Four weeks to the day after he’d first met with Fiona Murphy, she flowed back into his office, sweeping into the chair he offered her at his work table.

She was once again dressed like an escapee from a Renaissance festival, in a long dress made from some soft, shiny material that looked like layers of gauze. The material glinted with bits of gold, and was edged with some intricate embroidery, and fitted her enough around the bodice and torso to show off some lovely curves.

Her lush red hair was pinned up loosely at the back of her head, and looked as if it might tumble into a spill of corkscrew curls at any given moment. She wore multiple rings on each finger, long, busy earrings, and one wide metal cuff on her wrist. As before, she carried a massive bag that he thought was a purse, but might be a knitting bag or some hobo version of a briefcase.

He hoped for the latter—after all, this was a business meeting.

“So probate went off without anyone contesting my inheritance?” asked Ms. Murphy as she folded her beringed hands on the table in front of her. “I have to admit, I am a little shocked.”

Gideon wasn’t about to admit that he had been mildly surprised as well. Having gotten to know the extended Valente family over the last two months, he’d expected them to scrabble after every bit of wealth they could squeeze from their deceased relative.

His response to his client, however, was professional and nonplussed. “As you likely recall from the reading of the will, the other family members inherited other, much larger and more lucrative portions of Valente’s great wealth. The antiques shop was a relatively small piece of his estate.”

“Very well, then. I guess it belongs to me—if I want it. And that brings up a bigger issue. Before we go any further and before I sign anything, I’d like to see just what it is I have to work with.”

Ms. Murphy’s smile was engaging, but there was shrewdness—and something like apprehension—in her eyes. “I want to know what I’m getting into before I actually get into it. I thought we might have done this even before probate, but here we are.”

She caught him by surprise, which, he admitted, didn’t happen often. Gideon set down the papers he was holding and reached for another folder. “Of course we can go through all that in as much details as you like, and I apologize if you were expecting to review the documents prior to today. I simply presumed you’d want to wait until everything was final before spending time on it.”

Actually, he’d assumed she hadn’t a clue in her lovely head about running a business, and that ledgers and accounting would be the last thing she’d worry about. When she spoke again, she surprised him further.

“I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about running a retail store, but I do know something about business. I’m one hell of an office manager. And I get along very well with people.” She gave him a warm smile that inexplicably seemed to have an edge of teasing to it. “However, since I’ve never had my own business, it’s hard to know whether I have a head for the big picture. I’m certain you’ll be able to easily answer the biggest question: is the shop financially viable? From what you’ve said, I get the impression that Valente left me the dog, and everyone else the diamonds. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

He found himself nodding in agreement while trying not to smile at her bluntness. “Absolutely, Ms. Murphy, I—”

“And,” she said, giving him a smile that warmed him like a sip of the twelve-year-old single malt Scotch his grandfather liked, “I think you can stop calling me Ms. Murphy. Fiona is fine. Now,” she continued, rummaging in that huge bag of hers, “please, tell me about the whole picture here.” She extracted a piece of paper with what appeared to be a list—of questions most likely—followed by the brightly patterned cheaters she’d worn last time.

“Well, Ms. Mur—ah, Fiona,” he corrected himself and firmly directed his attention back to the matter at hand, “in a nutshell, you’re right—though it isn’t a dog, to use your term, the shop isn’t going to make you a wealthy woman either. But it’s not in the red—partly because you now own the building—or will, when and if,” he glanced at her meaningfully, “you sign the paperwork. There’s a bit of healthy income from rent for the place next door—I believe it’s a clothing boutique—and an empty apartment above—from which you could also collect rent should you so desire. Although the shop hasn’t been open regularly or staffed for—well, it appears at least five years, possibly longer—the inventory of the shop did bring in some profit, both from walk-in and online sales. You won’t find yourself on the street—at least right away.”

He pulled the information out of a folder and for the next thirty minutes, went through the property in detail as Fiona fired her questions at him, ticking down her list while looking at him from over the tops of her glasses.

“So I should be able to make a living off the shop and rent,” she said at the end. “And potentially live above it if I wanted.” Her voice held enthusiasm, but trepidation still hung on her face. “All right then—when do I get the keys?”

