The phone rang, its low-key bleep startling Gideon in the silence of his office. Rubbing his dry eyes with a thumb and forefinger, he reached for the receiver as his attention skittered over the clock on his desk.

“Yes?” he said crisply.

“Gideon! I knew I would find you there.” His grandfather’s voice boomed over the line as if he were in the room with him, despite the fact that static crackled in the background. “What are you doing in the office at ten-thirty on a Friday night? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than to work?”

Tilting his chair back so he could rest his feet on the desk, Gideon smiled faintly. “Someone has to hold this practice together while you and Iva are gallivanting around the state.” He loosened the tie he’d been wearing since six-thirty a.m., and snagged open the top button of his starched shirt. Ahh.

He wondered vaguely why he hadn’t thought to do so before now.

“Good God, man, you’ve got to get yourself a life,” H. Gideon Nath, Sr., bellowed over the phone lines. “How the hell do you think you’re ever going to find a woman to marry if you’re at the office every day till midnight?”

Gideon shook his head at the old man’s familiar diatribe. If his grandfather would learn to call him on his cell phone, at least he wouldn’t know his grandson was at the office so late. “We’ve been through this before—you’ve been married enough times for both of us so I don’t need to worry about that. Besides, marriage is not in my five-year plan.”

“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” barked Gideon Senior. “Tell me whether everything’s wrapped up with the Valente estate.”

“Yes, it’s all finished up. I met with the last of the heirs late yesterday, and everything is settled. I left you a message, Grandfather.”

“You left me a message—where the hell—you mean on that damn little phone I can’t figure out how to use? All those little pictures on the screen, and—well, blast it all. Next time call Iva if it’s something important. She knows how to use hers.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear at least one of you has the ability.” Gideon looked out his office window at the moonbeam-washed street. It was too late to go somewhere for dinner. He’d have to settle for a frozen pizza—if he had any left from the last time he’d gone to the market.

There was a muffled noise on the other end of the line and the static got worse for a moment, then his grandfather’s voice came through clearly. “Sorry about that. Iva wanted me to tell you we’re going to be back in Wicks Hollow tomorrow because that big class reunion she’s going to is coming up soon. She wants you to join us tomorrow for dinner at that place down there she likes—Trib’s. She won’t take no for an answer, and since I know you don’t have any plans on a Saturday night, I told her you’d be there.”

Gideon opened his mouth to refuse, then closed it. There was no good reason for him to do so, and the fact of the matter was, he liked Iva Bergstrom. A lot. Mostly because of how she’d changed his grandfather from an unyielding, business-minded workaholic to a kinder, gentler soul who’d been walking around as if he’d been struck by Cupid since they’d met last April. Gideon had never seen him so happy.

He also appreciated Iva because she’d helped his grandfather, who was over seventy, slow down a bit when it came to work. He was even talking about semi-retirement—an idea the younger Gideon fully supported. Not because he was eager to take over the firm and move him out—he had no reason to push on that—but because he was worried about his grandfather’s health.

“That sounds fine. I’ll be there. What time? Do we need reservations? Shall I call and make them?”

His grandfather laughed over the phone. “No, no, Trib’s a friend of Iva’s; she’s got it all worked out. What, honey? Right, Gideon, it’s all set. See us there at five-thirty, all right?”

In Gideon’s mind, even six-thirty was far too early for Saturday dinner, but when you were dealing with senior citizens, you went with the flow. He just hoped the place had a decent wine list. Wicks Hollow was supposedly a trendy place that attracted a lot of people from Chicago and Ann Arbor as well as Grand Rapids, but that didn’t mean this restaurant would be up to snuff.

“I’ll be there. Give Iva a kiss for me, all right, Grandfather?”

“I will. But I think it’s time you got yourself home, son. A man doesn’t need to work as hard as you do.”

You do when your dad is a screw-up.

“All right,” Gideon said, shoving away the thought. “I’m closing up the laptop right now.”

“Iva sends her love—and promises you a smooshy kiss—her words, not mine—tomorrow night.”

