FLOWERS ARE RED

by Mary J. Williams

  "Is this going to happen?" Belle tipped her head, giving Ashe better access to her sweet neck. "It shouldn't happen, Ashe."

  "Yes, it should."

  Ashe backed Belle toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving hers. Frustrated by the slow progress, he scooped her into his arms. True to his word, he stopped in every room, examining closets, behind the shower curtain. If anybody the size of your average three-year-old could fit, Ashe checked.

  "Talk about a mood killer," Belle teased, twining her arms around his neck.

  A scorching kiss was Ashe's response, leaving Belle boneless.

  "You were saying?"

  Belle sighed, licking her lips. "I have no idea. Carry on. I'm enjoying the ride."

  Satisfied by her answer, Ashe finished the tour in a few long strides. He would have laid Belle on the bed, yet he had promised to look underneath. However, she wouldn't release him.

  "The frame goes all the way to floor." Belle breathed the words into Ashe's ear, her tongue bathing the lobe before her teeth gently bit down. "Drawers," she explained, biting again. "Extra storage."

  Ashe couldn't have cared less. All he wanted was for Belle to keep doing what she was doing.

  "Ashe?"

  "Hmm?" Since Belle raised her mouth of her own accord, Ashe took the break in the action to toss her onto the bed.

  "What did Tracy tell you?"

  Belle looked so appealing, propped up on her elbow, her expression earnest. Ashe could have teased. Or prevaricated. Instead, he told her the truth.

  "Tracy's exact words were Theo is not a problem." Ashe watched Belle's reaction closely. "Is he?"

  "I made a promise." Belle toyed with her engagement ring. Meeting Ashe's gaze, she took it off. Rolling to her feet, she opened a box on the dresser, placing the ring inside. A second later, she was in his arms. "Do you want the whole story?"

  "After." Ashe slid a hand under the hem of Belle's shirt.

  A grin broke across Belle's face. "After what?"

  Belle's shirt hit the floor, followed closely by the rest of her clothing.

  "After I've had my fill of you." Ashe couldn't stop looking. Belle made his mouth water.

  "When will that be?" Belle gasped, then moaned, when Ashe placed his hand on her breast.

  "An hour." Ashe kissed her lightly. "A day?" The kiss deepened. "A month?"

  "A year?" Belle sighed the words when Ashe raised his head.

  Pulling Belle close, Ashe lowered her to the bed. A year? Ten. Ashe knew it was too soon, but he couldn't help it. He was damn close to asking for a lifetime.

  "Save the story." He touched Belle's knee, opening her legs. "This is going to take a while."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "PANCAKES? FROM SCRATCH?"

  "Do you use a mix?"

  Belle gave Ashe a horrified look as she handed him a plate. Four perfectly fluffy pancakes sat in the middle, a pat of butter melting over them. Ashe poured a generous amount of heated maple syrup—the real stuff—breathing in the heady aroma.

  "No." Picking up his fork, Ashe made the first cut. Tender as the first flowers in spring. "I get mine the old-fashioned way. I buy them in a restaurant."

  "Most of those restaurants use a mix," Belle informed him as she pulled herself onto the stool next to his. "Mine are better. Trust me."

  "I don't have to." Ashe took a bite, his eyes closing with pleasure. "Bliss, Belle. Pure bliss."

  On top of the night spent in Belle's arms, Ashe didn't know how things could get much better. Wait. He paused halfway to his next bite. Yes, he did.

  "You need to return the ring, Belle."

  "I will."

  "Today would be good."

  "I agreed to give Theo two weeks." Belle went to the griddle, flipping a perfectly golden cake. "It wouldn't be fair to go back on my word."

  "Do you honestly believe the man will come out to his parents? After a year of hiding his affair, why would two weeks make it any easier?"

  "It won't." Without asking, Belle slid another stack onto Ashe's plate. "Chances are good that he won't do it. However—"

  "You made a promise."

  "That's right. Would you like some orange juice? Fresh squeezed."

  "When did you have time?"

  "While you were in the shower." Belle handed Ashe a filled glass.

