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Black Rose

Black Rose

Titel: Black Rose
Autoren: Nora Roberts
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stupid and stung and more than a bit mortified by her foolish, and mercifully brief, union to a liar and a cheat.
    But it was time to put that aside now, she reminded herself, just as she’d put him aside. The fact that Bryce Clerk was back in Memphis made it only more important that she live her life, publically and privately, exactly as she chose.
    At the mile-and-a-half mark, a point she judged by an old, lightning-struck hickory, she started back. The thin fog had dampened her hair, her sweatshirt, but her muscles felt warm and loose. It was a bitch, she mused, that everything they said about exercise was true.
    She spotted a deer meandering across the road, her coat thickened for winter, her eyes on alert by the intrusion of a human.
    You’re beautiful, Roz thought, puffing a little on that last half mile. Now, stay the hell out of my gardens. Another note went in her file to give her gardens another treatment of repellant before the deer and her pals decided to come around for a snack.
    Roz was just making the turn into the drive when she heard muffled footsteps, then saw the figure coming her way. Even with the mists she had no trouble identifying the other early riser.
    They both stopped, jogged in place, and she grinned at her son.
    “Up with the worms this morning.”
    “Thought I’d be up and out early enough to catch you.” He scooped a hand through his dark hair. “All that celebrating for Thanksgiving, then your birthday, I figured I’d better work off the excess before Christmas hits.”
    “You never gain an ounce. It’s annoying.”

    “Feel soft.” He rolled his shoulders, then his eyes, whiskey brown like hers, and laughed. “Besides, I gotta keep up with my mama.”
    He looked like her. There was no denying she’d stamped herself on his face. But when he smiled, she saw his father. “That’ll be the day, pal of mine. How far you going?”
    “How far’d you?”
    “Three miles.”
    He flashed a grin. “Then I’ll do four.” He gave her a light pat on the cheek as he passed.
    “Should’ve told him five, just to get his goat.” She chuckled, and slowing to a cool-down walk, started down the drive.
    The house shimmered out of the mists. She thought: Thank God that’s over for another day. And she circled around to go in as she’d left.
    The house was still quiet, and lovely. And haunted.
    She’d showered and changed for work, and had started down the central stairs that bisected the wings when she heard the first stirrings.
    Stella’s boys getting ready for school, Lily fussing for her breakfast. Good sounds, Roz thought. Busy, family sounds she’d missed.
    Of course, she’d had the house full only a couple weeks earlier, with all her boys home for Thanksgiving and her birthday. Austin and Mason would be back for Christmas. A mother of grown sons couldn’t ask for better.
    God knew there’d been plenty of times when they were growing up that she’d yearned for some quiet. Just an hour of absolute peace where she had nothing more exciting to do than soak in a hot tub.
    Then she’d had too much time on her hands, hadn’t she? Too much quiet, too much empty space. So she’d ended up marrying some slick son of a bitch who’d helped himself to her money so he could impress the bimbos he’d cheated on her with.

    Spilled milk, Roz reminded herself. And it wasn’t constructive to dwell on it.
    She walked into the kitchen where David was already whipping something in a bowl, and the seductive fragrance of fresh coffee filled the air.
    “Morning, gorgeous. How’s my best girl?”
    “Up and at ’em anyway.” She went to a cupboard for a mug. “How was the date last night?”
    “Promising. He likes Grey Goose martinis and John Waters movies. We’ll try for a second round this weekend. Sit yourself down. I’m making French toast.”
    “French toast?” It was a personal weakness. “Damn it, David, I just ran three miles to keep my ass from falling all the way to the back of my knees, then you hit me with French toast.”
    “You have a beautiful ass, and it’s nowhere near the back of your knees.”
    “Yet,” she muttered, but she sat. “I passed Harper at the end of the drive. He finds out what’s on the menu, he’ll be sniffing at the back door.”
    “I’m making plenty.”
    She sipped her coffee while he heated up the skillet.
    He was movie-star handsome, only a year older than her own Harper, and one of the delights of her life. As a boy he’d run tame
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