The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (40 page)

And then there are Aunt Belinda’s Tarot cards...which seem to be trying to tell her something from beyond the grave.

Diana began to walk up a slight incline to Main Street. It was early on Thursday morning, and although it was still early June, summer tourists were already
filling
the town.

After turning in her parcels at the post office, she made a beeline for a small cafe, whose painted sign proclaimed the availability of lattés and cappuccinos and espressos.
Real coffee!
Maybe this was a more civilized little town than she realized
.
Diana ordered a double cap to go and
continued
down the street, sipping the heavenly drink with relief.

It felt odd not to have to go anywhere or be on a schedule. And although there was work waiting for her back at Aunt Belinda’s—both professional and personal—the quaint town of Damariscotta lulled her into allowing herself a reprieve, and Diana strolled beyond the post office and past a small camera shop.

Next, there was a small structure set back from the sidewalk with a tiny yard and an open, narrow doorway.
Used Books
, its sign read. Before she knew it, her feet had propelled her down the cracked and shifting sidewalk, up the single step, and into a musty bookshop.

An oscillating fan blew in the direction of the shop’s proprietor, who sat at a table laden with books and was surrounded by even more stacks and shelves of tomes upon tomes. The woman looked up, frowning slightly at Diana’s large paper cup, and said, “Hello. Let me know if I can help you find anything. The shelves go all the way into the back and up those stairs there.” Then, with a smile, she returned to her work.

“Thank you.” Diana walked past her, careful not to jostle a particularly tall stack of books, not exactly sure what she was looking for. She didn’t want to be rude and turn around before at least skimming through some of the shelves, so she pressed on to the back of the shop, noting the faded, curling handwritten labels on the shelves:
Fiction, Mystery, Science Fiction, Romance, History, Business, Biography, Religion,
and, finally, a newer tag that read
New Age.

Catching a glimpse of some of the books, which had titles like
Find the Angels in Your Life,
and
Out of Body Experiences for Everyone
, Diana rolled her eyes. Aunt Belinda would have a field day in this section.
Runes
, read another one,
Palmistry Made Easy
, and
The Tarot Explained
were lined up along with them.

Before she knew what she was doing, Diana reached for the last title. Setting her cup down on a half-empty shelf, she flipped through the yellowed pages of the book. They were brittle and stained with what looked like coffee, and several of the corners were torn off. She paused at a chapter entitled “The Major (or Greater) Arcana.”

She ignored the fact that her heart thumped wildly as she turned the fragile pages, and refused to consider why her fingers trembled.
The Fool, Number Zero. The Magician, Number One. The High Priestess, Number Two
.

“I never pegged you for a New-Ager,” drawled a voice from behind her.

Diana stifled a shriek and whirled, dropping the book. “You—you startled me,” she said to the man standing there.
Despite her shock, she noted his height (tall), his brown eyes (twinkling with humor), a
n
d his face (chiseled and incredibly handsome). The moisture evaporated from her mouth and sprang to her palms.

“I can see that.” He had bent down to retrieve the book. “Hmm …
The Tarot Explained
.” He straightened and offered it back to her. “Your aunt would be astonished.”

Diana didn’t take the book. Instead, she stared at him. Had they met? At the funeral, maybe? But then suddenly his voice and easy smile connected with her memory. “Oh, it’s
you
,” she said, at once recognizing Ethan Tannock. She couldn’t help that her tone was unenthusiastic.

And what else would he expect, having walked into her house uninvited
twice
?

He had shaved and cut his hair, and although it added years to her estimate of his age—he was definitely mid-thirties—it did wonders for his looks. His shorn face was very attractive, with high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. It made his eyes look bigger and darker, and his lips, which had settled into a sort of smirk, were no longer hidden by mustache overgrowth.

She swallowed hard, feeling suddenly at a loss in the presence of this tall, attractive stranger—who’d been in her house twice. Somehow now, especially in this small, crowded space, he seemed more intense, with more presence and confidence. Irritated with herself, she turned to pick up the cup of cappuccino.

A hand smoothed over that clean jaw line, then dropped to sling loosely on his hip. “I forgot you haven’t seen me shorn.” He continued to lean against the shelf, holding the book, and grinning down at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I was just—deep in thought.”

He glanced down at the book. “From everything your aunt has told me, I’m sure you aren’t really interested in the Tarot.”

The certainty and hint of accusation in his voice caused her to bristle and she pulled an invisible cloak of haughtiness around her for protection. “Although I can’t imagine why my aunt should be discussing me with you, I admit you’re right. I don’t believe in this foolishness.” Just how well
had
he known her aunt?

“Okay,” he shrugged. “Would you like me to put this back, or were you going to buy it?”

