Gideon’s veins hummed and his breathing felt like the rasp of iron over wood, rough and unsteady. He pulled himself slowly upright, feeling as if he’d been run over by a Mack truck.

Jesus.

He looked at his hand and saw that his fingers were trembling. His breathing was slowing to normal, but his heart rate and the heaviness between his legs indicated how aroused he was. He took a deep breath and held it, but his body still hummed, and his lips still buzzed from the heat of that amazing kiss.

When he dragged a hand through his hair, more dust and cobwebs floated down to land on his dark pants and leather shoes. Damn. He took a few more moments to brush himself off, trying to regain some dignity before joining Fiona and her customer.

Customer? Didn’t the sign say the store was closed?

Disregarding the fact that he had ignored the sign himself, Gideon hurried out to the front of the shop, straightening his shirt and finger-combing back his hair as he went.

When he reached the open area of the store, he found Fiona casually chatting with a well-dressed man—who was not the least bit dusty, dirty, or disheveled. And he was standing much too close to her.

Gideon was even less pleased to recognize the man as Bradley Forth.

“Hello, H.—er, Gideon,” Fiona greeted him as if he’d just run out for milk. Her cheeks weren’t even flushed, and though her lips were a little swollen, she didn’t seem at all off-balance by that kiss. “Apparently you’re not the only one who decided to ignore the closed sign.” She gave them both an exasperated look.

Gideon crossed his arms over his chest to hide as much as he could of his rumpled clothing and offered a polite smile to the other man, who had the grace to look embarrassed by Fiona’s comment.

Gideon managed to ungrit his teeth enough to speak. “Good to see you again, Forth. Nice of you to drive down here,” he added dryly.

“Yes. I wanted to see how Miss Murphy was doing here at Uncle Nevio’s shop. I haven’t been here for awhile, but I thought I’d stop by and see how things were going.”

Stop by? Forth lived in Grand Rapids. Wicks Hollow was not a “stopping by” sort of place from the big city…

As if reading his mind, Forth continued with the smooth smile of a politician, “There’s a large event going on here this weekend—some big class reunion—and with the election being only three weeks out, my team decided it was important for me to be as visible as possible.”

And Forth was likely hoping to turn up a nice little feature in the Grand Rapids Press about his deceased uncle and the quaint little shop he’d bequeathed to a mysterious woman…which would of course be accompanied by a spread about the grand-nephew of the old man who’d left it to her, who’d made it a point to visit tiny Wicks Hollow in support of a local event.

Smart and savvy. And annoying as hell.

“Of course, my schedule is extremely tight,” Forth continued, shooting a quick look at Fiona as if to make certain she heard his comment.

“Ah, yes, that’s right. The other night, you mentioned how busy you are right now.”

The other night? What the hell did that mean?

Gideon’s irritation grew when Forth modestly smoothed a hand over his thick head of hair—with not a receding hairline or grey strand in sight.

“Yes, but it was very nice to see you. Oh, and I did ask my mother about Gretchen.”

Apparently Forth and Fiona had developed quite a friendship, Gideon thought darkly. How the hell had that happened?

“And? Did she know anything about her?” replied Fiona.

“Unfortunately, no,” said the politician. “But I will ask Uncle Arnie and Aunt Vera, as promised. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to it yet—so busy with campaign events and fundraisers and press conferences, you know.” He smiled winningly. “I’ll be sure to let you know once I do.”

“Thank you. You do have my phone number,” she said matter-of-factly, splitting her glance between the two of them. “You don’t have to come all the way over here again if you find out anything—especially since you’re so busy.”

Gideon smothered a smile as Forth’s face showed that her gentle gibe had found its mark, then his niggling aggravation returned.

“Who’s Gretchen?” he asked, tired of feeling like he was the odd man out. After all, he’d been the one kissing her five minutes ago. Until that slick politician decided to barge in.

“Valente mentioned someone named Gretchen in the letter he left for me, and I was wondering who it is. Do you know?”

