The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  She touched his hair, and her smile went soft. “Not this time. You planning on carrying me all the way upstairs?”

  “Tonight, Scarlett, you won’t think of Ashley.”

  As he climbed, she wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his face with kisses.

  He’d forgotten to leave a light on—so much for preplanning—but he knew the way. And there was just enough twilight left to guide him.

  Her arms stayed around his neck as he lowered her to the bed, bringing him with her, keeping their mouths fused. And the thump of his heart was a jungle drum in his ear.

  “Wait. It’s too dark.” Still he tasted her throat, the tender spot under her jaw. His hands burned to cover flesh. “I want to see you. Need to see you.”

  He peeled away, fumbled in the nightstand drawer for a book of matches to light the candle he’d bought with her in mind.

  When he turned back, she was braced on her elbows, her hair a wild halo of melted amber. “You’re a romantic.”

  “With you.”

  The halo shimmered as she cocked her head. “Generally, I distrust men who say just the right thing at just the right time. But I have to say, it’s working for you. Think you can remember your place?”

  He lowered to her, felt her sigh. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  The fantasy of her had been with him all of his adult life. In fantasy she could be—had been—whatever he wanted. But the reality of her was more. Skin and lips, scents and sounds. All washed over him in a hot flood that was need and pleasure and bedazzlement.

  It wasn’t a dream that moved under him, that met his mouth with eager heat. And the woman she was rose out of that dream to surround him.

  He spiked her pulse, had it hammering, had her mind blurring with movement and textures. The scrape of teeth, the glide of tongue, the mix of breath and sighs. His mouth was like a fever, yet somehow patient. As if he was content to let them both burn through kisses alone.

  Then, when she thought she could bear it no longer, when her body arched up to him to offer more, he used his hands.

  Hard, strong hands, brushing, tantalizing, then clamping, possessing. Breasts, thighs, hips, with the heat still rising so she wondered her skin didn’t catch flame.

  He pulled her shirt over her head, and then it was his mouth on her, feasting on the rise of her breasts over cups of lace, sliding his tongue under thin fabric to sample, to tease.

  On a gasp she rolled over him to tug at his shirt, to fight with buttons. She flung back her hair, straddled him as she parted the shirt, ran her hands up his chest.

  “You’re built, Goodnight.” Her breathing was already thick, already unsteady. “Seriously built. Got yourself a few scars.” She trailed her fingers over one that skated along his rib cage, felt him quiver. Then she lowered her head to skim lips, teeth, tongue over flesh.

  He pushed up, shifting her so her legs hooked around his waist. The hands that ran up her back were rough with calluses, and more exciting for it. With one flick of his fingers, he unhooked her bra. She bowed back and moaned when he closed his mouth over her.

  He could feel her heart beat under his lips, all but taste it. Her long body was so smooth, so agile. Narrow torso and hips, miles of leg. He wanted to spend hours exploring her—days, possibly years. But tonight, all those years of longing pressed at him to take, just take.

  He pushed her back, dragged her pants down, followed them with his hands and mouth. Her body undulated, and when he once more feasted on flesh and lace, it bucked.

  Her hands clamped his head, pressing him against her when she came, when she cried out and shuddered. His blood pounded in response as he stripped away the lace and drove her over again.

  And she was dragging him up, her words incomprehensible now as they rolled over the bed. Her hands were quick as well, stripping him bare. Body and soul. Her mouth was hot and hungry, her body vibrating.

  She stayed clamped around him when he tore open a condom, then pushed him next to madness when she took it from him to do the honors herself.

  Once again she straddled him. He stared up at her. Her skin, her hair, her eyes, were all burnished gold in the candlelight.

  She took him into the wet wonder of her.

  Once again her body bowed back as she absorbed the quakes of pleasure. Shimmering through her, silken heat, velvet aches. She rode, taking him deeper, glorying in the desperate grip of his hands on her hips.

