Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “Out pretty late, aren’t you?”

  She told herself she was strong enough to handle it. After all, she’d had weeks to get over him. One brow cocked, she turned.

  He was dressed in black, and it suited him. Plain black T-shirt, snug black jeans. The costume of his trade, she mused as she held out the glass. She thought his face looked leaner, his eyes more intense, then she tried not to think at all.

  “How was Paris?”

  “Okay.” He took the glass and restrained the urge to touch her hand. “How’ve you been?”

  “How do I look?” It was a direct challenge. Look at me, she demanded. Take a good long look. He did.

  Her hair flowed sleekly down one shoulder, held back with a crescent-shaped pin of diamonds. Her face was as he remembered: pale, cool, elegant. Her eyes were dark and arrogant as she watched him over the rim of her glass.

  “You look terrific,” he muttered.

  “Thank you. So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  He’d practiced what he was going to say, how he was going to say it, two dozen times in the last week. He’d been in New York that long, vacillating between going to her and staying away. “Just thought I’d see how you were,” he mumbled into his glass.

  “How sweet.”

  “Look, I know you must think I ran out on you—”

  “To the tune of twelve thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents.”

  He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Nothing changes.”

  “Did you come to make good on the IOU you left me?”

  “I came because I had to, dammit.”

  “Oh?” Unmoved, she tossed back her drink. She restrained herself from tossing the glass against the wall as well. “Do you have another venture in mind that requires some ready capital?”

  “You want to get a few shots in, go ahead.” With a snap, he set his glass down.

  She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. Turning away, she set down her own glass and rested her palms against the table. For the first time since he’d known her, her shoulders slumped and her voice was weary. “No, I don’t want to get any shots in, Doug. I’m a bit tired. You’ve seen that I’m fine. Now why don’t you leave the same way you came in?”

  “Whitney.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she murmured before he’d taken two steps toward her. The quiet, even voice didn’t quite hide the trickle of desperation underneath.

  He lifted his hands, palms out, then let them drop. “Okay.” He wandered the room a moment, trying to find his way back to his original plan of attack. “You know, I had pretty good luck in Paris. Cleaned out five rooms in the Hotel de Crillon.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I was on a roll, probably could’ve spent the next six months picking off tourists.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Just wasn’t any fun. You got trouble when the fun goes out of your work, you know.”

  She turned back, telling herself it was cowardly not to face him. “I suppose so. You came back to the States for a change of scene?”

  “I came back because I couldn’t stay away from you anymore.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but he saw her link her fingers together in the first outward show of nerves he’d ever observed in her. “Oh?” she said simply. “It seems an odd thing to say. I didn’t kick you out of the hotel room in Diégo-Suarez.”

  “No.” His gaze traveled slowly over her face, as if he needed to find something. “You didn’t kick me out.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “Because if I’d stayed, I’d’ve done then what I guess I’m going to do now.”

  “Steal my purse?” she asked with a flippant toss of her head.

  “Ask you to marry me.”

  It was the first time, perhaps the only time, he’d seen her mouth fall open and hang there. She looked as though someone had just stomped on her toes. He’d hoped for a bit more emotional reaction.

  “I guess that charmed the shit out of you.” Helping himself, he took his glass back to the bar. “Pretty funny idea, a guy like me proposing to a woman like you. I don’t know, maybe it was the air or something, but I started getting some funny ideas in Paris about setting up housekeeping, settling in. Kids.”

  Whitney managed to close her mouth. “You did?” Like Doug, she decided another drink was in order. “You’re talking marriage as in till death us do part and joint tax returns?”

  “Yeah. I decided I’m traditional. Even down to this.” When he went for something, he went for it completely. The policy didn’t always work, but it was his policy. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring.

  The brilliance of the diamond caught the light and exploded with it. Whitney made a conscious effort to keep her mouth from dropping open again.

  “Where did you—”

  “I didn’t steal it,” he snapped. Feeling foolish, he tossed it up and clamped it in his palm. “Exactly,” he amended and managed a half smile. “The diamond came out of Marie’s treasure. I pocketed it—I guess you’d call it a reflex. I thought about fencing it, but—” Opening his hand, he stared down at it. “Had it set in Paris.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, I know you wanted the treasure to go to museums, and most of it did.” It still hurt. “There was a hell of a write-up in the Paris papers. Bennett Foundation recovers tragic queen’s booty, diamond necklace sparks new theories, and so on.”

