by Nora Roberts
“And he wasn’t sure where you kept them. Fire destroys everything,” Boyd pointed out. “So, he’d take one of the buildings, and hope. If he didn’t hit, the confusion in the aftermath would keep everyone so busy, you wouldn’t get around to the audit until, he hoped, he’d managed to replace the siphoned funds.”
“So he thought.”
“He doesn’t know you like I do. You always get things done on time. The office was his last shot, and the most desperate, since he had to do it himself. When we picked him up and he found out you and Ry had been in there and that he was facing attempted murder charges, he gave us everything.”
“I trusted him,” Natalie murmured. “I can’t stand knowing I could be so wrong about anyone I thought I knew.” She glanced up as the door opened.
“Good to see you, Ry,” Boyd said, and rose. This looked like his cue to make a quick and discreet exit.
Ry nodded at Boyd, then focused on Natalie. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I’ve been discharged.”
“You’re not ready to leave the hospital.”
“Excuse me.” Boyd slipped toward the door. “I have a sudden urge for a cup of bad coffee.”
Neither Natalie nor Ry bothered to say good-bye. They only continued to argue in raspy croaks.
“Do you have a medical degree now, Inspector?”
“I know what shape you were in when you got here.”
“Well, if you’d bothered to check in since, you’d have seen that I’m recovered.”
“I had a lot of details to tie up,” he told her. “And you needed to rest.”
“I’d rather have had you.”
He held out the flowers. “I’m here now.”
She sighed. Should she let him off the hook so easily when she’d been pining for him for so long? And why shouldn’t she make him pay a bit for dumping her for the most ridiculous reason?
“Why don’t you go take those daffodils to someone who needs them.”
He tossed them on the bed. “I’m going to go talk to the doctor.”
“You certainly will not talk to my doctor. I don’t need your permission to leave the hospital. You didn’t ask me for mine. And I did not need rest. I needed to see you. I was worried about you.”
“Were you?” Encouraged, he lifted a hand to her face.
“I wanted you here, Ry. Dozens of other people came, but obviously you didn’t see the need—”
“I had work,” he shot back. “I wanted to get the evidence on that sonofabitch as soon as possible. It’s all I can do. I’d kill him if I could get to him.”
She started to snap back, then felt an icy chill at the look on his face. “Stop that.” Unnerved, she turned her back on him, away from the murder in his eyes, and tossed a robe in her case. “I don’t want to hear you talk that way.”
“I didn’t know if you were alive.” He spun her around, his fingers digging into her shoulders. “I didn’t know. You weren’t moving. I didn’t know if you were breathing.” Suddenly he dragged her against him and buried his face in her hair. “God, Natalie, I’ve never been so scared.”
“All right.” She brought her arms around him, to soothe. “Don’t think about it.”
“I didn’t let myself, until you woke up yesterday. Since then I haven’t been able to think about anything else.” Struggling for composure, he eased away. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for saving my life? For risking your own to keep me from being hurt? You shielded me from the explosion. You carried me through fire.” She shook her head quickly, before he could speak. “Don’t tell me you were doing your job. I don’t give a damn whether you want to be a hero or not. You’re mine.”
“I love you, Natalie.”
Her heart softened and swelled. Carefully she turned and picked up the daffodils. It was foolish to waste their emotions on anger. They were alive. “You mentioned that, before we were interrupted.”
“There’s something else I should have mentioned. Why I pushed you away.”
Staring down, she flicked a finger over a bright yellow trumpet. “You listed the reasons.”
“I listed the excuses. Not the reason. Maybe you could look at me while I grovel?”
She turned back, trying to smile. “It’s not necessary, Ry.”
“Yeah, it is. You haven’t decided whether you’re going to give me another chance yet.” He reached out, tucked her hair behind her ear. “I could wear you down eventually, because you’re crazy about me. But you deserve to know what was going on in my head.”
She stiffened automatically. “I don’t think arrogance is very appropriate, so why don’t you—”
“I was scared,” he said quietly, and watched the heat fade from her eyes. “Of you, of me. Of us.” He let out a long breath when she said nothing. “I didn’t think I could say it. Admit it. Not until I realized what it was to be really scared. Down-to-the-bone scared. It makes being afraid of being in love pretty stupid.”
“Then it looks like we were both stupid, because I was scared, too.” Her mouth curved a little. “You were more stupid, of course.”
“My whole life,” he said quietly, “I’ve never felt anything like what I feel for you. Not for anyone.”
“I know.” Her breath trembled out. “I know. It’s the same with me.”
“And it just keeps getting bigger, and scarier. Are you going to give me another chance?”
She looked at him—the bony face, the dark eyes, the unruly hair. “I probably owe you that much, seeing as you’ve saved my life and come clean, groveled and apologized.” Her smile spread. “I suppose I could give us both another chance.”
“Want to marry me?”
The flowers drifted to the floor as her fingers went numb. “Excuse me?”
“With you feeling generous, it seemed like a good time to push my luck.” Feeling foolish, he bent down and gathered up the daffodils. “But it can wait.”