Wondering why she had asked Forth for help but not him, and curious about the letter, Gideon took a moment to reply. “I don’t recall the name showing up anywhere in the paperwork I’ve handled. But I’ll be happy to double-check it for you.” He wanted to know more, but decided not to pursue the matter at this point. Perhaps after Forth left, Fiona would let him read the letter.

Suddenly, a cat appeared seemingly from nowhere, landing lightly on a table near the main pathway through the cluster of tables and other furnishings, drawing the attention of all three of them.

“Meet Gretchen,” Fiona said, giving them a rueful smile. “She’s the shop cat—and obviously not the Gretchen mentioned in my letter.”

Gideon eyed the cat, and the feline eyed him back. He didn’t have an issue with cats at all, but this one had an uncanny, eerie expression in her green eyes: they seemed to be measuring him as if to determine whether he was worthy of her attention.

Forth, in the tradition of all the baby-kissing, handshaking, pet-greeting politicians, reached over to stroke Gretchen on the head.

She hissed and swiped, then fled the scene, diving under a nearby chest of drawers as Forth gaped at the thin red lines on his hand.

“Well, I guess I’m not getting her vote,” he joked, then pulled out a handkerchief to dab at the blood.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Fiona said with a grimace. “I’d offer you something for those scratches, Brad, but I have no idea if there’s a first aid kit or anything like that in the store.”

“No worries,” he said. “I’ve got to get on my way anyway. But don’t forget—I’ll be at the town center with my staff early this evening, just talking to whoever walks by. I hope you’ll come and say hi.”

But Fiona, who didn’t seem overly concerned about the wounds her cat had inflicted, had hunkered onto her elbows in an effort to try and entice Gretchen back out. “Good luck,” was all she said, and as far as Gideon was concerned, that was a dismissal for Bradley Forth.

But the other man didn’t seem to get it, and instead, he stood there watching Fiona as he continued to wipe off his hand.

Gideon found himself unable to look away from her shapely rear-end, which was lovingly embraced by her silky skirt as she rested her cheek on the floor to look under the chest. Her thick, sweet-smelling auburn hair spilled over her shoulders and onto the dusty floorboards, and she pushed it out of her face with the palm of her hand. “Come on, Gretchen, honey,” she wheedled. “Come on out. Mr. Forth won’t bother you.”

Gideon felt foolish standing there, watching her crouch on the floor, and he flickered his gaze at the silent Brad Forth. He was annoyed that the other man seemed to have just as much interest in the view of her heart-shaped derrière swathed in a flowing blue and white skirt. The fact that Gideon was the one who’d had his hands on it only a short time ago mollified him only slightly.

Yet it was ridiculous to consider the possibility of Fiona and Brad Forth together—they were even less-suited for each other than he and Fiona would be. The conservative politician would never make it in the polls with a flighty, ditzy, free spirit like Fiona on his arm.

But what had the man meant by “the other night”? Clearly they’d been together…somewhere.

And that bothered Gideon a lot more than it should have, which annoyed him greatly.

“Well,” Fiona said finally, pulling to her feet without tangling in her skirt this time. “I guess Gretchen’s not coming out.”

She brushed off her clothing and sighed, then used two hands to scoop up the mass of hair off her face and neck. As before, she let it spill out over her palms, and the thick curls cascaded enticingly around her face and neck before she let the whole cluster drop back over her shoulders.

Gideon swallowed hard and felt a little too warm—and was even more annoyed. What was wrong with him?

Just then, someone knocked on the window.

“Again?” Fiona muttered, looking at the door. Then her face lit up in a smile and she fairly ran to the entrance to fling the door open. “Ethan! I can’t believe you’re here already. You must have left Chicago before noon!”

She hugged him and smacked a loud kiss on his cheek, then curled the fingers of both hands around his upper bicep and dragged him into the shop. “Well, take a look! What do you think?”

Instead of following her suggestion or answering her question, the man named Ethan looked at Gideon then Forth, then back at Fiona.

“I thought you weren’t open for business yet,” he said in a voice that matched his cool, almost warning look. “And yet here you are, already flooded with—er—customers.”

“Oh, they’re not customers,” she said with a roll of the eyes.

