The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “I don’t suppose you put using an ignorant child to help you steal from her friends on your résumé.”

  “What a team we made.” He chuckled as if his betrayal had been nothing more than a joke. “How much better a team we might make now.”

  “I’m sorry to say the idea revolts me.” She smiled with a flutter of lashes. When she started to step away, he gripped her hand hard enough to make her wince.

  “I believe there are some things best left behind the fog of memory. Don’t you, Roxanne? After all, if you suddenly felt the urge to gossip about an old acquaintance, I might have to do the same.” His eyes were hard as he jerked her closer. To the casual onlooker it would appear they were contemplating a kiss. “I didn’t leave New Orleans right away. I made it my business to watch, to ask questions. To learn all manner of things. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’d prefer those things to be kept quiet.”

  She felt her color drain. Of all the things she could control, she had never been able to outwit the traitorously delicate skin of a redhead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re hurting me.”

  “I’d prefer to avoid that.” He lightened his grip. “Unless it were under more intimate circumstances. Perhaps a quiet midnight supper, where we can renew old acquaintance.”

  “No. I realize it might be a blow to your ego, Sam, but I really have no interest in your past, your present or your future.”

  “Then we won’t talk business.” He pressed his mouth to her ear and murmured a suggestion so blatant Roxanne wasn’t certain whether to cringe or laugh aloud. She didn’t have the chance to do either as a hand gripped her arm and jerked her back.

  “Keep your hands off her.” Luke’s face was alive with fury as he stepped between Roxanne and Sam. He was sixteen again, and ready to rumble. “Don’t ever touch her.”

  “Well, it appears I’ve stepped on some toes.” In marked opposition to Luke’s harsh whisper, Sam spoke jovially. He’d been right, after all. Not all the sparks he’d seen flying around onstage had been the result of special effects and magic.

  “Luke.” Well aware that heads were turning in their direction, Roxanne slipped a hand through his arm. It gave her the opportunity to dig her nails into his flesh. “A reception at the White House isn’t the place to cause a scene.” She was smiling gaily as she spoke.

  “Sensible and beautiful.” Sam nodded toward her, but kept his eyes on Luke. It was still there, and Sam was glad of it. The greasy pool of jealousy and hate still lapped in his gut. “I’d listen to the lady, Callahan. After all, this is my turf, not yours.”

  “Do you know how many bones you have in your hand?” Luke spoke pleasantly while his eyes continued to promise murder. “If you touch her again, you’ll find out. Because I’ll break each and every one of them.”

  “Stop it. I’m not a bone for the two of you to snap over.” With relief, she saw her father and Lily making their way through the crowd. “Let’s get through it, shall we? Daddy!” Bright enthusiasm bubbled out as she turned toward Max. “You won’t believe who’s here. It’s Sam Wyatt. After all this time.”

  “Max.” Smooth as a snake, Sam offered a hand, then took Lily’s fingers in his free one to kiss. “And Lily. More beautiful than ever.”

  “You’ll never guess what Sam’s up to these days.” Roxanne continued to chatter as if they were old, dear friends reunited.

  Max wasn’t one to hold a grudge. Nor was he a man to let down his guard. “So, you settled on politics.”

  “Yes, sir. You could say I owe it to you.”

  “Could you?”

  “You taught me showmanship.” He grinned, a political poster for success and youthful energy. “Senator Bushfield, sir.” Sam waylaid a trim, balding man with tired brown eyes and a lopsided smile. “I imagine you’ve met the Nouvelles.”

  “Yes, yes.” The Tennessee twang was rich and hearty despite the fatigue on the senator’s face. “Delightful show, as I told you, Nouvelle.”

  “I didn’t mention you before, Senator, because I wanted to surprise my old friends.” With an amused glance at Luke, Sam laid a hand on Max’s shoulder. “I once spent several months as apprentice magician to the master.”

  “You don’t say?” Bushfield’s eyes lit with interest.

