The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  “As incredibly appetizing as that sounds ... Nathan.” With a sound caught between a laugh and a moan, she tried to wiggle away from his roving hands. “We really will kill each other, and I have to get back.”

  “It’s barely midnight.”

  “It’s after one.”

  “Well, then, it’s practically morning, you might as well stay.”

  She wanted to. As his mouth found hers, persuasively, she badly wanted to. “I have things to straighten out at home. And I have to make it up to Brian for leaving him in such a mess tonight.”

  She put her hands to his face, liking the way it felt under her fingers. Cheekbones, jaw, the scrape of beard. Had she ever explored a man’s face this way? Or wanted to?

  “And I have to think.” Firmly, she drew away. “I’m a thinker, Nathan. A planner. This is new territory for me.”

  He rubbed a thumb over the line that formed between her brows. “You’ll just compel me to keep changing directions on you.”

  Fresh nerves skidded over her skin. “Then I’ll have to stay a step ahead. But now, I have to go home.”

  He could see her mind was made up, and so he forced himself to readjust the pleasant image of waking beside her in the morning. “I’ll drive you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Jo.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and his voice was quiet and final. “You’re not going out alone in the dark.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m not going to be afraid anymore.”

  “Good for you. I’m still driving you. Or we can argue about it, I can maneuver you back into the bedroom, and drive you home in the morning. Does your father have a gun?”

  She laughed, pushed at her bangs. “It’s very unlikely he’d shoot you for sleeping with me.”

  “If he does, I’m counting on you to nurse me back to health.” He took his keys from the counter.

  “I’m a southern woman,” she said as they started out the door. “I’ll even find a petticoat to tear into bandages.”

  “It would almost be worth getting shot for that.”

  As she climbed into his Jeep, she asked, “Ever been shot?”

  “No.” He slid in beside her and started the engine. “But I had my tonsils out. How much worse could it be?”

  “Considerably, I’d imagine.”

  She stretched out her legs, leaned back, and shut her eyes. She was tired, but deliciously so. Her muscles were loose, her mind pleasantly fogged. The air felt silky on her skin.

  “The nights are best on the island,” she murmured, “when the quiet just rings in your ears and no one else is awake. You can smell the trees and the water. The sea’s a whisper in the background, like a pulse beating.”

  “You can be alone and not be lonely.”

  “Mmm. When I was a little girl I used to imagine what it would be like if I were all alone, had the island all to myself just for a few days. It would all be mine, everywhere I walked, everywhere I looked. I thought I would like that. But then I dreamed it, and I was afraid. In the dream I kept running and running, through the house, out into the forest, over the beach. I wanted to find someone, anyone, to be there with me. But I was all alone. And I woke up crying for Daddy.”

  “Now you take pictures of being alone.”

  “I suppose I do.” She let out a sigh and opened her eyes. And there, through the dark, she saw the glimmer of light. “Kate left a light on for me.”

  It was comforting, that flicker of home. She watched it dance through the trees, outdo the shadows. Once she’d run away from that light, and once she’d run toward it. She hoped the time would come when she could walk either way without fear.

  As they neared the end of the drive, she saw the figure rise from the porch swing. Her stomach did an ungainly roll before Nathan covered her hand with his.

  “Stay here. Lock the doors.”

  “No, I—” She let out a trembling breath. “It’s Brian,” she said, feeling foolish at the wave of relief that swamped her.

  Nathan nodded, also recognizing the figure as Brian stepped into the light. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “No.” She gave the hand that covered hers a quick squeeze. “Let’s not complicate it. If he needs to yell at me some more, I deserve it, and I don’t want the two of you eyeing each other and trying to figure out how to handle the fact that you’re friends and you’re sleeping with his sister.”

  “He doesn’t appear to be armed.”

  It made her laugh, as intended. “Go home.” She shifted, finding it simple to just lean over and touch her lips to his. “Let Brian and me deal with our family baggage. We’re too polite to do a good job of it in front of you.”

  “I want to see you tomorrow.”

  She opened the door. “Come for breakfast—unless you’re set on having your world-famous toast.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She started toward the porch, waiting until she heard his Jeep reverse before she mounted the stairs. “Evening,” she said coolly to Brian. “Nice night for porch sitting.”

  He stared at her a moment, then moved so quickly she nearly shrieked. His arms strapped tight around her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Stunned speechless, she started to pat his back, then yelped as he jerked her away and shook her.

  “It’s your own goddamn fault. So typical, so goddamn Jo Ellen.”

  “What?” Insult slapped on top of surprise and had her shoving him. “What the hell are you talking about? Stop manhandling me.”

  “Manhandling? I ought to kick your butt up to your ears. Why the hell didn’t you tell somebody what was going on? Why didn’t you let me know you were in trouble?”

  “If you don’t let go of me right now—”

  “No, you just go on the way you always have, pushing people out of the way so you can—”

  He broke off with a grunt as her fist plowed into his stomach. The blow was quick and forceful enough to catch him off guard. Dropping his hands, he eyed her narrowly.

