by Nora Roberts
Nora Roberts
HOT ICE
SACRED SINS
BRAZEN VIRTUE
SWEET REVENGE
PUBLIC SECRETS
GENUINE LIES
CARNAL INNOCENCE
HONEST ILLUSIONS
DIVINE EVIL
PRIVATE SCANDALS
HIDDEN RICHES
TRUE BETRAYALS
MONTANA SKY
SANCTUARY
HOMEPORT
THE REEF
RIVER’S END
CAROLINA MOON
THE VILLA
MIDNIGHT BAYOU
THREE FATES
BIRTHRIGHT
NORTHERN LIGHTS
BLUE SMOKE
ANGELS FALL
HIGH NOON
TRIBUTE
BLACK HILLS
THE SEARCH
CHASING FIRE
THE WITNESS
WHISKEY BEACH
THE COLLECTOR
TONIGHT AND ALWAYS
THE LIAR
THE OBSESSION
Series
Irish Born Trilogy
BORN IN FIRE
BORN IN ICE
BORN IN SHAME
Dream Trilogy
DARING TO DREAM
HOLDING THE DREAM
FINDING THE DREAM
Chesapeake Bay Saga
SEA SWEPT
RISING TIDES
INNER HARBOR
CHESAPEAKE BLUE
Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy
JEWELS OF THE SUN
TEARS OF THE MOON
HEART OF THE SEA
Three Sisters Island Trilogy
DANCE UPON THE AIR
HEAVEN AND EARTH
FACE THE FIRE
Key Trilogy
KEY OF LIGHT
KEY OF KNOWLEDGE
KEY OF VALOR
In the Garden Trilogy
BLUE DAHLIA
BLACK ROSE
RED LILY
Circle Trilogy
MORRIGAN’S CROSS
DANCE OF THE GODS
VALLEY OF SILENCE
Sign of Seven Trilogy
BLOOD BROTHERS
THE HOLLOW
THE PAGAN STONE
Bride Quartet
VISION IN WHITE
BED OF ROSES
SAVOR THE MOMENT
HAPPY EVER AFTER
The Inn BoonsBoro Trilogy
THE NEXT ALWAYS
THE LAST BOYFRIEND
THE PERFECT HOPE
The Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy
DARK WITCH
SHADOW SPELL
BLOOD MAGICK
The Guardians Trilogy
STARS OF FORTUNE
BAY OF SIGHS
ISLAND OF GLASS
Ebooks by Nora Roberts
Cordina’s Royal Family
AFFAIRE ROYALE
COMMAND PERFORMANCE
THE PLAYBOY PRINCE
CORDINA’S CROWN JEWEL
The Donovan Legacy
CAPTIVATED
ENTRANCED
CHARMED
ENCHANTED
The O’Hurleys
THE LAST HONEST WOMAN
DANCE TO THE PIPER
SKIN DEEP
WITHOUT A TRACE
Night Tales
NIGHT SHIFT
NIGHT SHADOW
NIGHTSHADE
NIGHT SMOKE
NIGHT SHIELD
The MacGregors
PLAYING THE ODDS
TEMPTING FATE
ALL THE POSSIBILITIES
ONE MAN’S ART
FOR NOW, FOREVER
REBELLION/IN FROM THE COLD
THE MACGREGOR BRIDES
THE WINNING HAND
THE MACGREGOR GROOMS
THE PERFECT NEIGHBOR
The Calhouns
COURTING CATHERINE
A MAN FOR AMANDA
FOR THE LOVE OF LILAH
SUZANNA’S SURRENDER
MEGAN’S MATE
Irish Legacy
IRISH THOROUGHBRED
IRISH ROSE
IRISH REBEL
LOVING JACK
BEST LAID PLANS
LAWLESS
BLITHE IMAGES
SONG OF THE WEST
SEARCH FOR LOVE
ISLAND OF FLOWERS
THE HEART’S VICTORY
FROM THIS DAY
HER MOTHER’S KEEPER
ONCE MORE WITH FEELING
REFLECTIONS
DANCE OF DREAMS
UNTAMED
THIS MAGIC MOMENT
ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS
STORM WARNING
SULLIVAN’S WOMAN
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
A MATTER OF CHOICE
LESS OF A STRANGER
THE LAW IS A LADY
RULES OF THE GAME
OPPOSITES ATTRACT
THE RIGHT PATH
PARTNERS
BOUNDARY LINES
DUAL IMAGE
TEMPTATION
LOCAL HERO
THE NAME OF THE GAME
GABRIEL’S ANGEL
THE WELCOMING
TIME WAS
TIMES CHANGE
SUMMER LOVE
HOLIDAY WISHES
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2006 by Nora Roberts
Inner Harbor copyright © 1999 by Nora Roberts
Chesapeake Blue copyright © 2002 by Nora Roberts
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK and BERKLEY are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780440001768
The Library of Congress has catalogued the Berkley trade edition of this book as follows:
Roberts, Nora.
