Chapter 66
The smile faded when she remembered how cool he'd been upon his return to the front of the store, where she'd been conversing with Barnaby. Other than the shock of dark hair that fell onto his face in a decidedly un-Gideon fas.h.i.+on, he seemed completely unaffected by their tussle on the dirty floor. He'd retrieve that stick that was up his behind, she thought wryly, and regained the haughty air as he chatted with her and Barnaby. The irritated glower had come back, along with the faint air of condescension and hardness in the planes of his face.
But the fact remained: he had kissed the h.e.l.l out of her.
Rubbing her belly, where a wave of pleasure fluttered, Fiona peered into the dusty room, hoping to find a broom.
Finally, she located an ancient one, with bent and brittle bristles, hanging in a far corner next to a dustpan. She retrieved them and headed back to the mess on the floor. On the way, she glanced at the big oaken desk and noticed that the shade on the same lamp was off-kilter again.
Frowning, and shooting a glance toward Gretchen's general vicinity-wherever that might be-she paused and reached to adjust it. The shade was warm to her touch...which was odd because the light wasn't on.
The hair lifted on the back of her neck just as a cool breeze wafted along, buffing her cheek. It was more than a waft...it was a small gust.
Fiona whirled to look behind her and stifled a shriek when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Her heart receded from throat to chest when she saw Gretchen sitting there on a table, calmly was.h.i.+ng her paw.
Her hands were trembling, and she started to stumble away from the little alcove by the ma.s.sive old desk as the breath clogged in her throat. Abruptly, the breeze ceased, just as suddenly as it had come. But in its wake it left a musty, chill, hollow smell that crept into her nostrils and seemed to wrap around her. And then, again...the scent of roses, faint, dusty-but present.
Fiona fought to control the irrational fear that caused her fingers to curl into a nearby table. She was not one to disregard the possibility of something on a different metaphysical plane than her own...but she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to experience it herself.
Then, a sudden, rational thought struck her, and she turned to look at Gretchen again. The cat had stopped grooming herself, but was merely looking at her with interested gray-green eyes.
Fiona exhaled deeply and swiped a hand over her face in relief. Cats had a sixth sense about the presence of the supernatural.
So if whatever it was didn't bother Gretchen, it wouldn't bother her.
Gideon slashed a thick, dark line with the charcoal pencil, then added hard, short marks with a softer lead to finish the texture of the riverbank. He pursed his lips, looking at the simple drawing that held verve and expression in its black, abrupt strokes and stepped back from the heavy paper. Then, with a grunt-for he saw what it was missing-he scratched with the pencil, cross-hatching the rise of gentle waves, then adding the subtle stroke of a cloud in the sky.
Dropping the pencil with finality, he sipped from his gla.s.s of Merlot, all the while staring at the drawing with narrow vision. The river s.h.i.+fted and moved as if before his very eyes, and the stolid homes of Germantown's old brick twins studded the riverbank. Details were few, just a mere hint, which was true to his style-works that were half-finished, leaving the viewer to complete it with his or her eyes and imagination.
Not bad. You've done worse.
Thoughtfully, he pulled another thick, textured paper from a stack-this sheet a deep gold color-and rummaged in the drawer for his white charcoal pencil. Without hesitation-for the image had long been in his mind-he used quick, bold strokes of black to draw the curve of sensual lips and thick-lashed eyes, then the white to add highlights and dimension. He liked to draw women...especially women who intrigued him.
He was just adding a hint of thick, curling hair when the doorbell rang. Jerking around, Gideon scooped up the ma.s.s of papers and shoved them into the desk drawer. The charcoal pencil rolled onto the floor, and he stooped quickly to retrieve it, then jammed it into the drawer and slammed it shut.
Only then did he check his watch, and, muttering a soft curse at the amount of time he'd wasted, he hurried to the door.
"Grandfather." He held out his hand for a shake and it was ignored as he was hustled into a bl.u.s.tery embrace.
Gideon extricated himself, still a bit uncomfortable with his usually-staid Grandfather's sudden show of affection even after six months of succ.u.mbing to it, and turned to the short, white-haired woman who was the cause of Gideon Senior's new-found display of sentiment. It was easier to hug her, this woman of sweetness and bright eyes, apple cheeks and spun-sugar-hair.
