The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (37 page)

“I still want to stop by the shop to see if my wallet’s there—is that all right with you?”

“Of course.” Fiona had forgotten about that detour. She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes in an effort to relax, already looking forward to slipping into bed and having a good cry.

It was only ten o’clock, but the streets near Charmed Antiquity were fairly empty because it was a Monday night, so Barnaby had no trouble finding an on-the-street parking spot half a block away from the store.

Fiona dug her keys from her handbag, wondering with a spur of apprehension whether The Lamp—Gretchen’s Lamp—would be playing any tricks tonight. It had never done so when anyone else was with her in the shop.

The little bell jingled when she opened the door, and she stepped over immediately to disarm the security system. After punching her code into the keypad, she turned on the closest lamp and watched as Barnaby walked toward the middle of the half-lit shop.

“Don’t turn on any more lights,” he said, turning to face her.

“What? Why n—” Fiona’s mouth stopped when she saw the gun pointing at her. “Barnaby?” Her stomach squeezed.

“We don’t need any more lights on in here.”

His face had metamorphosed into a mask that Fiona barely recognized. Even in the half-light, she read his expression: ugly and determined. “What’s going on? Why do you have a gun pointed at me?”

“I tried to do it the easy way, Fiona. Really I did. But nothing seemed to work out right.”

She didn’t know whether she should move or just stand there. That pale, glint of metal pointing at her didn’t help her focus on her choices…all it did was freeze her mind.

“What are you talking about, Barnaby? You don’t need the gun for anything. I’ll help you.” Fiona kept her voice calm and soothing as her brain began to function. “This won’t be good for your political career, you know,” she said reasonably.

“I tried to find it on my own…the stuff that Valente left. But you’ve hidden it so well that I couldn’t.” His words rambled and the tone of his voice sounded surprised and confused.

“Barnaby, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t hidden anything—”

“What is this about
hidden drawers?
You found those, didn’t you? What was in them?” He moved toward her, lurching as though his legs had numbed. The gun stayed steady, focused at her. “I heard you tell that old lady. Where are they?”

Fiona’s heart raced madly in her chest as Barnaby grabbed her arm, brandishing the gun much too close for her to breathe. “If you would tell me what it is you want, I’ll help you to find it.” She wanted to jerk her arm away, but resisted the urge. She’d have to find a way to talk him down.

His fingers dug into the bare flesh of her upper arm and he gave her a little shake—unexpected and sharp, so that her head snapped back and forward. “Valente had secrets, you know…you must know what they are, or he would never have left the shop to you. Now show me the hidden drawers.”

With a vicious shove, he propelled her away from him and she slammed hip-first into the edge of a table, then stumbled to the floor. A lamp on the table teetered, then fell off the table, landing with a crash. Fiona began to pull herself up as Barnaby came to stand over her, his stance threatening as he pointed the gun two inches from her forehead.

“Now, Fiona. Show me the hidden drawers.”

Her throat was too dry to swallow, though she tried. Her fingers had become numb with cold and fear, and she could barely make them move to clutch the table as she staggered to her feet. Her hip stung from ramming the edge of the table, and she’d ground her knee into a shard of glass as she struggled to stand.

“There’s a drawer in that big desk over there.” Fiona kept her voice steady and cool, despite the reality that had begun to set in.

Barnaby was a political figure, in the public eye. He had a gun, and he wasn’t about to let anything ruin his chances at winning the election. She was sure he had no intention of letting her tell the tale of what happened here tonight, once he found what he was looking for. She was going to conveniently disappear.

“Valente was a criminal, you know, Fiona.” His words became conversational, now that it appeared that she was going to comply. “His real name was Kremer…Josef Kremer. Ever heard of him?”

Fiona gasped in spite of herself. “The Nazi war criminal? One of Hitler’s elite?” She gaped at Barnaby, who seemed to relish the moment. “Valente?”

“My great-uncle…yes, one of the most infamous, notorious anti-Semites in the history of the world.” He laughed, then prodded her with the gun. “The drawers please.”

She limped toward the back of the store. That explained why Valente had been blackmailed about the whereabouts of Josef Kremer….He was Kremer, and he couldn’t let anyone learn who he really was.

“Barnaby, I’m not going to tell anyone about your great-uncle,” she told him, pausing to turn and look back. “It’s not going to matt—”

“Get on!” He shoved her again, and this time she fell forward, flat on her cut knee, her palms slapping onto the floor. They stung and the sharp pain zipped up her arms. “I’m tired of you playing games with me—you pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, playing hard to get, toying with me….Well, tonight I’m going to take care of you and my uncle once and for all….no more waiting, no more games. Tonight, I’m in charge.”

~*~

It was after eleven o’clock when Gideon drove up to Fiona’s row house. The building sat, dark and quiet, and her Beetle gleamed faintly in the fogged moonlight.

He could still hardly believe it. He was free…free of an obligation that had torn at him, pulled at him for weeks. Thank God Leslie was the woman she was…thank God she’d told him the truth.

