The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  She followed the curve of the beach, ignoring the burning in her calves and chest, the trickle of sweat between her breasts.

  A lobster boat swayed on the current while the waterman in his bright red cap checked his pots. He lifted a hand and waved, and the simple gesture from a stranger made her eyes burn. While her vision blurred, she waved in return, then stopped, bending over, hands on knees, while her breath screamed out of her laboring lungs.

  She hadn’t run far, she thought, but she’d run too fast. She hadn’t paced herself. Everything was happening too fast. She couldn’t quite keep up, yet she didn’t dare slow down.

  And sweet God, she didn’t even know where she was going.

  There was a man in her house, a man she’d known for only a matter of weeks. A man who was a thief, likely a liar, and undoubtedly dangerous. Yet she’d put a part of her life in his hands. She’d become intimate with him, more intimate than she’d ever allowed herself to become with anyone.

  She looked back and up and studied the moon-white spear of the lighthouse. She’d fallen in love with him inside that tower. It didn’t matter if she’d been sliding toward it all along, it was there she’d fallen. And she had yet to be certain she would land on her feet.

  He’d walk away when he finished what he had come to do. He’d be charming about it, and clever. Not cruel. But he would go back to his life. Hers, she realized, would still be in shambles.

  They could find the bronzes, shore up their reputations, solve the puzzle, and even catch a killer. But her life would remain in shambles.

  And with no precedent, no formula, no data, she couldn’t make an educated guess on how long it would take her to rebuild it.

  At the tips of her feet was the edge of a tidepool, the water calm and clear. Life scurried under it, in otherworldly colors and shapes.

  When she was a child her grandmother had walked this beach with her—or with both her and Andrew. They’d studied the tidepools together, but it hadn’t been like a lesson, some sneaky education ploy of adult to child.

  No, she remembered, they had crouched down and looked for the pleasure of it. Had laughed when what appeared to be a rock squirted at them in annoyance.

  Little worlds, her grandmother had called them. Ripe with passion, sex, violence, and politics—and often more sensible than the life that’s led on the dry part of the planet.

  “I wish you were here,” Miranda murmured. “I wish I still had you to talk to.”

  She looked away from the busy world at her feet, out to sea again, let the wind rage through her hair, over her face. What was she to do now? she wondered. Now that she knew what it was to love someone until it hurt, to prefer the pain to the emptiness that had been so familiar it was rarely noticed?

  She sat on the smooth dome of a rock, brought her knees up to rest her head on them. This, she supposed, was what happened when the heart was allowed to control the mind, the actions, the decisions. With everything else in tatters around her, she was sitting on a rock, looking out to sea and brooding over a love affair that was destined to end.

  An oystercatcher landed near the shoreline, then stalked up and down the verge looking important. It made her smile a little. Apparently even birds worry about appearances. Look at me, he seemed to say, I’m very cool.

  “We’d see how cool you are if I’d brought some bread crumbs,” she told him. “You’d be scrambling to gulp them all down before your buddies got wind of it and swooped down to fight you for them.”

  “I’ve heard that people who drink too much start believing in talking birds.” Andrew saw her shoulders stiffen, but kept walking toward her. “You dropped this.” He laid her jacket in her lap.

  “I got too warm.”

  “You sit here without it after a run, you’ll get chilled.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” It took a great deal of courage for him to sit on the rock beside her. “Miranda, I’m sorry.”

  “I believe we’ve covered that ground.”

  “Miranda.” He knew just how far he’d pushed her away when she wouldn’t let him take her hand.

  “I came down here to be alone for a while.”

  And he knew just how stubborn she could be when she’d been crossed. “I’ve got a few things to say. When I’m done, you can hit me again if you want. I was way over the line this morning. There’s no excuse for what I said to you. I didn’t want to hear what you were saying to me, so I hit hard and low.”

  “Understood. We’ll agree that we’re better off staying out of each other’s personal choices.”

  “No.” This time he ignored her jerk away and clamped her hand. “No, we’re not. We’ve always been able to depend on each other.”

  “Well, I can’t depend on you anymore, Andrew, can I?” She looked at him now, saw how haggard his face was against the dark glasses he’d put on. He should have looked rakish, she thought. Instead he looked pitiful.

  “I know I’ve let you down.”

  “I can take care of myself. You’ve let yourself down.”

  “Miranda, please.” He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t realized how completely her rejection would rip at him. “I know I’ve got a problem. I’m trying to come to terms with that. I’m . . . I’m going to a meeting tonight. AA.”

  He saw the flicker in her eyes, of hope, of sympathy, of love, and shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s going to be for me. I’m just going to go, listen, see how I feel about it.”

  “It’s a good start, it’s a good step.”

  He rose, stared out over the restless water. “When I left this morning, I went looking for a bottle. I didn’t realize it, didn’t consciously think about it. Not until I got the shakes, until I found myself driving around looking for a liquor store or a bar, anything that was open on a Sunday morning.”

  He looked down at his hand, flexed the fingers, felt the small aches. “It scared the hell out of me.”

