Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  Clare let the shower beat down on her head. Her body felt sore and weary and wonderful. Her eyes closed, she hummed and soaped her skin. It smelled like Cam, she thought, and caught herself grinning foolishly. God, what a night.

  Slowly, sinuously, she ran her hand over her body, remembering. She’d been certain she’d had her share of romantic encounters, but nothing had come close to what happened between them last night.

  He’d made her feel like the sexiest woman alive. And the hungriest, the neediest. In one night they had given each other more than she and Rob had managed in …

  Oops. She shook her head. No comparisons, she warned herself. Especially to ex-husbands.

  She slicked her hair back and reminded herself she still had a long way to go. Wasn’t she in the shower right now because she’d awakened beside Cam and wanted, too much, to snuggle up against him and cuddle? Even after the storm of lovemaking—or maybe because of it—the need just to be held and stroked had embarrassed her.

  This was just sex, she told herself. Really great sex, but just sex. Letting her emotions run rampant would only mess things up. It always did.

  So she would wallow in hot water and soap, rub herself dry and pink. Then she’d go in and jump all over his bones. Even as she started to smile at the idea, she opened her eyes and screamed.

  Cam had his face plastered against the glass shower wall. His roar of laughter had her swearing at him as he pulled the door open and stepped under the spray with her.

  Scare you?

  “Jesus, you’re an idiot. My heart stopped.”

  “Let me check.” He put a hand between her breasts and grinned. “Nope, still ticking. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Because I’m in here.” She tossed her hair out of her eyes.

  His gaze slid down from the top of her head to her toes, then back again. She could feel her blood begin to pump even before his fingers spread and roamed. “You look good wet, Slim.” He lowered his mouth to her slickened shoulder. “Taste good, too.” He worked his way up her throat to her lips. “You dropped the soap.”

  “Mmmm. Most accidents in the home happen in the bathroom.”

  “They’re death traps.”

  “I guess I’d better get it.” She slid down his body, closing her hand over the soap, and her mouth over him. The hiss of his breath merged with the hiss of the shower.

  He thought he’d emptied himself during the night, that the needs that had raged and clawed and torn at him had been put to rest. But they were only more desperate now, more violent. He dragged her up, pressed her back against the wet tiles. Her eyes were like melted gold. And he watched them as he plunged himself into her.

  “Hungry?” Cam asked as Clare stood by the bedroom window finger-drying her hair.

  “Starving,” she said without turning around. As far as she could see, there were woods, dark and deep and green. He’d surrounded himself with them, hidden himself behind them. Distant, faintly purple, were the mountains in the west. She imagined what it would look like as the sun sank below them, showering the sky with color.

  “Where did you find this place?”

  “My grandmother.” He finished buttoning his shirt and came to stand behind her. “It’s been Rafferty land for a hundred years. She hung on to it, then left it to me.”

  “It’s beautiful. I didn’t really see it last night.” She smiled. “I guess I didn’t see much of anything last night. I just got the impression of this house on a hill.”

  Then he’d tossed her over his shoulder, making her laugh as he hauled her inside, upstairs, and into his bed.

  “When I came back, I decided I wanted a place where I could get away from town. I think part of Parker’s problem was that he lived in that apartment over the liquor store and never got away from it.”

  “A badge hangs heavy on a man,” Clare said somberly and earned a twisted ear. “You said something about food.”

  “I usually eat at Martha’s on Saturday mornings.” He checked his watch. “And I’m running behind. We could probably scare up something here.”

  It sounded much better to Clare. The gossip mills would start turning—there was no way to stop them. But for a morning, at least, they could be held at bay.

  “Do I get a tour?”

  So far all she’d seen had been the bedroom with his big platform bed, the random-width wooden floor, and ceiling. And the bathroom, she thought. The deep tiled bath with jets, the roomy glass-and-tile shower. She’d been pleased with his taste so far, the fact that he wasn’t afraid to use color, but she wanted to see the rest.

  Despite the events of the last twelve hours, she knew that man did not live by bed alone.

  He took her hand and led her out.

  “There are a couple of other bedrooms up here.”

  “Three bedrooms?” She cocked a brow. “Planning ahead?”

  “You could say that.”

  He let her poke through the second floor, watching her nod and comment. She approved the skylights and the hardwood floors, the big windows and atrium doors that led to the wraparound deck.

  “You’re awfully neat,” she said as they started down.

  “One person doesn’t make very much mess.”

  She could only laugh and kiss him.

  At the base of the steps, she stopped to take in the living area with its lofty ceilings, beams of sunlight, and Indian rugs. One wall was fashioned from river rock with a generous fireplace carved into it. The sofa was low and cushy, perfect for napping.

  “Well, this is—” She stepped off the stairs, turned, and saw the sculpture. He had it set beside the open stairwell, positioned so that the sun would stream through the skylight above and pour onto it. So that anyone walking in the front door or standing in the living room would see it.

