The Obsession

by Nora Roberts

  “I don’t know how you manage life with that sunny, optimistic nature of yours.”

  She smiled. “It’s a burden.”

  Knowing the risk, he pushed a bit deeper. “Ordinarily I’d assume you had some crappy relationship or marriage behind you. But that’s not it. You’ve got a solid family under you, and that’s foundation.”

  She nudged her plate away. “Think of it as internal wiring.”

  “No. I’m good with wiring. You’ve got enough self-confidence and sense of self-worth to punch an asshole, to head off on your own to go after what you wanted. You’re complicated, Naomi, and that’s interesting. But you’re not wired wrong.”

  She rose, took both their plates to the counter. “There was a boy who loved me—or thought he did the way you can at twenty. I slept with him, and studied with him, worked with him. When he told me he loved me, asked me to live with him, I broke it off. Right then and there. It was hard for us both to get through the rest of college. Easier for me, no doubt, because I didn’t have those feelings for him. So I could just walk away.”

  “But you remember him.”

  “I hurt him. I didn’t have to.”

  Maybe, Xander thought, but he doubted anybody got through the labyrinth of life without hurting someone, whether or not they had to.

  “I guess you’re counting on me falling in love with you and asking you to live with me.”

  “I’m pointing out the problems with relationships when they go south and people live and work in close proximity.”

  “Maybe you’ll fall in love with me, ask me to live with you in that big house on the bluff.”

  “I don’t fall in love, and I like living alone.”

  Xander glanced at Tag and decided not to point out that she’d fallen for the mutt and lived with him.

  “Then I know that going in—unlike the college boy. I’ll get those. I know how it works. Want more wine?”

  She turned away from the sink. “Better not. Water’s better since I have to drive.”

  “It’s a nice night. Once I clean this up we can take a walk, work off dinner. Let the dog stretch his legs.”

  “He could probably use it.” She took the water he offered, wandered back toward the wall of books. “I really do want to take some shots here. Is there any time that works for you?”

  “Why don’t you come over Friday—anytime. The door’s open if I’m working down below. But if you came later in the day, you could go over to Loo’s after. We could grab some dinner before we play.”

  “You’re playing Friday?”

  “Nine to midnight. Ish. Kevin and Jenny can probably come, if you want.”

  Not really a date so much as a get-together, with food and music. And she did like the music. More, she wanted to get back in here with her camera and . . .

  Everything went blank and cold as her gaze latched onto a single spine in the wall of books.

  Blood in the Ground: The Legacy of Thomas David Bowes, by Simon Vance.

  They’d changed the title for the movie—the title and focus—as they’d wanted the drama focused on the young girl who’d discovered her father, who’d saved a woman’s life, who’d stopped a murderer.

  After her mother’s death, once she’d believed she could face it, Naomi read interviews by the director, the screenwriter, so she knew why they’d turned the book into Daughter of Evil. But this was where it had started, this held all the horror and the cold-blooded years of one man’s murderous secrets.

  “Naomi?” Xander tossed the dishcloth aside and started for her. “What’s wrong?”

  “What?” She turned, too sharply, and she’d gone pale so her eyes burned dark. “Nothing. Nothing. I . . . A little headache. I probably shouldn’t have had the wine after rapping my head.”

  She sidestepped, talking too fast. “This was really great, Xander, but I should go pop a couple more Motrin, make it an early night.”

  Before she could get to the door, he took her arm, felt it quivering. “You’re shaking.”

  “Just the headache. I really need to go.” Afraid the shaking would turn into a panic attack, she laid a hand over his. “Please. I’ll come back Friday if I can. Thanks for everything.”

  She bolted, barely waiting for the dog to catch up.

  Xander turned back, eyes narrowed on the books. Was he crazy? he wondered. Or had something there put the fear of God into her?

  He walked over, scanned the titles. Then adjusted, estimating where she’d been looking. Her position, her height.

  Baffled, he shook his head. Just books, he thought. Words and worlds on pages. He pulled one out at random, put it back, tried another. She’d been looking right about here when he’d glanced back, when he’d seen her freeze as if he’d pointed a gun at her head.

