“Mr. van der Bloest, the contract can be revised,” Gideon repeated for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. He was able to keep his voice smooth, but the back of his jaw ached. “It’s not an unusual circumstance at all. It—”

A light tap on his door interrupted him, and, with an apologetic glance at the fussy, skinny man with him, he called, “Yes?”

Claire cracked the door and poked her silvery blond head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Murphy is here. She says she needs to see you as soon as possible.”

Gideon felt his heart lighten, and he almost smiled. But, then, remembering himself, he kept his face placid. He wasn’t surprised that she’d come crawling back…only that it had taken her a week to do so.

“We don’t have an appointment, do we, Claire? If not, then I’m afraid she’ll have to wait until I’m finished with Mr. van der Bloest—or come back at another time.” It wouldn’t do to give her the impression that she had the ability to get him to drop everything to see her—even though that was precisely what he most wanted to do.

Did he imagine it, or did Claire—his ultra-professional, poker-faced assistant—give him a nasty look? “Mr. Nath, she appears rather distressed….”

“She always looks that way.” Gideon waved it off with a casual gesture, but he felt a prickle of concern. He expected Claire to take that as a dismissal and to handle Fiona—as she did all of his other situations, but she did not.

“Mr. Nath, I apologize for belaboring this,” she cast a smile at the fidgeting Mr. van der Bloest, “but Ms. Murphy expressed her need to see you immediately…and if you weren’t available, she requested that I see her in to Mr. Nath, Senior.” The woman looked as though she’d actually tossed a trump card onto the table, a slight smugness playing about her face.

Gideon caught himself before he uttered the outraged exclamation that came to his lips. “I see.”

Apparently she wasn’t there to see him on a personal note—unless she was using his grandfather as a way to get to him. No, Gideon dismissed that thought immediately, Fiona was completely guileless. She wouldn’t do that.

Now concern washed over him, and he stood behind his desk. “Er—well, Claire, I—”

“I can certainly see to Mr. van der Bloest’s last minute items,” she stepped in smoothly. “I believe your meeting was almost over anyway.” She turned the full force of her attractive smile at the man, and Gideon saw the fussiness drain from his countenance to be replaced by a dazed, hungry look.

He nearly snorted. God help him if he ever got that look on his face in the presence of a woman.

“Yes. Please, if that’s all right with you, Mr. van der Bloest?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered.

Claire disappeared out the door, and moments later returned with Fiona. Both men rose from their seats—van der Bloest, whose jaw nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of both women in close proximity, and Gideon, who felt his whole body tighten when he saw how damn good she looked in jeans and a vintage Nirvana t-shirt.

It was skin-tight.

Then he saw her face and knew something was terribly wrong. When he turned to release his client from their meeting, and saw the man’s eyes fastened on the very well-defined breasts under the blue-gray shirt, Gideon could do nothing but pity the man.

“Thank you, Claire,” he said to his assistant, and reminded himself to give her another raise.

As soon as he shut the door behind them, he crossed over to Fiona, who’d begun to pace around the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Her face was white, and lines of worry etched around eyes that seemed dazed and lost.

“There’s a body in the shop.” Her voice came out rough and uneven, and her hand shook as she pushed a thick curl out of her face.

“What?” He caught her on one of her paces, taking her gently by the arms. “A body? Someone is dead? Someone broke in—”

“She’s definitely dead,” she said, shuddering. “All that’s left of her is a skeleton.” She took a deep breath and pressed her hand over her mouth.

“Why don’t you sit down.” He propelled her into a chair, then turned to his desk and jammed a finger into the intercom. “Helene, please, I need some—uh—sparkling water?” he glanced at Fiona to be sure, and she nodded absently. “Sparkling water, and…why don’t you bring a small brandy too.”

“I found a skeleton under the stairs—where that big desk used to sit,” she explained rapidly, as though it was a relief to get the words out. “It was boarded up under there—and when I pulled the wood away and looked in there, I saw a skeleton on the floor.”

“How—this is stupid that I’m asking this, but how do you know it’s a woman?”

“Her clothes are still on her.” Fiona shuddered once, hard. Then she seemed to lose the rest of her control and suddenly she was out of the chair and into his arms all at once. “I didn’t know what to do or who to call…so I came here.”

“You…drove all the way here from Wicks Hollow?” he said. Something inside him gave a little pittypat.

She came to me.

