The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  “I spoke with Jamie Melbourne.”

  Sam’s hand jerked where it rested on the table. He lifted it, bringing the cigarette that smoldered between his fingers to his lips. “And?”

  “I’ll be talking to her again,” Noah said. “I’ll be contacting the rest of Julie’s family as well. I haven’t been able to hook up with C. B. Smith yet, but I will.”

  “I’m one of his few failures. We didn’t part ways with great affection, but he had one of his young fresh faces spring the lock at twenty.”

  “Affection isn’t what you’re going to get from the people I interview.”

  “Have you talked to your father?”

  “I’m doing background first.” Eyes sharp, Noah inclined his head. “I won’t agree to getting your approval on who I interview or what I use in the book. We go with this, you’ll have to sign papers waiving those rights. Even if my publishers wouldn’t insist on that, and they will, I would. Your story, Sam, but my book.”

  “You wouldn’t have a book without me.”

  “Sure I would. It’d just be a different book.” Noah leaned back, his pose relaxed, his eyes hard as iron. “You want choices? There’s your first one. You sign the papers, you take the twenty thousand and I write the book my way. You don’t sign, you don’t get the money and I write it my way.”

  There was more of his father in him than Sam had realized before. A toughness the beach-boy looks and casual style skimmed over. Better that way, Sam decided. Better that way in the end.

  “I’m not going to live to see the book in print anyway. I’ll sign the papers, Brady.” His eyes went cold, eyes that understood murder and had learned to live with it. “Just don’t fuck me up.”

  Noah angled his head. “Fine. But remember, you don’t want to fuck me up either.”

  He understood murder, too. He’d been studying it all his life.

  Noah ordered a steak, medium rare, and a bottle of Côte d’or. As he ate, he watched the lights that swept over the bay glint and glow against the dark and listened to the replay of his latest interview with Sam Tanner.

  But most of all he tried to imagine what it would be like to be eating that meal, drinking that wine, for the first time in over twenty years.

  Would you savor it, he wondered, or feed like a wolf after a long winter’s famine?

  Sam, he thought, would savor it, bite by bite, sip by sip, absorbing the flavors, the texture, the deep red color of the wine in the glass. And if his senses threatened to overload from the sudden flood of stimuli, he’d slow down even more.

  He had that kind of control now.

  How much of the reckless, greedy-for-pleasure, out-of-control man he had been still strained for release inside him?

  It was smarter to think of Sam as two men, the one he’d been, the one he was now, Noah decided. Pieces of both had always been there, he imagined, but this was very much a story of what had been and what was. So he could sit here, try to picture how the man he knew now would deal with a perfectly cooked steak and a glass of fine wine. And he could imagine the man who’d been able to command much, much more at the flick of a finger.

  The man who’d taken Julie MacBride to bed the first time.

  I want to tell you how it was when Julie and I became lovers.

  It hadn’t been an angle Noah had expected Sam to take, not so soon, and not so intimately. But none of his surprise came through in his voice as he’d told Sam to go ahead.

  Listening now, Noah let himself slide into Sam’s place, into the warm southern California night. Into a past that wasn’t his. The words on the recording became images, and the images more of a memory than a dream.

  There was a full moon. It sailed the sky and shot beams of light, like silver swords, over the dark glint of the ocean. The sound of the surf as it rose, crested, crashed on shore was like the constant beat of an eager heart.

  They’d taken a drive down the coast, stopped for a ridiculous meal of fried shrimp served in red plastic baskets at a smudgy little diner where they’d hoped to go unnoticed.

  She’d worn a long flowered dress and a foolish straw hat to hide that waterfall of rich blond hair. She hadn’t bothered with makeup and her youth, her beauty, her outrageous freshness hadn’t been any sort of disguise.

  She’d laughed, licked cocktail sauce from her fingers. And heads had turned.

