The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3)

by Colleen Gleason

“All right,” he said with a lascivious grin, “let’s celebrate!”

  ________

  A long while later—thank goodness it was Sunday and neither Leslie nor Declan had to be anywhere today, and Stephanie was more than happy to be hanging out with the girlfriend with whom she’d spent the night—Leslie slipped lazily from her well-used bed.

  She looked down at the delicious man lying there, tumbled among the sheets with his dark hair glinting faintly red from the shaft of sunlight shining through the window. The broad, muscular shoulder, dusted with bronze freckles. The thick-lashed eyes, closed in repose. The slack jaw, unshaven and glinting red and gold and brown. The powerful, gentle, skilled hand curled on the sheet next to him.

  Her heart swelled, and she drew in a soft little hope that this would only be the first of many days like this.

  I’m totally falling for you, my blacksmith scout.

  She toddled off to shower, her legs still a little unsteady from all of the delightful “celebrating” they’d done…some of which had included her modeling the different necklaces.

  Whether the gems were real or not, it didn’t matter…for she’d found her own personal treasure in Declan Zyler.

  Leslie hummed and smiled the whole time she was in the shower, half expecting him to join her.

  Instead, when she came out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel and body swathed in a fluffy pink robe, she found Declan sitting up in her bed. He was reading.

  It wasn’t until she got closer that she realized just which book he was looking at, and she dove for it in an attempt to snatch it away.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he said, laughing as he held it out of her reach. The towel holding her hair slumped to the side and her robe gapped. “I found this on your bedside table. Love’s Forbidden Caress? I couldn’t help but look at it. And what should I discover, but the guy is a blacksmith.” He was laughing as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively while she tried to grab the old book from him.

  She gave up—his arms were too long—and collapsed on the bed next to him. “So, yeah. It’s one of my favorite books, okay?”

  “And it’s about a hot blacksmith?”

  She shoved at him because he sounded much too satisfied. “I found it one summer when I was in college. And I read it. A few times. So, yeah.” She glowered at him, challenging him to tease her about it.

  “Well, it looks pretty good so far. I mean, I’ve only gotten to the part when he takes her against the wall of the smithy—not very realistic, I’ll say, and really dangerous—but I can kind of see the attraction.”

  “That’s halfway through the book!” she exclaimed, trying once more to grab it from him. Her cheeks were burning.

  This time he acquiesced and let her have the book. “I was flipping through, looking for the good parts. I mean, with a cover like that, I knew there had to be good parts.”

  He smiled down at her, and there was deep warmth in his emerald eyes. “I’ve been waiting for a woman—notice I didn’t say girl—like you for a long time, Leslie…and apparently, you’ve been waiting for a blacksmith like me. So what do you say we really try and work this thing out?”

  She laughed, blossoming with happiness and warmth. “I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard in forever.”

  “Same here.” His eyes narrowed and settled on her thoughtfully. “And since I’m sure you know where all the good parts are, what say you read some of them to me…and then we can act them out?”

  _____

  _________

  _____

  A Brief Note About the town of Sematauk,

  and speakeasies in general…

  Those of you who’ve vacationed in Michigan might think the town named Sematauk sounds vaguely familiar—and you might be right.

  Sematauk, my fictional, touristy town set on Lake Michigan on the west side of the state, was inspired by one of my favorite vacation spots on Michigan’s “Left Coast”: the quirky, beautiful village of Saugatuck.

  A lovely little town filled with shops and old homes converted to bed-and-breakfasts, Saugatuck also boasts a big old mansion that once really was the get-away for a contemporary of Al Capone. In fact, there are a number of homes dotting the coastline of Lake Michigan, from Saugatuck to Traverse City to the north, that were hideaways for the gangsters of Chicago—which was only a few hours away by boat or auto.

  I once stayed in that old mansion (which is no longer open to the public), and not only was I given a tour of a basement speakeasy (not as well-hidden as the one Leslie and Declan find), but it was there that I learned about the fake-window trick to hide a liquor cabinet.

  I hope you enjoyed Leslie and Declan’s adventure as much as I did writing it!

  — Colleen Gleason

  February 2016

  * * *

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  More romantic suspense with a twist of the supernatural…

  NOW AVAILABLE!

  The Cards of Life and Death

  featuring the cane-wielding Helen Galliday

  playing match-maker and

  helping to solve a murder in

  Diana Iverson is a sharp, up and coming attorney with a logical, scientific mind and a handsome fiancé—until the rug is pulled out from under her feet and her life is upended.

  When her crazy Aunt Belinda dies, leaving her a big old house in Maine along with a box of Tarot cards, Diana takes the opportunity for a summer get-away far from the rat-race of Boston and the painful memories there. She doesn’t expect to meet up with Ethan Tannock, the handsome neighbor next door who seems to be some sort of eccentric ghost-buster—along with his big, black Labrador Retriever.

  But when the old house becomes the scene of vandalism and a number of break-ins, and it begins to appear as if Aunt Belinda’s death was not as it seemed, Diana finds that life isn’t always black and white and filled with logic.

