Hidden Riches

by Nora Roberts

  “Hold it, Dora,” she mumbled. “You’re getting this backwards. It’s not what he needs, it’s what you need.” And what she didn’t need was to take on a lover with more problems than a Eugene O’Neill play. She turned into the little gravel lot behind the shop. No matter how cute he was when he smiled.

  The T-Bird was gone. Dora frowned a moment, then shook her head. For the best, she thought. If he wasn’t around, she couldn’t think about knocking on his door and inviting trouble.

  Her boots crunched over the gravel, clattered up the back stairs that she usually took in a run. After entering the code into the alarm system, she unlocked the door, then secured it behind her.

  She wouldn’t tempt fate and listen for Jed’s return, she decided, but make an early night of it. A pot of tea, a fire and that book she’d been trying to read: the perfect remedies for a troubled mind. And with any luck, they would also erase the effects of Scream, If You Dare—the horror movie she’d treated Richie to that evening.

  She let herself into her apartment and turned on the Christmas tree. The cozy, colored lights never failed to cheer her. Once she had the stereo on low, she pried off her boots, peeled off her coat. Everything went neatly into her hall closet while she hummed along with Billie Holiday.

  In her stocking feet, she padded into the kitchen to heat the kettle. Her hand on the tap jerked as a board creaked in the other room. Her heart made a beeline for her throat so that she stood frozen—water splashing into the sink—listening to the sound of her own racing heart.

  “Get a grip, Conroy,” she whispered. Imagine, letting a silly film give her the willies. There wasn’t any seven-foot superhuman psychopath in her living room, waiting with a butcher knife. The building was settling, that was all.

  Amused with herself, she put the kettle on to boil, adjusted the heat. She walked back into the living room, and stopped dead.

  It was pitch dark, dark as a cave, with only the thin backwash of light from the kitchen illuminating the silhouettes of furniture. Which, of course, made the dark worse.

  But she’d turned the tree on, hadn’t she? Of course she had, she assured herself as her hand crept up to her throat to soothe a jittery pulse. A fuse? No, no, the stereo was still playing and they were on the same plug. She reasoned it out slowly, waiting for her heart rate to settle. The tree lights had probably shorted. Shaking her head at her overactive imagination, she started across the room to fix it.

  And the kitchen light went out behind her.

  Her breath sucked in on a gasp that she forced back out with a slow shudder. Slippery little fingers of fear slid over her skin. For a full minute she didn’t move, listening to every sound. There was nothing but her own drumming heartbeat and shallow breathing. Lifting a hand to her head, she laughed. Of course there was nothing. A bulb blew, that was all.

  Creative imagination was a killer, she mused. All she had to do was—

  A hand clamped over her mouth, an arm snaked around her waist. Before she could think to struggle, she was yanked back against a hard body.

  “You don’t mind the dark, do you, honey?” DiCarlo kept his voice at a whisper, for practical purposes, and to add another element to her fear. “Now you stay real still and keep real quiet. You know what this is?” He loosened his grip enough to slip his gun under her sweater, run the side of it up over her breast. “It’s a big, mean gun. You don’t want me to have to use it, do you?”

  She shook her head, squeezing her eyes tight when he stroked her flesh with steel. All capacity for thought vanished.

  “Good girl. Now I’m going to take my hand away. If you scream, I’ll have to kill you.”

  When he removed the hand from her mouth, Dora pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. She didn’t ask what he wanted. She was afraid she knew.

  “I watched you the other night, in the bedroom, when you took off your clothes.” His breath quickened as he slipped his free hand between her legs. “You had on black underwear. Lacy. I liked it.”

  She groaned, turning her head away as he rubbed through the wool of her slacks. Watched her. He’d watched her, was all she could think, repulsed.

  “You’re going to do that little striptease for me again, right after we take care of a little business.”

  “I—I have money,” she managed. She kept her teeth clenched, her eyes straight ahead as she fought to distance her mind from what he was doing to her body. “A few hundred in cash. I’ll give it to you.”

  “You’re going to give me all sorts of things. Does this one fasten in the front, too?” He toyed with her bra as she whimpered. “Oh, yeah, that’s just fine. What color is it?” When she didn’t answer, he pressed the barrel of the gun against her heart. “You want to answer me when I ask you a question.”

  “R-red.”

  “Panties, too?”

