Page 6 of Weeping Roses
“Beauty shrouded by deadly thorns tossed into a pit before it had the chance to fade.”
“Excuse me.”
I jump as I realize I spoke out loud and I say quickly, “I’m sorry. I was just voicing my thoughts.”
I turn my attention to the view before me and am speechless as we pull to a stop on a large driveway that rests at the side of the gigantic property. The Cotswold stone gleams against the sodden fingers of rain that sparkle on the windows like my own wretched tears. The storm has now passed, but the results remain and everywhere is covered in droplets of water, soaking the place in misery.
The clouds are dark and threatening above us, much like the man sitting beside me now and it all appears a little surreal as we come to a final stop outside a home I never imagined in a million years I would own.
The door opens and the keys press against my side as I exit the car, my mysterious stranger offering me his hand in a different way this time as he helps me from the car.
I stare in awe at the amazing home before us and must be in a state of shock because I merely follow him around the side of the building on a path that leads to the huge oak front door.
“The keys.” He says simply and all my earlier bravado deserts me as I fumble in my bag and my fingers rest against the harsh metal of the key to God only knows what.
I don’t even try to take charge and hand him the bunch of keys, wanting to use him as a human shield as we head into a home I don’t think I belong in.
We step into a hallway and the first thing that impresses me is the flagstone floor. Oak beams nestle against the ceiling and a huge fireplace sits to one side, as cold now as my aunt’s lifeless body in the sodden grave we left behind.
I’m vaguely aware of the men who accompanied us as they appear to be operating some sort of drill and my companion stands beside me as they pass and says unemotionally, “They will check it’s safe.”
“Safe?” I gasp and he turns, and his dark stare doesn’t give me any reassurances, as he states fact. “I believe your aunt was murdered and the weapon was her home. I am taking no chances with our lives, and we will wait here until the house is searched.”
“Murdered!” I stare at him in shock and my legs quiver, causing me to sink into a nearby wing-backed chair that is set beside the fireplace.
He leans against the wall and regards me with interest.
“Yes, murdered. Do you understand the seriousness of your situation now, Miss Scott-Stanley?”
“I’m beginning to.” I say with a nervous laugh.
He merely nods and appears satisfied. “Good. It makes things easier.”
I’m not sure how long we wait in silence, but then one of the men returns and says something in that strange language that makes my companion say with satisfaction. “Good.”
He turns to me and his eyes glitter as he says in his deep voice, “Shall we?”
CHAPTER 4
VALENTIN
Ioffer her my hand and as if she’s operating on autopilot, she grasps it with a firmness that surprises me. For all her brave words, I can tell she’s terrified and overwhelmed by the situation, which makes my job easier.
I am trying to focus on the job at hand rather than how attractive my victim is because it hasn’t escaped my attention that Pollyanna Scott-Stanley is an English rose of the most desirable kind.
Her hair is scraped back into a tight bun that rests just above the nape of her neck. It gleams like burnished copper and frames her porcelain skin that is as flawless as her outfit. She is wearing minimal make-up, and her huge green eyes are filled with curious awe as she gazes at a place she obviously wasn’t expecting. Her ruby red lips are slightly parted as she glances around her, and her soft hand feels fragile in my own rough grasp.
She is wearing a fawn colored full-length coat and black boots that are doing an excellent job of disguising what’s underneath and, for some inexplicable reason, I’m a little protective over the woman I came here to intimidate and bully into agreement.
We begin a tour of a house that is both grand and yet lived in and I may be ambivalent about my surroundings but not to my companion. I view the house through her eyes as we enter rooms that wouldn’t look out of place in a fashion spread. It’s obviously the work of a professional and I stir the deep resentment inside me for the man who probably paid for it all.
I am struggling with the prospect that he cheated on my mom and with every step we take, the anger deepens as I recognize little touches of home that only he could have provided.
We linger in a small sitting room where two formal couches are set on either side of another ornate fireplace, the patterned rug under our feet slightly stained from the ash of the now cold fire.
Pollyanna stares around with mounting excitement and I can tell she is falling in love with a house that is now solely hers.
“I can’t believe it.” She repeats, over and over again as we take it all in and, as she gazes in wonder, my attention is riveted on several silver photograph frames nestling on an antique polished table beneath the sash window.