The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

To fall into the moment.

  White and full, the moon rose over the sea, cruised among the stars, and gave the seascape she loved a mystic, intimate glow. The sea sang its rough song with an arrogance that made her yearn.

  He’d been gone for two weeks. She knew he wasn’t coming back. In the end it was as it had always been. There was something more important than Miranda.

  Still, she’d get over it. She was already on her way. She would take that vacation, but she’d use the time right here. It was here she needed to be. Home, making the home she had never been given. She’d finish the garden, she’d have the house painted. She’d buy new curtains.

  And while she would never trust another man in this lifetime, at least she knew she could trust herself.

  “This moment would be more atmospheric if you were wearing a long, flowing robe.”

  She didn’t whirl. She still had enough control for that. She turned slowly.

  He was grinning at her. Dressed in thief’s black and standing in her bedroom grinning.

  “Jeans and a T-shirt,” he continued. “Though you fill them out nicely, they lack the romance of a silk robe the breeze could flutter around you.” He stepped out on the terrace. “Hello, Dr. Jones.”

  She stared, felt his fingertips brush her cheek where a bruise had yet to fade. “You son of a bitch,” she said, and rammed her fist full out into his face.

  It knocked him back several steps, had his vision wavering. But his balance was good. He shifted his jaw gingerly, dabbed at the blood on his mouth. “Well, that’s one way to say hello. Obviously, you’re not entirely pleased to see me.”

  “The only way I’d be pleased to see you is through steel bars, you bastard. You used me, you lied to me. Trust me, you said, and all the time you were after the bronze.”

  He worked his tongue over his gums, tasted blood. Damn, the woman had a straight-on right jab. “That’s not entirely accurate.”

  She balled her fist, more than ready to use it again. “You went to Florence, didn’t you? You walked out of here, got on a plane, and went to Florence for the statues.”

  “Of course. I told you I was going to.”

  “Miserable thief.”

  “I’m an excellent thief. Even Cook thought so—though he’ll never prove it.” He smiled again, combed his fingers through the thick, dark hair the breeze blew into sexy disorder. “Now I’m a retired thief.”

  She folded her arms. Her left shoulder was still sore from the night on the cliffs, and the ache eased when she supported it. “I imagine you can live very well in retirement for what you sold the bronzes for.”

  “A man wouldn’t have to work again, in several lifetimes, for what the Michelangelo is worth.” While she clenched her fists, he watched her warily as he took out a cigar. “She’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen. The copy was good, it hinted at the power of her. But it couldn’t capture her heart, her mind, her essence. I’m amazed anyone who’d seen both could mistake one for the other. The Dark Lady sings, Miranda. She is incomparable.”

  “She belongs to the Italian people. She belongs in a museum where she can be seen and studied.”

  “You know, that’s the first time you’ve referred to her that way. Before you always said ‘it,’ or ‘the bronze,’ but never ‘her.”’

  She turned to look out over the lawn, where the garden—hers now—was glowing in the moonlight. “I’m not going to discuss pronouns.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it. You’ve learned something you neglected all these years in your quest for knowledge. Art lives.”

  He blew out a stream of smoke. “How’s Andrew?”

  “Now you want to discuss my family. Fine. He’s doing very well. So are Elizabeth and Charles.” It was how she thought of them now. “They’re back to their separate lives, and though Elizabeth mourns the loss of The Dark Lady, she’s well enough. Elise hurt her more. The breach of trust and affection.” She turned away. “I know how she feels. I know exactly what it is to be used and discarded like that.”

  He started to step forward, then changed his mind and leaned back against the wall. Seductions, apologies, cooing words weren’t the way with Miranda in her current mood.

  “We used each other,” he corrected. “And did a damn good job of it.”

  “And now we’re done,” she said flatly. “What do you want here?”

  “I came to offer you a deal.”

  “Did you really? Why would I deal with you?”

  “Several reasons come to mind. Tell me this first. Why haven’t you given me up to the police?”

  “Because I keep my word.”

  “Is that it?” When she didn’t answer he shrugged, but it bothered him. “Okay then, on to business. I have something you’d like to see.”

  After tossing the cigar high over the rail, he turned back into the bedroom. He brought out his bag, took out the carefully wrapped contents. Even before he uncovered it, she knew, and was too stunned to speak.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t she?” He held the figure as a man holds a lover, with great care and possessiveness. “It was love at first sight for me. She’s a woman who brings men to their knees, and knows it. She isn’t always kind, but she fascinates. It’s no wonder murder was done for her.”

