The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  Jed tackled him at the door. They went through together in a violent tangle of limbs and curses. With a report like a bullet, the banister cracked in two jagged pieces under the weight. By the time they’d hit the ground, Dora was scrambling through the door and down the steps in search of the gun.

  A blow glanced off Jed’s kidneys. Another caught him low in the gut. He plowed his fist into the other man’s face and had the satisfaction of seeing blood splatter.

  “I can’t find it!” Dora shouted.

  “Get the hell out of here.” Jed blocked the foot DiCarlo kicked toward his head and heaved his opponent backward.

  Instead she let out an outraged howl when DiCarlo grabbed part of the broken banister, taking a vicious swing that missed Jed’s face by inches. Teeth bared, she took three running steps and leaped on DiCarlo’s back.

  She bit down enthusiastically on his neck and drew blood before he flung her aside.

  Pain exploded as her head hit the edge of a step. Dora reared up, managed to gain her feet again. But her vision doubled, tripled, then blacked out completely as she crumpled to the ground.

  When she opened her eyes again, everything swam in and out of focus. And it hurt. Dora let her eyes shut and tried to slip back into the void.

  “No, you don’t. Come on, baby, open up.” Jed tapped Dora’s cheeks with the back of his hand until the annoyance had her moaning and opening her eyes again.

  “Cut it out.” She shoved his hand aside and started to sit up. The room revolved like a carousel.

  “Not so fast.” Very much afraid her eyes were going to do that slow roll to the back of her head again, Jed eased her back down. “Try staying awake, but do it horizontal.”

  “My head.” She touched a tentative hand to the back of her head and hissed in reaction. “What hit me?”

  “It was what you hit. Just relax. How many fingers?” He held a hand in front of her face.

  “Two. Are we playing doctor?”

  Though he worried about a concussion, at least her vision and speech were clear. “I think you’re okay.” The flood of relief was instantly dammed by temper. “Not that you deserve to be after that idiotic move of yours. What were you doing, Conroy? Riding piggyback?”

  “I was trying to help.” It all came rushing back, much too quickly, much too clearly. Her fingers gripped his, reminding him that he was still holding her hand. “Where is he?” This time, despite the flash of pain, she pushed herself up. “Did he get away?”

  “Yeah, he got away. Damn it. I’d have had him if you . . .”

  Her eyes narrowed, dared him. “If I what?”

  “You went down like a tree. I thought you’d been wrong about the gun.” The memory brought on a fast, greasy wave of nausea. “The idea that he’d shot you kind of took my mind off bashing his face in. It turned out all you’d done was crack that amazingly hard head of yours.”

  “Well, why didn’t you go after him?” She tried to shift, noticed she was wrapped in a crocheted afghan like a moth in a cocoon.

  “I guess I could have left you there, unconscious, freezing, bleeding—”

  “Bleeding?” Gingerly, she checked her head again. “Am I bleeding?”

  “You didn’t lose much.” But he began to shift into his professional mode. “You want to tell me what that was about? I don’t suppose it was another of your dates gone wrong.”

  She stared at him, then looked away. “Should we call the cops?”

  “I did. Brent’s on his way.”

  “Oh.” She glanced around the apartment. “He did have a gun, before. I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “It was under the table. I’ve got it.”

  Her smile was weak and didn’t last. “You’ve been busy.”

  “You took your sweet time coming around. Another couple of minutes and I’d have called an ambulance.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Enough stalling.” He sat beside her, took her hand again, too gently for her to refuse the contact. “Tell me what happened. Exactly what happened.”

  “I guess you were right about somebody breaking in here yesterday. It seems he was in here, too. I really didn’t notice anything moved or taken, but he said he’d seen me undressing.” She hesitated. “And since he described my style of underwear, I have to believe him.”

  He recognized the signs, humiliation rushing through the fear, shame jockeying with anger. “Dora, I can have Brent call in a woman officer if it would be easier for you.”