  “That hasn’t changed either. You always packed a decent punch.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t aim for that pretty face of yours.” Sniffing, she rubbed her hands over her arms where his fingers had gripped. Damned if she wouldn’t have bruises, she thought. “Obviously you’re in no state to have a reasonable, civilized conversation. So I’m going up to bed.”

  “You take one step toward that door and I’ll haul you over my knee.”

  She raised herself up on tiptoe and stuck her face in his. “Don’t you threaten me, Brian Hathaway.”

  “Don’t you test me, Jo Ellen. I’ve been sitting here for better than two hours worried sick, so I’m in the mood to take you on.”

  “I was with Nathan, which you knew very well. And there’s no cause for you to worry about my sex life.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to think about it. I’m not talking about you and Nathan being ... I’m not talking about that.”

  Jo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Had she known it was so easy to flummox her brother, she would have used that angle years ago.

  “Well, then.” Pleased with the point scored, she strolled to the porch swing and sat. She cocked her head as she took out a cigarette. “Just what is it you want to hear about, think about, and talk about, Brian?”

  “You can’t pull off the grand Southern Belle number, Jo. It just doesn’t suit you.”

  She flicked her lighter on. “It’s late and I’m tired. If you have something to say, say it so I can go to bed.”

  “You shouldn’t have been alone.” His voice had gone quiet and drew her gaze. “You shouldn’t have gone through that alone, been in that hospital alone. And I want you to know that the choice of doing that was yours.”

  She took a slow drag. “Yes, it was my choice. It was my problem.”

  “That’s right, Jo.” He took a step forward, hooking his thumbs in his front pockets to keep his hands from curling
into fists. “Your problems, your triumphs, your life. You’ve never seen fit to share any of those things. Why should this be different?”

  Her stomach jittered. “What could you have done?”

  “I could have been there. I would have been there. Yeah, that shocks the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” he said before she lowered her eyes. “I don’t care how fucked-up this family is, you wouldn’t have gone through that by yourself. And you’re not going to go through the rest of it by yourself.”

  “I’ve been to the police.”

  “I’m not just talking about the cops, though any pea brain would have gone to them in Charlotte when this started.”

  She flicked an ash, took another drag. “You’re going to have to make up your mind whether you want to shame me or insult me.”

  “I can do both.”

  Annoyed, she flipped the cigarette away, watched the red tip fly through the dark, then disappear into it. “I came home, didn’t I?”

  “That, at least, was half sensible. You came home looking like something that had been dragged down five miles of bad road, then you don’t tell anybody what’s wrong. Except Kirby. You told Kirby, didn’t you, after I dragged you over there?” His eyes flashed. “I’ll deal with her later.”

  “You leave her alone. I told her about the breakdown and that was all. That’s medical, and she’s not obliged to tell her lover about her patients’ medical histories.”

  “You told Nathan.”

  “I told him tonight. I told him all of it tonight, because I thought it was only right and fair.” Weary now, she rubbed her forehead. An owl was hooting monotonously somewhere in the cool dark. She wished she could find its tree, climb the branches, and just huddle there in peace.

  “Do you want me to go over it all again now, Brian? Do you want chapter and verse and all the little details?”

  “No.” He let out a sigh and sat beside her. “No, you don’t have to go over it again. I guess you’d have told me before if the lot of us weren’t so screwed up. I’ve been thinking about that while I’ve been sitting out here working myself up to pound on you.”

  “Couldn’t have taken much. You were already mad at me. Kicked me out of the house.”

  He let out a quick, rough laugh. “Your own fault you let me. It’s your house too.”

  “It’s your house, Brian. It always has been more yours than anyone’s.” It was said gently, with quiet acceptance. “You’re the one who cares most, and tends most.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No. Well, maybe some, but mostly it’s a relief to me. I don’t have to worry if the roof’s going to leak, because you do.”

  She tipped her head back, looking up at the glossy white paint of the veranda, then out over the moonlight-sprinkled gardens. The wind chimes were tinkling, the fountain quiet for the night, and the scent of musk roses floated poignantly on the breeze.

  “I don’t want to live here. For a long time I thought I didn’t ever want to be here. But I was wrong. I do. Everything here means more to me than I let myself believe. I want to know I can come back now and then. I can sit here on a warm, clear night like this and smell the sweet peas and the jasmine and Mama’s roses. Lexy and me, we just can’t stay here the way you do. But I guess we both need to know that Sanctuary stands on the hill like always and nobody’s going to lock the door on us.”

  “No one would.”

  “I dreamed the doors were locked and I couldn’t get inside. No one came when I called, and all the windows were dark and empty.” She closed her eyes, wanting it to play back in her mind, wanting to know she could stand against it now. “I lost myself in the forest. I was alone and scared and couldn’t find my way. Then I saw myself standing on the other side of the river. Only it wasn’t me at all. It was Mama.”

  “You’ve always had strange dreams.”