  He looked over at Miranda, studied the way she looked with the moonlight sprinkling over her hair and shoulders. “Do you know, when I found her, stored in a metal box, locked into a chest in that dusty garage—where Elise’s car was hidden, by the way—when I took her out and held her like this for the first time, I would have sworn I heard harpsong. Do you believe in such things, Dr. Jones?”

  She could almost hear it herself, as she had in her dreams. “Why did you bring her here?”

  “I imagined you’d want to see her again. You’d want to be sure I had her.”

  “I knew you had her.” She couldn’t help herself. Moving closer, she ran a fingertip over the smiling face. “I’ve known for two weeks. As soon as I realized you’d gone, I knew.” She lifted her gaze from the bronze to his face. His beautiful, treacherous face. “I didn’t expect you to come back.”

  “Actually, to be honest, neither did I.” He set the bronze on the stone table. “We’d both gotten what we’d wanted. You’ve got your reputation. You’re quite a celebrity these days. You’ve been vindicated. More than vindicated, you’ve been lauded. I imagine you’ve had offers from book publishers and Hollywood to sell your story.”

  She had, and it continued to embarrass her. “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “I’m getting to it,” he muttered. “I kept the deal. I never agreed to give the David back, and as to her—I never agreed to anything but to find her. I found her, and now she’s mine, so there’s a new deal on the table. How bad do you want her?”

  It took all her willpower not to gape. “You mean to sell her to me? You want me to buy stolen property?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of a trade.”

  “A trade?” She thought of the Cellini he coveted. And the Donatello. Her palms began to itch. “What do you want for her?”

  “You.”

  Her rapid thoughts screeched to a halt. “Excuse me?”

  “A lady for a lady. It seems fair.”

  She paced to the end of the terrace, back again. Oh, he was worse than a worm, she decided. “You expect me to have sex with you in exchange for a Michelangelo.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’re good, but nobody’s that good. I want the whole package. She’s mine, Miranda. I might even be able to claim finder’s privilege, though it’s dicey. But I have her, and you don’t. In the past few days it occurred to me, much to my discomfort, that I want you more than I want her.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re too bright not to. You can have her. You can put her on the mantel or give her back to Florence. You can use her for a doorstop, I won’t give a damn. But you’ll have to give me what I want for her. I’ve got a yen t
o live in this house.”

  There was such a terrible pressure in her chest. “You want to live here?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You know, Dr. Jones, I don’t think you’re pretending to be thick. You just don’t get it. Yes, I want to live in this house. It’s a good spot to raise children. Look at that, you went white as a ghost. God, that’s one of the things I love about you. You’re always so shocked when someone interrupts the logic. And I love you, Miranda, beyond sense.”

  She made some sound, it couldn’t be construed as words, as her heart staggered in her chest. Stumbled. Fell.

  He crossed to her, amused now rather than panicked. She hadn’t moved a muscle. “I really have to insist on children, Miranda. I’m Irish and Italian. What else would you expect?”

  “You’re asking me to marry you?”

  “I’m working my way up to it. It might surprise you that it’s not any easier for me than it is for you. I said I love you.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Damn, stubborn—” He cut himself off, inhaled sharply. “You want the bronze, don’t you?” Before she could answer he caught her chin in his hand. “You’re in love with me.” When her brows came together, he grinned. “Don’t bother to deny it. If you weren’t you’d have turned me over in a heartbeat when you realized I’d gone after her for myself.”

  “I’ve gotten over it.”

  “Liar.” He lowered his mouth, just to nibble at hers. “Take the deal, Miranda. You won’t regret it.”

  “You’re a thief.”

  “Retired.” He molded her hip with one hand, reached into his pocket with the other. “Here, let’s make it official.”

  She struggled out of the kiss and jerked her hand free when he started to slip the ring onto it. The ring, she noted with surprise and delight, he’d given her once before.

  “Don’t be so pigheaded.” He took her hand, uncurled her fingers and pushed the ring into place. “Take the deal.”

  Now she recognized the pressure in her chest. It was her heart beating again. “Did you pay for the ring?”

  “Jesus. Yes, I paid for the ring.”

  She let herself consider it, watched it wink and sparkle. And let him sweat, she thought. She hoped. “I’ll give her back to Italy. Explanations of how I came by her might be awkward.”

  “We’ll think of something. Take the deal, damn it.”

  “How many children?”

  His smile spread slowly. “Five.”

  She snorted out a laugh. “Please. Two.”

  “Three, with an option.”

  “Three, final.”

  “Done.” He started to lower his head, but she slapped a hand on his chest. “I’m not finished.”

  “You would be, honey, if I kissed you,” he said, with just enough arrogance to make her fight back a grin.