  "We were in the shower. I know that for a fact. See?" Ashe leaned closer. "I'm still wearing a ridiculously satisfied grin."

  "Not so ridiculous." Belle gave him a quick kiss. "I slipped out while you were shaving."

  "Unbelievable." It wasn't a criticism. Ashe was genuinely impressed. "Where do you get the energy? I'm refueling for a run. Though thanks to you, I could skip it. I received a fine workout last night. Mighty fine."

  "Thank you."

  "Are you blushing?" Ashe tipped Belle's chin up. "After the things we did? I didn't think that would be possible."

  "Some of us aren't as jaded as others." Belle swatted his hand away. "You and your groupies having rock star orgies every night. I may not be a dew-fresh rose, but I'm not a perverted degenerate either."

  "Isn't that a little redundant?" Ashe tried to hide his smile, but it was difficult. "Pervert and degenerate are pretty much the same things."

  "That's what you took from my mini tirade?"

  "What did you want me to say?"

  "That I exaggerated. Your sexual survival is not predicated on a constant diet of groupie-filled orgies."

  Belle waved her arms, the metal spatula coming dangerously close to knocking the bowl of batter onto the floor. Taking pity, Ashe gave in and smiled.

  "No to orgies. Ever. I don't know where I would find one if I were interested."

  "You could always host your own." The twinkle was back in Belle's eyes. "The potential participants would show up in droves."

  Ashe cringed. "I don't want to think about where people like that come from. Or what kind of STDs they pass back and forth." Ashe shuddered. Belle right with him. "As for groupies?"

  "Yes?" Belle crossed her arms, waiting.

  "I've had sex with fans. I don't know if they could be called groupies. How many men have you slept with?"

  Belle's eyes widened. Grabbing a sponge, she lowered her head, wiping the already clean counter. "What kind of question is that?"

  "It's the same kind of thing you asked me."

  "No." Belle loaded the dishwasher. She looked anyplace but at him. "I asked about your kinky rock star lifestyle. Not once did I inquire about the number of notches on your bedpost."

  "Proverbially speaking."

  "Naturally. Your bed is brass. It would be a crime to dent the surface."

  Belle looked around for something else to clean. Before she could swipe his plate and half-eaten pancakes, Ashe took her hand, pulling her around the island. Swiveling his chair around, Ashe spread his legs, positioning Belle between them.

  "Why the freak out?" he asked.

  Expelling a deep sigh, the energy seemed to seep from Belle along with the air. She sank into Ashe's arms, resting her head on his shoulder.

  "Your level of sexual expertise exceeds mine. By quite a bit."

  "Tell me. Just so we're on the same page. Is that a bad thing? Am I a slut or are you a prude?"

  "I don't want to disappoint you."

  "Disappoint me? Belle." Ashe gently rubbed her back, his other arm holding her close. "Do you honestly believe I would spend hours—hours mind you—in your bed out of what? Pity? Does that make sense?"

  "I didn't say my thoughts were logical. Only human."

  "You are a natural, Belle. If you hadn't confessed, I would have taken you for a professional. Semi-pro at the very least."

  "Are you making fun of me?" Belle laughed, burrowing as close as possible. It was a sound Ashe craved. Like air. Or her pancakes.

  "Only a little. Would you like me to prove I mean what I say? I'm pretty sure I have another round or two in me."
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  Ashe expected Belle to laugh off his suggestion. It was getting late, and he knew she was expected at the office. He should have known not to expect the expected. Taking his hand, Belle headed toward the bedroom.

  "Another round?" She whipped Ashe's shirt over his head. "Two would make me late for work."

  "Twenty minutes?" Ashe asked, shucking off the rest of his clothes.

  Belle was right with him. Together, they fell onto the bed. Looping her arms around his neck, she nodded.

  "That sounds perfect."

  TEN YEARS SINCE Ashe had spoken to his father and their first communication came via text. The world had changed, and Randall Mathison with it. His father used to scoff at the idea of sending a message with a few taps of a keyboard. Email was bad enough, he used to say.

