Read Online Bliss by Hilary Fields - Free Book Online Page B

own way in. But why would this man have keys to Pauline’s business? Maybe people were just more neighborly around here than she was used to back in Manhattan?
    Asher dragged forth the heavy silver chain from his pocket, revealing a massive array of jangling keys at the end of it. Sera noticed that, similar to the one he wore about his neck, the chain was wrought from large, intricately scrolled silver links, handsome and masculine in design, yet with an almost musical flow. Before she could inquire into why he had the means to enter, he bounded up onto the porch ahead of them and wrestled with the locks, swinging open the door to Pauline’s House of Passion and gesturing with a flourish for them to precede him inside. Sera suppressed a little shudder of purely feminine awareness as she passed in front of him to enter the store, close enough to appreciate the scent of strong, healthy male—pheromones mixed with the sharper aromas of metal, oil, and wood. Tools of his trade, perhaps?
    â€œI’ll stay until you’re finished looking around so I can lock up for you after,” he offered, and Pauline nodded. Sera smiled her thanks, feeling as tongue-tied and awkward as a high school girl.
    Asher flipped on the lights for them, though it barely made a difference. There was precious little illumination to be had.
    Sera forgot pheromones momentarily as she gazed around at her aunt’s establishment. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Inside, the shop resembled nothing so much as a cozy Victorian tea parlor. Well, cozy verging on gloomy. Shawl-like draperies swaddled every window, and tasseled shades encased the low-wattage lamps scattered about the room. Dusty mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, half-filled with little figurines and knickknacks. Sera could barely make out the massive rafters and spacious expanse of smooth-planed pine floors that formed the framework of the shop. She could tell that the walls were whitewashed adobe, but the Southwestern flavor of the structure had been effectively smothered in kitsch and weighted down with heavy pieces of vintage-looking drawing room furniture. What was odd, however, wasn’t so much the décor as the fact that she saw little evidence of the “items” her aunt had so enthusiastically promoted over the years. Where were the Kama Sutra posters and Day-Glo sex toys? Where were the strawberry-flavored edible undies and belly-dancing costumes?
    â€œHuh,” she grunted, nonplussed. “Not at all what I expected. Pauline, what exactly were you selling here?”
    Pauline smiled wryly. “Well, not much, really.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “Some self-help books—my own and others’—and some videos. I stocked incense and massage oils, too—you know, the sort of aromatherapy stuff women like to pamper themselves with. We also carried some scarves and local trinkets for the tourists—you really can’t have a business in Santa Fe without ’em. Most months we didn’t even make enough to cover the rent, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of closing the shop. You see, my vision was of a collective or community center where women could come to be themselves, read about issues that pertained to them, have tea, and gossip. I mean, of course, there’s the back room ”—Pauline waved dismissively—“but really, Pauline’s House of Passion was always about empowering women and bringing them closer together. Over the years, my store’s been more like a neighborhood clubhouse than anything—a lot of the ladies coming by after hours on their way home from work to chat and catch up, bitch about their menfolk, that kind of thing. No offense, Ash.”
    â€œNone taken,” said their nonchalant next-door neighbor, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. “As I understand it, bitching is the sacred