He’d never have left her if he wasn’t sure the baby wasn’t his, and was sure she really didn’t want to marry him. That was part of what made Gideon tick—the follow through, the responsibility…doing the Right Thing.

Now, he would have the chance to be with Fiona…if she would have him. He grimaced in the dark.

He would
make
her have him. He loved her. He’d fight for her—and be damned if he’d spend the rest of his life looking for a more suitable woman.

Fiona was the only one for him…despite her quirky ways and off-the-beat habits, he’d found what he needed. She’d brought fun and spontaneity into his life, and she’d even forced him to look beyond hiding his sketches in a drawer.

His dad had been right, Gideon reflected, flipping off the ignition. Damn him. First time in his entire life his father had actually acted like a father and given him something worthwhile to think about.

The sound of his car door slamming broke the silence of Fiona’s neighborhood. He hoped she hadn’t been lying to him when she said she wasn’t seeing Barnaby—if the guy was here with her, in the dark, Gideon would probably take him by the throat and toss him out of the house.

He jogged up the steps and knocked on the door.

He waited a long time, but no one answered. He knocked again, and pulled out his cell phone to call her land line, then listened to the faint sound of the phone ringing inside.

She definitely wasn’t home.

And if she wasn’t home, she was with Barnaby.

Gideon felt sick. He hoped she wasn’t angry enough at him to do something foolish…like go home with that smarmy politician.

He trudged down the steps and slid back into his car. Time to go home.

~*~

Fiona’s fingers shook as she fumbled the spring on the hidden drawer to show Barnaby, who bent close enough that his fading cologne nauseated her. She’d never be able to smell Hot Water again without wanting to puke.

If she lived to smell
anything
again.

“There’s nothing in here,” he growled, jabbing her shoulder with the gun barrel. “Where’s the journal? The bank book?”

His eyes darted about like fleas, hopping from Fiona to the desk to the gun. “Where are they?” He yanked her to her feet and she tripped over the hem of her gown, staggering into him. He pushed her away and she fell again, the weight of her piled-up hair sagging to one side.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barnaby. I haven’t seen anything like that, I swear it.” Panic began to dart through her, muzzing her brain and numbing her face. The man was insane.

“I know he left them for you. There must be another hiding place. Get up…unless you want to take a break?” The leer that fixed on his face suddenly transformed his eyes from glassy to intent. “You’ve been teasing me for months…if you want to take a break to make that up to me right now, I certainly wouldn’t mind that.” His expression was lascivious as he stood over her, gun aimed at her head, one hand on the fastening of his trousers.

Fiona pushed back the surge of nausea. She looked up at him, braced by her hands behind her on the floor, sprawled in a pool of sequined gown. Now her intense reaction to reading his palm made sense.

He stepped closer, one foot planting in the center of the material of her gown, holding it—and her—in place. “We’ll have a little bit of fun, then we’ll get back to work. I’m sure by that time, you’ll be much more accommodating.” He laughed, and it was nothing like the polite, gentle chuckles she’d heard from his politician persona. This was a deep, roiling, nasty laugh.

What had happened to change him so quickly from the polite, debonair politician to this half-mad, leering person?

All at once her attention was drawn to The Lamp where it sat on the walnut desk behind Barnaby. It glowed a soft color and then went out abruptly. An idea crystallized in Fiona’s mind.

“I think you should know—there’s a ghost here,” she told him, making her eyes wide and fearful. “Gretchen’s ghost.”

He laughed again. “Don’t be frightened, my dear. You’ve been wanting this for months.” He bent toward her, menace in his eyes, and suddenly there was a loud crash.

Fiona, who’d half been expecting something, started, but Barnaby jolted as though he’d been pushed. He whirled around to look beyond the desk, into the darkness, where the sound had come from.

Just then, The Lamp came on, glowing whiter and brighter than Fiona had ever seen it.

“What the he—” Barnaby’s words choked off when a palpable chill filtered through the air—sudden, subtle, but unmistakable. “What kind of game are you playing here?” He whirled back to Fiona, brandishing the gun, swinging sharply toward her.

She staggered to her feet just as he leapt on her. The gun smashed into her temple, pain exploded, and everything went black.

~*~

Gideon peered in the front window of Fiona’s shop. It looked as though a few lights glowed within, but there certainly wasn’t any sign that she and Barnaby were in there.

Glancing up the street, and then in the other direction, Gideon tried to make sense of the babbling phone call he’d just received from Iva. She’d reached him on his cell phone as he sat in his car on Fiona’s street, trying to decide whether to wait for her to come back…or whether he should go home and forget about where she might be.

“You have to find Fiona!” Iva had exclaimed without preamble as soon as he’d answered his phone. “She’s in danger!”

“What are you talking about?” Gideon asked, frowning, even as he turned the ignition on in his car. “Iva, you don’t need to play matchmaker any more. I’m going to—”