Gideon grinned in spite of himself. “Ask her not to wear bright red lipstick then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” They disconnected the call, and Gideon sighed, then closed his laptop.

He shoved a few files into his briefcase and zipped up his laptop inside. Then he rearranged a stack of papers on the desk so they were aligned neatly, replaced his fountain pen in its gold-plated holder, and turned off the desk lamp.

He started toward the door, his gaze sweeping the office one last time to be certain nothing was awry—for even the cleaning service didn’t work on Friday night—and noticed a glint on the floor under the small conference table.

Stooping, he reached beneath it and picked up the flat, circular object. It was a small gold compact with a Celtic design etched on it, and he realized it must belong to Fiona Murphy. No doubt it had fallen out of her huge bag when she knocked it over. He flipped it open and found himself staring at his own steel grey eye in the unsmudged mirror inside.

He snapped it closed, dropping it in his pocket, suddenly remembering the spark in her amber eyes and the thick, wild auburn hair that gave her a tousled, rumpled look. She was a very compelling woman, even if she looked like a wild gypsy.

Gideon closed the door behind him, walking into the hallway toward the front of the office. He paused at Claire’s desk to put a stack of papers in her in-box, and hesitated. His fingers slipped over the smoothness of the gold compact in his pocket.

He could have his admin call Fiona and drop it in the mail to her.

The memory of her mellow lips, puckered in concentration during his explanations yesterday, and the way they quirked in a smile of enthusiasm at the end of their meeting flashed into his mind. Surprising, for he hadn’t realized he’d taken such note of her features…other than the objective realization that she was uncommonly striking.

He rubbed a thumb thoughtfully over the compact. He was going to Wicks Hollow tomorrow. Maybe he’d check out the antiques shop and return it himself.

* * *

By late afternoon on Saturday, Fiona had run out of excuses to avoid returning to the antiques shop.

Yesterday, after her aborted attempt to explore the little store, she’d gone back to Ethan’s house—he’d offered to let her stay at his lake cabin while she was in town—and tried to come up with as many different explanations as possible for what had happened with the lamp.

Then, instead of going back to the shop, she’d spent a few hours on the Internet, doing “research”—which she admitted was just another procrastination.

But when Saturday morning arrived, she knew she had to get up and do something productive. Ethan and Diana were coming in that evening, and she’d be hard-pressed to explain why she couldn’t show them the inside of her new property.

It was a very sunny day, and even though it was past the high tourist season, the fall colors were at their peak so there were also weekenders who’d come to town. The result was that with the extra pedestrians, the shop didn’t seem as dim and still and lonely as it had yesterday.

But when she got to Violet Way, Fiona still wasn’t quite ready to go inside.

Instead, she went to the boutique next door to meet her tenant.

“I heard there was a new owner,” said Reba, who introduced herself as the owner and manager of Velvet Express. She was two decades older than Fiona, maybe fifty or so, and skinny as a rail—and modeling clothes that showed off her lack of curves and girth. She was wearing black, of course, and her attire made her look as somber as a funeral director. “Nice to meet you. Our lease expires in twenty months,” she added as if to forestall any potential negotiations.

“Yes, I know,” Fiona replied as she looked around. “Oh…is that your cat?”

The beautiful black cat with the copper patch around the eye was sitting on an upholstered chair that was probably intended for customers and not felines. Her stunning golden-amber eyes focused on Fiona as if to acknowledge their previous meeting, then she looked away.

“Oh, no. She’s actually your cat,” Reba replied with a smile. “I just sort of inherited her—when the antiques shop was closed, I would take care of her. Since no one’s been opening regularly next door for over a year, Gretchen just sort of became my cat. But she really belongs to you.”

“Gretchen?”

At the sound of her name, the cat deigned to look over at the two women with unblinking eyes as if to say, “And what of it?”

“Yes, that’s her name. She’s a little testy with new people,” Reba warned as Fiona started toward the animal. “We have what you might call a tentative relationship. I feed her, let her in and out, give her catnip once in a while, and she doesn’t scratch me.” She gave a humorless smile and waved a skeletal wrist that jangled with black and silver bracelets. “I’m actually glad you’ve come down here, because she really doesn’t belong in a clothing boutique. She gets hair on everything.”

