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.

Her frantic expression relaxed a little, and she seemed to focus on him. When she just stared, obvious bewilderment making her speechless, he set her aside and strode into the shop.

It was dim inside, but it smelled so much better than before. The only illumination came from the lights in the front windows—the glass which, he noted, had had a good cleaning. A faint aroma of lemon polish and some other pleasing essence—cinnamon?—filled his nostrils. It was immediately clear that inventory had been moved and displays reorganized. A lot of work had been accomplished in the last week.

He nearly tripped over the heavy leather bag that lay on its side just inside the doorway. The hair on the back of his neck lifted and tension settled over him, his muscles taut and ready as he looked around, waiting. Listening.

When nothing seemed out of place—other than that eerie sensation—he walked toward the back of the shop.

Could she have been attacked? Was there someone lying in wait?

Whatever it was, it had terrified her.

Several feet into the store, he felt a presence behind him and turned to find that Fiona had slipped into his wake.

“Are you hurt?” He paused to look down at her, noting her slim-fitting jeans and curve-hugging t-shirt with the sort of appreciation that made his mouth go dry and heat lick through him.

She looked less shell-shocked now, although her gaze continued to leap around without seeming to land anywhere. “I’m fine. I didn’t mean to—to run into you.”

“What happened?”

Now, her gaze settled over his shoulder, anchored toward the back of the shop. “There was a light on when I came in today,” she replied. “I had turned them all off when I left last evening. But there was one on today. And there isn’t a timer on it.”

Gideon frowned, looking about again. “Was someone here? Has anything been stolen?”

He admired the slim column of her neck—bare except for a few tendrils of hair that had escaped from the high pony-tail she wore—as she struggled to respond. “No. No, no one was here. Nothing’s been taken that I can see. But the lamp…”

“You’re certain you switched it off? Maybe the cat turned it on accidentally.” He turned to look toward the back of the store, where her gaze seemed to be glued. “Which lamp? Let me take a look at it.”

When he swiveled back toward her, wariness had replaced the uncertainty on her face. “That must have been it,” she replied, avoiding his eyes. “The cat.”

“Which lamp?” he persisted, sensing there was something she was not telling him. “Maybe I can take a look at it—”

“No. That’s all right, really. It’s…not on anymore.”

Fiona turned resolutely to the front of the store, trying to control her churning stomach. The lamp had somehow turned off since she went barreling out of the shop, and there was no sense in telling Gideon what she had seen…what she had felt: that sudden, eerie, bone-drenching chill. He’d listen to two sentences from her, then be ready to admit her to the funny farm.

H. Gideon Nath the Third was not the kind of person who believed in the metaphysical. Fiona wasn’t sure she herself believed in ghostly lamps, but she knew he wouldn’t.

Passing a hand over her face, she bit her lip and forced herself to walk away from the eerie alcove and toward the front door.

Gideon must be following behind her…what would she tell him if he persisted in questioning her? After all, he was a lawyer. Wasn’t that what lawyers did? Interrogate?

She stifled a giggle at her internal babbling and tried to steady herself. He already thought she was a total flake, and the impish desire to needle him had vanished at about the same moment his lips had touched hers a week earlier.

Oh, yes. That kiss.

She still felt far too hot and bothered every time she thought about it—which was, unfortunately, far too often.

To be honest, she would rather just stay away from him…far away from the danger this rigid, pretentious, self-assured, intelligent, handsome, passionate man portended.

And what the hell was he doing here in Wicks Hollow anyway?

“What are you doing here anyway?” she asked, fixing him with narrowed eyes—her question being a wonderful distraction from The Lamp and its antics.

“Oh, I had to bring some paperwork down to Iva—to my grandfather’s friend. She lives here in Wicks Hollow.”

“I see. And what brought you back this way? Down here to little, unassuming Violets Way?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, I thought I’d see how things were going here.”

He was wearing dark mahogany slacks with a perfect crease down each leg, a linen shirt under a jacket, and fine leather shoes. Ever the well-dressed professional. Did the man even own a pair of jeans? Or a ratty t-shirt?

Her mouth quirked. At that moment, he directed his attention toward her, catching her bemused expression.

“Is something amusing?” he asked, walking toward where she stood by the messy desk in the center of the shop.

As he withdrew his hands from the pockets, she noticed again how fine they were—how solid and square and masculine, the long slimness of his fingers, and how smooth and rounded his nails were. They were beautiful hands, and, she remembered in a split second of recall, they had been all over her body only days ago. A shiver jetted up her spine, but she ignored it and chose to respond to his question.

“I was just wondering if that was your way of dressing down,” she smiled, looking pointedly up and down his clothing. “Do you even own a pair of jeans? What about shorts?”

He looked down at his garb in surprise. “This is casual,” he replied, then, as he looked back up at her, his gaze lingering over her plain white t-shirt and jeans, a sudden, devastating smile flashed over his face. “For me, anyway.”

Whoa. Fiona had to steady herself by leaning against the desk, taking care not to knock off a pile of papers. How could anyone who seemed so imposing and rigid become so gorgeous with only a smile? And how could the mere heat in his gaze cause her heart to blip like that?

“You know,” she said in an effort to mask her reaction, “you should smile more often. It makes you seem almost human.” She turned away before her reaction became obvious and busied herself by straightening a stack of handwritten purchase requisitions that were scattered on the desk.

As she nonchalantly reached for a pen, she felt his presence close in behind her. Fiona jolted and nearly knocked the phone off its stand as he spoke, purring into her ear, his breath wafting warmly over her bare neck. “Aren’t you wondering why I really came by?”

“To tell me about the H.?” she replied lightly, moving away so that he couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart. She couldn’t, for the life of her, think of another name that began with an H.

“No.”

That simple word hung there—deep, husky, radiating layers and layers of meaning—and caused a shiver to work its way along her arm, raising goose bumps in its path. If nothing else, he was patient, for it was Fiona who finally turned to face him after an impossibly long silence.

“For what then?” But she didn’t need to ask the question, for the narrowing of his silvery eyes and the tautness of his fine mouth spoke volumes.

“Surely you don’t expect to simply ignore a kiss like that without wondering what more there could be.” Despite the arrogance in his voice, the heat in his eyes was very real.

Though her mouth went dry and her knees trembled weakly, Fiona lifted her brows and quirked her lips into an insolent smile. “Kiss? I don’t remember any—”

Suddenly she was in his arms and the rest of her words were smothered by his very skillful, very adamant mouth. With a sigh of capitulation—for she had wondered if it had, indeed, been as good as she remembered—Fiona arched against his solid body, sliding her hands up into the thick waves of his hair.

As lips fit to lips—tasting, caressing, slip-sliding—his hands formed to her body, smoothing down the length of her back to cup her rear, pulling her up and to him so that she was in no doubt of his definite interest. A sharp pang of desire low in her groin bloomed into tingling, sparkling heat, and she pressed back into Gideon, sliding her hands to his shoulders, savoring the taste of him.