  He moved his shoulders, trying not to think of all those pretty, shiny stones. “I decided to settle for the one rock. Even though just a couple of those bangles could’ve set me up for life.” Shrugging again, he held the ring up by its thin gold band. “If it itches your conscience, I’ll take the damn rock out and ship it off to Bennett.”

  “Don’t be insulting.” In a deft move, she snatched it out of his hand. “My engagement ring isn’t going in any museum. Besides …” And she smiled at him fully. “I also believe there are pieces of history that should belong to the individual. A hands-on sort of thing.” She gave him her cool, lifted-brow look. “Are you traditional enough to get down on one knee?”

  “Not even for you, sugar.” He gripped her left wrist and, taking the ring from her, slipped it on the third finger. The look he gave her was long and steady. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” she agreed, and laughing, launched herself into his arms. “Damn you, Douglas, I’ve been miserable for two months.”

  “Oh yeah?” He found he liked the idea, almost as much as he liked kissing her again. “I see you like the dress I bought you.”

  “You have excellent taste.” Behind his back she turned her hand so she could watch the light bounce from the ring. “Married,” she repeated, trying out the word. “You mentioned settling in. Does that mean you plan to retire?”

  “I’ve been giving it some thought. You know …” He nuzzled into her neck so he could draw in the scent that had haunted him in Paris. “I’ve never seen your bedroom.”

  “Really? I’ll have to give you the grand tour. You’re a bit young to retire,” she added, drawing away from him. “What do you plan to do with your spare time?”

  “Well, when I’m not making love to you, I thought I might run a business.”

  “A pawnshop.”

  He nipped at her lip. “A restaurant,” he corrected. “Smartass.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, liking the idea. “Here in New York?”

  “A good place to start.” He let her go to pick up his glass. Maybe the end of the rainbow had been closer than he’d thought all along. “Start with one here, then maybe Chicago, San Francisco. Thing is, I’m going to need a backer.”

  She ran her tongue around her teeth. “Naturally. Any ideas?”

  He shot her the charming, untrustworthy grin. “I’d like to keep it in the family.”

  “Uncle Jack.”

  “Come on, Whitney, you know I can d
o it. Forty thousand, no, make it fifty, and I’ll set up the slickest little restaurant on the West Side.”

  “Fifty thousand,” she mused, moving toward her desk.

  “It’s a good investment. I’d write up the menu myself, supervise the kitchen. I’d … What’re you doing?”

  “That would come to sixty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents, all told.” With a brisk nod, she double-underlined the total. “At twelve and a half percent interest.”

  He scowled down at the figures. “Interest? Twelve and a half percent?”

  “A more than reasonable rate, I know, but I’m a softie.”

  “Look, we’re getting married, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “A wife doesn’t charge her husband interest, for Chrissake.”

  “This one does,” she murmured as she continued jotting down numbers. “I can figure out the monthly payments in just a minute. Let’s see, over a period of fifteen years, say?”

  He looked down at her elegant hands as she scrawled figures. The diamond winked up at him. “Sure, what the hell.”

  “Now, about collateral.”

  He bit back an oath, then smothered a laugh. “How about our firstborn son?”

  “Interesting.” She tapped the pad against her palm. “Yes, I might agree to that—but we don’t have any children as yet.”

  He walked over and snatched the notebook from her hand. After tossing it over his shoulder, he grabbed her. “Then let’s take care of it, sugar. I need the loan.”

  Whitney noticed with satisfaction that the pad had fallen faceup. “Anything for free enterprise.”

  T O B R U C E

  for showing me that being in

  love is the ultimate adventure

  This edition contains the complete text

  of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  PUBLIC SECRETS

  A Bantam Book

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1990 by Nora Roberts.

  Hand-lettering by Ron Zinn.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 96-37313.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

  form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

  and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56811-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Public Secrets

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Los Angeles, 1990

  She slammed on the brakes, ramming hard into the curb. The radio continued to blare. She pressed both hands against her mouth to hold back hysterical laughter. A blast from the past, the disk jockey had called it. A blast from her past. Devastation was still rocking.

  Somehow her brain functioned to take care of little matters: turn off the ignition, take out the key, pull open the door. She was shaking in the late evening heat. An earlier rain and rising temperatures caused mist to spiral up from the pavement. She ran through it, looking frantically right, left, back over her shoulder.

  The dark. She’d nearly forgotten there were things that hid in the dark.