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  * * *

  The Shop of Shades and Secrets

  featuring Fiona Murphy, Gideon Nath, and

  the spunky, ghost-loving Iva Nath

  When Fiona Murphy inherits a small antiques shop from an old man she met only once, she’s filled with surprise, confusion and delight—and a little bit of terror at having a new responsibility in a life she prefers to be free and easy.

  As she takes over ownership of the quaint shop, odd things begin to happen. Lights come on and off by themselves, even when they are unplugged…and there is a chilly breeze accompanied by the scent of roses even when the windows are closed.

  H. Gideon Nath, III, is the stiff and oh-so-proper attorney who helps settle Fiona’s inheritance, and despite her flightiness and fascination with all things New Age, he finds himself attracted to her against his better judgment.

  After she finds an unpleasant surprise in one of the shop’s closets, scares off an intruder in the store, and uses her skill at palmistry to read Gideon’s future--of which she seems to be a part--Fiona begins to realize that her free and easy life is about to change…whether she wants it to or not.

  * * *

  An excerpt from The Shop of Shades and Secrets:

  ONE

  “Fiona, there’s a call for you on line three.”

  Fiona Murphy looked down at the mass of papers on her desk, her overflowing in-box, and then turned a glare onto the telephone. This was exactly the reason she hated office jobs—other than the eight-to-five, sit-at-a-desk part.

  She flung the springy hair out of her eyes and over her shoulder and reached for the slim, black receiver. “This is Fiona Murphy,” she said, pushing her reading glasses back onto the bridge o
f her nose. It was vanity that made her squint most of the time when she looked at menus or the newspaper—whoever heard of a thirty-year-old needing reading glasses?—but when she was at work, and actually needed to see, she had no choice but to wear them.

  “Ms. Murphy, this is Gideon Nath,” came a smooth, professional male voice. “Legal counsel for the late Nevio Valente.”

  “The late Nevio Valente?” Fiona put down the sheaf of papers she’d been perusing and gave the caller her full attention.

  “I’m sorry if his death is a shock to you,” the voice went on crisply, “but—”

  “I probably would be shocked if I knew who Nevio Valente is—was,” Fiona admitted wryly, pushing her slipping glasses back up again. “But since I don’t—”

  “You don’t know him?” For the first time, the inflection of the voice changed from unruffled professionalism to show a hint of surprise.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Never even heard his name?”

  “N-no…well, the name sounds vaguely familiar. But he’s certainly not anyone I know. Knew.”

  “This is Fiona Murphy, of 4520 West Pine, Manayunk?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, this is Fiona Murphy and that is my address. You did call me,” she reminded him with levity in her voice, looking back down at her desk just as an advertising exec dropped a stack of bulging manila files into her in-box. Ugh.

  More reviews, more purchase approvals, more filing. Yet another reason she hated office jobs—that and the fact that she had to play office politics and actually smile at the woman who heaped more work on her desk.

  Mr. Nath continued. “Yes, well, it’s odd that you don’t know one of the wealthiest men in Philadelphia, who happened to name you in his will.” The voice sounded clipped, perhaps even offended, at her humor.

  “What are you talking about?” Fiona didn’t react in time, and the glasses slipped from her nose and clunked onto the desk.

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line that implied this phone call was taking too much of his time. “Ms. Murphy, perhaps you’d better come around to my office so we can discuss this in detail. I—”

  Then it hit her. “This is a joke, isn’t it?” She started laughing. Which of her friends had engineered this one? Dylan?

  “Ms. Murphy, much as I wish it were, believe me, it is not a joke.” The voice became even chillier and more pompous—which had the opposite effect on Fiona as he no doubt intended. She tried to suppress the laughter, but the man sounded like an automaton whose program had gone awry. She could picture him, sitting at a massive oaken desk, his own wire-rimmed glasses firmly entrenched on the bridge of his nose, just beneath thick, hairy brows with a few wiry grey hairs springing out like little spider legs. His glasses wouldn’t dare slip.

  “I think it would be best for you to come to my office so that we can discuss this in a more…succinct manner. Tomorrow at eleven?”

  She almost said yes, but the imp that always got her into trouble decided to be contrary. “No, I’m sorry, that won’t work for my schedule.” She made her voice match his in coolness. Unfortunately, hers came out sounding more nasal than smooth. She choked back a giggle.

  “Does Thursday at three-thirty work for you?” His voice was uber-polite and calm, and she could almost imagine him clenching his teeth.

  “Yes, I do believe that would work for me. See you then,” she said gaily, and hung up the phone.

  ~*~

  On Thursday, Fiona parked her VW bug at her favorite lot on South Street at three-fifteen, judging that the walk to Nath, Nath & Powell would be no more than ten minutes through the tree-lined streets of Society Hill. The day was warm, as was to be expected in Philadelphia in September, but a cool breeze from the Delaware River lifted the leaves that were just turning gold and red.

