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“Just a sec.” Merry scooted back to grab a bill from her purse. Then she returned and opened the door.
A deliveryman stood on the stoop, balancing an arrangement of pink, yellow, peach, white, and red roses in front of him. There must have been four dozen of them, accented with baby’s breath and greens, all in an expensive handblown glass vase. So elaborate was the arrangement, Merry could scarcely see the guy carrying them. All she could make out were his uniformed legs and the top of his balding head.
“Devon Montgomery?”
Merry stared. “Those are gorgeous. Oh yeah, sorry.” She reached out and carefully tran
sferred the vase from his grasp to hers. “Hang on a sec.” Gingerly, she carried the flowers over to the coffee table and set them down. Then she turned, intending to bring the guy his tip. “Thanks very mu—”
She never finished her sentence.
A handkerchief was pressed over her mouth and nose, and strong arms held her in place. A sickening smell invaded her nostrils, and she struggled to free herself. It was no use. Cobwebs danced in her head as the blackness engulfed her.
DEVON NOTICED THE flowers even before she finished walking down the staircase.
Her brows arched, and she went into the living room, checking out the arrangement that was swallowing up her entire coffee table.
“Talk about extravagant,” she muttered, searching until she found the card. She plucked it out of its holder, a twinge of uneasiness in her gut. This kind of dazzling demonstration wasn’t Blake’s style. It was, however, James’s style. She hoped the flowers weren’t from him. She wasn’t up for another round of cat and mouse.
Anxiously, she scanned the note, which read:
Dear Devon,
As beautiful as these roses are, they pale in comparison to you.
Until later—Blake
Devon blinked. Okay, so she’d been wrong. They were from Blake. How bizarre. Not only were the elaborate arrangement and the effusive words way out of character, but they were the last thing she’d expected, given Blake’s present state of mind. Maybe he’d ordered them before yesterday’s trip to the farm? Possible. In any case, she’d call and thank him.
Terror had followed Devon downstairs. As she headed for the kitchen, he dashed into the living room and exploded into a fit of barking.
“What’s up, boy?” Devon turned to see what was prompting the outburst.
Terror began wildly sniffing a spot on the carpet, his barks becoming more furious.
Devon returned to the living room, squatting down and sniffing the area where Terror was rooted. “Yuck.” She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor, which had been masked by the heavy scent of roses filling the air. Up close, the rug smelled like overripe citrus.
“Merry?” she called, standing up. “Did you spill orange juice on the living-room rug?”
No reply.
“Merry?” She turned, searching for a sign of her sister. That was strange. Merry had said she’d be in all day. She’d obviously been here to accept delivery of the flowers.
A quick check of the town house confirmed that she was out.
Puzzled, Devon grabbed the cordless phone and punched in her sister’s cell number.
The line rang.
So did the phone.
It trilled right there in the living room, not ten feet away from where Devon stood. She hung up, feeling more than a little unnerved. Merry never went anywhere without her cell, not even to put out the garbage. That Motorola was always glued to her side.
So why wasn’t it now?
Devon’s home phone rang.
“Hello?” She answered instantly, hoping against hope that it was Merry.
