by Nora Roberts
She looked down at what had been creamy Italian leather. “You never wear anything but tennis shoes or boots anyway.”
Michael slapped the shoe against his palm. Bruno, tongue lolling, grinned up at him. “Obedience school.”
“Oh, Michael, we can’t send our child away.” She patted his cheek. “It’s just a phase.”
“This phase has cost me two pairs of shoes, my dinner and we never did find that sweater he dragged off.”
“You shouldn’t drop your clothes on the floor,” Pandora said easily. “And that sweater was already ratty. I’m sure Bruno thought it was a rag.”
“He never chews up anything of yours.”
Pandora smiled. “No, he doesn’t, does he?”
Michael gave her a long look. “Just what’re you so happy about?”
“I had a phone call this afternoon.”
Michael saw the excitement in her eyes and decided the issue of the shoe could wait. “And?”
“From Jacob Morison.”
“The producer?”
“The producer,” Pandora repeated. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t overreact, but the excitement threatened to burst inside her. “He’s going to be filming a new movie. Jessica Wainwright’s starring.”
Jessica Wainwright, Michael mused. Grande dame of the theater and the screen. Eccentric and brilliant, her career had spanned two generations. “She’s retired. Wainwright hasn’t made a film in five years.”
“She’s making this one. Billy Mitchell’s directing.”
Michael tilted his head in consideration as he studied Pandora’s face. It made him think of the cat and the canary. “Sounds like they’re pulling out all the stops.”
“She plays a half-mad reclusive countess who’s dragged back to reality by a visit from her granddaughter. Cass Barkley’s on the point of signing for the part of the granddaughter.”
“Oscar material. Now, are you going to tell me why Morison called you?”
“Wainwright’s an admirer of my work. She wants me to design all her jewelry for the movie. All!” After an attempt to sound businesslike, Pandora laughed and did a quick spin. “Morison said the only way he could talk her out of retirement was to promise her the best. She wants me.”
Michael grabbed her close and spun her around. Bruno raced around the room barking and shaking tables. “We’ll celebrate,” he decided. “Champagne with our fried chicken.”
Pandora held on tight. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Why?”
“I’ve always thought I was, well, beyond star adoration. I’m a professional.” Bubbling with excitement, she clung to Michael. “While I was talking to Morison I told myself it was a great career opportunity, a wonderful chance to express myself in a large way. Then I hung up and all I could think was Jessica Wainwright! A Morison production! I felt as silly as any bubble-headed fan.”
“Proves you’re not half the snob you think you are.” Michael cut off her retort with a kiss. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured.
That threw her off. All of her pleasure in the assignment was dwarfed by that one sentence. No one but Jolley had ever been proud of her. Her parents loved her, patted her head and told her to do what she wanted. Pride was a valued addition to affection. “Really?”
Surprised, Michael drew her back and kissed her again. “Of course I am.”
“But you’ve never thought much of my work.”
“No, that’s not true. I’ve never understood why people feel the need to deck themselves out in bangles, or why you seemed content to design on such a small scale. But as far as your work goes I’m not blind, Pandora. Some of it’s beautiful, some of it’s extraordinary and some of it’s incomprehensible. But it’s all imaginative and expertly crafted.”
“Well.” She let out a long breath. “This is a red-letter day. I always thought you felt I was playing with beads because I didn’t want to face a real job. You even said so once.”
He grinned. “Only because it made you furious. You’re spectacular to look at when you’re furious.”
She thought about it a moment, then let out a sigh. “I suppose this is the best time to tell you.”
He tensed, but forced his voice to come calmly. “To tell me what?”
“I watch the Emmy Awards every time you’re nominated.”
Tension flowed out in a laugh. There’d been guilt in every syllable. “What?”
“Every time,” Pandora repeated, amazed that her cheeks were warm. “It made me feel good to watch you win. And…” She paused to clear her throat. “I’ve watched a few episodes of Logan’s Run.”
Michael wondered if she realized she sounded as though she was confessing a major social flaw. “Why?”
“Uncle Jolley was always going on about it; I’d even hear it discussed at parties. So I thought I’d see for myself. Naturally, it was just a matter of intellectual curiosity.”
“Naturally. And?”
She moved her shoulders. “Of its kind—”
He stopped that line of response by twisting her ear. “Some people only tell the truth under duress.”
“All right.” Half laughing, she reached to free herself. “It’s good!” she shouted when he held on. “I liked it.”
“Why?”
“Michael, that hurts!”
“We have ways of making you talk.”
“I liked it because the characters are genuine, the plots are intelligent. And—” she had to swallow hard on this one “—it has style.”
When he let go of her ear to kiss her soundly, she gave him a halfhearted shove. “If you repeat that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“It’ll be our little secret.” He kissed her again, not so playfully.
Pandora was almost becoming used to the sensation of having her muscles loosen and feeling as if her bones were dissolving. She moved closer, delighting in the feeling of having her body mold against his. When his heart thudded, she felt the pulse inside herself. When his tiny moan escaped, she tasted it on her tongue. When the need leaped forward, she saw it in his eyes.
