Angels Fall

by Nora Roberts

  egret. The bird speared up, arrowed into the marsh.

  Nice picture. Brody thought absently. Pretty and placid and…

  Something in the quality of the light and shadows on the lake sucked his mind back into the book. He narrowed his eyes as Moses paddled back to shore, the ball gripped in his teeth.

  But what if it wasn't a ball…

  He left the tangle of sheets on the bed and strode back into his office. He'd just get this one partial scene down, he told himself. Thirty minutes tops, then he'd deal with the bedroom, shower, shave and put on something that didn't necessarily look as it he'd slept in it.

  TWO HOURS LATER. Reece set one big box of supplies on the porch of Brody's cabin, knocked briskly, then walked back to her car for a second box.

  She knocked again, louder this time. The lack of response had her frowning, and gingerly trying the door.

  She knew her instinctive worry that he'd drowned in the tub, fallen down the stairs or been murdered in a home invasion was ridiculous. But that didn't make it less real.

  And the house was so quiet, seemed so empty. It wasn't a place she really knew. She couldn't quite make herself step over the threshold, not until the image of him bleeding on the floor somewhere inside lodged itselt with ugly clarity in her mind.

  She forced herself inside, called out his name.

  And when she heard the creak of floorboards overhead, she grabbed her chef's knife out of a box, gripped its handle with both hands.

  He came scowling—alive and in one piece—to the top of the stairs.

  "What? What time is it?"

  Relief nearly sent her to her knees, but she managed to lean against the doorjamb and stay upright. "About six. I knocked, but—"

  "Six? Damn it. I, ah, got hung up."

  "It's okay, no problem." The pain in her chest was shifting into another kind of pressure. He looked so annoyed, so disheveled, so big and male. If she'd trusted her legs right at that moment, she might've used them to bolt up the steps and jump him.

  "You want a rain check?"

  "No." His frown only deepened. "How the hell do I know when it's going to rain again? I need to… clean up." Goddamn sheets. '"You need any help first?"

  "No. No. No, I'm fine. I'll just get started on dinner, if that's all right with you. It'll take about two hours, maybe a little less. So, you know, take your time."

  "Good." He paused long enough to hook his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. "What were you going to do with the knife?"

  She'd forgotten it was in her hands, and now looked down at it with a combination of puzzlement and embarrassment, "I don't really know."

  '"Maybe you could put it down so I don't get in the shower with the image of Norman Bates in my head."

  "Sure."

  She turned to set it back in the box, and when she turned again, he was gone.

  She hauled in both boxes. She wanted to lock the front door—badly wanted to lock it. It wasn't her place, but didn't he realize how easily anyone could just walk in? She had, after all. How could he be upstairs, oblivious to unlocked doors? Taking a shower.

  And God, God, she wished she had that kind of confidence, or faith, or even plain stupidity.

  Since she didn't, she locked the door. And after she'd carried her supplies to the kitchen, she locked the back door as well.

  Wasn't her place, true, but she was in it. How could she concentrate on fixing a meal with unlocked doors everywhere?

  Satisfied, she took out the casserole she'd prepared, measured out milk and set it on the stove to scald. She got out her brand-new knife block—she was spending too much of her paycheck on kitchen equipment. It was insane, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Waiting inside the roaster she pulled out next was a pork loin soaking inside a sealed bag of marinade she'd mixed up the night before.

  Setting it aside, she put the wine in the refrigerator to keep it chilled, then did a quick inspection of the contents.

  Worse even than she'd imagined. And a good thing she d brought absolutely everything she'd need with her. He did have a couple of eggs, a stick of butter and some slices of American cheese. Pickles, milk that was already past its recommended expiration date and eight bottles of Harp. Two rapidly shriveling oranges sat like dour wallflowers on the bottom shelf. There wasn't a single leafy vegetable in sight.

  Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

  Still, as she poured the hot milk over the scalloped potatoes, she caught the scent of pine cleaner. She had to appreciate he'd troubled enough to clean up before she got there.

  She slid the casserole into the oven, set the timer.

  When Brody walked in thirty minutes later, she was sliding the roast in beside the casserole. The table was set with his plates and candles she'd brought with her. along with dark blue napkins, wineglasses, and a little clear bowl that held what he thought were miniature roses in sunny yellow.

  There were the scents, as he'd imagined. Something succulent from the oven, something fresh from the pile of vegetables on the counter. And a combination of both the succulent and the fresh that was Reece.