"Dear Gideon." She smiled, taking his face between her warm hands. He was so tall next to her, it was necessary for her to extend her arms to their full length. She gave him a little kiss on the mouth and said, "It's good to see you again. I hope you don't mind that we barged on over here so soon, but I couldn't keep your grandfather in check. He just had to see you."
"In check! Pah! More like on a leash." Gideon Senior pretended to grumble, but Gideon saw the warmth in his eyes. Then, the warmth retreated-to be replaced by shrewdness-as he looked at his grandson. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing home on a Sat.u.r.day night, young man? What's the matter with you? You working again?" He moved past Gideon, craning his neck to look into the den as if to spy an engaged computer on the desk.
Gideon breathed a mental sigh of relief that he had put his drawings away and followed his grandfather down the hall back to the living room. "No, I wasn't working," he admitted. "Iva, would you like some tea? Grandfather, how about a Scotch?"
"Yes to the tea, dear, no to the Scotch." Iva's reply was quick and firm, and when her husband began to protest, her voice turned to steel. "Now, Hollis, you know better than to have a drink on an empty stomach-and you know what the doctor said."
Gideon saw his grandfather actually wince-whether it was from the use of his given name, or from his fourth wife's no-nonsense reminder, he wasn't sure-and he managed to hide a smile. "How about coffee, then?"
Gideon Senior shot a glance at Iva, who returned it with a firmly raised eyebrow. He capitulated. "Decaf if you have it. If not," he sighed, "just water."
Iva patted his hand with her own wrinkled, blue-veined one, and smiled. Then she turned to Gideon. "I hope we didn't interrupt any plans you might have for the evening." She followed him into the kitchen, and Gideon Senior tramped along behind, mumbling about being unable to have fun anymore.
Gideon pushed away the tinge of irritation and busied himself by turning on a teakettle filled with water. His step-grandmother's comment was simply a more tactful way of trying to find out the same thing her husband demanded to know. "No, no plans this evening." He set a small basket of tea bags on the grey granite counter in front of Iva.
His grandfather hmphed and would have begun the usual diatribe-at least, the one that had become a familiar litany in the six months since Iva had come into their lives-had she not intervened. "Well, that's good, because we'd hoped you'd join us for dinner so we could tell you all
Relieved to be off the hook, and somewhat surprised at how pleased he felt at having something worthwhile to do, Gideon accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. "Do you have any pictures yet?"
"Pictures? Ha! How about three of those-what are those little things called?-three of them of video? Your grandmother spent every waking moment with the recorder dangling from her hand."
"They're called memory sticks. And, Hollis, you know that's an exaggeration," Iva responded mildly, looking up from the basket where she'd been flipping through the different teas.
"I said every waking moment-" Gideon Senior began, with an unmistakably meaningful wink.
"I only filled up one memory stick, although it was eight giga-whatevers. And besides," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "the last thing your grandson wants to see is you in a Speedo." Without turning a hair, she chose a bag of peppermint tea and handed it to Gideon, who had to choke back a snort of laughter at the revelation that his fairly physically-fit grandfather not only owned-but wore-a Speedo. At least if he happened to see a picture, Gideon wouldn't want to poke his own eyes out.
Gideon Senior may have flushed a bit, but his grandson wouldn't have testified to it had he been pressed. It may just have been the natural ruddiness that his face took on when he bl.u.s.tered about. "Anyway, m'boy, why is it that you don't have plans on a Sat.u.r.day night? Whatever happened with that woman-er-what was her name? You brought her to our wedding. She was a fine-looking woman-and seemed smart, sharp, sophisticated."
"Leslie, dear. Her name was Leslie." Iva flashed a quick glance at Gideon as if to show her sympathy for him, but he wasn't fooled. He had figured out their good-cop, bad-cop routine months earlier.
With a sigh, he capitulated. "Leslie van Dorn, Grandfather. And nothing has happened to her-I just don't have plans to see her tonight." It had been several weeks, in fact, since he and Leslie had had occasion to get together.
"Well why not?" Gideon Senior demanded as his grandson turned to retrieve the steaming kettle. "If you don't spend any time courting her, how do you expect to find the opportunity to propose?"
Gideon burned himself on the teakettle and yanked his hand away from its hot metal spout. Swallowing a curse, he replied calmly, "I don't intend to propose to her, Grandfather, and you know it."
