Read The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) Online
Authors: Colleen Gleason
The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (2 page)
She did so, inspecting him with the same frank curiosity as he was doing to her. Her mental picture couldn’t have been more far off, particularly since she hadn’t expected him to be so young. Nor was there a pair of eyeglasses or a wiry out-of-place eyebrow hair in sight.
And though she might have pictured a young Gideon with honey-blond hair, he actually possessed a head of thick, dark waves. But his eyes were piercing grey, cool and bored, and his shoulders broad and well proportioned in his expensive suit. He held himself stiffly, as though controlling an urge to relax, and his mouth was set in a firm, business-like line.
As she settled in a chair, shoving her bulky leather bag to the side, she noticed a nameplate on his desk: H. Gideon Nath, III. Of course she immediately wanted to know what the H stood for. Henry? Herbert?
There were neat stacks of paper lined up to one side of the huge desktop, and three fountain pens in three ornate holders off to one corner. A powerful-looking laptop sat on a credenza behind him, along with a stack of files, two jump drives, and a charger for a cell phone.
The young blond brought Fiona her sparkling water in a large goblet, then left her alone with the attorney.
“What can I do for you?” she asked pleasantly after taking a sip from the bubbling water.
H. Gideon’s eyebrows drew together in a dark line. “I believe it’s more what I can do for you, Ms. Murphy. Er—before we proceed, may I see some identification?”
“Of course.” Fiona gave him a bright smile that seemed to surprise him and flipped out her wallet to show her driver license. “Not the greatest picture,” she said, “but it’s me.”
He took it with large, interesting hands and examined the small plastic card before returning it to her. “Thank you. Now,” he said, opening a manila folder on his desk, “let’s talk about this. You’ve been named in the will of Nevio Valente, and although there will be a formal reading in short order, I thought that under the circumstances, we should meet prior to that meeting.”
“Circumstances?” She couldn’t help looking at his hands again. They were beautiful—elegant and tanned, not too big and bulky, but still appeared masculine and powerful.
Now she knew what her mother meant when she said there were some hands that she couldn’t resist reading.
He cleared his throat. “Er—yes. You being the only non-family member—other than a few charities—to be named in the will, and secondly, because you claim not to know who Mr. Valente was.” His gray gaze probed her face as if to reaffirm her claim.
“I did a little research on the Internet after you called, but I was rather hoping you might be able to clear up some more details for me. I still don’t know why he would have left me anything in his will.”
H. Gideon cleared his throat again and turned to a different folder—this one green—and sifted through its contents. He pulled a photo from within and placed it on the desk in front of Fiona.
It took her a minute, but then she recognized the man. After all, she’d only met him once.
“Now I know who he is,” she exclaimed, picking up the photo as she recognized the proprietor of the beautiful, lamp-filled antiques shop. “The only pictures I found online were older ones, when he was a lot younger. So
he’s
one of the wealthiest men in Philadelphia? He ran a little antiques shop just down a few blocks away from here, on South Street—I don’t even know the name of it. I went in there during a thunderstorm maybe two or three months ago. Just the one time.”
She focused on the picture, remembering the day that she’d been entranced by the wondrous store. She’d spent over two hours there, wandering through, sitting at that large desk in the back of the shop, and then finally pausing to chat with the proprietor when it became clear that she couldn’t leave. She very nearly hadn’t been able to leave even after two hours, Fiona remembered. The shop had had such a hold on her, she felt so very comfortable—as if she belonged there. And the elderly man was sharp-eyed and interesting to talk to.
In the end, she’d bought a cherry lamp accented with dark red and clear glass, with an ornate metal base in the shape of a sinuous cheetah. The lamp sat on the coffee table in her living room and gave off a mellow glow of light like that of the shop itself.
Fiona was drawn from her thoughts by a gentle throat clearing. She looked up into H. Gideon’s steel grey eyes and saw a flicker of impatience in them. “He was a very nice gentleman,” she told him, handing back the photo. “Kind and interesting. I’m sorry he’s passed on.”
H. Gideon’s lips twisted into something that may have passed for a wry smile, but looked more like he was swallowing his tongue. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard Mr. Valente described in such complimentary terms,” he told her. “Even by myself.”
Fiona cocked her head and looked at him. “Perhaps his demeanor was merely a reflection of the people around him,” she said, then settled back into her chair with her arms folded over her middle.
The dart struck home, and his lips tightened. She couldn’t suppress a smile, seeing his smooth, arrogant facade crack. The imp had hold of her now. For some reason, it had become a personal challenge for her to get the stick out from under
his behind.
At the same moment, Gideon was wondering just what he had done to get himself saddled with such a flighty, unapologetic female in the midst of this mess Valente had left him.
Not for the first time, he cursed his grandfather for falling so madly in love with his new wife that they’d chosen to take a three-month honeymoon on his yacht, leaving Gideon the Third as the only Nath available for the clients of Nath, Nath & Powell.
Gideon Senior could have had no inkling that the most eccentric—and wealthiest—of his clients would finally choose to drop dead at an age just shy of a hundred and one during the attorney’s sojourn through the Caribbean. Not that his demise hadn’t been long overdue, Gideon thought ruefully, remembering his impression of the stooped, rude man he’d met only twice.
