Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “Just plunk it down in the middle of the floor.” She smiled as it thunked into place. It was a good sound—settling in. “That’s great, thanks. Can I get you guys a cold drink?”

  “I’ll take one to go,” Bob said. “I gotta get back.” He offered Clare a friendly wink. “Wouldn’t want Bonny Sue to get jealous.”

  Clare grinned back. Bobby Meese and Bonny Sue Wilson, she thought. It was still hard to imagine them seven years married and the parents of three.

  “Ernie?”

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Guess so.”

  She hustled to the kitchen and brought back three cold bottles of Pepsi. “I’ll let you know about that chifforobe, Bob.”

  “You do that.” He took a swig before he started toward the door. “We’re open tomorrow twelve to five.”

  She let him out, then turned back to Ernie. “Sorry you got roped into that.”

  “ ’S okay.” He took a drink, then glanced around the room. “Is this all you’ve got?”

  “For now. I’m having fun picking up a little here, a little there. Why don’t we try it out?” She sat on one end of the sofa. “The cushions are sunk,” she said with a sigh. “Just the way I like them. So, have you lived in town long?”

  He didn’t sit, but edged around the room—like a cat, she thought, taking stock of his territory. “Since I was a kid.”

  “You go to Emmitsboro High?”

  “I’m a senior.”

  Her fingers itched for her sketch pad. There was tension in every inch of him—young, defiant, and restless tension. “Going to college?”

  He only shrugged his shoulders. It was another bone of contention between him and his parents. Education is your best chance. Screw that. He was his best chance. “I’m going to California—Los Angeles—as soon as I save up enough.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Make lots of money.”

  She laughed, but it was a friendly sound, not derisive. He nearly smiled back. “An honest ambition. Are you interested in modeling?”

  Suspicion flickered in his eyes. They were very dark eyes, Clare noted. Like his hair. And not as young as they should have been.

  “What for?”

  “For me. I’d like to do your arms. They’re thin and sinewy. You could come by after school sometime. I’d pay you scale.”

  He drank more Pepsi, wondering what she wore under her snug-fitting jeans. “Maybe.”

  When he left, he fingered the inverted pentagram he wore under his Black Sabbath T-shirt. Tonight, he would perform a private ritual. For sex.

  Cam dropped by Clyde’s after supper. He often did on Saturday nights. He could enjoy the single beer he allowed himself, some company, a game of pool. And he could keep an eye on anyone tossing back too many before pulling out car keys to head home.

  He was greeted by shouts and waves as he walked out of the twilight and into the dim, smoky bar. Clyde, who grew wider and more grizzled year after year, poured him a Beck’s draft. Cam nursed it at the ancient mahogany bar, one foot resting comfortably on the brass rail.

  From the back room came music and the clatter of pool balls, an occasional ripe oath, and a snarl of laughter. Men and a scattering of women sat at the square uncovered tables with beer glasses, overflowing ashtrays, and mounds of peanut shells. Sarah Hewitt, Bud’s sister, did what waitressing was required in a tight T-shirt and tighter jeans. She scooped up tips and propositions with equal relish.

  Cam knew it was a ritual, coming here, nursing one dark beer and smoking too much. Listening to the same songs, hearing the same voices, smelling the same smells. And there was a comfort in it, knowing Clyde would always stand behind the bar, snarling at his customers. The Budweiser clock on the wall would always be ten minutes slow, and the potato chips would always be stale.

  Sarah jiggled over, her eyes sooty, her skin drenched in come-hither perfume. She set her tray on the bar and rubbed her thigh lightly against his. Cam noticed, without much interest, that she’d done something different with her hair. It was a Jean Harlow blond since her latest trip to Betty’s, and it drooped seductively over one eye.

  “I wondered if you were coming in tonight.”

  He glanced over, remembering there had been a time he’d have chewed glass to get his hands on her. “How’s it going, Sarah?”

  “It’s been worse.” She shifted so that her breast brushed his arm. “Bud says you’ve been busy.”

  “Busy enough.” Cam picked up his beer again and broke the inviting contact.