A soft groan rose in his throat and sighed against her lips as they became insistent, almost rough. Then, drawing in a ragged breath, he pulled away just enough to sweep her onto the desk. The phone crashed to the floor, scattering papers and the cup filled with pens, but Fiona didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except touching Gideon—smelling his spicy, male smell, hearing the rasp of his breath, feasting on him—becoming enraptured.

He stood between her knees and she tilted her head, allowing his mouth to trail along her bare neck as she pulled the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it to the floor and her hands became free to mold over the hard planes of his chest.

Finally, he broke the kiss. Gently and delicately, he caressed her upper, then her lower, lip with his, gave her one last full-mouthed buss, and pulled away. Her hands were still planted on either side of the placket of buttons on his shirt, and she felt the rapid beat of his heart and steady warmth beneath her fingers while his chest rose and fell with heavy breathing.

“That kiss,” he murmured with a sensual smile.

Fiona became more lightheaded. “Ah,” was all she could manage.

Dark hair shadowed his forehead and the planes of his cheekbones stood out in relief, as though he’d sucked in his breath. His eyes were dark and fierce, but the words that came out of his full mouth were surprisingly gentle. “All indications are that you see at least some value in finding out what could lie beyond a mere kiss.”

She dropped her hands from his shirt. Although she was still trembling with the aftershock of their embrace, she knew she must be honest.

“I don’t go in for casual sex, Gideon.” She gave a short laugh, almost in derision. “I don’t go in for sex much at all, in fact.” Which was why, she thought in shock, it was so shocking that a simple kiss had turned her into a shuddering mass of skin and bones. She gave an easy shrug.

The surprise that washed over his face was quickly masked behind that stony, lawyer-like countenance. “The evidence speaks otherwise.”

Fiona struggled for a moment, but her innate honesty won out. “What I mean is, I don’t very often find someone I choose to have sex with. It…complicates…things.”

“It doesn’t have to. Complicate things.” He slipped a finger under one of her loose, wild curls and flipped it behind her ear, allowing the tip of his thumb to trace along her jaw line, leaving her skin jumping in its wake.

“Hmm.” She cocked her head and looked up at him, aware that the sound of her thundering heart was deafening only to her, and considered.

Her mother never let sex complicate things in her life. She’d been a free spirit and had no qualms about sleeping with anyone, anytime, anywhere: male or female. A child of the ’Sixties, Claudia lived a carefree life, even to this day—currently in Costa Rica. She had instilled in her children a love for fun and mysticism and all things natural, but not a moving sense of responsibility nor a taste for authority.

Fiona was, ironically, the precise opposite of Claudia when it came to sex. While she lived for the moment in most areas of her life, intimacy and relationships were the one area she didn’t.

Because it scared the shit out of her.

Fiona’s hands curled tightly in her lap, pressing six rings into her fingers, and her throat was dry and tight. The ridge of the desk on which she sat bit into her upper calves as her fingers curled around the same sharp edge, clenching the wood to keep them from touching him again. She did want him…there was no doubt about that…but—

The glow of a light flickered at the back of the shop, freezing her mind.

With a muffled shriek, she launched herself off the desk into Gideon’s arms. “The lamp! It’s the lamp!”

“What?” His arms slid around her, but then she pulled just as quickly away. Bewildered, he peered down at her as Fiona tried to steady her breathing.

“The lamp is back on.” She pointed behind him with a finger that trembled even as she clutched the sleeve of his shirt with a death grip. “See it?”

Gideon took a hesitant step toward the back of the shop, then, when she started to follow, he lengthened his strides.

“It’s not plugged in,” she babbled, feeling lightheaded and confused. “And it keeps coming on. That one lamp.”

When they came around a tall escritoire and full-faced into the alcove, Fiona stopped short. The tension flooded from her, leaving her limbs weightless and numb, and immediately, embarrassment replaced her fear.

On the mammoth walnut desk, where the three lamps stood like a row of gateposts, Gretchen sat calmly cleaning her paw. She was, no doubt, cleaning the paw that had just batted at the dangling chain-switch for the Tiffany-like glass lamp of red and blue…the light which now glowed there in the alcove.

Gideon shot her a confused look, but, thankfully, he didn’t say anything. Fiona wanted to sink into the floor. How much more of a madwoman was she going to be around him?

Gamely, he reached around behind the lamp, pulling its cord and following it down into the dark recesses of the corner as Fiona had done with the other lamp shortly before.

“It’s plugged in,” he said, straightening, looking at her closely.

Fiona darted a glance at the other lamp—The Lamp—which sat innocently in the far corner of the desk and didn’t even hint at being alit. She forced herself to give a short laugh and turned away—wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“Must’ve been the cat,” she said lamely, curling her fingers into the palms of her hands. It was a good thing she had no nails to speak of, or she would have drawn blood.

“Yes, it must have been the cat.” Gideon’s voice was carefully level and neutral. He gave her a long, steady look, then turned away, starting back toward the front of the shop.

After glancing over her shoulder at the lamps again, Fiona followed, feeling like a complete idiot…but at the same time, frightened and disconcerted.

She was not crazy.

When she rejoined Gideon, he was pulling on his jacket. Flipping the collar down and smoothing the sleeves, he looked up at her. “So, when are you planning to open for business?”

“Tuesday.” As long as the place doesn’t keep freaking me out. She gritted her teeth. “Baxter James—he’s the owner of B-Cubed Brewery here in town, if you don’t know, and he also does freelance writing—did a feature on the shop for the Press this weekend. Hopefully that will spur lots of folks to come and check it out.”

He still looked bewildered—like he was ready to bolt—so she decided to make it easy on him. “I’m glad you stopped by, Gideon, but I have a lot of work to do before Tuesday. I’d enlist your help,” she said with a teasing smile, “but you’re not really dressed for the occasion.”

She started to walk toward the front door, hoping he would take the hint. She couldn’t stand to have him continuing to look at her as if afraid she’d turn into a screaming idiot at any given moment.

“Ah, yes. Well, let me know if there’s—err—anything I can do. If you have any other problems with the—the lights.”

Fiona’s cheeks warmed. “Certainly. Thanks again, Gideon.” She nearly pushed him out the door, and watched covertly as he started down the street. As soon as he rounded the corner out of sight, she grabbed her leather bag, shot out of the store, and slammed the door behind her.

* * *

He was beginning to get worried.

In more than six weeks, he’d found no sign of old Valente’s journal or the bank statements he knew existed.

Fiddling with his gold-plated fountain pen, he pursed his lips and tried to quell the nervousness that roiled deep within. If he didn’t know for certain the journal existed, he wouldn’t be so damned concerned—but Valente had mentioned it more than once, so he knew all of the old man’s dirty secrets were written somewhere. His nostrils flared as if he smelled something rank.

Why the hell had the bastard insisted on writing everything down anyway?

He slammed his hand onto the desk, and the fancy pen flew from his hand and clattered onto the floor. What kind of fool would leave a paper trail of sins behind him?

