Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  He broke off a piece of coconut and chewed. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

  “Of course the insurance company’s not going to be happy,” she added. “And some people might not appreciate losing some particular piece of jewelry or the family silver, even if it was too ornate. You’re not always doing a good deed by breaking into their house, you know.”

  “Guess not.”

  “And I suppose I have more respect for straight, honest stealing than computer crimes and white-collar swindling. Like the crooked stockbrokers,” she continued as she sampled coconut. “Fooling around with some little old lady’s portfolio until they’ve pocketed the profits and she’s left with nothing. That’s not on the same level with picking someone’s pocket or lifting the Sydney Diamond.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the Sydney,” he mumbled.

  “In one way it does keep the cycle going, then again …” She paused to dig out more fruit. “I don’t think robbery has a very good occupation potential. An interesting hobby, certainly, but as a career, it has its limitations.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about retiring—when I can do it in style.”

  “When you get back to the States, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

  “Buy a silk shirt and have my initials monogrammed on the cuffs. I’m going to have an Italian suit to go over it and a sleek little Lamborghini to set it all off.” He sliced a mango in half, wiped the blade on his jeans, and offered her a piece. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to stuff myself,” Whitney told him with her mouth full. “I’m going to make a career out of eating. I think I’ll start out with a hamburger, smothered with cheese and onions, and work my way up to lobster tails, lightly broiled and drowned in melted butter.”

  “For somebody so preoccupied with eating, I don’t see how you’re so skinny.”

  She swallowed mango. “It’s lack of occupation that leads to preoccupation,” she told him. “And I’m slender, not skinny. Mick Jagger’s skinny.”

  Grinning, he popped another piece of fruit into his mouth. “You forget, sugar, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you naked. Yours ain’t exactly an hourglass figure.”

  With a brow lifted, she licked juice from her fingers. “I’ve a very delicate build,” she said, and when he continued to grin, she moved her gaze up and down him. “And, you’ll remember, I also have had the fascination of seeing you stripped. It wouldn’t hurt you to pump a little iron, Douglas.”

  “Obvious muscles get in the way. I’d rather be subtle.”

  “You certainly are.”

  He shot her a look as he tossed a coconut shell aside. “You like biceps and triceps bulging out of a sleeveless T-shirt?”

  “Masculinity,” she said lightly, “is very arousing. A confident male doesn’t find it necessary to ogle an over-endowed woman who chooses to wear tight sweaters to disguise the fact she has a very small brain.”

  “I guess you don’t like being ogled.”

  “Certainly not. I prefer style to cleavage.”

  “Good thing.”

  “There’s no need to be insulting.”

  “Just being agreeable.” He remembered too well the way she’d wept in his arms the day before and how helpless he’d felt. Now, he found he wanted to touch her again, watch her smile, feel the softness. “Anyway,” he said, working his way back from a long drop. “You might be skinny, but I like your face.”

  Her lips curved in that cool, aloof smile he found maddeningly alluring. “Really? What about it?”

  “Your skin.” Going with the impulse, he ran the back of his knuckles down her jawline. “I came across this alabaster cameo once. It wasn’t big,” he remembered as he traced a finger down her cheekbone. “Probably wasn’t worth more than a few hundred, but it was the classiest thing I’d ever picked up.” He grinned, then let his hands roam into her hair. “Until you.”

  She didn’t move away, but kept her eyes on his as his breath feathered over her skin. “Is that what you did, Douglas? Pick me up?”

  “You could look at it that way, couldn’t you?” He knew he was making a mistake. Even as his lips brushed over hers he knew he was making a very big mistake. He’d made them before. “Since I did,” he murmured, “I haven’t known exactly what to do with you.”

  “I’m not an alabaster cameo,” she murmured as her arms wound around his neck. “Or the Sydney Diamond or a pot of gold.”

  “I’m not a member of the country club and I don’t have a villa in Martinique.”