“
No
,” she said sharply, too quickly. “No.” She softened her tone, ignoring the throb that was just beginning to tom-tom at the back of her temples.
Not again.
Not here. Not in front of him—
again
.
“I wasn’t going to buy it. As I told you, I haven’t any use for it.”

“I’ll just put it away, then.” Ethan turned, sliding the book onto the shelf in an approximation of where it had been. “Hmm. Palmistry. My sister might like this,” he mused, pulling out the book next to it. Not that Fiona needed a book to tell her how to read palms—she was quite gifted in that regard, just like their mother. He, Ethan, was the one who didn’t possess any real sensitivity. Maybe it was a gender thing.

Holding the book, he glanced up
at
the woman in front of him and noticed that her face had seemed to tighten with pain. Clearly physical pain. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, shoving the book back onto the shelf.

“Yes,” she told him, obviously lying. Then, she looked up at him for the first time with honest eyes. Misery and pain showed in them. “No, actually, I’m not. I get these debilitating migraines, and—”

“What can I do for you?” he asked, taking her slim arm and urging her to sink into a well-worn armchair. She looked as if she were going to keel over, or else be violently ill. Or both.

“A glass of water,” she said in a thready voice. “I have medication in my bag.” Her brows furrowed and her mouth tightened with pain.

Ethan hurried to the front of the shop where Maggie sat going through her books. “Hey, Mag, I need a glass of water for Belinda’s niece—she’s got to take some medicine.” He slipped past her nod, into the private bathroom, and filled a small cup with water.

When he returned to Diana, she was reclining in the armchair, eyes closed. Her features were ashen and sharp. He pressed the water into her hand and she half sat up, drinking greedily. “Thanks. I’ll be better in a few minutes.” She sank back into the chair and closed her eyes.

He wondered what she had been doing, perusing a book on the Tarot when she professed non-belief, and he reflected on the combatant look in her eyes when she denied her interest in the cards. Had she come to recognize her Gift, or was she just interested in the cards because of her aunt? Or—the thought made him shudder—could she be considering selling Belinda’s cards or books?

He stood next to her, looking down at her lidded eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. The hardness had melted from her face, leaving only the starkness of pain over her classic, Grace Kelly features, and he was surprised by sudden raw attraction.

It wasn’t mere objective, appreciation of her beauty. The sizzle of attraction was strong enough to supersede the anger and irritation he felt toward someone who would ignore an old lady for years. Most of all, however, the surprise and inappropriateness of his reaction to her pissed him off.

Her eyelids fluttered and she opened them fully. “I’m sorry,” she said in a soft sort of groan that didn’t help his surge of awareness, “that one came on fast.” She looked a bit sleepy and bewildered, but as he offered her his hand, the glaze cleared from her eyes.

“Listen, Diana, why don’t you let me drive you home, hmm?” he heard himself say as a thought—a really clever, rather brilliant idea—popped into his head. He could tell she was about to refuse, which, he was later to reflect, might have been for the best.

B
ut then she surprised him and said, “That would be great. Really great.” Her smile was forced, but her gratitude seemed genuine.

He assisted her to her feet, but when he tried to support her by holding her arm, she slid out of his grasp and tottered toward the front of the bookstore. Ethan followed, mulling over the brilliant thought that had just lodged in his scientist’s brain.

One of his current research projects had originated from a conversation with Bee. She’d always asserted that her niece had psychic abilities, but, of course, denied them. And Ethan had been studying families where psychic aptitudes seemed to be more prevalent than the average—related either to genetics or a more open-minded philosophy. Recently, he had begun to focus on the psychological aspects of hereditary ESP and how it affected different people within a family.

Diana Iverson, with her black and white, logical ways and, according to Belinda, the suppression of her gift, would be a perfect subject to round out the study. He already had enough data on Belinda to compare the two of them. Or—his interest spiked higher—she could be a candidate for a different project, about how the suppression of precognitive abilities manifests itself physically.

The dimness had edged from her eyes by the time they came outside into the mellow Maine sunlight. Diana took a deep breath and Ethan’s gaze dropped automatically to the rising swell of her breasts outlined by the red shirt she wore. “I’m feeling better already,” she told him, and he drew his attention back to her wan face.

“I’ll drive you home anyway,” he told her firmly, holding out his hand for the keys. “Where are you parked?”

He thought a flicker of relief flitted across her face. She jerked her head to the right. “In the lot behind the drugstore. But what about you? How will you get home?”

He started across the street, forcing her to follow him. “I can walk home from your house and pick up my car later. Don’t worry about me.”

She was quiet in the car until he turned onto the narrow dirt road that led to their respective homes.
“I really appreciate this,” she said
.