Gideon almost laughed, but caught himself in time. It was amazing how she’d gone from appearing so scatterbrained the first time he’d met her, to a serious, business-executive mode, shooting off questions with little pause—and now to guarded enthusiasm. “As soon as you sign these title papers, I’ll be happy to relinquish the keys.”

It was another thirty minutes before the title work and other papers transferring ownership to Fiona were completed.

“I think we’re about finished, and I can give you those keys.”

“Excellent.” She stood just as he did, and her ankle-length, gauzy dress settled in fluid folds around her. “Oh drat.”

She’d knocked over the behemoth of her bag, and as she crouched to pick up the contents that spilled, he noticed how nicely the long, simple shape complimented her, hugging well-proportioned curves and, when she finally stood, swirling about hints of long legs. It was a bronze color, made of a soft, shiny, crinkly material, and with her fair skin and chestnut hair, it made her look soft and golden…and very feminine.

Fiona’s fine auburn eyebrows rose as she tucked the last item back into her bag. “Is something the matter, Mr. Nath?”

With a start, Gideon realized he’d been staring and, belatedly, that he hadn’t asked her to call him by his first name. “No, I just thought I’d forgotten to do something . . . but, please,” he forced a smile, wondering where his head had gotten, “call me Gideon. Now, let me get those keys.”

He turned to retrieve the small goldenrod envelope that contained the keys to the shop and all doors of the building that Fiona Murphy now owned. Flipping the metal clasp that held it closed, he poured the keys—twenty-some in all—onto the table.

“You have your work cut out for you,” he said wryly. “Most of these keys aren’t labeled—although a few are, and, undoubtedly, some of them are duplicates—but as for the rest of them, I have no idea what they’re for.”

Gideon retrieved one ring with four keys on it and handed it to her. “These are for the shop itself and they’re labeled—front and back doors, safe, and storage room.”

Fiona took the envelope and slipped it, along with the rest of her paperwork into the cavernous leather bag and extended a hand. “I guess we’re all set then,” she smiled as he clasped her hand, feeling the ridges of the many rings that adorned her fingers. “Thanks so much for all of your help, H.—er, Gideon. I really appreciate it.” Her smile was sunny and warm, and he felt it all the way to his belly.

He walked to the door with her, realizing suddenly that he would probably have no occasion to see her again, and found himself saying, “It’s been my pleasure. And if there’s anything else I can help you with, please feel free to give me a call.”

She stopped in the doorway and gave him another of those dazzling smiles. “I just may take you up on that. Thank you!”

* * *

By the time Fiona got in her car after the meeting with H. Gideon, it was just six o’clock. Wicks Hollow was less than an hour away, but since it was almost the middle of October, it would be dark before she could get to the shop. Plus, she’d agreed to meet her friend Winona for a drink to celebrate her change of fortune—so to speak.

That made it an easy excuse to decide not to drive to her property until tomorrow—which was Friday, and would give her the whole weekend to spend in Wicks Hollow.

She realized she was strangely both nervous and relieved that she didn’t have to go there tonight and have her dreams either explode—or be realized. Either scenario seemed more than she could bear at the moment.

What if she stepped inside and hated the space? What if she got bad vibes from it?

What if it was full of junk, and H. Gideon Nath, the Third, had only said what he needed to say to get her to sign the paperwork so he could be done with the business?

What if it was beautiful inside, and amazing, and it called to her…but it was still filled with worthless junk?

What if it was a treasure trove from which she could create a successful life?

Her palms were damp and her insides churned as she navigated through the traffic to the little pub where she and Winona were meeting.

By the time she breezed in, Fiona had talked herself down from the internal frenzy. No sense worrying about it now. It’ll be what it’ll be. One day at a time. Worry about it tomorrow.

She was very good at putting problems and issues aside, mainly because she rarely was committed to anything long enough that a problem would be so important as to bother her.

This is going to be different, Fi.

I know, I know. Be quiet. Let me have one more night to myself. Consider it my bachelorette party, all right? My last crazy night before I have to be responsible.

“Hey, girl!” Winona rose and gave her a big hug, her dozens of shoulder-length beaded braids making a pleasant clinking sound near Fiona’s ear. “Well? Are you a business owner or not?”

