NRoberts - G2 Black Rose - Black Rose

 “How do you feel about it?”

 “I want Harper to be happy, and to have what he wants most in life. We should eat before this gets cold.”

 A polite way, Mitch surmised, of telling him she’d discussed the intimacies of her family enough with him. The woman had lines, he thought, very defined lines. It would be challenging, and interesting, to pick and choose which to cross, and the when and how of it.

 “How are you feeling?”

 “I’m fine. Really. Just needed to calm myself down a little.”

 “You look more than fine. How is it, Rosalind, you can look so beautiful?”

 “Candlelight flatters a woman. If we had our way, Edison would never have invented that damn lightbulb.”

 “You don’t need candlelight.”

 She lifted her brows. “If you’re thinking you need to seduce me over roast chicken so I won’t scoot you off to one of the guest rooms after dinner, you don’t need to worry. I want you in my bed.”

 “Regardless, I’m going to seduce you. But at the moment, I was just stating the facts. Aside from that, this is some terrific roast chicken.”

 “I like you. Thought I’d say that straight-out. I like the way you are. I don’t feel there are a lot of pretenses about you, not a lot of show. That’s a nice change for me, in this area.”

 “I don’t lie. Gave it up along with the bottle. That’s the one thing I can promise you, Roz. I won’t lie to you.”

 “As promises go, that’s the one I’d value most.”

 “Then keeping with that theme, there’s something I’d like to ask you. What happened earlier, that . . . upheaval, we’ll call it. That was new.”

 “Yes, and I’m hoping it was a first and last sort of thing.”

 “She never objected in any way to your engagement or your marriage to John Harper.”

 “No, as I told you before.”

 “Or to any relationship you had after, to Clerk.”

 She gave a little shrug. “Some irritation, we could say, off and on. Disapproval, annoyance, but no, not rage.”

 “Then I have a theory—one you may not like to hear. But in addition to not lying to you, I’m going to speak my mind, as I expect you’ll speak yours.”

 “Should be interesting.”

 “She needs children in the house—that’s what brings her comfort, or gratification. You and John would bring children into the house, so she had no strong objection. He was a means to an end.”

 “That’s a very cold theory.”

 “Yes, and it gets colder. Once there were children, there was no more need for him, so his death was, in my opinion, something she saw as right, even just.”

 Her color drained, leaving her face white and horrified. “If you’re suggesting she somehow caused—”

 “No.” He reached out, laid his hand over hers. “No. Her limitations are this house, the grounds. I’m no expert in the paranormal, but that’s what works. That’s what makes sense. Whatever she is, or has, is centered here.”

 “Yes.” Relaxing again, she nodded. “I’ve never experienced, or heard of anyone experiencing anything regarding her beyond the borders of my land. I would have. I’m certain I’d know, or have heard if there’d been anything.”

 “She’s bound to this place, and maybe to this family. But I doubt the grief you and your sons felt when John died touched her. And she can be touched. We saw that with Stella last spring when she communicated with her as a mother. We saw it tonight, when you laid it on the line to her.”

 “All right.” She nodded, reached for her wine. “All right, I’m following you, so far.”

 “When you began to socialize again, to see men, even to have lovers, she was only mildly annoyed. Disapproving, as you said. Because they didn’t matter to you, not deeply. They weren’t going to be a part of your life, of this house, not for the long run.”

 “You’re saying she knew that?”

 “She’s connected to you, Roz. She knows what’s inside you, at least enough to understand what you think and feel, things you might not say out loud.”

 “She gets inside my head,” she said softly. “Yes, I’ve felt that. I don’t like it. But what happens to your theory when you add Bryce? I married him. He lived here. And though she acted up a few times, there was nothing extreme, nothing violent.”

 “You didn’t love him.”

 “I married him.”

 “And divorced him. He wasn’t a threat to her. It seems she knew that before you did. At least before you consciously knew it. He was . . . superfluous, let’s say, to her. Maybe it was because he was weak, but for whatever reason, still, no threat to her. Not from her view.”

 “And you are.”

 “Clearly. We could suppose it has to do with my work, but that doesn’t jibe. She wants us to find out who she was, what she was. She just wants us to work for it.”

 “You seem to know her very well, on short acquaintance.”

