The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “I’d love to give you girls time to catch up.” Angela pressed her fingers warningly on Kate’s shoulder. “But we’re running late.”

  “I’ll let you go.” Tucking Angela’s speech under her arm, Deanna stepped back. “How long will you be in Chicago?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Kate stepped back as well. “It was good to see you.”

  “And you.” Oddly hurt, Deanna turned and walked away.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Angela gestured Kate into her office, shut the door. “You running into a childhood friend—who just happens to be my protégée—right in my office. Tell me, Kate, have you kept in touch with Dee? Shared all your secrets with her?”

  “Only a fool shares secrets willingly, Angela. Now let’s not waste time on small talk. Let’s get down to business.”

  Satisfied, Angela sat behind her desk. “Yes, let’s.”

  To Finn Riley, New York was like a woman: A long-legged, slick-skinned siren who knew her way around the block. She was sexy; she was by turns tacky and chic. And God knew she was dangerous.

  Perhaps that was why he preferred Chicago. Finn loved women, and had a weakness for the long-legged, dangerous type. But Chicago was a big, burly man, with sweat on his shirt and a cold brew in his fist. Chicago was a brawler.

  Finn trusted an honest fight more than he ever would a seduction.

  He knew his way around Manhattan. He’d lived there briefly with his mother during one of his parents’ trial separations. He’d lost track of how many trial separations there had been before the inevitable divorce.

  He remembered how reasonable they both had been. How bloodless and civilized. And he remembered being shuffled off to housekeepers, secretaries, prep schools, to spare him, supposedly, from that well-choreographed discord. In reality, he knew neither of his parents had been comfortable with a young boy who had asked direct questions and hadn’t been satisfied with logical, gutless answers.

  So he had lived in Manhattan, and on Long Island, and in Connecticut and Vermont. He’d summered in Bar Harbor and on Martha’s Vineyard. He’d done time in the hallowed halls of three of New England’s top prep schools.

  Perhaps that was why he still had such restless feet. The minute roots started to dig in, he felt honor-bound to rip them out and move on.

  Now he was back in New York. Temporarily. Where he knew the underbelly as well as he knew his mother’s elegant penthouse on Central Park West.

  He couldn’t even say if he preferred one to the other. Any more than he could say that he minded putting in a few days on Wake Up Call.

  At the moment, Finn put New York out of his mind and concentrated on the ball whizzing toward his nose. It wasn’t self-defense nearly as much as it was the spirit of competition. And God knew the exertion of the court was a welcome change from the hours he’d spent sitting on a sofa on the set the last four days.

  He sliced out with his racket, letting out a grunt of effort that was lost as the ball caromed off the wall. The power sang up his arm, the echo of the smash reverberated in his head. Adrenaline raced through him as his opponent cracked the ball back.

  He met it with a solid backhand. The sweat dribbled satisfactorily down his back, dampening his ragged CBC T-shirt. For the next five minutes, there was only the smash and echo of the ball, the smell of sweat and the sound of labored breathing.

  “Son of a bitch.” Barlow James sagged against the wall as Finn blew one by him. “You’re killing me.”

  “Shit.” Finn didn’t bother with the wall. He slid straight down to the floor of the Vertical Club. Every muscle in his body was weeping. “Next time I’ll bring a gun. It’ll be easier on both of us.” He groped for a towel, mopped his soaking face. “When the hell are you going to get old?”

  Barlow’s laugh barked off the walls of the racquetball court. He was a brawny six-foot-four, flat of stomach, broad of chest, with shoulders like concrete blocks. At sixty-three, he was showing no signs of slowing down. As he crossed toward Finn, he pulled an orange neon sweatband away from his silver mane of hair. Finn had always thought Barlow had a face that belonged on Mount Rushmore. Craggy, huge and powerful.

  “Getting soft, kid.” Barlow pulled a bottle of Evian out of his gym bag and tossed it underhand to Finn. The second one he kept himself, drinking in deep, greedy gulps. “Almost took you that time.”

