Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  For Emma it was the beginning of her first relationship with another female that wasn’t based on fear or intimidation. Over the following days, they shopped at Harrods, walked in Green Park, and lunched at the Savoy. Bev ignored the photographers who snapped them. When she discovered Emma’s love of beautiful materials and bright colors, she indulged them shamelessly. Within two weeks, the little girl who had come to her with only the shirt on her back had a closet bulging with clothes.

  But at night the loneliness crept back, when each lay in bed pining for the same man.

  Emma’s longings were more direct. She wanted Brian to come back because he made her feel good. Love wasn’t something she’d learned to define or agonize over.

  But Bev agonized. She worried that he would grow tired of her, that he would find someone more in step with the world he lived in. She missed the good, strong sex they shared. It was so easy to believe he would always love her, always be with her during that calm drugging time after love and before sleep. But now, alone in the big brass bed, she would wonder if he filled up his loneliness with women as well as music.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten when the phone rang. Bev groped for it on the third ring. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Hello.”

  “Bev.” Brian’s voice was urgent.

  Instantly awake, she shot up in bed. “Bri. What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Everything. We’re a smash, Bev.” There was a dazed and dashing edge to his laughter. “Every night the crowds get bigger. They’ve had to double security to keep the girls from flinging themselves on stage. It’s wild, Bev. Insane. Tonight one of them grabbed Stevie’s sleeve as we were making the dash for the limo. Ripped his coat clean off. The press is calling us vanguards of the second wave of the British invasion. Vanguards.”

  Sinking back onto the pillows, Bev struggled to drum up enthusiasm. “That’s wonderful, Brian. There’ve been some snippets on the telly here, but not much to go by.”

  “It’s like being a gladiator, standing there onstage and listening to the roars.” He didn’t think he could explain, even to her, the thrill and the terror. “I think even Pete was impressed.”

  Bev smiled thinking of his pragmatic, business-first-and-last manager. “Then you must be something.”

  “Yeah.” He drew on the joint he had lit to extend the high. “I wish you were here.”

  She heard the background noises, loud music, male and female laughter mixed with it. “So do I.”

  “Then come.” He pushed away a blonde, half naked and glazed-eyed, who tried to crawl into his lap. “Pack a bag and fly over.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it. It’s not half as good as it would be if you were here.” Across the room a brunette, nearly six feet tall, slowly stripped. Stevie, the lead guitarist, popped a Quaalude like rock candy. “Look, I know we talked about it and decided it was best for you to stay home, but we were wrong. You need to be here, with me.”

  She felt tears well in her eyes even as laughter bubbled. “You want me to come to America?”

  “As soon as you can. You can meet us in New York in—shit. Johnno, when are we in New York?”

  Sprawled on a couch, Johnno poured the last of the Jim Beam. “Where the fuck are we now?”

  “Never mind.” Brian rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate. His mind was bloaty with booze and smoke. “I’ll get Pete to work out the details. Just pack.”

  She was already out of bed. “What should I do with Emma?”

  “Bring her, too.” On a burst of family feeling, Brian grinned at the blonde. “Pete will figure out how to get her a passport. Someone will call you this afternoon and tell you what to do. Christ, I miss you, Bev.”

  “I miss you, too. We’ll be there as soon as we can. I love you, Bri, more than anything.”

  “I love you. Talk to you soon.”

  Moody and restless, Brian reached for the brandy bottle the moment he’d hung up. He wanted her with him now, not a day from now, not an hour from now. Just listening to her voice had him hard and hurting.

  She had sounded just as she had on the night he’d met her, shy, a little hesitant. She’d been so sweetly out of place in the smoky pub where his band had been playing. Yet even with the shyness, there had been something so solid, so true about her. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind, not that night, not any night since.

  He lifted the brandy and drank deeply. It seemed as though the brunette and Stevie weren’t going to bother to move to the privacy of one of the bedrooms to have sex. The blonde had given up on Johnno and was rubbing her long, limber body against P.M., their drummer.

