by Nora Roberts
“Oh?” Lea chewed her knuckle as she basted her candied yams.
“Carly Chapman’s father. She goes to school with Missy.”
“Carly?” While she ran through her daughter’s friends, Lea lifted a lid and sniffed. “Oh, yeah. Brent and Mary Pat. We carpool.”
“So I hear.” Dora helped herself to a glass of the wine Lea had breathing on the counter. “Here’s the good part. They’re going to question Andrew.”
“You’re kidding! Andrew?”
“Jilted accountant seeks revenge by destroying woman’s tax files.” Dora shrugged and passed a glass of wine to her sister. “Makes as much sense as anything. When’s dinner?”
“Twenty minutes. Why don’t we take what you’ve left of my crudités out. If we can keep Mom busy for—” She broke off, swore lightly under her breath as Trixie Conroy made her entrance.
Trixie always made an entrance, whether it was onto a stage or into the corner market. She’d dressed for the simple family dinner in a flowing caftan of bleeding colors that trailed fringe from its sweeping hem and draping sleeves. The material billowed theatrically around her willowy form. Her hair, cropped gamine short, was a bold, fire-engine red. Her face, milk-pale and unlined, thanks to religious pampering and one discreet lift, was striking. The soft blue eyes Lea had inherited were lavishly lashed, the full, sensuous mouth lushly red.
She breezed into the kitchen, trailing silks and her signature scent—one ripe with woodsy undertones.
“Darlings!” Her voice was as dramatic as the rest of her, a husky whisper that could easily carry to the last row in any theater. “It’s so lovely to see my two girls together.” She took a deep sniff of the air. “Oh, and those glorious aromas. I do hope you’re not overheating my meatballs, Ophelia.”
“Ah . . .” Lea sent Dora a desperate look and was met by a shrug. “No, of course not.” Lea hadn’t heated them at all, but had stuck them under the sink with hopes of palming them off on the dog later. “Mom, did you know . . . they’re green.”
“Naturally.” Trixie buzzed around the stove, clanging lids. “I dyed them myself in honor of the season. Perhaps we should put them out now, as an appetizer.”
“No. I think we should . . .” Since she couldn’t think of a good ruse, Lea sacrificed her sister. “Mom, did you know someone broke into Dora’s shop?”
“Damn it, Lea.”
Lea ignored the muttered curse and barreled ahead. “Last night.”
“Oh, my baby. Oh, my lamb.” Trixie rushed across the kitchen to clasp Dora’s face between her heavily ringed hands. “Are you hurt?”
“Of course not.”
“Why don’t you take Mom in the other room, Dora? Sit down and tell her all about it.”
“Yes, yes, you must.” Trixie gripped Dora’s hand and dragged her toward the doorway. “You should have called me the minute it happened. I would have been there in the blink of an eye. My poor little darling. Quentin! Quentin, our daughter was robbed.”
Dora had time for one speedy glare over her shoulder before she was yanked into the fray.
The Bradshaw family room was in chaos. Toys were strewn everywhere, making the practical buff-colored carpet an obstacle course. There were shouts and yips as a remote control police cruiser, operated by a steely-eyed Michael, terrorized the family dog, Mutsy. Will, looking very New York in a dark silk shirt and paisley tie, entertained Missy with bawdy numbers on the spinet. John and Richie were glassy-eyed over a Nintendo game, and Quentin, well plied with eggnog, boisterously kibitzed.
“Quentin.” Trixie’s stage voice froze all action. “Our child has been threatened.”
Unable to resist, Will played a melodramatic riff on the piano. Dora wrinkled her nose at him.
“I wasn’t threatened, Mom.” Dora gave her mother a comforting pat, eased her into a chair and handed over her glass of wine. “The shop was broken into,” she explained. “It didn’t amount to much, really. They didn’t get anything. Jed scared them off.”
“I had a feeling about him.” Quentin tapped the side of his nose. “A sixth sense, if you will. Were there fisticuffs?”
“No, Jed chased him away.”
“I’d’ve shot him dead.” Richie leaped onto the couch and fired an imaginary automatic weapon. “I told you.”
