Still, I'd never imagined a bookstore like this. The room was probably a hundred feet long and forty feet wide. The front half of the store opened all the way up to the roof, four stories or more. Though I couldn't make out the details, a busy mural was painted on the domed ceiling. Bookcases lined each level, from floor to molding. Behind elegant banisters, platform walkways permitted catwalk access on the second, third, and fourth levels. Ladders slid on oiled rollers from one section to the next.
The first floor had freestanding shelves arranged in wide aisles to my left, two seating cozies, and a cashier station to my right. I couldn't see what stretched beyond the rear balcony on the upper floors but I guessed more books and perhaps some of those baubles the sign mentioned.
There wasn't a soul in sight.
"Hello!" I called, spinning in a circle, drinking it in. A bookstore like this was a fabulous find, a great end to an otherwise awful day. While I waited for my taxi, I'd browse for new reads. "Hello, is anyone here?"
"Be with you in a trice, dear," a woman's voice floated from the rear of the store.
I heard the soft murmur of voices, a woman's and a man's, then heels clacking across a hardwood floor.
The full-bosomed, elegant woman who came into view had once been stunning in the way of movie-star divas of old. In her early fifties now, her sleek dark hair was gathered back in a chignon from a pale-skinned, classic-boned face. Though time and gravity had traced the supple skin of youth with the lines of fine parchment and creased her brow, this woman would always be beautiful, right up to the day she died. She wore a long tailored gray skirt and a gauzy linen blouse that flattered her voluptuous figure and revealed a hint of a lacy bra beneath. Lustrous pearls glowed softly at her neck, wrist, and ears. "I'm Fiona. Is there something I can help you find, dear?"
"I was hoping I could use your phone to call a taxi. Of course, I'll buy something too," I added hastily. Many of the local businesses posted placards advising that phones and bathrooms were only for paying customers.
She smiled. "No need for that, dear, unless you wish. Certainly, you may use our phone."
After paging through the phone book and dialing up a cab, I set off to make good use of my twenty-minute wait, collecting two thrillers, the latest Janet Evanovich, and a fashion magazine. While Fiona was ringing me up, I decided to try a stab in the dark, figuring anyone who worked with so many books surely knew a little of something about a lot of everything.
"I've been trying to find out what a word means but I'm not sure what language it's in, or even if I'm saying it right," I told her.
She scanned the last of my books and told me the total. "What word would that be, dear?"
I glanced down, rummaging in my purse for my credit card. Books weren't in my budget and I was going to have to float them until I got back home. "Shi-sadu. At least that's what I think it is." I found my wallet, withdrew my Visa, and glanced up at her again. She'd gone still and looked white as a ghost.
"I've never heard of it. Why are you looking for it?" she said tightly.
I blinked. "Who said I was looking for it?" I hadn't said I was looking for it. I'd just asked what the word meant.
"Why else would you be asking?"
"I just wanted to know what it means," I said.
"Where did you hear of it?"
"Why do you care?" I knew I'd started to sound defensive, but really, what was her deal? The word obviously meant something to her. Why wouldn't she tell me? "Look, this is really important."
"How important?" she said.
What did she want? Money? That could be a problem. "Very."
She looked beyond me, over my shoulder, and uttered a single word like a benediction. "Jericho."
"Jericho?" I echoed, not following. "You mean the ancient city?"
"Jericho Barrens," a rich, cultured male voice said behind me. "And you are?" Not an Irish accent. No idea what kind of accent it was, though.
I turned, with my name perched on the tip of my tongue, but it didn't make it out. No wonder Fiona had said his name like that. I gave myself a brisk inward shake and stuck out my hand. "MacKayla, but most people call me Mac."
"Have you a surname, MacKayla?" He pressed my knuckles briefly to his lips and released my hand. My skin tingled where his mouth had been.
Was it my imagination or was his gaze predatory? I was afraid I was getting a little paranoid. It had been a long, odd day after an odder night. Ashford Journal headlines were beginning to form in my mind: Second Lane Sister Meets with Foul Play in Dublin Bookshop. "Just Mac is fine," I evaded.
"And what do you know of this shi-sadu, just Mac?"
"Nothing. That's why I was asking. What is it?"
"I have no idea," he said. "Where did you hear of it?"
"Can't remember. Why do you care?"
He crossed his arms.
I crossed mine too. Why were these people lying to me? What in the world was this thing I was asking about?
He studied me with his predator's gaze, assessing me from head to toe. I studied him back. He didn't just occupy space; he saturated it. The room had been full of books before, now it was full of him. About thirty, six foot two or three, he had dark hair, golden skin, and dark eyes. His features were strong, chiseled. I couldn't pinpoint his nationality any more than I could his accent; some kind of European crossed with Old World Mediterranean or maybe an ancestor with dark Gypsy blood. He wore an elegant, dark gray Italian suit, a crisp white shirt, and a muted patterned tie. He wasn't handsome. That was too calm a word. He was intensely masculine. He was sexual. He attracted. There was an omnipresent carnality about him, in his dark eyes, in his full mouth, in the way he stood. He was the kind of man I wouldn't flirt with in a million years.
A smile curved his mouth. It looked no nicer than he did, and I wasn't deluded by it for a moment.
"You know what it means," I told him. "Why don't you just tell me?"
"You know something about it, as well," he said. "Why not tell me?"
"I asked first." Childish maybe, but it was all I could think of. He didn't dignify it with a response. "I'll find out what I want to know one way or another," I said. If these people knew what it was, somewhere in Dublin somebody else did, too.
"As will I. Have no doubt of that, just Mac."
I gave him my frostiest look, much-practiced on drunk, randy patrons at The Brickyard. "Is that a threat?"
He stepped forward and I stiffened, but he merely reached past me, over my shoulder. When he moved back, he was holding my credit card. "Of course not"—he glanced down at my name—"Ms. Lane
. I see your Visa is drawn on SunTrust. Isn't that a southern U.S. bank?"
"Maybe." I snatched my card from his hand.
"What state in the South are you from?"
"Texas," I lied.
"Indeed. What brings you to Dublin?"
"None of your business."
"It became my business when you came into my establishment, inquiring about the shi-sadu."
"So you do know what it is! You just admitted it."
"I admit nothing. However, I will tell you this: You, Ms. Lane
, are in way over your head. Take my advice and extricate yourself while it's still possible."
"It's too late. I can't." His condescending high-handedness was making me mad. When I get mad, I dig my heels in right where I am.
"A pity. You won't last a week as sophomorically as you're bludgeoning about. Should you care to tell me what you know, I might be able to increase your odds of survival."
"Not a chance. Not unless you tell me what you know first."
He made an impatient sound and his eyes narrowed. "You bloody fool, you have no idea what you're—"
"Somebody in here call a cab?" The bells on the door jangled.
"I did," I shot over my shoulder.
Jericho Barrons actually made the faint beginnings of a lunge toward me, as if to physically restrain me. Until that moment, although aggression had charged the air and threat had been implied, there'd been nothing overt. I'd been aggravated, now I was a little afraid.
Our gazes locked and we stood a moment in that frozen tableau. I could almost see him calculating the importance—if any at all—of our sudden audience.
Then he gave me a faint sardonic smile and inclined his head as if to say, You win this time, Ms. Lane
. "Don't count on it twice," he murmured.
Saved by the bell, I snatched up my bag of books and backed away. I didn't take my eyes off Jericho Barrons until I was out the door.