The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “That’s fast work for the ME.”

  “I sweet-talked him. He couldn’t have gone far. Even if he decided to ditch the car, he couldn’t have gone far.”

  “So we look for him. Get in out of the rain.” O’Donnell slid behind the wheel again. “Got the APB out. He’s on foot. He’s pissed off he didn’t get his booze.”

  “Bar. Where’s the closest bar?”

  O’Donnell looked at her and grinned. “Now that’s thinking.” He turned the corner, nodded. “Let’s have a look.”

  It was called Hideout. A number of patrons seemed to be doing just that, holed up with a bottle on a rainy afternoon.

  Jamal was at the end of the bar, drinking boilermakers.

  He was off the stool like lightning, and sprinting toward the back.

  Good eye for cops, was Reena’s only thought as she ran after him. She hit the alley door three steps ahead of O’Donnell. She evaded the metal trash can Jamal heaved. O’Donnell didn’t.

  “You hurt?” she called back.

  “Get him. I’m right behind you.”

  Jamal was fast, but so was she. When he scurried up and over the fence backing the alley, she was right behind him. “Police! Freeze!”

  He was fast, she thought again, but he didn’t know Baltimore. She was faster—and she did.

  The rain-drenched alley he’d run into this time dead-ended. He whirled, eyes wild, and flipped out a knife.

  “Come on, bitch.”

  Keeping her eyes locked on his, Reena drew her weapon. “What, are you just really stupid? Toss down the knife, Jamal, before I shoot you.”

  “Ain’t got the balls.”

  Now she grinned, though her palms had gone clammy and her knees wanted badly to shake. “Bet me.”

  From behind her, she heard O’Donnell swear and puff, and had never heard sweeter music. “And me,” he said, bracing his weapon on the top of the fence.

  “I didn’t do nothing.” Jamal dropped the knife. “I’m just having a drink.”

  “Yeah, tell that to DeWanna, and the baby she was carrying.” Her heart pistoned painfully against her ribs as she moved forward. “On the ground, you bastard. Hands behind your head.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He got down, laced his hands behind his head. “You got the wrong person.”

  “This next stint you do in a cage, maybe you can study up on the properties of fire. Meanwhile, Jamal Earl Gregg, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.” She kicked the knife away, cuffed him.

  They were soaked to the skin and dripping when they heard the sirens. O’Donnell shot her a fierce grin. “Fast on your feet, Hale.”

  “Yeah.”

  And since it was over, she sat on the wet pavement until she got her breath back.

  16

  Well, it was done, Bo thought as he let himself into his house. At least he hoped to God it was done. Mostly. Lawyers, insurance, accountants, realtors. All those meetings, all that paperwork made his ears ring. Not to mention, he thought, a couple of go-rounds with his father.

  Over and done, he decided, and couldn’t figure out if he was relieved or depressed.

  He set a packing box beside the one he’d already brought in and dumped at the foot of the stairs. One more in the car, he mused. He could just leave it there, deal with it all later.

  And he could’ve sworn he heard his grandmother’s voice, telling him to finish what he started.

  “Okay, okay.” He pushed at his already dripping hair and headed back out.

  A beer would be good. A beer, a hot shower, maybe some ESPN. Chill out. Decompress. Then, as he pulled the tarp up to get to the last of the boxes, Reena pulled in. He forgot all about an evening in his underwear watching the game.

  “Hi.” He thought she looked a little pale and tired, but it might’ve been the rain.

  “Hi back.”

  She wasn’t wearing a hat either, and her hair was a riot of tawny corkscrews. “Got a minute?” he asked her. “Want to come in?”

  She hesitated, then gave a little shrug. “Sure. Need a hand?”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  “Haven’t seen you around much this week,” she commented.

  “Work squeezed between meetings. Turns out I’m executor of my grandmother’s estate. That sounds like it’s really big and shiny. It’s not like she was rolling in it or anything. Mostly it’s just lawyers and paperwork. Thanks,” he added when she opened the door for him. “Want some wine?”