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “He must have been hiding in here somewhere—the bedroom again maybe. I went right into the kitchen, to make tea . . . I left the water on.”

  “I took care of it.”

  “Oh, good. I’m fond of that kettle.” She began to toy with the fringe of the afghan. “Anyway, when I came back in here, the tree was off. I’d just turned it on, so I figured the plug had come out of the socket or something. I started to go over and fix it, and the light in the kitchen went off. He grabbed me from behind.”

  Her voice had started to shake. Dora cleared her throat. “I would have fought back. I like to think I’d have fought back, but he put the gun under my sweater and started to, um, started to rub it over me.” She gave a weak laugh. “I guess some guys really do look at a gun as a phallic symbol.”

  “Come here.” He gathered her close, easing her throbbing head onto his shoulder. While his own rage ate through him he stroked her hair. “It’s all right now.”

  “I knew he was going to rape me.” She closed her eyes and burrowed in. “A bunch of us took this self-defense course last year, but I couldn’t remember a thing. It was like this sheet of ice slipped over my brain and I couldn’t get through it. He kept saying what a good time we were going to have, and I got so angry. He was slobbering on my neck and telling me I just had to be good, I just had to cooperate. I got so mad because he thought I wasn’t going to do anything to protect myself. I guess you could say I broke through the ice, because I rammed my elbow into his stomach, and I ran. That’s where you came in.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t want to think of what might have happened if he hadn’t come in. “Did you know him?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t recognize his voice. It was too dark in here to see, and he was behind me. I think I got a pretty good look at him outside, but he didn’t seem familiar.” She let out a cleansing breath. “Your brand-new banister’s busted.”

  “I guess I’ll have to fix it again. Got some aspirin?”

  “Bathroom medicine chest.” She smiled when she felt his lips brush against her temple. That helped, too. “Bring me a couple dozen, will you?” Calmer, she leaned back when he stood up. The crumpled towel on the coffee table caught her eye. It was her satin-edged, hand-embroidered fingertip towel. And it was dotted with blood.

  “Damn, Skimmerhorn, did you have to use the good linen?” Disgusted, she leaned forward to pluck it up. “And it’s wet, too! Do you know what wet cloth does when it’s left on wood?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about the furniture.” He rattled around in the medicine chest. “I can’t find any aspirin.”

  “Let me.” She’d been rather pleased to be able to stand and walk on her own, until she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored cabinet above the bathroom sink. “Oh my God.”

  “Dizzy?” Sharp-eyed for signs of fainting, he took her arms, prepared to sweep her up.

  “No, revolted. The only makeup left on my face is what’s smeared under my eyes. I look like something out of the Addams family.” Reaching up, she took a small blue apothecary bottle from the top shelf. “Aspirin.”

  “Why isn’t it in the right bottle?”

  “Because plastic aspirin bottles are ugly and offend my impeccable sense of style.” She shook out four, handed the bottle back to Jed.

  “How do you know they aren’t antihistamines?”

  “Because antihistamines are in the amber bottle, aspirin is in the blue one.” She ran water into
a porcelain cup and downed the pills in one swallow. She winced at the sound of the knock on her door. The grandmother of all headaches was setting up residence just under her skull. “Is that the cavalry?”

  “I imagine. Stay here.”

  She watched him, eyes widening as she saw the gun hooked in the back of his jeans. He reached for it and stood at the side of the door. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Brent.”

  “It’s about damn time.” He yanked open the door and a portion of his bottled-up fury descended onto his former partner. “What the hell kind of cops are you putting on these days when an armed rapist can stroll right by them and break into a locked building?”

  “Trainor was a good man.” Brent’s mouth was tight and grim. He looked over Jed’s shoulder to where Dora was standing in the bathroom doorway. “Is she all right?”

  “No thanks to Philadelphia’s finest. If I hadn’t—” He broke off because the look in Brent’s eyes had finally penetrated his temper. “Was?”