  Flash point, she thought dimly when the orgasm ignited inside her. And her body swayed down to his.

  Her head was still spinning, barely registered shock when he rolled, pinning her under him. He was deep in her, hard and deep. She heard his labored breath mix with her own.

  She reached up, braced her hands on his shoulders. His eyes were so green now, she realized, like crystal, with all those mists burned out by passion.

  He plunged into her, stealing even her gasp. Plunged, so that her fingers dug into his shoulders and her stunned system jolted with shock.

  She thought she might have screamed. She heard some helpless sound as her blood rushed through her like a storm. Her body gathered for more, took more even when the pleasure became unspeakable.

  She felt the muscles she gripped harden like iron, knew even as she imploded he was with her.

  And as her hands slid limply off his shoulders, she thought, dazed, Flashover.

  She was sprawled like the dead under him. Like someone killed in battle, she imagined. Sweaty and battered. Since he hadn’t moved in the last several minutes, she decided it had been a war that had ended in a tie.

  “Is that the phone?” she mumbled.

  He stayed as he was, flat out on top of her, his face buried in the mass of her hair. “No. What?”

  “Wait.” She took slow breaths, concentrated. “God, it’s my ears. My ears are ringing. Wow.”

  “I’m going to stop crushing you as soon as I regain the use of my limbs.”

  “No rush. You know, you were right. We weren’t ready for this thirteen years ago. We’d have killed each other.”

  “I’m not sure we didn’t. That’s okay. They can bury us just like this.”

  “If we’re dead, we can’t make love again.”

  “Sure, we can. If heaven doesn’t have lots of good sex, what’s the point?”

  Had she ever known a man who made her laugh so easily? she wondered. “I think saying something like that could send you to hell.”

  “If God didn’t invent sex, who did?” He managed to brace himself on his elbows to look down at her. “And that was one hell of a religious experience.”

  “I did hear singing, but I’m not sure it was angels.”

  “That was me.” He lowered his head, kissed her softly.

  They ate pie in bed, and made love again with the tang of lemon on their tongues and crumbs on the sheets.

  She gave him a slow, lingering kiss before rolling out of bed to find her clothes.

  “You’re going?”

  “It’s nearly two in the morning. We both work for a living.”

  “You could stay, sleep here. It’s not like you have that far to go. And remember, I have cookies for breakfast.”

  “Tempting.” She pulled on her pants, shirt, stuffed her underwear in her pockets. She was gloriously tired, the sort of tired, she thought, that only came after good, healthy sex. “But just how much sleep do you figure we’ll manage? We’re too hot for each other.”

  “I couldn’t possibly go another round,” he claimed. “I’m tapped.”

  She angled her head, studying his face in the candlelight. “Liar.”

  He grinned. “Prove it.”

  She laughed, shook her head. “Thanks for dinner, dessert, and all the rest.”

  “My pleasure. Lots of my pleasure. How about tomorrow night?”

  “How about it? You don’t have to get up,” she began when he tossed his legs over the bed and reached for his pants. “I know my way.”

  “I’ll walk you over. How a
bout dinner tomorrow? My place, your place, anyplace.”

  “Actually, I might have a line on a couple of tickets to the O’s game tomorrow. Behind the dugout at third. If they come through, are you interested?”

  “Is rain wet? You like baseball?” He pointed at her as he spoke.

  “No.” She raked her hair more or less into place with her fingers. “I love baseball.”

  “Seriously. Who won the series in . . . 2002?”

  She pursed her lips a moment. “It was California’s year. Angels over the Giants in the full seven. Lackey got the win.”

  “Oh my God.” Goggling at her, he thumped a fist on his heart. “You are Dream Girl. Marry me, bear my children. But let’s wait until after the game tomorrow.”

  “That’ll give me time to buy a white dress. I’ll let you know if the tickets come through.”

  “If they don’t, I’ll start working on some for the next home game.” He took her hand as they walked downstairs.

  She picked up her purse. “You don’t have to walk me next door, Bo.”