  “But I do.” Sam smiled and wove a tale of a confused, disenchanted youth taken in and given direction by the kindness of a generous man and his family. “Unfortunately,” he concluded, “I was never adept at performing. But when I left the Nouvelles it was with a fresh purpose.” He laughed and ran a finger surreptitiously down Roxanne’s spine. “I wouldn’t be where I am today without them.”

  “I’ll tell you this.” Bushfield thumped Sam paternally on the back. “This boy here’s going places. Sharp as a tack and slippery as an eel.” He winked at Max. “He may not’ve been good at hocus pocus, but he sure can charm the pants off the constituents.”

  “Sam was never lacking in charm,” Max said. “Perhaps in focus.”

  “I’m focused now.” He aimed a look at Luke. “I know just how to do what needs to be done.”

  • • •

  “The slimy son of a bitch had his hands all over you.”

  Roxanne merely sighed. It was hard to believe that Luke was playing the same tune. Maybe it was because she’d managed to avoid him for the best part of twenty-four hours. “We were dancing, stupid.”

  “He was drooling on your neck.”

  “At least he didn’t bite.” She shot Luke a superior smile and leaned back. Mouse was driving silently through the suburbs, making slow sweeps of the area around Miranda’s house. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Callahan, and back on the job.”

  “I’d like to know what he’s got in his head,” Luke muttered. “It’s bad luck running into him like this.”

  “Luck is luck, my boy,” Max commented from the front seat. “What we do with it determines whether it’s good or bad.” Satisfied with the atmosphere, Max stripped out of his suit jacket and the false shirt front that hid a thin black sweater.

  In the rear seat, Luke and Roxanne made similar transformations. “Keep away from him.”

  “Kiss ass.”

  “Children.” Max shook his head as he glanced back. “If you can’t behave, Daddy won’t take you to find hidden treasure. Thirty-five minutes,” he said to Mouse. “No more, no less.”

  “ ’Kay, Max.” He slipped the car to the curb, then swiveled around. There was a big, happy grin on his face. “Break a leg, Roxy.”

  “Thanks, Mouse.” She leaned up to kiss him before climbing out of the car.

  It was a still, humid night. The light from the thumbnail moon was almost obscured by haze, and the heat hung in the air like a cowl. She could smell roses, jasmine and grass newly mowed, and the damp woody aroma of mulch recently watered.

  They moved like shadows over the lawn, slipping past azaleas no longer in bloom and summer perennials just starting to bud. Another shadow streaked past them, causing Roxanne to bump heavily against Luke. Her heart jammed hard at her ribs.

  But it was only a cat, racing off to find a stray mouse or a mate.

  “Nervous, Rox?” Luke’s teeth flashed in the dark.

  “No.” Annoyed, she hurried on, comforted by the solid bounce of her leather pouch against her thigh.

  “They got some woods around here,” he whispered close to her ear. “But I doubt there’s wolves. A couple wild dogs maybe.”

  “Get a life.” But she looked uneasily into the shadows for yellow eyes or fangs.

  As planned, they separated at the east corner of the house, Luke to cut the phone wires, Max to disengage the alarm system.

  “It takes a light touch.” Max patiently instructed his daughter. “One must not hurry or be overconfident. Practice,” he said, as he had done countless times over rehearsals. “An artist can never get enough practice. Even the greatest ballerina continues to take classes all of her professional life.”

  She watched him sp
reading and stripping wires. It was a hand-cramping, tedious job. Roxanne held the light steady and watched every move he made.

  “There’s a unit inside that operates on a code. It’s possible, with finesse, to jam it from out here.”

  “How do you know when you have?”

  He smiled and patted her hand, ignoring the grinding ache in his fingers. “Faith, coupled with intuition and experience. And . . . that little light up there will go out. Et voilà,” he whispered when the red dot went blank.

  “Six minutes gone.” Luke crouched behind them.

  “We won’t cut the glass.” Max continued to instruct as he moved to the rear terrace door. “It’s wired, you see. Even with the alarm off, it’s tricky—and much more time-consuming than picking the lock.”

  He took out his set of picks, a gift some thirty years before from LeClerc. With some ceremony, he handed them to Roxanne. “Try your luck, my love.”

