Tears slipped down their faces at the childhood treasures their mother had saved. Brooke passed out tissues. They laughed and cried and talked and remembered their mother’s life. They drank tea and scarfed cookies and bonded in a way they hadn’t in a long time.

Then hours later, as they neared the bottom of the big wooden keepsake box, they discovered something curious.

It was a large yellow envelope that was sealed. On the outside, in Daisy’s handwriting, they read, To be opened by my daughters, Brooke, Joey and Katie, on the event of my death.

A sudden chill of dread ran down Katie’s spine.

“What’s this?” Brooke frowned and reached for the envelope.

“Go ahead and open it,” Joey said. “You’re the oldest.”

Brooke broke the seal and dumped the contents out on the table.

A second envelope and baby pictures. But not of Brooke or Joey or Katie. They flipped through the pictures, watching the little girl grow from a serious-faced baby to a serious-faced young girl.

“Who’s this?” Brooke asked.

“Maybe it’s one of Mom’s relatives that she never talked about.”

“Flip the photos over and see if there’s a name on the back,” Joey suggested.

Brooked turned over the picture she had in her hand. In one snapshot, the girl was about four, staring churlishly at the camera.

“Lindsay, age four years, three months,” Brooke read aloud.

“Hey,” Joey said, as she opened the second envelope, “these are legal papers.”

The raised hairs on the nape of her neck made Katie afraid to ask, but she was compelled. The little girl looked strangely familiar and the name Lindsay struck a certain resonance inside her. “What kind of legal papers?”

Joey raised her head from the paperwork to meet her sisters’ gazes. “Adoption papers.”

“Mom and Dad adopted a kid we knew nothing about? What happened to her?”

Joey’s face paled as she read on. “No, Mom had a child no one knew anything about. A child she gave up for adoption before she met Dad and now she wants us to find her.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name,” Joey said, “is Lindsay Beckham.”

THEY CALLED HER the Crimson Rose.

As her name was announced in sultry, almost reverent tones at Leather and Lace, an exclusive men’s club, an awed quiet began to slither through the crowd. The room stilled, noisy conversation giving way to quiet expectation.

Businessmen in open-collared shirts stopped their whispered flirtations with waitresses wearing tiny black skirts and skimpy tops. Attendees of an entire bachelor party returned to their table, elbowing the groom to watch and weep. Single men who came every week just to see her sat back in plush leather chairs and stared rapt at the stage through hooded eyes. The ice tinkling against their glasses was soon the only sound in the lushly appointed room, even the servers knew better than to interrupt the clientele when the Rose was on stage.

She danced only twice a week-on Saturdays and Sundays-and since the night she’d started, the Crimson Rose had become one of the hottest attractions in the Chicago club scene. Because while the jaded city had long been used to hard-looking dancers taking off their clothes and gyrating to the heavy beat of sexual music, they simply hadn’t seen anything like her.

She wasn’t hard-looking, she was elegant. Her delicate features and natural curves made every man who saw her wonder what it would feel like to touch her creamy skin.

She didn’t strip…she undressed. Slowly. Seductively. As if she had all the time in the world to give a man pleasure.

She didn’t gyrate, she swayed, moving with fluid grace. Every gesture, every turn an invitation to gaze at her.

Her sound wasn’t sexual, it was sensual, erotic and soulful enough to make a man close his eyes and appreciate it. Though, of course, when she was onstage none ever would.

While her job might have diminished some women in the eyes of those around her, the Rose owned it, embraced it, lifted it up to a level of art rather than pure sexual titillation.

She liked what she did. And they liked watching her.

The low, sultry thrum of a smoky number began, but the stage remained dark as the workers put final placement on a portable red satin curtain, used only by her. It had been a recent addition by the management, who’d realized that the high-class, stage performer feel was part of the Crimson Rose’s appeal. As was the mystery.

While most of the other dancers at the club performed under bright overhead light and full exposure, the Rose danced in shadow and pools of illumination provided by precisely timed spotlights. Her red velvet mask never came off. Most figured the management was playing upon the popularity of the aura of secrecy surrounding the Rose.

Finally the music grew louder, the gelled spotlights, ranging in color from soft pink to bloodred, illuminated the stage, dancing back and forth, each briefly touching on one spot: the seam of the closed satin curtain.

“Now, for your viewing delight,” said a smooth male from the sound system, “Chicago’s perfect bloom, the Crimson Rose.”

No one clapped or whispered. No one moved. All eyes were on the center of the curtain, where a hand began to emerge.

It was pale. Delicate, with long fingers and slender wrists. A colorful design-painted-on body art-began at the tip of one finger, with a tiny leaf. It connected to a vine, which wound up her hand, around her wrist. As her arm emerged, more of the leafy vine, complete with sharp thorns, was revealed. It glittered, sensuous and wicked, alluring and dangerous.

Sinuous, slow, unhurried, she emerged from the drape, until she was fully revealed. But her head remained down, her long reddish-brown hair concealing her face.

The tempo throbbed. The dancer stayed still, as if completely oblivious to the crowd. Finally, the spotlights changed color, the vibrant reds giving way to a soft, morning yellow. And, as if she were a tightly wound blossom being awakened by a gentle dawn, the Rose began to move.

Her head slowly lifted, the delicate beauty of her pale throat emphasized by more body art. Her hair fell back as she turned toward the light, as if welcoming the morning.

Her full lips-red and wet-were parted, sending vivid images and erotic fantasies into the minds of every man close enough to see their glisteny sheen… This was a woman made for the art of kissing. And sensual pleasure.

There the view of her face stopped. A soft red-velvet mask covered the rest. The mask glittered with green jewels like those in the vine, leaving her audience certain that the temptress’s eyes must be a pure, vivid emerald. Most already knowing the mystery of her face would not be revealed, her admirers refocused their attention to the rest of her.

She wore layers of soft fabric, cut in petal shapes. Still like the flower being awakened by the sun, she began to indulge in the spotlight’s warmth. Swaying, she stretched lazily like a cat in a puddle of light. Her movements were unhurried, revealing a length of thigh, a glimmer of hip.

Then the tempo picked up. So did her pace. She arched and swayed across the stage with feminine grace. But to most, she appeared lonely-removed from her surroundings-revealing a sensual want that begged for fulfillment that would never come.

Anyone in the audience would have fulfilled it for her.

Anyone.

Every move she made set the billowing layers of her costume in motion, until the petals nearly danced around her on their own. They parted to reveal her slender legs, providing a peek here and a glimpse there.

And then they started to disappear.

Every man in the place leaned forward. Wherever she turned, another bit of fabric hit the floor. Her hands moved so effortlessly that the layers seemed to fall by themselves. The light pinks and puffy outer veil went first, followed by the heavier satin pieces. Soon her long, perfectly toned legs were revealed up to the thigh. A drape of satin covering her stomach fell next, torn away from the strings of a bikini top.