  “About as much as I want to keep breathing.”

  “Let me get you a towel.” He dumped the box with the others, walked down the hall and into what she knew was the half bath.

  The house was nearly a twin of hers in its setup. But what he’d done set it apart. The trim and floors had been taken down to their natural color and varnished, and the walls were a deep, warm green that set off the honey oak. He’d suspended a mission-style light from the lofty ceiling.

  The hall could have used a runner, she thought. Something old and a little threadbare and full of character. And he probably planned to refinish the table near the door where he threw his keys.

  He came back with a couple of navy blue towels. “You’ve done some beautiful work in here.”

  “Yeah?” He glanced around as he scrubbed his hair with a towel. “Good start anyway.”

  “Really good start,” she said as she wandered into the living room. His furniture needed help. Slipcovers, or better yet replacement. And he had perhaps the biggest television she’d ever seen dominating one wall. But the walls were a slightly deeper shade of that green, the woodwork gorgeous. And the little fireplace had been fronted in creamy granite, framed in more of that honey oak with a wide, chunky mantel topping it.

  “God, that’s gorgeous, Bo. Seriously.” She crossed to the fireplace, ran her fingers over the mantel. There was dust, but beneath it was silky wood. “Oh, look what you’ve done around the window!”

  It was flanked with shelves, mirroring the wood and beaded accents on the trim. “It’s just the sort of detail a room this size needs. Brings it in without losing the sense of space. Makes it cozy.”

  “Thanks. I’m thinking about fronting them with glass—pebbled maybe. Haven’t decided. But I’m doing that with the built-ins I’m making for the dining room, so I may just leave these open.”

  He was proud of his work, but her enthusiastic response gave him an extra boost. “Kitchen’s done, if you want to see.”

  “I do.” She glanced back at the fireplace as she walked out. “Can you do something like that in my place?”

  “I can do anything you want.”

  She passed him back the towel. “We’ll have to talk about your rates.”

  “I’ll give you an infatuation discount.”

  “I’d be a fool to say no.” She poked her head in other rooms on the way. “I’m nosy. What’s this going to be? Like a TV room?”

  “That’s the plan. Room enough for a good-sized entertainment unit. I’m working on a design.”

  “Using the monster in your living room as a measuring tool.”

  He smiled easily. “You’re going to watch, why not watch?”

  “I’m thinking of using this space in my house for a library. Lots of shelves, warm colors, maybe putting in one of those little gas fireplaces. Big cushy chairs.”

  “That wall’d be best for the fireplace.” He gestured with a lift of his chin. “Could do a nice window seat over there.”

  “A window seat.” She considered him. “Just how infatuated are you?”

  “I was going to have a beer and the ball game. Then I saw you.”

  “Pretty infatuated.” She strolled out, glanced into the half bath. New tiles, she noted, new fixtures. Then the dining room, where she found major construction in progress. “It’s a lot of work.”

  “I like the work. Even when I have to shoehorn it in between active clients. Business is good, so this place is taking me longer than the last one
. But I like it here, so that’s a point. Then there’s you.”

  “Hmmm.” She left that without comment and wandered into the kitchen. “Holy crap, Bo. This is amazing. It’s like a magazine.”

  “Kitchens are the hub.” He opened the laundry room door, tossed the towels inside. “Major selling point. It’s generally where I start the rehab.”

  He’d done the floors in big slate-colored tiles, echoed that on the counters and used white-washed cabinets. Some were fronted with leaded glass. He’d put in a bar for casual seating, added in a box window to bring in the backyard. Wide windowsills were stone and called out for pretty pots of plants or herbs.

  “You went high-end on the appliances. I know my appliances. I’d love to have one of these built-in grills.”

  “I can get you a good price. Contractor’s rate.”

  “I love the lighting. This mission style is perfect.”

  He flipped on a switch and made her eyes gleam. Light beamed down from under the top cabinets.

  “Nice touch. Now I have kitchen envy. This display cabinet’s great. Why don’t you have anything in it?”

