The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (25 page)

She nodded. “I am—I’m happy for you. I hope this is something…good for you.” She wiped her eye with a forefinger, and Gideon felt his heart sink.

The blare of a horn behind them jerked his attention to the front, and he saw the green light. He jabbed the accelerator and they leapt forward. “Dammit, Les, I’m sorry. I—”

“No, Gideon, it’s not you. Honest. I’m sorry—I’m just…emotional.”

“What’s going on?”

She rested her head back against the headrest and spoke through a definitely weepy voice. “I’m just under a lot of stress from the IPO, and work, and…to tell the truth…I always thought it was going to be me who found someone and wanted to end it.” And with that, she burst into tears.

~*~

Fiona forced her eyes open to darkness broken only by irregular shafts of light. Her head screamed with throbbing pain, just above her left temple, and the rest of her body was one big ache. And she couldn’t move.

She was tied, trussed like a turkey, arms behind her back, ankles lashed together, on her side…somewhere.

Something disgusting filled her mouth—a cloth—sopping up every bit of lubrication she might have had or mustered, and she couldn’t spit it out even if her tongue could have worked, for something like tape was stuck from jawbone to jawbone.

She closed her eyes, nausea flooding her, and prayed desperately that she wouldn’t have to vomit. Deep breaths, she told herself, repeating the mantra over and over, and tried to pull in soothing gulps of air, sprinkled with dust, through her nose. She didn’t allow herself to think of anything else until the danger of puking was past.

When her stomach finally settled, it was some time later. In fact, she may have weaved in and out of consciousness a few more times. The ache in her head had lessened, but the pain was now centered in her shoulders and wrists from her arms being pulled back. Fiona blinked several times while her eyes focused in the darkness. The same slashes of light fell awkwardly across the floor and over the wall, and that was when she recognized where she was.

Chills crept up her spine when she realized she was in the very spot where the skeleton had been found, and only the fact that there was light in the small alcove under the stairs told her that she hadn’t been boarded up in the darkness herself. Gulping back terror, her throat scratchy and dry, Fiona cleared a path through her addled mind and tried to calm down. She was alive, basically unhurt, and in her shop. Since there was filtering light, she knew she wasn’t enclosed in the closet. Whoever had done this must be gone, for there wasn’t enough illumination, or any sound, to indicate that someone might be there.

Using her elbows, she shifted and squirmed, rolling over to her other side. Now she could see out into the shop from under the stairs, and could see that all was still. She had no idea what time it was, but if the deep darkness that hung around the edges of the shop was any indication, it was the dead of night. The lamps she had come in to turn on were off, and only one light cast a pool of warmth into the shop…and it was, of course, The Lamp.

Fiona closed her eyes as terror welled inside her—cold chills sending wracking tremors through her body. She knew without a doubt that whoever had left her here had done so in the dark. She knew that with the same certainty that she knew the lamp was not plugged into the wall, even though it was illuminated.

Yet, nothing happened—nothing was going on. There were no breezes, no clinking of chandeliers, no flickering lights…all was still. Almost peaceful.

And, she told herself, grasping at one logical aspect: it was no ghost who’d bashed her on the head and tied her up. That had been the work of something very human. Her trembling lessened and she forced herself to breathe easier.

At the worst case, she would lie here on this cold, musty floor—at least it wasn’t dirty, thanks to the meticulousness of the forensic detectives earlier today—until tomorrow morning, when Dylan showed up for work…or, perhaps, that was the best case. After all, she had no idea whether her attacker would come back…or whether the ghost would have something to say about the situation.

Fiona shook her head hard, scraping it against the hardwood floor. She would not think that way. She would not. She would think about other things…nice things.

Clenching her hands, wriggling her fingers to keep the numbness at bay, she focused her thoughts on Gideon, and for a long moment, as she basked in the memories, warmth seeped through her. And then she remembered his phone call tonight, and, with a lurching stomach, realized that right now—at this very moment, whatever time it was—he could be with Leslie.

That path was not an attractive one for her mind to take, and she firmly steered it away.

She was just about to try and roll herself out of the closet in hopes of making her way to the phone when she heard a rattling at the front door. Tensing, fear shooting through her, Fiona followed her first instinct: to roll as quickly as she could back into the depths of the closet.

The door rattled again, then there was the telltale tinkling sound of the bells as it swung open. Her heart in her throat, Fiona inched her way into the farthest corner she could, out of the wavering light.

“Fiona?”

The sound of her name in a voice she recognized was enough to allow the tears to burst forth.

“Fiona, are you in here?”

She rolled again, this time toward the shop, out from under the stairs, as Dylan walked back into the shop, turning on lamps as he went. “Fiona!” He came to a screeching halt when he nearly stepped on her. “My God, what happened to you?”

In a flash, he was kneeling beside her, tearing the tape none-too-gently from her face and helping her to sit up. She couldn’t help the tears that gushed from her eyes, and her running nose, and she buried her face in his coat.

“Let me get something to cut you loose with, baby—I’ll be right back.” Dylan stood and hurried away, his dark trench coat fluttering behind him. He was back almost immediately with a packing knife, and made short work of the ropes.

