Black Rose - NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

“Not quite.”

“Good. Let me grab what I need, then I’ll meet you at the checkout. I’ll help you haul your load out to your car, then take you to lunch.”

“It’s nearly four. A little late for lunch.”

“Oh.” He looked absently at his watch to confirm the time. “I think time must warp in places like this so you could actually spend the rest of your natural life wandering aimlessly without realizing it. Anyway. A drink then. I’d really like to have a conversation about the project.”

“All right. There’s a little place called Rosa’s right across the way. I’ll meet you there in a half hour.”

BUT HE WASwaiting at the checkout. Patiently, from all appearances. Then insisted on helping her load her bags in her car. He took one look at what was already stacked in the back of her Durango and said, “Holy Mother of God.”

“I don’t shop often, so when I do I make it count.”

“I’ll say.”

“There are less than three weeks left till Christmas.”

“I’ll have to ask you to shut up.” He hefted the last bag inside. “My car’s that way.” He gestured vaguely toward their left. “I’ll meet you.”

“Fine. Thanks for the help.”

The way he wandered off made her think he wasn’t entirely sure just where he’d parked. She thought he should’ve plugged the location into that little personal data thingy he had in his pocket. The idea made her chuckle as she drove over to the restaurant.

She didn’t mind a certain amount of absentmindedness. To her it simply indicated the person probably had a lot in his head, and it took a little longer to find just what he was after. She’d hadn’t hired him out of the blue, after all. She’d researched Mitchell Carnegie and had read or skimmed some of his books. He was good at what he did, he was local, and though he was pricey, he hadn’t balked—overmuch—about the prospect of researching and identifying a ghost.

She parked, then walked into the lounge area. Her first thought was to order a glass of iced tea, or some coffee. Then she decided, the hell with that. She deserved a nice glass of wine after such a successful shopping expedition.

While she waited for Mitch, she called the nursery on her cell phone to let them know she wouldn’t be back in, unless she was needed.

“Everything’s fine here,” Hayley told her. “You must be buying out the stores.”

“I did. Then I happened to run into Dr. Carnegie at Wal-Mart—”

“Dr. Hottie? How come I never run into hunks at Wal-Mart?”

“Your day will come, I’m sure. In any case, we’re going to have a drink here and discuss, I assume, our little project.”

“Cool. You ought to spin it out over dinner, Roz.”

“It’s not a date.” But she did pull out her lipstick and slide a little pale coral on her lips. “It’s an impromptu meeting. If anything comes up, you can give me a call. I should be heading home within the hour anyway.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. And, hey, you’ve both got to eat sometime, somewhere, so why not—”

“Here he comes now, so we’ll get started. I’ll fill everyone in later. Bye now.”

Mitch slipped into the booth across from her. “This was handy, wasn’t it? What would you like?”

She ordered a glass of wine, and he coffee, black. Then he flipped open the bar menu and added antipasto. “You’ve got to need some sustenance after a shopping safari like that. How’ve you been?”

“Very well, thanks. How about you?”

“Good, now that the book’s out of my hair.”

“I never asked you what it was about.”

“A history and study of Charles-Pierre Baudelaire.” He waited a beat, noted her questioning lift of brows. “Nineteenth-century poet. Wild man of Paris—druggie, very controversial, with a life full of drama. He was found guilty of blasphemy and obscenity, squandered his inheritance, translated Poe, wrote dark, intense poetry, and, long after his death from a sexually transmitted disease, is looked on by many to be the poet of modern civilization—and others as being one sick bastard.”

She smiled. “And which camp do you pitch your tent in?”

“He was brilliant, and twisted. And believe me, you don’t want to get me started, so I’ll just say he was a fascinating and frustrating subject to write about.”

“Are you happy with the work you did?”

“I am. Happier yet,” he said as their drinks were served, “not to be living with Baudelaire day and night.”

“It’s like that, isn’t it, like living with a ghost.”

“Nice segue.” He toasted her with his coffee. “Let me say, first, I appreciate your patience. I’d hoped to have this book wrapped up weeks ago, but one thing led to another.”

“You warned me at the start you wouldn’t be available for some time.”

“Hadn’t expected it to be quite this much time. And I’ve given quite a bit of thought to your situation. Hard not to after that experience last spring.”

“It was a more personal introduction to the Harper Bride than I’d planned.”

“You’ve said she’s been . . . subdued,” he decided, “since then.”

“She still sings to the boys and to Lily. But none of us has seen her since that night. And to be frank, it hasn’t been patience so much as being swamped myself. Work, home, a wedding coming up, a new baby in the house. And after that night, it seemed like all of us needed a little break.”

“I’d like to get started now, really started, if that works for you.”

“I suppose it was fate that we ran into each other like this, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. What will you need?”

“Everything you’ve got. Hard data, records, journals, letters, family stories. Nothing’s too obscure. I appreciate the family photos you had copied for me. It just helps me immerse, you could say, if I have photos, and letters or diaries written in the hands of the people I’m researching.”

“No problem. I’ll be happy to load you up with more.”

“Some of what I’ve managed so far—between bouts with Baudelaire—is what we’ll call a straight job. Starting to chart the basic family tree, getting a feel for the people and the line. Those are the first steps.”

“And at the end of the day, something I’ll enjoy having.”

“I wonder if there’s a place I could work in your house. I’d do the bulk in my apartment, but it might be helpful if I had some space on site. The house plays a vital part in the research, and the results.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem.”

“For the Amelia portion of the project, I’d like a list of names. Anyone who’s had any sort of contact with her I’ll need to interview.”

“All right.”

“And the written permission we talked about before, for me to access family records, birth, marriage, death certificates, that sort of thing.”

“You’ll have it.”

“And permission to use the research, and what I pull out of it, in a book.”

She nodded. “I’d want manuscript approval.”

He smiled at her, charmingly. “You won’t get it.”

“Well, really—”

“I’ll be happy to provide you with a copy, when and if, but you won’t have approval.” He picked up a short, thick breadstick from the wide glass on the table and offered it to her. “What I find, I find; what I write, I write. And if I write a book, sell it, you owe me nothing for the work.”

She leaned back, drew air deep. His casual good looks, that somewhat shaggy peat-moss brown hair, the charming smile, the ancient high-tops, all disguised a clever and stubborn man.

It was a shame, she supposed, that she respected stubborn, clever men. “And if you don’t?”

“We go back to the original terms we discussed at our first meeting. The first thirty hours are gratis, and after that it’s fifty an hour plus expenses. We can have a contract drawn up, spelling it all out.”