Indeed, despite the fact that she was exactly the kind of woman he would someday wed-if he did at all-marrying Leslie van Dorn, President and CEO of Interworks, Inc., was the last thing he could see himself doing. "Grandfather, Leslie and I have the stereotypical perfect arrangement. We both choose to concentrate on our careers, and, since we're so busy all the time, we just help each other out when we need an escort for some function."
...Or felt the need for a more intimate fulfillment.
"You know that I don't intend to marry-at least for a long while." He kept his voice light but firm as he poured steaming water over Iva's tea bag in a cup with his monogram on it. "Now, where are we going for dinner?"
Later that night, Gideon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He folded his hands over his chest and absently rubbed thumb-pad against thumb-pad, remembering the conversation he'd had with his grandfather.
Gideon Senior had been annoyingly vague about Nevio Valente and his concerns about the man's estate, but, when pressed, he'd admitted nothing other than a niggling concern- "my sixth sense" he'd called it-about Valente's estate.
Trying to hide his annoyance, Gideon had asked his grandfather, "If there's nothing that you can put your finger on, then why in the h.e.l.l did you come back early from your honeymoon?"
Adjusting his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses up and down on the bridge of his nose-a sign that he was uncomfortable-the older man replied, "Why, I suppose I just jumped the gun, m'boy. I always felt there was something not right about him, and, to be completely honest, I must admit I never liked the b.a.s.t.a.r.d one whit, even though he was a good client. I always felt like he had something to hide, something that lurked just below the surface...and what better time for it to come out than when he's dead and gone, and his family is quibbling over the estate?"
"But the family isn't quibbling over the estate. There was no problem whatsoever with the reading of the will, no one contested anything or even hinted about it-even when they learned about F-Ms. Murphy's bequest."
Gideon Senior frowned as he shoved a forkful of salmon into his mouth. "Yes, this Miss Murphy is a mystery. You say she didn't even know who he was? What kind of idiot thing was Valente thinking?" He shook his head, his unruly silver hair gleaming in the low light of the restaurant. Stabbing another forkful of the fish, he stared at it for a moment, then stuck it in his mouth.
"Not only did she not know who he was, but once I showed her his picture and she remembered him, she raved on about how sweet and kind the elderly man was." Gideon took a sip of wine as his grandfather's jaw dropped.
"Close your mouth, dear," Iva suggested. "The view is quite unappetizing."
"Valente was as far from sweet and kind as a piranha," her husband informed her, ignoring the fact that he still had a mouthful of food.
Clucking, Iva smoothed back a white curl and smiled with mildness. "Now, Hollis, don't tell me that even a piranha doesn't have a soft, warm side-after all, look at you."
Gideon vacillated between merely rolling his eyes and turning away from the sappy sentiment that now flowed between the newlyweds. Instead, he settled for taking another bite of steak.
"Regarding Miss Murphy's comment about Valente-as I was saying, is it so far-fetched that he might have a soft side? And that, for some reason, she brought it out? After all, it could just be that he interacted with people who didn't bring out the best of him," Iva continued.
Gideon looked at her in surprise. "Fiona said almost exactly the same thing," he said.
"Fiona?" his step-grandmother asked delicately.
Gideon felt his face warm slightly. "Fiona Murphy, the woman who inherited the shop." Just as he said this, he looked away and happened to see a cloud of auburn hair, thick and curly, on a woman whose back was to him at a table across the room. His heart gave an unnatural, off-rhythm thud, then returned to its normal pace as he directed his attention to the meal.
So what if she was eating at the same restaurant?
With a man.
After he'd kissed her-only yesterday.
His fingers tightened around his fork as a wave of memory careened over him. That d.a.m.n kiss. He'd tried to forget about it, but that hadn't worked. Gideon glanced in her direction again, just in time to see her toss the thick ma.s.s of hair over her shoulder, then he looked back to find his grandfather and Iva looking at him expectantly. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he asked with careful aplomb.
They glanced at each other, then at him. "No-you stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence," Iva told him gently.
Now, much later at home, settled in bed, Gideon felt the discomfiture again. He felt as though he'd been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, even though he'd done nothing to warrant that feeling. He shoved away the lingering distraction and refocused the conversation by asking again about his grandparents' honeymoon. This time, the newlyweds had taken over the discussion and rattled on about the Caribbean Islands they'd visited.
In the meanwhile, he'd been hard-pressed to keep his attention from wandering toward that table in the far corner of the room. He watched her talking and laughing, leaning toward her dinner companion and gazing up at him as he talked. He noticed how she held a gla.s.s of wine and how her hand continued to push at her hair. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, on top of him, under his lips...and at last had to rise from the table and make an excuse to walk past her seat.
