by Nora Roberts
frightened. But there’s one thing . . .” Holding the gun level, she sidestepped toward the wild cane. “You came in here to snoop around, you couldn’t leave it alone. And you met with a tragic accident. Just like Elise—Anne.” She drew a wicker hamper out of the bush. “This one,” she said quietly, “isn’t dead.”
She knew, and the fear wrapped around her. Tight. With a long, smooth stick, Marion pushed the hamper closer, then flicked off the lid. Laurel froze, feeling the weightlessness in her head, the ice in her stomach as the snake slithered out. Then another one.
“I didn’t want to take any chances,” Marion murmured. Setting down the gun, she held the stick with both hands. She looked up at Laurel and smiled. “You’ve always been terrified of them, haven’t you? How well I remember you fainting dead away over a little garter snake. Harmless creatures.” She poked her stick at the copperheads until they coiled and hissed. “These aren’t.”
She wanted to run, to scream. The gun would’ve been better. But her voice was trapped by the fear, her legs imprisoned by it. As if her consciousness had floated off, she felt her skin spring damp and clammy.
“It won’t matter if you don’t move,” Marion told her easily. “They’re angry. I can make them angrier.” She prodded them again, nudging them closer to Laurel. One lashed out at the stick, and Marion laughed.
It was the laugh Matt heard. It chilled him to the bone. When he saw them, the snakes were less than a foot away from Laurel, hissing, coiling, enraged, as Marion continued to prod at them. Matt gripped the gun in both hands, prayed, and fired.
“No!” Marion’s scream was long and wild as the body of one snake jerked, then lay still. She spun around, stumbling, not even feeling the fangs that sank into her ankle before Matt pulled the trigger again. And she ran, bursting through the wild cane like an animal, hunted.
“Laurel!” Matt had his arms around her, dragging her against him. “You’re all right.” Desperate, he closed his mouth over hers. “It’s over. I’m getting you out.”
“Matthew.” The sobs were heaving in her chest and she fought against them. “She’s mad. She killed them all—all of them. My God, Matthew. The snakes—”
“Gone,” he said quickly, pulling her closer. “They’re gone. You’re all right.”
“For the house,” Laurel said into his chest. “Dear God, she killed them for the house. Louis—”
Matt turned his head. Only a few yards away, Louis stood staring at them. There was no color in his face. Only his eyes seemed alive. “She’s been bitten,” Louis said, so quietly Matt barely heard. “I’ll go after her.”
“Louis—” Matt looked back at him, finding there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could be said. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Nodding, Louis walked into the cane. “Just get Laurel out of here.”
“Come on.” Matt pressed his lips to her temple. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” The tears were streaming down her face, but she found them a relief. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“When I’m sure of that,” he said as he held her close by his side, “I’m going to strangle you.”
He waited until they were in the clear, then drew Laurel down on the grass. Her head sank to her knees. “I’ll be all right in a minute, really. We’ll have to call the police.”
“Louis took care of it before he left the house. They’ll be here any minute. Can you tell me now?”
At first, she kept her head on her knees as she spoke. Gradually, as the horror and the dizziness faded, she lifted it. When she heard the sirens, her hand slipped into Matt’s and held tight.
So much confusion—with the police in the swamp, all the questions. A hell of a story, Laurel thought on a bright bubble of hysteria. Though she swallowed it, she gave in to the need to press her face into Matt’s shoulder. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. I’ll be all right in just a few more minutes. She let Matt lead her back to the house, then drank the brandy he urged on her.
“I’m better,” she told him. “Please, stop looking at me as though I were going to dissolve.”
He stared at her a minute, then, pulling her into his arms, buried his face in her hair. “Damn you, Laurel.” And his voice trembled. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought I was too late. Another five minutes—”
“No more,” she murmured, soothing him. “No more, Matthew. Oh, I love you.” She drew his face back. “I love you so much.”
She met the aggressive kiss, feeling all the fears drain. He was here, holding her. Nothing else mattered. She lifted a hand to his face as the front door closed. “It’s Louis,” she said quietly.
He came in slowly. His hair and clothes were streaked and disheveled. His eyes, Laurel saw, were not cold, were not remote, but weary and vulnerable. Without hesitation, she rose and went to him. “Oh, Louis.”
He slipped his arms around her, holding on. His face dropped to the top of her head. “We found her. She’s—they’re taking her to the hospital, but I don’t know if . . . She’s delirious,” he managed, and drew away. “Did she hurt you, Laurel?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
His gaze shifted to Matt. “I owe you much more than an apology.”
“No, you don’t.”
Louis accepted this with a nod and walked to the brandy. “Are you up to telling me the whole story now?”
He kept his back to them as Laurel related everything Marion had said. Once, when she saw his shoulders shudder, she faltered. He shook his head and gestured for her to finish.