“So you did.”
“Richie, don’t stand on the furniture,” John ordered automatically. “Dora, you called the police?”
“Yes. And it’s all in the hands of Philadelphia’s finest.” She scooped up Richie herself. “And the investigating officer is the father of a really, really good friend of yours, frog face. Jody Chapman.”
“Jody Chapman!” Richie made gagging noises and clutched his throat.
“She sends her love.” Dora fluttered her lashes and smacked her lips. The resulting din of groans and shrieks had her convinced the crisis had passed.
“Willowby!” Trixie cut through the noise with one word and a raised hand. “You’ll stay at Isadora’s tonight. I won’t feel safe unless I know a man’s keeping watch.”
“Mother.” It was enough to make Dora take back her wine. “I, on behalf of all feminists, am ashamed of you.”
“Social and political ideals pale when it comes to the welfare of my child.” Trixie gave a regal nod. “Will, you’ll stay with your sister.”
“No problem.”
“Well, I have a problem,” Dora cut in. “He leaves shaving gunk in the sink, and he makes long, obscene phone calls to his women in New York.”
“I use my calling card.” Will grinned. “And you wouldn’t know they were obscene if you didn’t listen.”
“Your mother knows best.” Quentin rose to help himself to more eggnog. Tonight he looked trim and dapper in a starched collar and a derby. He detoured to kiss his wife’s hand. “I’ll go by the shop myself tomorrow and take stock of the situation. Don’t worry your pretty head, my sweet.”
“Talk about obscene,” Will mumbled, then grimaced. “What is that stench?”
“Dinner,” Lea announced, swinging through the kitchen door. She smiled grimly at her mother. “Sorry, darling, I seem to have burned your meatballs.”
A block away, Jed was trying to ease himself out the door. He’d enjoyed Christmas dinner at the Chapmans’ more than he’d anticipated. It was hard not to get a kick out of the kids, who were still wide-eyed and enthusiastic over their Christmas loot. Impossible not to relax with the scents of pine and turkey and apple pie sweetening the air. And there was the simple fact that he liked Brent and Mary Pat as people, as a couple.
And the longer he stayed in their comfortable home, the more awkward he felt. There was no way to avoid comparing the homey family scene—a fire crackling in the hearth, kids playing on the rug—with his own miserable childhood memories of the holiday.
The shouting matches. Or worse, far worse, the frigid, smothering silences. The year his mother had smashed all the china against the dining room wall. The year his father had shot out the crystal drops on the foyer chandelier with his .25.
Then there had been the Christmas Elaine hadn’t come home at all, only to turn up two days later with a split lip and a black eye. Had that been the year he’d been arrested for shoplifting in Wanamakers? No, Jed remembered. That had been a year later—when he’d been fourteen.
Those were the good old days.
“At least you can take some of this food home with you,” Mary Pat insisted. “I don’t know what I’ll do with it all.”
“Be a pal,” Brent put in, patting his wife’s bottom as he moved past her to pop the top on a beer. “You don’t take it, I’ll be eating turkey surprise for a month. Want another?”
Jed shook his head at the beer. “No, I’m driving.”
“You really don’t have to go so soon,” Mary Pat complained.
“I’ve been here all day,” he reminded her, and because she was one of the few people he felt relaxed with, kissed her cheek. “Now I’m going home to see if I can work off
some of those mashed potatoes and gravy.”
“You never put on an ounce. It makes me sick.” She heaped leftovers into a Tupperware container. “Why don’t you tell me more about this gorgeous landlord of yours?”
“She’s not gorgeous. She’s okay.”
“Brent said gorgeous.” Mary Pat sent her husband a narrow look. He only lifted his shoulders. “Sexy, too.”
“That’s because she gave him cookies.”
“If she’s Lea Bradshaw’s sister, she must be more than okay.” Mary Pat filled another container with generous slices of pie. “Lea’s stunning—even first thing in the morning with a bunch of squalling kids in the car. The parents are actors, you know. Theater,” Mary Pat added, giving the word a dramatic punch. “I’ve seen the mother, too.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to look like that when I grow up.”
