Page 69 of So Close

Paused on the final step, I scrutinize the mental picture I took with a glance. An imposing man stands on the porch with an enormous bouquet of red roses in his large, scarred hands. He is not as tall as you, but he’s over six feet. Possessing the shoulders of a linebacker, he’s tamed his sandy-blond hair into a military cut and keeps his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. His jaw is sharply square. His attire of a black T-shirt with black dress slacks makes it hard to mistake him for anything other than a bodyguard. If it’s meant for the bouquet to serve as a false front, it’s terribly deficient.

I curse the fact that I’m inadequately dressed. I’m also growing increasingly wet between the thighs as the evidence of your pleasure yields to gravity. All around, the situation is less than ideal. I’m not prepared for fight or flight, although I know the man must be yours. Any genuine threat would be cunning enough to catch us unawares.

Padding to the foyer on bare feet, I smile through the glass.

“What a nice surprise!” I say cheerfully, noting the florist delivery van as it pulls away from the curb. “Could you just set those down on the porch, please?”

He does as I ask, then straightens. The sunglasses shield his eyes, making them fully unreadable. “Is Mr. Black available?”

“Do you work for us?” I ask the question despite knowing the answer. Sadly, sometimes it’s more advantageous for a woman to hide her intelligence, and I’ve learned to excel at dissembling.

“Yes, ma”am.”

“I’ll let my husband know you’re waiting. I’d invite you to wait inside, but I’m not dressed for it, as you can see.”

“No problem.”

I watch as he leaves the front porch, his steps silent despite his size and the thick soles of his combat boots. A second, similarly conspicuously dressed fellow appears on the stoop of our guesthouse across the street.

So, we’re under guard here, too. Interestingly, you haven’t mentioned it. Are you keeping people away or just keeping me?

Tightening the tie at my waist, I focus on the delivery. I open the door and softly exclaim my delight. The arrangement is extravagant. The scent of the roses, lavish and sensual, engulfs me. I feel a flutter of joy that you would send me flowers. They’re a lovely, sweet symbol of courtship.

The bouquet is so huge and heavy it takes both of my hands to lift and steady it. Kicking the door shut behind me, I carry the cut-crystal vase to the kitchen island. I take a moment to admire each rose’s perfection; there are at least three dozen. Their color is a deep, luscious crimson, the petals softer than silk. I tug the card free of its stake and open the envelope to pull out the folded paper. The message is printed in a scripted font.

You’re always in my thoughts.

The smile that curves my lips is so wide it’s nearly painful. I set the card aside and reach with both hands to cup the silky petals in my palms. The bell sleeve of my kimono catches the paper and sends it fluttering to the floor. The card separates from its envelope, and as I squat to collect them both, I see the intended recipient’s name. I freeze, arrested by disbelief.

The flowers aren’t from you, and they’re not for me.

I choke back a wrenching sob. I pick up the envelope with shaking fingers, then reach for the card. I fall back to sit on the floor as I reread the message, my legs too weak to support me. It’s cold in the house, like the breath of a ghost, and abruptly dark. The sunny beach outside is another world, a make-believe place of warmth and light.

I don’t know how long I stay there on the cool kitchen tiles. I might have remained there all day, my thoughts racing, if I hadn’t heard you descending the stairs. I don’t want you to find me weak and shaken.

The island acts as an anchor for me to grip as I crawl to my knees, then I grab the lip of the counter to pull myself to my feet.

When I turn away from the bouquet, I nearly run into you.

You loom over me. You’ve dressed in a dark gray T-shirt and faded black jeans. Your closet here is several years old, bought by the man you once were, so the shirt strains around your biceps and the breadth of your chest. I’ve become used to seeing you this way over the past week, but seeing your thirty-two-year-old body in the clothes of your twenty-something self is eerie. I suddenly feel as if I’ve been unchanged all these years, my life uninterrupted, and you are a doppelgänger of the man I love, out of sync with time and me.

“Let me see that.” You take the card and envelope from my nerveless fingers.

I watch your features harden as you read the message first. Your gaze narrows with fury when you see Ivy York’s name. The note is crumpled into a tiny ball in your fist that you drop onto the countertop with disgust.

“Are you okay?” you ask, pulling me into a tight hug.

I sink into your warmth and strength. “I’m fine.”

In hindsight, the red roses are a calling card easily identifiable despite the sender’s chosen anonymity. The knowledge of Ivy York’s name is chilling, but beyond that is the hidden message of the delivery: you’re a target.

You press a kiss to the crown of my head. “I love you. You’re safe with me.”

That you would repeat that sentiment now shakes me to the core. This time, you’re referring to my physical safety, and a tight knot of alertness I’ve long lived with loosens a fraction. Ensuring my safety has always been my responsibility. I’ve learned to protect and defend myself and manage both quite well, but knowing you have my back … well, that’s a gift as precious as the jewels in your safe.

You pull back, stroke my cheek and deliver another blow. “I wasn’t what you needed before. I am now.”

You press your lips to mine, then back away, your jaw tight and your eyes burning with fury. Snatching your keys off the foyer console, you leave by the front door. Through the kitchen’s picture window, I see the security specialist waiting for you on the walkway. You cross the street together and disappear inside the guesthouse.

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