  “Maybe I’ve always been crazy.” She smiled a little, then looked out into the night. “I look like her, Brian. Sometimes when I see my face in the mirror, it gives me such a jolt. In the end, that’s what pushed me over the edge. When those pictures came, all those pictures of me. I thought one of them was Mama. Only she was dead. She was naked and her eyes were open and staring and lifeless as a doll’s. I looked just like her.”

  “Jo—”

  “But the picture wasn’t there,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t even there. I imagined it. I’ve always hated seeing pictures of myself, because I see her in them.”

  “You may look like her, Jo, but you’re not like her. You finish what you start, you stick.”

  “I ran away from here.”

  “You got away from here,” he corrected. “You went out to make your own life. That’s different from leaving a life you’d already started and all the people who needed you. You’re not Annabelle.” He draped an arm over her shoulder and let the swing slide into motion. “And you’re only about as crazy as the rest of us around here.”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s comforting, isn’t it?”

  IT was late when Susan Peters marched out of the rented cottage and stalked toward the cove. She’d had a nasty fight with her husband— and had had to do it in undertones so as not to disturb their friends who’d taken the cottage with them for the week.

  The man was an idiot, she decided. She couldn’t even think why she’d married him, much less why she’d stayed married to him for three years—not to mention the two they’d lived together before making it legal.

  Every time, every single time, she so much as mentioned buying a house, he got that closed-in look on his face. And he started going on about down payments and taxes and maintenance and money, money, money. What the hell were both of them working their butts off for? Was she supposed to live in an apartment in Atlanta forever?

  The hell with the conveniences, she thought, and tossed back her curly mop of brown hair. She wanted a yard, a little garden, a kitchen where she could practice cooking the gourmet dishes she’d taken classes for.

  But all she got out of Tom was one day. One day. Well, when was one day going to get here?

  Disgusted, she plopped down on the beach, slipping off her shoes so she could dig her toes in the sand while she stared out at the quiet water that lapped and lapped against the hull of the little outboard they’d rented.

  He didn’t have any problems spending money on a silly boat so he could go fishing every stupid day they were on Desire.

  They had enough for a down payment. She propped her elbow on her knee and watched sulkily as the moon floated overhead. She’d done all the research on financing and balloon payments and interest rates. She wanted that sweet little house on Peach Blossom Lane.

  Sure, it would be tight for the first couple of years, but they could manage. She’d been so positive that when she talked to him about building equity and breaking out of the endless cycle of renting month after month, he would come around.

  And, oh, it was just about killing her that Mary Alice and Jim were about to settle on that pretty place in the development. A magnolia tree in the front yard and a little patio off the kitchen.

  She sighed and wished she’d waited until they’d gotten back home to start working on Tom again. That would have been smarter. She knew how important timing was when dealing with her husband. But she’d gotten so damned upset, she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

  When they got back to Atlanta, Tom was going to look at that house on Peach Blossom if she had to drag him by the ear.

  She heard the footsteps behind her and stared straight ahead. “No point in coming down here to try to make up, Tom Peters. I’m not nearly finished being mad at you yet. I may never be.”

  Furious that he didn’t attempt to talk her out of it, she wrapped her arms around her knees. “You just go on back up and balance your checkbook, since money is all you want. I don’t have another thing to say to you.”

  As the silence dragged on, she gritted her teeth and turned her head. “Listen here, Tom—Oh.” Embarrass
ment heated her cheeks as she looked up into a stranger’s face. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  He smiled, charmingly, and with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “That’s all right. I’m going to think of you as someone else, too.”

  Even as the first streak of alarm sent a scream toward her throat, he struck.

  It wasn’t going to be perfect, he decided, studying her as she lay crumpled at his feet. He hadn’t planned on this impromptu practice session, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. His mind was so full of Jo, and the sexual need was unexpectedly sharp tonight.

  He was very, very annoyed with her. And that only made him want her more.

  Then the pretty brunette had just been there, like a gift, sitting all alone by the water under the shifting light of the moon.

  A wise man didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. So to speak, he thought with a chuckle as he hauled her up into his arms. They would just move off a bit, he decided. In case old Tom—whoever he might be—wandered down to the cove.

  She was a light load, and he didn’t mind the exercise. He whistled tunelessly as he carried her over the sand and up through a narrow break in the dunes. He would need the moonlight, so he settled on the verges of the swale. It was picturesque, with the moon-silvered bushes, he thought, as he laid her down.

  And it was deserted.

  He used his belt to tie her hands and one of the silk scarves he always carried to gag her. He stripped her first, pleased to find that her body was trim and athletic. She moaned a little as he pulled off his jeans.

  “Don’t worry, darling, you look very pretty, very sexy. And the moonlight flatters you.”

  He took out his camera—the Pentax single-lens reflex he liked for portraits—pleased that he’d loaded it with slow film. He wanted fine detail now, knife-edged sharpness. Likely he’d have to do some burning in and dodging in the darkroom to get the contrasts and textures just so.

  He would look forward to that, to perfecting the prints.

  Whistling under his breath, he fixed his flash and ran off three shots before her eyelids fluttered.