  “Sure I do. There might be muggers. Or aliens. You just never know.”

  He grabbed his keys, stuffed them in his pocket as he headed out the door with her.

  “See, romantic. And old-fashioned.”

  “Yet manly, and with panther-like reflexes.”

  “Which will come in handy with the aliens.”

  They walked down his steps, then up hers. Where she let him kiss her limp.

  “Go home,” she murmured.

  “Maybe you should walk me back. You’re the cop.”

  “Home.” She gave him a little nudge, then unlocked her door. “Good night, Goodnight,” she said, and shut the door.

  Watching her. Know how to wait, know how to plan. Never thought it would take so long, but hey, shit happens. Besides, the waiting makes it bigger. Slut’s banging the guy next door now. Convenient.

  Could kill him now. Go up, knock on the door. He’s going to open it. He’s going to think it’s the whore. Slide a knife right into his guts. Surprise!

  Better to wait. Wait and watch. Do him later.

  While the city burns.

  Light’s on. Bedroom light. Her bedroom. Bet she’s naked. Touching herself, where she let him touch her. Whore-bitch.

  Have some of that, oh yeah, a good piece of that before you light her up.

  Window goes dark. In bed now.

  Let her fall asleep. More fun if she’s asleep. Take your time, got nothing but.

  Have a cigarette. Relax.

  Take out the phone. Got a good picture of her in your head. Naked, in bed.

  Wake up, bitch.

  The phone rang, shooting her out of sleep. She glanced at the clock first, noted she’d barely been down ten minutes. The Caller ID display made her frown. Local number, unfamiliar.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s almost time for the surprise.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “Hot and bright. You’ll know it’s for you. Are you naked, Catarina? Are you wet?”

  When he said her name, a fist hit her heart. “Who—”

  She cursed when the phone clicked in her ear. Once again, she wrote down the number, the time.

  First thing in the morning, she thought grimly, somebody else was getting a goddamn wake-up call.

  She got out of bed, got her weapon. Checked her load. Taking it with her, she checked her doors, her windows. Then stretched out on the couch in the living room, the gun on the table beside her, and tried to get some sleep.

  Both cell phones.” With O’Donnell beside her, Reena reported the calls to her captain. “Each is registered to a different party, but they’re both Baltimore city numbers.”

  “He called you by name.”

  “The second call, yeah.”

  “You didn’t recognize the voice?”

  “No, sir. He may be disguising it. He’s keeping it soft, a little hoarse. But it didn’t ring any bells. The first time I figured it was just some jerk spinning the dial, getting off. But this was personal.”

  “Go check it out.”

  “Feel stupid, dragging you along,” Reena said to her partner when they walked to the car. “I could handle something like this on personal.”

  “Guy makes threatening calls—”

  “He didn’t threaten me.”

  “Underlying,” O’Donnell said, and pouted a little when Reena got to the driver’s side before he did. “Threat’s implied, and he makes it to a cop—uses the cop’s name. It’s official business.”

  “Lots of people know my name. And it looks like one of them’s a crank-calling pervert.” She backed out of the parking spot. “Closest is number two’s work address. Phone’s registered in the name of Abigail Parsons.”

  Abigail Parsons taught fifth grade. She was a generously sized woman of sixty who wore sturdy shoes and a bright blue dress.

  In Reena’s judgment she looked a little thrilled to have been called out of class by the police.

  “My cell phone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Of course.” She opened a bag the size of Rhode Island, plucked a little Nokia out of the meticulously ordered interior. “It’s off. I don’t turn it on during class, but I keep it with me. Is there a problem with it? I don’t understand.”

  “Could you tell me who else has access to this phone?”

  “No one. It’s mine.”

  “Do you live alone, Ms. Parsons?” O’Donnell asked.

  “Since my husband died two years ago.”

  “Do you remember the last time you used it?”

