been thinking, that’s why. At least, not about what he should have been thinking about. Instead, he’d been checking out the way that gold moon necklace looked against Rose Davenport’s skin—skin that was pink and gold and almost luminescent.
And right smack in the middle of that foolishness, it had suddenly occurred to him that he probably ought to buy something. Anything. Sort of as an act of good faith, and to avoid being under obligation to her. Give and get, that was his philosophy. He’d looked around at what was closest to him, and it had come down to the teapot with the violets or the dead flowers. He hated to think what the teapot would have set him back.
Pausing at the corner for traffic to pass, he opened the bag and peered inside. Maybe there was something special about these particular dead flowers that made them more valuable than they appeared. Something he’d missed at first glance. He poked at the tissue paper and shifted the contents around a little, but as far as he could tell there was nothing about the…what had she called the thing? Garland. Nothing about this particular garland that ought to make it worth more than two hundred and sixty bucks. Plus tax. Hell, he’d thought it was overpriced when he misread the tag as twenty-five dollars.
The only thing preventing him from tossing it in the nearest trash can was the scent that had wafted up and curled around him when he opened the bag. It was the same scent that filled Rose’s shop. The scent of roses. And cinnamon. And wind. All mixed together. At least, that’s what it smelled like to him. And to his surprise, he didn’t half mind it.
Maybe it wasn’t a total loss, after all. He could always hang the damn thing in the can.
He stopped at the library on his way home and wasted several hours at a table strewn with open encyclopedias and books on every aspect of antiques and collectibles. He learned more than anyone should be forced to know about Meissen, and Boris Aureolis’s groundbreaking innovations in porcelain, and birds native to Northern Europe. He finally gave up and went home, tired, grouchy, and still dragging the ball and chain Devora had attached to his life. Not one of the books he’d examined revealed where he could buy the cursed birds.
Worse, at some point it had dawned on him that he wasn’t even certain which three birds he was looking for. Devora had provided a list of those she owned, but until he could compare that with a complete list, he wasn’t even at square one. It was almost as if she’d developed a masochistic streak in her last days and wanted to make the task as difficult for him as possible. Probably because she knew that would only make him more determined to succeed. With or without the help of Rose Davenport, with her smoky green eyes and insider’s understanding of the secret world of antiques.
There was no way he could approach her again. Not, he thought wincing inside, after the way he’d stormed out of there like a total jackass.
Not unless he became utterly desperate.
He dragged his fingers through the dark wavy hair that fell across his forehead. His hair was longer than it had been in twenty years and he was still getting used to it. It didn’t feel like him, and when he looked in the mirror the man who stared back did not look like the man he used to be. Which made sense. That man was gone. He’d had his nose shoved in that nasty little bit of reality dozens of times every day for over a year.
That man, the old Griff, had had everything under control and had never made a mistake when it counted. Well, almost never, he thought bitterly. He certainly would never have overreacted to something as inconsequential as being called “sensitive” by a shopkeeper. Not even a fine-looking one. Especially not by one who was fine-looking.
No, that old Griff would have laughed at the very suggestion and let loose on Rose Davenport a grin that never, ever failed. When she touched the back of his hand, he would have flipped it and caught hers before she knew what hit her, and said something clever and flirtatious, and with just enough of an edge to make her blush a little. Make her think.
Then he would have leaned closer, close enough to find out if she, too, smelled like roses and cinnamon and wind, close enough to touch that mesmerizing spot on her throat where the gold moon nestled. His touch would be light, one fingertip only, and quick, no more than a second, so fleeting she might question later if he had actually made contact or if she had only imagined it.
That would have her wondering, and waiting for the next time, which would not come soon. Oh, no. He almost smiled just thinking about it. His timing, as always, would be perfect. And eventually, if she continued to intrigue him, Rose Davenport would end up in his bed.
And it would be great. For her as well as him. The chase and the sex. He’d always relished both. There would be no rushing, and no coercion. No lies, no strings, no promises. The old Griff had a code of honor that demanded it.
What the old Griff had not had was a bum leg, loss of peripheral vision in one eye, and no future to speak of.
He rubbed his temple, feeling the ache of a loss so big he couldn’t begin to define its dimensions. Some days, it was as if he had his face pressed against the side of a mountain and was struggling to figure out how tall it was, and how the hell he was going to get over it.
Just a few hours ago he’d thought he had the first step figured out, but in what was turning out to be the new story of his life, he had managed to screw that up, too.
Are you calling me sensitive?
He groaned silently. And he’d had the audacity to label the delivery guy a jerk.
No, he decided with grim resolve, there was no possible way he could ask Rose to help him now. That much was definite, as clear to him as the memory of Devora’s voice, ringing in his head.
“Really, Hollis, do you think it wise to cut off your nose to spite your face?”
“Two hundred and sixty-seven dollars?” Maryann Pontrelli McShane’s lively brown eyes reflected amazement and amusement in about equal parts.
“Plus tax,” Rose added.
“Must have been one hell of a garland.”
“It was,” Rose assured her. “Not that Mr. Hollis Who-are-you-calling-sensitive Griffin appreciated it.”
Her friend tossed back long hair the color of expensive mink, glanced at six-month-old Lisa sleeping peacefully in her stroller, and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hollis? What kind of name is Hollis?”
“Rare.”
“Besides rare. British maybe?”
Rose shrugged. “British, French, Cro-Magnon.”
“Easy to see why he prefers Griff.”
“I suppose.” She climbed onto the stool behind the counter and took a sip of the iced chai tea Maryann had brought. “Mmm.”
Iced chai was part of their Thursday ritual.
On Thursdays the shop was open until nine, and Maryann’s husband, Ted, worked late at his law office in Providence. Maryann and Lisa stopped by during the early evening lull, and while the baby napped, the two women caught up with whatever was going on in each other’s lives. During the busy summer months, the shop was Rose’s life, and it was Maryann who usually had the more interesting tales to tell. Not so today. Rose had been stewing over her run-in with Griffin for two days and was happy to be able to grouse about it to someone who would understand.
“I’d still like to
