Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  He held up a hand. “You want to skip the movie and join the horde at the mall?”

  “Well, the mall—and there’s this flea market.” She gave him a hopeful smile.

  He would have done quite a bit to keep that smile on her face. “I’ll call Bud and see if I can borrow his pickup.”

  “God, what a man.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him, hard, then dodged before he could make the grab. “I’ll go up and change.” The phone rang as she headed for the stairs. “Get that, will you? Tell whoever it is

  I’ll call back.”

  Cam picked up the phone. “Hello.” There was a minute of humming silence, then a click. “They hung up,” he shouted, then dialed Bud.

  When Clare came down again, he was standing in the garage, studying the work she had done that day. Nervous, she stuck her hands in the pockets of the long gray skirt she wore.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re incredible.” He rubbed a hand over the polished curve of wood. “These are all so different.” He glanced from the completed metal sculptures to the fisted arm of clay. “And yet they’re so unmistakably your work.”

  “I guess I should apologize for jumping all over you this morning for having the good taste to buy one of my pieces.”

  “I figured you’d get around to it.” Idly, he paged through her sketchbook. “Oh, by the way, I got you that burl.”

  “You—the burl?”

  “You did want it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, very much. I didn’t think you remembered. How did you do it?”

  “I just mentioned it to the mayor. He was so flattered, he’d have paid you to cut it down.”

  She rewrapped the clay in its dampened cloth. “You’re being awfully nice to me, Rafferty.”

  He set her sketchbook aside. “Yeah, I am.” He turned, studied her. “You clean up good, Slim. I hope to hell you’re not a finicky shopper.”

  “I’ll break the county record.” She held out a hand. “And I’ll pop for the champagne we’re going to have with dinner.”

  “Are we celebrating?”

  “I got some news today. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.” She started to get into his car, spotted Ernie across the street, and waved. “Hey, Ernie.”

  He merely watched her, keeping one hand closed over the pentagram around his neck.

  Part Two

  _____

  And the Lord said to Satan, “Whence do you come?”

  Then Satan answered the Lord and said,

  “From roaming the earth and patrolling it.”

  —The Book of Job

  Chapter 13

  “What is that smell?”

  “That, ma belle, is a sweet, pastoral bouquet.” Jean-Paul’s grin split his face from ear to ear as he sucked air in through his elegant nose. “Ah, c’est incroyable.”

  “I’ll say it’s incredible,” Angie muttered and scowled out of the car window. “It smells like horse shit.”

  “And when, my own true love, have you ever smelled the shit of a horse?”

  “January 17, 1987, in a freezing carriage clopping around Central Park, the first time you proposed to me. Or maybe it was the second time.”

  He laughed and kissed her hand. “Then it should bring back beautiful memories.”

  Actually, it did, but she took out her purse bottle of Chanel spray and spritzed it in the air anyway.

  Angie crossed her long legs and wondered why her husband got such a charge out of looking at grass and rocks and fat, fly-swishing cows. If this was pastoral bliss, give her Forty-second Street.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like scenery—the view of Cancun from a hotel balcony, the streets of Paris from a sidewalk cafè, the swell of the Atlantic from a deck chair. But this, while it had a kind of rough, rural charm best viewed in primitive paintings, wasn’t her idea of visual stimulation.

  “A seelo!”

  She glanced over, sighed. “I think it’s called a silo, though I have no idea why.” Angie settled back while Jean-Paul practiced the pronunciation.

  She hadn’t minded the drive, really. Jean-Paul was deliciously sexy behind the wheel of a car. She smiled to herself—a purely feminine look of satisfaction. Jean-Paul was deliciously sexy anywhere. And he was all hers.

  The fact was, she’d enjoyed driving down the turnpike, windows open, Cajun music blasting. She hadn’t felt obliged to offer to take a turn at the wheel, knowing that her husband rarely had the opportunity to put on his cute little cap and leather gloves and let it rip.

