Black Rose

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 A suit 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