  Half amused, half envious, Brian drank again. P.M. was barely twenty-one, his face still round and youthful with its sprinkle of acne on the chin. He looked both appalled and delighted as the blonde slid down to bury her face in his lap.

  Brian closed his eyes, and with music filling his head, fell asleep.

  He dreamed of Bev, and the first night they had spent together. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his flat, talking earnestly, about music, about poetry. Yeats and Byron and Browning. Dreamily passing a joint back and forth. He’d had no idea it had been her first encounter with drugs. Just as he’d had no idea, until he had slipped into her, there on the floor with the candles guttering in their own wax, that it was her first encounter with sex.

  She’d wept a little. Instead of making him feel guilty, her tears had brought out feelings of protectiveness. He’d fallen completely, and somehow poetically, in love. That had been more than a year ago, but he had never been with another woman during that time. Whenever the temptation came strongly, he would see Bev’s face.

  The marriage had been for her, and the child, his child, she carried. He didn’t believe in marriage, the foolishness of a contract on love, but he didn’t feel trapped. For the first time since his miserable childhood, he had something more than music to comfort and excite him.

  I love you more than anything.

  No, he couldn’t say that to her with the ease and honesty she could say it to him. He probably would never be able to say that to her. But he did love, and where he loved, he was loyal.

  “Come on, my lad.” Barely rousing him, Johnno dragged Brian to his feet. “It’s bed for you.”

  “Bev’s coming, Johnno.”

  Brow lifted, Johnno glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of bodies. “So’s everyone else.”

  “She’ll meet us in New York.” With a half-laugh, Brian slung a rubbery arm around Johnno’s neck. “We’re going to New York, Johnno. New fucking York. Because we’re the best.”

  “That’s dandy, isn’t it?” Grunting only a little, Johnno dumped Brian on the bed. “Sleep it off, Bri. We’ve got to go through the whole bloody business again tomorrow.”

  “Got to wake Pete,” Brian mumbled as Johnno pulled off his shoes. “Passport for Emma. Tickets. I have to do the right thing by her.”

  “You will.” Weaving a little, courtesy of the Jim Beam, Johnno studied his newly purchased Swiss watch. He didn’t imagine Pete was going to appreciate being awakened, but he staggered off to do the deed.

  Chapter Four

  On her first transatlantic flight, Emma traveled first class. And was miserably sick. She could not, as Bev periodically urged her, look out at the pretty clouds or page through any of the colorful picture books Bev had stuffed into her carry-on bag. Even empty, Emma’s stomach pitched and rolled. She was vaguely aware of Bev’s helpless little hand pats and the stewardess’s soothing voice.

  It didn’t matter that she had a new outfit with a short, bright red skirt and a flowered fussy blouse. It didn’t matter that she’d been promised a ride to the top of the Empire State Building. The nausea was so unrelenting that it no longer mattered that she was going to see her father.

  By the time the plane banked over JFK airport, she was too weak to stand. Frazzled, Bev carried her through the gate. After clearing customs, she nearly g
ave way to tears when she spotted Pete.

  In his impeccable Savile Row suit, he took a long look at the pasty-faced child and the edgy woman. “Rough trip?”

  Instead of tears, Bev found laughter bursting through. “Oh no. It was a delight from start to finish. Where’s Brian?”

  “He wanted to come, but I had to veto it.” He took Bev’s carry-on bag, then her arm. “The lads can’t even open a window for a breath of air without causing mass hysteria.”

  “And you love it.”

  He grinned, steering her toward the exit of the terminal. “Optimist that I am, I never expected this. Brian’s going to be a very rich man, Bev. We’re all going to be rich.”

  “Money doesn’t come first with Bri.”

  “No, but I can’t see him kicking it out of his way as it comes pouring in. Come on, I’ve got a car waiting.”

  She shifted Emma, but the girl only moaned and hung limply in Bev’s arms. “The bags.”

  “They’ll be delivered to the hotel.” He shuffled her out of the terminal. “There are plenty of pictures of you in the fan mags, too.”

