Divine Evil

by Nora Roberts

  “It took more than one person to do what was done to Biff.” He ground out a cigarette. “I don't believe for one minute that a couple of kids listening to black metal and doing a few chants psyched themselves up to do all this. In the books they're called dabblers because that's just what they do. What's happening here isn't dabbling.”

  “And I thought I'd come home for a nice relaxing weekend.”

  “Sorry. Listen, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention any of this to Clare.”

  “Any reason?”

  “Officially she's my only witness in the MacDonald case, and I don't want to influence her memory. Personally, I don't want her any more upset than she already is.”

  Blair tapped a finger against the coffee mug, considering. “She spent twenty minutes this morning examining every inch of that burl.”

  Cam's eyes cleared, and he smiled. “Oh, yeah?”

  “And to think of the money I've wasted on flowers and jewelry whenever I've ticked a woman off.”

  “You never had my charm, Kimball. How about putting in a good word for me?”

  “I never knew you to need anybody to do your talking.”

  “It was never this important before.”

  Blair couldn't come up with a joke and rose, jiggling change in his pockets. “You're really serious about her?”

  “Deadly” He rubbed a hand over his heart. “Christ, it feels deadly.”

  “You know, that ex-husband of hers was a jerk. He wanted her to give swanky dinner parties and learn to decorate.”

  “I hate him already.” He could ask Blair what he hadn't felt comfortable asking Clare. “Why'd she marry him?”

  “Because she convinced herself she was in love and it was time to start a family. Turned out he wasn't interested in a family anyway. Before it was done, he'd convinced her everything that had gone wrong was her fault. She bought it, too. And she's still a little raw.”

  “I figured that out.” Cam nearly smiled. “You want to ask me if my intentions are honorable?”

  “Fuck you, Rafferty” He held up a hand quickly. “Don't say you'd rather fuck my sister.”

  “Right now I'd settle for sitting down and having a rational conversation with her.”

  Blair considered for a minute. “When do you get off duty?”

  “In a town this size, you never get off duty. There's no telling when I'll have to chase off some kid skateboarding down Main or break up a fight over a checkers game in the park.”

  “Old Fogarty and McGrath still at it?”

  “Every week.”

  “You can get to the park for round three just as quickly from our place. Why don't you give me a lift home, maybe hang around for some barbecued chicken?”

  “That's neighborly of you,” Cam said and grinned.

  She wasn't upset that he was there, Clare thought. She glanced over at the echoing clank of metal on metal and noted that Cam had just missed tossing a ringer.

  She wasn't angry with him. Not really. All she was trying to do was distance herself a bit, give herself some perspective. She'd let things get out of hand much too quickly as far as Cam was concerned. The proof was the way they'd grated on each other since the accident.

  Rob had always said she played dirty in a fight, tossing out illogical arguments and past grudges or retreating into frigid silence. Of course, the arguments had seemed perfectly logical to her, and …

  She was doing it again, Clare thought, and poked viciously at the grilling chicken with her barbecue fork. Rob was old business, and if she didn't stop carrying around that particular baggage, she'd be right back on Janowski's couch.

  If that wasn't enough to straighten her out, nothing was.

  Cam was new business, she decided. She hadn't liked the fact that he'd questioned her like a cop one minute, then tried to bundle her off into a safe corner like a concerned lover the next. And she would tell him so. Eventually.

  In the meantime, she'd just wanted some room to reevaluate. Then he'd shown up. First with the burl that he'd damn well known would weaken her. Then today, waltzing into the backyard with Blair. Showing off his wonderful body in snug jeans and a shirt rolled up over his tanned and muscled arms.

  She poked at the chicken, turned it, and forced herself not to look up when she heard the shouts and masculine laughter, the ringing of horseshoes.

  “He's got terrific buns,” Angie commented and offered Clare a glass of the wine she'd just poured.

  “I've always admired Jean-Paul's butt.”

  “Not his. Though God knows it's fine.” She sniffed at the sizzling chicken. “This is a talent you've hidden well, girl·”

  “It's hard to barbecue in the loft.”

  “This from a woman who welds in her living room. Are you going to let him get away?”

  “You're full of non sequiturs today, Angie.”

  “Are you?”