He smelled her hair and held her close, his mind working rapidly even as his body leapt and sizzled at the feeling of her against him. Feels so right. “Did you call Captain Longbow? What about Carl? Does he know?”

She shook her head against his shoulder, her curls tickling his chin. “No,” her voice was muffled. “I—I just got in the car and drove here.”

“All right, then. Let me wrap up a few things here and I’ll drive you back down. Then I can be there when you call the police.”

* * *

White bones glowed in the dim light, easily visible in the small closetlike room.

Gideon didn’t consider himself a squeamish person, but the sight of the skeleton, still clothed, collapsed against the wall, sent an uncomfortable ripple through his middle.

Her skull tilted back, empty sockets and gapping mouth yawning at the ceiling. One of her knees was somehow still propped upright and the other had fallen to the side, stretching her skirt like a canopy between them. Judging from the style of her dress, she appeared to have been there since the mid-fifties. A hat lay fallen to one side and its decoration of pale yellow feathers matched the trim on some other type of garment sitting in a crumpled heap next to it.

Gideon jumped slightly when something touched him from behind, but it was Fiona, coming to stand next to him at the gaping hole in the wall.

“Did you talk to the police?”

“Yes. Captain Longbow is on his way. I asked them not to use their sirens—it’s going to be bad enough having a cop parked in front of my shop so soon after my reopening.”

Fiona was calmer than she’d been when she first came to his office. Still, there was grief and shock in her eyes.

He started to reach for her, but she stepped away, putting distance between them. “Gideon.” Her voice was a soft warning, and she shook her head slightly.

A pang shot through his belly. He didn’t want her pulling away from him, keeping her distance, banning him from her life. The realization came quickly—its force a shock that actually made his eyes widen.

He wanted her, physically, sexually, of course…but her energy and casual personality intrigued him against his will, bringing an air of the unexpected into his staid world.

He realized that, in spite of himself, he enjoyed that about her.

And he wanted to know her.

That conclusion both lightened the regret that had clouded his life for the last week, and scared the hell out of him. He’d been playing the game of hard to get, carrying the need to be in control like a shield in front of him…but in that moment of clarity, he realized he couldn’t do that with Fiona.

She was too open, too honest…and crazy though it was, she had begun to insinuate herself into his mind. He couldn’t shake her loose.

That simple warning—the sound of her speaking his name—made something click inside him. He realized how foolish it would be to hold onto a non-relationship with Rachel just so that it didn’t appear he was capitulating to Fiona’s demands…and in the process, lose the opportunity to be with her.

To get to know her.

Just then, a knock at the front door—which still displayed the Closed sign—drew his attention.

He followed Fiona to the door, unable to help admiring the back view of her jeans.

“Captain Longbow. Thank you for coming.”

“This is Officer Helga van Hest,” the police chief said, introducing his companion. “She worked a few homicide cases in Detroit before moving back home to Wicks Hollow.”

A young woman in her late twenties, Helga was tall and toned, and wore a uniform that was pressed and creased and starched to within an inch of its life. Her honey-streaked blond hair was pinned back in a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck, and the smattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose did nothing to detract from the professionalism that exuded from her.

“Van Hest?” Fiona asked, shaking the woman’s hand. “Any relation to Orbra?”

“My grandmother,” replied Helga with a smile, then gestured to the yawning opening of the hidden room. “Because it’s a homicide, the sheriff will be here too, and we’ve got a forensics team on its way. We’re going to be here a while.”

“I understand,” Fiona said. “Though there’s not much left to her but bones.”

She showed them the hidden alcove, and Longbow and Gideon pried the rest of the boards away from the space under the stairs. Helga took photographs of the bones, and she and the captain searched the small area to be certain there weren’t any other items in there.

“Pretty obvious cause of death,” Longbow said, kneeling next to the skeleton.

“Massive head wound,” Helga said, crouching next to him. “Blow to the back of the head.”

Gideon felt Fiona give a little shudder, but she, too, looked down when Longbow gently tipped the skull forward—which clearly showed the injury at the back.

“The question will be accidental or murder,” Helga said, pulling to her feet. “And that will be up to forensics to determine.” She smoothed back her hair, which hadn’t moved that Gideon could see, and said, “You don’t have to stay here any longer than you want to, Ms. Murphy. We have everything we need from you, and to be honest, you look wiped.”

