The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “Lily’s going to work on finding him a wife.”

  “She hides that sadistic streak so well. At least he’s useful backstage.” Because he enjoyed it, and it was a handy misdirection, Luke picked up her hand to toy with her fingers. “You know, Rox, I’ve been thinking about the act.”

  She gave a sleepy sigh. “Think it’s ready to take on the road?”

  “Yeah, it’s ready. But I was thinking about something closer to home.”

  “Such as.”

  “Such as this building for sale on the south edge of the Quarter. Good size. Needs a lot of work, but it has potential.”

  “Possibilities? What kind?”

  “The magic kind. The Nouvelle Magic Shop, New Orleans. A theater to break in new acts, to amaze the masses. Maybe with a little magic store tucked in it to sell tricks. A first-class operation.”

  “A business.” Intrigued but wary, she eased back so that she could see his face. In it she saw barely restrained excitement. “You want to start a business?”

  “Not just a business. A possibility. You and me, partners. We’d perform there, draw some of the big names and give a few new ones a shot. A carnival, Rox, but this one would stay in one place. It could be just as magical.”

  “You’ve been giving this a lot of thought. Since when?”

  “Since Nate. I want to be able to give him what Max gave me. A base.” To give the idea a chance to simmer, he lifted her fingers to his lips, kissing them one by one. “We’d still go on the road. That’s what we do. But we wouldn’t be traveling nine out of twelve months. He’ll be starting school full-time soon.”

  “I know. I’ve thought of that. I was planning to cut back once he did. Work around his schedule.”

  “If we did this, you wouldn’t have to cut back, and you’d accomplish the same thing.” He saw the interest light in her eyes and dove in for the kill. “There’s just one hitch.”

  “There’s always a trap door. What is it?”

  “You have to marry me.”

  She couldn’t say she was surprised. It was more like a quick, powerful electric shock. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re going to have to marry me. That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” She would have laughed, but she didn’t think she had the strength for it. She did manage to gain her feet. “You’re telling me I have to marry you. As in ‘I do’ and ‘till death do us part’?”

  “I’d ask you, but I figure you’d waste time weighing the odds. So I’m telling.”

  Her chin came up. “And I’m telling you—”

  “Hold it.” He held up a hand, standing so they’d be face to face. “I was going to ask you the night I came back from Sam’s with my pockets full of sapphires.”

  That not only stopped her temper but muddled her head. “You were?”

  “I had it pretty well planned. I was going to go for the romantic route. I even had a ring in my pocket. But I had to hock it in Brazil.”

  “In Brazil. I see.”

  “What would you have done if I had asked you then?”

  “I don’t know.” That was the pure, sterling truth. “We’d never talked about it. I guess I thought things would keep going the way they were going.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “No, they didn’t.” Baffled, she blew out a breath. “I would have thought about it. I would have thought about it hard.”

  “And if I ask you now you’ll do the same thing. So I’m bypassing that. We’re getting married or the rest of the deal’s off.”

  “You can’t bully me into marriage.”

  “If bullying doesn’t work, I’ll seduce you.” He ran his hands up and down her arms, an old habit that still thrilled her. “And I’ll start by telling you I love you. That you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. Ever will love.” Smooth as silk, he drew her close to let his lips play over hers. “I want to make promises to you, and for you to make them to me. I want more children with you. I want to be here when they grow inside you.”

  “Oh, Luke.” If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she smelled orange blossoms. Marriage, she thought. It was so ordinary, so commonplace. So exciting. “Promise you’ll never, ever call me the little woman.”

  “I’ll swear it in blood.”

  “Okay.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if shocked the word had escaped. Then she laughed and said it again. “Okay. You’re on.”

  “No pulling back,” he warned, lifting her up to spin her in a circle.

  “I never welch.”

  “Then the next time we’re onstage, it’ll be introducing Callahan, and his beautiful wife, Roxanne Nouvelle.”

  “Not on your life.” She punched his shoulder when he dropped her to the ground.

  “All right. Just Callahan and Nouvelle.” He arched a brow. “It’s alphabetical, Rox.”

  “Nouvelle and Callahan. I’m the one who taught you your first card trick, remember?”

  “You never let me forget. Deal.” He shook her hand formally. “Nate’s going to have himself two legally married parents and a dog. What more could a kid want?”

  “It’s so conventional, it’s scary.” She combed a hand through her hair. “And about that dog—”

  “Jake’s out walking him. Don’t worry. Mike hasn’t chewed up anything worth talking about for an hour. And don’t bother with that hard-ass line, Roxy. I saw you feeding him chocolate chip cookies this morning.”