“At least she’s black,” Fiona replied, looking around at the array of clothing. “Her hair would blend right in.”

“As long as my customers aren’t allergic to cats,” Reba replied in a slightly testy tone.

Right. Good point.

“Well, if I can get Gretchen to leave with me, I’m happy to take her,” Fiona said. “I’m going to go up and take a look at the flat above your shop—I just wanted you to know if you heard me moving around up there. In case you thought it was a ghost or something.”

Fiona wasn’t certain exactly why she said that—certainly she wasn’t thinking about ghosts, was she?—but there it was.

Reba merely looked at her as if she were a kook, then said, “A can of tuna will lure Gretchen anywhere. I happen to have one in the back—I keep them for such emergencies. Sometimes she refuses to come inside when the weather is bad, so I’ve had to resort to bribery.”

Any minor irritation she felt toward the caustic boutique owner dissipated. Reba might be a little abrupt, but if she cared enough about a bad-tempered cat to ensure she was safe from the elements, that made up for any lack in personality in Fiona’s book.

Armed with a single-serving can of tuna, and the distinct impression that Reba didn’t care to have her new landlady around, Fiona left the boutique through the front door and managed to get Gretchen to follow her.

“Maybe you should go into the shop with me,” she said as the cat scarfed down her tuna at the corner of the building by the side alley.

There was something about the idea of having another living thing with her that made Fiona feel braver about going into the place where a lamp appeared to spontaneously light itself, and the scent of roses gathered in the air for no apparent reason.

It had been foolish of her to fly out of there like a bat out of hell yesterday…but maybe it had really been a symptom of her own insecurity—the reality of owning the store and being responsible for it—that had caused her to react so strongly.

At any rate, she was back. “I’m not going to let myself be spooked away this time,” she told Gretchen. “There’s got to be an explanation for that weird lamp lighting up, and I’m going to find it. Maybe there’s a time-operated battery pack attached to it or something.”

She looked down at the feline, who wandered over to where she was standing at the front door and meowed. That was a good sign. “You’ll probably be happy to get back home to your own place, won’t you? Let’s go in.”

The chimes tinkled elegantly as she pushed the door open, and again that aged smell assailed her senses. Quickly turning on as many lamps as possible in the front area, Fiona finally found a large power strip on the floor, holding with more than twenty plugs. She turned it on, and whoa.

The shop came alive with light, and her breath caught.

It’s incredible.

That was her only thought as she looked around the shop—a shop filled with lamps and pendants and chandeliers. It was like stepping into Aladdin’s cave, for the vintage lights glittered and shone in soft gold and glinted through shades of every color of the rainbow. Hundreds of them dangled from the ceiling like floating candles and low-hanging stars, and still more sat on every surface throughout the shop.

Wow.

She turned in a slow circle, looking up and around, bathed in the soft glow of the golden light.

Unlike when she was here yesterday, there was nothing that seemed amiss or odd. She felt no strange chill, no disruption in the air, no scent of roses or anything else unusual.

Nor did the strange lamp toward the back of the store appear to be illuminated.

Fiona exhaled, and her nerves eased. She looked up and around again. This place is amazing.

She left her heavy leather bag on the huge desk that was located partway back into the shop. It was still cluttered with papers, writing utensils, and a large, old-fashioned telephone. Clearing off that surface was one task she promised herself she’d handle today.

Fiona eyed the staircase tucked against the left wall, but decided she wasn’t ready to climb up and see what was on the second level. Despite the glow from the myriad of lamps and chandeliers, the upstairs seemed dark and forbidding. And of course she remembered what had happened yesterday.

Instead, she made her way past the staircase and into the low-ceilinged portion of the shop, Fiona fixated on the strange, spontaneously illuminating lamp. It squatted there like an ugly, albino toad.

It was an unexceptional piece. Stocky and white, the base had small nodules texturing its milk glass curves. The shade had faded to a yellowish satin, but the fringe that edged it was still white.