  “Jesus, Max, it’ll take her forever.”

  Roxanne took a moment to scowl at Luke before bending to her task. Not even he could spoil the moment for her. She worked as her father had told her. Patiently. With hands as delicate as a surgeon’s, she operated on the lock. Her ear close to the door, her eyes serenely closed.

  She was imagining herself inside the lock, easing at the tumblers with gentle hands. Shifting, cajoling, maneuvering.

  A smile curved softly on her lips as she heard the click. Ah, the power of it.

  “It’s like music,” she whispered, and brought proud tears to Max’s eyes.

  “Two minutes, thirty-eight seconds.” He glanced over at Luke as he hit the button on his watch. “As good, I believe, as you’ve done.”

  Beginner’s luck, Luke thought, but was wise enough to keep the opinion to himself. They slipped through the door single file, and again separated.

  Luke’s layout of the house had been so complete they had needed to bribe no one for blueprints. Roxanne’s assignment was the paintings. She cut them carefully from their frames and rolled Corots, Monets, a particularly fine Pissarro street scene into the knapsack on her back before joining her father in the living room.

  She knew better than to disturb him at work. His fingers flicked at the safe dial. Roxanne thought he looked like Merlin, deftly brewing his spells. Her heart swelled.

  They exchanged grins as the door eased open.

  “Quickly now, dear.” He opened velvet boxes and long flat cases, dumping the contents into her pouch. Wanting to prove she’d learned well, Roxanne removed a loupe and under the beam of her flashlight examined the stones in a sapphire brooch.

  “Berlin-blue,” she murmured. “With an excellent—”

  It was then they heard the yip of a dog.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Easy.” Max laid a quieting hand on her arm. “At the first sign of trouble, you’re out the door and back to Mouse.”

  Her nerves jittered like banjo strings, but loyalty hung tough. “I won’t leave you.”

  “You will.” Moving fast, Max emptied the safe.

  Upstairs, Luke scowled at the growling Pomeranians. He hadn’t forgotten them. He knew, from his own afternoon there, that they made a habit of sleeping on their mistress’s bed.

  That was why he had two meaty bones in his pouch.

  He took them out, freezing when Miranda grumbled sleepily at the dogs and rolled over. Then he crouched, a shadow in the shadows, and gestured with the bones.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t dare take the risk even when Miranda began to snore lightly. But the dogs didn’t need any verbal prompting. Scenting the snack, they scrambled off the bed and snapped their jaws.

  Satisfied, Luke pulled out the false front on the section of bookshelves and went to work on the safe.

  It was a bit distracting having the woman sleeping in the room. Not that he hadn’t burgled a home with a woman snoring close by before. But he’d never done so with a woman he’d shared the bed with.

  Added an interesting angle, he thought.

  And wouldn’t you know that the luscious Miranda slept buck naked?

  The excitement, always vaguely sexual, that he felt on lifting a lock increased dramatically. By the time he had the safe open, he was rock hard and struggling to hold back laughter at the absurdity of the situation.

  He could always climb into bed with her and seduce her while she was half asleep. After all, he had the added benefit of knowing what moves she preferred.

  And she’d recognize him in the dark, he had no doubt.

  It would be a thrill, undoubtedly, but time was against him.

  Of course, there were proprieties and priorities. As Max would have said. Then again, he was the same one who said strike while the iron was hot.

  Christ Almighty, Luke thought, his personal iron was currently hot enough to melt stone.

  Too bad, baby, he thought, taking a last glance at the sprawled Miranda. He wondered if she’d have considered a quick roll payment for the loss of the jewels. Then he had to stifle another laugh as he hobbled from the room.

  “You’re two minutes behind.” Roxanne stood at the base of the stairs, hissing at him. “I was about to come up.” Her eyes narrowed against the dark. “Why are you walking like that?”

  Luke only snorted with muffled laughter and kept limping down the stairs.

  “Are you hurt? Are you—” She broke off when she saw just what was hampering him. “Christ, you’re a pervert.”

  “Just a healthy all-American boy, Roxy.”

