The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (20 page)

“Oh.” Fiona settled back onto the counter stool from where she’d half risen in irritation and just looked at him. She took another sip of wine, narrowing her eyes as she glowered over the rim. “And what makes you think I’m going to believe
that
convenient story?”

He settled on his elbows across the counter from her, and, leaning toward her, stared into her eyes. “Because you want to. And…because I don’t lie.” The words came from deep inside him, laced with some emotion he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. But he knew it was vital that she believe him.

She looked back at him, her golden brown eyes clear and steady, and he felt prickles of awareness travel up his spine. The situation couldn’t be more innocent, for a whole expanse of counter yawned between them, but tension zinged through the air as they gazed at each other.

Finally, she spoke. “Let me see your hand.” Resting her own palm on the counter, she opened her fingers to take his.

He obligingly offered his hand, and the prickles turned into a surge of heat when she began to examine the lines on his palm with her delicate, beringed fingers: tracing, smoothing over them with the pads of her fingers as she’d done in the restaurant. What did she think she’d see there? Whether he was telling the truth?

At last, she released his hand and returned hers to clasp the wineglass. She caught his gaze with her own, and he saw that her lids had dropped slightly, giving her a sensual, come hither look that set his blood racing to a particular, throbbing location. She smiled very slowly. “All right.”

He started to come around from his side of the counter, wanting only to yank her into his arms and dispose of that horrible t-shirt…among other various items of clothing.

“When are you going to show me your art?”

Her words, low and warm, stopped him cold three feet away. “What?” He stared at her, visions of having her sprawled on the Corian counter scattering with the rest of his thoughts.

“You’re an artist, Gideon. I’d like to see your work. While you make us something to eat.” Her face was the picture of innocent interest, but he saw the way the corners of her mouth curled up in a smug smile.

“How…never mind.” He stared at her, fighting within himself the fear of exposing that part of him to someone he didn’t know well, but, who, it seemed, knew him even better than he could have imagined. He had no choice. “They’re in the den—my most recent ones. In the big drawer in the desk.”

She slid off the stool, brushing past him, sauntering out of the room as though she hadn’t just escaped being laid on his countertop. He watched her go, knowing he’d just lost the upper hand in this tête-à-tête…and wondering what she would do next to catch him off guard.

Then his stomach squeezed as he realized she would be looking at his work. He knew the drawings weren’t bad…but would she think they were good? Gideon took a healthy drink of wine and forced himself to open the refrigerator. Better to keep his mind occupied with tasks other than Fiona Murphy’s reaction to his most personal items.

He’d rubbed two filets with garlic and cracked peppercorns when she wandered back into the kitchen. “Something smells good,” she said casually, and he heard her slide onto the stool behind him.

Gideon forced himself to remain focused on preparing the steaks, refusing to turn to face her for fear he’d see disinterest, or even antipathy, for his work. A rejection of his creativity would also be a rejection of himself. “How do you like your steak?” he asked as he turned.

“Steak? Oh.”

He looked over to see that she was biting her lower lip. “Oh?” he repeated, standing there with two beautiful filets mignon on a plate—one inch thick, perfect dark pink steaks that would just round out that Cab he’d opened.

“I’m a vegetarian,” she confessed, her eyes wide and apprehensive. “But I—”

Gideon, who considered himself the most patient of men, would have thrown up his hands in defeat if he hadn’t been holding the steaks. Perhaps he should just give up on this—on trying to connect with a palm reading, esoteric, disorganized New-Ager who didn’t know how to enjoy a good steak. How the hell did he think they could ever get over their differences enough to find their way to bed?

“How about some pasta, then?” he mumbled, eyeing the rich, aromatic steaks with regret. This was definitely not going as planned.

“Pasta is fine, but I…Gideon, I’m not a vegetarian in the truest sense of the word—I mean, I’m not a vegan or anything…I eat dairy products and seafood, and…
ugh
,” she wailed in frustration, “the truth is, I have a real weakness for filet…I can’t resist it…even though I haven’t had red meat regularly for years…or, well, at least since last New Year’s….”

He stared at her, more baffled than ever. She was a vegetarian with a weakness for filet mignon? Did that mean she would eat the steak…or not? He was almost afraid to ask.

Fiona rested her head in her folded arms, wondering why she couldn’t stop babbling such nonsense. She was making a complete idiot out of herself. “I’d love to eat the steak,” she managed to say, her voice muffled. “Medium.”

She was afraid to look up and see the incredulous expression that must be plastered on his face. She’d been as nervous as a cat since arriving at his home…and that tension had just about set her heart to choking her when he made his blithe announcement that there was nothing between him and Leslie. It had been all she could do to seize the opportunity to get away from him—from the chemistry that sizzled between them, from those hungry eyes that did not rest from taking her measure—and escape into the den.

And then…when she saw his drawings, Fiona had been moved…and more unnerved than ever. The monochrome sketches were bold and expressive, almost alive…and she’d recognized herself in two of them. Yes, she’d recognized herself—but as he saw her…and that made her stomach flutter even more. How could she possibly be—live up to—match?—that siren-like, sensual woman he’d drawn, with hooded, bedroom eyes and wild, erotic hair?