[Inner harbor]
The Quinn Legacy / Nora Roberts
p. cm.
Contents: Inner harbor—Chesapeake blue.
ISBN 978-0-425-20815-1
1. Quinn family (Fictitious characters)—Fiction. 2. Poor families—Fiction. 3. Chesapeake Bay Region (Md. and Va.)—Fiction. 4. Maryland—Fiction. I. Roberts, Nora. Chesapeake blue. II. Title.
PS3568.O2431563 2006
813'.54—dc22
20050537063
Berkley trade edition / February 2006
Jove trade edition / August 2018
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Cover photo by Ekely / Getty Images
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance t
o actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Also by Nora Roberts
Title Page
Copyright
Inner HarborDedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chesapeake BlueDedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
For Elaine and Beth, such devoted sisters—even if they won’t wear blue organdy and sing
PROLOGUE
PHILLIP QUINN DIED at the age of thirteen. Since the overworked and underpaid staff at the Baltimore City Hospital emergency room zapped him back in less than ninety seconds, he wasn’t dead very long.
As far as he was concerned, it was plenty long enough.
What had killed him, briefly, were two .25-caliber bullets pumped out of a Saturday night special shoved through the open window of a stolen Toyota Celica. The finger on the trigger had belonged to a close personal friend—or as near to a close personal friend as a thirteen-year-old thief could claim on Baltimore’s bad streets.
The bullets missed his heart. Not by much, but in later years Phillip considered it just far enough.
That heart, young and strong, though sadly jaded, continued to beat as he lay there, pouring blood over the used condoms and crack vials in the stinking gutter on the corner of Fayette and Paca.
The pain was obscene, like sharp, burning icicles stabbing into his chest. But that grinning pain refused to take him under, into the release of unconsciousness. He lay awake and aware, hearing the screams of other victims or bystanders, the squeal of brakes, the revving of engines, and his own ragged and rapid breaths.
He’d just fenced a small haul of electronics that he’d stolen from a third-story walk-up less than four blocks away. He had two hundred fifty dollars in his pocket and had swaggered down to score a dime bag to help him get through the night. Since he’d just been sprung from ninety days in juvie for another B and E that hadn’t gone quite so smoothly, he’d been out of the loop. And out of cash.
Now it appeared he was out of luck.
Later, he would remember thinking, Shit, oh, shit, this hurts! But he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around another thought. He’d gotten in the way. He knew that. The bullets hadn’t been meant for him in particular. He’d caught a glimpse of the gang colors in that frozen three seconds before the gun had fired. His own colors, when he bothered to associate himself with one of the gangs that roamed the streets and alleys of the city.
If he hadn’t just popped out of the system, he wouldn’t have been on that corner at that moment. He would have been told to stay clear, and he wouldn’t now be sprawled out, pumping blood and staring into the dirty mouth of the gutter.
Lights flashed—blue, red, white. The scream of sirens pierced through human screams. Cops. Even through the slick haze of pain his instinct was to run. In his mind he sprang up, young, agile, street-smart, and melted into the shadows. But even the effort of the thought had cold sweat sliding down his face.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and fingers probed until they reached the thready pulse in his throat.
This one’s breathing. Get the paramedics over here.
Someone turned him over. The pain was unspeakable, but he couldn’t release the scream that ripped through his head. He saw faces swimming over him, the hard eyes of a cop, the grim ones of the medical technician. Red, blue, and white lights burned his eyes. Someone wept in high, keening sobs.
Hang in there, kid.
Why? He wanted to ask why. It hurt to be there. He was never going to escape as he’d once promised himself he would. What was left of his life was running red into the gutter. What had come before was only ugliness. What was now was only pain.