  It was a white Mercedes limo, as big as a boat. At Bev’s puzzled look, Pete grinned again.

  “As long as you’re married to a king, luv, you might as well travel in style.”

  Saying nothing, Bev settled back and lit a cigarette. She hoped it was the long, miserable flight that made her feel so out of place and hollow. Between her and Pete, Emma curled on the seat and sweatily slept through her first limo ride.

  Pete didn’t pause in the lobby at the Waldorf but rushed them through and onto an elevator. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that their luck had held. A mob scene at the airport or on the street in front of the hotel would have been inconvenient, but it would have made great copy. And copy sold records.

  “I’ve got you a two-bedroom suite.” The extra expense bothered his practical soul, but he justified it by knowing that Bev’s presence would make Brian more cooperative, and more creative. And it wouldn’t hurt for the press to know that Brian’s family was traveling with him. If he couldn’t promote Brian as a sexy single man, he could promote him as a loving husband and father. Whatever worked.

  “We’re all on the same floor,” he went on. “And security’s very tight. In Washington, D.C., two teenage girls managed to get into Stevie’s room in a maid’s cart.”

  “Sounds like a laugh a minute.”

  He only shrugged, remembering that Stevie had been drunk enough to appreciate the girls’ offers. The guitarist had rationalized that two sixteen-year-olds equaled one thirty-two-year-old. That had made them into one older woman.

  “The lads have some interviews scheduled today, then the Sullivan show tomorrow.”

  “Brian didn’t say where we were going next.”

  “Philadelphia, then Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis—”

  “Never mind.” Bev heaved a long, grateful sigh as the elevator doors opened. The hell with where they were going. She was here now. It didn’t matter a damn that she was enormously tired or that her arms ached from carrying the sleeping Emma. She was here, and could all but feel Brian’s energy in the air.

  “Just as well,” Pete said as he pulled out a key. “You’ve a couple of hours before the boys’ interview. It’s with some new mag that’ll publish its first issue later this year. Rolling Stone.”

  She took the key, pleased that he was sensitive enough not to intrude on the two hours he’d given her with Brian. “Thanks, Pete. I’ll make sure he’s ready for it.”

  The moment she opened the door, Brian came racing out of the adjoining bedroom to sweep both her and Emma into his arms. “Thank Christ,” he murmured, raining kisses over Bev’s face. He took the limp, drowsy Emma. “What’s wrong here?”

  “Nothing now.” Bev dragged her free hands through her hair. “She was dreadfully sick on the plane. Hardly slept. I think she’ll do fine once she’s tucked up.”

  “Right then. Don’t move.” He carried Emma into the second bedroom. She stirred only once as he slipped her between the sheets.

  “Da?”

  “Yes.” It still rocked him. “You sleep now awhile. Everything’s fine.”

  Comforted by the sound of his voice, she took it on faith, and drifted to sleep again.

  He automatically left the door ajar, then just stood and looked at Bev. She was pale with fatigue, the shadows under her making them huge and dark. Love welled up in him, stronger, needier than any he’d ever known. Saying nothing, he crossed to her, picked her up in his arms and carried her to his bed.

  He didn’t have words, though he was a man always filled with them. Words to poetry, poetry to lyrics. Later he would be filled with them, reams of words, flowing through him, all stemming from this, what might have been his most precious hour with her.

  She was, in that hour, so completely his.

  The radio beside the bed was on, as was the television at the foot of it. He’d chased away the silence of his rooms with voices. When he touched her, she was all the music he needed.

  So he savored. He undressed her slowly, watching her, absorbing her. The shudder of traffic outside the window—later he would remember it in bases and trebles. The small, yielding sounds she made were pitched low in countermelody. He could even hear the whispering song of his hands gliding over her skin.

  There was sunlight pouring through the window, and the big, soft bed yielding under them.

  Her body was already changing, subtly, with the life growing in it. He spread his hand over her rounded stomach, amazed, dazzled, humbled. Reverently he lowered his lips to her flesh.