Fighting a sinking feeling that this Ethan was more of a—well, concern would be the word; certainly not rival—than Bradley Forth, Gideon introduced himself. “My firm handled the estate, and as I happened to be in Wicks Hollow for the day with my grandfather, I thought I’d see how things were going.”

Ethan nodded, still looking at him with a cool expression. When his attention swept down over Gideon’s rumpled and dusty clothing, he felt the other man’s opinion chill even further. “Looks like you were doing more than just ‘seeing how things were going.’”

“Poor H.—I mean Gideon, took a little spill in the back,” Fiona replied with a giggle underscoring her words. “He got his nice clothing all messed up.”

“Well, I guess I’d best be going,” said Forth in a slightly too-loud voice as if tired of being left out of the conversation. He offered his hand to the skeptical Ethan. “Bradley Forth. I’m running for state senator here in this district, and I—”

“Chicago,” the other man replied briefly. “Save your pitch. I live in Chicago.”

“Right, then. Well, goodbye, Fiona. I hope to see you later tonight.”

She made a non-committal reply, and the way she eagerly opened the door for him made Gideon feel slightly better. Ethan was still eyeing him suspiciously, and he knew he had no further excuse to stay.

But he really needed to talk to her. About that kiss.

Before he could figure out what to do, the door tinkled open again.

What was this, Grand Central Station?

This time, an elegant, expensively-dressed woman in her early thirties stepped inside. She, Gideon noted immediately, was definitely more his type: conservative and stylish in attire and manner, with her lush dark hair coiffed in neat waves. She looked like the sort of professional, career-minded woman he was used to being around.

“Oh, Fiona,” she said as she looked around, then clasped her hands over her breast. “It’s beautiful in here. Sorry I’m late—I went next door to look inside; their merchandise is a little heavy on the black colors for me. But this place—your place is…just wonderful.” She seemed to notice Gideon for the first time. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had a customer,” she said quickly—and her demeanor eased into something more remote and businesslike.

“Oh, he’s not a customer,” Fiona said brightly, then gushed, “It is beautiful, isn’t it, Diana?”

“This is the attorney who handled the estate,” Ethan said to Diana, still giving Gideon a cool look. But when he slipped his arm around her waist in a proprietary way, he unwittingly answered Gideon’s unspoken question.

“And I was just leaving,” he said smoothly, feeling slightly mollified. Whoever Ethan was, he was involved with Diana and not Fiona.

“Well, thanks for stopping by, H. Gideon,” Fiona said with a warm smile.

Gideon looked for another message in her eyes—something that indicated she wanted to speak with him also, that the kiss had effected her too—but there was nothing but the same warm amber sparkle there. “I really appreciate you returning that compact.”

With nothing left to say, Gideon nodded at Ethan and Diana, then made his exit.

* * *

Although five-thirty was uncomfortably early for dinner on a Saturday, Gideon was relieved to discover that Trib’s was not only trendy, comfortable, and pleasingly appointed, but also had a surprisingly upscale menu as well as an extensive wine list that offered two different sized pours. Their table was situated near the back of the restaurant under what appeared to be an authentic Andy Warhol print, and he noticed several other prints by the artist—most likely copies, as they included the famous Tomato Soup and Marilyn Monroe images—throughout the place.

Gideon was impressed in spite of himself. Maybe Wicks Hollow, which he’d always though of as a kitschy tourist trap, had more to offer than he’d realized.

“Have a seat, Gideon, dear,” Iva said, patting the chair next to her. With round, pink cheeks, a hairdo of soft white hair that reminded him of cotton candy, and sparkling blue eyes, the sixty-ish woman had become quite dear to him over the last six months.

“You look lovely tonight, Iva,” he said, giving her a hug and kiss before taking his seat. “Grandfather, you look quite rested yourself.” He reached over to shake hands with him. “Apparently, vacationing agrees with you.”

“I’ve got a great traveling partner,” replied Gideon Senior, smiling down at Iva. “Now if only I could get her to agree to marry me.”

“Now, Hollis, let’s not rush things. We’re having such a wonderful time. There’s no reason for you to rush to—as they say—put a ring on it.” She giggled and held up her left hand, which was bare of jewelry. “Gideon, thank you for joining us. I know this is abominably early for you for dinner, but you know how we senior citizens are. We turn into pumpkins at nine p.m.!”