  They wanted to keep their relationship private, though so far it consisted of drives like this one, a few more-elegant meals, conversations and their work. Shooting had begun the month before, drastically cutting into any personal time they could steal.

  Tonight, they’d stolen a few hours to walk along that foaming surf, their fingers linked, their steps meandering.

  “I love doing this.” Her voice was low and smooth, with just a hint of huskiness. She looked like an ingenue and sounded like a siren. It was part of the mystique that made her. “Just walking, smelling the night.”

  “So do I.” Though he never had before her. Before Julie he’d craved the lights, the noise, the crowds and the attention centered on him. Now, being with her filled all those needy corners. “I love doing this even more.”

  He turned her, and she circled fluidly into his arms. Her lips curved as his met them, and they parted, inviting him in. She flowed into him, with tastes both sweet and sharp, scents both innocent and aware. The quiet sound of pleasure she made echoed in his blood like the crash of the surf.

  “You do it so well, too,” she murmured, and instead of easing away as she most often did, she pressed her cheek to his, let her body sway in tune to the sea. “Sam.” His name sighed out of her. “I want to be sensible, I want to listen to the people who tell me to be sensible.”

  Desire for her was an ache in his belly, a burning in the blood. It took every ounce of control to keep his hands gentle. “Who tells you to be sensible?”

  “People who love me.” She leaned back, her deep amber eyes steady on his. “I thought I could be, then I thought, Well, if I’m not, I’ll enjoy myself. I’m not a child, why shouldn’t I be one of Sam Tanner’s women if I want?”

  “Julie—”

  “No, wait.” She stepped back, lifted a hand palm out to stop him. “I’m not a child, Sam, and I can deal with reality. I only want you to be honest with me. Is that where we’re heading? To me becoming one of Sam Tanner’s women?”

  She’d accept that. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. The knowledge both thrilled and terrified him. He had only to say yes, take her hand, and she would go with him.

  She stood, her back to the dark sea with its white edges, the moonlight spearing down to cast their shadows on the sand. And waited.

  For the truth, he thought, and realized the truth was what he wanted for both of them.

  “Lydia and I aren’t seeing each other anymore. Haven’t been for weeks now.”

  “I know.” Julie smiled a little. “I read the gossip columns like anyone else. And I wouldn’t be here with you tonight if you were still involved with someone else.”

  “It’s over between us,” he said carefully. “It was over the first minute I saw you. Because the first minute I saw you, I stopped seeing anyone else, stopped wanting anyone else. The first minute I saw you . . .” He stepped to her, slipped the straw hat away so that her hair tumbled down. “I started falling in love with you. I still am. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

  Her eyes filled so that the sheen of tears sparkled like diamonds against gold. “What’s the point of being in love if you’re going to be sensible? Take me home with you tonight.”

  She stepped back into his arms, and this time the kiss was dark and edged with urgency. Then she was laughing, a quick river of delight as she grabbed the hat from him and sent it sailing over the water.

  Hands clasped again, they raced back to his car like children eager for a treat.

  With another woman he might have rushed greedily into the oblivion of movement and mating, gulping it down, taking what his body crave
d and seeking the brutal pleasure of release.

  With another woman he might have played the role of seducer, keeping part of himself separated, like a director orchestrating each step.

  In both of those methods were power and satisfaction.

  But with Julie he could do neither. The power was as much hers as his. Nerves hummed along his skin as they walked up the stairs in his house.

  He closed the door of the bedroom behind them. He knew pieces of Lydia were still there, though she’d been viciously methodical in removing her things—and a number of his own—when she’d moved out. But a woman never shared a man’s bed without leaving something of herself behind to force him to remember.

  He had a moment to wish he’d tossed out the bed, bought a new one, then Julie was smiling at him.