  “Sick,” she tossed back, unreasonably jealous. “Disgusting.”

  “Normal. Painful, but normal.”

  “Ah, children.” Like a patient schoolteacher, Max signaled. “Perhaps we could discuss this in the car?”

  Roxanne continued to whisper insults as they hurried across the lawn. By the time they reached the car, the simple thrill of the entire evening took over. She tumbled in behind Mouse, laughing. She kissed him, even as he drove the car sedately down the street. There was another smacking kiss for Max, and because she was feeling generous—and perhaps just a little vindictive—she turned and pressed her lips firmly to Luke’s.

  “Oh, God.”

  “I hope you suffer.” Leaning back, she hugged the gem-packed pouch to her breasts. “Okay, Daddy. What do we do for an encore?”

  16

  Roxanne paced restlessly from beaded lampshade to picture frame, from crystal wand to jeweled box in Madame’s shop. In faded jeans and an oversized New Orleans Saints T-shirt, she looked precisely like what she was. A newly graduated college student waiting for her life to begin.

  Madame carefully counted out her customer’s change. After thirty years in business she continued to eschew modern distractions such as a cash register. The old, hand-painted cigar box under the counter served her well enough.

  “Enjoy,” she said, shaking her head as her customer left the shop with a stuffed parrot under his arm. Tourists, she thought, would buy anything. “So, pichouette, you come to show me your new college diploma?”

  “No. I think Max is having it bronzed.” She smiled a little, toying with a china cup that had a chip on its gold rim.

  “You’d think I’d discovered the cure for cancer instead of slogging my way through four years at Tulane.”

  “Graduating fifth in your class is not so small potatoes.”

  Roxanne jerked a shoulder in easy dismissal. She was restless, oh so restless, and couldn’t quite find the root of it. “It only took application. I have a good memory for details.”

  “And this troubles you?”

  “No.” Roxanne set the cup down and took a steadying breath. “I’m worried about my father.” It was a relief to say it aloud. “His hands aren’t what they were.”

  It was something she could speak with no one about, not even Lily. They all knew that arthritis was gaining on Max, swelling his knuckles, stiffening those agile fingers. There had been doctors, medication, massage. Roxanne knew that the pain was nothing compared t
o the fear of losing what he held most dear. His magic.

  “Even Max can’t cause time to vanish, petite.”

  “I know. I understand. I just can’t accept. It’s affecting him emotionally, Madame. He broods, he spends too much time alone in his workroom and with his research on that bloody magic stone. It’s gotten worse since Luke moved out last year.”

  Madame lifted a brow at the bitterness. “Roxanne, a man becomes a man and needs his own place.”

  “He just wanted to bring women in.”

  Madame’s lips twitched. “This is reason enough. He’s only a short distance, still in the Quarter. Does he not continue to work with Max?”

  “Yes, yes.” Roxanne waved a hand in dismissal. “I didn’t mean to get off the subject. It’s my father I’m concerned about. I can’t reach him the way I used to, not since he’s become obsessed with that damn stone.”

  “Stone? Tell me what is this stone?”

  Roxanne wandered over to the counter. She picked up the tarot deck Madame left there and began to shuffle. “The philosophers’ stone. It’s a myth, Madame, an illusion. Legend has it that this stone could turn anything it touched into gold. And . . .” She glanced up significantly. “Give youth back to the aged. Health to the ill.”

  “And you don’t believe in such things? You, who have lived your lifetime in magic.”

  “I know what makes magic work.” Roxanne cut the cards and began a Celtic cross. “Sweat and practice, timing and misdirection. Emotion and drama. I believe in the art of magic, Madame, not in magic stones. Not in the supernatural.”

  “I see.” Madame cocked a brow at the cards on the counter. “Yet you seek your answers there?”

  “Hmm?” Caught up in interpreting the spread, Roxanne frowned. Then flushed. “Just to pass the time.” Before she could gather the cards up, Madame caught her hand.

  “A shame to disturb a reading.” She hunched over the cards herself. “The girl is ready to become a woman. There’s a journey ahead, soon. Both figuratively and literally.”