Page 2 of Weeping Roses
I watch the rest of the mourners pay their last respects as I stand to the side.
The woman beside me cries as she tosses her rose to join mine and then stands before me and says mournfully, “I was a friend of her housekeeper, Mrs. Millen. It was such a tragedy.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I smile with sympathy because it’s obvious this woman is grieving for her friend.
She wipes a tear from her eye and moves away as the next mourner joins me and it takes no longer than five minutes for everyone to go, leaving me a solitary figure standing by the grave of a stranger.
The priest smiles with sympathy and leaves and then I notice one of the car doors opening and a man dressed in black steps outside. He must be a mourner too, and I wonder who he is, and I watch with interest as he removes a huge black umbrella from the car and opens it as he walks to the car behind.
He opens the door and I see another man step from the car, also dressed entirely in black. He is wearing dark glasses and waves away the offer of the umbrella with an impatience that interests me.
Who is this man?
He plucks a rose from inside the car and heads toward me and I sense his eyes burning into me as he advances with purpose.
For some reason, my heart beats a little faster, as if he comes with a warning. It’s surrounding me. I can almost reach out and pluck it from the air. Something is happening and I know it will be interesting.
I should leave. I must leave. It’s as if my aunt’s spirit is warning me somehow.
The rain slides down my back as the umbrella shifts and as it glides against my skin, it causes me to shiver inside.
Turn away now before he gets here. Walk away and don’t engage. Run for your life.
My inner voices are screaming at me, but I am rooted to the spot and couldn’t run if I tried.
He’s nearly here.
It’s not too late to run.
He stops by the grave and stares into it for longer than most, the rose twirling in the leather of his gloved hands, spinning in mid-air as it prepares to take flight.
My breath hitches and my heart beats way too fast as he reaches out and uncurls his fingers. The rose hammered by the falling rain apparently weeping as it tumbles to its final resting place. It strikes me there were no thorns removed from that rose. I see them from here, jagged and lethal as they plummet to earth.
He bends down and grabs a handful of earth and sprinkles it almost theatrically into the grave and I swear I almost pass out as the lightning strikes angrily above our head. Then a sudden loud clap of thunder announces him as he turns and stares directly at me.
My legs shake as he walks toward me, his gloves filthy with dirt and as he reaches me, he lifts his hand and removes the dark glasses and stares deep into my eyes.
Fuckity fuck, the devil is in town.
I swallow hard as I stare at a man who wouldn’t look out of place in a painting. The term tall, dark, and handsome was obviously invented to describe him and his piercing eyes glitter as he nods respectfully and speaks with a sexy accent, “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Scott-Stanley.”
My mouth drops open.
How does he know who I am?
I have told nobody my name and I wonder if he is part of the solicitor’s firm that is handling my aunt’s will. Something is telling me he’s way more than that. Something I really shouldn’t ask too much about.
My inner protective voice screams at me to smile politely, to walk away and don’t look back. The curious part of my brain wants to discover who he is.
“Thank you, Mr.…”
“Romanov.” His voice is deep and his accent rough and yet so sexy, my heart is panting right now.
“Valentin Romanov.”
“Well, um, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Romanov. Um, did you know my aunt well?”
I’m babbling because part of me wants to run, but there’s a stronger part of me that is instantly fascinated by this man, and he shakes his head.