Night Of The Living Dandelion Part 1

Night of the Living Dandelion.

Kate Collins.

Dedicated to the memory of my beloved husband and soul mate, Jim. I will always love you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I'd like to thank the following people for helping this book come to life:.

My technical experts: Harry E. Ramsey, MD, and James V. Tsoutsouris, Esq.

My editorial team: Nancy Cergizan and Jason Eberhardt My promotional teams: Julie Eberhardt; Barbara Ferrari; Nulita, owner, Love in Bloom, Key West, Florida; Jennifer Badry, 7 Artists Studio, Key West, Florida Valparaiso University SPARK team: Kevin Brown, Ryan Roman, Pete Volmut, and Professor Bonita Neff.

Author, friend, and psychologist Mary Kennedy.

My Cozy Chick buddies: Deb Baker, Lorna Barrett, Maggie Sefton, J. B. Stanley, Leann Sweeney, and Heather Webber.

My editor: Ellen Edwards.

My agent: Karen Solem.

"We don't accomplish anything in this world alone . . . and whatever happens is the result of the whole tapestry of one's life and all the weavings of individual threads from one to another that creates something."

-Sandra Day O'Connor.

All my stories come from the weavings of individual threads-some from past events, newspaper stories, overheard conversations, and brainstorming sessions with friends and family, and the rest from the meanderings of my imagination. Some information is made deliberately vague to fit the purpose of the plot. Nevertheless, I strive for accuracy and apologize for any errors I may have made.

As with all my books, this is a collaborative effort. I thank all of you for your continued help and support.

CHAPTER ONE.

Monday.

Of course I could handle the flower shop for fifteen minutes. It was my shop.

Or so I said to Lottie, my a.s.sistant, who needed to deliver floral arrangements to the funeral home before five o'clock. Still, she was hesitant to leave me alone, and not out of fear of a burglary. Bloomers couldn't have been in a safer location. The courthouse was directly across the street, the police station a block away, and my fiance's bar, Down the Hatch, two doors north.

No, Lottie's fear was of someone causing me physical harm-that someone being me. Because of an ankle sprain I'd suffered two days before, I'd been ordered to stay off my right foot for two weeks, forcing me into an existence ruled by crutches and a wheelchair. So far, I'd slipped twice; fallen once; gotten wedged halfway inside the shop's front door, unable to move in or out; crushed half a dozen fresh Red Beauty roses; and toppled the towering dieffenbachia in the corner near the gla.s.s display case. That was on crutches-in my first two hours at work.

So I'd ditched the crutches and switched to the wheelchair when I was inside the shop, for obvious reasons, and had thus far banged into three doorjambs, run over Lottie's foot, and mangled Grace's new eyegla.s.ses. Hence Lottie's hesitation. "I'd feel better if Grace were here," she said from the back of the shop.

"I'd feel better if I hadn't broken her gla.s.ses. Thank goodness she was able to get her new ones before Eye-Caramba closed today."

Grace Bingham was my other a.s.sistant, a slender sixty-something Brit who had been a legal secretary in a law office where I'd clerked during my only year in law school. Grace had retired just before I bought Bloomers, then decided she was bored and came to work for me as the hostess of our coffee-and-tea parlor. Both Grace and the parlor were big hits with our customers.

But the parlor was empty now, and I'd be closing up shop soon anyway. "Lottie, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"It's not you I'm worried about, sweetie. It's Bloomers." She winked.

Lottie Dombowski was a big-boned Kentuckian with a soft heart, bra.s.sy curls, and a penchant for pink. She had a true gift for floral design and was in the process of pa.s.sing on her knowledge to me. Lottie had owned Bloomers until her husband's health problems had nearly forced them into bankruptcy. And there I was, freshly booted out of law school and in need of employment. So I used the remainder of my grandfather's trust fund to make a down payment on the shop, hired Lottie and Grace to work for me, and the rest was, well, owned by the bank.

"That Marco has a lot of making up to do for this," Lottie said. "I hope he's taking you somewhere special for dinner tonight."

"No, thanks. Going somewhere special for dinner is how I sprained my ankle in the first place."

Well, to be fair, it wasn't the going that had caused the sprain. It was Marco accidentally b.u.mping me, causing me to trip in my new bargain-find-of-the-century five-inch spike heels. To think my only desire had been to be fas.h.i.+onable-and taller-which hadn't seemed unreasonable, given that I was twenty-seven years old and stood a mere five feet two inches. The ER doctor, however, hadn't shared my feelings on that subject. He'd seen too many women with sprains and broken bones caused by stepping off ridiculously high heels.

I'd worn the s.e.xy shoes only once before, to a disastrous dinner thrown by the parents of the girl Marco's brother wanted to marry. I'd ended that evening by walking barefoot to the car and freezing my toes rather than taking a chance of slipping on the ice in those treacherous heels. This time I'd landed in the emergency room of County Hospital and waited three hours for a diagnosis. The high heels had landed in a donation box.