 “Short, but intense acquaintance,” he pointed out. “And understanding the dead is part of my work. It’s actually the part—the personalizing—that makes it the most compelling for me. She’s angry that you’ve allowed me into your life, into your bed.”

 “Because you’re not weak.”

 “I’m not,” he agreed. “And also because I matter to you, or I will. I’m going to make sure of it. Because what we’re moving toward, you and I, is important.”

 “Mitch, we’re having an affair, and while I don’t take that lightly, I—”

 “Rosalind.” He laid his hand over hers, kept his eyes on hers. “You know very well I’m falling in love with you. Have been since the minute I opened my apartment door and saw you standing there. Scares the hell out of me, but that doesn’t change it.”

 “I didn’t know.” She drew back, and her hand pressed on her heart, ran up to her throat and back again. “I didn’t, and that makes me as oblivious as Hayley. I thought we had a great deal of attraction for each other, and mutual respect along with . . . what are you grinning at?”

 “You’re nervous. I’ve never seen you nervous. How about that?”

 “I’m not nervous.” She stabbed at the last bite of her chicken. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”

 “Scared’s what you are.”

 “I’m certainly not.” With some heat, she shoved back from the table. “I’m certainly not. All right, I am.” She pushed to her feet when he laughed. “Yes, that should please you. Men love putting women into a state.”

 “Oh, bullshit.”

 There was a ring of steel, even through the humor. Intrigued by both, she turned back. “You’re an awfully confident individual.”

 “You meant that as a compliment the first time you said it. This time you meanarrogant , and right back at you, honey.”

 With that, she laughed. Then pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Oh, God. God, Mitchell, I don’t know if I’ve got it in me for anotherimportant relationship. They’re so much damn work. Love can be, should be, so consuming, so demanding. I just don’t know that I’ve got the stamina, or the heart, or the generosity.”

 “I have no doubt you’ve got plenty of all three, but we’ll take it as it goes, and see.”

 He rose. “Can’t say I mind making you a little nervous,” he said as he walked to her. “Nothing much shakes you, at least not so it shows.”

 “You have no idea.”

 “Oh, I think I do.” He slipped his arms around her, led her smoothly into a dance, swaying to the throb of the music. “One of the sexiest things about you is your unshakable capability.”

 “I’m capable.” She tipped her head up. “I want my accountant to be capable, but I sure as hell don’t want to sleep with him.”

 “I find it devastatingly sexy.”

 “Is this the seduction part of the evening?”

 “Just getting started. Do you mind?”

 He thought her capable, she realized, and found that appealing. And he made her feel soft, and cherished. “You asked me that the first time you kissed me. I didn’t mind then, either.”

 “I love that you’re beautiful. Shallow of me, but there you go. A man’s entitled to some flaws.”

 Amused, she trailed a finger up the back of his neck. “Perfection’s boring—but, God, don’t tell Stella I said so.”

 “Then I’ll never bore you.”

 He touched his lips to hers lightly, once, twice, then slowly, slowly, sank into the kiss.

 It spilled through her, the warmth, and the life, the thrill and the power. She moved with him, that sensuous dance, that sensuous kiss, and let herself glide. Like a woman glides over a path strewn with fragrant petals. Through moonbeams. And into love.

 She heard a door shut quietly, and opened her eyes to see that he’d circled her into the bedroom.

 “You’re a clever dancer, Dr. Carnegie.” Then laughed when he spun her out, and back. “Very clever.”

 He kissed her again, spinning until her back was pressed to the door, until the kiss took on a bite. Then he ran his hands down her arms, stepped back.

 “Light the candles,” he said. “I’ll light the fire.”

 Shaken, right down to the soles of her feet, she leaned against the door. Her heart felt swollen and tender, and its beat was a throbbing ache in her breast. When she moved, she moved carefully, like a woman sliding through the fog of a dream. And she saw her own fingers tremble as she set flame to candlewick.

 “I want you.” Her voice was steady enough, and she was grateful. “And the want is stronger and different than any I’ve felt before. Maybe it’s because I—”

 “Don’t question it. Not tonight anyway.”

 “All right.” She turned, as he did, so they faced each other across the room. “We’ll leave it that I want you, very much. That it presses on me, not entirely comfortably.”

 In the gilded light, he crossed to her, took both her hands. “Let me show you how I feel.”

 He lifted her hands, turning them palms up to press his lips to one, then the other. Then he cupped her face, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks as his fingers slid back into her hair.

