Draycott Eternal

London The roses were glorious. Heavy-petaled, crimson peach and palest blush-pink, they glowed through the florist's window. Even through the glass Gray Mackenzie could almost smell their lush perfume. Around her the honking horns and squealing brakes of Oxford Street faded away to nothing. As if in a dream, she watched herself turn and push open the door to the neat little florist shop. She would buy a dozen of them. For herself. Just because she wanted to. It was a gesture totally unlike her, of course. Lingering jet lag, perhaps? Gray worried her lower lip. She'd arrived only last night after a hellish flight from Philadelphia, and this morning her pale cheeks showed the strain. "Yes, miss. 'Ow can I 'elp you?" The proprietor was short, red-cheeked and impatient to get on with his work, though he was trying hard not to show it. Gray pointed. "Those roses in the window. They're--magnificent. No, not the modern hybrids. There, to the right--the old ones. The centifolia roses with the densely packed petals. 'Lisette,' aren't they?" She delighted in the cluster of rich fuchsia blooms tucked in an elegant crystal vase. There was something sad about her, the bald-headed proprietor thought. Not like the usual Yanks who came in here, flashing their plastic, talking fast and loud. Only hybrids would do for their sort. But this one was different. Careful and slow in her speech, she was. And she was a rare and proper beauty, what with that auburn hair spilling over her shoulders and skin that seemed almost too translucent to be real. And those eyes! Purest sea-blue, they were. They put him in mind of a tropical beach at dawn. The florist frowned, wondering why such a beauty went about dressed in a dark skirt and a nondescript gray jacket. Then he sniffed. None of his business, after all. But the flowers were. He nodded, approving her choice. "Quite right, miss. 'Petite Lisette.' 'Normandica' over 'ere. I've a few 'Fantin Latour,' as well. You know something of roses?" "Not a great deal. It's just...a hobby." Gray knew the blooms must be terribly expensive. "I think--yes, I'll take them. All of them." The florist's estimation of her soared several notches. She had good taste, this red-maned Yank. But perhaps she didn't understand exactly what she was looking at. "That will be ten pounds each," he murmured discreetly, just in case she wanted to back out. Gray's eyes flickered. The figure was extortionate! She did a quick calculation, counting nearly two dozen cut stems. In one sweep she saw most of her cash going. But those roses would be worth every penny. Every shilling, she corrected herself, savoring the rich-veined damask of the petals, drinking in their heady scent. "I'll take them all," she said decisively. Yes, it was time she put the past where it belonged and treated herself to something special. The florist gave her an approving smile. "Very good, miss. I'll just fetch some paper to tie them up." A moment later, he disappeared into a curtained alcove. Behind Gray the front door opened with the tinkle of a bell. Chill air swirled through the little shop. Crimson petals dipped in the swift currents and Gray brushed a curl from her cheek. Behind her came the creak of a floorboard, and then the rasp of a dry voice. A familiar voice, even after five years. A voice straight out of her nightmares. "Lovely, aren't they?" She spun about, her heart pounding. Dear God, don't let it be him. Anyone but him! But the man in the shadows by the door was broad-shouldered, his skin bronzed from long hours in the sun. Bleached nearly white, his long hair feathered low over his eyes. Brown eyes, not green. Not like her ex-husband's at all. Gray squinted into the shadows. Appearances could be changed, after all. She of all people knew that. The low, dry voice continued. "Such a pity that they die so soon after they're cut." The man's brow roseSkye, Christina is the author of 'Draycott Eternal', published 2008 under ISBN 9780373772940 and ISBN 0373772947.