The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “I don’t want to be protected.” She broke away, curled her hands into impotent fists. “I don’t need to be protected. Can’t you see? Don’t you understand? He used me to kill her. He used me. He isn’t going to hurt me; I don’t need to be protected. But God knows who else he might hurt because of me.”

  “Me,” he said quietly, furiously. “That’s what this is all about. You think he might try for me. The best way to prevent that is to dump me, right? To make sure everyone knows you’ve broken it off.”

  Her lips trembled before she pressed them together. “I’m not going to argue with you, Finn.”

  “You’re absolutely right about that.” He picked up her case and upended the contents. “Don’t ever try that with me again. Don’t ever use my feelings on me like that again.”

  “He’ll try to kill you,” she said dully. “I know he will.”

  “So you lied, to try to protect me.” When she opened her mouth, shut it again, he smiled. “Quid pro quo, Deanna. We’ll call it even. So you don’t want to be protected—neither do I. What do you want?”

  She lifted her fisted hands to her cheeks, then let them fall. “I want you to stop watching me as though I were going to fall apart.”

  “Done. What else?”

  “I want you to swear you won’t keep anything from me, no matter how much you think it’ll upset me.”

  “Deal, and same goes.”

  She nodded slowly, watching him. “You’re still angry.”

  “Yeah, I’m still angry. It’s a residual effect when the woman I love cuts me in half.”

  “You still want me.”

  “God, yes, I still want you.”

  “You haven’t made love with me since this happened. Whenever I’d turn to you, you’d soothe and you’d cuddle, but you haven’t touched me.”

  “No, I haven’t.” He felt the blood begin to swim in his veins. “I wanted to give you time.”

  “I don’t want time!” she shouted at him, felt the first sweet snap of release. “I’m not fragile or weak or delicate. I want you to stop looking at me as though I were, as though I’d crumble. I’m alive. I want to feel alive. Make me feel alive.”

  He reached out, brushed his knuckle down her cheek. “You should have asked for something more difficult.”

  He kissed her. She could feel the sparks of fury he was struggling to bank, taste the hot frustration, the searing need.

  “Don’t,” she murmured. “Don’t be gentle. Not now.”

  He wanted to be. But she was pulling him down on the bed, her hands already frantic as they tugged at his clothes. He couldn’t be gentle, couldn’t tap the well of tenderness when her mouth was driving him beyond caution into madness.

  Her body vibrated against his as she arched and strained and writhed. More was all she could think. More of him. More of that simmering violence she had watched him fight to chain for days. She wanted him to release it now, inside her.

  She could hear her own heart drum heavily in her ears, feel each separate pulse throb. Her muffled cry was one of triumph as he ripped her shirt aside, seeking flesh.

  The wind kicked against the windows, rattling glass. It hooted down the chimney, struggling to puff smoke into the room. But the fire blazed in the hearth and burned brighter with the threat of the storm.

  On the bed they rolled like thunder.

  His mouth was on her, ravenous, teeth scraping skin already damp with passion. His breath was hot and quick, his hands bruising in their hurry to possess. She reared up to meet him, her head falling back, her moan long and feral.

  Faster. Faster. The desperation peaked as he yanked at her jeans, his hungry mouth racing down her shuddering torso toward the violent heat. Her hands dived into his hair, pressed him closer, closer. Her nails scraped unfelt down his back as the first orgasm pummeled her.

  “Now.” She nearly wept it, dragging him up, frantic for him to fill her. Her hands clutched at his hips, her legs wrapped around his waist. “Now,” she said again, then cried out when he drove himself into her.

  “More.” He yanked her body up, plunged deeper, thrusting hard, still harder while the ferocity of pleasure racked through him. His body felt like an engine, tireless, primed to run. He mated it with hers, steel cased in velvet, pumping faster each time he felt her muscles contract like a moist fist around him.