“You look fine, hon,” Brent assured her.
“Fine.” Shaking her head, Mary Pat sealed the containers.
“Does he say gorgeous? Does he say sexy?”
“I’ll say it.”
“Thank you, Jed. Why don’t you bring the landlord over sometime? For dinner, or drinks?”
“I pay her rent; I don’t socialize with her.”
“You chased a bad guy for her,” Mary Pat pointed out.
“That was reflex. I gotta go.” He gathered up the food she’d pressed on him. “Thanks for dinner.”
With her arm hooked around Brent’s waist, Mary Pat waved goodbye to Jed’s retreating headlights. “You know, I might just drop by that shop.”
“You mean snoop around, don’t you?”
“Whatever it takes.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’d like to get a look at this gorgeous, sexy, single landlord of his.”
“He won’t appreciate it.”
“We’ll see. He needs someone in his life.”
“He needs to come back to work.”
“So we’ll double-team him.” She turned, lifting her mouth for a kiss. “He won’t have a chance.”
In LA Finley dined on pressed duck and quail eggs. Joining him in his mammoth dining room was a stunning blonde, green-eyed, slenderly built. She spoke three languages and had an excellent knowledge of art and literature. In addition to her beauty and intelligence, she was nearly as wealthy as Finley. His ego demanded all three attributes in a companion.
As she sipped her champagne, he opened the small, elegantly wrapped box she’d brought.
“So thoughtful of you, my dear.” He set the lid aside, pausing in anticipation.
“I know how you enjoy beautiful things, Edmund.”
“Indeed I do.” He flattered her with a warm look before reaching into the tissue paper. He lifted out a small ivory carving of a kirin, cradling it gently, lovingly in his palm. His deep, appreciative sigh whispered on the air.
“You admire it every time you dine with me, so I thought it would be the perfect Christmas gift.” Pleased with his reaction, she laid her hand over his. “It seemed more personal to give you something from my own collection.”
“It’s exquisite.” His eyes gleamed as he studied it. “And, as you told me, one of a kind.”
“Actually, it seems I was mistaken about that.” She picked up her glass again and missed the sudden spasm in his fingers. “I was able to obtain its twin a few weeks ago.” She laughed lightly. “Don’t ask me how, as it came from a museum.”
“It’s not unique.” His pleasure vanished like smoke, replaced by the bitter fire of disappointment. “Why would you assume I would wish for something common?”
The change in tone had her blinking in surprise. “Edmund, it’s still what it is. A beautiful piece of exceptional workmanship. And extremely valuable.”
“Value is relative, my dear.” As he watched her, cooleyed, his fingers curled around the delicate sculpture. Tighter, tighter, until the carving snapped with a sound like a gunshot. When she cried out in distress, he smiled again. “It seems to be damaged. What a pity.” He set the broken pieces aside, picked up his wine. “Of course, if you were to give me the piece from your collection, I would truly value it. It is, after all, one of a kind.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
When Jed knocked on Dora’s door a little after nine on the day after Christmas, the last thing he expected was to hear a man’s voice saying wait a damn minute.
There was a thud, a curse.
Will, a flowered sheet wrapped around his thin frame like a toga, and favoring the toe he’d smashed against the Pembroke table, opened the door to an unfriendly sneer.
“If you’re selling anything,” he said, “I hope it’s coffee.”
She sure could pick them, Jed thought nastily. First a pin-striped accountant with overactive glands, now a skinny kid barely out of college.
“Isadora,” Jed said, and showed his teeth.
“Sure.” Mindful of the trailing sheet, Will moved back so that Jed could step inside. “Where the hell is she?” he muttered. “Dora!” His voice echoed richly off the walls and ceiling.
The kid had lungs, Jed decided, then noticed, intrigued, the tangle of pillows and blankets on the sofa.
“You’re not getting in here until I dry my hair.” Dora stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a terrycloth robe and armed with a hand-held hair dryer. “You can just—oh.” She stopped, spotting Jed. “Good morning.”
“I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“All right.” She combed her fingers through her damp hair. “You met my brother?”
