From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She backed up another step. “Sir?”

  “Absolutely beautiful.” Swooping her up, he spun her in a fast circle, then kissed her full on the mouth. Betsy managed one muffled shriek. Her lips tingled for the first time in ten years.

  “Put me down and behave yourself,” she ordered, clinging to her dignity.

  “Betsy, I’m crazy about you.”

  “Crazy, period,” she corrected, refusing to be charmed by the gleam in his eye. “Just like a writer to be nipping at the brandy before breakfast. Put me down and I’ll fix you some nice black coffee.”

  “I’m a writer,” he told her with something like wonder in his voice.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said soothingly. “Put me down like a good boy.”

  Jessica stopped halfway down the steps to stare. Was that Slade grinning like a madman and holding her housekeeper two feet off the ground? Her mouth dropped open as he planted another kiss on Betsy’s staunch, unpainted lips.

  “Slade?”

  Taking Betsy with him, he turned. It flashed through Jessica’s mind that it was the first time she had seen him fully, completely happy. “You’re next,” he announced as he set Betsy back on her feet.

  “Pixilated,” Betsy told Jessica with a knowing nod. “Before breakfast.”

  “Published,” Slade corrected as he swung Jessica from the stairs. “Before breakfast.” His mouth crushed hers before she had a chance to speak. She felt the emotion coming from him in sparks; hard, clean emotion without eddies or undercurrents. The joy transferred into her so that she was laughing even as her mouth was freed.

  “Published? Your novel? When? How?”

  “Yes. Yes.” He kissed her again before continuing to answer her questions in turn. “I just got a call. Fullbright and Company accepted my manuscript and want to see the one I’m working on.” Something changed in his eyes as he drew her back against him. She saw it only briefly. It wasn’t a loss of happiness, but a full dawning of realization. “My life’s my own,” he murmured. “It’s finally mine.”

  “Oh, Slade.” Jessica clung to him, needing to share the moment. “I’m so happy for you.” Lifting her face, she framed his in her hands. “It’s just the beginning. Nothing will stop you now, I can feel it. Betsy, we need champagne,” she said as she wrapped her arms around Slade’s neck again.

  “At nine o’clock in the morning?” The sentence trembled with righteous shock.

  “We need champagne at nine o’clock on this morning,” Jessica told her. “Right away in the parlor. We’re celebrating.”

  With her tongue clucking rapidly, Betsy moved down the hall. Writers, she reminded herself, were hardly better than artists. And everyone knew the sort of lives they led. Still, he was a charming devil. She allowed herself one undignified chuckle before she went into the kitchen to report the goings-on to the cook.

  “Come inside,” Jessica ordered. “Tell me everything.”

  “That’s everything,” Slade told her as she pulled him into the parlor. “They want the book, that’s the important thing. I’ll have to get the details from my agent.” The figure of fifty thousand finally registered fully. “I’ll get an advance,” he added with a half laugh. “Enough to keep me going until I sell the second one.”

  “That won’t be long—I read it, remember?” On a sudden burst of energy, she grabbed his hand. “What a movie it would make! Think of it, Slade, you could do the screenplay. You’ll have to be careful with the film rights, make sure you don’t sign away something you shouldn’t. Or a miniseries,” she decided. “Yes, that’s better, then you could—”

  “Ever thought about giving up antiques and opening an agency?” he asked mildly.

  “Negotiating’s negotiating,” she countered, then smiled. “And I’m an artist.”

  With her face set in lines of disapproval, Betsy entered carrying a tray. “Will there be anything else, Miss Winslow?”

  When Betsy used such formal address, Jessica knew she had sunk beyond reproach. “No, nothing, thank you, Betsy.” She waited until the housekeeper had disappeared before casting Slade a baleful glance. “That’s your fault really,” she informed him. “She’ll be polite and long-suffering all day now because you molested her and I joined you in champagne depravity before breakfast.”