What was the damn point?
* * *
HE WENT AWAY for a while, sinking down below the pain, where the world was a dark and dingy red. From somewhere outside his world came the shriek of the sirens, the pressure on his chest, the speeding motion of the ambulance.
Then lights again, bright white to sear his closed lids. And he was flying while voices shouted on all sides of him.
Bullet wounds, chest. BP’s eighty over fifty and falling, pulse thready and rapid. In and out. Pupils are good.
Type and cross-match. We need pictures. On three. One, two, three.
His body seemed to jerk, up then down. He no longer cared. Even the dingy red was going gray. A tube was pushing its way down his throat and he didn’t bother to try to cough it out. He barely felt it. Barely felt anything and thanked God for it.
BP’s dropping. We’re losing him.
I’ve been lost a long time, he thought.
With vague interest he watched them, half a dozen green-suited people in a small room where a tall blond boy lay on a table. Blood was everywhere. His blood, he realized. He was on that table with his chest torn open. He looked down at himself with detached sympathy. No more pain now, and the quiet sense of relief nearly made him smile.
He floated higher, until the scene below took on a pearly sheen and the sounds were nothing but echoes.
Then the pain tore through him, an abrupt shock that made the body on the table jerk, that sucked him back. His struggle to pull away was brief and fruitless. He was inside again, feeling again, lost again.
The next thing he knew, he was riding in a drug-hazed blur. Someone was snoring. The room was dark and the bed narrow and hard. A backwash of light filtered through a pane of glass that was spotted with fingerprints. Machines beeped and sucked monotonously. Wanting only to escape the sounds, he rolled back under.
He was in and out for two days. He was very lucky. That’s what they told him. There was a pretty nurse with tired eyes and a doctor with graying hair and thin lips. He wasn’t ready to believe them, not when he was too weak to lift his head, not when the hideous pain swarmed back into him every two hours like clockwork.
When the two cops came in he was awake, and the pain was smothered under a few layers of morphine. He made them out to be cops at a glance. His instincts weren’t so dulled that he didn’t recognize the walk, the shoes, the eyes. He didn’t need the identification they flashed at him.
“Gotta smoke?” Phillip asked it of everyone who passed through. He had a low-grade desp
eration for nicotine even though he doubted he could manage to suck on a cigarette.
“You’re too young to smoke.” The first cop pasted on an avuncular smile and stationed himself on one side of the bed. The Good Cop, Phillip thought wearily.
“I’m getting older every minute.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.” The second cop kept his face hard as he pulled out a notebook.
And the Bad Cop, Phillip decided. He was nearly amused.
“That’s what they keep telling me. So, what the hell happened?”
“You tell us.” Bad Cop poised his pencil over a page of his book.
“I got the shit shot out of me.”
“What were you doing on the street?”
“I think I was going home.” He’d already decided how to play it, and he let his eyes close. “I can’t remember exactly. I’d been . . . at the movies?” He made it a question, opening his eyes. He could see Bad Cop wasn’t going to buy it, but what could they do?
“What movie did you see? Who were you with?”
“Look, I don’t know. It’s all messed up. One minute I was walking, the next I was lying facedown.”
“Just tell us what you remember.” Good Cop laid a hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “Take your time.”
“It happened fast. I heard shots—it must have been shots. Somebody was screaming, and it was like something exploded in my chest.” That much was pretty close to the truth.
“Did you see a car? Did you see the shooter?”
Both were etched like acid on steel in his brain. “I think I saw a car—dark color. A flash.”
“You belong to the Flames.”
Phillip shifted his gaze to Bad Cop. “I hang with them sometimes.”
“Three of the bodies we scraped off the street were members of the Tribe. They weren’t as lucky as you. The Flames and the Tribe have a lot of bad blood between them.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You took two bullets, Phil.” Good Cop settled his face into concerned lines. “Another inch either way, you’d have been dead before you hit the pavement. You look like a smart kid. A smart kid doesn’t fool himself into believing he needs to be loyal to assholes.”
“I didn’t see anything.” It wasn’t loyalty. It was survival. If he rolled over, he was dead.
“You had over two hundred in your wallet.”
Phillip shrugged, regretting it as the movement stirred up the ghosts of pain. “Yeah? Well, maybe I can pay my bill here at the Hilton.”