Brother, Jed thought, annoyed with himself for the quick, unquashable sense of relief. “No.”
“The guy in the sheet is Will. Will, the guy who needs a shave is Jed, from across the hall.”
“The ex-cop who chased off the burglar.” Will’s sleep-glazed eyes cleared. “Nice to meet you. I played a drug dealer once, in a Sly Stallone film? Got killed in the first reel, but it was a great experience.”
“I bet.”
“Here.” Dora passed Will the hair dryer. “You can use the shower. I’ll make the coffee, but you have to make breakfast.”
“Deal.” He headed off, trailing flowered sheets.
“My mother thought I needed a man in the house after the break-in,” Dora explained. “Will was the only one available. We can talk in the kitchen.”
It was the same efficient galley setup as his own, but was obviously more well used, and certainly more organized. She chose what Jed now recognized as a biscuit tin and scooped coffee beans out and into a grinder before she spoke again.
“So how was your Christmas?”
“Fine. I’ve got a guy coming by around noon to hook up a new security system. One that works.”
Dora paused. The scent of ground coffee and her shower filled the room and made Jed’s juices swim. “Excuse me?”
“He’s a friend of mine. He knows what he’s doing.”
“A friend,” she repeated, going back to her grinding.
“First, I must say I’m amazed you have any. Second, I suppose you expect me to be grateful for your incredible gall.”
“I live here, too. I don’t like being shot at.”
“You might have discussed it with me.”
“You weren’t around.” He waited while she put a kettle on to boil. “You need a couple of real locks on the doors. I can pick them up at the hardware.”
With her lips pursed in thought, Dora measured coffee into a filtered cone. “I’m debating whether to be amused, annoyed or impressed.”
“I’ll bill you for the locks.”
That decided her. Her lips curved up, then the smile turned into a quick, throaty laugh. “Okay, Skimmerhorn. You go ahead and make our little world safe and sound. Anything else?”
“I figured I might measure for those shelves you want.”
She ran her tongue around her teeth, reached around him for the wicker basket of oranges. “Getting tired of being a man of leisure?” When he said nothing, she sliced through an
orange with a wicked-looking knife. “I’ll show you what I have in mind after breakfast. As it happens, we’re not opening until noon today.” After slicing half a dozen oranges, she put the halves into a clunky-looking device that squeezed out the juice. “Why don’t you set the table?”
“For what?”
“Breakfast. Will makes terrific crepes.” Before he could answer, the kettle shrilled. Dora poured boiling water over the coffee. The smell was all it took.
“Where do you keep your plates?”
“First cupboard.”
“One thing,” he said as he opened the cabinet door. “You might want to put some clothes on.” He sent her a slow smile that had her throat clicking shut. “The sight of your damp, half-naked body might send me into a sexual frenzy.”
It didn’t amuse her at all to have her own words tossed back in her face. Dora poured herself a cup of coffee and walked away.
“Smells good,” Will decided, strolling in now wearing black jeans and a sweater. His hair, a few shades lighter than Dora’s, had been blow-dried into artful disarray. He looked like an ad for Ralph Lauren. “Dora makes great coffee. Hey, would you mind switching on the tube? CNN, maybe. I haven’t heard what’s happening out there for a couple of days.” Will poured both himself and Jed a cup before rolling up his sleeves.
“Damn you, Will!”
Dora’s voice made her brother wince, grin. “I forgot to wash out the sink,” he explained to Jed. “She really hates to find shaving cream glopped in it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if it ever becomes an issue.”
“It’s all right for her to hang underwear everyplace though.” He pitched his voice to carry out of the kitchen and through the bathroom door, adding just a dollop of sarcasm for flavor. “Growing up with two sisters, I never went into the bathroom without fighting my way through a jungle of panty hose.”
While he spoke, Will measured ingredients and stirred with careless finesse. He caught Jed’s eye and grinned again. “We’re all great cooks,” he said. “Lea, Dora and me. It was self-defense against years of takeout and TV dinners. So about this burglary thing.” Will went on without breaking stride. “Do you think it’s anything to worry about?”