  It seemed—unless someone was doing it for him—Randall had given in to the siren call of technology.

  Was it odd that Ashe had to wipe his hands before opening a message from his father? Under the circumstances, he was willing to give himself—and his nerves—a pass. He had never stopped loving his father. Leaving and not caring were two different things. If Ashe had stayed, his soul would have died. Not all at once. Bit by bit. Working behind a desk was never going to be for him. Just the thought of his buttoned-up shirt and conservative tie choking the life out of him had Ashe rubbing his neck and breathing deeply.

  However, the business was his father's life. It must have seemed natural to expect his eldest son to feel the same. Ashe's training to someday take over had started before he could walk. There was such pride in his father's voice when he would introduce Ashe to his friends and colleagues.

  "Watch out," Randall used to say. "Ashe is my best and brightest. He will take this company further than I ever dreamed. Work with him or he'll beggar you all."

  Ashe could remember a time when those words made him proud. When had that changed? When did they start to feel more like the crack of doom instead of a father's praise? The answer was easy. It changed when Ashe's dreams solidified. When he realized that music was the only thing that mattered. When going to the office had morphed from fun to torture.

  Teenagers may be the most self-involved creatures on Earth. Ashe had been. All he could think about was what he wanted. How to make himself happy. Not once had he considered it from his father's point of view. If he had, he might have handled things differently.

  When Ashe left, it ended his father's dreams—and broke his heart. That was something his teenage self hadn't realized. It had taken a long time and a lot of thought to come to that realization.

  Nothing would have kept Ashe in Boston. However, if he could go back and do things again, he would have told his father he loved him. That he respected the business and the man who ran it. He would have tried harder to explain—everything.

  This was Ashe's second chance. He didn't want to blow it. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. If this was his reaction to a freaking text, how would he act when he met his father face to face? An image of himself, stiff and formal, shaking Randall's hand, flashed through his mind. Maybe a stilted, Hello, Father. Ashe smiled. When had he ever used the word father? Dad. A teasing Pops. But never father. Leave it to his vivid imagination to make things worse than they already were.

  Ashe gave himself a figurative kick in the ass and opened the text. What he read put to rest the majority of his fears—and made his eyes sting with emotion.

  "Welcome home, son. Welcome home. I say it twice because I want you to know that is what it is. Your home. No matter what a stubborn fool once told you, it always was and always will be. I have so much to say. I hope you forgive me for using this ridiculous method of communication—Ashe grinned—to break the ice. Call it an old man's nerves.

  I know the office isn't your favorite place, but I would like you to meet me there at three o'clock. As I said, there is so much to say.

  It sounded like his father, Ashe thought. The father he knew before the rebellious teenage years. Ashe didn't kid himself. The hard-nosed S.O.B. was still there. Going into this reunion expecting a meek milquetoast would be a mistake. And frankly, horrifying. Ashe shuddered at the thought. In his memory, Randall Mathison was larger than life. That was what Ashe wanted to find. Hopefully with a few of the hard edges worn down—on both of them.

  Ashe had a definite spring in his step all morning. The text from his father was a nice cherry on an already luscious sundae. Belle. Just thinking her name made his heartbeat kick up, and his lips curve into a smile. The woman was a pistol. In and out of bed. Now that her fiancé was out of the picture, all bets were off. He wanted Belle. No. He needed Belle. What that meant or where it would lead, Ashe didn't know. His smile widened. He would find the answer—and enjoy every kiss, touch, and conversation along the way.

  Jogging down the staircase, Ashe found his mother arranging flowers near the front door. She sent him a benign smile. He felt too much exuberance for anything less than a hug and a kiss. Pulling her close, Ashe brushed his lips across Bonita's powdered cheek.

  "It's good to be home, Mom."

  Blinking with surprise, Bonita's smile warmed.

  "It's good that you're here, darling."

  Ashe marveled at how easy it was to change some things. With a different attitude and bit of affection, he felt a small connection to his mother that had never existed before now. Small was the operative word. Bonita's expression quickly turned back to placidly cool as she resumed fiddling with her flowers. But it was something.

