The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “Personally?” Thinking, he pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know many of my branch employees as well as I might. The company is very large now, and unfortunately that depersonalizes matters. We had a meeting here just before Christmas. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed as competent as always.”

  “Then he’s worked for you for some time?”

  “Six years, I believe. More or less.” He sipped more wine. “I have studied his file since this odd disappearance, to refresh my memory. He has an excellent record with the company. Mr. DiCarlo worked his way up the corporate ladder rather quickly. He showed initiative and ambition. Both of which I believe in rewarding. He came from a poor background, you know.”

  When she only shook her head, he smiled and continued. “As I did myself. The desire to better oneself—this is something I respect in an employee, and also tend to reward. As one of my top executives on the east coast, he’s proven himself to be reliable and cunning.” He smiled again. “In my business, one must be cunning. I’m very much afraid of foul play. As Mr. DiCarlo’s work record would indicate, he isn’t a man to neglect his responsibilities this way.”

  “I think—I think I might know where he is.”

  “Really?” There was a flash in Finley’s eyes.

  “I think he’s in Philadelphia.” As if to bolster her courage, Dora took another quick sip, and her hand shook lightly. “I think he’s . . . watching me.”

  “My dear.” Finley reached for her hand. “Watching you? What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not making sense. Let me try to start at the beginning.”

  She told the story well, with several pauses for composure, and one significant break in which she described the attack.

  “And I don’t understand,” she finished, with her eyes wet and shimmering. “I don’t understand why.”

  “My dear, how horrible for you.” Finley was all baffled sympathy while his mind performed rapid calculations. It appeared DiCarlo had left out a few significant details, he mused. There had been no mention in his report of an attempted rape, nor of a knightly neighbor coming to the rescue. It explained the bruises on his face during his last, and final, visit, however.

  “You’re telling me,” Finley began, his tone lightly shocked, “that the man who broke into your shop, the man who attacked you, was Anthony DiCarlo.”

  “I saw his face.” As if overcome, Dora covered her own with her hand. “I’ll never forget it. And I identified him to the police. He’s killed a police officer, Mr. Finley, and a woman. He left another woman for dead, one of my customers.” The thought of Mrs. Lyle urged the first tear down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so upset, so frightened. Thank you,” she managed when Finley gallantly offered his handkerchief. “None of it makes any sense, you see. He only stole a few trinkets, and as for Mrs. Lyle, my customer, he took nothing of any real value. Just a china dog, a statue she’d bought from me the day before. I think he must be crazy,” she murmured, lowering her hand again. “I think he must be mad.”

  “I hope you understand this is difficult for me to take in. Mr. DiCarlo has worked for me for years. The idea of one of my own staff attacking women, murdering police officers. Miss Conroy—Isadora.” He took her hand again, gently, a father comforting a child after a bad dream. “Are you absolutely certain it was Anthony DiCarlo?”

  “I saw his face,” she said again. “The police said he had a record. Nothing like—like this, and nothing for several years, but—

  “I knew he’d had some trouble.” With a sigh, Finley sat back. “Just as I felt I understood the need to overcome the past mistakes. But I would never have believed . . . It seems I misjudged him, badly. What can I do to help you?”

  “I don’t know.” Dora twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “I guess I’d hoped you’d have some idea what to do, where the police might look. If he contacted you—”

  “My dear, I assure you, if he contacts me, I will do everything in my power to lead the authorities to him. Perhaps his family knows something?”

  She dried her tears and, calmer, shook her head. “The police have questioned them, I believe. I actually thought of going to see his mother myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face that.”

  “I’ll make some calls. Do whatever I can to help you.”

  “Thank you.” She let out a shaky sigh followed by a shaky smile. “I feel better doing something. The worst is the waiting, the not knowing where he is or what he’s planning. I’m afraid to go to sleep at night. If he came back—” She shuddered, sincerely. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “You have no reason to think he will. Are you sure he gave you no idea why he chose your shop?”