  When she arched, straining, he pulled her to him until they were torso to torso. Her teeth sank into his shoulder even as her body moved like wet silk against his. Again she went rigid, her body stiffening, then breaking into shudders. Her eyes sprang open, staring glazed into his while she went limp.

  “I can’t.”

  He shoved her back, grasping her hands and dragging them over her head. “I can.”

  He devoured her, letting the animal take over, ripping each new response from her with impatient teeth, enticing new fires with tongue and lips.

  His breath was burning in his throat, his blood pounding in his head, in his loins. The final wave of sensation swamped him, flooded through his system like light—white and blinding. He thought she cried out again, just his name, as he emptied himself into her.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Marshall Pike’s office looked like an elegant living room. But no one lived there. It reminded Finn of an ambitious model home, decorated for prospective buyers who would never slouch on the brocade sofa or wrestle on the Aubusson rug. There would certainly never be a careless ring left by a careless glass set on the Chippendale coffee table. No child would ever play hide-and-seek behind the formal silk draperies or cuddle up to read in one of the deep-cushioned chairs.

  Even Marshall’s desk seemed more of a prop than a usable fixture. The oak was highly polished, the brass fittings gleamed. The desk set of burgundy leather fit seamlessly into the color scheme of wines and ferns. The ficus tree by the window wasn’t plastic, but it was so perfect, its leaves so radically dust-free, it might as well have been.

  Finn had lived with easy wealth all of his life, and the material trappings it could buy, but he found Marshall Pike’s pristine office, with its low hum of an air filter discreetly sucking impurities, soulless.

  “I would, naturally, be happy to cooperate with the police.” Piously, Marshall tugged the sleeves of his jacket over the monogrammed cuffs of his crisp white shirt. “As I explained to you, they haven’t found it necessary to question me. Why would they? I have nothing to say to the press.”

  “As I explained to you, I’m not here as a member of the press. You’re not obligated to talk to me, Pike, but if you don’t . . .” Finn spread his hands. Jenner was going to be pissed, he thought, that he hadn’t cleared this interview with the police. But this particular contact was personal. “Some of my associates might appreciate having their memory jogged about a certain incident between you and Angela. One that slipped through the cracks a couple of years ago?”

  “I can’t imagine that something so trivial would be of interest to anyone.”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it, what grabs the viewer’s attention? And what, if presented with a certain angle, will intrigue the police.”

  The man was reaching, of course, Marshall assured himself. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to connect him with Angela but a momentary lapse of judgment. And yet . . . a word to the wrong person could result in publicity his practice couldn’t afford.

  A few questions, he decided, a few answers wouldn’t matter. He was, after all, an expert at communication. If he couldn’t handle an overexposed reporter, he didn’t deserve the degrees hanging prominently on the wall behind him.

  More, he would enjoy outwitting the man Deanna had chosen over him.

  “My last appointment for the day canceled.” He shook his head as if in pity for the unhappy couple who wouldn’t benefit from his skills. “I don’t have another engagement until seven. I can spare you a few moments.”

  “That’s all I’ll need. When did you hear about Angela’s death?”

  “On
the news, the morning after the murder. I was shocked. I understand that Deanna was with her in the studio. As you know, Deanna and I had a relationship. Naturally, I’m concerned about her.”

  “I’m sure that will help her sleep easy at night.”

  “I have tried to contact her, to offer my support.”

  “She doesn’t need it.”

  “Territorial, Mr. Riley?” Marshall asked with a curve of the lips.

  “Absolutely, Dr. Pike,” Finn answered.

  “In my profession, it’s essential to be fair-minded.” He continued to smile. “Deanna meant a great deal to me at one time.”

  With some interviews you prodded, with others you planted. In Marshall’s case, Finn noted that the shorter the question, the more expansive the answer.

  “Did she?”

  “A great deal of time has passed. And Deanna is engaged to you. Regardless, I would still offer whatever support or help I could to someone I was fond of, particularly under such shocking circumstances.”