  Just past exit nine on the Jersey turnpike, they’d gotten a ticket, which Jean-Paul had cheerfully signed—right before he pulled out into traffic again and cranked the Jag up to ninety.

  He was happy as a pig in slop, Angie thought, then closed her eyes. She was even thinking in rural analogies.

  The last hour of the drive had made her nervous. All those fields, hills, trees. All that open space. She much preferred the steel and concrete canyons of Manhattan. A mugger she could handle—and had—but a rabbit dashing frantically across the road sent her into a panic.

  Where was the noise, for God’s sake? Where were the people? Were there any people, or had they crossed through the Twilight Zone into some version of Orwell’s Animal Farm?

  What the hell was Clare thinking of, actually choosing to live in a place where you had cows for neighbors?

  She was restlessly twisting the thick gold links she wore around her neck when Jean-Paul gave a whoop and swung the car to the shoulder. Gravel splattered and smoked. “Look! A goat.”

  Angie dug in her bag for Excedrin. “Jesus, Jean-Paul, grow up.”

  He only laughed and leaned past her to stare through the passenger window at the ratty gray billy goat who was chewing grass. Billy looked as unimpressed as Angie. “You were very fond of goat when I gave you the angora wrap for Christmas.”

  “I like my suede jacket, too, but I don’t want to pet a sheep.”

  He nuzzled his wife’s ear, then sat back. “When is the next turn?”

  Angie shot him a look. “Are we lost?”

  “No.” He watched her gulp down two painkillers and chase them with Perrier straight from the bottle. “I don’t know where we are, but we can’t be lost because we’re here.”

  His logic made her wish she had Valium instead of Excedrin. “Don’t be perky, Jean-Paul, it only depresses me.”

  Angie took out the map and Clare’s directions so that they could study them. Her annoyance faded a bit as Jean-Paul massaged the back of her neck. As always, he sensed precisely the right spot to touch.

  He was a patient man and an enthusiastic one. In all things. When he had met his wife, she had been the assistant of a rival art dealer with ambition glittering in her eyes. Cool and remote to the most casual of flirtations or the most overt of suggestions, she’d been an irresistible challenge to his ego. It had taken him six weeks to convince her to have dinner with him, another three frustrating months to ease her into his bed.

  There she had not been cool; she had not been remote.

  The sex had been the easiest hurdle. He had known she was attracted to him. Women were. He was artist enough to recognize that he was physically appealing, and man enough to play on it. He was tall with a body he cared for religiously with diet and training. The French accent—and his often deliberately awkward phrasing—only added to the attraction. His dark, curling hair was worn nearly shoulder length to frame his bony, intelligent face with its deep blue eyes and sculptured mouth. He wore a thin mustache to accent it and to keep it from appearing too feminine.

  In addition to his looks, he had a deep and sincere affection for the female—all of them. He had come from a family of many women and had since childhood appreciated them for their softness, their strengths, their vanities, and their shrewdness. He was as sincerely interested in the elderly matron with blue-tinted hair as he was in the statuesque bombshell—though often for different reasons. It was this openne
ss with women that had led to his success in bed and in business.

  But Angie had been his one and only love, though not his only lover. Convincing her of that, and of the advantages of a traditional marriage, had taken him the better part of two years. He didn’t regret a minute of it.

  His hand closed lightly over hers as he cruised down the two-lane road again. “Je t’aime,” he said, as he often did.

  It made her smile and bring his hand to her lips. “I know.” He was a precious man, she thought. Even if he could make her crazy. “Just warn me if you decide to pull over for any more goats or other animal life.”

  “Do you see the field there?”

  Angie glanced out the window and sighed. “How could I miss it? That’s all there is.”

  “I would make love with you there, in the sunlight. Slowly. With my mouth first, tasting you everywhere. And when you began to shudder, to cry out for me, I would use my hands. Just the fingertips. Over your lovely breasts, then down, inside you where it would be so hot, so wet.”

