Black Rose

mind that, or the fact there were no rings on her fingers to sparkle them up.
    But she smiled as she raised her feet out. Her toenails now, they were her little foolishness. This week she’d painted them a metallic purple. Most days they’d be buried in work socks and boots, but she knew she had sexy toes. It was just one of those silly things that helped her remember she was female.
    Her breasts weren’t as perky as they’d once been. She could be grateful they were small, and the sagging hadn’t gotten too bad. Yet.
    While she didn’t worry too much about the state of her hands—they were, after all, tools for her—she was careful about her skin. She couldn’t stop all the lines, but she pampered it whenever she could.
    She wasn’t willing to let her hair go to salt-and-pepper, so she took care of that, too. Just because she was being dragged toward fifty didn’t mean she couldn’t dig her heels in and try to slow down the damage time insisted on inflicting.
    She had been beautiful once. When she’d been a young bride, fresh and innocent and radiantly happy. God, she looked at those pictures now and it was almost like looking at a stranger.
    Who had that sweet young girl been?
    Nearly thirty years, she thought. And it had gone by in the snap of a finger.
    How long had it been since a man had looked at her and told her she was beautiful? Bryce had, certainly, but he’d told her all manner of lies.
    But Mitch had said it almost offhand, casually. It made it easier to believe he’d meant it.
    And why did she care?
    Men. She shook her head and sipped more wine. Why was she thinking of men?
    Because, she realized with a half laugh, she had no one to share those sexy toes with. No one to touch her as she liked to be touched, to thrill her. To hold her in the night.

    She’d done without those things, and was content. But every now and again, she missed having someone. And maybe she was missing it now, she admitted, because she’d spent an hour talking with an attractive man.
    When the water turned tepid, she got out. She was humming as she dried off, creamed her skin, performed her nightly ritual with her moisturizer. Wrapped in her robe, she started into her bedroom.
    She felt the chill even before she saw the figure standing in front of her terrace doors.
    Not Stella, not this time. The Harper Bride stood in her simple gray gown, her bright hair in a crown of curls.
    Roz had to swallow once, then she spoke easily. “It’s been some time since you’ve come to see me. I know I’m not pregnant, so that can’t be it. Amelia? Is that your name?”
    There was no answer, nor had she expected one. But the Bride smiled, just a brief shadow of a smile, then faded away.
    “Well.” Standing, Roz rubbed the warmth back into her arms. “I guess I’ll assume that’s your way of letting me know you approve that we’re getting back to work.”
    She went back to the sitting room and took a calendar she’d begun keeping over the last winter out of her desk. She noted down the sighting on the day’s date.
    Dr. Carnegie, she assumed, would be pleased she was keeping a record.

THREE

    HE’D NEVER BEEN much of a gardener. Then again, he’d lived in apartments most of his life. Still, he liked the look of plants and flowers, and had an admiration for those who knew what to do with them.
    Rosalind Harper obviously knew what to do with them.
    He’d seen some of the gardens on her estate this past June. But even their graceful beauty had paled next to his encounter with the Harper Bride. He’d always believed in the spirit of a person. Why else would he be so drawn to histories, to genealogies, to all those roots and branches of family trees? He believed that spirit could, and did, have influence and impact for generations, potentially centuries.
    But he’d never believed in the tangibility, the physical presence of that spirit.
    He knew better now.
    It was difficult for someone with Mitch’s academic bent to rationalize, then absorb, something as fanciful as ghosts.
    But he’d felt and he’d seen. He’d experienced, and there was no denying facts.
    So now he was caught up. He could admit it. With his book finally put to bed, he could pour his energies and his time, his skills, into identifying the spirit that had—purportedly—walked the halls of Harper House for more than a century.
    A few legalities to get out of the way, then he could dive in.
    He turned into the parking area of In the