  He frowned, drew out the nonfiction book—serial killer, he remembered, back east. It had fascinated him as a teen when it buzzed all over the news. So he’d bought the book when it came out.

  West Virginia, he remembered, looking at the grainy photo of the killer in the cover art.

  Couldn’t have been this. She came from New York.

  He started to slide it back in, and then, as he often did with a book in his hand, opened it to skim the flyleaf.

  “Yeah, West Virginia, some little podunk town. Thomas David Bowes, cable guy, family man. Wife and two kids. Deacon in his church. How many did he kill again?”

  Curious enough, Xander kept skimming.

  “Hot August night, summer storm, country dark, blah blah. Eleven-year-old daughter finds his murder room, and . . . Naomi Bowes. Naomi.”

  He stared at the book, once again saw her pale, stricken face in his head.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Thirteen

  After considerable internal debate, Naomi pushed herself out of the house on Friday night. A compromise of sorts, she thought, as she couldn’t and wouldn’t push herself to go back to Xander’s. Not yet.

  Tag wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her going out at all, though she left him with his stuffed cat, a rawhide bone, and the promise that she’d be back.

  She couldn’t take the dog into a bar.

  She’d nearly used him as an excuse, at least to herself, but going out was normal, and normal, after the disaster ending Wednesday night, was her current goal.

  One drink, she told herself. One drink, one set, easy Friday-night conversation with Jenny and Kevin—and if Xander came over during the break, easy conversation with him.

  Normal.

  Maybe the thought of reaching for normal exhausted her, but she’d give it a solid attempt.

  Conversation posed no issue with Jenny, so she’d just let Jenny take the lead, ride that wave until it was time to go.

  Keeping it all light had to help throttle things back with Xander. She’d chosen the house—or it had chosen her—the small town. Which meant that avoiding Xander struck the wrong note. So throttle it back to casual friendship. That was the answer.

  How could she have forgotten, allowed herself to forget, what she’d come from and how easily normal could come crashing down?

  A book on a shelf, she thought now. It only took that to remind her.

  As before, she’d timed it so the band already rocked the small stage. She made her way to Jenny and Kevin, cozied up at the same table. Jenny immediately grabbed her hand.

  “Great timing. Sitter was late so we just got here. And they’re hot tonight! Kevin’s going to get us drinks, then he’s going to dance with me.”

  “My round,” Naomi insisted. “Sam Adams, red wine?”

  “You got it, thanks. Come on, Kevin.”

  “Why don’t we just—”

  But Jenny dragged him to the dance floor while Naomi worked her way back to the bar.

  She felt Xander’s eyes on her, the responsive flutter in her belly. She needed to acknowledge him, and she would. She would.

  She outlined it as she maneuvered.

  Get to the bar, order, then lean back
on the bar, send Xander a smile.

  Two bartenders worked nonstop, so she figured she’d have a wait. But the hot brunette—sassy swing with . . . yes, that looked like magenta streaked through the brown—glanced her way.

  She had a face so sharp, cheekbones so keen, she might have been carved with a scalpel.

  “Leggy blonde, short hair, long bangs, a boot-in-the-balls face. You’re the photographer.”

  “I . . . Yes.”

  The woman sized her up with eyes more gray than blue in the dim light. “All right,” she said with a slow nod. “You’re with Jenny and Kev?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sam Adams, glass of merlot—and what’re you drinking?”

  “The merlot’s fine.”

  “It’s not bad.”

  The woman wore big silver hoop earrings, joined in the left lobe by a trio of red studs that matched her snug, low-necked T-shirt.

  “I used to be married to the guy who pretended to take care of the lawn and yard work up at the old Parkerson place.”

  “Oh. Pretended?”

  “Turned out he was smoking more grass than he mowed. I ended up firing him as a husband before they fired him as groundskeeper. Can’t say he wasn’t a good-natured sort. Do you want to run a tab?”

  “Ah, no. Thanks.”

  Naomi paid cash, digging bills out of the wallet in her pocket.

  “I can have that brought out to you,” the woman said.

  “I’ve got it.” Competently, Naomi used one hand to cup the two wineglasses, the other to lift the lager.

  “You’ve done some waitressing.”

  “Yeah, I have. Thank you.”

