by Nora Roberts
“I’ll be glad to get the hell out of here anyway.” He pulled out a shirt. “The past couple of months I’ve been bored out of my gourd.”
“Then get moving.” Luke stood in the doorway. His eyes glittered. “It’ll give us time to fumigate the stink in here from a creep that uses a little kid to cover his ass.”
“Don’t you think she liked to be used?” Grinning a challenge, Sam stuffed his remaining clothes in a denim laundry bag. “That’s what females like best, asshole. Just ask Annabelle.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well now.” Sam shrugged into the jacket Lily had bought for him. It would keep him warm through the winter. “Since you ask, maybe you’d be interested to know that while you were being the good little trouper tonight, I was busy fucking your girl’s brains out.” He saw the fury on Luke’s face, and the disbelief. His lips spread over his teeth. “Right on that ugly flowered couch in the living room.” Sam’s grin was hard and cold as ice. “I had her out of those red lace panties in five minutes. She likes to be on top best, doesn’t she? So you can give it to her real deep. That mole under her left tit’s sexy as hell, don’t you think?”
He braced, eager for a fight, as Luke leaped at him. But Mouse moved fast, grabbing Luke and dragging him toward the door. “It’s not worth it,” Mouse kept saying. “Come on, Luke, let it go. It’s not worth it.” Sam’s laugh echoed after them as Mouse shoved Luke toward the stairs. “Go out and cool off.”
“Get the hell out of my way.”
“Max wants him to go.” Mouse stood firm at the top of the stairs. He would, if he had to, knock Luke down them. “That’s all he wants. You go outside, take a walk. I gotta make sure he goes.”
Fine, Luke thought. Dandy. He’d go out all right. And he’d wait for Sam. He stormed down the steps and out into the courtyard. His blood was up, boiling Irish in his veins. His fists were already curled and ready. He planned to wait on the street, follow Sam for a block or two, then beat the shit out of him.
But he heard her crying. He was turned toward the street, his body braced, his mind full of violence. She was crying as if her heart were broken, curled up on a stone bench by the dormant azaleas.
Perhaps if she’d been given to tears, Luke could have ignored it and gone about his business. But in all the years he’d lived with the Nouvelles, he’d never once heard Roxanne cry since her bout with chicken pox. The sound of it reached inside and took him by the heart.
“Come on, Roxy.” Awkward and out of his depth, Luke walked to the bench and patted her head. “Don’t do that.”
She kept her face pressed against her knees and sobbed.
“Jesus.” However reluctant he was, Luke found himself sitting beside her and drawing her into his arms. “Come on, baby, don’t let him make you cry like this. He’s a bastard, a freaking creep.” He sighed and rocked and found himself gradually calming. “He’s not worth it,” he said half to himself, realizing Mouse’s words had been right on target.
“He used me,” Roxanne murmured against Luke’s chest. She had control of the sobbing now, and nearly felt strong enough to stop the tears. “He pretended to be my friend, but he never was. He used me to take things from people I cared about. I heard what he said to Daddy. It was like he hated us, like he’d hated us all along.”
“Maybe he did. What do we care?”
“I brought him home.” She pressed her lips together. She wasn’t sure she could forgive herself for that. “Did he—did he really do that with Annabelle?”
Luke let out a breath and settled his cheek against Roxanne’s hair. “I guess he probably did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If she’d let him, just like that, I don’t think she was really mine anyway.”
“He wanted to hurt you.” She stroked her finger down Luke’s arm, comforted. “He wanted to hurt everybody, I guess. That’s why he took things. It’s not like what Daddy does.”
“Uh-uh,” Luke said absently, then froze. “What?”
“You know, stealing. Daddy wouldn’t steal from a friend, or from somebody who’d get hurt because of what he took.” She yawned. The crying jag had tired her out. “He takes jewels and stuff like that. It’s always insured.”
“Jesus Christ.” He pushed her off his lap so that she landed hard on her rump on the bench. “How long have you known about all that? How long have you known what we’re doing?”
She smiled indulgently, her swollen eyes sparkled with moonlight. “Always,” she said simply. “I’ve always known.”
Sam left the house, but he didn’t leave the Quarter. Not when he had a score to settle. There was only one way he could have been found out so completely. Roxanne had ratted on him.
It was easy to convince himself that she’d known what he was doing from the beginning. She’d waltzed into those shops, and had waltzed out again, making it all so slick. And then, she’d turned on him, so that he’d been kicked out of a warm bed, humiliated. She’d have to pay for that.
He waited for her. He knew the route she took to school. He’d even walked her there himself from time to time, trying to be nice to her. Trying to be nice, Sam thought, grinding a fist into his open palm. Look how she’d paid him back.
He spent several cold hours huddled in an alley trying to keep out of a thin, chill drizzle. He hated being cold.
It was one more thing she’d pay for.
