Back on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #4)(33)

“Will that be all?” she asked, struggling to maintain a professional facade.

“No, as a matter of fact, it won’t. I’d like roses delivered to Elizabeth every week.”

“Every week?”

“Yes.”

“For what period of time?” Christian went through women so quickly, she couldn’t imagine anyone lasting more than a few months, four or five on the outside.

“A year.”

“A year?” she repeated, too stunned to keep her mouth shut. She couldn’t have disguised her shock had she tried. So Christian was obviously in a serious relationship. He must be to go to this expense. As his personal assistant, Colette had ordered flowers for him dozens of times. She knew his routine; he generally ordered roses at the beginning of a relationship and again close to the end.

“Does that satisfy your demand that I do business or leave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said curtly. She didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed at the way he’d outmaneuvered her—or sad about the connection that no longer existed.

“Is there anything else?” she asked after an awkward moment of silence.

“Nothing.”

His voice was almost tender, and she had the feeling this would be the last time she ever saw him. “How would you like to pay for this?” she asked, working hard to keep the pain out of her voice.

He answered by withdrawing his credit card and handing it to her.

When the slip printed out, she tore it off and gave it to Christian for his signature. He didn’t so much as blink at the amount, which was substantial.

“Take my credit card number and bill me weekly for the roses. Make sure they’re impressive.”

“I’ll see to them myself,” she promised and wondered why she should care.

He stared at her, and she squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. “I wish you’d come to me before you wrote that letter,” he said.

“I couldn’t.” Once she’d recognized what he was involved with, she had no option but to turn him in—even if she’d done it in the most cowardly possible way.

“I know,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful.

“Can’t you get out of it?” she pleaded.

Slowly he shook his head. “It’s not that easy. I never meant it to go this far, and now there’s no turning back.”

“I’m sorry, Christian. Can I do anything to help?”

He hesitated, his eyes holding hers. “I know it’s a ridiculous thing to ask, but would you have dinner with me?”

“Dinner?”

“Just once.”

She couldn’t understand why he’d ask. “Is there any particular reason?”

“No. It’s just that I’d rather end our relationship on a positive note. I’ll understand if you decline but I’m hoping you won’t.”

Colette saw the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m…not sure it would be a good idea.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “But if you do agree, I’ll give you my word of honor that I’ll never trouble you again.”

The silence between them crackled with tension. She told herself she should run away from him, run in the opposite direction, and discovered she couldn’t. Even knowing that he was involved in illegal activities and likely to be arrested, she couldn’t refuse him this one request.

“All right,” she said reluctantly.

Colette was terrified of spending an evening with him, because of what he might say—and because of what she couldn’t.

CHAPTER 12

“If more people knitted and crocheted, the world would see fewer wars and a whole lot less road rage.”

Lily Chin, www.lilychinsignaturecollection.com

Lydia Goetz

The prayer shawl class was going well. Susannah, in particular, was learning quickly, full of enthusiasm for knitting. Before she’d even finished her first project, she’d already purchased a pattern and yarn for a sweater she planned to make for her daughter, Chrissie.

Alix was a great help to me in this class. And knitting, as usual, brought its calming effect. She was more relaxed, more optimistic and I hadn’t heard her say anything negative about the wedding in at least a couple of weeks.

Colette managed to learn the basic stitches, although I have to admit she didn’t take to it as easily as I’d hoped. It’s like that sometimes with beginning knitters. Almost always, a new knitter will catch on after a few simple instructions. Soon it’s as if they’ve been knitting all their lives. Then there are others who struggle with each step and get discouraged when they see how slow they are compared to everyone else. In the previous class, I’d explained to Colette that each person learns at his or her own pace, reminding her that it isn’t a competition. I felt confident that as she continued to knit she’d become more comfortable with the process.

Margaret joined the class, too. I’d hoped sitting down with the others and forming new friendships would help her. And I thought concentrating on the act of knitting would soothe her, especially since she’d stopped doing any handiwork at all. The attack on Julia had been more than a month ago, and my sister was still focused, to the exclusion of everything else, on finding the man responsible. I can’t tell you how many times she called the police asking for an update on the case.