Fiona didn’t take her eyes from the lamp and was watching breathlessly to see if it would come on again when a faint jingle from the front of the store startled her.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Fiona pivoted in surprise, banging her shin against the corner of a heavy chest. Stifling a gasp of pain, she called back, “I’ll be right with you!”

Limping slightly, trying to ignore the throb of pain in her leg, she hurried back to the front. On the way, she noticed the shards of porcelain from the clock she’d broken on her last visit, and knew she’d better find a broom somewhere soon.

When she reached the front, she was surprised to see the broad-shouldered figure of H. Gideon Nath, the Third, looming near the entrance. As usual, he was wearing expensive clothing—but at least it wasn’t a suit and tie. A sport coat, yes. A crisp, button-down shirt, yes. But no tie, and the top button (only the top one) was unbuttoned. His dark hair was combed into place, but one tiny little wave curled out of sync over his ear. This must be his “Saturday casual” look, Fiona thought with an inner grin.

He was examining a small end table topped by a Tiffany-style lamp, but looked up when she approached. He must have noticed that she favored her leg, for he asked, “Are you limping?” in that cut-to-the-chase, professional way of his.

“When you called out, you startled me so much I whirled and slammed my leg into the corner of a chest. So, thank you,” she teased lightly. Then she became serious. “Do you have more papers for me to sign?”

H. Gideon shook his head, then turned his gaze from her to scan the shop. “I’ve never been in here before. It looks like a fascinating place.” He reached out almost reverently to touch the stained glass shade of the lamp next to him. “There are some valuable pieces here.”

Fiona looked at him in surprise. She wouldn’t have expected the stuffy attorney to find an old, musty shop like this fascinating. Surely antiques would be out of place in H. Gideon’s life: he’d be all about chrome, and black and white decor with smooth lines. He’d have sleek, uncomfortable leather furniture, with few—if any—color accents.

The illumination in his high-rise condo overlooking the Grand River, she imagined, would consist not of interesting lamps, but of cold recessed lighting, wall sconces, and chilly halogen bulb lamps hanging from narrow black cords.

Abruptly, he returned his attention to her and caught her staring at him. Fiona looked away, controlling a smile, and jammed a hand through her thick hair to push it back from her face.

“Is this yours? I found it in my office after you left.” He reached into his pocket.

To Fiona’s surprise, she immediately recognized it as her gold compact. She was overcome by relief. “Oh, thank you so much for finding this. It was a gift from my grandmother—it must have fallen out of my bag.”

She took the compact from his long fingers, noticing how warm it was from being in his pocket, and clutched it to her chest. “I would have been devastated if I’d lost it.”

She tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. “You didn’t have to come all the way here to return it, though.” When Fiona raised her eyes, she found that he was looking at her with something much more than reserve and cordiality.

Gideon shifted his gaze away and straightened his stance—as if he could stand any taller—and said, “How about a tour of your place while I’m here? Are you open for business yet?”

“No. That’s why I was so startled when you came into the shop. The sign does say ‘Closed Due to Death’.”

“Right,” he replied, somewhat abashed.

“I think I know the real reason you came by.” She gave him a teasing smile.

“And what reason would that be?” he asked warily.

“To tell me what that initial H. stands for.”

He choked back a laugh, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“Exactly my thought,” he replied dryly. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because it’s on your nameplate and your business card. If it wasn’t a big deal, then why use the initial?”

He drew in a breath as if to argue, then simply exhaled, refusing to answer.

“Is it Harry? Or Hiram?” she pressed. “Or Hewey?”

There was a flash of humor in his eyes, but still he shook his head in negation. “Will you show me around the shop a little?” he asked in an obvious bid to change the subject.

“All right, then, H. Gideon. I’ll show you around, although, honestly, I haven’t seen the whole place myself yet. Come on back with me, won’t you?” She turned, gesturing for him to follow her toward the rear of the store.