  “It was a plan. I figured if I fed him until he got fat, he wouldn’t be able to waddle upstairs and pee on the bedroom rug.”

  “You scratched his ears, made kissy noises and let him lick your face.”

  “It was a moment of insanity. But I’m feeling much better now.”

  “Good, because there’s just one more thing.”

  “Just one more.”

  “Yeah. We’re giving up stealing.”

  “We’re—” She really had no choice but to sit down. “Giving up?”

  “Cold turkey.” He sat beside her. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, too. We’re parents now, and I’d like to make another baby as soon as possible. I don’t think you should be doing second-story work with a baby on board.”

  “But—it’s what we do.”

  “It’s what we did,” he corrected. “And we were the best. Let’s go out on top, Roxy. With Max, it was the end of an era. We’ve got to start our own. And Christ, what do we do if Nate does grow up to be a cop?” He was kissing her fingers again, and laughing. “He might arrest us. What kind of guilt is that to lay on a kid, sending up his own parents?”

  “You’re being ridiculous. Children go through stages.”

  “What did you want to be when you were four?”

  “A magician,” she said on a sigh. “But to give it up, Callahan. Couldn’t we just . . . cut back?”

  “It’s cleaner this way, Rox.” He patted her hand. “You know it is.”

  “We’ll only steal from really rich men with red hair.”

  “Bite the bullet, babe.”

  Letting out a groan she sat back. “Married, starting a business and going straight all at once. I don’t know, Callahan. I may explode.”

  “We’ll take it one day at a time.”

  She knew he had her. The image of Nate, all three feet of him, wearing a badge and tearfully locking her behind bars was too much. “The next thing you’ll be telling me we should start doing kids’ birthday parties.” When he made no response, she sat bolt upright. “Oh God, Luke.”

  “It’s not that bad. It’s just . . . well, the other day when I took Nate to nursery school, I sort of got into this conversation with his teacher. I guess I promised we’d do this little act for the Christmas party.”

  There was silence for a full minute, then she began to laugh. She laughed until she had to hold her sides to keep her ribs intact. He was perfect, she realized. Absolutely perfect. And absolutely hers.

  “I love you.” She surprised him by throwing her arms around his
neck and kissing him hard and long. “I love who you turned out to be.”

  “Same goes. Want to neck in the moonlight?”

  “You bet I do.” She pressed a finger to his lips before they met hers. “One warning, Callahan. If you go out and buy a station wagon, I’m turning you into a frog.”

  He kissed her finger, then her mouth, deciding he’d wait for a more opportune moment to mention the Buick he’d put a deposit on that morning.

  As Max would have said, timing was everything.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PRIVATE SCANDALS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1993 by Nora Roberts

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ISBN: 1-101-14607-9

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Jove and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  To Pop

  Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  PART ONE

  “ ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said, ‘to talk of many things.’ ”

  Lewis Carroll

  Chicago, 1994

  It was a moonless midnight in Chicago, but to Deanna, the moment had all the makings of High Noon. It was easy to see herself in the quietly dignified, stalwart Gary Cooper role, preparing to face down the canny, vengeance-seeking gunslinger.

  But damn it, Deanna thought, Chicago was her town. Angela was the outsider.

  It suited Angela’s sense of the dramatic, Deanna supposed, to demand a showdown in the very studio where they both had climbed ambition’s slippery ladder. But it was Deanna’s studio now, and it was her show that garnered the lion’s share of the ratings points. There was nothing Angela could do to change that, short of conjuring up Elvis from the grave and asking him to sing “Heartbreak Hotel” to the studio audience.

  A ghost of a smile flitted around Deanna’s lips at the image, but there wasn’t much humor in it. Angela was nothing if not a worthy opponent. Over the years she had used gruesome tactics to keep her daily talk show on top.

  But whatever Angela had up her sleeve this time wasn’t going to work. She had underestimated Deanna Reynolds. Angela could whisper secrets and threaten scandal all she wanted, but nothing she could say would change Deanna’s plans.

  She would, however, hear Angela out. Deanna thought she would even attempt, one last time, to compromise. To offer, if not friendship, at least a cautious truce. There was little hope the breach could be spanned after all this time and all the hostility, but hope, to Deanna’s mind, sprang eternal.

  At least until it dried up.