“I’ve missed our bi-monthly dinners,” Gideon said, not at all surprised to realize it was true. “And I had some business to attend to here in Wicks Hollow, so it worked out quite well.”

“The pizza here is fantastic,” his grandfather said, ogling the menu. “Highly recommend it. The Wise Guy is my favorite—it’s got sausage, smoked mozzarella, and caramelized onions. In fact, I think that’s what I’ll have tonight…” He trailed off when he realized Iva was looking at him with raised eyebrows and a pointed expression. “Ahem. Maybe I should have the salmon instead.”

“A much healthier choice, darling,” she said, looking back at the menu. Without glancing up at Gideon, she said for his benefit, “Your grandfather’s doctor is concerned about his cholesterol.”

“Well if that’s all I’ve got to worry about at seventy-three, then that’s pretty minor,” Gideon Senior grumbled. “Don’t know why I can’t have a pizza once in a while.”

Iva looked at him innocently. “Why, of course, Hollis. No one said you couldn’t.”

But when the server came, he ordered the salmon and a glass of red wine. “Red wine’s good for you,” he said, drawing his bushy brows together as if to ward off further commentary from Iva.

“I didn’t say anything, darling,” she replied with an affectionate pat on his hand.

Gideon found himself inexplicably charmed by their interplay, and privately hoped that his grandfather would convince Iva to marry him. He didn’t really understand her hesitation; but clearly, Iva Bergstrom was not a gold-digger in any way, shape, or form. She would be the senior Nath’s fourth wife—but she was so different from the other three women he’d wed—all of whom had been cut from the same brittle mold—that Gideon knew his grandfather would be perfectly happy.

They chatted about a number of topics as they waited for their food, and the owner of the restaurant stopped by to greet them.

“Gideon, this is Trib—the genius behind this place,” Iva said.

The restaurateur was a young fifty and had white-blond hair cut in a very short but fashionable style. He wore a poppy pink bowtie with robin’s egg pinstripes, and a crisp button-down shirt in a slightly darker shade of blue. A midnight blue sport coat and charcoal trousers completed his attire—and he managed to look like a Ralph Lauren model instead of an Easter egg. “What a pleasure to meet you,” Trib gushed, shaking Gideon’s hand. “I’ve heard so much about you from your grandfather and Iva.”

“If the food is as fantastic as it looks on the menu, and as enjoyable as the ambience, I guarantee I’ll be back,” Gideon replied. “Your wine list is very impressive.”

Trib preened a little. “I do my own sommelier work, and every vintage on it are ones I adore. The Barolo in particular is outstanding.”

Gideon smiled. “Either you’re very good at assessing your customers’ taste, or you cheated and asked what I ordered.” He lifted his glass of wine to indicate that he’d already ordered the Barolo.

“I’m just very good,” Trib replied with a wink, and Gideon realized belatedly that the man was flirting with him. Yikes.

He took a too-large sip of wine, nearly choking on the expensive vintage, as Iva eased in to the rescue. “Now, Trib, leave him alone. Poor Gideon is no match for you—and, charming as you are, you’re not exactly his type.”

“Story of my life,” Trib replied with mock dismay, and he and Iva chuckled gaily. Gideon, slightly mortified, looked at his grandfather, who seemed more confused than anything.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Tribune,” Iva replied, swatting at him affectionately. “You of the trail of manly broken hearts?”

“Well,” he said modestly. “I just haven’t found the right one yet. Pleasure to meet you, Gideon, truly. I hope the Barolo and your meal meet your expectations.”

And with that, Trib was blessedly off to visit and chat with other customers, as the restaurant was beginning to fill.

There was a moment of awkward silence as Gideon tried to assimilate the fact that a man had been flirting with him—in front of his grandfather. But just then, the server arrived with their meals, and the moment passed.

“So everything’s all wrapped up with the Valente estate, then, Gideon?” his grandfather said after the server walked away. “No…er…problems with any of the heirs? Nothing unusual?”