  Four years, she thought. Four years and he could still make her tremble. She slanted him a look and saw that he was smiling. She shifted her gaze downward and saw that he was quite sincere in his fantasy. The field no longer seemed so intimidating.

  “Maybe Clare can direct us to a field that’s not so close to the road.”

  He chuckled, settled back, and began to sing along with Beausoleil.

  Because she was too nervous to work, Clare was planting petunias along the walkway. If Angie and Jean-Paul had left New York at ten, as discussed, they would be driving up any minute. She was delighted at the thought of seeing them, of taking them around the area. And she was terrified at the idea of showing them her work and discovering that she’d been wrong.

  None of it was any good. She’d been deluding herself because she needed so badly to believe she could still make something important out of a hunk of wood or scraps of metal. It had come too easily at first, she thought. Both the work and the acceptance of it. The only place to go was down.

  Do you fear failure, Clare, or success? Dr. Janowski’s voice buzzed in her head.

  Both—doesn’t everyone? Go away, will you? Everyone’s entitled to a little private neurosis.

  She pushed all thoughts of her work aside and concentrated on turning the soil.

  Her father had taught her how. How to baby the roots, mix in peat moss, fertilizer, water, and love. By his side she had learned how soothing, how fulfilling the planting of a living thing could be. In New York she’d forgotten the pleasure of that and the comfort of it.

  Her mind wandered. She thought of Cam, how intense their lovemaking was. Each time. Every time. It was like feeding on the most basic of levels. They went at each other like animals, hungry and feral. She’d never been so, well, lusty with anyone else.

  And, God, she thought with a grin, what she’d been missing!

  How long could it last? She shrugged and went on with her planting. She knew that the darkest and most intense of passions were supposed to fade the fastest. But she couldn’t let it worry her. Wouldn’t. However long it lasted would just have to be enough. Because right now it was hard for her to get through an hour without imagining getting her hands on him again.

  Lovingly, she patted and firmed the dirt around the red and white petunias. The sun beat strong against her back as she covered the soil with mulch. They would grow, she thought, and spread and bloom until the first frost shriveled them. They wouldn’t last forever, but while they did, it would give her pleasure to look at them.

  She glanced up at the sound of an engine, then sat back on her heels as Bob Meese pulled his truck into her drive. “Hey, Clare.”

  “Bob.” She stuck the spade into the dirt and rose.

  “Nice flowers you got there.”

  “Thanks.” She spread dirt from her palms to the hips of her jeans.

  “Told you I’d bring the lamp on by if I got a minute.”

  Her brow wrinkled, then cleared as she remembered. “Oh, right. Your timing’s perfect. My friends should be here anytime. Now they can actually have a lamp in their room.”

  And what a lamp, she thought, as he pulled it out of the back. It was about five feet high with a bell-shaped red shade, beaded and fringed, on a curving, gilded pole. It looked like something out of a nineteenth-century bordello. Clare sincerely hoped it was.

  “It’s even better than I remembered,” she said, and tried to recall if she had paid him for it or not. “Could you take it on into the garage? I’ll get it upstairs later.”

  “No problemo.” He hefted it inside, then stood studying her tools and sculptures. “I guess people pay a bunch for stuff like this.”

  She smiled, deciding he was more baffled than critical. “Sometimes.”

  “The wife likes art,” he said conversationally as he squinted at a brass and copper sculpture. Modern shit, he thought, sneering inwardly, but as an antique dealer, he knew there was no telling what people would plunk down hard cash for. “She’s got this plaster donkey and cart out in the front yard. You do any stuff like that?”

  Clare bit down on the tip of her tongue. “No,” she said solemnly. “Not really.”

  “You can come on by and take a look at ours if you want some ideas.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  When he started back toward his truck without giving her a bill, Clare figured she must have paid in advance. He opened the door, then propped a foot on the running board. “I guess you heard Jane Stokey sold the farm.”

  “What?”

  “Jane Stokey,” he repeated, hitching a thumb in a belt loop. His mood lifted considerably when he saw he was the first to pass on the news. “Sold the farm—or she’s gonna. Word is she might move on down to Tennessee. Got a sister down there.”

