A Rose By Any Other Name: Pinevale Valley, #8

By Vanessa Victoria Kilmer

A man with many names but none of his own.

Hiding out using an alias at A Rose By Any Other Name Artist Retreat and Perfumery, Tyler Smith enjoys the scenery provided by his host on Black Mountain above the small town of Pinevale Valley, North Carolina. The woods and landscape aren't bad, either.

A woman with generations of family traditions.

Flora MacDonald runs a thriving company, intent on keeping it all legal after inheriting her family's moonshining business. Determined to keep her and her brothers on the straight and narrow, she has no time for their hot new guest.

Will these two get together despite the unavoidable chaos that disrupts both their lives?

• Language: English
• Publisher: First Coast Romance Writers
• Release date: Mar 12, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230641513

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The alley looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, with lots of red and splatter over the tarmac, crumbling brick walls, and the dull aluminum trash cans. The blood was still liquid enough to glisten in the low light of the distant street lamp just out of view around the corner on the silent, deserted road twenty feet away from the lifeless man.

Coll ‘Mad Dog’ Coonan squatted by the body, taking care that his light gray wool slacks remained clean. He combed his fingers through his thick black hair that tumbled to his shoulders, the only unruly part of his appearance. For an instant, he imagined his cornflower blue eyes reflected in the dead man’s open eyes, as if a mirror reflected his jaded and cursed soul back at him. He had known Jake Kelly long before he had any conscious memory. More than thirty years, not friends really, but proximity and time made them something more than acquaintances and less than enemies.

Still, he felt nothing as he looked at the cooling corpse. He reached into his black leather Moto jacket and pulled out a custom-made clear acrylic calling card, an actual calling card with his name and 20/20 printed in thick silver letters on one side. He laid the card on Jake’s ruined chest, stood up, and perused the display. He changed the placement of the card, lining it up with the edge of the buttons on the shirt. ‘Mad Dog’ was known for precision, for his attention to detail. He checked the area to see if anything else needed adjusting.

No, the tableau would do as is.

He brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his jacket sleeve, reached in his pants pocket, and fingered the two-thousand-year-old Roman coin he always had with him. He left the alley, careful where he stepped with his $2,600.00 leather Oxford shoes.

1

A Rose By Any Other Name Artist Retreat and Perfumery at daybreak was Flora MacDonald’s perfect place on earth. The light from the rising sun shone through two mountain peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains above Pinevale Valley, North Carolina, and across the valley floor where the cabins huddled in a small village-green type of community. Around the rental homes, workshops for potters, painters, and fabric artists waited an easy distance away so the artists could get right to work and make the best use of their time at the adult camp.

Beyond the living and work spaces for her guests, in a secluded spot on the property, were their family-only outdoor gun and archery shooting ranges. Between these areas, the copper stills from her family’s moonshining business dotted the forested sides of the sloping hills that rose to peaks left natural and undisturbed. Her family no longer produced illegal white lightning, although some of her relatives missed the old outlaw days. Now they had their own liquor label, Black Mountain Thunder, and a special line of floral scents, Black Mountain Petal Perfumes.

The ancient stills, never too old to do what Greatgrand Da Donald intended of them, cooked up enough legal revenue to cover Flora’s passion project, a place where creatives could come together and make things for the pure desire to express. She had a small sheep farm and produced specialty yarns, along with mixing herbals and flowers for their perfumes.

Liam Michaels was her distiller. He had boosted their liquor sales so much, she had made him a partner, and she knew he hoped to marry into the business, even though he didn’t push her overmuch on that issue, which she appreciated. At twenty-five, she had more than enough to concentrate on with their booming businesses, her art, and stopping her brothers from doing stupid shit just because they were bored and craved excitement.

They didn’t resent Da leaving her their family legacies. He knew she was the most qualified, with her top of the class MBA from Vanderbilt University. She was smart, hard-working, and levelheaded, whereas her three older brothers had gone off to foreign places looking for adrenalin-fueled adventures. They were now home and getting under her feet, so she appreciated Liam’s steady personality and calming influence on Angus, Ian, and Malcolm.

She sipped her rosehip tea as she strolled through the still garden, checking that each apparatus functioned properly. Vapor filled the cool morning air. March in the mountains was chilly. She pulled the auburn sweater that matched her hair color exactly tight around her torso and stomped her Timberland booted feet, wishing she had put on wool socks. Confirming all was in order, she made her way to the communal hall, where they served breakfast in an hour. Part of a good artist retreat was having someone else feed you good food and cleanup for you after.

Snagging a fresh croissant to nibble on as she walked to her business office, she entered the hut that looked like it came off of the set of a Hobbit movie with its round door set into the side of a hill and roofed in moss and ancient tree roots. She ran her fingers along the door frame in a lover’s caress. This place made her so happy, and she did everything in her power to maintain the fantasy atmosphere. She would allow nothing or anyone to mar its perfection. That meant finding something for her brothers to do that would keep them away and yet also keep them happy. After all, she loved them, too.

Checking her emails produced confirmation that the writer’s group folks that booked the seven-bedroom house for their annual retreat had settled in and had no immediate needs. These events paid for the upkeep of her family’s former home, a brick house built in the 1840s. She emailed the staff to prepare for the visitors.

The very last email in her inbox contained a long-term booking by Tyler Smith for the cabin in the upper reaches of the property, specifying no staff, just stock it up for at least two weeks, please, then leave me to my own devices. Who talked like that?

She printed out the list of items he requested: a couple of cases of Splendor volcanic bottled water, Crema D’Or yogurt, and fresh fruits and vegetables. No meat. And cleaning products. He’d take care of the place himself.

She searched for the two specific items he mentioned.

Wow. She rubbed her index finger along the smooth surface of her mouse. Super-duper expensive tastes. If he didn’t give off hermit vibes, she would start planning for a super-duper PITA. Payment for a month had already hit her bank account.

The bookings looked good, the bank account was healthy, and the business was organized. If only she could say the same for her personal life.

Grandma was bugging her to get married and give her great-grandchildren. We need wee ones running through the woods and your brothers aren’t doing their part. What woman in their right mind would have those hellions? Her tiny grandmother now spent most of her days rocking in her chair on her front porch, the glue that held them all together when her only child, a daughter, died with her husband when Flora and her brothers were all under thirteen. You’re the one I count on, dear one. I’m ever so proud of your responsible self, but you’ll never get a husband if you don’t let any men come near you.

There’s plenty of time, she said to the almost eighty-year-old woman. Maybe I’ll do it backward. Have the kids and find a man to live with later.

Grandma smacked her but dropped the subject. For the time being, anyway. Grandma never put forward Liam as a candidate for Flora’s affection. She never said anything bad about him. As a matter of fact, Flora pondered, Grandma never used his name. Curious.

She glanced up at the sound of boots hitting