“No,” Gideon replied, looking at him carefully. “Did you expect there to be problems?” A sudden suspicion grabbed him. “That’s not why you ended your vacation early, is it? To check up on this—on me?”

As soon as he said it, Gideon realized he was being foolish. Why would his grandfather do that?

Gideon was not his father, and his grandfather trusted him implicitly.

Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses up and down on the bridge of his nose—a sign that he was uncomfortable—the older man replied, “Not at all, m’boy. It’s just—I always felt there was something not right about Valente, and, to be completely honest, I never liked the bastard one bit—even though he was a good—a hefty—client. I always felt like he had something to hide, something that lurked just below the surface…and what better time for it to come out than when he’s dead and gone, and his family is quibbling over the estate?”

“But the family didn’t quibble over the estate. There was no problem whatsoever with the reading of the will, no one contested anything or even hinted about it—even when they learned about Fi—Ms. Murphy’s bequest.”

Gideon Senior frowned as he eyed his salmon. “Yes, this Miss Murphy is a mystery. You say she didn’t even know who he was? What kind of idiot thing was Valente thinking?” He shook his head, his unruly silver hair gleaming in the low light of the restaurant.

“Not only did she not know who he was, but once I showed her his picture and she thought she remembered him, she commented about how sweet and kind the elderly man was.” Gideon took a sip of the very excellent Barolo as his grandfather’s jaw dropped.

“My goodness, Hollis,” Iva murmured. “What on earth is wrong?”

“Valente was as far from sweet and kind as a piranha is,” Gideon Senior informed her, ignoring the fact that he had a mouthful of food.

Clucking, Iva smoothed back a white curl and smiled with mildness. “Now, Hollis, don’t tell me that even a piranha doesn’t have a soft, warm side—after all, look at you.”

Gideon vacillated between merely rolling his eyes and turning away from the sappy sentiment that now flowed between the young-at-heart lovers. Instead, he settled for taking another bite of the branzini he’d ordered.

“Regarding this Miss Murphy’s comment about Valente—as I was saying, is it so far-fetched that he might have a soft side? And that, for some reason, she coaxed it out of him? After all, it could just be that he interacted with people who didn’t bring out the best of him,” Iva continued.

Gideon looked at her in surprise. “Fiona said almost exactly the same thing,” he said.

“Fiona?” Iva asked delicately. But her blue eyes suddenly became very sharp.

Gideon’s face heated. “Fiona Murphy, the woman who inherited the shop.”

Just as he said this, he looked away and happened to see a cloud of auburn hair, thick and curly, on a woman whose back was to him at a table across the room. His heart gave an unnatural, off-rhythm thud, then returned to its normal pace as he forced himself back to the meal.

So what if she was eating at the same restaurant?

At a table with another man.

After he’d kissed her—only hours ago.

His fingers tightened around his fork as a wave of memory careened over him. That damn kiss. He’d tried to forget about it, but that hadn’t worked. Gideon glanced in her direction again, just in time to see her shift and toss her hair over her shoulder—and he realized it wasn’t Fiona after all.

He relaxed, and looked back to find his grandfather and Iva looking at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” he asked.

They glanced at each other, then at him. “No—you stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence,” Iva told him gently.

I did? He was damned if he could remember what he’d been saying.

“About this Fiona Murphy, who inherited the shop,” Iva said. She was suddenly watching him very closely. “The shop right here in Wicks Hollow, if I recall correctly. Up on Violet Way?”

Why did he feel like a bug under a microscope all of a sudden? His collar felt unexpectedly tight as he replied, “Yes. That’s the address.”

Then Iva cocked her head, looking very much like a little bird with her bright eyes…thinking. “Fiona Murphy…I wonder if she’s…” Her voice trailed off as she cocked her head to one side like an interested robin.

“What’s that, darling?” asked Gideon’s grandfather.

“Oh, mmm…nothing,” replied Iva in a faraway voice.

But there was a little curl to her smile and a speculative glint in her eyes that, for some inexplicable reason, made Gideon very nervous.

* * *

The following Friday morning, Fiona was humming “Good Day, Sunshine” when she let herself into the shop.