  “Yesterday doesn’t matter, Sam. Only tonight matters.” She laid her hands on his cheeks. “We’re all that matters, all that’s real. Touch me.” She whispered it as her mouth cruised over his. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

  It all slipped into place, the nerves fading away. When he swept her up, he understood this wasn’t simply sex or need or gratification. It was romance. However many times he’d set the scene before, or had scenes set for him, he’d never believed in it.

  He laid her on the bed, covering her mouth with his as this new feeling flowed through him. Love, finally, love. Her arms, soft, smooth, wrapped around him as the kiss went deep. For a moment, it seemed his world centered there. In that mating of lips.

  He didn’t tell himself to be gentle, to move slowly. He couldn’t separate himself and direct the scene. He was lost in it, and her, the scent of her hair, the taste of her throat, the sound of her breath as it caught, released, caught again.

  He slipped the thin straps of the dress from her shoulders, urged it down, down her body as he savored that lovely mouth. She shivered when he stroked her breast, gasped when he skimmed tongue and teeth over the nipple, then moaned when he drew her deep into his mouth.

  She fit beneath him, slid against him, rose and fell with him. She said his name, only his name, and made his heart tremble.

  He touched, and took, and gave more than he’d known he had to give to a woman. Her skin dewed, adding one more flavor, her muscles quivered, adding another layer of excitement.

  He wanted to see all of her, to explore everything she had, everything she was. She was long and slender and lovely, so that even the ripple of ribs against her skin was a fascination.

  When she opened for him, rose up to meet him, he slipped into her like a sigh and watched those eyes film with tears.

  Slow, silky movement built to shudders. She cried out once, her nails biting into his hips, then again, like an echo as he poured himself into her.

  • • •

  Noah blinked his vision clear and heard only silence. The tape had run out, he realized. He stared at the machine, more than a little stunned that the images had come quite so clear. And more than a little embarrassed to find himself hard and unquestionably aroused.

  With Olivia’s face in his mind.

  “Jesus, Brady.” He picked up his wine with a hand not quite steady and took a long sip.

  It was one of the side effects of crawling inside Sam Tanner, imagining what it was like to love and be loved by a woman like Julie MacBride. Remembering what it had been like to want the daughter that love had created.

  But it was damned inconvenient when he didn’t have any outlet for the sexual frustration now kicking gleefully in his gut.

  He’d write it out, he decided. He’d finish his meal, turn on the tube for noise and write it out. Since the story had a core of possessive love and sexual obsession, he’d write in Sam’s memory of the night he and Julie had become lovers.

  Maybe it was idealized, he thought, and maybe there were times, moments, connections that produced the kinds of feelings Sam had spoken of.

  For Noah, sex had always been a delightful part of life, a kind of sport that required some basic skills, a certain amount of protection and a healthy sense of team spirit.

  But he was willing to believe that for some it could contain gilded emotions. He’d give Sam that night, and all the romantic swells that went with it. It was after all how the man remembered it—or wanted to. And the shimmering romance of it would only add impact to the murder itself.

  He booted up his laptop, poured coffee from the room-service carafe that had kept it acceptably hot. But when he rose to turn on the television, he stopped by the phone, frowned at it.

  What the hell, he thought, and going with impulse dug out the number for River’s End. Within ten minutes, he’d made reservations for the beginning of the following week.

  Sam Tanner had still not spoken of his daughter. Noah wanted to see if she would speak of him.

  He worked until two, when he surfaced briefly to stare with no comprehension whatsoever at the television where a giant lizard was kicking the stuffing out of New York.

  He watched a uniformed cop, who obviously had more balls than brains, take a few plugs at the lizard with his handgun, then get eaten alive.

  It took Noah a moment to process that he was watching an old movie and not a news bulletin. That’s when he decided his brain was fried for the night.

  There was one more chore on his agenda, and though he knew it was just a little nasty to have waited until the middle of the night to deal with it, he picked up the phone and called Mike in L.A.

  It took five rings, and the slur of sleep and bafflement in his friend’s voice gave Noah considerable satisfaction.