“Fiona,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll stay a little longer, then I’ll leave you to your work.”

Helga nodded. “Whenever you like, you’re free to leave. We’ll have you make a formal report tomorrow, once we have everything finished here.”

But Fiona stayed until nearly seven o’clock in the evening—until all of the police and detective personnel had filed out.

She was surprised to find that Gideon was still there. He’d been beside her all along, of course, fielding questions, helping Longbow and Helga, and keeping the peace in his own direct, structured way, and it felt natural for him to be there…but when the activity finally settled down hours later, Fiona realized that she should be surprised that he’d stayed.

“You’re so busy,” she said, suddenly feeling awkward now that they were alone in the store. “I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“I wouldn’t have left you to handle such a thing on your own.” He looked at her, and she felt the weight of desire in his gaze, warming her, but she also saw something softer there. Concern, and tenderness…not merely attraction or desire.

“Thank you, Gideon. I can’t imagine what sort of havoc being here today wreaked on your schedule.”

The truth was, when she found the skeleton, she’d had one coherent thought: get to Gideon.

In that instant, she’d forgotten her need to stay away from him, ignoring her resolve that, as attracted to him as she was, she couldn’t give in and share him with another woman. When she looked up at him now, and her attention rested on the planes of his face, gliding over the firm, manly chin and to his mouth, she felt that resolve falter.

“Let’s grab a bite to eat,” he suggested in a voice unsteady with some emotion. “Unless all this ruined your appetite.”

“Yes. That would be great.” Fiona seized on an opportunity to move past the heavy moment.

His car, so different from her tiny yellow Beetle, had butter soft leather seats that embraced her in comfort. It was a sleek black Mercedes, and it had been parked quite imperfectly in a slot in the back of the shop. She hadn’t noticed before, but now she couldn’t resist the opportunity to comment—after all, the mood had to lighten up soon or she was going to go mad at the thought: a skeleton in her closet!?—so she teased, “Nice parking job, Hollis Gideon.”

He paused in buckling his seatbelt and looked up at her from under a thick shock of hair. “I thought I told you not to call me Hollis,” he said dryly. “But why am I not surprised you still do?”

She grinned at him. “You shouldn’t be. I’m sassy that way.”

He looked at her and for a moment their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze. “You certainly are,” he murmured.

Then, abruptly he turned away and finished buckling his seatbelt. “So…since your car is still near my office, we should probably head back in the general direction of Grand Rapids.”

“Right.” She’d forgotten that salient point; he’d insisted on driving her back to Wicks Hollow. “What do you have in mind?”

“I could cook,” he replied casually. “Or we could go out somewhere.”

“What? This sounds suspiciously like a date,” she replied with an arched brow. And then she added, “You cook?”

“Yes, well, I usually wait at least a week after finding a skeleton in her closet before I ask a woman out, but I decided to make an exception in your case.”

Fiona stared at him. “Did you—just make a joke? You?”

Gideon frowned, tilting his head as though contemplating a deep thought. “Yes, I guess I did. Sorry about that. Now,” he turned to fit the key into the ignition, “what’s your preference? Eating in or eating out?”

“Depends what you’re cooking,” she replied, still staring at him.

The decision was made. “My house.” He started the car with a low purr and the Mercedes slid onto the street.

Suddenly, Fiona panicked, picturing them at his house, enjoying an intimate meal, picking up where they’d left off…. “Gideon, I don’t think—”

He glanced at her, his face inscrutable as the streetlights flickered over his features. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Fiona. I’m not planning to jump your bones or any—ouch!” He directed a definite glare on her and rubbed the arm where she’d smacked him.

“That was two too many jokes in as many minutes,” she said, giggling. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, Hollis Gideon.”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop. I probably used up my quota of jokes for the week anyway.” And then his frown turned into that devastating smile of his. He grinned at her and Fiona nearly swooned right there. She was saved from making a fool out of herself when he floored the car, zooming along the entrance ramp and onto the highway.

She was still slightly unsettled from the effect of his sensual mouth curving in such an unfamiliar manner when they pulled into his garage and he stepped around to help her out of the car. She slipped past him, afraid to let him touch her even in the most innocent of ways.

This was going to be a tortuous meal.

* * *

Gideon waited until she was sitting on a bar stool at the counter in his kitchen before telling her.

“Wine?” he asked, pulling two balloon glasses down from a cupboard and setting them on the counter between them.