Marco was taking full responsibility for the accident and had been doing everything possible to make it up to me. He'd even rented the wheelchair and bought the crutches. And while I didn't mind the pampering, I did mind my loss of independence. With my right foot in a boot built for Frankenstein's monster and miles of Ace bandage wound underneath, I couldn't fit it in the driver's side of my old yellow Vette to work the pedals. Even drying my hair, which involved either propping my injured foot on the bathroom counter or squeezing a chair into our tiny bathroom, was a test of endurance. But it explained why my do looked more like a pile of red matchsticks than a sleek bob.

The worst part of all was that Marco was supposed to check in at the army base in three weeks, and I'd be spending two of those three immobilized. But at least we had three weeks. We'd feared his departure was imminent.

I still went cold all over when I recalled the moment he'd shown me the letter. It was from the Department of the Army, addressed to Lt. Marco Salvare, RA 55667591.

Dear Lt. Salvare:.

You are hereby notified that the current shortage of manpower mandates that we redeploy those individuals who have been previously discharged but are still committed to a six-year term. Accordingly, you will be receiving notification shortly and a set of orders as to your next a.s.signment as an active-duty officer.

Sincerely, Gen. I. M. Bragg, Undersecretary.

Dept. of the Army.

Marco had served with the Army Rangers for two years, but until his full six-year commitment was up, he was subject to recall. I'd never imagined it actually happening, especially on the eve of our engagement, and now that it had, I was faced with the very real possibility of losing him. It was a thought so frightening that I struggled daily to block it from my mind.

For that reason, Marco and I had decided to let only a select few in on the news, swearing them to secrecy until we knew exactly what the army's plans were. We didn't want our parents to worry needlessly or call incessantly to see if we'd heard anything, and my mom did incessant better than anyone. For those who knew about the letter, Marco's brother and my a.s.sistants included, it was as surreal and shocking as it had been to us. No one cared to talk much about it.

The creak of rusty hinges on the back door as Lottie let herself out jerked me into the present again. The shop was quiet, so I wheeled myself to the big bay window to look outside, where a fine mist, overcast skies, and approaching dusk seemed to cast a pall of gloom over the town square. Even the stately limestone courthouse across the street seemed more of a ghost image than an actual building.

Suddenly a figure separated itself from the gloom and strode up the sidewalk in my direction. Because of the dark hair and black coat, I thought at first it was Marco, who favored his black leather jacket no matter what the weather. But now I could see that this man wore a long black trench coat, the collar turned up against the damp, his dark hair, slicked back by the mist, a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

When I realized I was visible through the gla.s.s, I grabbed the wheels of the chair to back up-I didn't want him to think I had nothing to do but stare outside-but before I could move, his gaze met mine through the gla.s.s. Not only had he caught me, but he was also headed straight for the shop. Abashed, I pretended that I was actually watching something across the street, just over his shoulder, in fact, and, oh, was that my phone ringing? Pardon me while I checked.

I did a quick pivot and raced away from the window. When the bell jingled, I was arranging the floral display on a table in the center of the room. I turned around, expecting to see the man standing at the front counter. Instead, he was in front of me, so close I could see the droplets of moisture on his coat. I craned my neck to look up at him and stared straight into a pair of pale gray wolf eyes that were gazing back at me as though I were dinner.

I tried to back up but hit an armoire behind me. With nowhere to go, I found myself wis.h.i.+ng I hadn't been so hasty in sending Lottie away. And when the stranger stepped closer and reached into his coat, all I could think was that he was going for a weapon.

I glanced around to see what artillery lay within my reach. A pair of small ceramic doves? A silk posy? Pink candles?

Get a grip, that inner voice of reason whispered in my ear. He's a customer!

"Can I help you?" I said, my voice coming out in an embarra.s.sing squeak.

He smiled, revealing a set of even white teeth, except for the canines, which were longer than the rest. Wolflike, in fact. "You must be Abby."

How did he know my name?

He removed a folded piece of paper from inside his coat. "I'm told you have a good selection of houseplants. In particular, I'm looking for these specimens." He handed me the paper. On it was a list of neatly printed plant names: bloodwort, Dracula orchid, devil's tongue, wolfsbane, strangleweed, mistletoe, voodoo lily, bat flower.

Was he serious? The only thing missing from that ghoulish list was a Venus flytrap. "I don't have any of these plants in stock, but I'm sure I can order them from my suppliers."

"How soon would they arrive?"

He had a mere hint of an accent, but I couldn't place it. Czech perhaps? "Usually in three to four days."

"That will do."

"They may be expensive."

He shrugged. "Cost isn't a factor."

"I'll need to take down your name and phone number." I pointed to the cas.h.i.+er's counter, seizing the opportunity to put some distance between us. "My order pad is over there."

Instead of moving, he studied me with those icy wolf eyes. "Irish or Scottish?"

"Excuse me?"

"Red hair, green eyes, light skin, and freckles. You have to be Irish or Scottish."

"Irish. And English-mother's side." Why was I telling this stranger my background?

He crouched in front of my chair and picked up my injured foot. "Bad sprain, eh? Did you break the skin?"

"No." How did he know it was a sprain?

"Good. Always a risk of a blood infection when the skin is broken. Get some staphylococcus in there and you're in for a rough ride."

Who was this guy?