  “None. That’s what’s so terrifying. To be picked at random that way. Then Mrs. Lyle. He shot her housekeeper and left Mrs. Lyle for dead, all for some little statue.” Her eyes, still wet, were guileless and trusting. “A man doesn’t kill for that, does he?”

  “I wish I knew.” Finley heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Perhaps, as you say, he’s gone mad. But I have every confidence in the authorities. I’ll say, with full confidence, that you won’t be bothered by Mr. DiCarlo again.”

  “I’m trying to hold on to that. You’ve been very kind, Mr. Finley.”

  “Edmund.”

  “Edmund.” She smiled again, courageously. “Just talking it out has helped. I’d like to ask, if you find anything, anything at all, that you’d call me. The police aren’t very free with information.”

  “I understand. And, of course, I’ll keep in touch with you. We have an excellent security team on retainer. I’m going to put them on this. If there’s a trace of DiCarlo, they’ll find it.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes, let her shoulders relax. “I knew I was right to come here. Thank you.” When she rose, he took both her hands in his. “Thank you so much for listening to me.”

  “I only regret I can’t do more. I’d consider it a favor if you’d agree to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Dinner?” Her mind went sheet blank.

  “I don’t like to think of you alone, and upset. I feel responsible. DiCarlo is, after all, my man. Or was,” he corrected, with a small smile.

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Then indulge me. Ease my conscience a bit. And, I admit, I would find it very pleasant to spend the evening with a lovely young woman who shares some of my interests.”

  “Your interests?”

  “Collecting.” Finley gestured toward a curio cabinet. “If you run an antique and collectibles shop, I think you’d be interested in some of my treasures.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m sure you’re much more knowledgeable than I, but I’ve already admired several of your pieces. The horse’s head?” She nodded toward a stone figure. “Han dynasty?”

  “Precisely.” He beamed, a professor to a prize student. “You have a good eye.”

  “I love things,” she confessed. “Owning things.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand.” He reached up to brush a fingertip lightly over her lapel pin. “A plique-à-jour—early nineteen hundreds.”

  She beamed back at him. “You, too, have a good eye.”

  “I have a brooch I’d like you to see.” He thought of the sapphire, and the pleasure it would give him to taunt her with it. “I only recently acquired it, and I know you’d appreciate it. So it is decided. I’ll have a car pick you up at your hotel. Say, seven-thirty.”

  “I . . .”

  “Please, don’t misunderstand. My home is fully staffed, so you’ll be well chaperoned. But I don’t often have the opportunity to show off my treasures to someone who recognizes their intrinsic worth. I’d love your opinion on my pomander collection.”

  “Pomanders?” Dora said, and sighed. If she hadn’t been on a mission, she’d have agreed in any case. How could she resist a collection of pomanders? “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  Dora strolled back into the hotel room fill
ed with the warmth of success. She found Jed pacing, the air blue with smoke and rattled by an old war movie on television he wasn’t watching.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  “It was only an hour.” She slipped out of her shoes as she walked to him. “I was brilliant,” she said, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I’ll tell you if you were brilliant.” He put a hand on top of her head and pushed her into a chair. Snatching the remote, he ended the war with a fizzle. “You tell me about Finley. Everything, from the top.”

  “Is there any coffee left?” She picked up a room-service pot, sniffed the contents. “Let me savor the moment, will you?” She poured coffee and sipped it black and tepid. “I want some cheesecake,” she decided. “Order us up some cheesecake, okay?”

  “Don’t push it, Conroy.”

  “You know how to take the fun out of things. All right.” She took a last sip, sat back and told him.

  “He really was nice,” she concluded. “Very understanding, and properly shocked by my story. I, of course, played the part of the high-strung, spooked-at-every-shadow heroine to perfection. The police simply aren’t doing enough to ease my mind, so he very gallantly offered to do whatever he could, down to hiring a private firm to track down DiCarlo.”