H. Gideon? Fighting an exasperated grin, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked behind as she led him down the two main aisles, one by one, from the middle to the front and back again. He discovered that he was more interested in watching the shift and sway of her hips in the long, flowing skirt than in examining the shop’s wares.

That surprised him, because Fiona Murphy wasn’t anything like the type of woman who normally caught his eye. She wasn’t polished or professional—for God’s sake, her auburn hair looked like it reeked of static electricity. He’d never seen it—or her—resembling anything sleek or styled, and she certainly wasn’t a sharp, ambitious businesswoman.

She was as different from the type of women he usually dated—like Rachel Backley—as a White Zinfandel was from an oak-barrel Chardonnay—or, better yet, more like fruit punch compared to a blush Moscato: colorful, sweet, and punchy, but not what one would serve to guests.

Yet, the woman had been drifting into his mind more often than she should…and he felt as though he had no choice but to try and figure out why. Perhaps that was why he’d decided to return the compact himself—so he could try and put his fascination to rest. To move on.

Gideon dragged his attention from his intriguing hostess and focused on his surroundings. The little boutique was surprisingly intriguing and inviting, with the glow of light and the ambience of history and age.

Fiona led him past a large desk, where papers and writing utensils were scattered, and an old fashioned, wired telephone sat buried among them.

“What happened here?” he asked when he noticed a pile of ceramic shards scattered over the floor about three-quarters of the way back into the store.

Fiona stopped to see what he meant, and he fancied she looked a bit uncomfortable.

“I—uh—backed into that table and knocked it off,” she explained. “I haven’t located a broom yet, so there it sits.” She gave a little laugh, then continued to walk along the aisle into the rear of the shop, where the lighting became dimmer and the ceiling lower.

“It’s like a cave back here,” Gideon commented, watching her turn on lights as they went. The bell-like sleeve of her sweater fell back to the elbow as she reached for a pull-cord. He admired the long, graceful line of her arm and allowed his gaze to continue its logical path over her shoulder, then to wander over the swell of her breasts. In the low light she looked elfin and ethereal with her halo of burnished hair, flowing clothing, and long, slender build.

“It is,” she agreed, and for a moment, he forgot what it was she was agreeing to. “It’s a little nerve-wracking coming into the back here alone in the dark when you don’t know where you’re going,” she continued after a pause.

“I can imagine.” He followed as she turned a corner, and noticed a large desk with three lamps on it, sitting just at the juncture of the bend in the aisle. Something about the walnut secretary caught his attention, and he paused, peering at the wall behind it. Fiona had only switched on one of the lights. He reached to pull the cord of the middle one, the one with the cream-colored shade decorated with fringe.

He thought he heard a sharp intake of breath from Fiona, and when he glanced at her, she was staring at him and the lamp as though waiting for them to spontaneously draw swords.

Her eyes seemed fixed on his hand. “Is something wrong?” he asked, yanking the lamp cord. The cord clicked, and nothing happened.

She puffed out the breath she’d been holding, making him even more confused. “It doesn’t seem to work,” he said, wondering what was up with her. Such a strange woman.

“Why don’t you check to see if it’s plugged in.” Her voice sounded thready.

“All right.” Still confused by her sudden change of demeanor, Gideon shifted around the massive desk and followed the cord, which, sure enough, dangled to the ground. He found a plug, shoved it in, and pulled the cord. The light glowed.

“Thank you.” Her words were fervent, and the expression on her face still appeared drawn.

“Are you all right?” he asked again. He felt as if he were missing something important.

“I’m fine. Fine now. What were you looking at back here?” Indeed, she sounded more like her easy, informal self.

“I just was looking at this desk a bit more closely.” He couldn’t explain why he was interested in the ugly piece of furniture. It wasn’t his style at all. Heavy-featured walnut with tarnished silver pulls and nicks throughout did not turn him on.

But Fiona did.

Gideon stepped away from her abruptly, wondering if she sensed his suddenly raging testosterone. Where the hell did that come from?

“When I came here yesterday, that same desk caught my attention too. Maybe it’s because of where it’s situated, here in this little corner, kind of under the stairs.” She smiled up at him, and for the first time, he noticed the tiniest little dimple near the corner of her full, sensual lips. His mouth went dry and he discovered he couldn’t seem to look away.

