, picturing a sleek, modern, high-rise condo.

“By the Art Museum, off Ben Franklin.” He’d tilted his head back on the headrest of the seat, and his voice came out strained with discomfort and weariness.

“Really? I pictured you as a Rittenhouse Square kind of guy,” she commented, mainly to make conversation. But then they fell silent as she maneuvered the Beetle through the streets toward the northwest side of the city.

The seriousness of tonight’s events struck her as she was waiting for a light to turn green. Up until now, it had been a foggy realization, overshadowed by the passionate kisses shared with Gideon, concern for him, and her factual conversation with the police.

Now, her focus sharpened as she recognized the hard facts: someone had broken into her shop. A random thief—or perhaps one of her guests at the open house today? Maybe someone had noticed one of the few pieces that caused Dylan to positively drool, and decided he didn’t want to pay for it? Regardless, it wasn’t likely the police would ever find him—particularly since neither she nor Gideon had gotten a good look at him. She shivered. She was just so lucky that she hadn’t come back to the shop on her own.

Fiona turned to look at Gideon, whose face was still raised to the ceiling. “Are you sure I can’t take you to the ER?” she asked, noticing the lines of pain etched on his face.

“No. Stupidity does not deserve to be catered to.” His voice was flat, but he lifted his head. “Follow the Parkway around, and veer to the right in front of the museum. My condo is just to the right.”

Moments later, Fiona pulled into the drive outside the garage to his condo. “Private garage,” she said, impressed. “Nice.”

He let them into the spacious home, and Fiona had to readjust her previous assumptions about his living space.

It was not the cold, sleek, black-leather-and-chrome decor she’d imagined. Although definitely a bachelor pad, it did, nevertheless, have a warmer feel than she’d anticipated, with plump—not sleek—leather sofas, Scandinavian-style wooden furnishings, and texture everywhere. A small gas fireplace opened on two sides into the living room and kitchen, and a worn armchair was positioned next to a closed, but very large, wall-to-ceiling, entertainment center. The ugliest afghan she’d ever seen—olive green, chartreuse, and off-white—was folded across the back of the rich navy sofa.

“Nice blanket,” she commented, smoothing her hand over its worn comfort. Ugly though it might be, it had been well-used and obviously provided some great measure of solace to its user.

“My mother made it.”

The level of emotion in his voice told Fiona that it wasn’t just pain from his injury that made it short and flat. She filed the information away for future contemplation and turned her attention from the residence to the man himself.

“Sit down and let me take a look at that. No, better yet, let’s go into the bathroom where I can clean you up right there.” She didn’t wait for him to reply, but started down a hallway that passed a staircase, a den, and ended in a spacious powder room, knowing that he would follow.

He set his keys and phone next to the sink. Fiona made him take the handkerchief away from his face, and she couldn’t help a small gasp when she saw the gash and nasty scrapes from the brick wall all along the side of his face. “Wow, he got you really good, hmm?”

Gideon’s jaw tightened—she could feel it shift under her fingers as she gently wiped away the blood and dust from the wound—and he replied, “Yes, he certainly did.” She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was angrier with himself than the intruder for doing it to him, and she chose to remain silent.

Instead, she concentrated on ministering to him, and feeling the warmth of his tanned skin, the heavy weight of dark waves, and the slight prickles of end-of-the-day stubble. It didn’t take long to clean it up, but by the time she was finished, all Fiona could think about was picking up where they’d left off in the alley.

Obviously, Gideon was feeling the same way, for when she turned to leave the room, he caught her wrist and pulled her back. “Not so fast,” he murmured.

She stood, looking down at him where he sat next to the sink, then shifted to look at their images in the mirror. Gently, almost reverently, holding her gaze with his own in the mirror, he half rose from his seat and brought his lips to hers.

As their mouths touched, lightly, tentatively, she sighed and closed her eyes, allowing the rush of desire to flood her in powerful contrast to the carefulness of their kiss. She felt him lower back to his seat, allowing her to stand over him, hands on his shoulders, bending her face to his as they kissed slowly, thoroughly…as if they had all the time in the world.

And they did, until his cell phone chirped.

Fiona began to pull away, but Gideon grabbed her wrists, and held her in place. “No,” was all he said.

It chirped a second and third time, and at that point, Fiona pulled away. “Someone’s trying to get in touch with you.”

“It’s just a text,” he murmured. But they both looked down and there it was, lit up on the phone’s screen. Fiona didn’t mean to pry, but she took in the message at a glance.

Tried to call you. Wanted to confirm the party next week. Had a great time last nite! Lmk.

It was from Leslie.

Fiona extricated herself with deliberate care, and the fact that Gideon allowed her to do so was a measure of how serious the situation was.

