ONE NIGHT ONLY

Chapter 11

When the doorbell rang at precisely five o’clock that night, Rosa was ready.

She’d had all day to perfect her speech and knew exactly what she’d say, had all her excuses listed and rehearsed: I’m sorry I’ve given you the wrong idea, Philip, but we’re not going to have a relationship. My life is all about Brennan now and I don’t believe in casual sex. I’ve had my great love and no other man could ever compare to Jake. I’d only be wasting your time.

True, she had put on her sexiest red satin blouse with her jeans, the one with the ruffles that dipped low in the front, and, true, her body was still hot and agitated from the interlude with Philip earlier on the sofa and, yeah, it was true that she’d begun to wonder what could happen if she and Philip began a relationship, but all that was beside the point.

The point—and she was going to remember this the next time she saw the flash of Philip’s wicked eyes and felt the rumble of his velvety voice deep in her belly—was that she was not ready for an affair and could never have one with him.

Period. End of story.

So she was strangely disappointed when she opened the door and Philip was nowhere in sight. What was in sight was a dark sedan idling at the curb and a uniformed chauffeur carrying what looked like six or eight hundred white roses over one arm.

"Hi," Rosa said, aware of Lucille coming to stand behind her.

"Ms. Matthews? These are for you." Smiling, the chauffeur transferred the fragrant bouquet—oh, wow, it was heavy—to Rosa. "And these." He handed her a two-pound bag of strawberry Twizzlers.

Astonished, Rosa took the candy and stared at it, a sudden lump of emotion in her throat.

This could not be happening.

Philip had remembered both her favorite flower and her favorite candy, and she had no idea when she’d ever mentioned either to him. Had Jake told him? No. She’d bet money that he hadn’t. Jake had been many wonderful things—athletic, a decent cook and a great father came to mind—but a romantic wasn’t one of them. If forced at gunpoint, she doubted her husband would’ve been able to name her favorite anything.

"There’s a card," the chauffeur told her.

Rosa had just discovered it tied with a blue satin ribbon to a single red rose amid the white. The white roses are because they’re your favorite, Philip had written in his bold scrawl, but the red one represents a little of my passion for you. P.

My God, how that man touched her.

Undone, Rosa pressed the card to her heart and wondered what to do now.

"Oh, and he said to give you this too." The chauffeur handed her another card from his breast pocket. Rosa took it warily, not sure how much more sentiment she could handle for the day.

Are you wearing red?

She snorted with laughter. It must have had a hysterical edge to it, because Lucille hurried forward and held her arm toward the door to steer the chauffeur out. "Please tell Philip that Rosa says thank you. But unfortunately she won’t be able to—"

"Yes, I will," Rosa interjected quickly, ignoring the annoying flash of triumph in Lucille’s quickly-subdued smile. She grabbed her purse and jacket from the chair, thinking that a single date with Philip—only this one time—wouldn’t kill her.

The passion she’d felt in the last several hours, the excitement and the unspeakable hope were all intoxicating and she wanted more of them. She wanted this time with Philip. Couldn’t she enjoy a few more hours of lightness this Valentine’s Day and then revert to the dutiful widow and single mother tomorrow? What could it hurt?

She gave Lucille a hurried hug and transferred the roses to her. "Kiss Brennan for me, okay? Tell him I’ll be back after he’s asleep."

"Don’t you worry about a thing," Lucille told her. "Enjoy yourself."

"I intend to."