“I need to talk to Susan,” he said when Laurel fell silent.
“She’s with my grandmother.”
Pouring another brandy, Louis nodded. “If she’ll see me, I’ll go out tomorrow.”
“She’ll see you, Louis,” Laurel murmured. “Please, please, don’t take the blame for this.”
He turned around slowly. “Do something for me?”
“Of course, you know I will.”
“Yes,” he said with a faint laugh. “Yes, I know you will. Write your story,” he said in a stronger voice. “And make it good. Everything, I want everything out. Maybe then I can live with it.”
“Matthew and I’ll write it,” Laurel told him, and rose to take his hand. “And you’ll live with it, Louis. I’m coming back and see that you do.” She touched his cheek. “I love you.”
With a ghost of a smile, he kissed her. “You’re well matched with him, Laurel,” he murmured, looking over at Matt. “You’re as stubborn as he is. Come back,” he agreed, squeezing her hands. “I’m going to need you.”
When they walked from the house a few minutes later, Laurel breathed deep. Just the scent of night. The scent of life. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She threw her face up to the stars. “We’d better call my father, let him know we have one hell of an exclusive on the way.”
“Next time you decide to go for one,” he said dryly, “remember we’re partners. No more solo meets.”
“You got it,” she agreed. “Let’s take your car,” she decided, too keyed up to drive. “I can get mine tomorrow. Oh, God, Matthew!” Dropping down inside, she leaned back against the seat. “I never want to go through another night like this, even for a Pulitzer.”
“That’s what you get for taking off before you fixed dinner.” His hands were finally steady, he noted as he turned the key. “Makes a man wonder what kind of wife he’s getting.”
“A gem,” she assured him. “You’re getting a gem, Bates.” Leaning over, she kissed him. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”
“No.” He smiled, cupping the back of her neck so he could linger over the kiss. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Doing the same for you.” She grinned at him. “We’re eating out.”
Keep reading for an excerpt from
the third book in the Inn BoonsBoro trilogy
by Nora Roberts
THE PERFECT HOPE
Available November 2012 from Ber
kley Books
With a few groans and sighs, the old building settled down for the night. Under the star-washed sky its stone walls glowed, rising up over Boonsboro’s Square as they had for more than two centuries. Even the crossroads held quiet now, stretching out in pools of shadows and light. All the windows and storefronts along Main Street seemed to sleep, content to doze away in the balm of the summer night.
She should do the same, Hope thought. Settle down, stretch out. Sleep.
That would be the sensible thing to do, and she considered herself a sensible woman. But the long day left her restless and, she reminded herself, Carolee would arrive bright and early to start breakfast.
The innkeeper could sleep in.
In any case, it was barely midnight. When she’d lived and worked in Georgetown, she’d rarely managed to settle in for the night this early. Of course, then she’d been managing The Wickham, and if she hadn’t been dealing with some small crisis or handling a guest request, she’d been enjoying the nightlife.
The town of Boonsboro, tucked into the foothills of Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains, might have a rich and storied history, and it certainly had its charms—among which she counted the revitalized inn she now managed—but it wasn’t famed for its nightlife.
That would change a bit when her friend Avery opened her restaurant and tap house. And wouldn’t it be fun to see what the energetic Avery MacTavish did with her new enterprise right next door—and just across The Square from Avery’s pizzeria.
Before summer ended, Avery would juggle the running of two restaurants, Hope thought.
And people called her an overachiever.
She looked around the kitchen—clean, shiny, warm and welcoming. She’d already sliced fruit, checked the supplies, restocked the refrigerator. So everything sat ready for Carolee to prepare breakfast for the guests currently tucked in their rooms.
She’d finished her paperwork, checked all the doors, and made her rounds checking for dishes—or anything else—out of place. Duties done, she told herself, and still she wasn’t ready to tuck her own self in her third-floor apartment.
Instead she poured an indulgent glass of wine and did a last circle through The Lobby, switching off the chandelier over the central table with its showy summer flowers.
She moved through the arch, gave the front door one last check before she turned toward the stairs. Her fingers trailed lightly over the iron banister.
She’d already checked The Library, but she checked again. It wasn’t anal, she told herself. A guest might have slipped in for a glass of Irish or a book. But the room was quiet, settled like the rest.
She glanced back. She had guests on this floor. Mr. and Mrs. Vargas—Donna and Max—married twenty-seven years. The night at the inn, in Nick and Nora, had been a birthday gift for Donna from their daughter. And wasn’t that sweet?
Her other guests, a floor up in Wesley and Buttercup, chose the inn for their wedding night. She liked to think the newlyweds, April and Troy, would take lovely, lasting memories with them.
She checked the door to the second-level porch, then on impulse unlocked it and stepped out into the night.