She stepped back, passed a hand over her face, then let it drop to her side. She saw herself in the mirror—saw the rueful smile pasted on her face, saw the flush of her cheeks and the fullness of her lips—and tried very hard to keep from losing her temper.

“I knew better,” she said, turning to walk out of the room. “I knew about her, I knew you were involved…and somehow I let myself forget it. Stupid.” She was speaking more to herself than to him, but she didn’t care that he heard.

“Fiona….”

She heard him start behind her, but kept walking. “Gideon, I’m not angry—I knew exactly what the situation was, but I let myself forget about it. You are a supernova kisser, you know,” she said, turning to look at him as they reached the living room. Her smile turned wry. “You made me forget about my rules and every other precaution that I’m used to taking.”

“Fiona, really, this is ridiculous,” he began, but she interrupted.

“I’m not sure I follow that line of logic,” she said sharply, taking back the control she’d lost to him twice this evening, “but let me just say one thing to you—again. I don’t sleep around, and I certainly don’t sleep around with men who are also sleeping around. It would have been fun, it would have been nice…but as long as you have Leslie van Dyke—or whatever her name is—on the short list, then I’m removing myself from it.”

“I told you, Fiona, Leslie is just a friend,” he said, his words taut and flat. He reached to slide an open hand down her bare arm.

She stepped away before he could touch her. Her insides, which had been bubbling with fullness all evening, suddenly felt starved. “But you don’t deny sleeping with her. And that’s all I need to know.”

She picked up her heavy leather bag, and miraculously found the mass of keys immediately in its depths. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, and for getting yourself beat up for me. I really do appreciate it…and, truly, you are one incredible kisser.” And just to make sure she had the last word, the last moment in her corner, she pulled his face to hers for a short, thorough kiss. “Good-bye, Gideon. It’s been real.”

Chapter Eight

Dammit.

How could he have known that the old bastard had installed an alarm at the worthless shop?

He leaned against a nearby building, resting his forehead against the harsh brick. That had been close—too close. If she or Nath had seen him…it’d be all over.

He looked around to be certain no one had followed—but no one had. He’d slammed Nath into the wall hard enough to stop him in his tracks, and that had given him the chance to get away.

He
had
to find that journal and those bank statements. Desperation crawled up his spine, and he ruthlessly shoved it back.

Not for the first time, he raised his face to the heavens and cursed the old man…then gave a harsh laugh when he realized if there was a place to go after this life, he had gone down instead of up.

Bastard. Nevio must have known what he was doing, leaving that diary to chance. He must have known how it would make him crazy, wanting to get his hands on that money and fearing that those secrets would be made known. The old bastard had hated him anyway—and leaving him something in his will was just a slap in the face when he knew that the important things—the journal, the statements—were nowhere to be found. He’d know how manic it would make him.

He would just have to try another tactic—for he knew if it was anywhere, the secret had to be hidden in that shop.

~*~

It was crazy, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Maybe it was the way she’d said, “You’re an incredible kisser,” and then laid one of her own mind-boggling kisses on him…and then breezed out the door without a glance.

Gideon forced himself to pull his gaze from the window back to his laptop. Somehow, work didn’t seem so necessary any longer. He had other things on his mind…at least, one other thing.

Then, he gave himself a mental shake. Thoughts like that—distractions and obsessions—and diversion from good, hard work were what had ruined his father. Chasing pipe dreams and setting aside practical pursuits had screwed him up, diverted him into drugs and deals and a lifetime in jail.

It had ruined his mother’s life as well.

God, he missed her.

Gideon firmed his lips and sternly returned to his work, poising his fingers on the smooth, concave keys of the laptop.

Men like his father were poison for any woman, and he knew he had the same tendencies his old man had. Good thing he’d basically been raised by his grandfather—the old slave-driver. The old man, who’d actually begun to soften since meeting Iva, had never had time for unimportant things—like self-expression. That was just as well. Gideon’s father had allowed self-expression to rule his life, and look where he’d ended up.

Gideon had become a good attorney—an excellent one—he reminded himself again, and he was not about to allow himself to be swayed from what was really important.

Besides, allowing a woman to dictate to him who he could or couldn’t see was not going to happen in this lifetime. He didn’t need that from Fiona Murphy, or anyone. It was her loss, after all.

~*~

A little more than a week after the open house, Fiona and Dylan were just closing up the shop. It was late Monday evening, and it had been a slow day—but an appreciated reprieve from a second brisk weekend.

“I’m glad we had a bit of a break today,” Fiona commented, leaning against the heavy walnut secretary that held the three lamps. Since Dylan had come on board, she’d become rather ambivalent about that piece of furniture, and the weird lamps as well. Once he told her that the desk was pretty worthless—except for the fact that it was made out of walnut—she lost her sense of awe toward it. They’d moved it out from the small alcove where it had been nestled under the staircase, and now it sat off to one side in the main part of the shop.