  “No side work,” she said primly. “Whatsoever, for any reason.”

  He winced. “For any reason? There might be a good one.”

  “For any reason.”

  “I’m retired,” he muttered, but had to rub the ache in his chest. “No side work.”

  “You hand over to me any and all fake identification you’ve accumulated over your checkered career.”

  “All? But—” He caught himself. “Fine.” He could always get more, should circumstances call for it. “Next?”

  “That should do it.” She touched his cheek, then framed his face. “I love you beyond sense,” she murmured, cherishing his words enough to give them back to him. “I’ll take the deal. I’ll take you, but that means you’re taking me. The Jones curse. I’m bad luck.”

  “Dr. Jones.” He turned his lips into her palm. “Your luck’s about to change. Trust me.”

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE REEF

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Nora Roberts

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ISBN: 1-101-14608-7

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Jove and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  To Ruth Langan and Marianne Willman,

  for the past, the present, and the future

  Contents

  PART ONE PAST

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  PART TWO PRESENT

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  PART THREE FUTURE

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  PART ONE

  PAST

  The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.

  —Henri Bergson

  PROLOGUE

  J AMES LASSITER WAS forty years old, a well-built, ruggedly handsome man in the prime of his life, in the best of health.

  In an hour, he’d be dead.

  From the deck of the boat, he could see nothing but the clear silky ripple of blue, the luminous greens and deeper browns of the great reef shimmering like islands below the surface of the Coral Sea. Far to the west, the foamy froth and surge of sea surf rose up and crashed against the false shore of coral.

  From his stance at the port side, he could watch the shapes and shadows of fish, darting like living arrows through the world he’d been born to share with them.

  The coast of Australia was lost in the distance, and there was only the vastness.

  The day was perfect, the jewel-clear shimmer of the water, dashed by white facets of light tossed down by the gold flash of sun. The teasing hint of a breeze carried no taste of rain.

  Beneath his feet, the deck swayed gently, a cradle on the quiet sea. Wavelets lapped musically against the hull. Below, far below, was treasure waiting to be discovered.

  They were mining the wreck of the Sea Star, a British merchant ship that had met its doom on the Great Barrier Reef two centuries before. For more than a year, breaking for bad weather, equipment failure and other inconveniences, they had worked, often like dogs, to reap the riches the Star had left behind.

  There were riches yet, James knew. But his thoughts traveled beyond the Sea Star, north of that spectacular and dangerous reef to the balmy waters of the West Indies. To another wreck, to another treasure.

  To Angelique’s Curse.

  He wondered now if it was the richly jeweled amulet that was cursed, or the woman, the witch Angelique, whose power—it was repute
d—remained strong in the rubies and diamonds and gold. Legend was that she had worn it, a gift from the husband it was said she murdered, on the day she was burned at the stake.

  The idea fascinated him, the woman, the necklace, the legend. The search for it, which he would begin shortly, was taking on a personal twist. James didn’t simply want the riches, the glory. He wanted Angelique’s Curse, and the legend it carried.

  He had been weaned on the hunt, on tales of wrecked ships and the bounty the sea hoarded from them. All of his life, he had dived, and he had dreamed. The dreams had cost him a wife, and given him a son.

  James turned from the rail to study the boy. Matthew was nearly sixteen now. He had grown tall, but had yet to fill out. There was potential there, James mused, in the thin frame and ropey muscle. They shared the same dark, unmanageable hair, though the boy refused to have his cut short so that even now as Matthew checked the diving gear, it fell forward to curtain his face.

  The face was rawboned, James thought. It had fined down in the last year or two and had lost the childish roundness. An angel face, a waitress had called it once, and had embarrassed the boy into hot cheeks and grimaces.

  It had more of the devil in it now, and those blue eyes he’d passed to Matthew were more often hot than cool. The Lassiter temper, the Lassiter luck, James thought with a shake of his head. Tough legacies for a half-grown boy.

  One day, he thought, one day soon, he would be able to give his son all the things a father hoped for. The key to it all lay quietly waiting in the tropical seas of the West Indies.

  A necklace of rubies and diamonds beyond price, heavy with history, dark with legend, tainted with blood.

  Angelique’s Curse.

  James’s mouth twisted into a thin smile. When he had it, the bad luck that had dogged the Lassiters would change. He only had to be patient.

  “Hurry up with those tanks, Matthew. The day’s wasting.”

  Matthew looked up, tossed his hair out of his eyes. The sun was rising behind his father’s back, sending light shimmering around him. He looked, Matthew thought, like a king preparing for battle. As always, love and admiration welled up and startled him with its intensity.