  "That was nice." Georgia squeezed Ashe's hand. She stood in the hall just off the foyer, apparently a witness to his brief moment with their mother. "Mom is a tough nut to crack. I'm never certain if it's because she has no emotions, or doesn't know how to show them. Either way, it was nice of you to make the effort."

  "It's different when you're a kid, and you need your parents' approval." Ashe walked with Georgia toward the patio. "I always resented Mom's cool demeanor, certain it was a reflection of her feelings for me."

  "I don't think you were wrong, Ashe. Not entirely." Georgia took a seat at a table laid out with a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of cookies. She poured Ashe a glass before doing the same for herself. "She loves us—I think. Who knows what goes on inside her head?"

  "My point is that it doesn't matter anymore." Ashe felt as if a burden had lifted from his shoulders—one he hadn't known he carried. "I accept that Mom is who she is. Resentment is gone. It's a good feeling."

  "Is that California speak?" Georgia teased, offering him a cookie. Coconut. Since they were his favorites, he took three. "I hadn't pegged you as a New Ager."

  "I sat in with a group one time. Between the twang of the Sitar and the secondhand pot high, my headache hung on for two days. It was not for me."

  "What kind of rock star are you? I thought drugs were de rigueur."

  "Not as much as they used to be. Not in my group at all. I experimented a bit when I tried to break into the scene."

  Ashe could laugh now. The truth was, he had been damn lucky. Drugs didn't sit well with him. First, the high was never terribly high. Second, the day after, he was left with a raging hangover—the kind he never had after a night of boozing. If Ashe had liked drugs—and they had liked him—who knew what would have happened? He hoped he would have had the brains to quit before it went further than experimentation. Ashe imagined a lot of people felt that way. People who had ruined their lives. Or worse—had no lives left to ruin.

  "Shouldn't the girls be getting home soon?"

  Georgia nodded. "Their playdate with their best friend Monica included lunch and swimming. They should be home—and ready for a nap—anytime."

  "Swimming? Are you sure it's safe?"

  "They were swimming almost before they could walk."

  "That's good but—"

  "The pool is supervised at all times. I wouldn't let them go otherwise. Two days and you've turned into an overprotective uncle. I wouldn't have guessed
you had it in you."

  "Me neither," he admitted with a wry smile.

  Ashe looked at his watch. He had asked Belle to drop by this afternoon around two o'clock. Since she had purchased the dolls, he thought she would get a kick out of seeing the girls' reactions as they opened the packages. On a selfish note, he wanted to see Belle. The sooner, the better. Perhaps he had an addictive personality after all. He needed a hit of Belle before the withdrawals got any worse.

  Ashe had spent part of his morning talking to his contacts at the police department. The video showing vandalism of Belle's car was what they termed inconclusive. The perpetrator kept his back to the camera. They are almost certain it was a man because of his build. Other than that, they had no leads. If it was personal, the perp gave no indication. The act was fast and efficient. From start to finish, less than four minutes expired.

  It sounded like a professional job. But what was the point? There was no attempt to break into the car. Though no official word had come down, it seemed the police were chalking it up to a random incident. Nothing more. It sounded good. However, Ashe wasn't ready to forget what had happened. One more hint that somebody was harassing Belle and he would call in a bodyguard. After talking to a friend who knew about these things, he had a candidate on speed dial. Hopefully, it wouldn't be necessary, and Belle would never need to know.

  "Why do you keep looking at your watch?"

  "Am I?" A glance—five minutes ago—was all Ashe remembered. He would have to take Georgia's word that it occurred more than once. "I'm expecting someone. A friend."

  "From high school?" Mind bogglingly efficient, Georgia sent a maid after more glasses. "Would you please bring a fresh pitcher of tea and more cookies, Hilda?"

  "Right away."

  "Where was she lurking?" Ashe swiveled his head, looking for more undercover servants.

  "I pushed a button." Georgia pointed under the table. "Mom had them installed a couple of years ago. There's at least one in every room. Including the bedrooms."