  It was foolish, he thought, but he felt like a soldier returning from war, covered with scars and medals. Perhaps not so foolish. The arena in which he’d fought and won wasn’t one he could take her to. She would always wait for him. It was in her eyes, in her arms as they tenderly enfolded him. That promise and patience was on her lips as they opened for his. Her passion was always steadier than his, less selfish, balancing his edgier and more dangerous urges. With her he felt more of a man, less of a symbol in a world that seemed so hungry for symbols.

  When he slipped inside of her, he spoke at last, saying her name on a long, fluid sigh of gratitude and hope.

  Later, when she lay half dozing under the tangled sheets, Brian sat at the foot of the bed in his underwear. She was sated with sex, but his mind was in overdrive. Everything he’d ever wanted, ever dreamed of, was at his fingertips.

  “Pete had film taken of the Atlanta concert. Jesus, it was wild, Bev. Not just the fans screaming, though there was plenty of that. Sometimes you could hardly hear yourself sing for the noise. It was like, I don’t know, being on the runway of an airport with planes taking off all around, but mixed with the noisy ones were people who were really into it, just listening, you know. Sometimes you could see through the lights and the pot smoke, and there’d be a face. You could sing just for that one face. Then Stevie would go into a riff, like in ‘Undercover,’ and they’d go wild again. It was like, I don’t know, like great sex.”

  “Sorry I didn’t applaud.”

  Laughing, he tugged on her ankle. “I’m so glad you’re here. This summer is special. You can feel it in the air, see it in people’s faces. And we’re part of it. We’re never going back, Bev.”

  She tensed, watching him. “To London?”

  “No.” He was half impatient, half amused by her literal mind. “To the way things were. Begging to play in some grimy pub, grateful if we got free beer and chips for pay. Christ, Bev, we’re in New York, and after tomorrow millions of people will have heard us. And it’s going to matter. We’re going to matter. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  She sat up to take his hands. “You’ve always mattered, Bri.”

  “No. I was just one more scruffy singer. Not anymore, Bev. And never again. People listen. The money’s going to make it possible for us to experiment a bit—do more than the boy-girl rock. There’s a war going
on, Bev. A whole generation’s in upheaval. We can be their voices.”

  She didn’t understand big, sweeping dreams, but it had been his idealism that had attracted her from the beginning. “Just don’t leave me behind.”

  “I couldn’t.” He meant it sincerely, completely. “I’m going to give you the best, Bev. You and the baby. I swear it. I’ve got to get dressed.” He kissed both her hands, then shook back his tousled hair. “Pete’s really high about us being in the first issue of this new mag that’ll come but in November.” He tossed her a tie-dyed T-shirt. “Come on.”

  “I thought I’d stay in here.”

  “Bev …” They’d been through all this before. “You’re my wife. People want to know about you, about us.” He bit back annoyance when she simply sat, running the shirt through her hands. “If we give them a little, they won’t hound us for so much.” When he said it, he believed it. “It’s especially important because of Emma. I want everyone to see that we’ve made ourselves into a family.”

  “A family should be a private thing.”

  “Maybe. But the stories about Emma are already out there.” He’d seen them, dozens of them, labeling Emma as a love child. There could be worse things, he mused, since Emma hadn’t been made out of anything remotely resembling love. It was his other child, he thought as he laid a gentle hand on Bev’s stomach again, who had been made of love. “I need you with me on this.”

  Hating it, she climbed out of bed and began to dress.

  Twenty minutes later, she answered a knock on the door.

  “Johnno.”

  He gave Bev a quick grin. “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me.” Swooping her into an exaggerated dip, he kissed her. As she laughed, he looked over her head to where Brian was coming through the doorway. “Ah well, he’s found us out. We’d better come clean.”

  “Where’d you get that ridiculous hat?” was all Brian said.

  After setting Bev back on her feet, Johnno straightened the floppy white fedora. “Like it? It’s a happening.”