  “Hey. Did I wake you up?”

  “What? Noah? Where are you?”

  “San Francisco. Remember?”

  “Huh? No . . . sort of. Jesus, Noah, it’s two in the morning.”

  “No kidding?” His brows drew together as he heard another voice, slightly muffled, definitely female. “You got a woman there, Mike?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Congratulations. The blonde from the club?”

  “Ah . . . hmmmm.”

  “Okay, okay, probably not the time to go into it. I’m going to be gone at least another week. I didn’t want to call my parents and wake them up, and I’m going to be pretty busy in the morning.”

  “Oh, but it’s okay to call and wake me up?”

  “Sure—besides, now that you’re both awake, you might get another round going. Remember to thank me later.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “That’s gratitude for you. Since you’re so fond of calling my mother, give her a buzz tomorrow and let her know I’m on the road.”

  There were some rustling sounds, making Noah imagine Mike was finally getting around to sitting up in bed. “Listen, I just thought you needed a little . . .”

  “Interference in my life. Stop pulling on your lip, Mike,” he said mildly, knowing his friend’s nervous habits well. “I’m not pissed off, particularly, but I figure you owe me. So give my mom a call and take care of my flowers while I’m gone.”

  “I can do that. Look, give me a number where I can—whoa.”

  The low smoke of female laughter had Noah raising an eyebrow. “Later. I don’t really want to have phone sex with you and the blonde. You let my flowers die, I’ll kick your ass.”

  The response was a sharp intake of breath, a great deal of rustling and whispering. Rolling his eyes, Noah hung up on a wild burst of laughter.

  Terrific, he thought and rubbed his hands over his face. Now he had two sexual adventures in his head. He decided to take a cold shower and go to bed.

  the forest

  Enter these enchanted woods, You who dare.

  —George Meredith

  seventeen

  He was surprised he remembered it so well, in such detail, with such clarity. As he drove, Noah caught himself bracing for the sensory rush as he came around a switchback, heartbeats before his field of vision changed from thick wood and sheer rock to stunning blue sky painted with the dazzling whit
e peaks of mountains.

  It was true that he’d driven this way once before, but he’d been only eighteen, it had been only one time. It shouldn’t have been like coming home after a trip away, like waking up after a dream.

  And it had been summer, he reminded himself, when the peaks were snowcapped, but the body of them green with the pines and firs that marched up their sides to give them the look of living, growing giants rather than the cold and still kings that reigned over the valleys.

  He’d done his research, he’d studied photographs, the brochures, the travelogues, but somehow he knew they couldn’t have prepared him for this sweep, for the contrasts of deep, silent forest and wildly regal peaks.

  He continued the climb long after he passed the turnoff for River’s End. He had time, hours if he chose, before he needed to wind his way down to the lowlands, the rain forest, the job.

  Choices again. And his was to slip into a pull-off, get out of the car and stand. The air was cold and pure. His breath puffed out, and had little knives scoring his throat on the inhale. It seemed to him that the world was spread out before him, field and valley, hill and forest, the bright ribbon of river, the flash of lake.

  Even as a car grinding into low gear passed behind him, he felt isolated. He couldn’t decide if it was a feeling he enjoyed or one that troubled him, but he stood, letting the wind slap at his jacket and sneak under to chill his body, and studied the vast blue of the sky, with the white spears of mountains vivid against it like a design etched on glass.

  He thought perhaps he’d stopped just here with his parents all those years ago, and remembered standing with his mother reading the guidebook.

  The Olympic Range. And however vast and encompassing it seemed from this point, he knew that at lower elevations, in the forest where the grand trees ruled, it didn’t exist. You would walk and walk in that dimness, or clatter up rocks on the tumbling hills and not see the stunning scope of them. Then you would take a turn, step out on a ridge, and there it would be. The vast sky-stealing stretch of it snatching your breath as if it had sneaked up on you instead of the other way around.