Black Rose by Nora Roberts

she’d hired him to do.
    She was allowing the man to write a book that involved her family history, and would certainly involve herself to some extent. Did she really want to become intimate with someone who could, if things burned out, slap her, and her family, in print?
    Her experience with Bryce warned her that when things went bad, things got worse.
    A lot to consider, she mused. Then she raised her eyes to the mirror.
    She saw not only herself, her skin flushed, her eyes bright from her own thoughts, but the pale figure behind her.

    Her breath caught, but she didn’t jolt. She didn’t spin around. She simply stood as she was, her eyes linked with Amelia’s in the glass.
    “Twice in so many weeks,” she said calmly. “You, I imagine, would tell me to brush him off. You don’t like men much, do you, Amelia? Boys, yes, children, but men are a different kettle. No one but a man puts that kind of anger in a woman. I know. Was it one of my blood who put that anger in you?”
    There was no answer, none expected.
    “Let me finish this one-sided conversation by saying I have to think for myself, decide for myself, just as I always have. If I let Mitchell into my life, into my bed, the consequences, and the pleasure, will be on me.”
    She took a slow breath. “But I’ll make you one promise. Whatever I do, or don’t, we won’t stop looking for the answers for you. Not now that we’ve started.”
    Even as the figure began to fade, Roz felt something brush her hair, like a soft stroke of fingers that warmed even as it chilled.
    She had to steady herself, pressing both hands to the top of the dresser. Then she meticulously freshened her lipstick, dabbed a bit more scent on her throat. And started back to the party.
    She thought a ghostly caress would be enough of a shock for one night, but she had another, harder shock, as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
    Bryce Clerk stood in her foyer.
    The rage spewed through her, hot and horrid, and had a vision of herself flashing through her brain. Of leaping down the stairs, spitting out all the bitter insult and fury as she beat him senseless, and threw him out the door.
    For an instant, that vision was so sharp, so clear, that the rest, the reality around her, blurred and vanished. She heard nothing but the pounding blood in her ears.

    He beamed up at her as he helped a woman she knew from the garden club with her wrap. Roz clutched the newel post until control clamped down over temper and she was marginally sure her hand wouldn’t bunch into a fist and fly out.
    She took the last step. “Mandy,” she said.
    “Oh, Roz!” Amanda Overfield giggled, kissed both of Roz’s cheeks in a couple of quick pecks. She was Harper’s age, Roz knew, a silly, harmless, and wealthy young woman. Recently divorced herself, she’d only relocated in Memphis the previous summer. “Your house is just gorgeous . I know we’re awfully late, but we got...” She giggled again, and set Roz’s teeth on edge. “It doesn’t matter. I’m so glad you asked me to come. I’ve been dying to see your home. Where are my manners? Let me introduce you to my date. Rosalind Harper, this is Bryce Clerk.”
    “We’ve met.”
    “Roz. You look spectacular, as always.”
    He started to lean down, as if to kiss her. She knew conversations nearby had died off, knew people were watching, listening. Waiting.
    She spoke very softly. “Touch me, and I’ll kick your balls right up into your throat.”
    “I’m an invited guest in your home.” Bryce’s voice was smooth, and lifted enough to reach interested ears. She watched him fix an expression of injured shock on his face. “Rudeness doesn’t become you.”
    “I don’t understand.” Hands clasped together, Mandy looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”
    “I’m sure you don’t. Mandy, why don’t you and your escort come out front with me a moment?”
    She heard the vicious curse behind her, fought valiantly not to wince.