Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  "Just me."

  Here was compassion. She hadn't known a kiss from a man could hold it. More than gentle, more than tender, it soothed frayed nerves, calmed icy fears, cooled hot despair. Her clenched hands relaxed, muscle by muscle. There was no demand here as his lips roamed over her face. Just understanding.

  It became so simple to do as he'd asked. She thought only of him.

  Hesitant, she brought a hand to his face, letting her fingers skim along his beard-roughened cheek. Her stomach unknotted. The throbbing in her head quieted. She said his name on a sigh and melted against him.

  He had to be careful. Very careful. Her complete and total surrender had his own needs drumming. He ignored them. For now she needed comfort, not passion. It couldn't matter that his senses were reeling from her, the soft give of her body, the rich taste of her mouth. It couldn't matter that the air had thickened so that each breath he took was crowded with the scent of her.

  He knew he had only to lay her back on the bed among the tangled sheets. And cover her. She wouldn't resist. Perhaps she would even welcome the heat and the distraction. The temporary respite. He intended to be much more to her.

  Battling his own demons, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then rested his cheek on her hair.

  "Better?"

  On one ragged breath, she nodded. She wasn't sure she could speak. How could she tell him that she wanted only to stay like this, her arms around him, his heart beating against hers? He'd think she was a fool.

  "I, uh… didn't know you could be such a nice guy, Fletcher."

  He wanted to sigh, but he found himself grinning. "I have my moments."

  "Yeah. Well, that was certainly above and beyond."

  Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't really trying to needle him. He pulled back, put a hand under her chin and held it steady. "I'm not on duty. When I kiss you, it's got nothing to do with my job. Got it?"

  She'd meant to thank him, not annoy him. There was a warning in his eyes that had her frowning. "Sure."

  "Sure," he repeated, then rose to jam his hands in his pockets in disgust.

  For the first time she noted that he wore only his jeans, unsnapped and riding low. The sudden clutching in her stomach had nothing to do with fear and left her momentarily speechless.

  She wanted him. Not just to hold, not just for a few heated kisses. And certainly not just for comfort. She wanted him in bed, the way she couldn't remember ever wanting a man before. She could look at him—the long, lean, golden line of torso, the narrow hips, the dance of muscle in his arms as he balled his hands—and she could imagine what it would be like to touch and be touched, to roll over the bed in one tangled heap of passion. To ride and be ridden.

  "What the hell's wrong with you now?"

  "What?"

  Eyes narrowed, he rocked back on his heels as she blinked at him. "Taking a side trip, O'Roarke?"

  "I, ah…" Her mouth was dry, and there was a hard knot of pressure in her gut. What would he say if she told him where her mind had just taken her, taken them? She let her eyes close. "Oh, boy." she whispered. "I think I need some coffee." And a quick dip in a cold lake.

  "Your sister was fixing some." He frowned as he studied her. He thought of Deborah for a moment, of how she had nearly fallen on top of him wearing hardly more than a swatch of white lace. He'd appreciated the long, lissome limbs. What man wouldn't? But looking at her hadn't rocked his system.

  And here was Cilia—sitting there with her eyes shadowed, wearing a Broncos football jersey that was two sizes too big. The bright orange cotton was hardly seductive lingerie. If he stood there one more moment, he would be on his knees begging for mercy.

  "How about breakfast?" His voice was abrupt, not even marginally friendly. It helped to bring her thoughts to order.

  "I never eat it."

  "Today you do. Ten minutes."

  "Look, Slick—"

  "Do something with your hair," he said as he walked out of the room. "You look like hell."

  He found Deborah downstairs in the kitchen, fully dressed, sipping a cup of coffee. That she was waiting for him was obvious. The moment he stepped into the room, she was out of her chair.

  "She's fine," he said briefly. "I'm going to fix her some breakfast."

  Though her brow lifted at this information, she nodded. "Look, why don't you sit down? I'll fix some for both of you."

  "I thought you had an early class."