“Oh, God, I am. I’m committed. I need a drink!” Fiona said with exaggerated desperation.

“Already got your favorite coming—that B-Cubed wheat beer you like.”

“The one with the cherry essence? You’re the best, Win. Thanks!” Fiona settled in her seat.

While they waited for their drinks to arrive, Fiona filled in her friend about the meeting with H. Gideon. After the long explanation, she gave a sigh. “I have a lot to learn, though—what I know about antiques would fit in my hand.”

“Your background should help a little bit there, though,” said Winona, sipping from the dark, coffee-scented stout she’d ordered.

“True.” Fiona had two undergraduate degrees: one in art history and one in interior design—an excellent example of her inability to make commitments. “At least I know the time periods and basic styles of furnishings,” she agreed, sipping her draft. “And as long as H. Gideon didn’t exaggerate the financial viability of the business…” She shrugged.

“Speaking of lawyers, you never got back to me on my text about next Tuesday,” Winona said.

“Text?” Fiona reached for her bag. “I didn’t get any text from you.” She began to rummage in the depths of the satchel. Or did she? If she could actually find the phone…

“Did you lose your cell again?” Win shook her head in mock dismay. “I don’t know why I bother trying. I should just stick to face-to-face or calling you at work. Not that you’ll be at work any more, starting next week anyway…”

“So what’s going on Tuesday that you texted me about?” Fiona asked, still feeling around amid the jumble for her phone. When was the last time she’d seen it?

“There’s a guy I want you to meet,” her friend replied, her dark eyes dancing with humor. “He’s very sweet and down to earth, and he’s never been married.”

But Fiona was already shaking her head. “That lawyer you told me about? Vince? No way. You know how I feel about the attorney breed. And I don’t trust any blind date you arrange for me anyway, especially after the guy who was supposed to be a veterinarian. The man had hands like the Tin Man—big and knuckly and creaky.” She shuddered.

“Girl, you are so weird about hands. And you know that blind date was only to pay you back for sending me flowers from Colin Farrell.”

Fiona smirked, remembering how Winona had called her, babbling uncontrollably about the dozen red roses she’d received the day after meeting Colin Farrell at a charity function Win had managed.

“That was a good one, wasn’t it?” she said with a laugh.

“Not as good as the vet I set you up with—the one who performs hypnosis on dogs and cats.”

Fiona snorted and flapped her hand. “You are nowhere near as good as I am when it comes to great practical jokes. It’s because of my inner imp.”

“Anyway, this lawyer—”

“Speaking of lawyers,” Fiona said, bent on changing the subject. She leaned closer, over her beer. “Why is an accountant better than a lawyer?”

Winona rolled her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“At least accountants know they’re boring.”

Winona chuckled in spite of herself, and just as she opened her mouth to speak again, she snapped it shut. Fiona realized why when a deep voice reached her ears. “Ms. Murphy?”

She looked up behind her just as Brad Forth stepped into her line of vision. “Well, hello,” she greeted him, surprised that he would approach her.

“I thought that was you,” he said, smiling down at her and then over at Winona. “Mind if I join you for a quick minute? I wanted to see how everything was going with the inheritance—the shop and all.” His grin was infectious and impossible to ignore.

Fiona shrugged and flickered a glance at her friend, who seemed to be bursting with curiosity. “Have a seat. This is my friend Winona Reed. Win, this is Bradley Forth, the grand-nephew of Mr. Valente.”

Winona looked a little confused after the introduction, and it took Fiona a moment to realize she’d probably assumed the man was H. Gideon when he’d mentioned the inheritance.

Forth took a seat, and the waitress was upon them in a second, obviously eager to take the order of the well-groomed, attractive man. Or maybe she recognized him as a political candidate.

After ordering a local IPA, he returned his attention to Fiona. “Did Nath take care of everything with you today? All the paperwork is signed and finished?”

“Yes. We’ve got everything squared away, and Win and I were just having a little drink to celebrate. You too? I’m guessing your paperwork—which is clearly more complicated than mine—would be all finalized as well.”