He’d torn apart every file, bookshelf, box, and drawer in Valente’s home since his death—very carefully, of course, for the others knew nothing about the old man’s secrets or his egotistical need to write them down. He had only learned about it by chance…but once Valente realized out he knew, the old man seemed to feel the need to divulge every aspect of his sordid life—as if he was unburdening himself.

That was the best thing Valente had ever done for him, besides leaving him pots of money—for if he didn’t know enough to be concerned about that damn journal showing up, he wouldn’t be looking for it. And then, when it did appear someday, as it was bound to, he would be broadsided and lose everything.

That could not happen. He’d worked too hard to get where he was to allow the old man to bring it tumbling down around him—especially after the bastard was dead.

There was only one more place left to look.

His hand sidled over to the well-creased Grand Rapids Press and picked up the weekend section, where there was quite an admirable spread about a little antiques shop and its grand reopening.

The perfect opportunity to do some snooping.

* * *

The food was excellent, the wine beyond compare, the music perfect…and the woman at his side lovely enough to garner envious looks from men in every direction.

Given all of these assets, Gideon should have been having a wonderful time. However, he detested political fundraisers as a rule, and attended them only under duress. This one was a big one, however—for the governor—and his duress tonight was in the form of the very lovely Rachel Backley, principle at The Marage Group.

While she did not hang on his arm, for Rachel Backley was in no way a clinger, she did hover near him. That made it quite evident to the other men that the slender, elegant beauty was with Gideon and quite happy to be so.

He sidled his glance over the black dress with the plunging neckline, down past the table to admire her shapely legs, and back up to the chestnut hair pulled into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. There it would stay—those shiny strands of honey-brown a sleek cap until late tonight when she—or he, if he were in the mood—would loosen it into the straight, heavy curtain that fell to her shoulders.

Rachel laughed at a joke made by an elderly man—one of the biggest political contributors to the party—who was drooling down her décolletage. She brushed her arm against Gideon’s shoulder in a casual manner, sending a waft of the expensive, woodsy scent she wore. No florals or sweets for Rachel. Only fragrances that hinted of the Orient, or the subtleties of sophistication. She glanced up at him, her red lips glistening and blue eyes dancing as she shot him a look that suggested she was not interested in going home alone tonight.

Warmth slid over him at the blatant heat in her eyes and he responded with a subtle curl of his lips. It had been awhile, and he had been feeling rather on-edge lately. Ever since he’d fallen into Fiona Murphy’s dank, dusty closet.

Before he could push it away, the stubborn thought of Fiona Murphy—the one that had been hovering in the back of his mind since yesterday, when she’d practically chased him out of her shop in Wicks Hollow—descended upon him and planted itself in the forefront of his mind. Along with the image of her wild eyes and strange babbling about lights and unplugged lamps came the searing memory of the kisses they’d shared in that musty old shop.

Sex only complicates things. He frowned at the memory of her words, her lame excuse for not pursuing what they obviously both wanted. He didn’t want complications any more than the next guy, but, hell, he was attracted to her—that sexy, sensual, fruitcake of a woman who was always giddy and shamelessly honest. He hadn’t been able to keep from thinking about her all week; which was why he’d made an excuse to visit Wicks Hollow again.

For Christ’s sake, she’d even intruded in one of his memos. He’d written the name Fiona instead of Finley.

Claire had returned the memo for his review with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look that annoyed him so much that he made the required edits himself and filed it away without letting her see it again.

He was irritated by the amount of energy he’d spent trying not to think about her over the last week—and the fact that she had turned him down flat yesterday, when he’d finally given in and sought her out.

Truth be told, his pride was more than a bit wounded, and, if he were to be honest himself, showing up at this fundraiser with a beautiful, powerful, sophisticated woman on his arm was a balm to that bruised ego.

To placate himself further, he tried to picture Fiona here, at a black-tie event such as this, surrounded by some of the richest, most powerful conservatives in the state. She, with her unruly cinnamon hair, fey manner, and unabashed openness would be nothing if an anomaly in this urbane environment. She’d be a fish out of water—fruit punch mixed in with champagne—at a function as conservative as this.

She would smile and chatter and ask interesting, naïve questions, and look up at a man like he was the only person in the room as he expounded on everything she wanted to know…

With a grunt of disgust, Gideon brought the glass of wine to his lips and tasted it. She would make a fool out of herself, he thought, and turned his attention to Rachel.

But as he shifted to look at his date, his gaze wandered past her, glancing randomly over a cluster of people across the room…and then jerked back in disbelief.

Impossible, he told himself, staring without trying to be too obvious at a figure with a mass of crazy, curling auburn hair. He almost rose from his chair before catching himself. Settling back into it, he slid a hand over to cup Rachel’s cool fingers.

She turned a smile on him, which he answered absently, still scrutinizing the clique of people that seemed to be surrounding the auburn-haired woman. He had made a similar mistake before, he reminded himself. What was wrong with him, seeing Fiona wherever he happened to be?

“What is it, Gideon?” Rachel asked in her well-modulated, even tones—a voice that, while pleasing to the ear, had little inflection or emotion, and seemed always to carry the stiffness of a cold-blooded businesswoman.

“I believe…” Gideon began, then paused when the woman shifted and he could clearly see her face. Hell. “I just noticed that a client of my grandfather is here.”

“Shall we go speak with him?”

He nodded, rising to his feet before he could think twice about it. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for Miss Fiona Murphy to see that he hadn’t slunk off like a dog just because she wasn’t interested in pursuing matters with him. “Her. Yes, I think I will—would you like to join me?”

Rachel rose gracefully to her feet, retrieving her small, beaded black bag from the table, and smoothing her very short dress. “Please excuse us,” she said with a smile. “Duty calls.”

As they drew nearer, Gideon noticed that the cluster of people seemed to be formed around Fiona, who appeared to be examining the hand of a senior partner of Laslow, Yonke and Greiber—one of the oldest and largest accounting firms in Grand Rapids. She said something that caused the small group to explode with laughter while she merely looked up at the distinguished, white-haired man and grinned a meaningful grin.

The man withdrew his hand, still chuckling, just as Gideon and Rachel approached the crowd. “So there is more than one meaning to having your left hand knowing what your right hand is doing, eh, my dear?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded once, emphatically, and just then, noticed Gideon and Rachel. A flare of surprise lit her face, then receded immediately as she gave them a friendly smile. “Why, Gideon, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Words stuck in his throat when she turned to face him. Jesus. Someone—probably an engineer—had taken on the task of piling that glorious mass of coppery curls at the crown of her head, leaving thick, corkscrew wisps trailing down the nape of her neck, and a few locks framing her face. Her features were flawless, colored faintly by all shades of cinnamon and nutmeg, peaches and cream, with thick, dark lashes and gracefully-winged brows. The silky halter dress she wore—a simple black affair so different from Rachel’s elegant, sexy, short-skirted one—revealed alabaster shoulders and arms dusted generously with tiny, pale freckles. The bodice sleeked over her curves, then fell in graceful folds from hips to floor.