  "I'll skip it."

  He headed for the coffee. "Then she'll be mad at both of us."

  She had to smile as he poured a cup, then rooted through a drawer for a spoon for the sugar. "You already know her very well."

  "Not well enough." He drank half the cup and felt nearly human again. He had to think of Cilia. It would be safe enough, he hoped, if he kept those thoughts professional. "How much time do you have?''

  "About five minutes," she said as she glanced at her watch.

  "Tell me about the ex-husband."

  "Paul?" There was surprise in her eyes, in her voice. "Why?"

  She was shaking her head before he could answer. "You don't think he has anything to do with what's going on here?"

  "I'm checking all the angles. The divorce… was it amicable?"

  "Are they ever?"

  She was young, Boyd thought, nodding, but she was sharp. "You tell me."

  "Well, in this case, I'd say it was as amicable—or as bland as they get." She hesitated, torn. If it was a question of being loyal to Cilia or protecting her, she had to choose protection. "I was only about twelve, and Cilia was never very open about it, but my impression was, always has been, that he wanted it."

  Boyd leaned back against the counter. "Why?"

  Uncomfortable, Deborah moved her shoulders. "He'd fallen in love with someone else." She let out a hiss of breath and prayed Cilia wouldn't see what she was doing as a betrayal. "It was pretty clear that they were having problems before I came to live with them. It was right after our parents had died. Cilia had only been married a few months, but… well, let's say the honeymoon was over. She was making a name for herself in Atlanta, and Paul—he was very conservative, a real straight arrow. He'd decided to run for assemblyman, I think it was, and Cilia's image didn't suit."

  "Sounds like it was the other way around to me."

  She smiled then, beautifully, and moved over to top off his coffee. "I remember how hard she was working, to hold her job together, to hold everything together. It was a pretty awful time for us. It didn't help matters when the responsibility for a twelve-year-old was suddenly dumped on them. The added strain—well, I guess you could say it hastened the inevitable. A couple of months after I moved in, he moved out and filed for divorce. She didn't fight it."

  He tried to imagine how it would have been. At twenty, she'd lost her parents, accepted the care and responsibility of a young girl and watched her marriage crumble. "Sounds to me like she was well rid of him."

  "I guess it doesn't hurt to say I never liked him very much. He was inoffensive. And dull."

  "Why did she marry him?"

  "I think it would be more appropriate to ask me," Cilia said from the doorway.

  Chapter 5

  The something she had done with her hair was to pull it back in a ponytail. It left her face unframed, so the anger in her eyes was that much easier to read. Along with the jersey she'd slept in, she'd pulled on a pair of yellow sweatpants. It was a deceptively sunny combination. Her hands were thrust into their deep pockets as she stood, directing all her resentment at Boyd.

  "Cilia." Knowing there was a time to argue and a time to soothe, Deborah stepped forward. "We were just—

  "Yes, I heard what you were just." She shifted her gaze to Deborah. The edge of her temper softened. "Don't worry about it. It's not your fault."

  "It's not a matter of fault," Deborah murmured. "We care what happens to you."

  "Nothing's going to happen. You'd better get going, Deb, or you'll be late. And it appears that Detective F
letcher and I have things to discuss."

  Deborah lifted her hands and let them fall. She shot one sympathetic glance toward Boyd, then kissed her sister's cheek. "All right. You'd never listen to reason at this hour anyway."

  "Get an A," was all Cilia said.

  "I intend to. I'm going to catch a burger and a movie with Josh, but I'll be back before you get home."

  "Have a good time." Cilia waited, not moving an inch until she heard the front door close. "You've got a hell of a nerve, Fletcher."

  He merely turned and slipped another mug off the hook behind the stove. "Want some coffee?"

  "I don't appreciate you grilling my sister."

  He filled the mug, then set it aside. "I left my rubber hose in my other suit."

  "Let's get something straight." She walked toward him, deliberately keeping her hands in her pockets. She was dead sure she'd hit him if she took them out. "If you have any questions about me, you come to me. Deborah is not involved in any of this."