  “Didn’t have anything. Guess I do now. Some of my grandmother’s stuff.” He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of white wine. “She left me everything. Well, she made a bequest to the church, but the rest she left to me. The house. Everything.”

  “It makes you sad,” she stated softly.

  “Some, I guess. Grateful.” For a moment, he just held the wine bottle, leaned back against the refrigerator. “The house is free and clear, and once I get over the guilt, I’ll sell it.”

  “She wouldn’t want you to feel guilty. She didn’t expect you to move in. It’s just a house.”

  He got glasses, poured the wine. “I’m coming around to that. Doesn’t need much work. I’ve kept it up for her. I’ve started clearing stuff out. The boxes in the other room.” He handed her a glass. “Mostly photographs, some of her jewelry, and . . .”

  “Things that matter.”

  “Yeah, things that matter. She had a couple of pictures I drew her when I was a kid. You know, box houses with triangle roofs. Big round yellow sun. W birds flying around.”

  “She loved you.”

  “I know. My father’s decided to be hurt and insulted because she didn’t leave him anything. He’s seen her maybe twice in the last five, six years, and he’s playing the grieving son.” He stopped himself, shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Families are complicated. I should know. She made her choices, Bo. It was her right.”

  “I get that.” But he rubbed his fingers hard over the middle of his forehead. “I could give him a cut when I sell the house, but she wouldn’t like it. So I won’t. She did leave my uncle and my cousin a few odds and ends. I guess she made her statement. Anyway.” He shook it off. “Hungry? Why don’t I fix you dinner?”

  “You cook?”

  “A little turn of the leaf I made a long time ago—and by happy coincidence, I learned that having a guy cook is like foreplay to a woman.”

  “You’re not wrong. What’s on the menu?”

  He smiled. “I’ll figure that out. While I am, why don’t you tell me why you look tired?”

  “Do I?” She sipped while he opened the freezer. “I guess I am. Or was. Hard day. Want me to bore you with it?”

  “I do.” He found a couple of chicken breasts, put them in the microwave to defrost, then opened a vegetable drawer.

  “My partner and I worked this case. Flop hotel in south Baltimore. Single victim, female. Her head and most of her torso were . . . and I’ve just realized this is not really pre-dinner conversation.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got a strong stomach.”

  “Let’s say she was badly burned, in an attempt to hide the fact that she’d been beaten to death. He didn’t do a good job of it, either. It’s all right there, like flashing lights.”

  She ran him through it, watching as he whipped something up in a small stainless steel bowl, dumped it over the chicken.

  “It’s hard, what you do. Seeing what you see.”

  “You have to walk a line between objectivity and compassion. It gets shaky. I guess it shook a little for me with De Wanna. All her cosmetics piled on the back of the toilet, the meal she was trying to put together. She loved the son of a bitch, and he’s so annoyed she’s pregnant again—like it was all her fault—he smashes her face with a frying pan, then beats her to death with it, panics, sets her on fire. Sets her hair on fire. It takes a special kind of callousness to do that.”

  Bo poured her more wine. “But you got him?”

  “Wasn’t hard. He’s dumb as a brick. Used her credit card—or tried to. Made us, though. Smelled cop the minute we walked into this sluggy little bar. Ran out the back, tipped my partner over with a garbage can. I’m in pursuit, catching up with him, climbing over a fence, rain’s pouring. I’m not even thinking then, just doing. He doesn’t know the city, traps himself in a blind alley. Turns around and pulls a knife.”

  “Jesus, Reena.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a gun. A gun, for God’s sake. What does he think, I’ll go eek and run away?” But a part of her had wanted to. “I’ve had to draw my weapon before, a few times before, but it was almost an afterthought. This . . . my hands were shaking, and I was so cold. Inside, not from the rain. Because I knew I might have to use it. I’ve never had to fire my weapon. I was cold because I might have to fire. I was cold because I knew I could. Maybe wanted to, because . . . I still had the picture of what he’d done to her in my head. I was scared. It’s the first time I’ve really been scared on the job. I guess it caught me by surprise. So . . .”