Then, to top it off, he noticed for the first time that Bradley Forth stood behind her, watching her with a possessive demeanor.

Forth’s presence was enough for Gideon to find his voice, but the words came out stilted and flat. “It is a surprise to see you as well.” He shifted his glance to the other man and offered his hand. “Forth. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here—with the election less than three weeks away.”

Rachel interrupted the odd moment with the tact of someone used to all aspects of social situations. “Mr. Forth, I’m Rachel Backley, one of the partners at The Marage Group. It’s a pleasure to meet you—I’ve been quite interested in your candidacy.” She extended her hand, following it with a warm smile, then transferred it to Fiona. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said easily, “and I suppose I could wait for Gideon to introduce us…but that doesn’t seem to be imminent.”

“Fiona Murphy.” She shook Rachel’s hand and while trying to suppress the shock and—well, fury was the word—that Gideon should have shown up here with this ice-cold babe (who was just his type, actually) on his arm after propositioning her, Fiona, just yesterday afternoon.

Of course, she had turned him down. But still. She gave him a very dark look.

“Fiona is a client of my grandfather—as is Brad Forth,” Gideon finally said, dragging away his silvery gaze. “They’re both heirs of Nevio Valente’s estate.”

“Valente?” One of the other men in the crowd—Fiona remembered his name was Norm van Delt—spoke up, drawing attention away from her and allowing Fiona an opportunity to compose herself.

It was a sin, she mused as the conversation picked up around her, that anyone should look so good in a tux—especially a man that she knew had a tighter rump than Al Gore. A little giggle threatened to burst free, and damn if Gideon didn’t happen to look at her at that moment.

He fixed that same haughty, arrogant glare on her that he had the first time they’d met—the one that was so very much like her third grade teacher’s pointed stare. The one that failed, as it had twenty years ago, to have any sobering affect on her whatsoever.

But as she transferred her attention to the sleek Ms. Rachel Backley, Fiona’s amusement once again transformed into ire.

How dare that man kiss her like he had and try to get her to sleep with him, then appear with this trophy-woman the very next night?

This time, when Gideon looked at her, she caught his eyes with a cold glare of her own, firming her lips and jutting her chin in an unmistakable show of her feelings.

Surprise flitted in his eyes, then, to her shock and chagrin, he turned to his escort and said, “Excuse me, Rachel, for just a moment. I believe Ms. Murphy needs to speak with me on a confidential matter.”

“Of course,” she replied casually, returning to the conversation and, to Fiona’s surprise, batting nary an eyelash that her date was going off with another woman.

As her escort, Brad showed mild annoyance, but he didn’t say anything other than, “I hope you won’t be long, as there are a few other people I think you should meet, Fiona.”

She was given no chance to protest as Gideon gestured firmly for her to step away from the group of people. As soon as they were out of sight, he closed those elegant fingers over her wrist and led her out of the Grand Ballroom to the vestibule of the hotel before she shook herself free.

“Let’s step outside,” he suggested, glancing toward the smattering of people milling about. “It’s a beautiful night.”

In fact, it was a chilly, mid-October night, and that only fueled Fiona’s aggravation. She was sleeveless and backless in her halter dress, while he was wearing a coat and tie.

Men.

She walked brusquely ahead of him down the semi-circle steps that led to a flagstone path that meandered along the Grand River. Across the stretch of water was the Gerald Ford Presidential Library, its lights winking on the ripples of water.

Fiona chose to sit, and did so with a small flourish that caused the full, gauzy skirt of her dress to settle over the majority of the bench—leaving no place for Gideon to place his stiff rump without mussing her skirt. She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed, eyebrow raised with the same slant she imagined Queen Elizabeth would use.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“What are you doing here—with Forth?”

That was the last question she’d expected him to utter, and she rolled her eyes at his audacity. “The same thing you are, I presume—placing myself in an environment where I’ll be induced to contribute money to a political cause. Not that I have any to contribute. Brad thought it would be good publicity for my shop’s re-opening.” Then, she realized she was angry with him and the small talk would do nothing to alleviate that. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to make a pass at me—twice—and then show up here with someone you’re obviously involved with.”

“Twice?” he exploded. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fiona. I made a—a pass,” he spat the last word as if it were vulgar, “as you call it, at you, after you kissed the hell out of me—then acted as if nothing happened.”

She stared up at him, unable to keep a slow smile from creeping over her face. He was so hot when he unwound a little. “So you do have some emotion in that stiff-necked body after all, H.—um, Gideon. Other than related to passion, I mean. I was beginning to wonder.”

He gaped at her, clearly flummoxed. Despite the brainless expression on his face, she had to admit he looked delicious there in the moonlight. Tall, dark, his figure vibrating with emotion she hadn’t thought he’d possessed, he stood with his hands slung onto his hips. His stance pulled the tux jacket open to reveal a cummerbund and white shirt stretched taut over the defined muscles of chest and abdomen—slabs like iron that Fiona remembered feeling all too well. His thick, wavy hair had obviously been trimmed, as it was close-cropped by his neck, and only one small curl flipped out of line, over his forehead. By now, he was gritting his teeth—she could tell by the way the muscle along his jaw moved—and his brows had drawn together in a frown.

Before he could speak, she seized the opportunity to keep the upper hand. “You came on to me, H. Gideon. And just what would the lovely, elegant Ms. Backley say if she knew about that?”

To her surprise, he relaxed slightly. “Actually, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.” He glanced longingly at the bench, still covered by the fabric of her skirt, but she made no move to accommodate him.

“What is she—your fiancée? Your girlfriend? Don’t tell me she’s your wife!”

He was shaking his head. “No, none of those. Fiona, she’s a friend—that’s all. If neither of us have a date, we often attend business or professional functions with the other. That’s it.”

“That’s it? You don’t sleep with her?” Fiona didn’t believe that for a minute—and her suspicion was rewarded when his eyes flitted away, then back to her. He began to make some sort of mumbly noise that she took to be an excuse, and she stopped him. “I don’t sleep with men who sleep with other women—when I do choose to sleep with a man. So, forget it, H—Gideon. You’re wasting your time.”

With that, she stood up and stalked past him, brushing close enough to feel the warmth of his arm and the sexy, musky scent that clung to him.

* * *

“Not only did I tell him where to stick his stiff rump after he admitted they weren’t exactly platonic,” Fiona told her friend Carl Pelham, “but I also had to shut down Mr. Kiss-as-Many-Babies-As-Possible-For-a-Vote when we got back to my place.”

Carl’s deep laugh rumbled through the telephone. “I’m sure you had no problem whatsoever doing that. Fiona, you are the Master—er, I mean Mistress—of Shut-Down. The poor bastard probably didn’t have a chance.”

“Well, you know power doesn’t do a thing for me, and the guy’s good looking—in a politician-y sort of way…but so not my type.”

“Did you let him in for a nightcap?”

