Black Rose - NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

She could laugh at that, but the tension gathered at the base of her neck as she moved to the next phase. Bryce. A foolish, impulsive mistake. And that was all right, everyone was entitled to a few. But this one had done such damage, caused such upheaval. And public speculation and gossip, which in some ways was a bigger score to her pride.

He’d made her doubt herself so often during their marriage, where she’d always been so confident, so sure. But he had an eroding way about him, slick and sly with all those insistent little rubs under the charm.

It was a lowering thing to admit she’d been stupid—and over a man.

But she’d cooked him good and proper tonight, and that made up for a lot of irritation, embarrassment, and pain. He’d served himself up on a goddamn platter, she thought, and she’d stuck the fork in. He was done.

So good for her. Woo-hoo.

Now maybe it was time for yet another phase in the Life of Rosalind. Was she ready for that? Ready to take that big, scary step toward a man who loved her just as she was? Nearly fifty, and thinking about love and marriage—for the third time. Was that just insane?

Idly she played her toes through the trickle of hot water she’d left running to keep the bath warm.

Or was it a gift, already wrapped in pretty paper, tied with a big fat bow, and tossed in her lap?

She was in love, she thought, her lips curving as she let the tension drain away, closed her eyes. In love with an interesting, attractive, considerate man. A good man. With enough flaws and quirks to keep him from being boring.

She sighed, as contentment began to settle over her. And a thin gray mist crawled along the tiles.

And the sex? Oh, thank God for the sex, she thought with a lithe stretch and a purr in her throat. Hot and sweet, tender and exciting. Stimulating. Lord, that man was stimulating. Her body felt juiced again.

Maybe, just maybe they could have a life together. Maybe love didn’t have to come at convenient and sensible times. And maybe the third time was the charm. It was something worth considering, very, very seriously.

Marriage. She drifted, drowsy now, trailing her fingers through the frothy water while the mist thickened, rising off the floor like a flood.

It came down to making an intimate promise to someone you not only loved, but trusted. She could trust Mitch. She could believe in him.

Would her sons think she’d lost her mind? They might, but it was her life, after all.

She’d enjoy being married—probably. Having someone else’s clothes in the closet, someone else’s books on the shelf. The man wasn’t what you’d call tidy, but she could deal with that if . . .

The foamy water went ice cold. On a gasp, Roz shoved up from her lounging position, instinctively clutching her arms. Her eyes popped wide when she saw the room was full of fog, so dense she couldn’t see the walls, the door.

Not steam, she realized, but a kind of ugly gray mist, as cold as the water and thick as iced soup.

Even as she started to stand, to climb out, she was dragged under.

With a leap in the belly, shock came first, before the fear. The utter shock of the frigid water, the sensation of being yanked down, held under, froze her before she began to fight. Choking, kicking, she strained to surface as the cold stiffened her limbs. She could feel hands clamped on her head, then nails digging into her shoulders, but through the film of the water, she saw nothing but floating bubbles and swirling mists.

Stop! Her mind screamed it. Using all her strength, she braced hands and feet and pushed up in one desperate lunge. Her head came up, broke through into the icy fog. She took one frantic gulp of air before the steely pressure on her shoulders shoved her under again.

Water sloshed over the rim of the tub as she struggled, burned her eyes and throat. She could hear her own muffled screams, as she flailed against what she couldn’t see. Her elbow slammed against the side of the tub, shooting pain through terror.

For your own good. For your own good. You have to learn!

The voice was a hiss in her ear, a hiss that cut through the frantic beat of blood. Now she saw it, the face swimming above her, over the churning water, its lips peeled back on a grimace of fury. She saw the madness in Amelia’s eyes.

He’s no different. They all lie! Didn’t I tell you? Why don’t you listen? Make you listen, make you stop. Tainted blood. His blood’s in you. Ruined you after all.

She was dying. Her lungs were screaming, her heart galloping as she fought wildly to find purchase, to find air . Something was going to burst inside her, and she’d die in the cold, scented water. But not willingly, not easily. She pounded out, with her hands, her feet. And with her mind.

Let go of me. Let go! I can’t listen if I’m dead. You’re killing me. If I die, you’ll stay lost. If I die, you’ll stay trapped. Murderer. Trapped in Hell.

She gathered herself again, fueled her straining muscles with the strength of survival, and rocketed up.

Water fumed, sliced through the mists to splash walls and floor in a small, violent tidal wave. Gripping the edge of the tub, she leaned over, choking, coughing out what she’d swallowed. Her stomach heaved, but she locked her arms around the rim. She wouldn’t be pulled under again.

“Keep your hands off me, you bitch.”

Wheezing, she crawled out of the tub and dropped weakly onto the soaked mat. As shudders racked her, she curled into a ball until she could find her breath. Her ears rang, and her heart thudded so brutally she wondered if she’d have bruised ribs to add to the rest.

She heard weeping.

“Your tears don’t mean a lot to me at the moment.” Not trusting herself to stand, she scooted over the floor until she could reach for a towel with a shaking hand, and pull it around her for warmth.

“I’ve lived with you all my life. I’ve tried to help you. And you try to drown me? In my own tub? I warned you I’d find a way to remove you from this house.”

The words didn’t come out nearly as strong or angry as she wanted. It was hard to sound in charge when her teeth were chattering, as much with fear as cold.

She jolted when the robe she’d hung on the back of the door drifted down and settled over her shoulders. “Why, thank you,” Roz said, and did manage sarcasm well enough. “How considerate of you, after trying to kill me, to see that I don’t catch cold. I’ve had about enough.”

She shoved her arms in the robe and drew it close as she got shakily to her feet.

Then she saw Amelia, through the thinning mists. Not the madwoman with crazed eyes and wild hair who’d loomed over her while she’d fought for her life, but a shattered woman with tears on her cheeks, and her hands clasped as if in prayer.

As she faded away, as the mists melted, another message appeared on the mirror. It said simply:

Forgive me.

“YOU COULD’VE BEENkilled.”

Mitch paced the bedroom, anger all but sparking off his fingertips.

She’d gone down to make a pot of hot coffee, and to ask him to come upstairs. She’d wanted to be assured they weren’t overheard when she told him.

“I wasn’t. Happily.” The coffee was helping, but she was still chilled, and willing to bundle under a thick cashmere throw.

“You might’ve died, while I was downstairs putzing around with books and files. You were up here, fighting for your life, and I—”

“Stop.” But she said it gently. A woman who’d lived with men, raised sons, understood ego. “What happened, could have happened, didn’t happen—none of it was your fault. Or mine, for that matter. The fault lies in what is no doubt an emotionally disturbed ghost. And I don’t care how ridiculous that sounds.”