  When she turned, he didn't see the nerves and the sorrow in her eyes. They were deep, they were dark, they were warm.

  "I thought I'd… Oh."

  She took a step back as he strode to her, and a flicker of those nerves skipped across her face as he took her arms, lifted her to her toes.

  But it was the warmth he tasted when he took her mouth, the warmth flavored very subtly by the nerves. It was, for him, irresistible.

  Her arms were pinned between them, then her hands curled on his chest, gripped their way up to his shoulders. He swore he felt her melt.

  He released her, stepped back and said, "Hi."

  "Yeah, hi. Ah, where am I again?"

  He grinned. "Where do you want to be?"

  "I guess I want to be right here. I was about to do something. Oh yeah. I was going to make martinis."

  "No shit?'"

  "Absolutely none." She moved to his refrigerator for ice to chill the two glasses she'd brought along. Then stopped. "You don't like martinis?"

  "What's not to like? Jeff didn't say you'd picked up any vodka."

  "Jeff?"

  "Liquor Store Jeff."

  "Liquor Store Jeff," she repeated with a nod. Then sighed a little as she dumped ice in the martini glasses. "What, do they post a list of my alcoholic purchases somewhere? Am I heading the line as town drunk?"

  "No, Wes Pritt's undefeated in that category. I called in because I figured you'd want wine. And if you'd already picked it up, I'd save myself the trip to town."

  "Well, that was efficient. I didn't think of martinis until I was putting everything together to come by. I borrowed the glasses and shaker from Linda-gail. She got them to make Cosmos a couple years ago."

  He stood back, watched her measure and shake, toss the ice, pour, add olives on long blue picks to the drinks. Then he studied the results in the glass she handed him.

  "I haven't had a martini in… I don't know. It's not the sort of thing you order in Clancy's."

  "Well then, to a touch of urban sophistication in the List." She touched her glass to his, waited until he'd sipped.

  "Damn good martini." He sipped again, studying her over the rim. "You're something."

  "Or other," she agreed. "Try this."

  She lifted a small dish in which what looked like stuffed celery was arranged in some intricate geometric pattern. "What's in it?"

  "State secret, but primarily smoked Gouda and sun-dried tomatoes."

  He wasn't a big fan of raw celery, but figuring the vodka would kill the taste, he gave it a shot. And changed his position. "Whatever the state secret might be, it does a hell of a lot more for celery than the peanut butter my mother used to dump on it."

  "I should hope so. You can sit down, enjoy." She picked up her glass for another tiny sip. "I'm going to make the salad."

  He didn't sit, but he did enjoy watching her roast pine nuts
. Imagine that, she was roasting pine nuts. Then he saw her putting leafy stuff in the skillet.

  He had an innate suspicion of leafy stuff in the first place, much less when you put that leafy stuff in a pan on the stove. "You're cooking a salad?"

  "I'm preparing a spinach and red cabbage salad, with pine nuts and a little Gorgonzola. I couldn't believe Mac ordered Gorgonzola when I just mentioned last week I wish I could get my hands on some."

  "Sweet on you, remember."

  "I feel very lucky to have the man who can get me Gorgonzola sweet on me. Anyway, Dr. Wallace said I need more iron. Spinach is loaded with it." She caught his expression out of the corner of her eye and swallowed a laugh. '"You're a big boy. If you don't like it. you don't have to finish it."

  "There's a deal. How'd it go with Doc?"

  "He's thorough and he's gentle, and he's impossible to argue with." As she spoke she adjusted the heat under the skillet. "He thinks I'm a little run-down, and probably a little anemic, but otherwise pretty good. I've had my fill of doctors, probably for a lifetime, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I went back to the liquor store, jeff mentioned that the sheriff had been in with the sketch."

  "Yeah, I heard that, too. He mention Penelope Cruz?"

  She smiled a little. "Yeah. He—the sheriff—sent a copy to Joanie's, too. No bells rang."

  "Did you expect them to?"

  "I don't know what I thought. I guess part of me hoped someone would look at it and say, 'Gee, that looks like Sally Jones, who lives just east of town. She's been having a rough time of it with her no-good husband." Then we'd know, and the sheriff would go arrest the no-good husband. And it would be over."

  "Neat and tidy."

  "In a way." She took another minute sip of her martini. "Anyway. I finished your book. I'm glad you didn't bury Jack alive."