  The noise level rose as she pushed open the doors. The fluorescent lights dazzled her eyes. She continued to run, knowing only that she was terrified and someone, anyone, had to listen.

  She raced along the hallway, her heart beating a hard tattoo. A dozen or more phones were ringing; voices merged and mixed in complaints, shouts, questions. Someone cursed in a low, continual stream. She saw the doors marked Homicide and bit back a sob.

  He was kicked back at his desk, one foot resting on a torn blotter, a phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. A Styrofoam cup of coffee was halfway to his lips.

  “Please help me,” she said, collapsing into the chair facing him. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  Chapter One

  London, 1967

  The first time Emma met her father, she was nearly three years old. She knew what he looked like because her mother kept pictures of him, meticulously cut from newspapers and glossy magazines, on every surface in their cramped three-room flat. Jane Palmer had a habit of carrying her daughter, Emma, from picture to picture hanging on the water-stained walls and sitting on the dusty scarred furniture and telling her of the glorious love affair that had bloomed between herself and Brian McAvoy, lead singer for the hot rock group, Devastation. The more Jane drank, the greater that love became.

  Emma understood only parts of what she was told. She knew that the man in the pictures was important, that he and his band had played for the queen. She had learned to recognize his voice when his songs came on the radio, or when her mother put one of the 45s she collected on the record player.

  Emma liked his voice, and what she would learn later was called its faint Irish lilt.

  Some of the neighbors tut-tutted about the poor little girl upstairs with a mother who had a fondness for the gin bottle and a vicious temper. There were times they heard Jane’s shrill curses and Emma’s sobbing wails. Their lips would firm and knowing looks would pass between the ladies as they shook out their rugs or hung up the weekly wash.

  In the early days of the summer of 1967, the summer of love, they shook their heads when they heard the little girl’s cries through the open window of the Palmer flat. Most agreed that young Jane Palmer didn’t deserve such a sweet-faced child, but they murmured only among themselves. No one in that part of London would dream of reporting such a matter to the authorities.

  Of course, Emma didn’t understand terms like alcoholism or emotional illness, but even though she was only three she was an expert on gauging her mother’s moods. She knew the days her mother would laugh and cuddle, the days she would scold and slap. When the atmosphere in the flat was particularly heavy, Emma would take her stuffed black dog, Charlie, crawl under the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, and in the dark and damp, wait out her mother’s temper.

  On some days, she wasn’t quick enough.

  “Hold still, do, Emma.” Jane dragged the brush through Emma’s pale blond hair. With her teeth gritted, she resisted the urge to whack the back of it across her daughter’s rump. She wasn’t going to lose h
er temper today, not today. “I’m going to make you pretty. You want to be especially pretty today, don’t you?”

  Emma didn’t care very much about looking pretty, not when her mother’s brush strokes were hurting her scalp and the new pink dress was scratchy with starch. She continued to wriggle on the stool as Jane tried to tie her flyaway curls back with a ribbon.

  “I said hold still.” Emma squealed when Jane dug hard fingers into the nape of her neck. “Nobody loves a dirty, nasty girl.” After two long breaths, Jane relaxed her grip. She didn’t want to put bruises on the child. She loved her, really. And bruises would look bad, very bad, to Brian if he noticed them.

  After dragging her from the stool, Jane kept a firm hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Take that sulky look off your face, my girl.” But she was pleased with the results. Emma, with her wispy blond curls and big blue eyes, looked like a pampered little princess. “Look here.” Jane’s hands were gentle again as she turned Emma to the mirror. “Don’t you look nice?”

  Emma’s mouth moved stubbornly into a pout as she studied herself in the spotted glass. Her voice mirrored her mother’s cockney and had a trace of a childish lisp. “Itchy.”

  “A lady has to be uncomfortable if she wants a man to think she’s beautiful.” Jane’s own slimming black corset was biting into her flesh.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s part of a woman’s job.” She turned, examining first one side, then the other in the mirror. The dark blue dress was flattering to her full curves, making the most of her generous breasts. Brian had always liked her breasts, she thought, and felt a quick, sexual pull.

  God, no one ever before or since had matched him in bed. There was a hunger in him, a wild hunger he hid so well under his cool and cocky exterior. She had known him since childhood, had been his on-again, off-again lover for more than ten years. No one knew better what Brian was capable of when fully aroused.

  She allowed herself to fantasize, just for a moment, what it would be like when he peeled the dress away, when his eyes roamed over her, when his slender, musician’s fingers unhooked the frilly corset.