  “I’ll help you, Andrew. I’ve read all the literature. I’ve been to a couple of Alanon meetings.”

  He turned back to stare at her. She was watching him, twisting the jacket in her hands. And the hope was deeper in her eyes. “I was afraid you’d started to hate me,” he said.

  “I wanted to. Just can’t.” She wiped at tears. “I’ve been so angry with you, for taking you away from me. When you left today I kept thinking you’d come back drunk, or you’d finally be stupid enough to drive when you’d been drinking and kill yourself. I would have hated you for that.”

  “I went to Annie’s. Didn’t know I was going there either, until I was parked in front of her building. She’s—I’m—Hell. I’m going to stay at her place for a few days. Give you some privacy with Ryan, give you and me a little space.”

  “Annie’s? You’re going to stay with Annie?”

  “I’m not sleeping with her.”

  “Annie?” she said again, gaping at him. “Annie McLean?”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  It was the defensive way he said it that had her lips curving up. “No, not at all. That’s something I think I’d like very much to see. She’s a strong-willed, ambitious woman. And she won’t take any crap from you.”

  “Annie and I . . .” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. “We’ve got a history. Maybe now we’re going to see about having a present.”

  “I didn’t know you were anything but friends.”

  He stared down the beach, thought he could almost pick out the spot where two reckless teenagers had lost their innocence. “We were, then we weren’t. I don’t know what we are now.” But finding out, he thought, was giving him a direction and purpose he hadn’t had in too long. “I’m sleeping on her couch for a couple of nights. I’m going to get my feet under me again, whatever it takes. But the odds are I’m going to disappoint you again before I do.”

  She’d read everything she could get her hands on about alcoholism, treatment, recovery. She knew about backsliding, starting over
, failure. “You’re not disappointing me today.” She held out a hand, linking fingers tight when he took it. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He picked her up off the rock to hold her. He knew she was crying, could feel it in the little quivers her body made against his. But she made no sound. “Don’t give up on me, okay?”

  “Tried. Can’t.”

  He laughed a little and pressed his cheek to hers. “This thing you’ve got going with New York—”

  “How come he was Ryan before, and now he’s New York?”

  “Because now he’s messing around with my sister, and I’m reserving judgment. This thing you’ve got,” he repeated. “It’s working for you?”

  She drew back. “It’s working today.”

  “Okay. Since we’ve made up, why don’t we go up and have a drink to celebrate.” His dimples winked. “Drunk humor. How about a pot roast?”

  “It’s too late in the day to start one. I’ll make you a very manly meat loaf.”

  “Good enough.”

  As they started back, she braced herself, knowing she would have to tell him and shatter the moment. “Andrew, Mother called a bit ago.”

  “Can’t she take Easter off like everybody else?”

  “Andrew.” She stopped, kept a hand on his arm. “Someone broke into the lab in Florence. Giovanni was there, alone. He was murdered.”

  “What? Giovanni? Oh my God.” He turned, walked to the edge of the water, stood there with the surf soaking his shoes. “Giovanni’s dead? Murdered? What the hell is going on?”

  She couldn’t risk telling him. His strength of will, his emotions, his illness . . . it was too unstable a mix. “I wish I knew. She said the lab had been vandalized, equipment and records destroyed. And Giovanni . . . they think he was working late, and someone came in.”

  “A burglary?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem . . . She said she didn’t think anything of value had been taken.”

  “It makes no sense.” He whirled around, his face grim and battered. “Someone breaks into the gallery here, takes a valuable bronze and doesn’t squash a fly on his way in or out. Now someone breaks into the lab at Standjo, kills Giovanni, wrecks the place and takes nothing?”

  “I don’t understand it either.” That, at least, was partially true.

  “What’s the connection?” he muttered, and had her gaping at him.

  “Connection?”

  “There are no coincidences.” Jingling the change in his pocket, he began to walk up and down the beach. “Two break-ins, within a couple of weeks, at different divisions of the same organization. One lucrative and quiet, the other violent and without apparent reason. There’s always a reason. Giovanni worked at both locations at some time.” Behind the dark lenses, his eyes narrowed. “He did some of the work on the David, didn’t he?”

  “Ah . . . yes, yes, he did.”

  “The David’s stolen, the documents are missing, and now Giovanni’s dead. What’s the connection?” He didn’t expect an answer, and she was spared from fumbling for a lie.

  “I’m going to pass this on to Cook, for whatever good it does. Maybe I should go to Florence.”

  “Andrew.” Her voice wanted to quake. She wouldn’t risk him, wouldn’t let him go anywhere near Florence. Or the person who had killed Giovanni. “That’s not a good idea right now. You need to stay close to home, rebuild your routine and stability. Let the police do their jobs.”

  “It’s probably better to try to figure it out from here, anyway,” he decided. “I’m going up to call Cook, give him something to chew on besides his Easter ham.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” She worked up a smile. “To start your Easter meat loaf.”

  He was distracted enough not to notice how quickly her smile slipped away into worry. But he spotted Ryan on the cliff path. Pride, ego, shame, and brotherly resistance built very quickly.

  “Boldari.”

