my lunch too quickly.’
‘I think the rose was meant to be romantic, not give you indigestion,’ teased Bel. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘Let’s find out.’ Rose picked up the phone to ask the local florist.
‘No idea, sorry,’ was the response. ‘Your secret admirer pushed a typed note through the door this morning, with instructions and the exact amount of money.’
When Rose rang off Bel patted her shoulder in concern. ‘Are you all right, boss? You’ve been a bit abstracted all day.’
‘I’m fine.’ Rose eyed the flower with dislike. ‘But I detest mysteries. If all this Valentine nonsense is Anthony’s idea I’ll have words with him tonight.’
‘But surely he would have phoned the order through in the usual way?’
‘He’s got plenty of contacts in the town. Anyone could have put the money through the door of the flower shop for him.’
‘Well I think it’s very romantic,’ declared Bel, then left to deal with an influx of customers, and Rose shut the door on her mystery tribute and went off to help.
After Rose locked up for the night she scanned through the pile of invoices and school orders waiting to be dealt in the office, hesitated, then abandoned her Friday routine. She would be alone for Saturday evening this week. The paperwork could wait until then.
The phone rang when she arrived upstairs, but when she picked up the receiver the only sound on the line was heavy breathing.
‘Who is this?’ she demanded angrily. A voice whispered her name, raising the hairs on her neck, then the line went dead. Shaken and furious, Rose punched in the numbers to identify her caller, but the number had been withheld. Some stupid fool playing a prank, she assured herself, and made herself some lethally strong coffee to calm herself down.
She filled an empty milk bottle with water, thrust the rose in it and put it on the window-sill of her small kitchen, her eyes brooding as she gazed at the beautiful, perfect bloom. A rose for Rose, said a voice in her mind. A male voice. With the merest hint of Scots. Odd. She could hear the voice so plainly its owner could have been in the room with her. But normally she flatly refused to allow herself the indulgence of thinking about him. The wretched Valentine card was to blame, reminding her of things best forgotten. The phone-call hadn’t helped, either. But the rose was the real culprit. Its relentless, heady scent brought memories rushing back like persistent ghosts determined to haunt her. And, as she got ready for the evening, for the first time in years Rose let them stay.
Rose Dryden had gone off to university just after her eighteenth birthday. Eager to embrace everything student life had to offer, she’d been a little wary at first when she’d found she was to share a college flat with two girls who’d been to school together. Cornelia Longford and Fabia Dennison, both a year older than Rose, possessed an aura of self-confidence she envied. But they were warm, friendly creatures who had taken their younger flat-mate under their combined wing, and from the first had seen to it that Rose took full advantage of every social diversion college life had to offer.
Rose, grateful to be accepted as part of a trio, had quickly become accustomed to evenings spent in the students’ union with a boisterous, rowdy crowd of both sexes. Envious at first of Con’s blonde, thoroughbred looks, or the brain Fabia kept hidden behind a flippant manner, even their names, which were so much more glamorous than her own, Rose had quickly blossomed in their company. By the end of term she’d attended every possible festivity available, including the Christmas ball, and had been as ready as any of her peers to contribute to heated discussions on how to improve the world.
Determined to get a good degree, Rose had worked hard. But at the same time she’d learned how to make half a pint of lager last all evening, how to flirt, and how to avoid danger when some importunate male misread the signals.
‘It’s common-sense,’ Con assured her. ‘If you fancy a bloke you go out on a twosome. If you don’t, stick with the crowd.’
Rose never let on that the only men in her life up to that point had been friends of her unmarried aunt, plus one or two brothers of girls from school. Nevertheless, she had enough common-sense to know that a twosome might involve a lot more than just a pizza and a trip to the cinema. And, because she wasn’t attracted to anyone enough to risk finding out, her attitude challenged those among the male student body who considered themselves irresistible.
‘Idiots,’ said Rose irritably, during the first days back after Christmas. ‘I just don’t fancy any of them that way.’
‘You will, eventually,’ warned Fabia, immersed in painting her toenails different colours. ‘Mother Nature gets us all in the end. You’ll see. One look across a crowded room and, wham, you’re done for.’
Rose giggled. ‘No way—not me!’
‘She’s right, you know.’ Con looked up from her books. ‘But most of them just want a fun night out, plus some hanky-panky at the end of it if they’re lucky.’ She paused dramatically. ‘The trick is to make one of them fall in love so violently he’ll be your slave.’
Fabia collapsed with laughter, lying flat on her bed with her legs in the air as she waggled her toes to dry them.
‘You can’t make someone fall in love with you, Con,’ said Rose scornfully.
‘How do you know? Have you ever tried?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Then keep quiet and listen.’ Con’s smile sent shivers down Rose’s spine. ‘Come sit at Mama’s knee, children, and imbibe the knowledge. I’m the neurobiologist, remember, and this is scientific stuff. I read about it while I was having my hair cut yesterday. It’s a proper game plan. No black magic involved,’ she added, laughing. ‘You don’t need eye of newt or anything, Rosie, so don’t look at me like that! Trust me. Are you two game?’
Fabia nodded so eagerly that Rose, afraid that dissent would be taken as cowardice, gave a reluctant nod.
‘Good girl, Rosie,’ approved Con. ‘Don’t look so worried. This will be fun.’
The first step was for each of the trio to write four men’s names on separate pieces of paper, and put the folded scraps into a hat.
‘Now we shake it up and draw one out—only one each, mind, and if we hit on the same one as someone else we draw again,’ instructed Con.
The three of them thrust fingers into the hat simultaneously but Con raised a peremptory hand before they opened them.
‘This needs a bit of ceremony. You first, Fabia.’
‘Will Hargreaves,’ announced Fabia with satisfaction, then grinned at the other two. ‘I didn’t cheat, honest. Just luck of the draw.’
Con groaned as she read hers. ‘Joe Kidd.’
‘But he’s been chasing you ever since freshers’ week,’ objected Rose. ‘That’s no contest—’ She stopped dead, her face flushing crimson as she saw the name on her own slip.
‘Who on earth have you got?’ demanded Con, taking the paper from her. ‘Crikey—James Sinclair.’ She raised an eyebrow at