  “I used it yesterday. Called my daughter when I left school. I was going over there for dinner, wanted to see if she wanted me to pick up anything. What’s this about?”

  The second number took them to a gym where the owner was leading an aerobics class. When she broke, she got the phone out of the bag in her employee’s locker. She was a bubbly twenty-two, and stated she’d come home alone the night before after a girls’ night out. She lived alone.

  Neither phone displayed a call to Reena’s number in memory.

  “Cloned ’em,” O’Donnell said when they were back outside.

  “Yeah, and that’s just weird. Who do I know who’s going to take the time and trouble to clone cell phones so he can wake me up in the middle of the night?”

  “Better to ask who knows you. We can go through some old case files, see if anything shakes.”

  “Surprise for me,” she murmured. “Big and bright. Sexual overtones.”

  “Old boyfriend? New boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know.” She pulled open the car door. “But he’s got my attention.”

  She set it aside, but she was ill at ease all day. Who would clone two phones just to mess with her head? Wasn’t that hard to clone, if you had the equipment and the know-how. And the know-how was easy to come by.

  But it took deliberation and planning. And purpose.

  She’d know it was for her. Know what was for her? Reena leaned back in her desk chair, shut her eyes. The big, bright surprise.

  A personal surprise or a professional one?

  She spent most of the afternoon in court, waiting, then testifying on a revenge fire that had resulted in one death. She scored the baseball tickets from a friend in the DA’s office. And walked back to the station house with an itch between her shoulder blades.

  If he knew her name, was he watching her? She felt watched. She felt exposed and vulnerable walking the familiar street.

  If he called again—when he called again—she’d keep him on the phone. She’d already set up a recorder. She’d keep him on and she’d work him. She’d draw something out of him that would ring that bell.

  Then they’d see who got a surprise.

  Drawing out her phone, she called Bo’s cell. He’d passed into the level of serious relationship. His numbers were now programmed.

  “Hey, Blondie.”


  She strolled, and sang. “Take me out to the ball game. Take me out with the crowd.”

  “I’ll buy the peanuts and Cracker Jacks,” he said. “What time can you head out?”

  “If nothing comes up—and let’s both knock on a lot of wood—six-thirty.”

  “I’ll be ready. What are you doing now?”

  “I’m walking down the street. Great day out here. I just finished testifying in court, and believe I did my part in putting some murdering jerk away for twenty-five.”

  “Gee, all I’m doing is hanging trim. Not as exciting.”

  “You ever testify in court?”

  “I was acquitted.”

  She laughed. “It’s tedious. I’m going to be ready for those Cracker Jacks.”

  “I’ll provide the surprise inside. Reena?” he said when she didn’t respond.

  “Yeah, right here. Sorry.” She rolled the tension out of her shoulders. “See you later, okay?”

  She flipped the phone closed, then paused outside the station house, did a deliberate scan of street traffic, pedestrians.

  When the phone rang in her hand, she jolted, swore. Then breathed a sigh of relief when she read the display. “Hi, Mama. No, I haven’t asked him about Sunday yet. I will.”

  She turned, walked into the station with her mother’s voice in her ear.

  Parking at Camden Yards was mayhem. Watching cars jockey along always made her feel smug that she lived close enough to walk to the ballpark.

  She loved the crowds, the noise, the jams of cars and the carnival anticipation of the people heading toward that big, beautiful stadium nearly as much as she loved the game.

  She wore her most comfortable jeans, a plain white T-shirt tucked into the waistband, and a black fielder’s cap with the bright Oriole bird.

  She watched kids riding in strollers, or bouncing along beside their parents. She’d done the same, she remembered. Though it had been the old Memorial Stadium during her childhood.

  She could already smell the hot dogs and beer.

  After they passed through the turnstile, Bo slung his arm around her shoulders. He was dressed much like she was, but his shirt was faded blue.

  “Tell me your views on Boog’s barbecue.”

  “As sharp as his fielding back in the day.”

  “Excellent. Want to hit that first?”