Black Rose gt-2

by Nora Roberts

  “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.

  Mitch’s first impression was of a quiet, well-behaved puppy who would fetch the slippers without leaving a single tooth mark on the leather.

  “Dr. Carnegie. Please come in, Miss Harper is expecting you.”

  Her voice suited the rest of her, quiet and well-bred.

  “Thank you.” He stepped inside, directly into the living room furnished with a hodgepodge of antiques. His collector’s eye spotted a George III secretaire chest and a Louis XVI display cabinet among the various styles and eras.

  The side chairs were probably Italian, the settee Victorian—and all looked miserably uncomfortable.

  There was a great deal of statuary, heavy on the shepherdess and cat and swan themes, and vases decorated within an inch of their lives. All the china and porcelain and crystal sat on stiffly starched doilies or runners.

  The walls were painted a candy pink, and the tweed beige wall-to-wall was buried under several floral area rugs.
/>   The air smelled like the inside of a cedar chest that had been bathed in lavender water.

  Everything gleamed. He imagined if an errant mote of dust dared invade such grandeur, the quiet puppy would chase it down and banish it instantly.

  “Please, sit down. I’ll inform Miss Harper that you’re here.”

  “Thank you, Miss . . .”

  “Paulson. Jane Paulson.”

  “Paulson?” He flipped through the family tree in his mental files. “A relative, then, on Miss Harper’s father’s side.”

  The faintest hint of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Yes. I’m Miss Harper’s great-niece. Excuse me.”

  Poor baby, he thought when she slipped away. He maneuvered through the furniture and condemned himself to one of the side chairs.

  Moments later he heard the click and step, and the woman herself appeared.

  Though she was rail thin, he wouldn’t have said frail, despite her age. More, he thought at first glance, a form that was tough and whittled down to the basics. She wore a dress of rich purple, and leaned on an ebony cane with an ivory handle.

  Her hair was a pristine white helmet, and her face—as thin as her body—was a map of wrinkles under a dusting of powder and rouge. Her mouth, thin as a blade, was poppy red.

  There were pearls at her ears and her throat, and her fingers were studded with rings, glinting as fiercely as brass knuckles.

  The puppy trailed in her wake.

  Knowing his role, Mitch got to his feet, even managed a slight bow. “Miss Harper, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  He took the hand she extended, brought it to within an inch of his lips. “I’m very grateful you were able to find the time to see me.” He offered the roses, the chocolates. “Small tokens of my appreciation.”

  She gave a nod, which might have been approval. “Thank you. Jane, put these lovely roses in the Minton. Please be seated, Dr. Carnegie. I was very intrigued by your letter,” she continued as she took her seat on the settee and propped her cane on the arm. “You’re not from the Memphis area originally.”

  “No, ma’am. Charlotte, where my parents and my sister still live. My son attends the university here, and I relocated in order to be close to him.”

  “Divorced from his mama, aren’t you?”

  She’d done her research, Mitch thought. Well, that was fine. So had he. “Yes, I am.”

  “I don’t approve of divorce. Marriage isn’t a flight of fancy.”

  “It certainly isn’t. I confess my marital difficulties were primarily on my shoulders.” He kept his eyes level with her piercing ones. “I’m an alcoholic, and though in recovery now for many years, I caused my former wife a great deal of distress and unhappiness during our marriage. I’m pleased to say she’s remarried to a good man, and we have a cordial relationship.”

  Clarise pursed her bright red lips, nodded. “I respect a man who takes responsibility for his failings. If a man can’t hold his drink, he shouldn’t drink. That’s all there is to it.”

  Old bat. “I’m proof of that.”

  She continued to sit, and despite nearly eight full decades of wear and tear, her back was straight as a spear. “You teach?”

  “I have done. At the moment, I’m fully occupied with my research and writing of family histories and biographies. Our ancestry is our foundation.”

  “Certainly.” Her gaze shifted when Jane came in with the flowers. “No, not there,” she snapped. “There, and be careful. See to the refreshments now. Our guest can’t be expected to sit here without being offered basic hospitality.”

  She turned her attention back to Mitch. “You’re interested in the Harper family.”

  “Very much.”

  “Then you’re aware that the Harpers are not only my foundation, but a vital part of the foundation of Shelby County, and indeed the state of Tennessee.”

  “I am, very keenly aware, and hope to do justice to their contributions. Which is why I’ve come to you, for your help, for your memories. And in the hope that you’ll come to trust me with any letters or books, any written documentation that will help me to write a thorough and detailed account of the Harper family history.”

  He glanced up as Jane came out carrying a teapot and cups on a large tray. “Let me help you with that.”

  As he crossed to her, he saw the woman’s eyes shoot over to her aunt. Obviously flustered, she allowed him to take the tray. “Thank you.”