  “It would seem …” She traced the outline of his mouth with her tongue. “We have very little in common.”

  “Nothing in common,” he corrected as his hands slid up her back. “People like you and me can’t bring each other anything but trouble.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled and the eyes beneath the fringe of long, luxurious lashes were dark and amused. “When do we start?”

  “We already have.”

  When their lips met, they were no longer a lady and a thief. Passion was a great equalizer. Together they rolled onto the soft forest floor.

  She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but she had no regrets. Attraction that she’d felt from the moment he’d removed the sunglasses in her elevator and looked at her with his clear, direct eyes had been edging toward something deeper, broader, more unsettling. He’d begun to touch something in her, and now with passion, he released a great deal more.

  Her mouth was as hot and hungry as his. That had happened before. Her pulse raced—no new experience. Her body stretched and arched at the touch of a man’s hands. She’d felt those sensations before. But this time, this first and only time, she let her mind go and experienced lovemaking as it was meant to be. Mindless, liberating pleasure.

  Though the surrender of her best defense, her mind, was complete, she wasn’t passive. Her need was as great as his, as primitive, as overwhelming, as elemental. When they undressed each other in a frenzy, her hands were as quick as his.

  Flesh against flesh, warm, firm, sleek. Mouth against mouth, open, hot, hungry. They rolled over the soft ground with no more inhibitions than children, but with passion full-grown and straining.

  She couldn’t get enough of him and tasted, touched, as if she’d never known a man before. In that moment, she could remember no others. He filled her, heart, mind, threatening to stay so that there would never be room for another. She understood, and after the first fear, accepted.

  He’d wanted women before, desperately. Or so he’d thought. Until now he hadn’t known the full meaning of desperation. Until now, he hadn’t known what it was to want. She was seeping into him, pore by pore. Women were allowed to pleasure and be pleasured, but they weren’t allowed intimacy. Intimacy meant complications a man on the run couldn’t afford. But there was no stopping her.

  His hands might run along her skin, clever, skilled, strong, but it was she who led. He knew a man was at his most vulnerable when in a woman’s arms—mother, wife, or lover—yet he forgot anything but the need to be there. She melted into him, dangerously warm, dangerously soft, but he took and cursed the consequences.

  Naked, agile, exquisite, she moved under him, wrapped around him. With his face buried in her hair, Doug heard the door lock behind him. He heard the bolt slide quietly into place. He didn’t give a damn.

  Taking his time, he ran kisses down her face, forehead, nose, mouth, chin. He felt her smile answer his. Her elegant pampered fingers slid down to his hips. They both had their eyes open when he plunged into her.

  He filled her and moaned at the exquisite heat and softness that encompassed him. Her face was dappled with sun and shade, her eyes half-closed as she matched him stroke for stroke, pulse for pulse.

  Speed built, needs whirled. As his thoughts began to tumble and skid, his last rational flash was that perhaps he’d already found the end of the rainbow.

  They lay in silence. Neither were children, neither were without experience. Both kne
w they’d never made love before. Both were wondering what the hell they were going to do about it.

  Gently, she ran a hand up and down his back. He drew in the scent of her hair.

  “I guess we knew this would happen,” she said after a moment.

  “I guess we did.”

  She looked up at the canopy of trees overhead and the pure blue beyond them. “What now?”

  It wasn’t practical to think beyond the present. If her question dealt with the future, Doug thought it best to pretend otherwise. He kissed her shoulder. “We get to the nearest town, beg, borrow, or steal transportation, and head to Diégo-Suarez.”

  Whitney closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. She had, after all, walked into this with them open. She’d keep them that way. “The treasure.”

  “We’re going to get it, Whitney. It’s only a matter of days now.”

  “And then?”

  The future again. Propping himself on his elbows, he looked down at her. “Anything you want,” he said because he couldn’t think of anything but how beautiful she was. “Martinique, Athens, Zanzibar. We’ll buy a farm in Ireland and raise sheep.”