  It was almost four feet high, a curving twist of brass and copper. It was an unmistakably sensual piece—a woman’s form, tall, slender, naked. Her arms were lifted high, her copper hair streaming back. Clare had called it Womanhood and had sought to reproduce all the power, the wonder, and the magic.

  At first she was flustered at finding one of her pieces in his home. Her hands fumbled into her pockets.

  “I, ah—you said you thought I painted.”

  “I lied.” He smiled at her. “It was fun getting you riled up and insulted.”

  She only frowned at that. “I guess you’ve had it for some time.”

  “A couple of years.” He tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “I went into this gallery in D.C. They had some of your work, and I ended up walking out with this.”

  “Why?”

  She was uncomfortable, he noted. Embarrassed. He slid his hand from her hair to cup her chin. “I didn’t intend to buy it and could hardly afford to at that point. But I looked at it and knew it was mine. Just the way I walked into your garage last night and looked at you.”

  She moved back a little too quickly. “I’m not a piece of sculpture, Cam.”

  “No, you’re not.” Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. “You’re upset because I saw this and recognized you. Because I understood you. You’d rather I didn’t.”

  “I have a psychiatrist on call if I want analysis, thanks.”

  “You can get pissed off, Clare. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “I’m not pissed off,” she said between her teeth.

  “Sure you are. We can stand here and yell at each other, I can haul your ass back upstairs to bed, or we can go in the kitchen and have coffee. I’ll leave it to you.”

  It was a moment before she could close her mouth and speak. “Why, you arrogant sonofabitch.”

  “Looks like we yell.”

  “I’m not yelling,” she shouted at him. “But I will make a point. You don’t haul my ass anywhere. Understood, Rafferty? If I go to bed with you, it’s my own choice. Maybe it’s bypassed your snug little world, but we’re into the nineties here. I don’t need to be seduced, cajoled, or forced. Between responsible, unencumb
ered adults, sex is a matter of free choice.”

  “That’s fine.” He took her by the shirtfront and yanked her against him. Temper glittered in his eyes. “But what happened between you and me was more than sex. You’re going to have to admit that.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” She braced herself when he lowered his head. She was expecting a hard, angry kiss, one ripe with frustration and demand. Instead, his mouth was whisper soft. The sudden and surprising tenderness left her reeling.

  “Feel anything, Slim?”

  Her eyes were too heavy to open. “Yes.”

  He brushed her mouth with his again. “Scared?”

  She nodded, then sighed as he lowered his brow to hers.

  “That makes two of us. Are you finished yelling?”

  “I guess so.”

  He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get that coffee.”

  When he dropped her off an hour later, Clare’s phone was ringing. She considered ignoring it and diving right back to work while her emotions were still heightened. But as it continued to shrill, she gave up and pulled the receiver from the kitchen hook.

  “Hello.”

  “Jesus Christ, Clare.” Angie’s aggrieved voice stung Clare’s ears. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get through to you since yesterday.”

  “I’ve been busy.” Clare reached into a bag of cookies. “Working, and things.”

  “Do you realize that if I hadn’t gotten in touch with you by noon, I was going to start down there?”

  “Angie, I told you I’m fine. Nothing ever happens here.” She thought of Biff Stokey. “Hardly ever. You know I rarely answer the phone when I’m working.”

  “And you were working at three this morning?”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was certainly busy at three this morning. What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got news for you, girl. Big news.” Clare put down the cookie and reached for a cigarette. “How big?”

  “Major. The Betadyne Institute in Chicago is building a new wing to be dedicated to women in the arts. They want to acquire three of your pieces for permanent display. And,” she added as Clare let out a whistling breath, “there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “They want to commission you to create a sculpture that will stand outside the building to celebrate women’s contribution to art.”

  “I’m going to sit down now.”

  “They expect the new addition to be completed in twelve to eighteen months. They’d like some sketches from you before September, and naturally they want you at the opening for press and photo opportunities. Jean-Paul and I will fill you in on all the details when we get there.”

  “Get there?”

  “We’re coming down.” Angie let out a quick sigh. “I’d hoped you would come back up here to work, but Jean-Paul feels we ought to wait until we see what you’ve been up to.”

  Clare put a hand to her head. “Angie, I’m trying to take all this in.”

  “Just chill some champagne, Clare. We’ll be there Monday afternoon. Is there anything we should bring besides contracts and blueprints?”

  “Beds,” Clare said weakly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. Jean-Paul will call you for directions tomorrow. Congratulations, girl.”

  “Thanks.” Clare hung up, then scrubbed her hands over her face. This was the next step, she thought, the step she’d been working for, the step Angie had been pushing her toward. She only wished she could be sure she was ready.

  She worked through the morning and late into the afternoon. When her hands began to cramp, she stopped. It was just as well, she thought. She needed to go shopping, for beds, sheets, towels. All the little niceties guests might expect. She could swing through town, and with luck, Cam would be able to go with her.

  Wouldn’t that prove she wasn’t afraid of where their relationship was heading?