  “Pour the tea, girl.”

  “Miss Paulson would be your great-niece on your father’s side,” Mitch began easily, and took his seat again. “It must be comforting to have some of your family so close.”

  Clarise angled her head, regally. “Duty to family is paramount. I would assume, then, you’ve done considerable research to date.”

  “I have. If you’ll permit me.” He opened his briefcase and took out the folder he’d prepared for her. “I thought you might enjoy having this. The genealogy—a family tree—I’ve done.”

  She accepted the folder, wagged her fingers in the air. On command, Jane produced a pair of reading glasses on a gold chain.

  While she looked over the papers, Mitch did his best to swallow down the weak herbal tea.

  “How much do you charge?”

  “This is a gift, Miss Harper, as you’ve not requested my services. It’s I who request your help in a project I’m very eager to explore.”

  “We’ll be clear, Dr. Carnegie, that I won’t tolerate being asked for funds down the road.”

  “Absolutely clear.”

  “I see you’ve gone back to the eighteenth century, when the first of my family immigrated from Ireland. Do you intend to go back further?”

  “I do, though my plan is to focus more on the family here, in Tennessee, what they built after they came to America. The industry, the culture, their leading roles in both, as well as society. And most important, for my purposes, the family itself. The marriages, births, deaths.”

  Through the lenses of her reading glasses, her eyes were hawklike. Predatory. “Why are household staff and servants included here?”

  He’d debated that one, but had gone with his instincts. “Simply because they were part of the household, part of the texture. In fact, I’m in contact with a descendant of one of the housekeepers of Harper House—during your mother, Victoria Harper’s, childhood. The day-to-day life, as well as the entertaining the Harpers have been known for are essential elements of my book.”

  “And the dirty linen?” She gave a regal sniff. “The sort servants are privy to?”

  “I assure you, it’s not my intention to write a roman à clef, but a detailed, factual, and thorough family history. A family such as yours, Miss Harper,” he said, gesturing toward the file, “certainly has had its triumphs and tragedies, its virtues and its scandals. I can’t and won’t exclude any that my research uncovers. But I believe your family’s history, and its legacy, certainly stands above any of its very human failings.”

  “And failings and scandal add spice—spice sells.”

  “I won’t argue with that. But certainly, with your input, the book would have a stronger weight on the plus side, we could say.”

  “We could.” She set the folder aside, sipped her tea. “By now you’ve certainly been in contact with Rosalind Harper.”

  “Yes.”

  “And . . . she’s cooperating?”

  “Ms. Harper has been very helpful. I’ve spent some time in Harper House. It’s simply stunning. A tribute to what your family built since coming to Shelby County, and a tribute to charm and grace as well as continuity.”

  “It was my great-great-grandfather who built Harper House, and his son who preserved it during the War of Northern Aggression. My grandfather who expanded and modernized the house, while preserving its history and its traditions.”

  He waited a moment for her to continue, to speak of her uncle’s contribution to the estate. But when she stopped there, he only nodded. “Harper House is a testament to you
r family, and a treasure of Shelby County.”

  “It is the oldest home of its kind consistently lived in by one family in this country. The fact is, there is nothing to compare with it, to my mind, in Tennessee, or anywhere else. It is only a pity my cousin was unable to produce a son in order to carry the family name.”

  “Ms. Harper uses the family name.”

  “And runs a flower shop on the property.” She dismissed this with another sniff and a flick of her ring-spangled fingers. “One hopes that her eldest son, when he inherits, will have more sense and dignity, though I see no indication of it.”

  “Your family has always been involved in commerce, in industry, in business.”

  “Not at home. I may decide to give you my cooperation, Dr. Carnegie, as my cousin Rosalind is hardly the best source for our family history. You may deduce we are not on terms.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It could hardly be otherwise. I’m told that even now she has outsiders, and one of them a Yankee, living in Harper House.”

  Mitch waited a beat, saw that he was expected to verify. “I believe there are houseguests, and one is also a distant relation, through Ms. Harper’s first husband.”

  “With a baby out of wedlock.” Those brightly painted lips folded thin. “Disgraceful.”

  “A . . . delicate situation, but one that happens, very often in any family history. As it happens, one of the legends I’ve heard regarding the house, the family, deals with a ghost, that of a young woman who may have found herself in this same delicate situation.”

  “Balderdash.”

  He nearly blinked. He didn’t believe he’d ever heard anyone use that term in actual conversation.

  “Ghosts. I would think a man with your education would be more sensible.”

  “Like scandal, Miss Harper, ghosts add spice. And the legend of the Harper Bride is common in the area. Certainly it has to be mentioned in any detailed family history. It would be more surprising if a house as old and rich in history as Harper House didn’t have some whisper of hauntings. You must have grown up hearing the story.”