He didn't even have to see her face to realize it wasn't her. This woman's hair was more controlled, and not the same vibrant copper color of Fiona's.
Gideon had felt foolishly relieved and yet markedly abashed when he realized that it wasn't her.
But now, again, here at home and alone with his own thoughts, he wondered why it had mattered so much to him...and why he was bothered that she'd made no move to communicate with him since that pa.s.sionate kiss. He felt he deserved at least that.
Not that the kiss meant anything more than that they had taken advantage of the fact they were attracted to each other...but, if nothing else, Gideon was brutally honest in admitting he wanted to see where that kiss could lead.
He hadn't contacted her himself since then because...well, because he'd a.s.sumed he wouldn't have to. He'd never had to chase a woman before. That was one thing-about the only thing besides their name-he and his no-good father had in common.
Gideon's mouth tightened there in the darkness and he felt uncomfortable with his own honesty. He smoothed his thumbs through the hair on his chest, suddenly remembering the warm weight of her hands splayed over his s.h.i.+rt. Apparently, she was playing hard to get. After all, she had kissed him back just as pa.s.sionately as he'd done to her.
His brows knit together and he s.h.i.+fted his legs, trying to ignore his body's reaction to a mere memory. He was tired of playing games. Tomorrow, he'd pay her a visit.
The lamp was on when Fiona let herself into the shop on Sunday.
She'd dressed comfortably in jeans and a t-s.h.i.+rt and pulled her hair up in order to do some heavy cleaning in preparation for a grand re-opening. But when she saw the light on, all thoughts of what she would accomplish that day vanished.
The lamp's glow was visible from the front of the store. Setting her heavy leather bag down, Fiona started toward the little alcove, her heart thumping solidly in her chest.
Indeed, there it was. The lamp was on, sending a small circle of light that followed the angles of the heavy walnut desk and the darkly-paneled wall behind it.
The stillness of the shop ate into her bones, but this time, there was no chilly draft to raise the hair on her neck. She saw neither hide nor hair of Gretchen, but the shade wasn't askew today. Only the light was on, on the lamp she'd made certain to turn off-and unplug-before leaving the day before.
Then, suddenly, it struck her.
Great laughter welled up inside her, suddenly bubbling forth and echoing off the high ceiling and brick walls. Fiona laughed so hard, tears sprang to her eyes and her middle hurt. She laughed with humor, with awe, and, mostly, with relief.
She'd been had.
"All right, you all. You finally got me!" she exclaimed, wiping the tears from her eyes and leaning against the desk in relief. "This is the best joke ever!" She rubbed her hand over her jaw, knowing there was no one about to hear her-unless they'd also arranged for a video camera, which was more than possible. She would call Chris and give her the news that Fiona had been had...had been toppled from her throne of jokedom.
As she pushed herself upright, away from the desk, she was already mulling a way to reclaim her t.i.tle. But first, she had to see how they did it.
"They've got to have some kind of remote control or battery on this thing," she murmured, pus.h.i.+ng the heavy chair out of the way so that she could step closer to the desk.
She could see that it wasn't plugged in, so she pulled on the pull cord.
The light didn't change.
It burned, steadily, mockingly. There was no sign of a battery pack anywhere in the base of the lamp. There was nothing that could be construed as a remote control receiver either. The Lamp was just...on.
As this realization sunk in, Fiona felt as though she'd been plunged into freezing water-for a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't react. A blast, a full-fledged gust, of chill wind blasted over her, rifling the top of her hair.
She backed away from the alcove, moving toward the front of the shop. The smell of roses and cold, staleness purged through her and the chill in the air froze her fingers.
Without looking back, without even hesitating, she opened the door. The tinkling of the bells above barely registered as she rushed through the front door and slammed into something solid.
CHAPTER FIVE.
Fiona plowed into Gideon with such force that the breath was knocked out of him.
His hands slid up from her elbows to grasp her upper arms, steadying her as she lost her balance. She looked up, her face pinched and white, her eyes startled and disoriented as she tried to brush past him.
"What's wrong? What is it?" he demanded.
The frantic look in her eyes lessened and she seemed to focus on him. When she just stared, obvious bewilderment making her speechless, he set her aside and pushed through the door, into the shop.