And now here was this Fiona Murphy, who’d appeared from nowhere in the old man’s will.
From their phone conversation, he’d expected someone younger—in her late teens or early twenties. And with a name like Fiona Murphy, she should have been a leprechaun-like creature with springy carrot-colored hair and thousands of freckles.
Instead, according to her driver’s license, she was twenty-seven. And she had disconcerted him by being strikingly attractive, with fair, translucent skin, a faint dust of freckles over high, well-defined cheekbones, and dark amber eyes. Somehow the character didn’t fit with the image, but no matter. He had to deal with her in whatever form she appeared, as per the last will and testament of Nevio Valente. He had no intention of making any missteps with his grandfather’s client—deceased though the client might be.
“So,” she was asking with a faint smile that implied a joke he had missed, “do I get to find out what he left me, or do I have to wait until the public reading of the will?”
The way she said “public reading of the will”—with a hint of condescension in her voice—made it sound like she was making fun of him, and Gideon tightened his jaw. He wished that there
wasn’t
going to be a formal reading, just so he could have cause to wipe that smirk off her face. And then he pulled his thoughts back, disconcerted by such a rash reaction.
“In fact,” he replied smoothly, “Mr. Valente did request that you attend the reading of the will. It won’t, however, be public,
per se
. Just for the family and other heirs. He also left this for you.” He slid a heavy cream-colored envelope across the table.
She hesitated, then reached for the packet. Her fingers were long and slim, with smooth pink nails and at least one ring on almost every finger. He thought perhaps they might have been trembling a bit, and when she looked up at him with an awkward smile, his suspicions were confirmed.
“It’s odd to get a letter from someone who is dead,” she commented.
Gideon didn’t know how to respond, so he offered her the gold-plated letter opener from his desk. She was a curious woman: one moment, carefree and flighty, the next subdued and thoughtful.
Fiona took the opener and slipped it under the envelope’s flap. He watched as she pulled out a single sheet of matching cream paper—Nevio Valente’s personal stationery—and looked down at the spidery writing. She stared at it for a moment, peering, squinting, and then finally, with a rueful smile, began to dig in her huge leather bag.
Gideon found himself suppressing his own smile when she pulled a pair of brightly patterned cheaters from the depths of her bag and slipped them apologetically onto her nose. “Much better,” she murmured, looking back down at the letter.
There was silence for a moment as she read the letter, and Gideon directed his attention to the rest of the file on Fiona Murphy. Apparently, she’d made a purchase from Valente’s antiques shop, and he’d written up the sales receipt, complete with her name, address, and telephone number, and kept it on file as he did with all customers. But why would he mention her in his will after a simple purchase from his store? Particularly since he had many more customers who made regular, more costly ones?
Fiona looked up from the letter at last, and he saw that her dark amber eyes glistened. “Thank you. When is the reading scheduled? I’ll certainly plan to be there.”
“Tomorrow, at four o’clock. It will be here. I do hope your schedule can accommodate that time slot. Is…there anything I can get for you?” he felt compelled to ask in light of her obvious emotion.
“No thank you. Well, Mr. Nath, if there’s nothing else?” She gathered up her bag as if preparing to rise.
“No, no there isn’t, Ms. Murphy.” Gideon stood and extended his hand to shake hers. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening.”
She clasped his hand with a firmness that surprised him, and held it for a moment, looking down as though examining something fascinating.
“Such long fingers,” she murmured, then, as though remembering where she was, looked up at him, smiled. “Have a nice evening yourself.”
He stared after her when she left, flowing skirts and gypsy hair, suddenly feeling like he’d been blindsided by the sun.
Chapter Two
The reading of the will was as tedious and boring as Fiona had anticipated. She sipped from a goblet of sparkling water studded with a lemon wedge and surveyed the cluster of people around the great mahogany table. There were only four people other than H. Gideon Nath, III, and his blond assistant, whose name, she’d learned, was Claire.
The rest were somehow related to Nevio Valente, and Fiona spent her time observing them as H. Gideon droned on, reading the long document left by Mr. Valente.
There was Barnaby Forth, the youngest of the bunch, who appeared to be a grandson or grandnephew of the deceased—she hadn’t quite figured out which—and was not much older than Fiona herself. He wore his designer suit with the same confidence and air of professionalism as Nath, and constantly cast his gaze in her direction. His dark brown hair was brushed back from a handsome, sharp-featured face with a cleft chin. He held one end of a marbled fountain pen between each forefinger and thumb, his short fingers spread gracefully on the boardroom table. Square index fingers, Fiona noticed automatically. Must be a lawyer or accountant. And he looked vaguely familiar.
Next to him sat an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. He had dark hair, the exact color of which was uncertain because it was slicked back with some sort of gel, and it was a bit too long so that it curled up wetly at the nape of his neck. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that settled into little indentations in his pudgy cheeks and had spatulate, manicured fingernails that gleamed while he played with a gold-plated fountain pen. Fiona had heard him introduce himself as Arnold Sternan, and, judging from his age, he was probably a son or nephew of Nevio Valente.