  Focusing on the matter at hand, Deanna pulled into the CBC Building’s parking lot. During the day, the lot would be crammed with cars—technicians, editors, producers, talent, secretaries, interns. Deanna would be dropped off and picked up by her driver, avoiding the hassle. Inside the great white building, people would be rushing to put out the news—at seven A.M., noon and five and ten P.M.—and Let’s Cook! with Bobby Marks, the weekly In Depth with Finn Riley, and the top-rated talk show in the country, Deanna’s Hour.

  But now, just after midnight, the lot was nearly empty. There were half a dozen cars belonging to the skeleton crew who were loitering in the newsroom, waiting for something to happen somewhere in the world. Probably hoping any new wars would wait to erupt until the lonely night shift ended.

  Wishing she were somewhere else, anywhere else, Deanna pulled into an empty space and shut off the engine. For a moment she simply sat, listening to the night, the swish of cars on the street to the left, the rumble of the huge air-conditioning system that kept the building and the expensive equipment cool. She had to get a handle on her mixed emotions and her nerves before she faced Angela.

  Nerves were second nature in the profession she’d chosen. She would work with them, or through them. Her temper was something she could and would control, particularly if losing it would accomplish nothing. But those emotions, the ones that ran so strong and so contradictory, were another matter. Even after all this time, it was difficult to forget that the woman she was about to face was one she had once admired and respected. And trusted.

  From bitter experience Deanna knew that Angela was an expert in emotional manipulation. Deanna’s problem—and many said her talent—was an inability to hide her feelings. They were there, up front, shouting to anyone who cared to listen. Whatever she felt was mirrored in her gray eyes, broadcast in the tilt of her head or the expression of her mouth. Some said that’s what made her irresistible, and dangerous. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the rearview mirror toward her. Yes, she mused, she could see the sparks of temper in her own eyes, and the simmering resentment, the dragging regret. After all, she and Angela had been friends once. Or almost friends.

  But she could also see the pleasure of anticipation. That was a matter of pride. This bout had been a long time coming.

  Smiling a little, Deanna took out a tube of lipstick and carefully painted her mouth. You didn’t go one-on-one with your arch rival without the most basic of shields. Pleased that her hand was rock steady, she dropped the lipstick back in her purse, climbed out of the car. She stood a moment, breathing in the balmy night while she asked herself one question.

  Calm, Deanna?

  Nope, she thought. What she was, was revved. If the energy was fueled by nerves, it didn’t matter. Slamming the car door behind her, she strode across the lot. She slipped her plastic ID out of her pocket and punched it into the security slot beside the rear door. Seconds later, a little green light blipped, allowing her to depress the handle and pull the heavy door open.

  She flicked the switch to light the stairway, and let the door ease shut behind her.

  She found it interesting that Angela hadn’t arrived before her. She’d have taken a car service, Deanna thought. Now that Angela was settled in New York, she no longer had a regular driver in Chicago. It surprised Deanna that she hadn’t seen a limo waiting in the lot.

  Angela was always, always on time.

  It was one of the many things Deanna respected about her.


  The click of Deanna’s heels on the stairs echoed hollowly as she descended a level. As she slipped her card in the next security slot, she wondered briefly who Angela had bribed, threatened or seduced to gain entry to the studio.

  Not so many years before, Deanna had rushed down that same route, wide-eyed and enthusiastic, running errands at the snap of Angela’s demanding fingers. She’d been ready to preen like an eager puppy for any sign of approval. But, like any smart pup, she’d learned.

  And when betrayal had come, with its keen-edged disillusionment, she might have whimpered, but she’d licked her wounds and had used everything she’d learned—until the student became the master.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her to discover how quickly old resentments, long cooled, could come rolling to a boil. And this time, Deanna thought, this time when she faced Angela, it would be on her own turf, under her own rules. The naive kid from Kansas was more than ready to flex the muscles of realized ambition.

  And perhaps once she did, they would finally clear the air. Meet on equal terms. If it wasn’t possible to forget what had happened between them in the past, it was always possible to accept and move on.

  Deanna slipped her card into the slot beside the studio doors. The light blinked green. She pushed inside, into darkness.

  The studio was empty.

  That pleased her. Arriving first gave her one more advantage, as a hostess escorting an unwelcome guest into her home. And if home was where you grew from girl to woman, where you learned and squabbled, the studio was home.

  Smiling a little, Deanna reached out in the dark for the switch that controlled a bank of overhead lights. She thought she heard something, some whisper that barely disturbed the air. And a feeling stabbed through that fine sense of anticipation. A feeling that she was not alone.

  Angela, she thought, and flicked the switch.

  But as the overhead lights flashed on, brighter ones, blinding ones, exploded inside her head. As the pain ripped through them, she plunged back into the dark.