  “Dead. Twice in the chest, close range. So close there are fucking powder burns on his shirt.”

  Dora’s steps slowed as she saw the look they exchanged. “What is it? What else happened?”

  “I asked Brent to put a man on the building, in case whoever broke in came back.” Jed took out a cigarette. “He came back.” He struck a match. “And the cop’s dead.”

  “Dead?” The color that had come back into her cheeks washed away.

  “I want you to sit down,” Jed said flatly. “And run through the whole thing again, step by step.”

  “How was he killed?” But she already knew. “He was shot, wasn’t he?”

  “Let’s sit down, Dora.” Brent started to take her arm, but she shook him away and stepped back.

  “Was he married?”

  “That’s not—”

  “Don’t tell me it’s not my concern.” She slapped a hand onto Jed’s chest before he could finish the sentence. “A man was outside, trying to protect me. Now he’s dead. I want to know if he had a family.”

  “He had a wife,” Brent said quietly while guilt gnawed at him with small, dull teeth. “Two kids, both in high school.”

  Hugging her arms, she turned away.

  “Dora.” Jed started to reach out, to touch her, but let his hand fall back to his side again. “When a man or woman joins the force, they know what the risks are.”

  “Shut up, Skimmerhorn. Just shut up. I’m going to make coffee.” She pushed back her tousled hair. “We’ll go over it again.”

  Later, they sat at Dora’s dining room table, going over her statement point by point.

  “Funny he’d come back—we’ve got to figure three times.” Brent checked his notes. “And taking out a cop to get inside. Not the pattern of your usual rapist.”

  “I wouldn’t know. The more frightened I was, the better he liked it.” She recited the lines as if rehearsing for a play. “I could tell he was excited, that he didn’t want it to happen too quickly. Because he kept talking. He said . . .” She opened her eyes. “I forgot. He said something about a picture.”

  “He wanted pictures?” Brent asked.

  “I—no. No, I don’t think that was it. He wanted a specific picture, wanted me to tell him where it was. I wasn’t really listening then, because I knew I had to do something or he was going to rape me.”

  “What kind of pictures do you have?”

  “All sorts, I suppose. Family pictures, snapshots of vacations and birthday parties. Nothing anyone would be interested in.”

  “When’s the last time you took any?” Jed questioned. “What did you take them of?”

  “I took some at Christmas, at Lea’s. I haven’t even had them developed yet. Before that . . .” She pulled a hand through her hair, holding it back from her face before she let it go. “Christ, I don’t know for certain. Weeks, probably months.”

  “I’d like to have that film developed, if you don’t mind.” Brent smiled. “It never hurts to check.”

  “I’ll go get it.”

  “It doesn’t fit,” Jed said when she left the room. “A guy doesn’t kill a cop, then walk across the street to rape a woman and raid her photo album.”

  “We have to start somewhere. He wanted a picture, we’ll look at her pictures. Maybe she took a shot of something she shouldn’t have.”

  “Maybe.” But he couldn’t make the piece fit into the puzzle.

  “Did you get a good enough look at him for a make?”

  “Six foot, a hundred seventy. Dark hair, dark eyes, slim build. He had on a cashmere coat, gray, and a navy or black suit with a red tie. Funny a guy wearing a suit and tie for a rape.”

  “It’s a funny world.”

  “Here’s the film.” She set the container on the table. “There were a couple shots left, but I don’t think I’ll be using them.”

  “Thanks.” Brent pocketed it. “I’d like you and Jed to work with the Identi-Kit. It’s a little toy we have to help put together a composite.”

  “Sure.” The show must go on, she thought miserably. “I’ll get my coat.”

  “Not tonight.” Brent adjusted his glasses and rose. “You need some rest. You’d do a better job of it tomorrow. If you think of anything else, you call, anytime.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  When they were alone, Dora stacked the cups and saucers. It was still too difficult to look Jed in the eye. “I haven’t gotten around to thanking you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He put his hands over hers. “Leave them. I should probably take you to the hospital. Let them examine that hard head of yours.”