“Sure.”

He could tell she was nervous—like a cat ready to spring—and he was pretty certain it was only partially due to the heap of bones in her shop. He forced himself to be nonchalant as he poured the smoky garnet wine into the glasses. He handed her one rounded goblet and raised his own in a slight toast.

“To skeletons…and to us. We’re going to be magnificent.” He caught and held her eyes firmly as he sipped the rich Cabernet, looking at her from over the rim of his glass so that she would be in no doubt of what he meant.

Fiona took a drink and set her glass down quickly. “Gideon,” she began, her voice surprisingly firm for the consternation she must have felt. “You can’t seduce me. I won’t let you.”

“No, Fiona…I’m going to let you seduce me. But first….”

He paused, reaching to cover her sexy, parted, angry mouth with two fingers. Her lips were plump and warm, and he felt their faint moisture as he pressed lightly against them.

“Let me tell you one thing: there is nothing between Rachel and me. What there was, was convenient, occasional sex when we both wanted it, and an agreement to act as each other’s escort at certain functions. That’s it, that’s all it ever has been, that’s all I ever wanted, and now it’s over. It’s been over, except for the escorting part.”

“Oh.” Fiona settled back onto the counter stool from where she’d half risen in irritation and just looked at him. She took another sip of wine, narrowing her eyes as she glowered over the rim. “And what makes you think I’m going to believe that convenient story?”

He settled on his elbows across the counter from her, and, leaning toward her, stared into her eyes. “Because you want to. And…because I don’t lie.” The words came from deep inside him, laced with some emotion he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. But he knew it was vital that she believe him.

She looked back at him, her eyes clear and steady, and he felt prickles of awareness travel up his spine. The situation couldn’t be more innocent, for a whole expanse of counter yawned between them, but tension zinged through the air as they gazed at each other.

Finally, she spoke. “Let me see your hand.” Resting her own palm on the counter, she opened her fingers to take his.

He obligingly offered his hand, and the prickles turned into a surge of heat when she began to examine the lines on his palm with her delicate, beringed fingers: tracing, smoothing over them with the pads of her fingers as she’d done in the restaurant. What did she think she’d see there? Whether he was telling the truth?

At last, she released his hand and returned hers to clasp the wineglass. She caught his gaze with her own, and he saw that her lids had dropped slightly, giving her a sensual, come hither look that set his blood racing to a particular, throbbing location. She smiled very slowly. “All right.”

He started to come around from his side of the counter, wanting only to yank her into his arms and dispose of that horrible t-shirt…among other various items of clothing.

“When are you going to show me your art?”

Her words, low and warm, stopped him cold three feet away. “What?” He stared at her, visions of having her sprawled on the stone counter scattering with the rest of his thoughts.

“You’re an artist, Gideon. I’d like to see your work. While you make us something to eat.” Her face was the picture of innocent interest, but he saw the way the corners of her mouth curled up in a smug smile.

“How…never mind.” He stared at her, fighting within himself the fear of exposing that part of him to someone he didn’t know well, but, who, it seemed, knew him even better than he could have imagined. He had no choice. “They’re in the den—my most recent ones. In the big drawer in the desk.”

She slid off the stool, brushing past him, sauntering out of the room as though she hadn’t just escaped being laid on his countertop. He watched her go, knowing he’d just lost the upper hand in this tête-à-tête…and wondering what she would do next to catch him off guard.

Then his stomach squeezed as he realized she would be looking at his work. He knew the drawings weren’t bad…but would she think they were good? Gideon took a healthy drink of wine and forced himself to open the refrigerator. Better to keep his mind occupied with tasks other than Fiona Murphy’s reaction to his most personal items.

He’d rubbed two filets with garlic and cracked peppercorns when she wandered back into the kitchen. “Something smells good,” she said casually, and he heard her slide onto the stool behind him.

Gideon forced himself to remain focused on preparing the steaks, refusing to turn to face her for fear he’d see disinterest, or even antipathy, for his work. A rejection of his creativity would also be a rejection of himself. “How do you like your steak?” he asked as he turned.

“Steak? Oh.”

He looked over to see that she was biting her lower lip. “Oh?” he repeated, standing there with two beautiful filets mignon on a plate—one-inch-thick, perfect dark pink steaks that would just round out that Cab he’d opened.

