Black Rose by Nora Roberts

noise of the chipper, so took a moment just to watch her. And let himself meld the sparkling woman in rubies with the busy gardener in faded jeans.
    Then there was the to-the-point woman in a business suit who’d first come to his apartment. Roz of the tropical greenhouse with a smudge of soil on her cheek. And the casual, friendly Roz who’d taken the time to help him select a child’s toy.
    Lots of angles to her, he decided, and likely more than he’d already seen. Strangely enough, he was attracted to every one of them.
    With his thumbs hooked in his front pockets, he movedinto her line of vision. She glanced up from under the brim of the ballcap, then switched off the machine.
    “You don’t need to stop on my account,” he told her. “It’s the first time I’ve seen one of those things in action except in Fargo .”
    “This one isn’t quite up to disposing of a body, but it does the job for garden chores.”
    She knew Fargo , he thought, ridiculously pleased. It was a sign they had some common ground. “Uh-huh.” He peered down where most of a branch had gone inside. “So you just shove stuff in there, and chop, chop, chop.”
    “More or less.”
    “Then what do you do with what’s left?”
    “Enough branches and leaves and such, you get yourself a nice bag of mulch.”
    “Handy. Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but David said you were out here. I thought I’d come by, get in a couple hours of research.”
    “That’s fine. I didn’t figure you’d have much time to spare on it until after the holidays.”
    “I’ve got time. I’m getting copies of official records, and I need to make some notes from your family Bible, that sort of thing. Get some order before I can dig down below the surface.”
    He brushed a good-sized wood chip from her shoulder and wished she’d take off the sunglasses. Her eyes just killed him.
    “And I’d like to set up times for those interviews, for after the holidays.”
    “All right.”
    He stood, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He was stalling, he knew, but she smelled so damn good. Just a hint of secret female under the woody scent. “Funny, I didn’t think much went on in a garden this time of year.”
    “Something goes on every time of year.”
    “And I’m holding you up. Listen, I wanted to see if you were all right.”
    “I’m fine. Just fine.”
    “It’d be stupid for me to pretend I didn’t hear murmurs about what was behind that scene last night. Or what would have been a scene if you hadn’t handled things so . . . adroitly.”
    “Adroitly’s how I prefer handling things, whenever possible.”
    “And if you’re going to get your back up when a conversation between us touches on the personal, it’s going to be tough to research your family history.”
    Because he was watching carefully, because he was learning to read her, he saw the annoyance flick over her face before she composed it. “Last night has nothing whatsoever to do with my family history.”
    “I disagree. It involves you, and this . . . thing going on in your house involves you.”
    She might kick him out as . . . adroitly as she had Bryce Clerk, but if so, it would be because he was honest and up-front.
    “I’m going to pry, Roz. That’s what you’ve hired me to do, and I won’t always pry gently. If you want me to move forward with this, you’ll have to get used to it.”
    “I fail to see what my regrettable and thankfully brief second marriage could have to do with the Harper Bride.”
    He didn’t have to see her eyes clearly to know they’d chilled. He heard it in her voice. “Bride. Whether or not she was one, she’s referred to as such through your family lore. When she . . . manifested herself,” he decided, “last spring—in spades—you said she’d never bothered with you when you’d socialized with men, or when you’d married—as she had with Stella.”
    “Stella has small children. My children are