She pressed her mouth to his again and let her own hunger rule. There would be consequences. Hadn’t she already accepted it? There would be pain. She was already braced for it. She couldn’t stop what would happen in the weeks ahead, but she could direct what would happen tonight and perhaps tomorrow. It had to be enough. Everything she felt, wanted, feared, went into the kiss.
It left him reeling. She was often passionate, wildly so. She was often demanding, erotically so. But he’d never felt such pure emotion from her. There was a softness under the strength, a request under the urgency. He drew her closer, more gently than was his habit, and let her take what she wanted.
Her head tilted back, inviting, luring. His grip tightened. His fingers wound into her hair and were lost in the richness of it. He felt the need catapult through his body so that he was tense against her sudden, unexpected yielding. She never submitted, and until that moment he hadn’t known how stirring it could be to have her do so. Without a thought to time and place, they lowered to the sofa.
Because she was pliant, he was tender. Because he was gentle, she was patient. In a way they’d never experienced, they made love without rush, without fire, without the whirlwind. Thoroughly, they gave to each other. A touch, a taste, a murmured request, a whispered answer. The fire sizzled gently behind them as night fell outside the windows. Fingers brushed, lips skimmed so that they learned the power of quiet arousal. Though they’d been lovers for weeks, they brought love to passion for the first time.
The room was quiet, the light dim. If she’d never looked for romance, it found her there, wrapped easily in Michael’s arms. Closer they came, but comfortably. Deeper they dived, but lazily. As they came together, Pandora felt her firm line of independence crack to let him in. But the weakness she’d expected didn’t follow. Only contentment.
It was contentment that followed her into that quick and final burst of pleasure.
> They were still wrapped together, half dozing, when the phone rang. With a murmur of complaint, Michael reached over his head to the table and lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Michael Donahue, please.”
“Yeah, this is Michael.”
“Michael, it’s Penny.”
He rubbed a hand over his eyes as he tried to put a face with the name. Penny—the little blonde in the apartment next to his. Wanted to be a model. He remembered vaguely leaving her the number of the Folley in case something important was delivered to his apartment. “Hi.” He watched Pandora’s eyes flutter open.
“Michael, I hate to do this, but I had to call. I’ve already phoned the police. They’re on their way.”
“Police?” He struggled into a half-sitting position. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve been robbed.”
“What?” He sat bolt upright, nearly dumping Pandora on the floor. “When?”
“I’m not sure. I got home a few minutes ago and noticed your door wasn’t closed all the way. I thought maybe you’d come back so I knocked. Anyway, I pushed the door open a bit. The place was turned upside down. I came right over here and called the cops. They asked me to contact you and told me not to go back over.”
“Thanks.” Dozens of questions ran through his mind but there was no one to answer them. “Look, I’ll try to come in tonight.”
“Okay. Hey, Michael, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. I’ll see you.”
“Michael?” Pandora grabbed his hand as soon as he hung up the receiver.
“Somebody broke into my apartment.”
“Oh no.” She’d known the peace couldn’t last. “Do you think it was—”
“I don’t know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Maybe. Or maybe it was someone who noticed no one had been home for a while.”
She felt the anger in him but knew she couldn’t soothe it. “You’ve got to go.”
Nodding, he took her hand. “Come with me.”
“Michael, one of us has to be here with Sweeney and Charles.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“You have to go,” she repeated. “If it was one of the family, maybe you can find something to prove it. In any case, you have to see to this. I’ll be fine.”
“Just like the last time I was away.”
Pandora lifted a brow. “I’m not incompetent, Michael.”
“But you’ll be alone.”
“I have Bruno. Don’t give me that look,” she ordered. “He may not be ferocious, but he certainly knows how to bark. I’ll lock every door and window.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough.”
“All right, we’ll call the local police. They have Fitzhugh’s report about trespassers. We’ll explain that I’m going to be alone for the night and ask them to keep an eye on the place.”
“Better.” But he rose to pace. “If this is a setup…”
“Then we’re prepared for it this time.”
Michael hesitated, thought it through, then nodded. “I’ll call the police.”
Chapter Ten
The moment Michael left, Pandora turned the heavy bolt on the main door. Though it had taken them the better part of an hour, she was grateful he’d insisted on checking all the doors and windows with her. The house, with Pandora safely in it, was locked up tight.
It was entirely too quiet.
In defense, Pandora went to the kitchen and began rattling pots and pans. She had to be alone, but she didn’t have to be idle. She wanted to be with Michael, to stand by him when he faced the break-in of his apartment. Was it as frustrating for him to go on alone, she wondered, as it was for her to stay behind? It couldn’t be helped. There were two old people in the house who couldn’t be left. And they needed to eat.
The chicken was to have been a joint effort and a respite from the haphazard meals they’d managed to date. Michael had claimed to know at least the basics of deep frying. While he’d volunteered to deal with the chicken, she’d been assigned to try her hand at mashing potatoes. She’d thought competition if nothing else would have improved the end result.