  “We could ask her to have a glass,” he suggested as he worked the cork from the bottle.

  “You really do want me to be in trouble.” Jessica lifted both glasses as the cork popped out. “To writing ‘James Sladerman’ on one of those necessary cards in my library,” she said when both glasses were full.

  Laughing, he clinked his rim against hers. “You’ll have the first copy,” he promised, then drained his glass.

  “How do you feel, Slade?” Sipping more cautiously, Jessica watched him refill his glass. “How do you feel really?”

  He studied the bubbles in the wine as if searching for the word. “Free,” he said quietly. “I feel free.” Shaking his head, he began to wander the room. “After all these years of doing what I had to, I’ll have the chance to do what I want to. The money just means that I won’t starve doing it even after this last year’s tuition is paid. But now the door’s open. It’s open,” he repeated, “and I can walk through it.”

  Jessica moistened her lips and swallowed. “You’ll quit the force now?”

  “I intended to next year.” He toyed with the wick of a candle on the piano. A restlessness crept into the other feelings—a restlessness he hadn’t permitted himself to acknowledge before. “This means it can be sooner—much sooner. I’ll be a civilian.”

  She thought of the gun he secreted somewhere in his rooms upstairs. Relief flowed through her to be immediately followed by anxiety. “I guess it’ll take some getting used to.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You’ll . . . resign right away?”

  “No need to wait,” he considered. “I’ve got enough to get by on until the contract’s signed. I’ll need time if they want rewrites. Then there’s this novel to finish and another I’ve been kicking around. I wonder how it’ll feel to write full-time instead of grabbing snatches.”

  “It’s what you were meant to do,” she murmured.

  “As soon as this is over, I’m going to find out.”

  “Over?” Her eyes fixed on his, but he wasn’t looking at her. “You’re staying?”

  “What?” Distracted, he brought his gaze back to her. The expression on her face made him frown. “What did you say?”

  “I thought you’d turn over the assignment to someone else.” Jessica reached for the bottle to add champagne to a glass that was already full. “You’ll want to get back to New York right away.”

  With deliberate care, Slade set down his glass. “I don’t leave things until they’re finished.”

  “No.” She set the bottle back down. “No, of course you wouldn’t.”

  “You think I’d walk out of here and leave you?”

  The anger in his voice had her taking a quick sip of champagne. “I think,” she said slowly, “when someone’s about to get what they’ve worked for, waited for, they shouldn’t take any chances.”

  He went to her and took the glass from her hand, then set it beside the half-filled bottle. “I think you should shut the hell up.” When she started to speak, he cupped her face in one strong hand. “I mean it, Jess.”

  “You’re a fool to stay when you have a choice,” she blurted out.

  His eyes narrowed with temper before he brought his mouth to hers for one brief, hard kiss. “You’re a fool to think I have one.”

  “But you do,” Jessica corrected more calmly. “I told you once before, we always have a choice.”

  “All right.” Slade nodded, never taking his eyes off hers. “Say the word and I’ll go back to New York today . . . if you’ll go with me,” he added when she started to speak. Her answer was a quick, defiant shake of the head. “Then we’re in this together until the f
inish.”

  Jessica went into his arms and clung. She needed him to stay as badly as she wanted him to go. For now, she would only think of tomorrows. “Just remember, I gave you your chance. You won’t get another one.” Tilting her head back, she smiled at him. “One day I’m going to remind you of it. We’re in this together.”

  He nodded again, not noting that she had edited his phrase. “Okay, let’s get some breakfast to go with this champagne before Betsy completely writes you off.”

  10

  For Jessica, the day crawled. The confinement alone would have been torture to her. She hated seeing the sun pour through the windows while she remained trapped inside. Even the beach was off limits, so she was prevented from learning if she could walk there again without looking over her shoulder.

  Thinking of her shop only brought on a dull, nagging headache. The one thing she’d conceived and built by herself had been taken out of her hands. Perhaps she would never feel the same pride in it, the same dedication to making it the best she was capable of. Worse, her own weariness was taking her to the point where she no longer cared.