Fiona could not stifle a groan as her arms were freed and fell forward back to her sides. Her wrists and shoulders screamed with pain, and her skin was chafed from the rough bonds. Her head still pounded, pain resonating through her forehead, and she reached up gingerly to touch the tender spot at her temple. When she tried to talk, to thank Dylan, nothing would come from her desert-dry mouth except a little mew.

In a flash, Dylan dashed away and was back with a cup of water, which she drank thirstily. “I’m going to call the police,” he said, heading for the desk phone as she gulped the water.

Fiona nodded, and, setting the cup aside, began to rub her ankles with numb fingers. “What are you doing here?” she croaked as he hung up the phone.

“I saw your car out front—I was on my way home—and when I realized that none of the lights were on in here, I thought that was funny because I knew you always left something on. When I opened the door, I nearly tripped over that big-ass bag of yours, so I knew something was wrong.”

She nodded wearily. “Thank God, or I’d have been stuck here all night.” Her voice was a little better now. “What time is it?”

He didn’t need to look at his watch. “About two-thirty.” He must have seen the surprise in her face, and the way she looked down over his coat. “The bars close at two, you know,” was all he said, and pulled away to stand up. “Let me take a look around and see if anything’s been taken.”

The police arrived, again, with screaming sirens, flashing badges, and official-looking clipboards. Fiona described her experience, acknowledging the fact that she was lucky to be relatively unhurt.

“But I will take her over to the emergency room to have her looked at,” Dylan said, giving her a defiant look that was very unlike him. “And she’s not coming to work tomorrow.”

Fiona did not protest, for she was no martyr—and her head still made the room spin when she tried to stand. In fact, she was more than glad to rest herself against Dylan’s solid body, his arm around her waist, as he helped her to his car.

“Ms. Murphy.” One of the officers hurried out after them, just as Dylan was ready to slam the door shut. “Ms. Murphy, have you seen this before?”

He handed her a white sheet of paper—it was the back of one of her invoices—and on it, someone had scrawled three ugly words:
You’ll be next
.

Chapter Thirteen

Nancy Drew never fainted, Fiona rebuked herself. No matter what she went through—whether it was being tied up and left in the path of a black widow spider or a scorpion, or thrown in an abandoned ski lodge—she never lost her consciousness…or her cookies.

Fiona rolled her eyes, crimping her mouth, disgusted with her own weakness. Having done both last night after seeing that note the police had found, she knew she was no Nancy Drew—nor did she want to be.

“Oh, good, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

Fiona turned her head around on her pillow to see Chris walk into the bedroom with a steaming pot of tea. “Not too bad,” she replied, struggling to sit upright. Crashing waves of pain in her temples slowed her movements, and she stifled a groan. “Actually, I feel like shit. Thanks.” She forced a wan smile.

“You don’t look much better either.” Chris gave her a sunny smile laced with concern. Dylan had insisted on calling someone to stay with Fiona last night—and although her first thought had been Gideon, she’d pushed that possibility away. It wouldn’t do to begin to rely on him at all. Besides, he might not even be at home.

She didn’t want to find out that he wasn’t at home at four in the morning.

“I’m sure I don’t.” The skin at her wrists, ankles, and jaw was raw and chapped, and she knew from when she was at the emergency room that the welt on her head gave her forehead an off-balance tilt. No doubt her hair was its usual scraggly mess, and God only knew what the rest of her face looked like.

“There was a message on your machine,” Chris said, pouring a cup of tea for her friend. “From Gideon?”

Fiona’s eyelids fluttered, but she held her hands steady when she took the teacup. “And?”

“He must have called last night and left a message for you to call him if you got home before midnight. I’m guessing he knew better than to try your cell, which, by the way, Dylan said was in one of the desk drawers in the shop with its battery dead.”

But Fiona wasn’t listening to her friend’s criticism. She felt a swell of something warm bubble in her stomach. Gideon hadn’t spent the night with Leslie. And he’d called her. She couldn’t help a smile as she sipped from the tea—chamomile, from the smell of it—as relief coursed through her.

“Is this Mr. Stiff-Ass, Gideon Nath the Third?” asked Chris, sitting on the edge of the bed with a curl of a smile about her bow-shaped lips.

“Yes.” Fiona couldn’t keep her own matching smile at bay. “And I guess he isn’t as stiff-assed as I first thought. Not at all.”

Just then, a loud pounding drew their attention. “I’ll find out who it is,” said Chris, starting out of the room. “Are you up for visitors?”

Fiona shrugged. “Depends who it is.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She drank her tea, staring out the window onto the streets of trendy Manayunk, willing the pain in her head to subside. She heard the front door slam shut, the sound of voices, then the heavy, purposeful footsteps heading toward her room.

“Fiona!” It was Gideon, and by the looks of it, he was furious.

“Speak of the devil,” Chris said dryly from the doorway.

“Well look who the cat dragged in.” Fiona tried for a nonchalant drawl, but with her raspy voice and surprise at seeing him, it sounded more like a husky invitation to join her in her bed. “Hello Gideon.” She saw Chris wink and back out of the room.