Fiona snorted. “No. I figured once he stepped foot in my house, I’d be fighting off Mr. Octopus, based on the way he’d been gawking all night. You should have seen his face when H. Gideon dragged me off to read me the riot act.”

“Ahh, H. Gideon. Have you found out yet what the H is for? And is he really that much of a jerk?”

“I don’t know about the H yet. I keep asking and he won’t budge. But I can’t deny he’s a good kisser. I mean…a really good, knock-your-socks-off, seeing-shooting-stars kisser. And he seems to be loosening up a little. I think he actually smiled at me once the other day.” He sure had…and it had sent her veins tingling all the way to her fingers.

“But, Carl, darling, you know me…I’m not into any kind of relationship or responsibility.” As she spoke the words she’d uttered so many times before, Fiona suddenly realized she didn’t feel any power behind them any more. Her stomach felt heavy at the thought. When had that happened?

“Yep. I know. You just like to hang around with the guys. No responsibility, no ties, no commitment—hell, you sound just like one of us. Wanna come over and watch some football?” Carl chuckled dryly into the phone. “I promise not to make you cook for us this time.”

Fiona tried to laugh back, but it stuck somewhere between her lungs and throat. Was she really that transparent? That shallow? No responsibility, no ties, no commitment…

“Hey, Fi, you still there?” Carl, one of her oldest and dearest friends—which was why he could be so blunt with her and she’d still love him—sounded concerned. “Hey, you know I’m just giving you shit, you know. Fi?”

“Just like I do to you, I know. It’s just that…well, with this shop thing…I feel like I might want to turn over a new leaf. Make something worthwhile out of my life—something long-term.” She hadn’t known she felt that way until the words came jumbling out. “I think I never wanted permanency because I hadn’t found a place or thing that called me to be permanent. But there’s something about this little shop that calls to me…that really makes me want to be there.”

Well, despite the weird and creepy light.

“There’s one thing about you, Fi. Once you set your mind to something—once you actually commit—I know, you hate that word—to putting your all into it, you do it. If you’ve got your mind made up that you want to make the shop work, then I’ve no doubt you will.”

She smiled, her cheek moving against the phone receiver. He was right. She might be flighty and noncommittal at times, but once she jumped, she was in all the way.

“By the way, did you tell your lawyer guy about your not-interested-in-sex deal?”

“Yep. Went over like a lead balloon, to quote Robert Plant.”

“Keith Moon, you mean.”

“Whatever.” Fiona tapped her fingernails on the table. “Anyway, he didn’t understand, of course, but then, he’s a guy.”

“Yep. Guys don’t understand not wanting to have sex if the kissing’s as good as you said it was. Probably shocked the hell out of him.”

“Oh yeah.” Fiona smiled again at the thought, then sobered as a rash of heat flashed through her. The chemistry between them had been amazing.

And, if she had to be honest, she hadn’t seen any chemistry between Gideon and Rachel Backley…which was the only reason she semi-believed him that there was nothing between them but some friends-with-benefits benefits.

Regardless, she had no intention of being tied down, responsible for, or committed to a man at this point in her life—and, she realized, she might never feel that urge. Claudia certainly never had.

“I’ve got a hard enough time managing my own life. You know I’m as low-maintenance as they come.” She ignored Carl’s scoff from the other end of the phone line.

“Yeah, well, you know, some day you’re going to be eating those words, Fioney-pony. You’re going to fall flat on your face for some guy who’s the exact opposite of every one you’ve ever dated. So, anyway, thanks for the reminder to pick up some extra plates and napkins. I’ll see you in about an hour for the party. I’ll have my best suit on, plus my charm, and be ready to woo all those lady customers of yours.”

She was glad to hear a lighter inflection in his voice. “Thanks so much for agreeing to help out, Carl, and for listening today. See you in a bit.”

It was Tuesday morning, three days after the political fundraiser where she’d seen Gideon and his date, and she stood in the middle of her shop. As she hung up the phone, Fiona looked around with eagle eyes and a churning stomach. She would open the doors for business as Charmed Antiquity in less than two hours, hopefully welcoming in a new, refurbished clientele.

Over the weekend, Fiona had spent pretty much all of her waking moments in the shop—doing last minute cleaning and rearranging, sorting files, and other preparations—but never alone.

No, she’d refused to be in there alone. And she hadn’t told anyone—even Ethan—why.

Perhaps after the reopening, after people began to rediscover the store, whatever it was that made those odd things happen would stop, and she wouldn’t feel such eeriness when alone in the shop.

Thank goodness for Carl. He was one of her old friends from school and had remained a perpetual student. Now in grad school at the University of Michigan, he was working on an improbable dissertation concerning early 20th-century households.

He’d worked for an estate sales company all through high school and college, and knew far more than she did about antique furnishings. She’d had pounced on the opportunity to snag him for a part-time job Thursdays through Sundays—especially since his charm and good looks matched his knowledge of antiques.

For the next hour and a half, she fussed and fretted, rearranging the displays, trying not to think about how much money she’d spent on the catering (even though she’d used Winona’s company and got a discount), welcoming Carl when he arrived in his suit as promised (and with extra plates), and just generally driving herself crazy.

Now, she flicked a dust rag over the top of a grandfather clock for the umpteenth time and glanced nervously at its face.

It was already eleven-thirty.

Just then, Carl wandered from the back of the shop, which had been put into order in the last week. “Win’s caterers are here. Do you want them to put the food in the back, or out in front?”

“Out here is fine—I thought we could put the wine on that table over there and the cheese and fruit on that—er—what did you call it?”

Carl had a pained look on his handsome, tanned face as he replied, “A Hepplewhite lowboy, circa 1793, in near-mint condition, and…is it possible you’d reconsider? I don’t think…you really wouldn’t want to…uh…take a chance on having an accident on it.”

“Fine with me,” she replied, gesturing widely through the shop. “Knock yourself out and find somewhere safe to put the food. I’m going to turn on some music.” She’d wanted to have a live harpist for the day, but it hadn’t fit in her budget, so the customers would have to settle for excellent hors d’oeuvres, decent wine, and canned music.

By the time the new-age instrumentals of Enya were filtering through the shop, and Fiona had checked her image in the spotty bathroom mirror in the back then breezed to the front of the store, the chimes had tickled three times and guests—customers—were strolling about.

Her nervousness faded as she became busy welcoming people, offering them sparkling water, wine, coffee, or tea, and half-listening to Carl as he chatted about various pieces of furnishings throughout the store. He always seemed to have at least two women, if not more, clustered around him, daintily holding their wineglasses and looking up at him from under their lashes. Fiona suspected it wouldn’t matter what the conversation was about—as long as he was standing there—for Carl Pelham had been blessed with incredible good looks, an unassuming personality, and the ability to listen.

In fact, she thought idly, he looked like a living, breathing Ken doll, with his perfect blond hair, startling blue eyes, golden tan and swimmer’s body, and a gentle, calm nature that caused him to appear as if he had no idea the effect he had on women. Most women anyway.