He spotted her and drew back a little. There was no need for the precaution, he noted. She was dragging along, her knapsack over her back, her eyes cast down. He waited, and when she was close enough, pounced.
Roxanne didn’t even get out a scream when she was grabbed from behind and yanked into the alley. Her fists came up—she was a natural fighter—but they lowered again when she saw Sam.
Her eyes were still puffy. She resented that. Resented that he’d driven her to tears. But they were all used up. Her chin leveled, and her eyes, perfectly dry, gleamed dangerously up at his.
“What do you want?”
“A nice little talk. Just you and me.”
There was something in his face that made her want to run, something she hadn’t seen in it before. There was hate, yes, but there was a dullness about it. Like a rusty razor that would infect as well as slice.
“Daddy told you to leave.”
“You think that old man scares me?” He shoved her, surprising more than hurting her as she slammed back into the wall. “I do what I want, and what I want right now is to settle up with you. You owe me, Rox.”
“Owe you?” Forgetting surprise, forgetting the ache where her shoulder had bumped stone, she pushed herself away from the wall. “I brought you home. I asked Daddy to give you a job. I helped you, and then you stole from my friends. I don’t owe you jack.”
“Where are you going?” He shoved her back into place when she tried to stalk past him. “Off to school? I don’t think so. I think you should spend some time with me.” He slid a hand around her throat. She would have screamed then, loud and long, but she couldn’t draw enough air. “You ratted on me, Rox.”
“I didn’t,” she managed to whisper. “But I would have if I’d known.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” He shoved her again so that her head knocked painfully into the wall.
Fear had her reaching up, without thought, without warning and raking her nails down his face. He howled, his grip loosened. She nearly made the mouth of the alley before he caught her.
“You little bitch.” He was breathing hard as he sent her sprawling. There was anger, there was pain, but there was also excitement. He could do whatever he wanted with her, anything, everything, and no one would stop him.
Her head was swimming. She saw him coming as she pushed herself up on her hands and knees. He was going to hurt her, she knew, and it was going to be really bad. Aim low, she told herself, and hit him hard.
She didn’t have to. Even as she was bracing for the attack, Luke flew into the alley. He made a sound
in his throat as he leaped on Sam. A sound Roxanne could only describe as wolfish.
Then there was the thud of fists against flesh. She managed to gain her feet, though her legs wobbled. She looked first for a weapon, a plank, a rock, a piece of metal. In the end she settled for the lid of a garbage can and, hefting it, advanced on the fight.
It took her only a moment to see that Luke didn’t need her help. He was straddling Sam now and methodically, mercilessly, pounding his fists into Sam’s face.
“That’s enough now.” She tossed the lid aside to use both hands on Luke’s pumping arms. “You’ve got to stop. We’ll get in trouble if you kill him.” She had to get down so that Luke’s fierce eyes could meet hers. “Luke, Daddy wouldn’t want you to hurt your hands.”
Something about the cool, logical tone had him looking down. His knuckles were bruised and raw and bloody. He had to laugh. “Right.” But he touched one of those bleeding hands to her face. He’d been furious about Annabelle, but that was nothing, nothing compared with what he’d felt when he’d seen Roxanne on the ground and Sam looming over her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I was going to go for his balls, but thanks for beating him up for me.”
“No problem, I enjoyed it. Go pick up your bookbag. Wait for me on the sidewalk.”
“You’re not going to hit him again, are you?” She glanced down dispassionately into Sam’s battered face. Unless she missed her guess, his nose was broken, and he’d lose a couple of teeth.
“No.” He jerked his head toward the mouth of the alley. “Go on, Rox. Wait for me.”
With one last glance at Sam, she turned and walked away.
“I could kill you for touching her.” Luke leaned down close. “You come near her or any of my family again, and I will kill you.”
Sam struggled onto his elbows when Luke rose. His face was on fire, his body felt as though it had been hit by a truck. No one, no one, had ever hurt him before.
“I’ll pay you back.” His voice was a croak that made Luke’s brow lift in derision.
“You can try. Free lesson, Wyatt, quit while you’re able to walk away. Next time I’ll break more than your nose.”
When Luke left him, Sam curled up in a ball to try to stop the pain. But it ate through him, tangling with the hate. One day, he promised himself as he wept and dragged himself to his feet. One day, they’d all pay for hurting him.
11
Paris, 1982
“I’m not a child anymore.” Roxanne’s temper was up. It snapped in her voice, sizzled in her eyes as she whirled from her view of Paris in the spring.
“I’m aware of that.” In deliberate contrast, Max’s tone was mild. He seemed completely unaffected by his daughter’s fury as he added a dash of cream to his strong French coffee. The years had turned his hair to a gleaming pewter.
“I have a right to go with you, a right to be a part of it.”
Max spread butter generously on his croissant, nibbled, then dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “No,” he said, smiled sweetly and continued to eat.
She could have screamed. God knew she wanted to—scream and rant and rave. And that sort of behavior would hardly convince her father that she was a competent adult, ready to assume her place in his business.