  They’d slowed it down with the Stones and “Wild Horses.” As she worked her way back, she saw Kevin and Jenny, still on the dance floor, wrapped around each other and swaying.

  The sweetness of it struck her straight in the heart.

  Love could last, she thought. She’d seen it with Seth and Harry. For some, love could last.

  She set the drinks down, sat, and, since the bartender had distracted her from her outline, picked up her wine and looked toward the stage with a smile ready.

  Xander’s gaze locked on hers. He sang as though he meant it. As if wild horses couldn’t take him away. Talent, showmanship, she told herself. And she wasn’t looking for love, for promises, for devotion.

  Still, where Jenny and Kevin had struck her heart, he gripped it. Just hard enough to make it ache.

  She wanted it to stop, just stop. Wanted to empty herself of what he made her feel, made her need. He’d been a mistake, she knew it. Had been a mistake since he’d hunkered down to change her tire on the dark side of the road.

  She made herself look away, told herself to watch the dancers. Her gaze brushed over the woman who’d whispered something in Xander’s ear the last time she’d been here. Right now the woman looked back at her with something between a sulk and dislike.

  Great. Now she had the attention of some jealous groupie.

  She should’ve stayed home with the dog.

  The ache stayed lodged in her when they kicked it back up, and Kevin pulled Jenny back to the table.

  “Two dances in a row.” Bright-eyed, Jenny pumped fists in the air. “That’s a record.”

  “You don’t like to dance, Kevin?”

  “Did you see me out there?”

  She laughed, and spoke absolute truth. “I thought you looked adorable.”

  —

  He’d known the minute she’d come in—not because he’d seen her, Xander thought as he let Lelo take the lead. But because there had been a change in the air. The way there was before a storm.

  She had that inside her, that storm. He knew why now, but the why wasn’t the whole story. He wanted the whole of it as much as he wanted her.

  Should he tell her he knew? He’d asked himself that question a dozen times and more since he’d picked that book off the shelf. Would telling her help her relax or send her running? She remained too much of a mystery to be sure.

  If she trusted him . . . But she didn’t.

  She didn’t want to be here. She covered it well—he imagined she was used to covering—but even in this light he could see that the smile didn’t reach her eyes and stay there.

  But she’d come, maybe to prove a point to herself, to him. To both.

  If he left her alone, just backed away? He suspected she’d be fine with it. And that was likely something else she was good at—making wherever she was, whatever she did, fine for the moment.

  She’d be used to that.

  And he was damn set on giving her something she wasn’t used to.

  The hell with fine.

  They moved on to Clapton, and Xander ordered himself to concentrate. Even as he watched Naomi and Jenny get up and join the others on the dance floor.

  —

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced, but since Jenny had pleaded, Naomi thought dancing might help burn off some of the heat, the tension.

  It felt good to move, to let herself go with the music, let her hips clock the beat.

  She didn’t think anything of it when someone bumped her hard from behind. It was all part of it. But when it happened a second time, she glanced around.

  “Am I in your way?” Naomi asked the sulky blonde.

  “You’re damn right.” She gave Naomi a pissy little shove. “And you’d better get out of it.”

  “Cut it out, Marla,” Jenny warned. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the bitch in my way. You can’t just come around here and try to take what’s mine.”

  “I don’t have anything of yours.”

  Several of the dancers had stopped or slowed, eased back to stare. The attention had spiders crawling over Naomi’s skin. To avoid any more, she held up her hands.

  “But if you want the floor, it’s yours.”

  She started to back off, and the woman shoved her again, slapped out at the friend who said her name, grabbed at her arm.

  “You’ll be on the floor if you don’t stay away from Xander.” Eyes gleaming from too much beer, too much frustration, she shoved.

  Avoiding attention, sidestepping confrontation—those were hard-learned habits. But defending herself, standing up, those were ingrained.

  “You don’t want to touch me again.”

  “What’re you going to do about it?”

  Smirking, drunk-sure of her ground, Marla planted a hand on Naomi’s chest and started to push. Naomi grabbed her wrist, twisted, and had Marla squealing as she dropped to her knees.

  “Don’t touch me again,” Naomi repeated, then released her and walked away.