I removed my gigantic booted foot from his grasp. Being in a vulnerable position made me extremely edgy-not that he was giving off any bad vibes. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was strikingly good-looking, virtually thrumming with virility and s.e.x appeal, reminding me very much of my fiance, Marco.

"Do you want me to order those plants?" I asked, trying not to betray my jitteriness.

He smiled again as he rose. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

The bell jingled and Marco walked in, looking undeniably male in his black leather jacket, lean jeans, and black boots. Steely-eyed and iron-jawed, he swept the room with his dark gaze, gauging the stranger's close proximity to me, no doubt a.s.sessing my immediate danger.

I was so relieved to see him that I wanted to leap out of my wheelchair and hop across the room to throw myself in his arms. "There you are," I called, maneuvering my chair around the stranger.

Marco gave the clock behind the cas.h.i.+er's counter a quick glance. "Am I late?"

"I'm early," the wolfman said. "I wanted to order some houseplants for my apartment."

Early for what?

"Ah. Then you've already met Abby," Marco said.

"We haven't been formally introduced," the man said, giving me a dazzling smile.

"Abby Knight," Marco said, "this is Vlad."

Wait. What? This was the man Marco was training to take over the bar? His foxhole buddy when he was in the army? The guy he described as average-looking?

Vlad walked up to me and bowed from the waist. Then he took my hand, removed his list from my tightly clasped fingers, pocketed it, and brought my hand to his lips. "Vladimir Serbanescu, at your service. Vlad Serban, to make it easy." He pressed his lips against my fingers. "Or New Chapel's resident vampire, if you'd prefer."

That was an introduction that demanded an explanation, but judging by the chortle Vlad's comment elicited from Marco, I was apparently the only one not in on the jest. So in order to preserve my self-respect, I laughed, too, though there is obviously no such thing as a human vampire. I'd just have to get to know Vlad better so I could understand the joke.

To that end, I suggested that Vlad join us for a light dinner at the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill. Ten minutes later, we had regrouped there, Marco and me on one side of the booth, Vlad and my crutches, which I had fondly named the Evil Ones, on the other. Over a meal of burgers and fries, I observed Vlad while he and Marco discussed their latest drink concoction, a house specialty that Marco had dubbed the Hatch Match. The ingredients were secret, except for the last one-a matchstick to light it on fire.

Vlad was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, with jet-black hair combed away from his face, arched black eyebrows over light gray eyes, a handsome nose, dimpled chin, and skin so light and pure it glowed like fine porcelain, with just a hint of a five o'clock shadow to define his jaw. He wore a white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, neatly pressed black pants with a crease in them, and immaculate black shoes, a nerdy look on anyone but a s.e.xy guy. And Vlad was certainly that, emitting an undeniably powerful male charisma, which is undoubtedly why every woman in the bar had her eye on him.

Seated with two of the hunkiest males in town, my foot wrapped like a mummy, my hair a bundle of red hay, I felt like the joker between a pair of aces.

It wasn't easy to draw Vlad out-it seemed to be a trait shared by men in the Special Ops division of the military-but he did reveal that he was single, had no family in town, a brother in Florida, and parents in Romania, where he'd been born, thus explaining his accent. He had completed his six-year tour with the army and had already received an honorable discharge. He had a master's degree in biology, was a trained phlebotomist, and had last worked as the manager of a blood lab in a Chicago hospital.

That was my aha moment. As in, Aha! So that's why he made a joke about being a vampire. He drew blood for a living! Although he did resemble the stereotypical Hollywood vampire. Was that intentional? Was that why Marco had laughed?

Vlad had come to New Chapel after deciding he needed a career change, something completely different from his routine nine-to-five job. Marco had suggested he might enjoy owning his own bar and grill, and offered him the opportunity to get hands-on training. Intrigued, Vlad had agreed to try it, so three days ago he'd started as Marco's intern, where he was currently learning how to be a proper bartender. And since I knew interns didn't make much money, I had to infer that the income wouldn't be a problem.

"So, Vlad," I said, as I dipped a crunchy fry in ketchup, "you weren't serious earlier about wanting those houseplants, were you?"

He stopped chewing to focus those striking eyes on me. "Why? Is there something wrong with them?" He p.r.o.nounced wrong as vrong.

Okay, so he was serious. "Not wrong . . . per se."

Marco glanced at me, clearly as puzzled as Vlad was. "Are they hard to grow?"

Be tactful, Abby. "Well, you could say that about some of them."

At that moment, a slender yet curvaceous brunette stopped by the booth to bat her eyelashes and say in a breathy voice, "Hi, Vlad." Her girlfriend, a slender yet curvaceous blonde, echoed the eyelash batting and the breathy voice. "How's it going, Vlad?" They both giggled shyly when he turned his intense gaze on them.

"h.e.l.lo, Lara. h.e.l.lo, Holly." He smiled, flas.h.i.+ng those long white canines, causing them to moan in ecstasy as they glided away to join friends at another booth. I watched them whisper together, then turn to gaze at him longingly.

"I have an excellent green thumb," Vlad said, showing me his digits, ignoring the girls' avid interest. "I collect unusual houseplants. I even have plant lights and a humidifier."