Ford picked up their tickets at the Dutch equivalent of the VIP counter, and she waited impatiently for him to return. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be moping around, waiting for his next smile, his next pat of affection.
Loving him might be easy, but she didn’t find it uplifting. She was too selfish. She wanted him to love her back.
If he couldn’t, she didn’t want him at all.
Unfortunately, her body had other ideas. When he held her and kissed her, she couldn’t resist the warm sensations that overloaded her circuits and melted her resolve as if he’d wired a conditioned response to her every nerve. It wouldn’t be easy sitting beside him on the plane while she yearned for his kisses.
Get a grip.
Easier said than done.
She simply couldn’t ignore him, and she couldn’t leave him, either.
Not yet.
SO THEY’D GONE to Amsterdam, then London. Let them. The Black Rose should have known Ford, the quintessential businessman would pick up the money trail and follow it like a bloodhound on the scent. But it didn’t matter since the Black Rose wouldn’t be making more mistakes. Ford was vulnerable.
The assassin would be waiting.
AS THEIR TAXI pulled to a stop in front of Sir Richard Kaplan’s office building, Ford saw Devin’s gaze sweep Charing Cross, looking for anyone suspicious. Beneath open umbrellas, the crowds hurried to and from the underground and the bright red double-decker buses that led to every part of London. Devin barely spared a glance at the narrow-fronted stone and brick buildings with their cluster of chimney pots across the roofs. Never letting down her guard, she was busy eyeing a tourist entering the National Gallery.
Their stop at the Bank of England earlier had proven their enemy was smarter than they’d anticipated. The funds wired to London hadn’t been withdrawn but wired to another bank. The sight of messengers in traditional pink tailcoats and scarlet waistcoats couldn’t banish Ford’s disappointment. He’d hired a specialist to follow the trail which could lead to many more banks in different countries.
Ford vowed patience. Sooner or later the money would be withdrawn from a bank, and a name would be on the account with a signature. Someone would have seen something. Someone would remember.
In the meantime, Kaplan waited for them. Ford paid the taxi driver and opened an umbrella for Devin. She grimaced at the rain. “What reason are we giving Kaplan for our visit?”
“According to Anne’s fax, his family owns a consortium of businesses throughout Europe. His interests range from glass factories outside Venice to the Djakarta spice trade. He’s seventy-three years old—an unlikely assassin. I think honesty is our best bet.”
“Okay.”
He was pleased by her willingness to compromise. With her nose pressed to the taxi window, she’d seemed more interested in their fog-filled surroundings than conversation. Not that he blamed her. He’d been preoccupied with business. Although he’d planned to be on a honeymoon with Lindsay right now, he’d never intended to be out of touch.
Their driver stopped before a six-story building with the firm’s name painted in discreet gold leaf on the front door. Devin’s practiced eye picked out the video cameras above the door and surveyed the doorman with a billy club at his side.
A secretary buzzed them inside Kaplan’s office. A brawny man in an immaculate business suit stood to greet them, his sharp brown eyes enigmatic. Although his stomach possessed a paunch, there was nothing soft about him. The man moved so smoothly, so effortlessly, he scarcely seemed to expend any energy at all.
After introductions that included an exchange of business cards, Kaplan’s secretary offered them tea, which they all refused. The office interior was cool, decorated in eighteenth-century antiques, depicting an old-world elegance without a computer in sight.
Ford extended a bottle of Scotch, a private label almost impossible to buy at any price. “Please accept this as a sincere thank-you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“Thank you.” Kaplan accepted the gift with a thoughtful nod. “How may I help you?”
“I—” Beside him Devin stiffened. “We,” Ford amended, “came to ask you about black roses.”
Kaplan laced his fingers together on his desk. “The Black Rose. A fitting name for your wife’s killer.” Although Ford wasn’t surprised at the man’s knowledge, beside him, Devin tensed. Business people of his caliber didn’t walk into meetings without having done some research. He expected Kaplan to have a file on his net worth, his businesses, perhaps some information on Rhonda’s death. But not even he had expected the man to connect the Black Rose with Rhonda’s death.
“You’ve heard about the Black Rose?” Devin asked, clearly using all her inner strength to ask only one question at a time.
“Only a very little.”
The Englishman had a flair for understatement. He had already admitted knowing more than Interpol. Ford took Devin’s hand, hoping Kaplan’s information might lead them to the assassin. “We would be grateful for whatever you can tell us.”
Kaplan nodded to his secretary. Silently, she left. “Because I developed a black rose for my garden, my son vividly recalls his encounter with the assassin.”
Devin squeezed Ford’s hand tightly, and Ford caught every nuance of her action. They’d come too far, gone through too much not to hunt down every lead. Grendal was to have identified the assassin, and since her death, they’d been unable to dig up a name or a description of the Black Rose. Identifying the killer would be the first step in apprehending him. With Rhonda’s killer behind bars, she could rest in peace, and he could have his life back.
Ford kept his voice soft but firm. “Any information would be a great help to us. This meeting will remain confidential. We will not endanger your son.”