  "She's a lot more forthcoming than her sister. Got any eggs?" he asked as he opened the refrigerator.

  She managed to restrain the urge to kick the door into his head. "You know, for a minute upstairs you had me fooled. I actually thought you had some heart, some compassion."

  He found a half-dozen eggs, some cheese and a few miserly strips of bacon. "Why don't you sit down, O'Roarke, and drink your coffee?"

  She swore at him, viciously. Something shot into his eyes, something dangerous, but he picked up a skillet and calmly began to fry the bacon. "You'll have to do better than that," he said after a moment. "After ten years on the force there's not much you could call me and get a rise."

  "You had no right." Her voice had quieted, but the emotion in it had doubled. "No right to dredge all that up with her. She was a child, devastated, scared to death. That entire year was nothing but hell for her, and she doesn't need you to make her remember it."

  "She handled herself just fine." He broke an egg into a bowl, then crushed the shell in his hand. "It seems to me you're the one with the problem."

  "Just back off."

  He had her arm in a tight grip so quickly that she had no chance to evade. His voice was soft, deadly, with temper licking around the edges. "Not a chance."

  "What happened back then has nothing to do with what's happening now, and what's happening now is the only thing that concerns you."

  "It's my job to determine what applies." With an effort, he reeled himself in. He couldn't remember when anyone had pushed him so close to the edge so often. "If you want me to put it to rest, then spell it out for me. Ex-spouses are favored suspects."

  "It was eight years ago." She jerked away and, needing something to do with her hands, snatched up her coffee. It splattered over the rim and onto the counter.

  "I find out from you or I find out from someone else. The end result's the same."

  "You want me to spell it out? You want me to strip bare? Fine. It hardly matters at this point. I was twenty, I was stupid. He was beautiful and charming and smart—all the things stupid twenty-year-old girls think they want."

  She took a long sip of hot coffee, then automatically reached for a washcloth to mop up the spill. "We only knew each other a couple of months. He was very persuasive, very romantic. I married him because I wanted something stable and real in my life. And I thought he loved me."

  She was calmer now. She hadn't realized that the anger had drained away. Sighing, she turned, mechanically reaching for plates and flatware. "It didn't work—almost from day one. He was disappointed in me physically and disillusioned when he saw that I believed my work was as important as his. He'd hoped to convince me to change jobs. Not that he wanted me to quit altogether. He wasn't against my having a career, even in radio—as long as it didn't interfere with his plans."

  "Which were?" Boyd asked as he set the bacon aside to drain.

  "Politics. Actually, we met at a charity event the station put on. He was trying to charm up votes. I was promoting. That was the basic problem," she murmured. "We met each other's public personalities."

  "What happened?"

  "We got married—too fast. And things went wrong—too fast. I was even considering his idea that I go into marketing or sales. I figured I should at least give it a shot. Then my parents… I lost my parents, and brought Deborah home."

  She stopped speaking for a moment. She couldn't talk of that time, couldn't even think of the fears and the griefs, the pain and the resentments.

  "It must have been rough."

  She shrugged the words away. "The bottom line was, I couldn't handle another upheaval. I needed to work. The strain ate away at what shaky foundation we had. He found someone who made him happier, and he left me." She filled her mug with coffee she no longer wanted. "End of story."

  What was he supposed to say? Boyd wondered. Tough break, kid? We all make mistakes? You were better off without the jerk? No personal comments, he warned himself. They were both edgy enough.

  "Did he ever threaten you?"

  "No."

  "Abuse you?"

  She gave a tired laugh. "No. No. You're trying to make him into the bad guy, Boyd, and it won't play. We were simply two people who made a mistake because we got married before we knew what we wanted."

  Thoughtful, Boyd scooped eggs onto her plate. "Sometimes people hold resentments without even being aware of it. Then one day they bust loose."