  She laughed because it seemed so simple just now. “We could plant wheat in Nebraska with about the same rate of success.”

  “Right. What we should do is open an American restaurant right here in Madagascar. I’ll cook and you do the books.”

  Abruptly, he sat up, gathering her with him. Somehow, he’d stopped being alone and hadn’t fully realized it until that moment. Stopped being alone when alone had always seemed the best angle. He wanted to share, to belong, to have someone there right beside him. It wasn’t smart, but it was.

  “We’re going to get that treasure, Whitney. After we do, nothing can stop us. Anything we want, anytime we want. I can shower diamonds in your hair.” He ran a hand through it, forgetting for the moment that she could have her pick of diamonds now if she chose.

  She felt a twinge of regret, and of something like grief. He could see no further than his pot of gold. Not now, perhaps not ever. Smiling, she ran a hand over his cheek. Yet she’d known that all along. “We’ll find it.”

  “We’ll find it,” he agreed, drawing her closer. “And when we do, we’ll have it all.”

  They walked through another day to dusk while Whitney’s stomach rumbled and her legs went to rubber. Like Doug, she fixed her mind on the goal of Diégo-Suarez. It helped keep her feet moving and her mind from questioning. They’d come this far for the treasure. Whatever happened before, after, or in between, they’d find it. The time for thinking, questioning, analyzing would come after.

  She shook her head at the fruit Doug offered. “My system would punish me if I sent any more mango down.” As if to soothe it, she placed her hand over her stomach. “I thought McDonald’s had franchises everywhere. Do you realize how far we’ve walked without seeing one golden arch?”

  “Forget the fast food. When we’re finished with this, I’ll fix you a five-course dinner that’ll make you think you’ve gone to heaven.”

  “I’d settle for a hot dog with everything.”

  “For somebody who thinks like a duchess, you’ve got the stomach of a peasant.”

  “Even serfs had a leg of mutton now and again.”

  “Look, we’ll—” Then he grabbed her and shoved her into the bush.

  “What is it?”

  “A light, up ahead. See it?”

  Cautiously, she looked over his shoulder and angled her head. It was there, faint and white through the dim light and thick foliage. Automatically, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Remo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” He went silent as he thought of and rejected a half dozen ideas. “We’ll take it slow.”

  It took them fifteen minutes to reach the tiny settlement. By then, it was fully dark. They could see the light through the window of what seemed to be a small store or trading post. Moths as big as the palm of her hand batted against the glass. Outside was a jeep.

  “Ask and you shall receive,” Doug said under his breath. “Let’s have a look.” Crouching, he made his way over to the window. What he saw inside made him grin.

  Remo, his tailored shirt stained and limp, sat at a table scowling into a glass of beer. Across from him was Barns, balding, molelike, and grinning at nothing in particular.

  “Well, well,” Doug breathed. “Looks like our lucky day.”

  “What’re they doing here?”

  “Running in circles. Remo looks like he needs a shave and a husky Norwegian masseuse.” Doug counted three others in the bar, all giving the Americans a wide berth. He also saw two bowls of steaming soup, a sandwich, and what looked like a bag of potato chips. Saliva pooled in his mouth.

  “A shame we can’t order something to go.”

  Whitney’d seen the food as well. She barely stopped herself from pressing her nose up against the glass. “Can’t we wait until they leave and then go in and eat?”

  “They leave, so does the jeep. Okay, sugar, you’re going to be lookout again. This time do a better job.”

  “I told you I couldn’t whistle last time because I was busy staying alive.”

  “We’re both going to stay alive, and we’re going to liberate ourselves a set of wheels. Come on.”

  Moving quickly, he circled the hut. With whispers and hand signals, he positioned Whitney near the front window while he crept to the jeep and went to work.

  She watched, gasping when Remo rose and began to pace. Eyes wide, she looked back at the jeep. Sprawled on the floor, Doug was hidden from view. She gritted her teeth and pressed her back to the wall as Remo passed the window.