  “I don’t want doctors poking at me.” She pressed her lips together to keep her voice from quavering. “I don’t want anybody poking at me. The aspirin’s taking the edge off the headache.”

  “It doesn’t do much for a concussion.”

  “Neither does anything else.” She turned her hands under his, linked fingers in a plea for understanding. “Don’t push, okay?”

  “Who’s pushing?” He slipped his hands from hers to tip her head back and examine her eyes. What he saw was simple exhaustion. “Go to bed.”

  “I’m not tired. All this coffee will probably keep me awake for . . . I nearly brought Richie back here with me tonight.” That thought churned in her stomach. “If he . . .” That was one train of thought she couldn’t afford to indulge. “It should have been safe here.”

  “It will be.” Gently he laid his hands on her shoulders and kneaded the tight muscles. “The next time I go out for cigarettes and milk, I’ll take you with me.”

  “Is that where you were?” Because she wanted to lean back against him, a little too much, she picked up the cups and carried them into the kitchen. “I didn’t see any bag.”

  “I left it in the car when I heard you scream.”

  The cups rattled when she set them down on the counter. “Good thinking. Do you always take a gun to the market?”

  “They really hose you for milk in those convenience stores.” He touched her hair when she managed a choked laugh.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not falling apart.”

  “I’m not worried.” But he left his hand on her hair, lightly. “Do you want me to call your sister? Your father or your mother?”

  “No.” Dora plugged the sink, flipped on the water. “I guess I’ll have to tell them something tomorrow, and that’ll be bad enough.”

  She wasn’t fooling with dishes out of a sense of neatness, he knew, but because she was postponing that moment of being alone again. At least that was something he could take care of.

  “Tell you what, why don’t I bunk out on the couch for tonight? I promise not to leave shaving gunk in the bathroom sink.”

  With one indulgent sigh, she shut off the tap and turned to bury her face against his chest. “Thanks.”

  He hesitated, then slipped his arms around her. “Don’t thank me yet. I might snore.”

  “I’ll risk it.” She rubbed her cheek against
his. “I’d tell you that you could share the bed, but—”

  “Bad timing,” he finished.

  “Yeah. The worst.” She eased away. “I’ll get you a pillow.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  She looked good. Really good. Jed hadn’t spent much time observing sleeping women, and certainly not unless they’d shared the bed with him, but none had looked better than Dora in the morning.

  She slept sprawled on her stomach, her hair, tousled from the night, was swept back from her cheek, leaving her face unframed but for the fringe of bangs. She looked enormously appealing.

  He’d thought it was because of those big, dark eyes, and the way they dominated her expressive face. But the eyes were closed now, the face at rest.

  And she still looked damn good.

  Maybe it was her skin. Dora’s skin was like silk, smooth white silk faintly blushed with rose.

  He shook himself, both embarrassed and appalled by his train of thought. When a man started thinking up metaphors about a woman’s skin, he was in deep.

  Jed walked over, set his mug on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed.

  He could smell her—that carelessly sexy scent that always made his mouth go dry. Another problem, he decided, when a man fell into the obvious perfume trap.

  “Isadora.” He touched her shoulder over the thick quilt, shook lightly, as he had every two hours through the night to be certain she was lucid.

  She made a sound that was caught somewhere between pouty and annoyed, and turned over. The movement slithered the quilt down past her shoulders. Thoughtfully, Jed studied the flannel gown she’d chosen. It looked thick as a suit of armor and was an eye-popping blue. He made out two little pink appliqués that looked like pigs’ ears. Curious, he lifted the quilt. Sure enough, a fat pink pig face grinned back at him.

  He imagined she’d selected it because she thought it would be warm, and completely sexless.

  She’d been half right, he decided, and dropped the quilt.

  “Isadora.” He shook her shoulder again, then took hold of it to prevent her from turning aside. “Izzy,” he whispered close to her ear. “Wake up.”