  “I’ve been playing with Brits.” Since he nearly had his breath back, Finn grinned up at him. “They’re not as mean as you.”

  “Well, welcome back to the States.” Barlow offered a hand, hauling Finn to his feet. It was like being gripped by a friendly grizzly. “You know, most people would have considered the post in London a promotion, even a coup.”

  “It’s a nice town.”

  Barlow let out a sigh. “Let’s hit the showers.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were stretched out on massage tables being pummeled.

  “Damn good show this morning,” Barlow commented.

  “You’ve got a good crew, solid writers. Give it a little time and you’ll be competitive.”

  “Time is shorter than it used to be in this business. I used to hate the goddamn bean counters.” He bared his teeth in a grimace. “Now I’m a goddamn bean counter.”

  “At least you’re a bean counter with imagination.”

  Barlow said nothing. Finn held his silence, knowing there was a purpose to this informal meeting.

  “Give me an opinion on the Chicago bureau.”

  “It’s tight,” Finn said cautiously. “Hell, Barlow, you were bureau chief there for more than ten years, you know what we’re working with. You’ve got a solid combination of experience and fresh blood. It’s a good place to work.”

  “Ratings for the local evening news are weak. What we need is a stronger lead-in. I’d like to see them shift Angela’s to four, pull her audience along.”

  Finn shrugged. He didn’t ignore ratings, but he did detest their importance. “She’s been at nine in Chicago and most of the Midwest for years. You might have a tough time pulling it off.”

  “Tougher than you think,” Barlow murmured. “You and Angela . . . ah, there’s nothing going on there anymore?”

  Finn opened his eyes, cocked a brow. “Are we going to have a father-son chat, Pop?”

  “Wiseass.” Barlow chuckled, but his eyes were keen. Finn knew the look. “I wondered if you two had picked up where you left off.”

  “Where we left off was in the toilet,” Finn said dryly. “And no.”

  “Hmmm. So are relations friendly or strained?”

  “Publicly, friendly. Realistically, she hates my guts.”

  Barlow grunted again. It was good news, he thought, because he was fond of the boy. It was bad news because it meant he might not be able to use him. Making up his mind, he shifted on the table, wrapping the sheet around him and dismissing both masseuses.

  “I’ve got a problem, Finn. A nasty little rumor that came buzzing in my ear a couple of days ago.”

  Finn pushed himself up. At any other time he would have made a crack about two grown men having an intense conversation while they were half naked and smelling of ginseng. “You want it to buzz in my ear?”

  “And stop there.”

  “All right.”

  “Word is Angela Perkins is pulling up stakes—in Chicago and with CBC and Delacort.”

  “I haven’t caught wind of that.” Considering, Finn pushed the hair away from his face. Like any reporter, he hated getting news secondhand. Even if the news was only a rumor. “Look, it’s contract time, right? She probably started the hum herself to get the brass to offer another truckload of money.”

  “No. Fact is, she’s keeping it quiet. Real quiet. What I hear is that her agent’s making negotiating noises, but they don’t ring true. The leak came from Starmedia. If she leaves, Finn, it’ll be a big hole.”

  “That’s the entertainment division’s problem.”

  “Their problem’s our problem. You know that.”<
br />
  “Fuck.”

  “Well said. I only mention it because I thought if you and Angela were still . . .”

  “We’re not.” Finn frowned. “I’ll see what I can find out when I get back.”

  “Appreciate it. Now, let’s get some lunch. We’ll talk about news magazines.”

  “I’m not doing a news magazine.” It was an old argument, one they continued with perfect amiability as they trailed sheets into the locker room.

  “Hawaii sounds perfect,” Deanna said into the phone.

  “I’m glad you think so. How about the second week in June?”

  Pleased with the idea, Deanna poured a mug of coffee. She carried it and her portable phone to the table where she’d set up her laptop. “I’ll put in for it. I haven’t taken any time since I started at the station, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  “Why don’t I stop by? We can talk about it, look at some brochures.”