When she raised her head at last, her cheeks heavy and warm from being huddled in her arms, she first saw the heavy chopping board in front of her on the counter. As she watched silently, unwilling to speak, Gideon sharpened a serious looking knife and began to chop tomatoes and cucumbers into bite sized cubes.

“I love your drawings.”

The rhythm of his knife slowed…then sped up. He didn’t speak, and didn’t look at her—and that confirmed her suspicion that the artwork meant much more to him than he’d readily admit.

“They’re full of emotion—simple emotion. Raw. I love that with only a few strokes, you can make a picture say something.”

“Thanks.” His response, brief, short, tried to be nonchalant, but it failed. She heard the underlying notes of relief and delight and smiled inside herself. Sensitivity was a good thing in a man. Especially one who informed her that she was going to seduce him.

She became quiet again, watching him. As always, she was fascinated by his hands, and admired the long, tanned fingers sprinkled with fine black hairs. She watched the tendons shift on the back of his hands, giving texture and life to them, noticing the solidness of his angular wrists.

“Have you ever thought about exhibiting?” Fiona sensed that she’d inched her way out onto a limb, but if she was going to make love to the man…well, she felt she had the right to get to know him.

At that, Gideon snapped up his head to look at her. “Exhibit? My work?” The stark horror in his eyes threw her for a loop. “I would never even consider that.”

“Why in the world not? They’re definitely good enough. With some nice matting and frames, you could easily sell them.” She pushed a little further.

“Absolutely not. I’m an attorney, not an artist.”

Fiona arched her brows. Keeping her voice gentle, for she realized that this was some kind of red-hot button for him, she reminded him, “They’re not mutually-exclusive.”

“To me they are.” His mouth drew up firmly, and Fiona decided it would be wise to stop there. She could pursue the issue later.

She wanted to end with one last comment though. “I think they’re beautiful, and if you ever wanted to gift me with one of them, I would be very flattered.”

“How did you know about my work?”

She smiled, resisting the urge to reach across the counter and touch his hands. “The lines on your palms told me you had artistic abilities—but since they were fainter on your left, dominant, hand, I suspected that you’d pushed the urge to create aside, in favor of more structured pursuits.”

Her guess had paid off not only by being accurate, but also by catching him off guard and giving Fiona a chance to catch her breath—away from him, in the den.

She’d come back into the kitchen, knowing she was going to have to play this cool, or she’d be lost in no time—succumbing to the strong attraction she knew sizzled between them, and very likely losing her own self control.

Being out of control was not something she was willing to risk.

“Do you think she was murdered?”

Gideon looked up at her words and shrugged easily, his shoulders moving under the starched shirt he still wore. At least he’d removed the tie and unbuttoned the top button. “It could have been an accident—but it’s possible she was murdered.” He set his fork aside and raised his wineglass to take a sip.

Fiona swallowed and looked down at her plate, her stomach curling inside. She knew it wouldn’t be much longer…and the anticipation was making her crazy. Here they were, settled at a smooth, mahogany table in the formal dining nook, eating calmly and discussing the remains of a body that had been found in her store…when all she wanted to do was touch him…everywhere.

And if the glint in his eyes, and the tic in his jaw were any indication, he was just as distracted. So why did she continue to delay, to play the game
? I know he can make me lose it—lose control. I have to keep the upper hand.

“I wonder if Valente put the body there, or if someone else did.”

Gideon’s movements were smooth as he settled back in the chair and pushed his empty plate aside. He unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled it back, exposing a muscular forearm. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Perhaps they’ll find something in her clothing that will at least help identify her.” He rolled up his other sleeve and watched her with hot, steady eyes.

Fiona had finished everything she was going to eat—which was to say, a small portion of her steak and lots of vegetables—and she stood to begin clearing the dishes away. “I’m going to make sure I look through everything Valente left behind to see if there’s any clue as to who she was.”

A little shiver danced up her spine—not, for once, caused by Gideon. This was a real-life Nancy Drew mystery, and she wasn’t about to sit aside and let the detectives have all the fun. When would she get another chance like this again?

The shiver turned into steaming lava when her gaze swept over, and was caught by, Gideon’s. She hesitated, leaning over a corner of the table toward him to take his plate, then began to draw back. He reached out with deliberate slowness and grasped her wrist, tugging just enough to bring her to eye-level with him. “What’s the hurry?”

She boldly leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his lips, pausing longer than she’d meant to when it felt so good. Just as her eyes were sinking closed and she started to forget who she was, Fiona gathered her senses and pulled away. “Remember, you promised you weren’t going to seduce me.” Her voice, meant to be light and playful, came out much too breathy to be taken seriously.

“I didn’t make that move,” he replied casually, but she could see the rise and fall of his chest under that starched shirt and she knew he was fighting just as hard as she to remain in control of himself.