  “And Angela Perkins?” Finn leaned back in his chair. However relaxed his pose, he was alert, watching every flick of Marshall’s eye. “Were you fond of her?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “I was not.”

  “Yet it was your affair with Miss Perkins which ended your relationship with Deanna.”

  “There was no affair.” Marshall linked his hands on the desktop. “There was a momentary lapse of control and common sense. I came to understand rather quickly that Angela had orchestrated the entire incident for her own reasons.”

  “Which were?”

  “In my opinion? To manipulate Deanna and to cause her distress. She was successful.” His smile was thin and humorless. “Although Deanna did not accept the position Angela had offered her in New York, she did sever ties with me.”

  “You resent that?”

  “I resent, Mr. Riley, that Deanna refused to see the incident for what it was. Less than nothing. A mere physical reaction to deliberate stimuli. There was no emotion involved, none at all.”

  “Some people are more emotional about sex than others.” Finn smiled wider, deliberately baiting him. “Deanna’s very emotional.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and left it at that. When Finn remained silent, annoyance pushed him on. “I don’t understand how my unfortunate misstep could be related to the investigation.”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Finn said pleasantly. “But, just to clear up that matter, why don’t you tell me where you were on the night of the murder? Between the hours of eleven and two?”

  “I was home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone.” Confident now, Marshall relaxed. His eyes were mild. “I’m sure you’d agree, if I’d been planning on murder I would have had the simple intelligence to provide myself with an alibi. However, I had dinner, alone, spent a few hours working on case studies, then went to bed.”

  “Did you speak with anyone? Receive any phone calls?”

  “I let the service take my calls. I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m working—barring emergencies.” He smiled cockily. “Do you advise me to contact my lawyer, Mr. Riley?”

  “If you think you need one.” If he was lying, Finn mused, he was cool about it. “When was the last time you saw Angela?”

  For the first time in the interview there was a flash of genuine pleasure in Marshall’s eyes. “I haven’t seen Angela since she made the move to New York. That would be over two years ago.”

  “Have you had any contact with her since that time?”

  “Why would I? We did not have a love affair, as I explained.”

  “You didn’t have one with Deanna, either,” Finn commented, and had the satisfaction of wiping the smile from Marshall’s face. “But you’ve continued to contact her.”

  “Not for nearly a year. She is not forgiving.”

  “But you have sent notes. Made calls.”

  “No, I haven’t. Not until I heard about this. She hasn’t returned my calls, so I must assume she neither wants nor needs my help.” Assured he’d been more than reasonable, he tapped his cuff again, rose. “As I said, I do have an appointment at seven, and I need to go home and change for the evening. I must say, this was an interesting interlude. Be sure to give Deanna my best.”

  “I don’t think so.” Finn rose as well, but made no move to leave. “I’ve got another question. You can call this one from reporter to psychologist.”

  Marshall’s lips jerked into a sneer. “How could I refuse?”

  “It’s about obsession.” Finn let the word hang a moment, watching for any sign: an avoidance of eye contact, a tic, a change in tone. “If a man, or a woman, was fixed on someone, long-term, say, two or three years, and he had fantasies but he couldn’t bring himself to approach this person, face to face, and in these fantasies he felt he’d been betrayed, what would he be feeling? Love? Or hate?”

  “A difficult question, Mr. Riley, with such little information. I can say that love and hate are as intricately entwined as the poets claim. Either one can take control, and either one, depending on circumstances, can be dangerous. Obsessions are rarely constructive, for either party. Tell me, are you planning a show on the topic?”

  “Could be.” Finn reached for his coat. “As a layman, I wonder if someone who was dealing with that kind of obsession might be able to hide it. Go through the day-to-day motions without letting the mask slip.” He studied Marshall’s face now. “The old John Smith who mows down half a dozen people in a K Mart. The neighbors say what a nice, quiet guy he was.”