  She took a breath, and a drink. “Your offer of wine and dinner was well timed. I’m better off with company than alone. And it’s not the sort of thing I like to talk about with my family. It worries them.”

  It worried him, too, but that didn’t seem like the right response. Instead he gave her another that came to his mind. “Regular people don’t—can’t—understand what you deal with. Not just the stress, which must be through the roof, not even the personal danger. But the emotion of it, I guess. What you see, what you have to do about it, and how that sits inside you.”

  “There are reasons I got into this type of work. What happened to De Wanna Johnson’s one of them. And I feel better, so thanks for letting me go on about it. Writing a report doesn’t have the same cathartic benefit. Want a hand with dinner?”

  “No, I got it. It loses the seductive value if I ask you to peel potatoes.”

  “You seducing me, Bo?”

  “Working up to it.”

  “How long does it generally take for you to get through the working-up-to-it stage?”

  “Not usually this long. Especially if you count back the full thirteen years.”

  “Then I’d say it’s been long enough.” She set her glass down, rose. “You’re going to want that chicken to marinate awhile anyway,” she added as she crossed to him.

  “I feel like I should say something clever right now. But my mind’s blank.” He put his hands on her hips, sliding them slowly up her body as he drew her in.

  His head dipped, then paused with his lips a whisper from hers, just to catch her quick breath of anticipation. His eyes stayed open, watching hers, as he changed the angle, grazed his teeth over her bottom lip.

  Then slowly sank in.

  She smelled of the rain, tasted of wine. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then combed up through his hair and fisted there as that tight, angular body fit to his. He moved without thinking, half turning so her back was braced against the counter, locking her there while his mouth did a long, thorough exploration of hers.

  Her teeth clamped lightly over his tongue, shooting his blood from hot to fevered. And the sound she made was something between a laugh and a moan.

  His vision blurred.

  Her hands weren’t quite steady when she tugged his shirt out of his waistband. “You’re
good at this,” she managed.

  “Right back at you. Reena.” His mouth raced to her throat, branded its way up to her lips again. “I want to . . . let’s go upstairs.”

  Everything inside her was open and aching and ready. With her hands under his shirt, she dug her fingers into hard muscle. She wanted that body on hers, the brawn of it, the heat of it, the need of it. “I like your floor. Let’s see how it holds up.”

  He thought he heard his heart knocking, hard, insistent bangs. When he pulled back far enough to yank her jacket down her arms, he recognized the knocking on his front door. “Oh, for the sake of the tiny baby Jesus.”

  She closed her teeth over his jaw. “Expecting someone?”

  “No. Maybe they’ll . . .” But the knocking only increased. “Damn it. Listen, don’t move. Breathe only if you have to, but don’t move.” He gripped her shoulders. “Oh God, look at you. I could just . . . Just wait here, right here because I can just slip right back into position after I go kill whoever’s at the door. It’ll only take a minute for me to murder them.”

  “I have a gun,” she offered.

  His laugh was a little pained. “Thanks, but I can do it with my bare hands. Don’t disappear, don’t change your mind. Don’t do anything.”

  She grinned after him, then patted a hand on her heart. He was good at it, she mused. In fact, he was exceptional. A man who could kiss like that . . . and she already knew he was good with his hands . . . had the potential to be an amazing lover. Still, now that she’d had a minute to clear the fire out of her brain, maybe going upstairs was a better idea.

  She shook back her hair, then wandered out of the kitchen to see if he’d sent the interruption on its way.

  And found him in the doorway, holding a pretty little redhead. The woman—the redhead Reena had seen at the funeral—had her head on his shoulder, and her own body shook with sobs.

  “I feel so bad, Bo. I didn’t think I’d feel this bad. I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay. Come on. Let me close the door.”

  “It’s stupid. I’m stupid, but I can’t help it.”

  “You’re not stupid. Come on, Mandy, just . . .” He trailed off when he spotted Reena, and she watched his face go through several emotions. Surprise, embarrassment, apology, denial. “Ah . . . ah . . . Well.”