  “Make it fast,” she hissed to Doug. “He’s getting restless.”

  “Don’t rush me,” he muttered as he freed wires. “These things take a delicate touch.”

  She glanced inside in time to see Remo shove Barns to his feet. “You better get your delicate touch moving, Douglas. They’re coming.”

  Swearing, he wiped sweat from his fingers. Another minute. All he needed was another minute. “Pile in, sugar, we’re almost there.” When she didn’t respond, he looked up to see the little front porch of the hut was empty. “Sonofabitch.” Struggling with the wires, he searched for her. “Whitney? Goddamn it, this is no time to take a walk.”

  Still swearing, fingers working, he scanned the settlement. Nothing.

  He jolted at the sound of squeals, barks, and confusion as the engine roared into life. As he started to leap out of the jeep, gun raised, Whitney raced around the side of the hut and jumped inside.

  “Hit the gas, sugar,” she panted. “Or we’ll have company.”

  The words weren’t out of her mouth before he had the jeep roaring down the narrow dirt road. A low-hanging branch swiped against the windshield and broke with a crack like a gunshot. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Remo running around the side of the hut. He pushed Whitney’s face into the seat and the gas pedal to the floor before the first of three shots rang out.

  “Where’d you go?” Doug demanded as they left the light of the settlement behind. “A hell of a lookout you make when I nearly get myself shot looking for you.”

  “That’s gratitude.” She shook back her hair as she sat up. “If I hadn’t created a diversion, you’d never have gotten the jeep hot-wired in time.”

  He slowed down only enough to assure himself he wouldn’t smash the jeep against a tree. “What’re you talking about?”

  “When I saw Remo was coming out, I figured you needed a diversion—like in the movies.”

  “Terrific.” He negotiated a bend, bumped over a rock, and kept on going.

  “So, I ran around back and let the dog into the pigsty.”

  Whitney brushed the hair out of her eyes and revealed a very smug smile. “It was quite entertaining, but I couldn’t hang around to watch. It did, however, work perfectly.”

  “Lucky you didn’t get your head shot off,” he mumbled.

  “I continue
to prevent you from having yours shot off and you resent it,” she returned. “Typical male ego. I don’t know why I …” She trailed off and sniffed the air.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “That smell.” It wasn’t grass, damp, or animal, odors to which they had become accustomed. She sniffed again, then turned and kneeled on the seat. “It smells like …” She lowered so that when Doug turned his head he saw only her slim, well-shaped bottom. “Chicken!” Triumphant, Whitney leapt up again, holding a drumstick. “It’s chicken,” she said again, taking an enormous bite. “They have a whole cold chicken back here and a pile of cans—cans with food in them. Olives,” she announced, digging in the back again. “Big, fat Greek olives. Where’s the can opener?”

  While she dug, head down, Doug plucked the drumstick from her hand. “Dimitri believes in eating well,” he said over a healthy bite. He could have sworn he felt it slide all the way down. “Remo’s smart enough to raid the larder when he’s going to be on the road.”

  “I’ll say.” With a light in her eyes, she flopped back on the seat again. “Beluga.” She held the small tin between her thumb and finger. “And there’s a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, ’79.”

  “Any salt?”

  “Of course.”

  Grinning, he handed her the half-eaten drumstick. “Looks like we’re traveling to Diégo-Suarez in style, sugar.”

  Whitney retrieved the bottle of wine and drew out the cork. “Sugar,” she drawled. “I never travel any other way.”

  C H A P T E R

  13

  They made love in the jeep like giddy teenagers, high on exhaustion and wine. The moon was white, the night still. There was music from night birds, insects, and frogs. With the jeep pulled deep into the bush they feasted on caviar and one another while the forest sang around them. Whitney laughed as they struggled to have more of each other on the small, uncooperative front seat of the jeep.