“Yes—signed, sealed, and delivered. I’m meeting a friend—who’s bringing some potential supporters—for a private dinner, and my handler and I got here a little early.” He glanced over and Fiona saw the fresh-faced intern, standing near the wall with a clipboard. He was wearing a tie that looked like it was about to strangle him, it was so tight.

“When I saw you, I thought I’d take a moment to say hi. It’s always nice to chat with a potential constituent.” Brad beamed at Winona, then explained, “I’m running for State Senate in this district. Election’s almost four weeks away, so the more people I can meet, the better.”

“I’m glad you stopped by, Mr. Forth, because I have a question about your uncle,” Fiona said.

“Please, call me Brad. I’m hoping to be your state senator soon, and I like to be on a first name basis with my supporters.” He flashed his smile again. “At least, I hope I’ll have your support.”

“Um, well, I suppose I’ll have to look at your platform,” she said, feeling guilty that she didn’t already know who was on the ballot for the state elections. “Anyway, I was wondering—do you know who Gretchen was?”

“Gretchen?” He looked at her with genuine confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Valente left a letter for me, sort of explaining his reasoning for putting me in his will, and he mentioned someone named Gretchen. I thought she might have come up at the reading of the will, but she didn’t, and I didn’t get a chance to ask then. I just wondered if you knew who she was because your great-uncle spoke very fondly of her in the letter.”

Brad looked surprised. “Fondly?” He shook his head, glancing up to smile at the waitress who set his beer in front of him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that could be. Quite frankly, Fiona—that’s such a lovely name; I hope you don’t mind if I use it—anyway, frankly, I can’t imagine my great-uncle feeling fondly toward anyone.” He lifted the beer and sipped, then lowered it and shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard mention of a Gretchen. Did he say anything specific about her?”

Fiona took a moment to taste her own brew, wondering how much of the contents of the letter she should divulge. Not that there was anything that important in it, she reminded herself, but she felt odd sharing the nostalgic words from the old man. Not even H. Gideon Nath, the Third, knew what was in the letter.

She finally decided on prevaricating. “He didn’t say much, other than that he knew her long ago. Hence my questions.”

“I’ll ask my mother if she knows,” he promised. “My father is dead, and he was Nevio’s nephew, but she might recall the name. And I can also ask Uncle Arnie and Aunt Vera.”

“That would be great. It’s just something that bothers me a little, in a curious sort of way.” She gave him a dazzling smile and noticed when a light of interest and appreciation flared in his eyes.

“I’ll give you a call next week,” he said, taking the napkin on which she wrote her mobile phone number. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, he stood. “So sorry—my campaign manager just arrived, and it’s show time.” He shook both of their hands, adding, “I hope I have your support on November 7.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, flipped through several large bills to find a twenty, and tossed it onto the table. “I’ll be in touch, Fiona, if I learn anything about this mysterious Gretchen.”

“Good-bye,” Fiona said, and returned her attention to Winona as Bradley joined his posse of handlers. Her friend was looking at her through narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“So, what—is he the reason you don’t want to meet the lawyer I want to set you up with? He’s not bad looking, but seems a little…not your type. Especially with him being a politician.”

“What is it with you and setting me up? I go out enough. I don’t need to be set up, Win.”

“I know you go out quite a bit, but when you do, it’s a different guy every time. Don’t you get tired of the casualness of it all?”

“I like the casualness. Just because you found Mr. Perfect doesn’t mean that I’m interested in that. I’m not. I like things just the way they are. And besides,” Fiona added, “now that I have a business to run, I’ll have enough responsibility in my life. I don’t need to be responsible for a man, too.”

* * *

Well. This was it.

Fiona gripped the cluster of keys, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door of the shop.

She’d debated about whether to enter through the back, alley-side door or to come in through the front, and decided that her first impression of her new life should be from the same perspective of her potential clients.

So here she was, standing in the little alcove between the two bay windows and unlocking the front door. Her stomach was filled with butterflies and her hands were clammy.

Geeze, Fi. Get a frigging grip.

She pushed open the door, and to her relief, it swung inward easily as delicate chimes tinkled above.

She stepped into the long, narrow shop. The smell of age met her nose: the scent of mothballs and mustiness, old wood and worn damask. The space was dark, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the faint light. She could see shapes of furnishings and lamps hanging from the ceiling, vases and chests, and other objects unidentifiable in the dim light.