  “I'm just taking time out to think.” She glanced up and smiled. “Look, poor Bud is making cow's eyes at Alice, and Alice is making them at Blair.”

  “Who's your money on?”

  “Bud. He's slow but steady. Blair will never be anything but a visitor in Emmitsboro.”

  “How about you?”

  Clare said nothing for a moment, only slathered sauce on the browning chicken. She could smell lilacs from the big gnarled tree as the light breeze loosened some of the petals and had them drifting like snow. Sun and shadow played over the patio. The music crooning from the radio was old tunes from those sweet and happy years before she had had to make decisions or think of futures.

  “Did you see the sculpture I was working on last night?”

  “The brass piece. It made me think of a woman stretched out on an altar about to be sacrificed.”

  “It's almost scary how easy it is to work here. How compelled I am to pull it out of my head. I always thought I was made for New York.” She looked at her friend. “Now, I'm not so sure.”

  “Because of the work or because of those grade-A buns over there?”

  “I guess I'll have to figure that out.”

  “Sonofabitch.” Blair jogged over to snag a beer out of the cooler. “Jean-Paul must think we're playing bocce. When do we eat? I'm tired of being humiliated by a couple of hick cops.”

  “I'll let you know once you guys have shucked that corn.”

  They complained, but they did it. When everyone settled down at the old picnic table on the terrace to a meal of grilled chicken and corn, with Alice's potato salad and chilled French wine, the mood was easy. There was no talk of murder investigations, but a rehash of horseshoe games.

  Along the edging stones, the early roses bloomed, fronted by the impatiens Clare had planted. There was the scent of lilacs and spicy sauce. Bud had positioned himself beside Alice and was making her laugh so often that her gaze hardly ever drifted toward Blair. Afternoon melded into the golden, fragrant, endless evening that is exclusive to spring.

  Cam outlined his strategy, maneuvering Alice into his place in the horseshoe tournament and slipping into the kitchen behind Clare.

  “Great chicken, Slim.”

  “Thanks.” She kept her head in the refrigerator, rearranging plates of leftovers. He took her arm and pulled her out.

  “Not that I wasn't enjoying the view, but I like to look at your face when I talk to you.”

  “Potato salad goes rancid fast.”

  “You're awful pretty when you're domestic. Hold it.” He slapped his hands on the refrigerator, caging her in before she could slip away.

  “Look, Cam, I have company.”

  “And they're having a hell of a time on their own.”

  Jean-Paul let out a yell of triumph that was followed by a heated but jovial argument. The raised voices came clearly through the kitchen windows.

  “See?”

  “You're boxing me in, Rafferty.”

  “Looks that way Okay, I'd be more than willing to apologize, if you'd just tell me what I'm supposed to be sorry for.”


  “Nothing.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “There's nothing.”

  “Don't wimp out on me now, Slim.”

  “I don't want to argue with you.”

  “Okay then.” He dipped his head, but she slammed a hand against his chest before he could kiss her.

  “That's not the answer.”

  “Seemed like a damn good one to me.” He did his best to adjust both libido and ego. “Give me yours, then.”

  “You acted like a cop.” She hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “Interrogating me, taking your damn blood tests, and filing your reports. Then you turned right around and acted like a concerned lover, holding my hand and bringing me tea.”

  “Well, I guess we've got a real problem, because I'm both.” He put a hand firmly under her chin. “And I intend to go on being both.”

  Along with the frisson of excitement came annoyance. “That's another thing. What you intend. I feel as though this whole relationship has evolved as you intended. Will you move?”

  He shifted. After all, she was talking to him now, and he didn't think she was going to stop until she'd spit it all out. “I have to plead guilty on that one. I wanted to take you to bed, and I did. I wanted you to want me, and you do.”

  It was hard to argue with basic facts. “So, now you're going to be reasonable.”

  He smiled, brushing a fingertip over her bangs. “Figured it wouldn't hurt to give it a shot. If I don't get my hands on you again soon, I'm going to go crazy.”

  She began rummaging through drawers for a loose cigarette. “I don't like getting swept off my feet. It makes me nervous.”

  “How about that? And here I thought it was the other way around.”