  Sure. And burying herself in work all day proved that she wasn’t afraid of being offered the biggest commission of her career.

  She started upstairs to change and found herself climbing the attic steps again. The door was open, as she’d left it. She hadn’t been able to lock it again, to lock the memories away again. Instead, she stood in the doorway and let herself go back. Back to when her father had kept his big ugly desk piled with papers and pictures and gardening books. There had been a cork bulletin board covered with photos of houses and newspaper listings, phone numbers of plumbers and roofers, carpenters and electricians. Jack Kimball had always tried to nudge work along to friends and townspeople.

  He’d had an office in town, of course, tidy and organized. But he’d always preferred to work here, up in the top of the house, where he could be accessible to his family. And smell his flowers from the garden below.

  There had been stacks of books, she remembered. Along the wall the shelves had been piled with them. Stepping into the room, Clare began to open other boxes, to go through all the things her mother had packed away but hadn’t been able to toss out.

  Real estate books, studies in architecture, her father’s ratty old address book, novels of Steinbeck and Fitzgerald. There were heavy volumes on theology and religion. Jack Kimball had been both fascinated and repelled by religion. She pushed through them, wondering what had driven him to turn so fiercely back to his childhood faith near the end of his life.

  Frowning, she dusted off a dog-eared paperback and tried to remember where she had seen the symbol drawn on its cover before. A pentagram, its center filled with the head of a goat. Its two top points held the horns, the sides the ears, and the bottom tip, the mouth and beard.

  “The Left-Hand Path,” she read aloud. She shuddered and started to open the book when a shadow fell over her.

  “Clare?”

  She jolted, dropping the book so that it fell facedown among the others. Without thinking, she moved her hand, shifting another book on top of it as she turned.

  “I’m sorry.” Cam stood in the doorway, searching for the right words. He knew being in this room had to cause her pain. “Your car was here-and the radio’s on. I figured you were somewhere in the house.”

  “Yeah, I was just …” She rose and dusted off her knees. “Going through things.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.” She looked down at the books she’d scattered over the floor. “See, one person can make a mess.”

  He laid a hand on her cheek. “Hey, Slim. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Be careful.” She closed her fingers over his wrist. “I’ll start leaning on you.”

  “Go ahead.” Gently, he drew her to him and rubbed a hand up and down her back.

  “I loved him so much, Cam.” She let out a long breath and watched the dust motes dance in the sunlight. “I’ve never been able to love anyone else like that. When I was little, I used to come up here after I was supposed to be in bed. He’d let me sit in the chair while he worked, then he’d carry me down. We could talk about anything, even when I got older.”

  She tightened her grip. “I hated it when he started drinking. I couldn’t understand why he would make himself so unhappy, make all of us so unhappy. I would hear him crying some nights. And praying. So lonely, so miserable. But somehow, the next day, he’d pull it all together and get through. And you’d start to believe that it was all going to be okay again. But it wasn’t.” Sighing, she pulled away, and her eyes were dry.

  “He was a good father, Clare. I spent a lot of years envying you and Blair your father. The drinking was something he couldn’t control.”

  “I know.” She smiled a little and did what she hadn’t been able to do alone. She moved to the window and looked down. The terrace was empty, swept clean. Edging it were the early roses her father had loved.

  “I’ve been through all the groups, all the therapy. But there’s one thing none of them could tell me. There’s one thing I’ve asked myself again and again and ne
ver found an answer. Did he fall, Cam? Did he drink himself senseless and lose his balance? Or did he stand here, right here, and decide to stop fighting whatever demon was eating at him?”

  “It was an accident.” Cam put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.

  “I want to believe that. I’ve always tried to, because the other is too painful. The father I knew couldn’t have killed himself, couldn’t have hurt my mother or Blair or me that way. But you see, the father I knew couldn’t have cheated, couldn’t have bribed inspectors and falsified reports the way he did on the shopping center. He couldn’t have lied and taken money and broken the law so arrogantly. But he did. And so I don’t know what to believe.”

  “He loved you, and he made mistakes. There’s nothing else you have to believe.”

  “You’d understand, better than anyone, what it’s like to lose a father when you need one so badly.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  She tightened her fingers on his. “I know it might sound odd, but if I could be sure—even if I could be sure he had killed himself—it would be easier than wondering.” She shook her head and managed a smile. “I warned you I’d lean.” She linked her fingers with his, then brought his knuckles to her cheek.

  “Any better?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Tilting her head, she touched her lips to his. “Really.”

  “Anytime. Really.”

  “Let’s go downstairs.” She started out ahead of him but put a hand out when he would have closed the door. “No, leave it open.” Feeling foolish, she went too quickly down the steps. “Want a beer, Rafferty?”

  “Actually, I was going to see how you felt about going into town for dinner, maybe a movie, then going back to my place and letting me make love with you for the rest of the night.”

  “Well.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “It sounds pretty nice, all in all. One thing, I’m having guests next week, so I have to buy a couple of beds—and a chair, and a lamp or two, some sheets, food—”