The parlor of their suite at the Ritz was beautifully appointed, sumptuous in comfort. In her flowing silk robe splashed with vivid flowers, the discreet emeralds winking at her ears, the intricate French braid spilling down her back, she looked as though she belonged there.
But Roxanne’s heart and soul longed for dark alleys, sooty rooftops. The blood that pumped through her veins under that lily-soft skin was the blood of a thief. She only needed to convince her father it was time for her debut.
“Daddy . . .” She topped off his coffee, giving him another engaging smile. “I understand you only want to protect me.”
“A parent’s most important job.”
“And I love you for it. But you have to let me grow up.” He looked at her then. Though his lips remained curved, his eyes were unbearably sad. “All the magic at my disposal couldn’t have stopped you from that.”
“I’m ready.” She took advantage of his long sigh, cupping his hand in hers, leaning forward. Her eyes were soft again, her smile persuasive. “I’ve been ready. I’m every bit as good as Luke—”
“You have no idea how good Luke is.” Max patted her hand and went back to his breakfast. How often had they had this discussion? he wondered, since she had announced at the tender age of fourteen that she was ready to join his after-hours show? He’d had no idea she’d even known what he did when the spotlights dimmed and the crowds went home.
Roxanne’s eyes iced over. Max nearly chuckled. Such was a woman’s magic, he thought. “However good he is,” she said, “I can be better.”
“It’s not a competition, my love.”
He was wrong there, Roxanne mused as she sprang up to pace the room again. It had been a competition, a fierce one, for years. “It’s because I’m not a man.” There was bitterness in every syllable.
“That has nothing to do with it. I take some pride in considering myself a feminist.” Max sighed again, pushing his plate aside. “You’re too young, Roxy.”
That was the wrong button to push. Outraged, she spun around. “I’m nearly eighteen. How old was he when you took him with you the first time?”
“Years older,” Max murmured. “Inside. Roxanne, I want you to go to college, learn the things I can’t teach you. Discover yourself.”
“I know who I am.” Her head came up, her shoulders straightened. Max saw a glimpse of the woman she would be. The pride burned so hot and fast it caused his eyes to swim. “You’ve taught me everything I need to know.”
“Not nearly enough,” Max said quietly. “Lily and I have kept you close, perhaps too close, because we couldn’t bear to do otherwise. We only want you to take a step away, on your own. If you come back, I’ll be content it’s right for you.”
“What about what I want?” she demanded. “I want to be there when you go to Chaumet, when you open the safe. I want to know what it feels like to stand in the dark and hold the Azzedine diamonds in my hands.”
Max understood, only too well. He could regret that he’d told her about the jewels, their history, their spectacular beauty and the mystique that went along with the glittery stones. But there was little room for regret in his life.
“Your day will come, if it’s meant to. But not this time.”
“Damn it, I want—”
“Your wants have to wait.” His tone was flat and final. Only he knew how relieved he was when the knock on the door interrupted them. He gestured for Roxanne to answer it and went back to his coffee.
She managed to fight her fury back, to open the door with a pleasant smile on her face. It faded immediately when she saw Luke. The look she aimed at him was sharp enough to cut bone.
“Got turned down, did you?” He grinned, tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled past her. The teasing, feminine scent of her perfume kindled an instant fire in his blood. He’d learned he couldn’t ignore it, but he could keep her from seeing his reaction to her, and making him pay for it.
“Max.” He poked through the silver basket of pastries and helped himself. “I thought you’d want to know, the rest of the equipment finally arrived.”
“Ah, at last.” With a nod he gestured for Luke to sit. “Have some coffee. I’ll go check it myself. You can keep Roxanne company.”
Damned if he wanted to be alone with her. It was hard enough in the day-to-day order of things. But he knew, he damn well knew, she was wearing nothing under that robe. “I’ll go with you.”
He was half out of his chair when Max stood and pushed him down again. “No need. Mouse and I can make sure everything’s in order. We should be able to rehearse this afternoon.” He moved to the mirror to straighten his tie and brush at his moustache.
Didn’t they realize the sparks they set off each o
ther? Max wondered. An innocent bystander could go up in flames. Youth, he thought with a sigh and a smile. In the mirror, he could see their reflections, both of them tensed as alley cats with most of the room between them.
“If Lily wakes soon, tell her to enjoy her morning. We’ll meet at La Palace at two.” He crossed over to kiss his daughter’s cheek. “Au revoir, ma belle.”
“We’re not finished with this.”
“Two o’clock,” he said. “Meanwhile you two should go out, take a walk in the Paris sunshine.”
The minute the door closed behind her father, Roxanne rounded on Luke. “I’m not going to be left behind this time.”
“It’s not up to me.”
She marched to the table where he sat, slapped her palms down on the linen cloth hard enough to make the china rattle. “And if it were?”
He looked her square in the eyes. He could have strangled her