  “Maybe you’d like to relax later. Like old times.”

  “We never relaxed.”

  She gave a low, throaty laugh. “Well, I’m glad to see you remember.” Annoyed, she glanced over her shoulder when someone hailed her. She’d been aiming to get her hands into Cam’s pants—and his wallet—since he’d come back to town. “I get off at two. Why don’t I come by your place?”

  “I appreciate the offer, Sarah, but I’d rather remember than repeat.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged as she picked up her tray again, but her voice had toughened with the rejection. “But I’m better than I used to be.”

  So everyone said, Cam thought and lighted a cigarette. She’d been a stunner once, stacked and sexy and seventeen. They’d fucked each other blind. And then, Cam remembered, she had slinked off to dispense the favor on as many other males as she could find.

  “Sarah Hewitt’ll do it” had become the battle cry of Emmitsboro High.

  The pity of it was, he’d loved her—with all of his loins and at least half his heart. Now he only felt sorry for her. Which, he knew, was worse than hate.

  The voices from the back grew in volume, and the curses became more colorful. Cam cocked a brow at

  Clyde.

  “Leave ’em be.” Clyde’s voice was a froggy rasp, as if he’d had his vocal cords wrapped in tinfoil. As he popped open two bottles of Bud, his face moved into a scowl that had his five chins swaying like Jell-O. “This ain’t no nursery school.”

  “It’s your place,” Cam said casually, but he’d noticed that Clyde had glanced toward the back room a half-dozen times since Cam had ordered the beer.

  “That’s right, and having a badge in here makes my customers nervous. You going to drink that or play with it?”

  Cam lifted his glass and drank. He picked up his cigarette, took a drag, then crushed it out. “Who’s in the back, Clyde?”

  Clyde’s fleshy face pokered up. “Usual bums.” When Cam continued to stare at him, Clyde picked up a sour-smelling rag and began to polish the dull surface of the bar. “Biff’s back there, and I don’t want no trouble.”

  Cam went very still at his stepfather’s name, and the amusement faded from his eyes. Biff Stokey rarely did his drinking in town, and when he did, it wasn’t friendly.

  “How long’s he been here?”

  Clyde moved his shoulders and set off an avalanche ripple of flab beneath his stained apron. “I ain’t got no stopwatch.”

  There was a quick, shrill feminine scream and the sound of crashing wood.

  “Sounds like he’s been here too long,” Cam said and started back, shoving onlookers aside. “Back off.” He elbowed his way through, toward the shouting. “I said back off, goddamn it.”

  In the rear room where customers gathered to play pool or dump quarters into the ancient pinball machine, he saw a woman cowering in the corner and Less Gladhill swaying beside the pool table with a cue held in both fists. There was already blood on his face. Biff stood a few feet away, holding the remains of a chair. He was a big, bulky man with arms like cinder blocks, liberally tattooed from his stint in the marines. His face, ruddy from sun and drinking, was set in a snarl. The eyes were as Cam always remembered them, dark and full of hate.

  Oscar Roody was hopping from one leg to the other, standing out of harm’s way while he played peacemaker.

  “Come on, Biff, it was a friendly game.”

  “Fuck off,” Biff mutte
red.

  Cam set a hand on Oscar’s shoulder and with a jerk of his head gestured him aside. “Take a walk, Less. Sober up.” Cam spoke softly, his eyes on his stepfather.

  “That sonofabitch hit me with the fucking chair.” Less swiped at the blood pooling over his eye. “He owes me twenty bucks.”

  “Take a walk,” Cam repeated. He curled his fingers around the pool cue. He only had to tug once before Less released it.

  “He’s fucking crazy. It was assault. I got witnesses.” There was a general murmur of agreement, but no one stepped forward. “Fine. Go on over to the office. Give Doc Crampton a call. He’ll take a look at you.” He sent one sweeping glance around the room. “Clear out.”

  People moved back, muttering, but most crowded in the doorway to watch Cam face down his stepfather.