  She closed her eyes, knowing she couldn’t ignore the insistent blip on her computer screen. “I wish we could. I’ve got work. I had something come in at the last minute that held me up.” She didn’t mention the hour she’d spent punching up Angela’s speech. “Pulling the anchor desk this weekend’s really tied me up. How about brunch on Sunday?”

  “Say about ten? I could meet you at the Drake. We can look over the brochures and decide on what suits us.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  “So will I.”

  “I’m sorry about tonight.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve got some work myself. Good night, Deanna.”

  “Good night.”

  Marshall hung up. Mozart was playing on the stereo, a quiet fire was burning in the hearth and the scent of lemon oil and fragrant smoke hung in the air.

  After polishing off his brandy, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. There, with the sound of violins lilting through the recessed speakers, he stripped out of his tailored suit. Beneath, he wore silk.

  It was a small affectation. He liked soft, expensive things. He liked, admittedly and without shame, women. His wife had often joked about it, he remembered, had even appreciated his admiration for the opposite sex. Until, of course, she’d found him intimately admiring young Annie Gilby.

  He winced at the memory of his wife arriving home a full day early from a business trip. The look on her face when she’d walked into the bedroom and discovered him making loud, boisterous love to Annie. It had been a horrible mistake. A tragic one. His argument, perfectly justified, that his wife’s preoccupation with her career and her lack of occupation in their bedroom had made him easy game, had fallen on deaf ears.

  It hadn’t mattered to her that the girl had utterly and deliberately seduced him, had played on his weaknesses, his frustrations. There had been other women, yes. But they had been momentary diversions, discreet sexual releases when his wife was away or involved with her own decorating business. And not worth mentioning.

  He would never have hurt Patricia, Marshall assured himself now as he chose dark slacks and a shirt. He had loved her completely, and he missed her miserably.

  He was a man who needed to be married, who needed a woman to talk to, to share his life and home with. A bright, intelligent woman, like Patricia. True, he needed the stimulation of beauty. That wasn’t a flaw. Patricia had been beautiful, and ambitious; she had a sense of style and taste that was faultless.

  In short, she’d been perfect for him. Except for her inability to understand a few very human flaws.

  When she had discovered them, she’d been unforgiving as stone. And he had lost her.

  Though he still missed her, he understood life continued.

  Now he had found someone else. Deanna was beautiful, ambitious, intelligent. She was as perfect a companion as he could want. And he wanted her—had wanted her since he had first seen her face on the television screen. Now she was more than an image, she was reality. He was going to be very careful with her.

  Sexually, she was a bit repressed, but he could be patient. The idea of taking her away from Chicago, away from the pressures and distractions, had been brilliant. Once she was relaxed, secure, she would belong to him. Until that time he would harness his needs, his frustrations.

  But he hoped it wouldn’t be much longer.

  Chapter Eight

  “Maui,” Fran said over a mouthful of cheeseburger. “For the weekend. That’s so un-Deanna.”

  “Is it?” Deanna paused over her own meal and considered. “Maybe it is, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it. We’re getting a suite in a hotel right on the beach where the brochure says you can see whales. Binoculars,” she said suddenly, and dug in her purse for a pad. “I need a good pair.”

  Fran craned her neck and read the neat list Deanna had started. “Now, that’s our Deanna. Are you going to eat all those fries?”

  “No, help yourself.” Already engrossed in her list, Deanna pushed her plate toward Fran.

  “A weekend in Hawaii sounds pretty serious.” Fran doused the fries with ketchup. “Is it?”

  “It could be.” She glanced up again, and the bloom in her cheeks spoke volumes. “I really think it could be. I feel comfortable with Marshall.”

  Fran grimaced. “Sweet pea, you feel comfortable with an old pair of bunny slippers.”

  “Not that kind of comfortable. I can relax around him. I know he’s not going to pressure me, so that I can . . . just let things happen. When it feels right. I can talk to him about anything.”

  The words came quickly. Too quickly, Fran mused. If she knew Deanna, and she did, she’d have bet a month’s pay her best friend was going out of her way to convince herself.