  “Does Cam know?”

  “Can’t say. If he don’t, he’ll know by suppertime.” He wondered if there was any way he could mosey into the sheriff’s office and drop the bombshell, real casual like.

  “Who bought it?”

  “Some hotshot realtor down to D.C.’s what I heard. Must’ve checked the obits and seen Biff’s. Made her a good offer from what I heard. Hope to shit some developer don’t plant more houses.”

  “Can they do that?”

  He pursed his lips, lowered his brows. “Well, now, it’s zoned agricultural, but you never know. Money greases the right palms, and that could change quick enough.” He stopped, coughed, and looked away, remembering her father. “So, you, ah, settling in?”

  She noted that his gaze had veered upward, toward the attic window. “More or less.”

  He looked back at her. “Not too spooky here for you, all alone?”

  “It’s hard to be spooked in a house you grew up in.” And where all the ghosts were so familiar.

  He rubbed at a spot on his side mirror. There’d been a light on in her attic once or twice. Certain people wanted to know why. “I guess with all the stuff you’re buying, you’re planning on being around awhile.”

  She’d nearly forgotten how important it was in small towns for everyone to know everything. “I don’t really have any plans.” She shrugged. “The beauty of being unfettered.”

  “I guess.” He’d been fettered too long to understand. Casually, and cleverly, he thought, he wound his way around to his purpose for being there. “Funny having you back here. Makes me think about that first time I took you out. The carnival, right?”

  Her eyes went flat, her cheeks paled. “Yes. The carnival.”

  “That sure was—” He broke off, as if he’d just remembered. “Jesus, Clare.” Sincerity shone in his eyes as he blinked. “I’m awful sorry. Don’t know how I could’ve forgotten.”

  “It’s all right.” Her cheeks hurt as she fought with a smile. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, a long time. Man, I feel like a jerk.” Awkwardly, he reached for her hand. “It must be rough on you, having people remind you.”

  She did
n’t need anyone to remind her, but managed a restless movement with her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it, Bob. I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Well, sure, but … well,” he said again, “I guess you got plenty to keep you busy. Your statues.” He gave her a sly wink. “And the sheriff.”

  “Word travels,” she said dryly.

  “That it does. I guess the two of you are hitting it off.”

  “I guess.” With some amusement, she noted that his eyes kept cutting back into her garage, toward the sculpture she’d titled The Inner Beast. “Maybe Bonnie Sue’d like that to put next to her donkey.”

  Bob flushed and shifted his foot. “I don’t think it’s her style. Can’t say I know anything about art, but—”

  “You know what you like,” she finished for him. “It’s all right if you don’t like it, Bob. I’m not sure I do myself.”

  No, he didn’t like it because it was all too familiar. “How come you made up something like that?”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’m not sure. You could say it just comes to me. In a dream,” she added softly, almost to herself, and rubbed a chill from her arms.

  His eyes narrowed, sharpened, but when she turned back, his face was bland. “I think I’ll stick with donkey carts. You let me know if you have any trouble with that lamp.”

  “Yes. I will.” He’d been the first boy to kiss her, she remembered, and smiled at him. “Tell Bonny Sue I said hello.”

  “I will.” Satisfied with what he’d learned, he nodded and hitched at his belt. “I sure will.” He turned. His eyes narrowed, then widened. “Christ in a handcart, look at that car.”

  Clare glanced over and spotted the Jaguar pulling up to the curb. Even as Jean-Paul jumped out, she was running down the slope of the drive to spring into his arms for a hard, exaggerated kiss.

  “Mmmm.” He kissed her again. “Licorice.”

  Laughing, she turned to hug Angie. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Neither can I.” Angie pushed her hair back as she took a long, slow scan of the street. Her idea of country wear included nile green linen pants and matching jacket with a rose-colored silk blouse. She had worn flats—Bruno Magli. “So, this is Emmitsboro.”