“I’m vegetarian,” she confessed, her eyes wide and apprehensive. “But I—”

Gideon, who considered himself the most patient of men, would have thrown up his hands in defeat if he hadn’t been holding the steaks. Perhaps he should just give up on this—on trying to connect with a palm reading, esoteric, disorganized New-Ager who didn’t know how to enjoy a good steak. How the hell did he think they could ever get over their differences enough to find their way to bed?

“How about some pasta, then?” he replied, eyeing the rich, aromatic steaks with regret. This was definitely not going as planned.

“Pasta is fine, but I…oh, Gideon, I’m sorry,” she wailed in frustration, “the truth is, I have a real weakness for filet…I can’t resist it…even though I haven’t had red meat regularly for years…or, well, at least since last New Year’s….”

He stared at her, more baffled than ever. She was a vegetarian with a weakness for filet mignon? Did that mean she would eat the steak…or not? He was almost afraid to ask.

Fiona rested her head in her folded arms, wondering why she couldn’t stop babbling such nonsense. She was making a complete idiot out of herself. “I’d love to eat the steak,” she managed to say, her voice muffled. “Medium.”

She was afraid to look up and see the incredulous expression that must be plastered on his face. She’d been as nervous as a cat since arriving at his home…and that tension had just about set her heart to choking her when he made his blithe announcement that there was nothing between him and Rachel. It had been all she could do to seize the opportunity to get away from him—from the chemistry that sizzled between them, from those hungry eyes that did not rest from taking her measure—and escape into the den.

And then when she saw his drawings, Fiona had been moved…and more unnerved than ever. The monochrome sketches were bold and expressive, almost alive.

And she’d recognized herself in two of them. Yes, she’d recognized herself—but as he saw her, and that made her stomach flutter even more. How could she possibly be—live up to—match?—that siren-like, sensual woman he’d drawn, with hooded, bedroom eyes and wild, erotic hair?

When she raised her head at last, her cheeks heavy and warm from being huddled in her arms, she first saw the heavy chopping board in front of her on the counter. As she watched silently, unwilling to speak, Gideon sharpened a serious looking knife and began to chop tomatoes and cucumbers into bite sized cubes.

“I love your drawings.”

The rhythm of his knife slowed, then sped up. He didn’t speak, and didn’t look at her—and it confirmed her suspicion that the artwork meant much more to him than he’d readily admit.

“They’re full of emotion—simple emotion. Raw. I love that with only a few strokes, you can make a picture say something.”

“Thanks.” His response, brief, short, tried to be nonchalant, but it failed. She heard the underlying notes of relief and delight and smiled inside herself. Sensitivity was a good thing in a man. Especially one who informed her that she was going to seduce him.

She became quiet again, watching him. As always, she was fascinated by his hands, and admired the long, tanned fingers sprinkled with fine black hairs. She watched the tendons shift on the back of them, giving texture and life to his hands, and admired the solidness of his angular wrists.

“Have you ever thought about exhibiting?” Fiona sensed that she’d inched her way out onto a limb, but if she was going to make love to the man…well, she felt she had the right to get to know him.

At that, Gideon snapped up his head to look at her. “Exhibit? My work?” The stark horror in his eyes threw her for a loop. “I would never even consider that.”

“Why in the world not? They’re definitely good enough. With some nice matting and frames, you could easily sell them.”

“Absolutely not. I’m an attorney, not an artist.”

Fiona arched her brows. Keeping her voice gentle, for she realized that this was some kind of red-hot button for him, she reminded him, “They’re not mutually-exclusive.”

“To me they are.” His mouth drew up firmly, and Fiona decided it would be wise to stop there. She could pursue the issue later.

She wanted to end with one last comment though. “I think they’re beautiful, and if you ever wanted to gift me with one of them, I would be very flattered.”

“How did you know about my work?”

She smiled, resisting the urge to reach across the counter and touch his hands. “The lines on your palms told me you had artistic abilities—but since they were fainter on your left, dominant, hand, I suspected that you’d pushed the urge to create aside, in favor of more structured pursuits.”

Her guess had paid off not only by being accurate, but also by catching him off guard and giving Fiona a chance to catch her breath—away from him, in the den.

She’d come back into the kitchen, knowing she was going to have to play this cool, or she’d be lost in no time—succumbing to the strong attraction she knew sizzled between them, and very likely losing her own self control.

Being out of control was not something she was willing to risk.