  "He is, too."

  She laughed. "I bet. I like that you didn't totally redeem him, either. He's still so flawed and funny, and poised to screw up, but I think Leah may nudge him into being the best man he can be. You let her save the day, too." She glanced back at him. "From this female reader's perspective, that was great. And it worked."'

  "Glad you liked it."

  "Enough that I picked up another one this afternoon. Blood Ties.'' She saw the frown come into his eyes. "What?"

  "It's… violent. Pretty graphic in a couple of scenes. It may not be something you'd enjoy."

  "Because I've experienced graphic violence firsthand?"

  "It might echo a little more than you'd be comfortable with."

  "It it does. I'll put it down. Just like you can put down the spinach salad." She checked the oven, the skillet, picked up her martini. '"We're right on schedule here. Why don't you light those candles, open the wine?'

  "Sure "

  "So, what hung you up today?"

  "Hung me up?"

  "You said, when I got here, you'd gotten hung up."

  "Right." He lit the candles she'd set on the tiny table—dark blue tapers to match the napkins. "Work."

  He was, she thought, so often a man not of few words but of none. At least verbally. "Do I assume in that context it means your book's going well?"

  "Yeah." He found the wine in the refrigerator. Chenin Blanc, as advertised. "It was a good day."

  "You're not going to talk about it."

  He started to search the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew, but she handed him one she'd brought with her. "About what?"

  "The book."

  He considered as he opened the wine, as she added more spinach to the pan. "I was going to kill her. Maybe you remember I mentioned it, that day we were on the trail."

  "Yes. I do. You said the villain was going to kill her there, push her off and into the water."

  "Yeah, and he tried. He hurt her, he tormented her, he terrorized her, but he didn't manage to push her off the ridge the way he'd planned."

  "She got away."

  "She jumped."

  Reece looked over as she began lifting the wilted greens from the nan. "She jumped."

  He never talked about his work with anyone. It generally irritated him even to be asked about it. But he found he wanted to tell her, to see her reaction.

  "The rain's driving, the trail's thick and heavy with mud. She's bruised and battered, her leg's bleeding. She's alone up there with him. There's no one to help her. She can't outrun him. He's stronger, he's faster. He's fucking crazy. So she jumps. I still figured she'd die. Never planned for her to make it past chapter eight. But she proved me wrong."

  Saying nothing, Reece tossed the salad with the vinaigrette she'd made at home.

  "She's stronger than I realized when I first met her. She has a deep and innate will to survive. She went into the water because she knew it was her only chance, and she'd rather have died trying to live than just to lie down and let him kill her. And she fought her way out of the river, even though it tried to stick her down, even though it tossed her around. She fought her way out."

  'Yes, Reece agreed, "she sounds strong."

  "She didn't think of it that way. She didn't think at all, she just acted. She clawed her way out. She's lost and she's hurt, she's cold, and she's still alone. But she's alive."

  "Will she stay that way?"

  "That'll be up to her."

  Reece nodded. She arranged the salads on plates, drizzled them with cheese. "She'll want to give up. I hope she doesn't. I hope she wins. Do you… care about her?"

  "I wouldn't spend time with her otherwise."

  She set the plates on the table, then a small basket with a round of olive bread. She poured the wine herself. "You spent time with the killer, too."

  "And I care about him. Just in a different way. Sit down. I've gotten so I like the way your eyes look in candlelight."

  Surprise came into them first, then that gold light as she sat. "Try the salad. You won't hurt my feelings if you don't like it."

  He obliged, then frowned at her. "It's annoying. I don't like celery, particularly. I've never liked spinach. Who would? I'm not a big fan of change, either."

  She smiled. "But you like my celery. You like my spinach."

  "Apparently. Maybe I just like whatever you put in front of me."

  "Which makes it rewarding to cook for you." She forked up some salad. "'To iron in the blood."

  "Have you given any more thought to putting a cookbook proposal together?"

  "Actually I spent some time on that last night after my shift."

  "Is that why you look tired?"

  "That's not an appropriate question after you've said you like the way I look in candlelight."

  "Your eyes, specifically. Doesn't mean I can't see you look tired."

  He would, she supposed, always be brutally honest with her. Tough as it might be on the ego, it was better than platitudes and soft lies.

  "I couldn't sleep, so fiddling with the proposal gave me something to do. I was thinking of The Simple Gourmet as a title."