  She looked up then, and saw something in his eyes. Her hands froze as the bubble of panic worked its way toward her throat. “Don't say it,” she managed. “Don't. I'm not ready to hear it.”

  He rocked back on his heels, struggling for patience. “If telling you how I feel about you is going to make you bolt for the door, I'll wait.”

  She didn't move away when he walked toward her, when he took her hand and drew her close. With a sigh, she settled into his arms, her cheek against his, her eyes closed.

  “That feels a lot better,” he murmured.

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “Listen. Remember this one?”

  From the radio outside she heard the slow, shuffling music. “‘Under the Boardwalk.’ The Drifters.”

  “Summer's almost here.” He swayed her into a dance, and they were both reminded of the first time they had made love, there in that same room. “I've missed you, Slim.”

  “I've missed you, too.” Content to let him lead, she twined her arms around his neck. He nipped lightly at her earlobe and made her shudder. Maybe it could be simple, she thought. If she would just let it. “I heard you were playing pool with Sarah Hewitt last night, and I imagined how it would feel to cut her eyes out with my metal snips.”

  Brows lifted, he drew back to study her face. She wore a very small, very smug smile. “You're a dangerous woman with a revolting imagination.”

  “You bet. I'd imagined using my snips somewhere else too, on an entirely different part of your anatomy. You wouldn't have liked it.”

  He pulled her back. “Do you know the penalty for threatening an officer?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come home with me, and I'll show you.”

  Chapter 19

  THE STRONG MOONLIGHT streamed over the bed. Cold and silver, it bathed their heated bodies. They hadn't tumbled right into sex but had shared another dance, gliding slowly, silently together in the moonglow. He'd liked the way she had stood on tiptoe so that their eyes and mouths lined up. The way she slid her body against his and smiled. Or laughed when he spun her out and pulled her back, in the teasingly sexual way dances were meant for.

  Still linked, they had swayed from the deck to the bedroom, the music playing.

  Undressing lazily, kissing long and deep, touching gently. Patient now, with the night around them and ahead of them. Sighs and whispers to add to the music.

  Their loving had been a continuation of the dance.

  Smooth, sinuous rhythms.

  Step, counterstep.

  A bold, sensuous beat.

  Turns.

  Bodies brushing, parting, teasing.

  Break.

  Hands clasping.

  That final sighing note.

  Now, though the dance was over, Clare listened to the music that vibrated through the air and through her blood. “I should have threatened you several days ago.”

  “I wish you had.”

  I was scared.

  “I know. Me, too.”

  The mattress gave, the sheets whispered as she shifted to look down at him. And smiled. “But I'm feeling much better now.”

  “Yeah?” He tugged her hair to bring her mouth close enough to kiss. “Me, too.”

  “I like your face.” Eyes narrowed, she traced a fingertip over his jawline, up to his cheekbones, along his nose and down to his mouth. “I'd really like to sculpt your face.”

  He only laughed and bit down gently on her finger.

  “I mean it. It's a good face. Very strong bones. How about it?”

  Vaguely embarrassed, he shrugged. “I don't know.”

  “And your hands,” she said, more to herself than him as she turned them over, examining the palms, the ridges of callus, the length of the fingers. “Nothing delicate here,” she mused. “They're all business.”

  “You ought to know.”

  She chuckled but shook her head. “From an artist's viewpoint, peasant! Then there's the rest of you. You've got a terrific body. Elegantly masculine. Lean through the hips, good shoulders, nicely defined pecs, tight abdominals, excellent thighs and calves.”

  Embarrassment became acute. “Come on, Clare.”

  “I was really considering asking you to pose nude, before we became so … intimately acquainted.”

  “Nude?” With a half laugh, he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her back. The rest of the laugh didn't surface because he could see she was dead serious. “No way am I posing naked.”

  “Nude,” she corrected. “Naked's for sex and showers, nude's for art.”

  “I'm not posing naked or nude.”

  “Why not?” Warming to the idea, she scooted up, straddling him. Ah, yes, she thought, truly excellent abs. “I've already seen you naked, from a variety of angles. Nude's entirely impersonal.”

  “Nude's entirely undressed.”

  “You'd look great in copper, Cam.”

  “Not even for you.”

  She only smiled. “Okay, I'll just do the sketches from memory.