She cleared her aching throat, accepting the flowers again. “Would you mind repeating the question?”
His eyes shot back to hers. It took him a moment to find his voice again. It was a risk, he realized. One of the biggest risks he’d ever faced. And he had to leave his fate in her hands.
“Will you marry me?”
“I could do that,” she said, and let out the breath she’d been holding, even as Ry let out his own. “Yes, I could do that.” Laughing, she launched herself into his arms.
“I’ve got you.” Dazzled, Ry buried his face in her hair. “I’ve got you, Legs, from now on.” And kissed her.
“I want babies,” she told him the minute her mouth was free.
“No kidding?” With a grin, he pushed her hair back so that he could read her face. What he saw made his heart leap. “Me, too.”
“That makes it handy.”
He scooped his arms under her legs and lifted her. “What do you say we get out of here and get started?”
She managed to snag her overnight case before he headed to the door. “That’ll make it nine months from today.” She kissed his cheek as he carried her from the room. “And I’m always on time.”
In this case, she managed to be eight days early.
Ryan and Natalie Piasecki
are pleased to announce the birth of
their son,
Fletcher Joseph Piasecki,
who arrived promptly at 4:45 a.m.,
January 5.
Fletcher weighed 7 pounds 10 ounces.
If you liked Night Smoke, look for the other novels in the Night Tales series: Night Shift, Night Shadow, Nightshade, and Night Shield, available as eBooks from InterMix.
Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by Nora Roberts
THE WITNESS
Available April 2012 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons
June 2000
Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.
; For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.
Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.
Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.
Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.
She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.
She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.
That was about to change.
She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.
Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.
After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.
She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.
She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.
The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.
The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.
But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.
“Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”
Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.
“Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”
Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”
“And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference.”
“You could have said no.”
“That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”
“If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”
Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”
“I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”
“Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”
“And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”
“Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week, and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”
As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.
“You don’t listen to anything I say.”
In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”
“Listening’s different than hearing.”
“That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”
“It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”
Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were a cool, calm blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe is best for you.”
“What’s best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm.”
She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn’t control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn’t stop them. “I’m tired of being your experiment. I’m tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.”
Susan’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. “Well. Your attitude isn’t surprising given your age, but you’ve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.”
“Sorry. It wasn’t on the schedule.”
“Sarcasm’s also typical, but it’s unbecoming.” Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. “We’ll talk about all this when I get back. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.”
“I don’t need therapy! I need a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel.”
“That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.”
Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn’t be calm and rational like her mother, she’d be wild. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.”
Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother’s eyes and said, “No.”
She spun around, stomped away, and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear
-blurred eyes. And waited.
Any second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an apology, demand obedience. And she wouldn’t give either.
They’d have a fight, an actual fight, with threats of punishment and consequences. Maybe they’d yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.
And maybe, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up inside her this past year. Things she thought now had been inside her forever.
She didn’t want to be a doctor. She didn’t want to spend every waking hour on a schedule or have to hide a stupid pair of jeans because they didn’t fit her mother’s dress code.
She wanted to have friends, not approved socialization appointments. She wanted to listen to the music girls her age listened to. She wanted to know what they whispered about and laughed about and talked about while she was shut out.
She didn’t want to be a genius or a prodigy.
She wanted to be normal. She just wanted to be like everyone else.
She swiped at the tears, curled up, stared at the door.
Any second, she thought again. Any second now. Her mother had to be angry. She had to come in and assert authority. Had to.
“Please,” Elizabeth murmured as seconds ticked into minutes. “Don’t make me give in again. Please, please, don’t make me give up.”
Love me enough. Just this once.
But as the minutes dragged on, Elizabeth pushed herself off the bed. Patience, she knew, was her mother’s greatest weapon. That, and the unyielding sense of being right crushed all foes. And certainly her daughter was no match for it.
Defeated, she walked out of her room, toward her mother’s.
The garment bag, the briefcase, the small, wheeled pullman were gone. Even as she walked downstairs, she knew her mother had gone, too.
“She left me. She just left.”
Alone, she looked around the pretty, tidy living room. Everything perfect—the fabrics, the colors, the art, the arrangement. The antiques passed down through generations of Fitches—all quiet elegance.
Empty.
Nothing had changed, she realized. And nothing would.
“So I will.”
She didn’t allow herself to think, to question or second-guess. Instead, she marched back up, snagged scissors from her study area.
In her bathroom she studied her face in the mirror—coloring she’d gotten through paternity— auburn hair, thick like her mother’s but without the soft, pretty wave. Her mother’s high, sharp cheekbones, her biological father’s—whoever he was—deep-set green eyes. Pale skin, wide mouth.
Physically attractive, she thought, because that was DNA and her mother would tolerate no less. But not beautiful, not striking like Susan, no. And that, she supposed, had been a disappointment even her mother couldn’t fix.
“Freak.” Elizabeth pressed a hand to the mirror, hating what she saw in the glass. “You’re a freak. But as of now, you’re not a coward.”
Taking a big breath, she yanked up a hunk of her shoulder length hair and chopped it off.