Fiona knew that, objectively, he was very attractive, but he didn’t do a thing—never had—for her hormones. She preferred dark-haired men with a sense of humor. Who weren’t lawyers.

The afternoon passed quickly, as there was a steady stream of clientele coming in, out, and through the shop—and most of them leaving with small bags, larger bundles, and other receipts. Fiona greeted and chatted with customers, skillfully turning them over to Carl whenever they began to sound as though they might be interested in making a purchase or wished to haggle over a price.

It was early in the evening, just an hour or so before closing. Fiona turned, a glass of wine in her hand for one of the patrons, and she came face to face with Bradley Forth.

“Looking for someone?” he asked, smiling down at her. “Me, perhaps?”

Apparently her brush-off last weekend hadn’t cooled his jets enough, if the expression in his eyes as they slipped down her figure was any indication. But, now he was a customer—not a date—so Fiona decided to cut him some slack.

“How did you know?” she smiled back, looking at him from under her eyelashes and thinking of Carl’s court of flirtatious ladies as she did so. “I wanted to give you this.”

She handed him her untouched wine, gave him another very warm smile that made his eyelids flicker, and patted his arm as she turned away. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute, but I need to say hello to that couple over there.”

Before Brad could respond, Fiona slipped off to greet a silver-haired pair who’d just entered the shop. The man was tall and distinguished-looking, and his companion neat as a pin and charmingly enthusiastic.

“Welcome,” she smiled at them. “I’m Fiona, the new owner. Thank you for stopping by. Please feel free to help yourself to refreshments over there, and if you have any questions, or would like to know more about the shop, let me know.”

The woman rewarded her with a warm smile that curved her apple cheeks, and the man with her—possibly her husband—gave Fiona a nod and an appraising glance.

“Now, Hollis, why don’t you dash over there and get a glass of wine for me—white would be perfect. And, I’m sure I won’t be able to wait until our reservations at Trib’s, so a nip of cheese and fruit—and those mini crabcakes look fantastic—would just tide me over.” The lady gave her directives in a well-modulated tone, with just the slightest air of helplessness to it, even though Fiona could see the sparkle of determination in her bright blue eyes. “I’ll just chat with this young lady here for a moment.”

The man—Hollis—seemed to hesitate, but one look from the woman prodded him on and he sifted into the small crowd of people around the food.

“Well, now, this is very nice,” the woman said. She looked as though she was a young-at-heart mid-sixty, with silvery-white hair in a short, fashionable cut and round, rosy cheeks. Glancing toward Brad, she leaned closer as though to share a confidence. “Is that your young man over there, that I saw you speaking with as we walked in? I wouldn’t want to take you away from him…”

“No, no,” Fiona shook her head vehemently. How kind of the old lady to be so considerate. “He is just an acquaintance, but it’s very nice of you to be so concerned.”

“Ah. I see.” Fiona thought she saw a crafty look slip into the woman’s eyes as she slid her frail hand—one that had surprising strength—into the crook of Fiona’s arm and led her over to examine a table.

* * *

No way.

Gideon couldn’t believe it.

He’d taken such great pains to not mention to his grandfather and Iva where he intended to go this evening—in fact, he’d made sure not to discuss the Valente case in any detail at all in the last week, and he’d certainly not mentioned the spread in the Press.

But it was all for naught, for whom did he see the minute he walked into Charmed Antiquity?

And with whom was Iva having, by the looks of it, one hell of an interesting conversation?

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, pausing in the doorway of the shop.

For a moment, he was actually torn as to whether he should slip out before he was noticed, or brave the tidal wave of questions that was sure to follow. But then he saw another unwanted figure, and his mind was quickly made up. He was staying.

Gideon sauntered casually over to Brad Forth. “Well, now, Forth, fancy seeing you here. I thought you’d be out fund-raising or at least stumping for votes. It’s getting pretty close to the election.”

The other man was holding a glass of red wine, and he frowned, moving it in the barest of greetings toward him. “Nath.” His gaze flickered toward Fiona, who was still chatting with Iva, then back around the room. “She’s done a nice job with the place,” he commented. “I told her food would be a nice touch—it adds a bit of elegance to the affair. Too bad she couldn’t afford a live harpist.”

So she’d been taking advice from the smarmy politician, had she? Gideon managed to control a sneer, but barely.

Instead of responding, he took a moment to actually look around the shop and see what she’d done to it.

The place had become inviting and warm. It was charmingly cluttered in an eclectic fashion that somehow made sense. Fresh flowers, trailing plants, or succulents graced nearly every gleaming, polished surface. There were countless sources of light illuminating the place with a soft, golden glow: glittering chandeliers, colorful Tiffanys, twinkling string lights, elegant sconces, Japanese lanterns of all shapes and sizes, and dangling Art Deco pendants. Some tinkling, New Age music provided a suitable, subtle background—although Gideon thought a string trio would have been even nicer than a harpist.

More importantly, the place was filled with people milling about as they sipped beverages and nibbled on tapas. As he finished his perusal, he noticed a large, brightly-colored object descended from the stairway near the back of the shop.

“Isn’t that Mrs. Ruthven?” he asked Forth. “Your cousin, Viola?”

The politician turned just as the object materialized into the carrot-red hair of a woman sheathed in what appeared to be a multi-colored quilt, followed by a slender but just as colorfully dressed figure of a man. “It is. I hadn’t noticed they were here,” he said dismissively.

“It’s hard to miss that,” Gideon muttered, eying the couple.

At the reading of the will and during their subsequent meetings with him, the two had been dressed in similar clothing of screaming colors and unusual design. He’d learned through their conversations that they owned a small boutique in Traverse City that carried items such as the ones they wore today. Viola’s dress appeared to be little more than a shiny bedspread with beads and fluorescent embroidery embellishing its hem, and Rudy wore a man’s vest of ornate damask pieces patchworked together.

But apparently, somehow, their boutique was highly successful—and had been profiled in Midwest Living as well as several other national magazines. A number of celebrities had even been photographed wearing what amounted to eyesore quilts and blankets.

For the life of him, Gideon couldn’t understand how anyone found the style attractive, but, he acknowledged, it took all kinds.

“Why hello, Mr. Nath!” Viola trilled as she steamrolled her way over to them. “And Bradley, darling. Why I didn’t even see you here.” She seemed a bit out of breath and fluttered a plump, lily-white hand at her throat. “We just had to see what was hiding upstairs,” she gushed.

Her husband came up behind her and gave Gideon a brief handshake. “Nothing up there but a bunch of dust and an old table or two,” he said. “Don’t know why we had to waste our time up there in all the dust, but you know how women are.” His chuckle sounded too hearty. “What are you doing here, Brad?”

“And there’s Uncle Arnold,” Forth pointed out, neatly avoiding answering the question.

Gideon turned, and sure enough, there was the well-dressed investment banker with the gelled-back hair, emerging from the dim rear of the shop.

They were all here. All of Nevio Valente’s heirs.

For some reason, that bothered Gideon.