  “What about Winesap?”

  “He wasn’t there. I asked for him at first, but the receptionist told me he was out of the office today.”

  “If he’s the one who’s going to keep the appointment next Thursday, he couldn’t afford having you see him.”

  “I thought of that. So I stopped to talk to the security guard in the lower lobby on the way out. I told him I’d seen Abel Winesap’s name on the board, and that my father had worked with an Abel Winesap once, years ago, and had lost touch. So I asked if this guy was tall and heavyset with red hair. It turns out this Winesap is short and skinny, round-shouldered and balding.”

  “Good girl, Nancy.”

  “Thanks, Ned. Do you think Nancy and Ned ever made love? You know, in the back of her coupe after a particularly satisfying case.”

  “I like to think so. Get back on track, Conroy.”

  “Okay.” Now came the hard part, Dora mused. She would have to work up to it carefully. “Finley’s office is incredible—oh, I forgot to mention the monitors. He has a whole wall of them. Kind of creepy, you know? All these television shows running silently side by side with different parts of the building. I guess he has security cameras everywhere. But that’s not why it’s incredible. He had a Gallé lamp in his office that made me want to sit up and beg. And a Han horse. That barely touches on it. Anyway, I’ll see his personal collection at dinner tonight.”

  Jed snatched her wrist before she could bound up. “Play that back, Conroy, slow speed.”

  “I’m having dinner with him.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because he asked me, and I accepted. And before you start listing all the reasons why I shouldn’t, I’ll tell you why I should.” She’d worked it out point by point in the cab on the way back. “He was kind to me in the office—very concerned and avuncular. He believes I’m in town alone, and that I’m upset. He knows I have a rabid interest in collectibles and antiques. If I’d said no, it would have set the entirely wrong tone.”

  “If he’s involved, the last place you should be is alone with him, at his house.”

  “If he’s involved,” she countered, “the last place he’d want anything to happen would be his own house. Especially when I tell him I called my parents to check in and told them I’d be having dinner with him.”

  “It’s a stupid idea.”

  “It isn’t. It will give me more time to cultivate him. He likes me,” she added, and walked over to the closet. She’d brought a little black dress along, and had paired it with a glittery bolero jacket in red and gold stripes. Holding them in front of her, she turned to the mirror. “He doesn’t like the idea of me spending the evening alone in LA while I’m upset.”

  Jed watched the sequins glimmer through narrowed eyes. “Did he come on to you?”

  Dora paused in the act of unbuttoning her suit jacket. “Are you jealous, Skimmerhorn?” The laugh bubbled out, quick and delighted. “Isn’t that cute?”

  “I am not jealous.” He’d never been jealous of a woman in his life. Never. He wasn’t about to admit it now. “I asked you a simple question, and I’d like an answer.”

  She took off the jacket, revealing the creamy lace and silk of the camisole beneath. “You’re going to put yourself in the awkward position of making me tell you I love you again. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  When his stomach clenched, he swore under his breath, grabbed another cigarette. “Maybe I’m fed up with watching you deck yourself out for another man.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To meet him, gain his sympathy and confidence and to find out everything I can.” With her head tilted to the side, she studied Jed’s set face. “Would you feel better if I told you I didn’t have any intention of sleeping with him?”

  “Yeah, I’ll rest easy now.” He blew out a frustrated stream of smoke. “I don’t like you going in there alone. I don’t have enough on him, and I don’t like it.”

  “You’ll have more when I get back, won’t you?” She walked over to hang up the jacket. He crossed the room so quietly she jumped when his hands touched her shoulders.

  “I’m not used to being the one who waits.”

  She arranged the jacket meticulously on the hanger. “I guess I can understand that.”

  “I never had anyone to worry about before. I don’t like it.”