  “He has this incredible sense of fairness,” Deanna continued. “We’re interested in so many of the same things. And he’s romantic. I didn’t realize how wonderful it would be to have someone send me flowers and arrange candlelight dinners.”

  “That’s because you were always looking for the trapdoor.”

  “Yeah.” Deanna let out a little breath, closed her notebook. “I’m going to tell him about Jamie Thomas.”

  In an automatic gesture of support, Fran reached out and covered Deanna’s hand with hers. “Good. That means you trust him.”

  “I do.” Her eyes darkened with determination. “And I want a normal, healthy relationship with a man. By God, I’m going to have one. I won’t be able to do that until I tell him what happened to me. He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow.”

  Fran abandoned the fries to fold her arms on the table between them. “If you need any moral support, you only have to call.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got to get back,” she said after a glance at her watch. “I’ve got to do a news break at eight-thirty.”

  “You’ve got the ten o’clock tonight, too, don’t you?” Fran stuffed a last fry in her mouth. “Richard and I’ll watch you, while we’re all snuggled up in bed. I’ll make sure he’s naked.”

  “Thanks.” Deanna counted out bills for the tab. “That’ll give me a nice visual while I’m reading the news.”

  It was nearly midnight when Deanna climbed into bed. As always, she checked her alarm, then made certain there was a pencil and pad on the nightstand beside the phone. The phone rang just as she was reaching for the light. Instinctively, she picked up the receiver with one hand, the pencil with the other.

  “Reynolds.”

  “You were wonderful tonight.”

  The flutter of pleasure made her smile as she eased back against the pillows. “Marshall. Thanks.”

  “I just wanted you to know I was watching. It’s the next best thing to being with you.”

  “It’s nice to know.” It felt glorious, snuggling back in bed, pleasantly sleepy, with the voice of the man she thought she might love in her ear. “I’ve been thinking about Hawaii all day.”

  “So have I. And about you.” He had her taped image freeze-framed on his set, quietly arousing himself with her image and he
r voice. “I’m very indebted to Angela Perkins for bringing us together.”

  “Me too. Sleep well, Marshall.”

  “I will. Good night, Deanna.”

  Warm and content, Deanna replaced the receiver. Hugging herself, she laughed and indulged in a dreamy fantasy. She and Marshall walking along the beach while the sun dripped color into the water. Soft breezes. Soft words. The gentle tug low in her stomach pleased her. Normal, she told herself. Certainly that proved she was a normal woman with normal needs. She was ready to take the next step toward fulfilling them. She was eager to.

  Only seconds after she switched off the lamp and snuggled down, the phone rang again. Chuckling to herself, she lifted the receiver in the dark.

  “Hi,” she murmured. “Did you forget something?”

  There was only echoing silence in response.

  “Marshall?” Her sleepy voice shifted into puzzlement. “Hello? Who’s there?” Then into unease as the dull silence continued. “Hello? Is anyone there?” The quiet click brought on a quick shudder.

  Wrong number, Deanna assured herself as she hung up. But she was cold. And it was a long time before she warmed again and slept.

  Someone else lay awake in the dark. The ghostly light from the television screen was the only relief. Deanna smiled there, looking out into the room, looking directly into the eyes of her audience of one. Her voice, so smooth, so sweet, so seductive, played over and over on the recorder as it was rewound.

  “I’m Deanna Reynolds. Good night. I’m Deanna Reynolds. Good night. I’m Deanna Reynolds. Good night.”

  “Good night.” The answering whisper was soft, no more than a purr of pleasure.

  Angela had planned every detail meticulously. Standing in the center of her office, she turned a slow circle. Everything was ready. There was a faint fragrance of jasmine in the air from the vase of flowers on the table by the love seat. The television set, for once, was blank. The quiet strains of Chopin eased through the speakers of the stereo. Beeker had been very thorough in his report. Marshall Pike preferred classical music, romantic settings and a woman with style. She wore the same trim designer suit she’d worn for that morning’s taping, but she’d removed the blouse. The jacket fit with a snug “V,” and there was a cunning hint of black lace teasing the cleavage.