He glanced over at his grandfather and saw Fiona leaning toward Iva, looking down at something she was probably holding while Gideon Senior looked on.

He wondered if his grandfather’s instincts about Valente’s estate—and the man himself—were correct. Now that the man was dead, it would be just the time for ugly secrets to come out.

Then, just as quickly, his uneasiness left and he berated himself for allowing his grandfather to put wild ideas into his head. The remaining family of Nevio Valente was most likely simply interested in seeing what had become of their relative’s shop—and were probably simply curious about the stranger who’d inherited it.

“Well, we’ll be going now,” Rudy said, extending a hand to Arnold.

“What? No purchases?” Arnold lifted a thick black brow as he deigned to accept the handshake. “You didn’t find anything worthwhile up there in the attic?”

“No, no–just some junk up there. You know how Nevio was.” Rudy appeared a little flushed, but he gamely smiled all around the little cluster.

“Oh, but I wish we’d found something to buy,” Viola chimed in as though to ease some building tension. “I’d give anything to get the personal attention of that shop clerk for just a few moments.”

Gideon followed her gaze to the man in question and felt himself go cold.

That guy was a shop clerk? Fiona’s shop clerk?

The man looked more like Adonis than a minimum-wage smurf. Christ. And the ladies were hanging all over him, cooing, and listening to his every word.

“He’s the best piece in this shop, at any rate,” muttered Viola unabashedly. Her husband must have elbowed her, for she shifted away. “Well, he is!”

“Come on Viola, let’s get out of here.” Rudy took his wife’s arm and directed her through the crowd.

As they brushed past Fiona, she looked up to say good-bye, and Iva happened to look toward Gideon.

And the jig was up.

“Gideon!” Iva cried in ingenuous surprise. “Why, I didn’t know you were here. Come on over and say hello to Fiona.”

“Hello, Fiona.” Even to his ears, there was a rich layer of warmth to his voice, and he saw her eyes widen slightly as she returned his greeting.

“What a nice surprise to see you, uh, Gideon.” She actually sounded like she meant it. “Thanks for coming.” She looked at Iva, her eyes narrowing in comprehension. “Wait a minute…you know each other?”

“As it happens, we do. Gideon here is Hollis’s grandson.”

“I knew your name sounded familiar to me!” Fiona said with a laugh. “Iva. Iva Bergstrom. Ethan talks about you and the Tuesday Ladies all the time.”

“And I believe I just missed meeting you at Maxine Took’s eightieth birthday party last summer. You’d had to leave early, and Hollis and I had arrived late.”

“That’s right. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“It is indeed. It seems we have much in common besides an affection for Ethan and a place in Wicks Hollow,” Iva replied.

While the two women smiled at each other as if they’d just found their soulmates, Gideon found himself looking at Fiona without trying to be too obvious about it. She’d pulled back just the front of her hair, away from her porcelain face, and the rest of the cinnamon tangle fell in crazy curls around her shoulders. Soft curls. He remembered how soft they were, and he curled his fingers into their palms so he didn’t reach out to touch.

Tonight, Fiona wore a sophisticated ivory pantsuit, sleeveless, with wide-legged pants—a departure from her usual fortune-teller-like garments—and it made her sexy, sleek, and elegant. Huge, jangling, gold earrings and a matching necklace depicting a Celtic design set off the outfit…along with some incredible, musky scent that seemed to head straight for his nose.

Gideon shifted his stance in order to get a stronger nuance of her perfume, and realized Iva was prattling on excitedly about something. “Did you know that?” she was asking him.

“Know what?”

“Fiona reads palms, Gideon—and she was right on when she looked at mine just now.” Iva’s eyes danced and she slipped her hands around Gideon’s upper arm.

His heart sank. He knew Fiona was odd, but this took the cake. “You what?” He couldn’t quite keep the disdain from his voice. There was no way he could even think about getting involved with her—even though that was pretty much all he’d been doing for the last week.

He’d be a laughing stock. And besides…no one knew better than he how unreliable and irresponsible artsy people could be.

A smirk pulled at the corners of Fiona’s mouth, as if she knew what he was thinking. “My mother does a better job than I do, but I can make my way around a hand if need be.” For some reason, although the words blared innocence, they caused a strange frisson to run across his shoulder. Maybe it was the way the timbre of her voice dipped into duskiness just a little at the end.

“Hollis, let her look at yours,” Iva was insisting.

“Now, Iva—” his grandfather began.

“Hollis?” Fiona asked lightly—then speared Gideon with her eyes. Her face shifted into a feline grin that made his knees go weak. “So that’s it,” she murmured for his ears only, still looking at him with that knowing smile. “Hollis.”

Gideon spoke quickly and a trifle loudly in an effort to save himself. “Iva, I’m sure Fiona needs to attend to her guests.” But then, too late, he saw the trap into which he’d been so expertly led.

“Oh, dear, of course she does. I’m so sorry, Fiona, I realize your guests come first. But the shop closes in just a few minutes, doesn’t it? Then, why don’t you join Hollis and me for dinner as our guest—we have an eight o’clock reservation—at Trib’s, of course. I would just love your company. We have so much in common!”

Whatever happened to turning into a pumpkin at nine o’clock? Gideon thought, eyeing Iva suspiciously.

Then he swore to himself, cursing meddling potential step-grandmothers, when Fiona agreed to join them for an unusually late dinner.

Now why would she do that?

* * *

Fiona didn’t know herself why she agreed to join the senior Naths for dinner. Perhaps it was because she really had been enjoying her conversation with Iva—after all, the older woman was a good friend of her brother’s. There was a reason Ethan enjoyed her company and that of the other Tuesday Ladies.

Or maybe it was because she knew Carl had to leave right at eight o’clock, and she didn’t want to be in the shop alone, especially at night…

Or perhaps it was because the moment she’d seen Gideon, standing there so dark and handsome—and for some reason, glowering—she’d become very much aware of him. And then there was the fact that now he was standing just in front of the desk where she’d been sprawled beneath him only a few days ago.

Regardless of the reason for her capitulation, Fiona was even more unsettled when Hollis Gideon the Third also agreed to join them for dinner.

“Just so I can keep an eye on you,” he murmured to Fiona.

It was a few moments later that she realized another, unexpected benefit of accepting Iva’s invitation as she escorted her last guest—Brad Forth, of course—to the door.

“How about dashing off with me to grab a bite?” he asked, his gaze flickering toward the Naths and Iva, who stood near the desk, chatting in low voices. Actually, it looked as if Gideon the Third was doing all of the speaking. He had a lecture-ish expression on his face.

“Thank you so much, Brad, but I have a previous engagement. Maybe another time?” she asked, fervently hoping that he would win the election in a few weeks and be too busy to keep contacting her.

Carl saved her as he called from the back of the shop, “Fiona, I have to run—but could I see you before I go?”

Giving Brad a last, distracted farewell, she swept past Gideon and the older couple to meet Carl at the back of the store.

“Tonight went really well, don’t you think?” she asked.

“It went very well. You cleared a nice chunk of change, Fi.”