  A flush of shame rose up on her clammy skin. “Yes, yes, they’re red.”

  “You are a hot one.” He laughed, finding himself amazingly aroused by her trembling plea to stop. It was a bonus he hadn’t expected.

  “We’re going to have a real good time, baby, and nobody’ll get hurt. As long as you give me what I want. Say you understand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  She bit down on the terror. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. Real good. First, I want you to tell me where it is, then we’ll get down to the party.”

  Tears were shimmering in her eyes, burning them. She thought she’d been scared the night before with Jed. But that was nothing, nothing compared to the ice-edged horror that clawed through her now.

  And she was doing nothing but whimpering, shaking and waiting to be victimized. She forced her trembling chin to firm. She wasn’t helpless—wouldn’t be helpless. He might rape her, but she wouldn’t make it easy.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She didn’t have to fake the shudders, and hoped he thought she was completely beaten when she went limp against him. “Please, please don’t hurt me. I’ll give you whatever you want if you don’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t want to have to.” God, he felt hard as iron. Every time he slid the gun over her flesh, she quivered, and his blood sizzled. Those bleeding hearts who called rape a crime of violence were full of shit, he realized. It was about power. All about power.

  “You cooperate, and we’ll get on fine.” He slipped the barrel of the gun under the front hook of her bra, sliding it slowly up and down the valley between her breasts. “Now, I looked all through the place and couldn’t find it. You tell me where the picture is, and I’ll take the gun away.”

  “The picture?” Her frantic mind whirled. Cooperate, he’d said, and he’d take the gun away. So she’d cooperate. But she wouldn’t be powerless. “I’ll give you the picture, any picture you want. Please, move the gun. I can’t think when I’m so scared.”

  “Okay, baby.” DiCarlo nipped at her earlobe and lowered the gun. “That feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t say thank you,” he said, and teased her by bringing the gun back up her torso again.

  She shut her eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

  Satisfied that she recognized who was in charge, he moved the gun again. “Much better. Just tell me where it is, and I won’t hurt you.”

  “All right.” She cupped her left fist with her right hand. “I’ll tell you.” Using the force of both arms, she rammed her elbow into his stomach. He grunted with pain as he stumbled back. Dora heard a clatter behind her as she raced for the door.

  But her legs felt numb with fear. She fell into the hall, nearly lost her footing. She’d reached the rear door and was dragging at the locks when he caught her. She screamed then and, with survival her only thought, turned to claw at his face.

  Swearing, DiCarlo hooked an arm around her throat. “We’re not going to be able to be so nice now, are we?” Deliberately he cut off her air and began to pull her backward toward the dark apartment
.

  They both heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. With one desperate swipe, DiCarlo smashed the fluted hall sconce and waited in the shadows.

  Jed came in low, weapon drawn.

  “Toss it down,” DiCarlo hissed, jerking on his arm to make Dora choke. “I’ve got a gun at her back. Make the wrong move and the lady won’t have a spine left.”

  Jed couldn’t see a weapon, but he could see the pale outline of Dora’s face and hear her desperate struggle for air. “Ease off.” With his eyes fixed on DiCarlo, he crouched, set his gun on the floor. “She won’t be much of a shield if you strangle her.”

  “Stand up, hands behind your head. Kick the gun over here.”

  Jed straightened, linked his fingers behind his head. He knew Dora’s eyes were on him, but he didn’t look at her. “How far do you think you’ll get?”

  “Far enough. Kick the gun over here.”

  Jed nudged it halfway between himself and Dora, knowing the man who held her would have to come closer if he wanted it. Close enough, Jed figured, and they’d have a chance.

  “Sorry,” Jed said. “Looks like I missed the extra point.”

  “Back. Back against the wall, Goddamn it.” DiCarlo was beginning to sweat now. Things weren’t going the way they were supposed to. But he had the woman. And if he had the woman, he’d get Finley’s painting.

  Shifting, he began to sidestep down the hall toward the open door, with Dora between him and Jed. When he reached for Jed’s gun, he pulled her down with him as he crouched to retrieve it. The movement loosened his hold around her throat.

  Even as Jed prepared his move, she sucked in her breath. “He doesn’t have a gun,” she gasped out, and threw her body back.

  Her foot hit the .38, sent it skidding out the door. Jed dragged her aside and braced for DiCarlo’s attack. But rather than attack, DiCarlo ran.

  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 happen
ed 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