“I found what looks like a storage room back here,” Fiona was saying, pointing to a closet door on the back wall. “The door to it is locked, but I bet the key is in that mess you gave me the other day. I’m hoping to find a broom in there so I can clean up that porcelain. I just have to go back to the front and get the keys.”

Gideon allowed her to pass by him in that narrow aisle way, and he caught the same spicy scent that had seemed to filter in and out of his office since she’d been there on Thursday—which was ridiculous. There was no way her perfume still permeated his office. He was imagining things.

He followed her on along the aisle toward the rear of the store. Along the way, the shop morphed from the neatly cluttered arrangement of merchandise into the disorganized array of a back room. There was no door that led to the behind-the-scenes area, nor even any indication that one had left the store and entered a domain available only to the proprietor—but this part of the establishment was clearly not for the eyes of the customer.

The only separation from the front area from the back was the large secretary, situated against the wall by the stairs, and an old wooden and silk divider that had probably been used as a dressing screen.

In the rear of the shop, boxes and crates were stacked against the walls and on top of furniture, most of which were old tables or chests with nicks in them, or broken legs. The lamps were fewer, but he noticed work lights hanging over a long counter that held everything from screwdrivers, nuts, bolts, and hinges to Styrofoam cups, paper towels, papers, and masking tape.

He felt a whisper of movement behind him and turned to find Fiona approaching, a mass of keys jangling in her hand.

“It’s a mess back here, isn’t it?” she asked ruefully. “It looks as though Valente just brought new inventory in and left the old stuff, and all of its garbage, back here. I’m sure the fire marshal would have a field day if he or she came in.”

Shaking her head in exasperation, she gathered her hair back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, then released the mass of curls. He watched as they sprang back into her face, even more out of control than they’d been a moment before.

“I certainly have my work cut out for me,” she said, giving her head a sexy little shake as if to settle her hair back into place.

Gideon’s mouth had gone a little dry. “I—uh—hope you’re planning on hiring some help.”

She walked over to a door on the side wall and was busily trying, key-by-key, to find the right one. He switched on the work lights, and suddenly the area was lit by glaring fluorescent bulbs.

“Thank you,” she said without turning. “Yes, I’m definitely planning on hiring someone to help out—preferably someone who knows something about antiques, since I’m woefully ignorant. I have a friend in mind who might be able to help.” Her voice became muffled as she bent further over the keyhole. “…because I certainly can’t keep the shop closed until I learn enough about my merchandise to be able to sell and buy it, so if you know of anyone who might be interested, send them over.”

Finally, she stood upright. “Aha. Got it.”

He watched as she struggled to turn the key in a tarnished lock, and was just about to step forward to help when it pivoted slowly.

With an unladylike grunt that brought a smile to his face, Fiona forced the key until it clicked audibly. “Whew,” she murmured. “Note to self: replace lock.” She grasped the doorknob and struggled with it for a moment.

Gideon glanced down at his sportcoat and butter-soft Italian loafers, shrugged, and gently elbowed her out of the way. “Why don’t you let me try. It’s obviously stuck.”

Fiona gave him a look that implied she didn’t need his help, but nevertheless stepped out of the way. He turned the stubborn knob and pushed against the door. Nothing happened but a slight creak when it heaved within its jamb. Gideon used his shoulder to shove again, and was rewarded with a louder creak, followed by the groan of wood scraping against wood.

“It looks so much easier when they break in through a door on TV,” Fiona said with the light of laughter in her voice.

“One more time,” he muttered, and rammed his body sharply against the stubborn door.

It flew open and his momentum was so great that he lost his balance and stumbled through the doorway, landing in an inglorious heap on the floor. Boxes and other unidentifiable items rained down on him, grazing his head and landing in his lap. Dust and dirt swirled everywhere, thrown up by the force of the door opening, and cobwebs swooped into his face and hair.