  The office was in a brick rowhouse situated along a line of similar buildings, all with ornate iron gates protecting the doorways. The gates at Nath, Nath & Powell were open, however, leading into a small alcove with a rounded-top door. Fiona rang the bell and, while she waited, took in the details of the entryway: the brick walk, the pots of brick-red impatiens that grew even in the cave-like alcove, the huge round knocker on the metal door.

  A buzz indicated that the door had been unlocked and she opened it, stepping into a narrow reception area. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair cut like Jane Lynch, looked up with a smile. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m Fiona Murphy to see Gideon Nath.”

  “Yes, one moment.” As she picked up the telephone, she looked up and asked, “Could I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Soda?”

  “No thanks…unless you have herbal tea?” Fiona took a seat on a large chair, arranging her flowing skirt neatly.

  “Ms. Murphy is here for Mr. Nath,” the receptionist was explaining into the phone. When she hung up, she rose. “I’m sorry, we don’t have any herbal tea. Sparkling water, perhaps?”

  Fiona nodded. “That would be perfect.”

  Another blond woman appeared, this one younger and taller, with an abundance of hair piled neatly at the back of her head. “Ms. Murphy, if you’ll follow me.”

  The receptionist smiled. “I’ll bring your drink back momentarily.”

  Just as Fiona had expected, Gideon Nath’s desk was indeed large, oak, and forbidding. He rose from behind it as she was gestured into the room and nodded to a chair placed in front of the desk. “Have a seat, please, Ms. Murphy.”

  She did so, inspecting him with the same frank curiosity as he was doing to her. Her mental picture couldn’t have been more far off, particularly since she hadn’t expected him to be so young. Nor was there a pair of eyeglasses or a wiry out-of-place eyebrow hair in sight.

  And though she might have pictured a young Gideon with honey-blond hair, he actually possessed a head of thick, dark waves. But his eyes were piercing grey, cool and bored, and his shoulders broad and well proportioned in his expensive suit. He held himself stiffly, as though controlling an urge to relax, and his mouth was set in a firm, business-like line.

  As she settled in a chair, shoving her bulky leather bag to the side, she noticed a nameplate on his desk: H. Gideon Nath, III. Of course she immediately wanted to know what the H stood for. Henry? Herbert?

  There were neat stacks of paper lined up to one side of the huge desktop, and three fountain pens in three ornate holders off to one corner. A powerful-looking laptop sat on a credenza behind him, along with a stack of files, two jump drives, and a charger for a cell phone.

  The young blond brought Fiona her sparkling water in a large goblet, then left her alone with the attorney.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked pleasantly after taking a sip from the bubbling water.

  H. Gideon’s eyebrows drew together in a dark line. “I believe it’s more what I can do for you, Ms. Murphy. Er—before we proceed, may I see some identification?”

  “Of course.” Fiona gave him a bright smile that seemed to surprise him and flipped out her wallet to show her driver license. “Not the greatest picture,” she said, “but it’s me.”

  He took it with large, interesting hands and examined the small plastic card before returning it to her. “Thank you. Now,” he said, opening a manila folder on his desk, “let’s talk about this. You’ve been named in the will of Nevio Valente, and although there will be a formal reading in short order, I thought that under the circumstances, we should meet prior to that meeting.”

  “Circumstances?” She couldn’t help looking at his hands again. They were beautiful—elegant and tanned, not too big and bulky, but still appeared masculine and powerful.

  Now she knew what her mother meant when she said there were some hands that she couldn’t resist reading.

  He cleared his throat. “Er—yes. You being the only non-family member—other than a few charities—to be named in the will, and secondly, because you claim not to know who Mr. Valente was.” His gray gaz
e probed her face as if to reaffirm her claim.

  “I did a little research on the Internet after you called, but I was rather hoping you might be able to clear up some more details for me. I still don’t know why he would have left me anything in his will.”

  H. Gideon cleared his throat again and turned to a different folder—this one green—and sifted through its contents. He pulled a photo from within and placed it on the desk in front of Fiona.

  It took her a minute, but then she recognized the man. After all, she’d only met him once.

  “Now I know who he is,” she exclaimed, picking up the photo as she recognized the proprietor of the beautiful, lamp-filled antiques shop. “The only pictures I found online were older ones, when he was a lot younger. So he’s one of the wealthiest men in Philadelphia? He ran a little antiques shop just down a few blocks away from here, on South Street—I don’t even know the name of it. I went in there during a thunderstorm maybe two or three months ago. Just the one time.”

  She focused on the picture, remembering the day that she’d been entranced by the wondrous store. She’d spent over two hours there, wandering through, sitting at that large desk in the back of the shop, and then finally pausing to chat with the proprietor when it became clear that she couldn’t leave. She very nearly hadn’t been able to leave even after two hours, Fiona remembered. The shop had had such a hold on her, she felt so very comfortable—as if she belonged there. And the elderly man was sharp-eyed and interesting to talk to.

  In the end, she’d bought a cherry lamp accented with dark red and clear glass, with an ornate metal base in the shape of a sinuous cheetah. The lamp sat on the coffee table in her living room and gave off a mellow glow of light like that of the shop itself.