Black Rose

for the other shoe to drop.
    There had been a similar sort of harassment right after the divorce, then a nice period of peace. When, she assumed, he’d had some other woman on the string and was too involved to waste his time poking sticks at an ex-wife.
    She’d handled it then; she’d handle it now.
    As she was dressing the phone rang. When it hit the third ring, she assumed David was otherwise occupied and answered herself.
    “Good evening. Is Rosalind Harper available?”
    “This is she.”
    “Ms. Harper, this is Derek from the Carrington Gallery in New York. We’re just following up to let you know the Vergano will be shipped to you tomorrow.”
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Derek, is it? I didn’t order anything from your gallery.”
    “The Cristina Vergano, Ms. Harper. Your representative spoke with me personally only last week.”
    “I don’t have a representative.”
    “Ms. Harper, I’m very confused. The charge has already been cleared to your account. Your representative indicated that you were very taken with the painting, and wished to have it shipped as soon as the showing was over. We’ve had considerable interest in this work, but as it was already sold—”

    She rubbed hard at the back of her neck where the tension had settled. “It looks like we both have a problem, Derek. Let me give you some of the bad news.” She explained briefly, caught herself pacing as she spoke, and as a fresh headache brewed. She noted down the credit card company and number.
    “This is very upsetting.”
    “Yes,” she agreed, “it certainly is. I’m sorry you and your gallery have been inconvenienced by this. Would you mind, just for curiosity’s sake, telling me the name of the painting?”
    “Vergano’s a very powerful and dynamic artist. This oil on linen, custom framed by the artist, is from her Bitches collection. It’s called The Amazing Bitch .”
    “Of course it is,” Roz replied.
    She went though the routine, calling the credit card company, and her lawyer, then writing to both to document the incident.
    She took aspirin before going down to the kitchen and pouring herself a large glass of wine.
    David’s note sat propped on the counter.
    Hot date. An exceptional lasagna’s on warm in the oven. Hayley and the baby went over to Logan’s with Stella and the boys. They’re having a little painting party. More than enough lasagna for two. Dr. Studly’s in the library. Just warm up the bread, toss the salad—in the fridge—and you’re set. Buon appetito!
    David

    P.S. Appropriate CDs already loaded in the player. Now please go up and put on those Jimmy Choo’s.
    “Well.” She noted David had set the kitchen nook with festive plates, fat candles, a bottle of San Pellegrino, pale green glasses. And it explained why a bottle of good Italian red was breathing on the counter.
    “Lasagna’s fine,” she said aloud. “But I’m not putting on those shoes to eat it.”
    Content and comfortable in the thick gray socks she habitually wore around the house, she walked to the library.
    He was sitting at the table, wearing his glasses and a Memphis Tigers sweatshirt. His fingers were moving quickly over the keyboard of his laptop. On the desk was a large bottle of water. David’s doing, no doubt. He’d have nagged Mitch to rotate water with his habitual coffee.
    He looked... studiously sexy, she decided, with his intellectual glasses and the mass of thick, disordered hair. That rich brown, with just a hint of chestnut.
    There were good eyes behind those glasses, she thought. Not just the color, so deep, so unique, but good, direct eyes. A little intense, unnervingly intense, and she had to admit she found that exciting.
    Even as she watched, he paused in his typing to scoop the fingers of one hand through his hair. And muttered to himself.
    It was interesting to hear him mutter to himself, since she often caught herself doing the same.
    It was interesting, too, to feel this long slow pull in her belly, and the little dance of lust up her spine. Wasn’t it good to know those instinctive charges still had spark? And wasn’t she curious to see what would happen if she took a chance, and lit the fuse?
    Even as she thought it, books flew off the shelf, slammed into each other, then the walls, the floor. In the fireplace, flames leaped in hot reds, while the air shivered with cold.
    “Jesus Christ.”
    Mitch shoved back from the table so fast his chair hit the floor. He managed