  Jessica detested being ill. Her usual defense against a physical weakness was to ignore it and go on. It was something she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. Now, however, she had no outlet. The quiet library and monotonous tasks Slade gave her were grating on already taut nerves. Finally she tossed her pen across the table and sprang up.

  “I can’t stand this anymore!” She gestured widely to encompass the library at large. “Slade, if I write one more word, I’ll go crazy. Isn’t there something we can do? Anything? This waiting is unbearable.”

  Slade leaned back in his chair, listening calmly to her complaints. He’d watched her fidget throughout the morning, fighting off boredom, tension, and exhaustion. The only surprise he felt was that she’d managed to go so long without exploding. Sitting still, he mused, was not Jess Winslow’s forte. He pushed aside a pile of books.

  “Gin,” he stated mildly.

  Jessica plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “Damn it, Slade, I don’t want a drink. I need to do something.”

  “Rummy,” he finished as he rose.

  “Rummy?” For a moment she looked puzzled, then gave a gusty sigh. “Cards? I’m ready to beat my head against the wall and you want to play cards?”

  “Yeah. Got any?”

  “I suppose.” Jessica dragged a hand through her hair, holding it back from her face a moment before she dropped her arm to her side. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

  “No.” Slade came to her to run his thumb along the shadows under her eyes. “But I think we’ve given Betsy enough shocks for today.”

  With a half length, Jessica gave in. “All right then, cards.” She went to a table and pulled open a drawer. “What stakes?” she asked as she rummaged around in the drawer.

  “Your capital’s a bit bigger than mine,” Slade said dryly. “Half a penny a point.”

  “Okay, big spender.” Jessica located a pack of cards, then flourished them. “Prepare to lose.”

  And he did—resoundingly. At Slade’s suggestion, they had settled in the parlor. His thoughts had been that the sofa and a quiet fire would relax her, and a steady, boring game might put her to sleep. He’d already concluded that asleep was the only way Jessica could handle the waiting without losing her mind.

  He hadn’t expected her to know a great deal about the game, any more than he had expected to be trounced.

  “Gin,” Jessica announced again.

  He looked down in disgust at the cards she spread. “I’ve never seen anyone with that kind of luck.”

  “Skill,” she corrected, picking up the cards to shuffle them.

  His opinion was a brief four-letter word. “I’ve worked vice,” he told her while she dealt. “I know a hustle when I see one.”

  “Vice?” Jessica poked her tongue in her cheek. “I’m sure that was very interesting.”

  “It had its moments,” he muttered, scowling at the cards she’d dealt him.

  “What department are you with now?”

  “Homicide.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed, but managed to keep her voice light. “I suppose that has its moments too.”

  He gave her a grunt that might have been agreement as he discarded. Jessica plucked it up and slipped it into her own hand. When Slade narrowed his eyes, she only smiled.

  “You must have met a lot of people in your work.” She contemplated her hand, then tossed out a card. “That’s why your characters have such depth.”

  Briefly he thought of the street people; dealers and prostitutes, petty thieves and victims. Still, she was right in her way. By the time he’d hit thirty, Slade had thought he’d seen all there was to see. He was constantly finding out there was more.

  “Yeah, I meet a lot of people.” He discarded again, and again Jessica plucked it up. “Busted a few professional card sharks.”

  Jessica sent him an innocent look. “Really?”

  “One was a great-looking redhead,” he improvised. “Ran a portable game in some of the best hotels in New York. Soft southern accent, white hands, and a marked deck.” Experimentally, he held a card to the light before he discarded it. “She went up for three years.”

  “Is that so?” Jessica shook her head as she reached for the card. “Gin.”

  “Come on, Jess, there’s no way—”

  Apologetically, she spread her cards. “There seems to be.”

  After a quick scan of her cards, he swore. “Okay, that’s it.” Slade tossed in his hand. “Figure up my losses. I’m finished.”