“That means you’ll be getting a nice cut yourself,” she replied happily.

“For sure.” His smile faded as he stepped back. “I want to show you something I just noticed.” He propelled her to a far corner of the back room, near the little closet where Gideon had taken his tumble and kissed her for the first time. “Looks like someone was a little too nosy.”

Fiona peered closer, ducking her head under a low shelf, and saw what he meant: several boxes that had been stacked neatly were misaligned, and one flap was open. Beyond them, an old rusty file cabinet’s bottom drawer was ajar. These were items they hadn’t had time to sift through yet, but had moved back into the corner behind a screen to get them out of the way. She certainly had not left the bottom drawer ajar.

“Hmm. Must have been a customer.” Fiona dismissed the uneasy prickle that zipped down her spine. She pulled back out of the corner and her head bumped into the bottom of the shelf, knocking the combs that held her hair away from her face askew.

“A very nosy one,” Carl pointed out to her. “Well,” he said, casting a look at his watch, “I really have to get going—I’m supposed to play basketball in thirty minutes, and I’m twenty minutes away.”

A vision of the muscular Carl dribbling a ball up a court, dripping sweat, and garbed in loose shorts that would show off his rear still had little effect on Fiona’s hormones, and she sighed mentally. By all rights, she should be drooling over the man.

“Hope you win. See you tomorrow,” she smiled, fumbling to readjust her loosened hair combs as he turned to leave. She walked back out to the main area of the shop, still stabbing the comb into a twist of hair.

“Shall we?” Iva asked. “Hollis and I will drive you both to Trib’s—you’ll never get a parking place otherwise.”

Gideon looked as if he were about to argue, but clamped his lips shut and acquiesced. At this point, he had the uneasy feeling he was just along for the ride—whatever ride his grandfather’s girlfriend had picked.

Five minutes later, they were seated inside Trib’s at a table near the front window.

Fiona paused to greet Baxter James, a handsome black man with a close-trimmed afro, mustache, and goatee. He was sitting at the bar making notes on a laptop while sampling a beer. She thanked him again for the writeup in the Grand Rapids Press, then joined the others at the table.

“I didn’t realize you knew Baxter,” Iva said as Fiona took a seat.

“He and Ethan are friends, so he connected us. Bax is the one who did the great spread on the re-opening for the store,” she said as she slid into her seat. “He came by the shop earlier today, right after we opened, and is going to do a follow-up article as well. Very nice guy.”

Iva looked at Gideon. “Baxter James is our local brewmaster. Baxter’s Beatnik Brews—B-Cubed. You might have heard of them. He moonlights as a freelance journalist.”

“Makes a damned good IPA,” Hollis Nath said, looking up from his menu.

Any further conversation was pre-empted when their server came over to give the specials.

“Do take a look at Hollis’s hand for me, will you,” Iva said, leaning toward Fiona just after their round of drinks was delivered. Her eyes sparkled. “He doesn’t put any credence into any of this, and I want you to tell him something that will change his mind.”

“Now, Iva, really, I—”

“Please, dear, just indulge me, won’t you?” Iva patted his hand and gazed up at him with such an endearing expression that Fiona could see the elderly man melt into a puddle of wax right before her eyes.

They must have been married a long time. An uncomfortable feeling jetted through her mind. What would it be like to be attached to—responsible to—another person for decades?

She risked a glance at Gideon, and found that instead of paying attention to the byplay between his grandfather and Iva, he was watching Fiona with an inscrutable expression. Their eyes clashed for a mere second, then he quirked a grin and raised his wine glass as though to say, “You asked for it.”

“It’s been around for centuries, you know,” Iva was saying earnestly to Gideon Senior. “Palm reading. And there is some scientific proof to its validity. The Hindus are credited with its inception—and it’s believed that the people we know of as the Rom originally came from India.” When she caught Fiona looking at her in surprise, Iva shrugged. “I’m a librarian,” she explained with a modest smile.

“And a killer player at any trivia game,” the elder Nath said with an affectionate smile.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Nath, I would like to take a look at your hands. I’ve been admiring them all evening,” Fiona said truthfully.

They were the kind of hands she loved, with long, well-shaped fingers, well-defined lines, and a solid, square palm—easy to read and interpret.

“And never fear, Mr. Nath—I don’t tell fortunes. One’s hands are merely an insight into the personality of a person, and, sometimes, their potentials—or lost potentials. Now, if you’re right-handed, I’ll need to see that hand.”

The blustery man was really a soft old teddy bear, as Fiona was beginning to learn, and, with an awkward glance at his grandson, he set his glass down then extended his hand toward her. His palm rested in the center of the round table, and Iva hastily moved a vase of orange and yellow mums out of the way.

“You have a generous nature, but an ambitious strain as well,” Fiona told the elder Nath, smoothing her thumb along his palm. She was surprised when she saw the marriage lines on the side of his little finger and looked up at him suddenly. “How long have you two been married?”

He stiffened, then glanced at Iva. “We aren’t married. Yet.” He moved his free hand to pat Iva’s. “She’s the love of my life—but I didn’t find her until I was seventy.”

Fiona relaxed a little. “And this would be your—uh—I mean, how many marriages?”

“I thought you were supposed to be able to tell that from looking at his hand,” Gideon snarked.

“I’d be his fourth wife,” Iva replied, giving him an arch look. “If we get married.”

Fiona smiled with relief—there were only four marriage lines. “And you’d be his last,” she said, then looked at the older man. “And only one child? A son?”

He nodded, although some of the light went out of his face. “Yes, that’s right.” Then he smiled at Iva. “I doubt we’ll be having any of our own, hmm, dear?”

“No, but some grandchildren would be nice,” she said brightly.

Fiona looked at his thumb—how it angled away from the rest of the hand, its length, and the way the top curved back from the nail. Many palmists felt that the thumb was the best indicator of personality overall, and she liked what she saw. “You’re ambitious and organized, not willing to take too many risks. You’re not easily influenced.”

She was murmuring to herself more than anything now. She moved her attention to his long middle finger, the Saturn finger, and continued. “This indicates that you’re serious and down to earth—but not overly inclined to pessimism. It’s slightly inclined toward your forefinger, the Jupiter, indicating your assertive personality toward business…but,” she looked up at him, “you’re much more tentative about your emotional life.”

She could tell by his expression—and Iva’s—that she was accurate in her suppositions. But, feeling the heavy, sarcastic weight of Gideon’s gaze on hers, Fiona decided not to continue her thoughts aloud. She released Gideon Senior’s hand.

“Well,” she said lightly, “that was just a quick look. Hope I didn’t spook anyone.” She gave a pointed look toward Gideon, who was all but glaring at her. Yet, heat simmered beneath his look and caused her stomach to flip slowly over and around like a lava lamp.

“Why don’t you take a look at Gideon’s hand?” Iva suggested.

Gideon snorted, but Fiona, feeling the devilish imp prodding her once again, turned to look at him. “I’d be happy to see what secrets he’s hiding.”