With her wine, she crossed the wide wood deck, leaned on the rail. Across The Square, the apartment above Vesta sat dark—and empty now that Avery had moved in with Owen Montgomery. Hope could admit—to herself anyway—that she missed looking over and knowing her friend was right there, just across Main.
But Avery was exactly where she belonged, Hope decided, with Owen, her first and, as it turned out, her last boyfriend.
Talk about sweet.
And she’d help plan a wedding—May bride, May flowers—right there in The Courtyard, just as Clare’s had been this past spring.
Thinking of it, Hope looked down Main toward the bookstore. Clare’s Turn The Page had been a risk for a young widow with two children and another on the way. But she’d made it work. Clare had a knack for making things work. Now she was Clare Montgomery, Beckett’s wife. And when winter came, they’d welcome a new baby to the mix.
Odd, wasn’t it, that her two friends had lived right in Boonsboro for so long, and she’d relocated only the year—not even a full year yet—before. The new kid in town.
Now, of the three of them, she was the only one still right here, right in the heart of town.
Silly to miss them when she saw them nearly every day, but on restless nights she could wish, just a little, they were still close.
So much had changed, for all of them, in this past year.
She’d been perfectly content in Georgetown, with her home, her work, her routine. With Jonathan, the cheating bastard.
She’d had good, solid plans, no rush, no hurry, but solid plans. The Wickham had been her place. She’d known its rhythm, its tones, its needs. And she’d done a hell of a job for the Wickhams and their cheating bastard son, Jonathan.
She’d planned to marry him. No, there’d been no formal engagement, no concrete promises, but marriage and future had been on the table.
She wasn’t a moron.
And all the time—or at least in the last several months—they’d been together, with him sharing her bed, or her sharing his, he’d been seeing someone else. Someone from his more elevated social strata, you could say, Hope mused with lingering bitterness. Someone who wouldn’t work ten- and twelve-hour days—and often more—to manage the exclusive hotel, but who’d stay there—in its most elaborate suite, of course.
No, she wasn’t a moron, but she’d been far too trusting and humiliatingly shocked when Jonathan told her he would be announcing his engagement—to someone else—the next day.
Humiliatingly shocked, she thought again, particularly as they’d been naked and in her bed at the time.
Then again, he’d been shocked, too, when she’d ordered him to get the hell out. He genuinely hadn’t understood why anything between them should change.
That single moment ushered in a lot of change.
Now she was Inn BoonsBoro’s innkeeper, living in a small town in western Maryland, a good clip from the bright lights of the big city.
She didn’t spend what free time she had planning clever little dinner parties, or shopping in the boutiques for the perfect shoes for the perfect dress for the next event.
Did she miss all that? Her go-to boutique, her favorite lunch spot, the lovely high ceilings and flower-framed little patio of her own town house? Or the pressure and excitement of preparing the hotel for visits from dignitaries, celebrities, business moguls?
Sometimes, she admitted. But not as often as she’d expected to, and not as much as she’d assumed she would.
Because she had been content in her personal life, challenged in her professional one, and the Wickham had been her place. But she’d discovered something in the last few months. Here, she wasn’t just content, but happy. The inn wasn’t just her place, it was home.
She had her friends to thank for that, and the Montgomery brothers along with their mother. Justine Montgomery had hired her, on the spot. At the time Hope hadn’t known Justine well enough to be surprised by her quick offer. But she did know herself, and continued to be surprised at her own fast, impulsive acceptance.
Zero to sixty? More like zero to ninety and still going.
She didn’t regret the impulse, the decision, the move.
Fresh starts hadn’t been in the plan, but she was good at adjusting plans. Thanks to the Montgomerys, the lovingly—and effortfully—restored inn was now her home and her career.
She wandered the porch, checking the hanging planters, adjusting—minutely—the angle of a bistro chair.
“And I love every square inch of it,” she murmured.
One of the porch doors leading out from Elizabeth and Darcy opened. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the night air.
Someone else was restless, Hope thought. Then again, she didn’t know if ghosts slept. She doubted if the spirit Beckett had named Elizabeth for the room she favored would tell her if s
he asked. Thus far Lizzy hadn’t deigned to speak to her inn-mate.
Hope smiled at the term, sipped her wine.
“Lovely night. I was just thinking how different my life is now, and all things considered, how glad I am it is.” She spoke in an easy, friendly way. After all, the research she and Owen had done—so far—on their permanent guest had proven Lizzy—or Eliza Ford, when she’d been alive—was one of Hope’s ancestors.
Family, to Hope’s mind, ought to be easy and friendly.
“We have newlyweds in W&B. They look so happy, so fresh and new somehow. The couple in N&N are here celebrating her fifty-eighth birthday. They don’t look new, but they do look happy, and so nice and comfortable. I like giving them a special place to stay, a special experience. It’s what I’m good at.”
