Merrick's Eleventh Hour. Wendy Rosnau

and black skirt, her blond hair twisted up off her neck. She was the exact opposite of Johanna. It was the first thing he always thought about when he looked at Sarah—his lovely ghost wasn’t just content to haunt him at night—and perhaps that was the real reason he’d ended it.

      “No strings, Adolf. You know how I feel about you, but I respect your decision.”

      “You’re a good friend, Sarah. I’ll be leaving town soon. Maybe you could see to the roses for the next couple of Saturdays.”

      She nodded. “I’ll see to it that Johanna gets them.”

      He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

      He left the flower shop with the envelope burning a hole in his pocket. It was still raining, the day surrendering to a bleak sky of gray clouds and a bitter chill in the air. Inside the car, Merrick slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. He dropped the ring into his hand—Johanna’s wedding ring—and closed his eyes. He remembered the day he’d bought it, and with that memory came the memory of her death. The anniversary of that fateful day was looming. It had been twenty years and it still felt like yesterday.

      Because he knew Cyrus didn’t do anything without a reason, he had to ask himself, why had he kept the ring, and why was he giving it back to him now?

      Merrick swore, returned the ring to the envelope, then to his pocket. He started the car, glanced across the street. Sarah was standing in the window.

      He drove the Jag out into the traffic and the rain. Cyrus had bought three dozen roses. He’d left one dozen at Peter’s apartment. There was no doubt in his mind where he would find the other two.

      Forty minutes later, Merrick parked at the Oak Hill Cemetery and walked through the rain down the path to Johanna’s grave. Before he reached it, he saw the roses in the cone-shaped brass vase.

      The stark white card was pierced on a rose thorn like a dagger. He bent down and pulled the card free. The rain had smeared the ink, but it was still legible.

      Four words scribbled in red ink. Four words that would send Merrick back to Greece.

      Game on. Your move.

      Chapter 2

      “Kipler has just sent word that the Starina has been spotted, Callia. Your husband is home.”

      Cyrus’s long-standing housekeeper, Zeta Poulos, stood in the bedroom doorway, her pretty island features accented by her smile.

      The sun was setting. Callia had just showered and slipped on a white caftan. With no time to dress, she tucked her asthma inhaler in the nightstand drawer along with her nebulizer, then stepped out onto the veranda.

      The view from the second-story bedroom was picture-perfect. A vision of paradise that would easily sell a dream vacation to Corfu.

      Three months ago Cyrus had moved her and Erik into a villa on the island. She was used to being uprooted. Survival came with a price, and that price had required a new address every couple of years.

      The cove was normally quiet, but now six guards scrambled toward the dock as the Starina glided into the harbor. Cyrus came ashore quickly. He spoke to Timon Kipler, the man in charge when her husband was away, and the exchange sent Kipler hurrying back to the yacht.

      The warm island breeze blew Callia’s black hair into her eyes and she reached up. Holding her hair in place, she watched Cyrus begin the long climb up the stone steps that wrapped the sharp, rocky face where the villa was perched like an eagle’s nest high above the Ionian Sea.

      Her movement must have caught his attention, and he stopped and looked up. He was still a hundred yards away, but she knew he was smiling. He gave her a thumbs-up—the signal that all was well, and she waved in relief.

      He never spoke about business. It was an old rule that had come into play long ago. A rule she never challenged. As long as he came back, she was content. And he always came back. It was the one constant in her life. That, and Erik.

      In the beginning she’d felt only gratitude, indebted to him for saving her life. But over the years her gratitude had slowly turned into love. Not the kind born out of burning passion. This was a safe and secure love bred out of loyalty and trust.

      When he disappeared from sight, she remained on the veranda. She heard him speaking to Zeta. The fifty-year-old housekeeper spoke softly in return. Cyrus never let the smallest detail of their lives go unchecked. Whether it had to do with his business affairs or mundane household trivia, he required an accounting from everyone he employed.

      She heard his footsteps on the stone tiles that were polished like a mirror. Caught the scent of sweet tobacco, but she didn’t turn around. Then a pair of strong arms captured her around the waist.

      He lowered his head, said softly, “Although I have no sympathy for the weaknesses of men, I confess you are mine.”

      Callia smiled. “Have you taken to reciting poetry after all these years?”

      “Poetry? I know nothing about poetry,” he muttered close to her ears. “Greek mythology, perhaps. Inspired by your goddesslike beauty.”

      He hugged her tighter, drew her back against his hard body, and she knew his eyes had drifted shut. Knew that she held some odd power over him, that she was his weakness. And although he had no sympathy for men with such flaws, she had become her husband’s debility.

      “It’s hard to believe that you could have grown more beautiful. Have you and Zeta cooked up some fountain of youth potion you’ve neglected to tell me about? Something we could bottle and sell to the islanders?”

      Still smiling, Callia turned in his arms. “If you’re trying to get me in bed, you don’t need to use flattery.”

      “Is that what I’m doing, trying to get you in bed?”

      “That’s usually where you want me when you first come home. A new routine tonight?”

      “No. I like the old routine.”

      “That’s why you’re staring at my mouth?”

      “You always kiss me right about now. Da, I like the old routine. So where is my welcome-home kiss, wife?”

      Callia went up on her tiptoes, one hand curling around his neck as she offered him a warm kiss. When she would have pulled away, he slid his hands over her backside and pulled her into him, lengthening the kiss.

      She was naked beneath the flimsy caftan. He released a primal moan, then let her go.

      “Give me a quick update on Erik so I can concentrate on my wife.”

      “He’s still opposing college,” she said, giving way to her disappointment and frustration over her most recent argument with her son. “He wants to work with you.”

      “And that frightens you?”

      “Shouldn’t it?”

      “You know I would never let anything happen to our son.”

      “Can you please talk to him.”

      “You mean change his mind?”

      “Please?”

      “I’ll speak to him. I see you’ve already started working your magic on decorating the villa. Not overdoing it are you?”

      “No. I’m fine.”

      “Fine isn’t wonderful. Zeta told me you had an asthma attack a few days ago.”

      “Spring pollen,” she said to dismiss the incident that had put her on her back for two days. She still wasn’t feeling a hundred percent—it would take days—but she would deal with it as she always had, without complaint. “So you like what I’m doing with the house?”

      “I like whatever you like. The villa is adequate. Soon to be beautiful. Whatever you want.”

      “You