The Artisans by Julie Reece Page A

of Nathan’s dad with a woman. Not the blond beauty on the wall in the east wing, this woman is a redhead. She lacks the coldness and severity of Nathan’s second wife’s features, and has a sweet expression with laughing eyes. I doubt Gideon was born bitter and ruthless and he learned it from someone. Of the two people in the portrait above me, I’m going with his father.
    The room is flooded with pictures, trophies, and plaques dedicated to Judge Nathan Maddox, honors from other businessmen, awards for this and that. Daddy issues, much? I glance back up at the painting. Nathan is leaning toward his pretty young wife, his hands clasping hers in a possessive hold. How could she be happy married to a guy like that? She’s smiling, face radiating joy and contentment. I think I might have liked her. Maybe. She’s the only Maddox I can say that about.
    On the far wall are four more family portraits. Under each one is a title, name, and date. All judges starting with Judge Mathias Maddox 1863 to Magistrate A. K. Maddox 1948. They stare out with stern expressions on their handsome faces. I get the feeling the Maddox men have never been the warm fuzzy types.
    Who cares? I chastise myself. Find Edgar.
    The last place I look is beneath the desk. I don’t find him, but I didn’t really think I would. As I rise, my hands grasp the top of the desk for balance. The surface is covered with books. Correction: green, leather ledgers with rows and rows of names, amounts owed, dates. Some are marked paid, a few are highlighted or starred or both. Who uses actual books to do this stuff anymore? Bookies? I thought everyone kept their records on computer programs. Of course, we don’t. Ben and I are small time and can’t afford a laptop, but Gideon is practically King Midas, isn’t he?
    Curious, I open the desk drawer. Sweat breaks out across my brow as I pick amongst the items inside. Stacks of bank statements, bills, I’m no longer looking for my cat. I’m openly prying into someone else’s private affairs. An envelope is stuck under the blotter on the desktop. It’s worn and stained. The handwriting is small and neat, addressed to Judge Nathan Maddox from S. Allen Gamble, Malcolm College, Wiltshire, England.
    Footsteps in the hall send my heart rocketing to my throat. I stuff the letter inside my blouse, and shove the drawer closed.
    “What are you doing in here?”
    My head snaps up. Crap. Gideon stands in the doorway, glaring. I straighten, stall by pretending to smooth my skirt. “I, uh …”
    “Weren’t you given strict instructions never to come to this part of the house?” He takes a step, his hand tightening on his beautiful cane.
    “Yes. I was, but—”
    “And because I leave for a few days, you think you can just disregard my rules and do whatever the hell you please?” Another step, and another, he moves slow and purposefully, like a tiger.
    “No, I—”
    “And of all the rooms to find you in, here you are, in my—”
    “Shrine?”
    He stops two feet from me, his brow in deep furrows. “Private office.”
    He hits the light switch on the wall next to us, shedding more light on his features. Obviously furious, I wish I didn’t notice the condescending arch of his golden eyebrows, or how the quick toss of his head flips his curls back in a way that’s both confident and sexy. With both eyes visible—one bright blue, the other sea green—they hypnotize me, but nobody would miss his commanding presence, despite his awful behavior.
    Gideon gazes at his desktop. A noisy breath escapes his nose, before he faces me again. “What are you doing in here?” His voice is steely calm.
    “Snooping.” Damn. “Searching, searching, I’m looking for Edgar. My cat. I can’t find him. I’ve been all over the house.” My heart pounds, and my hands are clammy, but I resist the urge to wipe them on my skirt. First rule of battle: never let them see you sweat.
    I swallow thickly as he moves closer. “I don’t