  “Big man now, ain’t you?” Biff’s gravelly voice was slurred with drink. And he grinned, the way he had always grinned before he plowed into Cam. “Got yourself a badge and a shitload of money, but you’re still a punk.”

  Cam’s fingers tensed on the cue. He was ready. More than ready. “It’s time you went home.”

  “I’m drinking. Clyde, you motherfucker, where’s my whiskey?”

  “You’re finished drinking here,” Cam said steadily. “You can go out walking through the front, or I can carry you out the back.”

  Biff’s grin widened. He tossed the broken chair aside and lifted his ham-sized fists. He’d been set to kick Less’s ass, but this was better yet. It had been years since he’d been able to beat some respect into the boy. And Cam was overdue.

  “Why don’t you just come and get me, then?”

  When Biff lunged forward, Cam hesitated only an instant. He imagined himself slamming the cue hard against the side of Biff’s head. He could even hear the satisfying smack of wood against bone. At the last minute, he tossed the cue aside and took the first blow in the gut.

  The air wheezed out between his teeth, but he dodged the fist before it smashed into his jaw. The glancing shot to his temple had stars exploding in front of his eyes. He heard the roar of the crowd behind him, like pagans surrounding gladiators.

  The first time his naked fist connected with Biff’s flesh, the shock sang up his arm and ended with a riff of satisfaction. The punches that rained on him were all but unfelt, like memory blows of the dozens of beatings.

  He’d been smaller once. Small and thin and helpless. Then he’d had only two choices—to run and hide, or to stand and take it. But that had changed. This night had been a long time coming. There was a wild kind of glory in it, the kind soldiers feel as they suit up and storm into battle. He watched his own fist slam into Biff’s sneering mouth, knuckles and lips ripping.

  He smelled blood—his own and Biff’s. Glass crashed and shattered on the floor. His own control shattered with it. Like a madman, he threw himself into the fight, hammering his fists into the face he had learned to fear and despise since childhood.

  He wanted to erase it. Destroy it. With hands that were bruised and bloodied, he grabbed Biff by the shirt and slammed that hated face, again and again, into the wall.

  “Jesus, Cam. Come on, let up. Jesus.”

  The breath was racing out of his lungs, hot as fire. He struggled away when hands reached for his shoulders, and turning, he nearly rammed his fist into Bud’s face.

  The mist cleared from his eyes then, and he saw the white, strained face of his deputy, the huge, curious eyes of the crowd that had gathered. With the back of his hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth. Crumpled on the floor, beaten, broken, and unconscious in his own vomit, was Biff.

  “Clyde called.” Bud’s voice was shaking. “He said things were out of hand.” Wetting his lips, he looked at the destruction of the poolroom. “What do you want me to do?”

  The breath wheezed out of Cam’s lungs like an old man’s. “Lock him up.” Cam put a hand on the pool table to steady himself. He was beginning to feel the pain now from each individual blow, and a churning, aching nausea. “Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly.”

  Bud cleared his throat. “I could drive him on home if you want. You know—”

  “Lock him up.” He glanced up to see Sarah watching him with both approval and derision in her sooty eyes. “Get a statement from Less Gladhill and any witnesses.”

  “Let me get someone to drive you home, Sheriff.”

  “No.” He kicked a broken glass aside, then stared down the people hovering in the doorway. His eyes were cold now, hard and cold, so that even the men who had been cheering him on averted theirs. “Fun’s over.”

  He waited until the room had cleared before he left to drive to the farm and tell his mother her husband wouldn’t be home that night.

  Chapter 6

  When Cam swung his Harley into Clare’s driveway, it was just after noon. Every bone, every muscle of his body throbbed. He’d soaked in his whirlpool, tried ice packs, and downed three Nuprin, but the beating he’d taken and the sleepless night were hard to counteract.

  Tougher yet had been his mother’s reaction. She had looked at him with her big, tired, sad eyes and made him feel—as she always did—that he had somehow caused his stepfather’s drunkenness and the fight that followed it.

  It was small satisfaction that at least until Monday, and the judge’s ruling, Biff would be nursing his own aches and pains in jail.