  “Andrew.” Ryan decided to avoid an unproductive pissing match and stepped aside.

  But Andrew was already primed. “Maybe you think since she’s a grown woman and her family’s screwed up that there’s nobody to look out for her, but you’re wrong. You hurt her, you son of a bitch, and I’ll break you in two.” His eyes went to slits when Ryan grinned at him. “You hear a joke?”

  “No. It’s just that the last part of that statement is very similar to what I said to my sister Mary Jo’s husband when I caught them necking in his Chevy. I’d already dragged him out and punched him first, much to MJ’s annoyance and distress.”

  Andrew rocked on his heels. “You’re not my sister’s husband.”

  “Neither was he, at the time.” The words were out, glibly delivered before the potential meaning struck Ryan. The humor blinked out of his eyes and discomfort blinked on. “What I mean to say is—”

  “Yeah?” Enjoying himself now, Andrew nodded. “What do you mean to say?”

  A man could do a lot of thinking in the time it took to clear the throat. “I mean to say that I have a great deal of affection and respect for your sister. She’s a beautiful, interesting, and appealing woman.”

  “You’re light on your feet, Ryan.” It seemed they were back to Ryan, for the moment. “Good balance.” They both looked down to where Miranda stood on the narrow beach watching the waves rise.

  “And she’s not as sturdy as she thinks she is,” Andrew added. “She doesn’t let herself get too close to too many, because when she does, the soft center’s exposed.”

  “She matters to me. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Yeah.” Particularly, Andrew thought, since it had been said with a great deal of heat and some reluctance. “That’ll do. By the way, I appreciate what you did for me last night, and for not rubbing my nose in it today.”

  “How’s the eye?”

  “Hurts like a bastard.”

  “Well then, that’s punishment enough, I’d say.”

  “Maybe.” He turned and started up the path. “We’re having meat loaf,” he called back. “Go make her put her jacket on, will you?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan murmured. “I think I’ll do that.” He started down, picking his way over rocks, skidding a bit on pebbles. She started up, steady as a mountain goat.

  “Those aren’t the right kind of shoes for this.”

  “You’re telling me.” Then he caught her against him. “Your arms are cold. Why don’t you have your jacket on?”

  “The sun’s warm enough. Andrew’s going to an AA meeting tonight.”

  “That’s great.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “It’s a good start.”

  “He can do it.” The breeze tugged hair out of the elastic band she’d pulled on, and forced her to shake it out of her face. “I know he can. He’s going to be staying with a friend for a couple of days, just to give himself time to steady a bit. And I think he’s not quite comfortable with sleeping under the same room while we’re . . . sleeping.”

  “Yankee conservatism.”

  “Don’t knock a cornerstone.” She drew in a breath. “There’s something else. I told him about Giovanni. He’s made the connection.”

  “What do you mean he’s made the connection?”

  “I mean for the past year or so he’s been killing his brain cells, and I’d nearly forgotten how smart he is. He put it together in minutes. A connection between the break-in here, and the one there. He’s going to talk to Detective Cook about it.”

  “Great, bring in the cops.”

  “It’s the reasonable thing to do. It’s too coincidental for Andrew.” Speaking quickly, she ran back over what her brother had said. “He’ll explore this. I didn’t tell him what I know or suspect. I can’t risk his state of mind right now when he should be concentrating on recovery, but I can’t go on lying to him either. Not for much longer.”

  “Then we’ll have to work faster.” He had no intention of playing team ball, or sharing the bronzes. Once he had them, he was keeping them. “The wind’s pic
king up,” he commented, and draped an arm around her as they walked up the path. “I heard a rumor about meat loaf.”

  “You’ll get fed, Boldari. And I can promise my meat loaf is very passionate.”

  “In some cultures meat loaf is considered an aphrodisiac.”

  “Really? Odd that was never covered in any of my anthropology courses.”

  “It only works if you serve it with mashed potatoes.”

  “Well then, I guess we’ll have to test that theory.”

  “They can’t be instant.”

  “Please. Don’t insult me.”

  “I think I’m crazy about you, Dr. Jones.”

  She laughed, but the soft center her brother had spoken of was laid bare.

  PART THREE

  The Price

  Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but

  who is able to stand before envy?

  —PROVERBS

  twenty-two

  T he country quiet kept Ryan awake, and made him think of New York. Of the comforting and continual buzz of traffic, of the pace that got into your blood so that you lengthened your stride to get to the next corner, beat the light, keep the clip steady.

  Places this close to the ocean made you slow down. Once you slowed down, you could get settled in and rooted before you realized it was happening.

  He needed to get back to New York, to his gallery, which he’d already left too long in other hands. Of course, he often did, but that was when he was traveling, moving from place to place. Not when he was . . . planted this way.

  He needed to pull up stakes, and soon.

  She was sleeping beside him, her breathing echoing the slow, steady ebb and flow of the sea outside. She didn’t curl up against him, but maintained her own space and gave him his. He told himself he appreciated that. But he didn’t. It irked him that she didn’t cuddle and cling and at least pretend that she was trying to hold him down.