He heard Fiona gasp, and saw her silhouette as she moved to stand in the open doorway, blocking the light, and looking down at him.

“Are—are you all—right?” she asked hesitantly, and he realized in a blaze of annoyance that she was struggling to contain a giggle.

Something fell on his head—fortunately, it was a small, empty box, and did nothing but dump more dust into his face—and that pushed her over the edge. She lost it and sagged against the doorway, looking down at him as she giggled uncontrollably. Her wild hair shook with violence, and her eyes glowed with humor.

Gideon clenched his teeth and struggled to pull to his feet just as Fiona reached down to offer a hand unsteady with the chuckles wracking her body.

He grabbed her slender fingers to steady himself, and in one brilliantly graceful movement that he would forever be thankful for, she lost her balance, knocking into his unstable crouch, and they tumbled back onto the floor of the storage room.

All of a sudden, his arms were full of a sweet-smelling, soft, feminine body that quaked with laughter and struggled to right itself as all the right curves on her were pressing into all the right places on him. In the light that poured into the room, he was able to see the way humor lit her face, and in an instant his annoyance melted away and then he was joining her chuckles.

When H. Gideon smiled—so close to her, suddenly so handsome—Fiona’s heart stopped and her breath caught, silencing her own giggles.

This was the first time she’d seen him relaxed. The air of perpetual annoyance disappeared from his face like a cloud lifting and the sharpness faded away. There was humor in his grey eyes—eyes that no longer looked like angry steel, but like the bluish-grey river—and his full lips became soft and sensual. The smile made all the difference, transforming him into a devastatingly attractive man without the tight collar and stiff professionalism that had been like a wall before.

That smile, that laughter, so casually bestowed, became Fiona’s undoing. She suddenly was aware that she was lying on a very attractive, very warm, very masculine specimen of man, and just as quickly, she began to scramble off him.

In her endeavor to escape, she got tangled in her skirts, then elbowed him in the abdomen. He grunted in a gasp for air, then those magnificent hands closed over her arms.

His unexpected embrace stilled her movements without pulling her closer, and, startled, she looked down to find his face mere inches from hers. His powerful thighs stilled under hers, and Fiona felt a shock of heat stab her, then rush up into her face. Her pulse was racing; surely he could see it in the side of her throat.

“What’s the hurry, Fiona?” he murmured, something like humor playing about the corners of his lips. “My clothes are already ruined.”

She gathered her wits. “But there’s still hope for my skirt.” Her heart was thudding madly in her chest, and her insides seemed to have melted into hot liquid.

She placed her hands on his chest to lift herself away, and felt the solid slabs of warm, firm muscle flex under the layer of coat and shirt as his hands slid to settle at her hips.

Time suspended for a moment as their gazes locked in the inches that separated them. She was so close she could see the light coat of dust on his nose, and the hint of where dark whiskers would form on his cheeks and jaw. His hands held her lightly, balancing her on top of his long, solid body, and she realized belatedly that one of her legs had slipped between his knees so that she and her skirt were straddling a muscular thigh.

Something changed when his gaze drifted from hers, dropping to her slightly parted lips, and Fiona felt a hot wash of desire flood her. As she caught her breath, he lifted his head and brought her face to his, fitting their lips together in a gentle, tentative kiss.

He tasted of dust—moist, hot dust—and smelled of some subtle male scent that wrapped around her just as his arms did. His lips caressed and coaxed hers, opening them to explore within, and drawing her upper, then her lower, lip into his mouth to taste them. He shifted under her, a rumbling sigh escaping from the depths of his throat, and pulled her closer to his chest as his mouth continued to explore hers.

Fiona was just bringing her hand to touch his thick, dark hair, when, in the very faintest corner of her consciousness, she heard the tinkle of a bell. Someone called out from the front of the store. Jerking back, she rolled clumsily off his body, still tangled in skirts, and banged into the leg of a piece of furniture as she pulled herself to her feet. “Someone’s here!”

Stumbling to her feet, she brushed frantically at her sweater and skirt as she stumbled out of the storage room, leaving Gideon behind to struggle to his own feet.