“But why not?” Fiona looked at him, training her big, Madeira-colored eyes on him. “I’d love to look at your hands.”
Her voice was a purr: intimate without being too suggestive, the depth of it meant for his ears only. He felt himself drowning in her gaze—right there in front of his grandfather and Iva in the middle of Trib’s.
Never mind that she was nearly begging to read his palm, for Christ’s sake, like some charlatan fortune-teller.
Never mind that she’d come from the back of the shop with Carl, the blond god, with her hair all mussed, sticking her combs back into place.
Never mind that she’d probably had fewer serious thoughts in her lifetime than his screwed-up father.
He just couldn’t resist her.
Avoiding his grandfather’s eyes, he set down the drink and extended his hand.
“You’re left-handed, yes?” she asked as her fingers closed over that hand. When he nodded, she continued, “Good.”
She held his hand, brushing her thumbs over the inside of his palm, right there in the restaurant…and he felt as though she were undressing him. There was something about the intimacy of fingers slowly, carefully touching fingers… Even though they’d kissed—their bodies smashed up against each other, every curve and hard plane outlined against the other…this was different. It was as though they’d never touched before.
She wasn’t unaffected either, if the faint trembling of her fingers was any indication. He felt the ridges of her fingertips, the finger pad whorls that made her Fiona—unique, odd, exciting Fiona—as they brushed over his own.
“It looks as though you’ll be marrying soon,” she said suddenly, breaking what had become—to him—a charged silence, but was in reality only moments of quiet. “And at least one child.”
He almost pulled his hand away as anger spurted through him. What the hell kind of game was she playing?
Iva nearly burst from her seat, barely able to contain herself, and he shot her a dark glare. “Don’t get all excited, Iva—she’s just telling you what you want to hear. Grandchildren, remember?”
Fiona remained cool, and her gaze continued steadily on him. “I’m just telling you what I see, Gideon.” Did he detect a hint of sadness in her gaze? Regret, perhaps? “Unless you’ve already been married?”
“No.” He snapped the word out and this time did start to pull his hand away. Her fingers held on and he relented, for, despite his anger, he liked the feel of her small, warm hand around his. And he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself by making a scene.
She bent to look at his palm again, her pale, slim fingers caressing the darker skin of his own flesh, straightening his digits with her thumbs, smoothing the underside of his hand where the skin was softer and more sensitive. Then she looked up at him, and he could see the surprise in her face. “Let me see your right hand,” she said, frowning slightly.
“What is it?” Iva asked, leaning forward.
“Nothing major…just one of those secrets I mentioned.” She was waiting for him to show her his other hand. “Since you’re left-handed, your left hand shows what you are or have been, while your right hand indicates potentials that may or may not have been realized.”
Gideon was just about to comply when he was saved, rescued from something that would certainly be uncomfortable, by the waiter serving their salads. By the time all of them received their plates, Gideon had firmly picked up a fork and knife—to keep his hands busy—and managed to swing the conversation to the success of the open house for the antiques shop.
The rest of the meal passed slowly but at least without further discomfort on his part. Fiona and Iva had hit it off famously, discussing things he knew nothing about—ta’i chi, aromatherapy,feng shuiand yoga.
Gideon Senior managed to bring up the Valente estate only once—when he casually asked, “How did you say you knew Nevio Valente, Fiona?”
She flickered a glance at Gideon as if to measure how she should respond, but replied, “Do you mean Gideon didn’t tell you? I believe I only met him once, when he came into the office where I worked.”
The older man shook his head, then dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Odd man, Valente was. Even odder for a crotchety old bastard—pardon me, ladies—to do something nice for anyone, let alone someone he didn’t know. Everything else going okay with the shop?” His eyes focused sharply on Fiona, and Gideon held his breath.
Don’t mention the light.
He couldn’t bear for the older couple to think she was a flake—talking about lit lamps that weren’t plugged in. Obviously, it was something that had rattled her—and, odd as she was, probably for good reason…but he wasn’t sure his grandfather would understand.
In order to forestall that from happening, he reached over and, resting his hand on top of hers, said, “Speaking of the shop, I’m sure you need to get back and get closed up for the night, hmm, Fiona?”
He ignored the frown directed at him by his grandfather and kept his attention on Fiona. He was ready to get out of there—away from the suggestive looks from Iva, but more importantly, away to where he could have Fiona to himself.
Heat shot through him, straight down through his belly, as he realized exactly how much he wanted to run off with her…and just what he would do when they did.
When his grandfather insisted on settling the bill—a legitimate business expense, since Fiona had been there—Gideon was able to get his wish. Less than ten minutes later, they were strolling up Pamela Avenue toward Violet Way.
As it was a Tuesday evening in October and after nine o’clock, the quaint streets were nearly empty and most of the windows had gone dark, except for eating establishments. Victorian-style streetlamps cast warm circles of orange-gold every block. On each corner was a small barrel planter spilling with rust, gold, and white mums. A banner strung over the main intersection of the town announced a large multi-class reunion. The air was smooth and almost warm, but there was still the bite of autumn in it.