  “Well, let’s see.” Jessica chewed on the end of a pencil as she scanned the notepad dotted with numbers from previous hands. “You got caught with a bundle that time, didn’t you?” Not bothering to wait for his reply, she scribbled on the pad. “The way I figure it, you owe me eight dollars and fifty-seven and a half cents.” Setting down the pad, she smiled at him. “Let’s just make it eight dollars and fifty-seven, even.”

  “You’re all heart, Jess.”

  “Just pay up.” She held out a hand, palm up. “Unless you want to go for double or nothing.”

  “Not a chance.” Slade reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. He tossed a ten onto the table. “I haven’t got any change. You owe me a buck forty-three.”

  With a smirk, Jessica rose to retrieve her purse from the hall closet. “One dollar,” she said, rummaging through her billfold as she came back into the parlor. “And . . . twenty-five, thirty, forty-three.” She dropped the change into his hand, then grinned. “We’re even.”

  “Not by a long shot.” Slade grabbed her and gave her a long, thorough kiss. “If you’re going to fleece me,” he murmured, gathering her hair in one hand, “the least you can do is make it worth my while.”

  “Seems reasonable,” she agreed as she offered her lips again.

  God, how he wanted her. Not just for a moment or a day or a year, he thought as he lost himself in the taste of her. For always. Forever. All those terms he never allowed himself to think. There was a wall between them—the thin glass wall of status he forgot when she was in his arms. He had no business feeling what he felt or asking what he wanted to ask. But she was warm and soft, and her lips moved willingly under his.

  “Jess—”

  “Don’t talk.” She wrapped her arms tighter around him. “Just kiss me again.” Her mouth clung to his, smothering the words that begged to be said. And the longer the kiss went on, the thinner the wall between them became. Slade thought he could feel it crack, then shatter without a sound.

  “Jess,” he murmured again as he buried his face in her hair. “I want—”

  She jolted and Slade swore when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” she said.

  “No, let Betsy.” He held her another minute, feeling the hammer of her heart against his chest.

  More than willing, Jessica nodded. When Slade released her, she
sank into a chair. “It’s silly,” she began, then Michael walked into the parlor.

  “Jessica.” Ignoring Slade, Michael went to her to take her hand. “You’re so pale—you should be in bed.”

  She smiled, but couldn’t prevent her fingers from tightening on his. “You know I’d go crazy if I stayed in bed. I told you not to worry, Michael.”

  “How could I help it?” He lifted her hand to brush his fingers over the knuckles. “Especially with David muttering all afternoon about you not knowing how to take care of yourself.”

  “That was—” She broke off, casting a quick look at Slade. “That was just a small disagreement we had. I’m fine, really.”

  “You don’t look fine, you look exhausted.” Frowning, Michael followed the direction of her gaze until he too looked at Slade. Understanding was followed by anger, resentment, then weary acceptance. “She should be in bed,” he told Slade curtly, “not entertaining guests.”

  Slade shrugged as he eased himself into a chair. “It’s not my place to tell Jess how to run her life.”

  “And what exactly is your place?”

  “Michael, please.” Jessica cut off Slade’s answer and rose hastily. “I’ll be going up soon, I am tired.” With a silent plea, she turned to Slade. “I’ve kept you from your work too long. You haven’t written all day.”

  “No problem.” He pulled out a cigarette. “I’ll make it up this evening.”

  Michael stood between them, obviously not wanting to leave—and knowing there was no point in staying. “I’ll go now,” he said at length, “if you promise to go up to bed.”

  “Yes, I will. Michael . . .” She put her arms around him, feeling the familiar trim build, smelling the light, sea-breeze scent of his after-shave. “You and David mean so much to me. I wish I could tell you.”

  “David and I,” he said quietly and brushed a hand down her hair. “Yes, I know.” He cast Slade a last look before he drew her away. “Good night, Jessica.”