The two men’s stares locked. Ford knew better than to offer this man payment. Money would be an insult if Kaplan believed his son might be endangered for telling what he knew.
Tension grew in the ensuing silence. Kaplan stared into Ford’s eyes so long, the man had time to read his soul. Ford held Kaplan’s gaze, withstood the scrutiny, letting him see the smoldering pain tearing through him, his soul crying out for justice.
Kaplan must have been satisfied with what he read in Ford’s eyes. “I’ll send for Byron. He’ll tell you what he saw.”
Chapter Ten
WHEN THE ENORMITY of Kaplan’s statement burst like fireworks in Devin’s mind, excitement coursed through her. Byron had seen something. Could he give them a description of the Black Rose?
“Come,” Kaplan gestured. “While you wait for my son, I will show you my black roses.”
“They are in bloom?” Ford asked.
“Come. You shall see.”
Kaplan opened an umbrella, and they followed him into the rain and onto a partially closed-in rooftop. A Zen garden with smooth, circular stones formed a path past a tinkling waterfall that splashed into a granite basin set among the rocks. Bonsai, lit by in-ground lights, had their own niche in the garden.
In spite of her excitement, a sense of wonder stole over her. The balance of Eastern nature with its exquisite beauty set on a London rooftop subdued a measure of her impatience.
Kaplan ambled, his head high, along a winding path that took them toward several sprawling plants and a greenhouse. Sensing he wouldn’t be hurried, she forced herself to match his snail’s pace.
Finally, after she felt as if she’d been holding her breath for minutes, the Englishman closed his umbrella, entered the greenhouse and took them to a rear corner. “The black rose.”
Devin edged through hot, cloying air and pressed her lips together tightly to avoid disclosing her disappointment. Sparse shrubs held three withered black blooms to each shriveled branch, each flower in the shape of a ragged open cup. A mere five to seven petals surrounded gray
button centers as devoid of life as ashes. The scraggly plants didn’t even have thorns.
She’d pictured long-stemmed graceful roses like the kind lovers sent on Valentine’s Day—except, instead of deep crimson, the petals would be a pearl black. Although she knew there were thousands of varieties of roses, she would never have identified Kaplan’s sickly-looking plants as roses if she hadn’t been told otherwise. And she doubted the Swiss maid would have attributed this variety to the rose family, either.
Had they reached yet another dead end? She glanced anxiously at Ford. He arched an eyebrow and shrugged before turning back to their host.
“Ugly, aren’t they?” Kaplan’s lips turned up into a small smile. “You need not fear insulting me. I covet the ugliness amongst the beauty of the rest of the garden.”
Devin guided the conversation back to a more concrete topic. “Have you ever sold these flowers?”
Kaplan chuckled. “Who would want to buy them?”
He had a point. Still, she hadn’t flown halfway around the world not to ask questions. “Can these flowers bloom at another time of year?”
“The black rose is very sensitive, and it would not be easy. It might be possible. I have never tried.”
“Have any ever been stolen?”
“No.”
“Are Yvonne Jansen’s black roses the same variety as yours?” Ford asked, though he knew the answer.
Kaplan led them to a delicate lattice structure inside the greenhouse where he gestured for them to sit. “I have never seen Mrs. Jansen’s black roses, and there are no pictures.”
Surprised and curious at his last reply, Devin took a seat beside Ford. Anticipation had pumped her with an excess of adrenaline and energy. “Do you doubt the roses exist?”
Kaplan shook his head, surprising her again. Beside her, Ford tensed as the older man spoke, “Long ago, before the war, I saw a long-stemmed black rose with the most aromatic scent. Mr. Jansen had displayed the flower in France. All the newspaper boys took pictures, but the black rose never made it to print. Byron has searched.”
So, Yvonne Jansen, the young rose breeder they’d met in Amsterdam, had married a man many years her senior. Or else Kaplan’s Mr. Jansen was Yvonne’s father-in-law. Devin supposed it didn’t matter. At the rate they were finding clues, she’d be old and gray, or dead, before they figured out the assassin’s identity.
Devin shifted, impatient to speak with Byron. “Do you know of anyone else who breeds black roses?” Kaplan shook his head. At the sound of a footstep, he rose to his feet and waited for his son to join them. Byron was taller and broader than his father, yet the similarities of a straight nose, thin lips and gaunt cheekbones remained.
After introductions, she tried to keep the hope from her tone. “Your father mentioned you have seen the assassin we call the Black Rose.”
“I was in a crowd at an embassy party in London five years ago,” Byron said. “I saw only his back. He was as tall as me, about five foot ten, but thin. He was dressed in black, and his short hair was also black, possibly a wig.”
“How do you know the man you saw was the Black Rose?” Fond asked.
“I didn’t know at the time. I put the facts together later. At the embassy, I heard the shots, saw the Italian ambassador stagger. The man in front of me dropped a gun to the floor and took off through the crowd.”
“Was the assassin French?”
Byron shrugged. “The party was filled with Europeans, Canadians and Americans.”
“The police couldn’t trace the gun?” Devin guessed, already knowing the answer.