  He turned his bike off and, leaning forward on the handlebars, watched Clare work.

  She’d left the garage door open. On a large brick-topped worktable was a tall metal structure. She was bent toward it, guiding a welding torch. As he watched, a shower of sparks rained around her.

  His reaction was instant and baffling. Desire—as hot and sharp as the flame she wielded.

  Stupid, he thought, as he painfully swung his leg off the bike. There was nothing remotely sexy about a woman in workboots and overalls. Most of her face was hidden under a pair of dark goggles, and her hair was tucked under a leather skullcap. And though he liked women in leather, the thick apron she wore was a far cry from a tight skirt.

  He set his helmet on the seat of the bike and walked into the garage.

  She kept right on working. There was music blasting from a new portable stereo. Beethoven’s Ninth competed with the hiss of flame. Cam walked over to turn it down, figuring it was the safest way to get her attention.

  Clare glanced over briefly. “Just one more minute.”

  One became five before she straightened and switched off the flame. With competent hands she picked up a wrench and turned off her tanks.

  “I just had a few finishing touches to put on it today.” She blew out a breath and pushed up her goggles. Energy was still vibrating in her fingertips. “What do you think?”

  Taking his time, he walked around it. It looked monstrous. And fascinating. Human, and yet … other. He wondered what kind of imagination, or what kind of need, drove her to create something so disturbing.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want it in my living room because I’d never be able to relax around it. It’s like a nightmare you could touch.”

  It was exactly the right thing to say. Clare nodded as she stripped off her skullcap. “It’s the best work I’ve done in six months. Angie’s going to dance on the ceiling.”

  “Angie?”

  “She handles my work—she and her husband.” She pushed at her flattened hair. “So, what are you—oh my God.” For the first time, she focused on him. His left eye was discolored and swollen, and there was a nasty gash along his cheek. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Saturday night.”

  Quickly, she stripped off her gloves to run a gentle finger over the cut. “I thought you grew out of that. Have you had this looked at? Let me get you some ice for that eye.”

  “It’s all right,” he began, but she was already dashing into the kitchen.

  “You’re the sheriff, for Christ’s sake,” she said as she searched for a cloth
to wrap ice in. “You’re not supposed to raise hell anymore. Sit down. Maybe we can get the swelling down. You’re still a jerk, Rafferty.”

  “Thanks.” He eased his aching body into the ladder-back chair she’d set in the kitchen.

  “Here, hold this on your eye.” She set a hip on the drop leaf table, then put a hand under his chin to turn his face to the sunlight and examine the cut. “You’ll be lucky if this doesn’t scar that pretty face of yours.”

  The ice felt like heaven, so he only grunted.

  She smiled, but the concern remained in her eyes as she brushed at the hair on his forehead. She remembered Blair getting into fights, too many fights, over the last couple of years in high school. If memory served, a man wanted to be pampered—and praised—under these circumstances.

  “So, should I ask what the other guy looks like?”

  His lips quirked. “I broke his goddamn nose.”

  “God, I love this macho stuff.” Taking the end of the cloth, she dabbed at the cut. “Who were you fighting with?”

  “Biff.”

  The hand on his face stilled. Her eyes, full of understanding, came to his. “I’m sorry. I take it things haven’t improved there.”

  “Official business. He was D and D in Clyde’s—” Cam broke off and leaned back in the chair. “Fuck.”

  Her hand was gentle on his face again. “Hey, want a brownie?”

  He smiled a little. “My grandmother always gave me milk and cookies whenever Biff beat the shit out of me.”

  Clare felt her stomach clench, but she made her lips curve as she took up one of his hands. “From the looks of these, I’d say he’s in worse shape than you.” On impulse she kissed the torn and bruised skin of his knuckles. He found the gesture incredibly endearing.

  “It hurts here, too.” He tapped a finger to his lips.

  “Don’t press your luck.” Businesslike, she pulled the ice away and squinted at his eye. “Very colorful. How’s your vision?”

  “I can see you just fine. You’re prettier than you used to be.”