 “Let me take you,” he said as his mouth cruised over hers. “Tonight, just let me take you.”

 He asked for surrender. And surrender was a great deal to ask. But she gave him her mouth, then her body as his hands stroked over her. And they were dancing again, circling and swaying as the dreamy pleasure he offered slipped into her like rich, red wine.

 He slid her shirt aside, and was murmuring in her ear, about her skin, her scent. And the dance was like floating.

 She was giving him what he’d asked. Surrender. Though it was slow, inch by inch, he could feel it, that gorgeous yielding of self. He undressed her as they danced, taking almost painful care, almost painful pleasure in removing each barrier that blocked his hands from her flesh.

 It was incredibly erotic, dancing in the firelight, the candlelight, her naked body pressed to his while he was still fully clothed. To see that long, lean line of her in the mirror, the way the light played over her skin, to feel that skin shiver under his hands. To feel her pulses jump under his mouth.

 When he slipped his hand between her thighs, he felt her body jerk, heard her breath catch.

 She was hot, already hot and wet. And her nails dug into his shoulders as he began to play her, lazily. Little tortuous strokes that had her breath going short and harsh, and his own blood pumping.

 Her body plunged, then melted against his when she came. Her head fell back even as he continued to arouse, and her eyes were glazed and stunned.

 She was so pliant he could almost pour her onto the bed. They watched each other as he stood, undressed.

 Then he skimmed his finger over her leg, lifted it, bent to it, and rubbed his lips along her calf. “So much more I want from you.”

 Yes, she thought. So much more. And surrendering to it, to him, gave him all he wanted.

 His mouth found her, shot her up again, breathlessly, until she had to grip the spread or fly apart.

 He exploited and explored, and took, took while the air went thick and sweet as syrup, and the deepest, darkest pleasures quivered inside her.

 She could hear herself sobbing for him, even as he slid into her. His languorous pace never altered, only built arousal higher with a near brutal patience, a delicious, drugging friction. She had no choice, no control any longer, could only quiver, could only ache, could only enjoy as he nudged her closer and closer to the edge.

 And when she fell that final time, it was like flying.

 SHE WAS STILLtrembling. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It was foolish, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She was warm, even overwarm, and only then realized both of them were slick with sweat.

 She’d been thoroughly seduced, then thoroughly used. And she couldn’t find a thing wrong with either.

 “I’m trying to think of something appropriate to say.”

 His lips moved against her neck. “How about ‘wow’?”

 She managed to move her heavy arms enough to brush a hand through his hair. “That probably covers it. I came three times.”

 “Four.”

 “Four?” Her voice was as hazy as her vision. “I must’ve lost count.”

 “I didn’t.” And there was a wicked satisfaction in his tone, one that she saw reflected in his face as he rolled onto his back.

 “Since I’m in such a blissful state, I’m going to admit that’s the first time I’ve ever come four times.”

 He reached down, found her hand, linked fingers. “Stick with me, kid, and it won’t be the last.”

 She laughed, a full-out bawdy roll of laughter, then shifted to prop herself up on his chest. “Pretty proud of yourself.”

 “Damn right.”

 “Me, too.” She pillowed her head over his heart, shut her eyes. “I go running around six.”

 “Is that A.M.?”

 “Yes, it is. Harper’s got some spare clothes in the next bedroom, if you want to join me.”

 “ ’Kay.”

 She let herself drift, like a cat curled for a nap. “She left us alone.”

 “I know.”

 FOURTEEN

GARBED IN Asuit and tie and armed with a dozen yellow roses and a box of Godiva chocolates, Mitch rode the elevator to Clarise Harper’s third-floor apartment in the retirement complex. His letter from her was in his briefcase, and the formal, lady of the South tone had given him a broad clue that this was a woman who would expect a suit—and a floral tribute—just as Roz had instructed.

 She wasn’t agreeing to a meeting, he thought, but was, very definitely, granting him an audience.

 No mention of Rosalind, or any of the occupants of Harper House, had been made in their correspondence.

 He rang the bell and prepared to be charming and persuasive.

 The woman who answered was young, hardly more than twenty, dressed in a simple and conservative black skirt, white blouse, and low-heeled practical shoes. Her brown hair was worn in what he supposed women still called a bun—a style that did nothing to flatter her young, thin face.