Pandora resigned herself to a solo and decided the effort of cooking would keep her mind off fresh trouble. Needing company, she switched on the tuner on the kitchen wall unit and fiddled with the dial until she found a country-music station. Dolly Parton bubbled out brightly. Satisfied, she pulled one of Sweeney’s cookbooks from the shelf and began to search the index. Fried chicken went on picnics, she mused. How much trouble could it be?
She had two counters crowded and splattered, and flour up to her wrists when the phone rang. Using a dishcloth, Pandora plucked the receiver from the kitchen extension. Her foot was tapping to a catchy rendition of “On the Road Again.”
“Hello.”
“Pandora McVie?”
Her mind on more immediate matters, Pandora stretched the cord to the counter and picked up a drumstick. “Yes.”
“Listen carefully.”
“Can you speak up?” Tongue caught between her teeth, Pandora dipped the drumstick in her flour mixture. “I can’t hear you very well.”
“I have to warn you and there’s not much time. You’re in danger. You’re not safe in that house, not alone.”
The cookbook slid to the floor and landed on her foot. “What? Who is this?”
“Just listen. You’re alone because it was arranged. Someone’s going to try to break in tonight.”
“Someone?” She shifted the phone and listened hard. It wasn’t malice she detected, but nervousness. Whoever was on the other end was as shaky as she was. She was certain—almost certain—it was a man’s voice. “If you’re trying to frighten me—”
“I’m trying to warn you. When I found out…” Already low and indistinct, the voice became hesitant. “You shouldn’t have sent the champagne. I don’t like what’s going on, but it won’t stop. No one was going to be hurt, do you understand? But I’m afraid of what might happen next.”
Pandora felt fear curl in her stomach. Outside the kitchen windows it was dark, pitch-dark. She was alone in the house with two old, sick servants. “If you’re afraid, tell me who you are. Help me stop what’s going on.”
“I’m already risking everything by warning you. You don’t understand. Get out, just get out of the house.”
It was a ploy, she told herself. A ploy to make her leave. Pandora straightened her shoulders, but her gaze shifted from blank window to blank window. “I’m not going anywhere. If you want to help, tell me who I should be afraid of.”
“Just get out,” the voice repeated before the line went dead.
Pandora stood holding the silent receiver. The oil in the fryer had begun to sizzle, competing with the radio. Watching the windows, listening, she hung up the phone. It was a trick, she told herself. It was only a trick to get her out of the house in hopes she’d be frightened enough to stay out. She wouldn’t be shooed away by a quivering voice on the telephone.
Besides, Michael had already called the police. They knew she was alone in the house. At the first sign of trouble, she only had to pick up the phone.
Her hands weren’t completely steady, but she went back to cooking with a vengeance. She slipped coated chicken into the fryer, tested the potatoes she had cooking, then decided a little glass of wine while she worked was an excellent idea. She was pouring it when Bruno raced into the room to run around her feet.
“Bruno.” Pandora crouched and gathered the dog close. He felt warm, solid. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured. But for a moment, she allowed herself to wish desperately for Michael.
Bruno licked her face, made a couple of clumsy leaps toward the counter, then dashed to the door. Jumping up against it, he began to bark.
“Now?” Pandora demanded. “I don’t suppose you could wait until morning.”
Bruno raced back to Pandora, circled her then raced back to the door. When he’d gone through the routine th
ree times, she relented. The phone call had been no more than a trick, a clumsy one at that. Besides, she told herself as she turned the lock, it wouldn’t hurt to open the door and take a good look outside.
The moment she opened it, Bruno jumped out and tumbled into the snow. He began to sniff busily while Pandora stood shivering in the opening and straining her eyes against the dark. Music and the smells of cooking poured out behind her.
There was nothing. She hugged herself against the cold and decided she hadn’t expected to see anything. The snow was settled, the stars bright and the woods quiet. It was as it should have been; a very ordinary evening in the country. She took a deep breath of winter air and started to call the dog back. They saw the movement at the edge of the woods at the same time.
Just a shadow, it seemed to separate slowly from a tree and take on its own shape. A human shape. Before Pandora could react, Bruno began to bark and plow through the snow.
“No, Bruno! Come back.” Without giving herself a chance to think, Pandora grabbed the old pea coat that hung beside the door and threw it on. As an afterthought, she reached for a cast-iron skillet before bolting through the door after her dog. “Bruno!”
He was already at the edge of the woods and hot on the trail. Picking up confidence as she went, Pandora raced in pursuit. Whoever had been watching the house had run at the sight of the clumsy, overgrown puppy. She’d found she was susceptible to fear, but she refused to be frightened by a coward. With as much enthusiasm as Bruno, Pandora sprinted into the woods. Out of breath and feeling indestructible, she paused long enough to look around and listen. For a moment there was nothing, then off to the right, she heard barking and thrashing.
“Get ’em, Bruno!” she shouted, and headed toward the chaos. Excited by the chase, she called encouragement to the dog, changing direction when she heard his answering bark. As she ran, snow dropped from the branches to slide cold and wet down the back of her neck. The barking grew wilder, and in her rush, Pandora fell headlong over a downed tree. Spitting out snow and swearing, she struggled to her knees. Bruno bounded out of the woods and sent her sprawling again.