Over the last seven days, she’d enlisted Ethan, who was on sabbatical from the University of Chicago—along with her friends Winona, Tex, and Carl, who had come from Grand Rapids on their days off or in the evenings—to help her clean and reorganize the shop in preparation for its reopening. Even Gretchen had become marginally friendlier and less prone to swiping out with her claws—especially with Diana, on the one day she’d been able to get away from her law office to help.

Fiona and her friends had accomplished a surprising amount of work in the last week, and she had set the grand reopening for Tuesday: four days from now. The Grand Rapids Press had done a nice spread on her and the shop, which would be in this weekend’s Lifestyle section, and she was already getting calls and hits on a hastily-constructed website and social media platforms about Tuesday’s opening.

She felt as if she could actually do this.

Now, for the first time in a week, Fiona was alone when she stepped into her shop and closed the door behind her. She smiled, drawing in a deep, satisfied breath.

This experience was so much different than last Friday, the first time she’d stepped into the place.

No longer were there dust motes every time she moved, and gone was the musty smell of age—to be replaced by fresh lemon polish and a subtle hint of rosemary from the natural cleaning supplies she’d used. An essential oil diffuser had cast a cinnamon-eucalyptus blend into the air overnight to help eradicate the dull, dank scents. She’d replaced the brassy chimes with a more delicate and musical set she found much more pleasing to the ears—and had purchased at one of the shops in downtown Wicks Hollow. The proprietress had been thrilled to hear about the reopening of the store—which would be called Charmed Antiquity.

With the help of Carl, her friend with the antiques background, most of the stock had been priced and organized and she had a basic idea of what was worth dickering over, and what was worth selling at any price. She would be ready by Tuesday. No matter what.

She set her bag down and looked back into the depths of the shadowy shop and, with a little clutch of the heart, she saw: The lamp was on.

The lamp’s—she knew it had to be the lamp; the white one with the nubbly white base—glow was visible from the front of the store. Setting down her heavy leather bag, Fiona walked back slowly toward the little alcove, her heart thumping solidly, wildly, nauseatingly in her chest.

How?

She knew last night when she and Ethan had left, she’d turned off all the lights except for a small collection in the front windows to dissuade burglars.

So, how?

But there it was. The lamp was on, sending a small circle of light that followed the angles of the heavy walnut desk—no, Carl had called it a secretary—and the darkly-paneled wall behind it that rose up to the second floor.

The stillness of the shop ate into her bones, but this time, there was no chilly draft to raise the hair on her neck. She saw neither hide nor hair of Gretchen—which wasn’t unusual—but she did notice the shade wasn’t askew from being batted by a feline paw.

Trying to remain calm, she spoke aloud. “There’s got to be some kind of remote control or battery on this thing.” She pushed the heavy chair out of the way so that she could step closer to the desk. “It’s the only explanation.”

She dug around behind the desk, thinking perhaps someone had plugged in the cord during the last week of cleaning and reorganizing, and that somehow a short in the wire had maybe caused it to turn on…but as she looked down, following the cord to the side of the secretary, Fiona could see that it wasn’t plugged in.

Yet the light was still on.

“A battery pack. Somewhere—maybe it’s in the base.”

She tugged on the pull cord that turned the light off and on—or should have turned it off or on.

But the light didn’t change.

She pulled a few more times, a little desperately…

But nothing happened.

The bulb burned, steadily, mockingly.

Her hands grew slick as she picked up the lamp—hesitantly, to be sure—but there was no sign of a battery pack anywhere inside the base, or behind it, or under it.

There was nothing that could be construed as a remote control receiver either.

The Lamp was just…on.

“What is going on?” she whispered as she realized her hands were prickling and going numb. She was having a difficult time breathing.

Then suddenly, a blast, a full-fledged gust, of chill wind blasted over her, rifling the top of her hair.

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

Then she stumbled back from the alcove, panting as she moved toward the front of the shop. The smell of roses and cold staleness rushed through her, and the chill in the air froze her numb fingers.

Nearly sobbing deep in her throat, without looking back, without even hesitating, she opened the door.

The tinkling of the bells above barely registered as she rushed through the front entrance—and slammed into something solid.