In the rear of the shop, boxes and crates were stacked against the walls and on top of furniture, most of which were old tables or chests with nicks in them, or broken legs. The lamps were fewer, but he noticed work lights hanging over a long counter that held everything from screwdrivers, nuts, bolts, and hinges to Styrofoam cups, paper towels, papers, and masking tape.
He felt a whisper of movement behind him and turned to find Fiona approaching, a mass of keys jangling in her hand.
“It’s a mess back here, isn’t it?” she asked ruefully. “It looks as though Valente just brought new inventory in and left the old stuff, and all of its garbage, back here. I’m sure the fire marshal would have a field day if he or she came in.”
Shaking her head in exasperation, she gathered her hair back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, then released the mass of curls. He watched as they sprang back into her face, even more out of control than they’d been a moment before.
“I certainly have my work cut out for me,” she said, giving her head a sexy little shake as if to settle her hair back into place.
Gideon’s mouth had gone a little dry. “I—uh—hope you’re planning on hiring some help.”
She walked over to a door on the side wall and was busily trying, key-by-key, to find the right one. He switched on the work lights, and suddenly the area was lit by glaring fluorescent bulbs.
“Thank you,” she said without turning. “Yes, I’m definitely planning on hiring someone to help out—preferably someone who knows something about antiques, since I’m woefully ignorant. I have a friend in mind who might be able to help.” Her voice became muffled as she bent further over the keyhole. “…because I certainly can’t keep the shop closed until I learn enough about my merchandise to be able to sell and buy it, so if you know of anyone who might be interested, send them over.”
Finally, she stood upright. “Aha. Got it.”
He watched as she struggled to turn the key in a tarnished lock, and was just about to step forward to help when it pivoted slowly.
With an unladylike grunt that brought a smile to his face, Fiona forced the key until it clicked audibly. “Whew,” she murmured. “Note to self: replace lock.” She grasped the doorknob and struggled with it for a moment.
Gideon glanced down at his sportcoat and butter-soft Italian loafers, shrugged, and gently elbowed her out of the way. “Why don’t you let me try. It’s obviously stuck.”
Fiona gave him a look that implied she didn’t need his help, but nevertheless stepped out of the way. He turned the stubborn knob and pushed against the door. Nothing happened but a slight creak when it heaved within its jamb. Gideon used his shoulder to shove again, and was rewarded with a louder creak, followed by the groan of wood scraping against wood.
“It looks so much easier when they break in through a door on TV,” Fiona said with the light of laughter in her voice.
“One more time,” he muttered, and rammed his body sharply against the stubborn door.
It flew open and his momentum was so great that he lost his balance and stumbled through the doorway, landing in an inglorious heap on the floor. Boxes and other unidentifiable items rained down on him, grazing his head and landing in his lap. Dust and dirt swirled everywhere, thrown up by the force of the door opening, and cobwebs swooped into his face and hair.
He heard Fiona gasp, and saw her silhouette as she moved to stand in the open doorway, blocking the light, and looking down at him.
“Are—are you all—right?” she asked hesitantly, and he realized in a blaze of annoyance that she was struggling to contain a giggle.
Something fell on his head—fortunately, it was a small, empty box, and did nothing but dump more dust into his face—and that pushed her over the edge. She lost it and sagged against the doorway, looking down at him as she giggled uncontrollably. Her wild hair shook with violence, and her eyes glowed with humor.
Gideon clenched his teeth and struggled to pull to his feet just as Fiona reached down to offer a hand unsteady with the chuckles wracking her body.
He grabbed her slender fingers to steady himself, and in one brilliantly graceful movement that he would forever be thankful for, she lost her balance, knocking into his unstable crouch, and they tumbled back onto the floor of the storage room.
All of a sudden, his arms were full of a sweet-smelling, soft, feminine body that quaked with laughter and struggled to right itself as all the right curves on her were pressing into all the right places on him. In the light that poured into the room, he was able to see the way humor lit her face, and in an instant his annoyance melted away and then he was joining her chuckles.
When H. Gideon smiled—so close to her, suddenly so handsome—Fiona’s heart stopped and her breath caught, silencing her own giggles.
This was the first time she’d seen him relaxed. The air of perpetual annoyance disappeared from his face like a cloud lifting and the sharpness faded away. There was humor in his grey eyes—eyes that no longer looked like angry steel, but like the bluish-grey river—and his full lips became soft and sensual. The smile made all the difference, transforming him into a devastatingly attractive man without the tight collar and stiff professionalism that had been like a wall before.
That smile, that laughter, so casually bestowed, became Fiona’s undoing. She suddenly was aware that she was lying on a very attractive, very warm, very masculine specimen of man, and just as quickly, she began to scramble off him.
In her endeavor to escape, she got tangled in her skirts, then elbowed him in the abdomen. He grunted in a gasp for air, then those magnificent hands closed over her arms.
His unexpected embrace stilled her movements without pulling her closer, and, startled, she looked down to find his face mere inches from hers. His powerful thighs stilled under hers, and Fiona felt a shock of heat stab her, then rush up into her face. Her pulse was racing; surely he could see it in the side of her throat.
“What’s the hurry, Fiona?” he murmured, something like humor playing about the corners of his lips. “My clothes are already ruined.”
She gathered her wits. “But there’s still hope for my skirt.” Her heart was thudding madly in her chest, and her insides seemed to have melted into hot liquid.
She placed her hands on his chest to lift herself away, and felt the solid slabs of warm, firm muscle flex under the layer of coat and shirt as his hands slid to settle at her hips.