  “I can understand that, too.” She unzipped her skirt and clipped it neatly on another hanger. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Sure you will.” He lowered his cheek to the back of her head. “Dora . . .” What could he say? he wondered. Nothing that was churning inside him seemed right. “I’ll miss you tonight. I guess I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

  Wonderfully touched, she smiled and lifted a hand to cover one of his. “You’re such a sentimental slob, Skimmerhorn. It’s always hearts and flowers with you.”

  “Is that what you want?” He turned her to face him. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she brushed her knuckles over his cheek. “I’ve got a heart, thanks, and I can buy flowers anytime I like.” To comfort him, she nuzzled her lips to his. “I’ve also got an hour before I have to get ready. Why don’t you take me to bed?”

  It would have been a pleasure, and a relief, but both pleasure and relief would have to wait. “We’ve got work to do, Conroy. Put on your robe, and we’ll go over the ground rules for your dinner.”

  Huffing, she stepped back. “I’m standing here in little more than a lace garter belt and you’re telling me to put on a robe?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have gotten used to me,” she muttered.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dora stepped off the curb and into a white Mercedes limo at precisely seven-thirty. There was a single white rosebud laid across the seat, and a Beethoven sonata playing softly on the stereo. A bottle of champagne was iced beside a crystal bowl of beluga.

  Brushing the rose petals across her cheek, she looked up toward the window where she knew Jed would be watching.

  Too bad, she mused as the car pulled smoothly away. It appeared that she did need hearts and flowers, and was unlikely to receive them from the man who mattered most.

  Because she was looking back she noticed a man in a gray suit slip into a dark sedan and cruise out into traffic behind them.

  Dora closed her eyes, slipped out of her shoes to run her bare feet luxuriously over the plush carpet and put all thoughts of Jed behind her.

  For the next few hours, she was alone.

  Armed with a glass of champagne and a toast point of caviar, she enjoyed the ride up into the hills.
Though under other circumstances she might have struck up a conversation with the driver, she hugged the silence to her and prepared for Act Two.

  After her impressions of his office, she’d expected Finley’s house to be lavish. She wasn’t disappointed. The sweeping drive up, the quick, teasing peeks of the building through screening trees. Then the full impact of stone and brick and glass simmering in the last fiery lights of the dying sun.

  A well-set stage.

  She took the rose with her.

  There was only a moment to appreciate the Adam door knocker in the shape of a dolphin before the door was opened by a uniformed maid.

  “Miss Conroy. Mr. Finley would like you to wait in the drawing room.”

  Dora didn’t bother to disguise her open-mouthed admiration for the magnificence of the entrance hall. In the parlor she gave the maid a murmured assent at the offer of wine, and was grateful when she had the glass in hand and was alone to worship.

  She felt as though she had entered some personal museum, one structured for her alone. Everything she saw was spectacular, and every piece her eyes feasted on seemed more glorious. So glorious it was impossible not to gorge.

  She saw herself reflected in the George III mirror, ran her fingers delicately over a mahogany armchair of the same period, crooned over a Japanese Kakiemon tiger.

  When Finley joined her she was mentally devouring a collection of netsukes.

  “I see you’re enjoying my toys.”

  “Oh yes.” Eyes dark and brilliant with appreciation, she turned from the curios. “I feel like Alice, and I’ve just stumbled into the best corner of Wonderland.”

  He laughed and poured himself a glass of wine. He’d known he would enjoy her. “I was certain I’d find it pleasant to share my things with you. I’m afraid I spend too much time alone with them.”

  “You’ve made my trip very worthwhile, Mr. Finley.”

  “Then I’m content.” He walked over, placed a light hand at the small of her back. It wasn’t a suggestive move. She had no explanation as to why her skin crawled under the friendly pressure. “You were looking at the netsukes.” He opened the curio and deliberately chose one of the pieces of erotica that had been smuggled in the mermaid bookends. “Not everyone can appreciate the humor and the sexuality, as well as the artistry of these pieces.”