  “It happens, doesn’t it? Most people are very clever at allowing others to see only what they wish to be seen. And most people only see what they choose in any case. If the human race were simpler, both of us would be looking for other means of employment.”

  “You have a point. Thanks for your time.”

  As Finn walked out of the office, through the reception area and to the bank of elevators, he wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could calmly blow a woman’s face off and walk away. There was cold blood there. That much he was sure of.

  Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a territorial instinct. No, Finn concluded, that unease came from the reporter in him. The man was hiding something, and it was up to him to ferret it out.

  It wouldn’t hurt to take a run by the hotel and see if anyone had spotted Marshall in the area on the night of Angela’s death.

  In his office, Marshall sat behind his desk. He waited, and waited until he heard the faint rumble of the elevator. And he waited again until he heard nothing at all. Snatching up the phone, he punched in numbers, wiped his damp palm over his face.

  He heard Finn’s voice relay the information he already knew: Deanna wasn’t there. Marshall slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands.

  Goddamn Finn Riley. Goddamn Angela. And goddamn Deanna. He had to see her. And he had to see her now.

  “You shouldn’t have come back yet.” Jeff stood in Deanna’s office, his pleasant, homely face set in stubborn lines of worry. The smell of paint was still fresh.

  They both knew why the walls had been painted, the rug replaced. There were long, jagged scratch marks marring the surface of Deanna’s desk. The police had unsealed the room only forty-eight hours before and there hadn’t been time to repair or replace everything.

  “I was hoping you’d be glad to see me.”

  “I am glad to see you, but not here.” Since it was just past eight in the morning, they were alone. Jeff felt obligated to convince her to give herself more time. When the rest of the staff arrived, he had no doubt they would add their weight. But now it was up to him to watch out for her. “You’ve been through a nightmare, Dee, and it hasn’t even been a week.”

  Yes it had, she thought. One week tonight. But she didn’t correct him. “Jeff, I’ve already been through this with Finn—”

  “He shouldn’t have let you come in.”
<
br />   Her hackles rose, but she bit back the first furious retort. Perhaps her nerves were still raw, she decided, if she was ready to snarl at poor Jeff. “Finn doesn’t let me anything. If it makes you feel better, he agrees with you completely about my taking more time. I don’t.” She eased a hip down on the wide sill of the plate-glass window. Behind her, wet snow fell in thick, listless sheets. “I need to work, Jeff. Angela’s death was horrible, but hiding my head under the covers isn’t going to make it, or my part in it, go away. And I need my pals.” She held out a hand. “I really do.”

  She heard him sigh, but he crossed to her and took her hand. “We wanted to be there for you, Dee. All of us.”

  “I know you did.” She squeezed his hand, urging him down on the sill with her. “I guess this hasn’t been easy on anyone. Did you have to talk to the police?”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced, shoving at his glasses. “That Detective Jenner. ‘Where were you on the night in question?’ ” Jeff demanded in such a perfect mimic of Jenner that Deanna laughed. “We all got the treatment. Simon was sweating bullets. You know how he is under pressure. Wringing his hands, gulping audibly. He got so worked up that Fran made him lie down, then tore into the cop for harassment.”

  “Sorry I missed it.” She leaned her head against Jeff’s shoulder, content to be back with friends. “What else did I miss?” She could feel his body tense and she squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I’d feel better if I knew, Jeff. I’ve only gotten some sketchy details about how the office was torn up. I miss our Christmas tree.” Her smile was brief and sad. “Silly, isn’t it? When you think of everything that was destroyed in here, I miss that stupid tree.”

  “I’ll get you another one. Just as ugly.”

  “Impossible.” But she let it go. “Tell me.”

  He hesitated a moment. “The office was pretty messed up, Dee. But it was mostly cosmetic damage. Once the cops let us in, Loren had it cleaned out, repainted, recarpeted. He was royally pissed. Not at you,” he said quickly. “It was the whole deal, you know. The fact that somebody got in and . . . did what they did.”