Whatever was here was hers.

All hers.

A tingle of trepidation swirled through her middle, curling and squeezing in her stomach. She’d never been responsible for anything this important before. This big before.

Heck, she’d hardly been able to keep an orchid alive—and everyone knew they could go weeks without water.

Her palms were sweating…but a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Claudia was going to freak when she found out that her daughter owned an entire store.

A business.

Fiona closed the door behind her, locking it, and in the dim light, found a table on which to rest her leather bag. Then, feeling cautiously on the wall just inside the doorway, she groped for the light switch that she hoped was there. Her fingers brushed rough paneling, fumbling over molding and across a myriad of cords that no doubt attached to the collection of lamps that were suspended above.

That front wall of paneling ended, giving way to the chalky brick and mortar of the side, and Fiona had still not located a light switch.

Then, suddenly, with a little laugh, she pulled her hand back to her side. “Fiona, you are an idiot!” She shook her head at her own silliness and reached for a nearby lamp, slipping her hand under its shade to find the switch.

A welcome glow of light filtered into a small area, highlighting the flecks of dust and mites she’d stirred up with her investigation.

In the silence, Fiona heard the floor creak and groan as she moved slowly through a warren of items into the center of the store. Maybe the light switches were in the back. The ceiling hung lower now, giving the back half of the shop a more confined, cozy feeling.

She noticed that there was an unobtrusive staircase on the left side of the space that led to a second floor, which explained why the front part of the store had high ceilings and the rear seemed close and dark like a cave. She began to climb the stairs, hesitating when she looked up into the dark, cavernous stairwell.

Something shivered up her spine. An eerie prickle went cold over her shoulders, and suddenly, she didn’t want to go up there.

Abruptly, Fiona stepped back from the stairs, and a sudden sharp chill enveloped her. The hair at the nape of her neck lifted, and she sucked in her breath with a gasp—smelling, oddly enough, the faint scent of roses overpowering the dust and must.

Her heart began to bump out of rhythm in her chest.

Her hand curling at the collar of her loose peasant blouse, she backed away from the stairs and looked around. There was nothing to see. But it was suddenly cold.

Fiona swallowed, tasting dust, and turned to continue her walk toward the back of the shop, berating herself for her skittishness. “I’ll get a flashlight,” she said aloud…but her voice sounded weak and hollow in the silence.

As she turned, something whispered past her, brushing her fingers. Fiona gave a little shriek, and, pulling her hand away, stumbled backward a few steps, bumping into a table. Something rocked on it and fell to the floor with a loud crash, jacking her heart rate up even higher.

Just then, she noticed a glow of light from the alcove beneath the ascending stairs, and was able to make out three lamps arranged on the top of a massive piece of furniture; some sort of huge wooden secretary desk.

Her breath clogged, for the lamp in the middle of the trio was lit.

It hadn’t been lit a moment ago.

And she hadn’t touched any other switch.

The hair on the back of her neck turned cold, and her palms dampened. As she stepped toward the light, caution—and let’s be honest, nerves—making her movements slow, the light winked out.

She froze, smothering a gasp. The smell of roses became stronger and a chill stirred the air.

The light flickered back on.

Fiona shook her head to clear it, to try and find a way to make sense of it.

“There must be a timer on this thing,” she said aloud, pushing the heavy chair out of the way so that she could step closer to the large oaken desk. “Or a short in the wire. And that’s why it’s going on and off.”

She reached around and found the cord to the glowing white lamp, following it down to the depths behind the secretary. It wound behind it and disappeared into a corner. Fiona leaned over and because of the light from the lamp, she could see where the cord ended.

Fiona suddenly felt as though she’d been plunged into freezing water, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t react.

Then, she was a flurry of frantic movement, whirling away from the alcove, ramming into the corner of the chair, ricocheting against a table, and stumbling toward the front of the shop in a swirl of dust and the scent of roses. Her breath came back, furious and shallow, and her head felt light as she ran to the front door, struggling to flip open the lock.

Without looking back, without even hesitating, she yanked the door wide. The tinkling of the bells above barely registered in her stupefied mind as she burst out onto the sidewalk.

The lamp was unplugged.