“That’s correct. Later, I heard rumors of a black rose being found on the ambassador’s pillow earlier that morning. During my travels, I’ve listened and read, but I’ve never found another clue.”
Devin shivered and Ford put his arm around her. “And the black rose,” Ford said. “Have you ever seen another besides your father’s?”
“No. I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you. You have come a long way for nothing.”
Her frustration mounted until she could barely sit still. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”
He hesitated, clearly reluctant to say more. “Anything at all?” she pressed.
“I do not like to mention this, because I am not sure. Remember, I was standing in a crowd. Many people surrounded me, and I could easily have been mistaken. But I thought the Black Rose spoke in French before he fired.”
Ford squeezed her hand. “Parisian French?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was he who spoke the words.”
“Can you remember what was said?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t speak the language very well then.” He shrugged. “Perhaps if I heard it now . . .”
“What about the voice?” Devin asked.
Byron looked at her as if she were nuttier than a Snickers bar, yet he kept his demeanor polite. “What about the voice?”
“Was it high or low? Hurried or slow? Excited, happy, anxious?”
“Carefully articulated, yet whispery, as if he didn’t wish to draw attention to himself.”
Byron had told them all he could remember. After they exchanged phone and email information, promising to share any future information, they said goodbye and thanked their host
Devin climbed into the back seat of another taxi with Ford, so jittery she felt ready to climb out of her skin. Before Ford gave the driver directions, she tapped his knee. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to sit on another airplane just yet.”
Ford put an arm around her and gently tugged her against his side. “That was a waste of time.”
“No clue, however minor, is a waste of time.” She tried to remain professional and hide her disappointment when she’d also hoped to learn so much more.
His touch skidded electricity through her, and she attributed the sensation to scrambled nerves. While he gave the driver directions to a hotel, she tried to regain her composure.
“It’s unlikely Kaplan or his son have anything to do with the assassin.” Ford rubbed his forehead. “Yvonne is too young to be the Black Rose, and her husband, who would be old enough, is dead. The assassin was around five foot ten—if he didn’t add to his height with lifts in his shoes. He was thin five years ago when the Italian ambassador was assassinated, but he could be obese by now. And he may or may not speak French or have black hair.”
She sighed at his unemotional summation. “We might not have a great description, but we learned the assassin is neither short nor tall. The assassin can blend into a crowd at an embassy party, which means he’s acquired adequate social skills. Perhaps someone kept a party guest list?”
“I’ll hire investigators and have them search police files of the assassination. Who knows, maybe we can uncover an old guest list.”
She leaned her head back on his arm and looked up at him. How could he appear so patient while she was seething with disappointment and frustration? Then the car passed a lit billboard, and the impressive multicolored brilliance illuminated his sharply chiseled cheeks. He looked superbly handsome, all slashing angles and deeply tanned skin.
She trailed her fingers along his thigh. “You think we’ll find more than Interpol did?”
“Old facts may seem insignificant until added to our new information.” His mouth dipped closer to hers, and although his words had sounded quite businesslike, the smoothness of his tone was heated honey.
Her breath caught. “For instance?”
“It’s a puzzle as difficult as reading a woman’s mind.”
Her heart hammered. He’d switched the conversation to a much more personal level. Suddenly she realized all her mounting frustration, agitation and anxiety were caused more by her growing feelings for Ford than her frustration over the slow pace of their
investigation.
She closed her eyes in one last attempt to regain her senses. It annoyed her that she wanted him to touch her, and that she wanted to touch him. Uncontrollable heat shouldn’t be spiraling through her. She wanted him, damned if she didn’t. And she wanted him in every way.
Once again, he seemed to anticipate her emotions. He brushed her shoulder with his fingers, his touch as light as gossamer. Winding his fingers into her hair, he pulled her closer until she pressed against his rigid muscles. “Unless you share my room tonight, we’ll fly home right away. The decision is yours, so tell me now—while I can still stop.”
To think he had so little control over himself because he wanted her shimmered excitement through her. She didn’t say a word but lifted her lips to nibble his. Deliberately, she rubbed her breasts against him, teasing him, taunting him, knowing there could be no going back. Not wanting to go back.
She wanted Ford, and after all her vows to hold out for love and commitment, in this moment, her former qualms no longer mattered. Flattening herself against him seemed the most natural movement as she explored him with her fingers and mouth and tongue. Tonight he tasted of coffee and mint. He wore no cologne, and his masculine fragrance combined with a sandalwood-scented soap enticed her to remain in his arms.
She exited the car and entered the London hotel in a dreamy haze, expecting to rip their clothes off and make mad, passionate love when they reached their room. But when Ford opened a door, she blinked. He hadn’t taken her to a hotel room. Steam curled from a huge vacant whirlpool surrounded by a variety of lush tropical plants. The scent of incense hung heavy in the humid heat. Soft ground lights filtered upward, casting intimate shadows across the room. Dazed, she looked at him with confusion.
“I’ll bathe you.” He murmured suggestive, delicious words against her lips in a rough-soft tone.
“But—”
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