  "He didn't resent me." Sitting, she picked up a piece of bacon. She studied it as she broke it in two. "He never cared enough for that. That's the sad, sad truth." She smiled, but there wasn't a trace of humor in her eyes. "You see, he thought I was like the woman he heard on the radio—seductive, sophisticated, sexy. He wanted that kind of woman in bed. And outside the bedroom he wanted a well-groomed, well-mannered, attentive woman to make his home. I was neither." She shrugged and dropped the bacon on her plate again. "Since he wasn't the attentive, reliable and understanding man I thought he was, we both lost out. We had a very quiet, very civilized divorce, shook hands and went our separate ways."

  "If there was nothing more to it, why are you still raw?"

  She looked up then, eyes somber. "You've never been married, have you?"

  "No."

  "Then I couldn't begin to explain. If you want to run a check on Paul, you go ahead, but it's a waste of time. I can guarantee he hasn't given me a thought since I left Atlanta."

  He doubted that any man who had ever been close to her would be able to push her completely out of his mind, but he would let that ride for the moment. "You're letting your eggs get cold."

  "I told you I don't eat breakfast."

  "Humor me." He reached over, scooped up a forkful of eggs from her plate and held them to her lips.

  "You're a pest," she said after she swallowed them. "Don't you have to check in or something?''

  "I already did—last night, after you went up to bed."

  She toyed with the food on her plate, eating a bite or two to keep him from nagging her. He had stayed, she reminded herself, long after his duty shift was over. She owed him for that. And she always paid her debts.

  "Look, I appreciate you hanging around, and I know it's your job to ask all kinds of personal and embarrassing questions. But I really want you to leave Deb out of it."

  "As much as I can."

  "Spring break's coming up. I'm going to try to convince her to head for the beach."

  "Good luck." He sipped, watching her over the rim of his mug. "You might pull it off if you went with her."

  "I'm not running from this." After pushing her half-eaten breakfast aside, she rested her elbows on the table. "After the call this morning, I was pretty close to doing just that. I thought about it—and after I did I realized it's not going to stop until I figure it out. I want my life back, and that's not going to happen until we know who he is and why he's after me."

  "It's my job to find him."

  "I know. That's why I've decided to cooperate."
>
  He set his mug aside. "Have you?"

  "That's right. From now on, my life's an open book. You ask, I'll answer."

  "And you'll do exactly what you're told?"

  "No." She smiled. "But I'll do exactly what I'm told if it seems reasonable." She surprised them both by reaching over to touch his hand. "You look tired, Slick. Rough night?"

  "I've had better." He linked his fingers with hers before she could withdraw them. "You look damn good in the morning, Cilia."

  There it was again—that fluttering that started in her chest and drifted down to her stomach. "A little while ago you said I looked like hell."

  "I changed my mind. Before I clock in I'd like to talk to you about last night. About you and me."

  "That's not a good idea."

  "No, it's not." But he didn't release her hand. "I'm a cop, and you're my assignment. There's no getting around that." She nearly managed a relieved breath before he continued. "Any more than there's any getting around the fact that I want you so much it hurts."

  She went very still, so still she could hear the sound of her own heartbeat drumming in her head. Very slowly she moved her eyes, only her eyes, until they met his. They were not so calm now, she thought. There was a fire there, barely banked. It was exciting, terrifyingly exciting.

  "Lousy timing," he continued when she didn't speak. "But I figure you can't always pick the right time and the right place. I'm going to do my job, but I think you should know I'm having trouble being objective. If you want someone else assigned to you, you'd better say so now."

  "No." She answered too quickly, and she forced herself to backtrack. "I don't think I'm up to breaking in a new cop." Keep it light, she warned herself. "I'm not crazy about having one at all, but I'm almost used to you." She caught herself gnawing on her thumbnail and hastily dropped her hand into her lap. "As for the rest, we're not children. We can… handle it."

  He knew he shouldn't expect her to admit the wanting wasn't all one-sided. So he would wait a little while longer.