Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

She smiled, toying with the last two fastened buttons. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

  He picked her up and had just carried her down the attic steps when Blair met them on the landing. Oops.

  Cam gave him a narrowed look. “There’s that way with words again.”

  “Sorry. I, ah, just came by to tell you I have a date.”

  “Good for you.” Clare tossed the hair out of her eyes. “Want me to wait up?”

  “No. I’m going to take a shower.” He started down the hall. “By the way, you’re on in about fifteen minutes.”

  “On what?”

  “TV. Alice told me. And if you two could wait to play Rhett and Scarlett until after I’m done, I’d appreciate it.” He closed the bathroom door.

  “TV?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Clare went back to nuzzling Cam’s neck. “That Ladies Club thing.”

  “I forgot. How’d it go?”

  “It went. I stopped feeling nauseated when I saw the white reclining plaster lions.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The white reclining plaster lions. Where are we going?”

  “Downstairs, to the TV.”

  “You don’t want to watch, Cam. It’s silly.”

  “Of course I want to watch. Tell me about the lions.”

  “These incredibly ugly statues in front of the Athertons’.”

  “There are a lot of incredibly ugly statues in front of the Athertons’.”

  “You’re telling me. I’m talking about the guard lions, at their ease. I kept imagining them springing off the stoop and devouring all the plastic ducks and wooden sheep, and chasing that poor stable boy up a tree. It was hard to take the whole business too seriously after that. Cam, I really hate to watch myself on television.”

  “Okay.” He set her down. “Then you can get me something to drink while I watch. Did you wear that blouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like that?”

  She wrinkled her nose and began doing up buttons. “Of course not. I unbuttoned it completely for TV.”

  “Good thinking. Why were you feeling sick before the lions?”

  “I hate public speaking.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Because I’m a spineless wimp.”

  “You’ve got a spine. I know, because you go crazy when I nibble on it. Make it a Coke or something, okay? I’m on duty.”

  “Sure, I live to serve.” She slunk off to the kitchen while he fiddled with the TV dial. When she came back, he was settled on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. “Sorry, I didn’t make popcorn.”

  “That’s okay.” He pulled her down with him.

  “I really don’t want to watch.”

  “Then close your eyes. I bet you knocked ’em dead, Slim.”

  “There was polite applause.” She propped her feet beside his. “Mrs. Atherton made me come all the way back here for a sample of a work in progress. Which—shit—I just remembered. I left it there.”

  “What was it?”

  “A wood carving. Arms and shoulders. Yours, by the way.”

  “Oh, God.”

  His very genuine distress made her grin. “I think some of the ladies recognized you, too. There was some definite snickering. But mostly they wanted to know if I ever carved flowers or children. I think the arms and shoulders made them uncomfortable because without a head it made them think of decapitation, when what I was trying to express was male strength and elegance.”

  “Now I’m nauseated.”

  “You haven’t even seen it yet.” She hesitated briefly, knowing how upset he would be, then decided to confess. “Cam, someone stole one of my sculptures. The nightmare work.”

  He didn’t move, but she sensed him go on alert. “When?”

  “Had to be between last evening and midmorning. I think kids—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “All right, I don’t know what I think. All I know is that it’s gone.”

  “Did they break in?”

  “No.” She stuck out her chin. “Yell if you want. I forgot to lock the garage.”

  “Damn it, Clare, if I can’t trust you to lock a door, I’m going to have to put you in a cell.”

  “I’ll lock the damn thing.” It was easier to be annoyed with him than to dwell on having her work taken. On having someone close enough to steal it away. “I’ll put in an alarm system if it’ll make you happy.”

  “Move in with me.” He cupped a gentle hand on her cheek. “Make me happy.”

  The little hitch in her stomach forced her to look away. “I don’t need protective custody.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Slim.”

  “I know.” She let out a shaky breath. “Just be a cop on this one, Rafferty Go find my statue.” After a moment she forced herself to look back at him. “Don’t push, please. And don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m worried.”

  “It’s going to be okay.” She snuggled back against him and was sure of it. “Let’s take a little time off and watch me make a fool of myself for the viewing public. Oh, God, here it comes. Cam, why don’t we—”

  He put a hand over her mouth.

  “A star of the art world comes to the county,” the anchorwoman announced. “Clare Kimball, renowned sculptress …”

  “Ugh. Sculptress!” she managed behind Cam’s palm.

  “Shut up.”

  “… today at the home of Emmitsboro’s mayor. Miss Kimball is a native of Emmitsboro who made her mark in the Big Apple.”

  “Any art is an expression of emotion.” As Clare’s face filled the screen, she moved Cam’s hand from her mouth to her eyes. “Sculpture is often more personal, as the artist is directly linked to the work through touch and texture.”

  “You look great.”

  “I sound like a geek. Once a nerd, always a nerd.”

  “No, you sound great, too. I’m impressed. Is that me?”

  She peeked out between his fingers and saw the wood carving. “Yeah.”

  “It’s not so bad,” he said, pleased.

  “It’s brilliant.” She widened the space of his fingers to get a better look.

  “A sculpture,” her television image went on, “is often a tangible piece of the artist’s feelings, memories, hopes, disappointments, dreams. It’s away of liberating reality, expanding it, or duplicating it, with a live model or your own imagination.”

  “Can we at least turn off the sound?”

  “Shh!”

  “Whether the mood is violent or romanticized or stark depends on the artist’s mood and the medium employed. My work is a part of me, sometimes the best part, sometimes the darkest. But it always reflects what I see or feel or believe.”

  They switched back to the studio.

  “Happy now? I sounded so frigging pompous.”

  “No, you sounded honest. Do you sculpt from dreams, Slim?”

  “Sure, sometimes. Look, I’ve already done one interview today.” She slid her arms around him, danced her fingers up the nape of his neck. “I thought we were going to make out.”

  “In a minute. The nightmare piece that was stolen, did it come out of the dream about your father?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You could sketch what you saw that night, couldn’t you?”

  “God, Cam.”

  “You could.”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes, I could.”

  Chapter 26

  Chip Dopper would rather have been working under a tractor than riding on one. He’d never cared for haying, even his own fields. And here he was, at six-goddamn-thirty in the morning, cutting hay for Mrs. Stokey But his ma had laid down the law—the one about good neighbors and Samaritans. And when Ma laid down the law, everyone jumped.

  The worst part, as far as Chip was concerned, was that it was boring. Acre after acre, cutting and baling, with that half-wit July Crampton riding behind him on the big baler.

 
; July was third or fourth cousin to Alice, the result of some fevered inbreeding. He was somewhere near thirty, irritating as hell, from Chip’s viewpoint, but harmless, with a solid bantam rooster body and a slack, permanently sunburned face. Right now he was happy as a frog with a bellyful of flies, riding and stacking and singing. He sang dumb songs from the fifties, before either of them had been born. Chip figured he might have handled the whole thing better if July had picked up some Roy Clark, but there he was, grinning like an asshole and singing about taking out the papers and the trash.

  Jesus.

  “Christ Almighty, July, what the hell kind of song is that?”

  “ ‘Yakety-Yak,’ ” July sang, grinning.

  “You always was a dick,” Chip muttered.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, Chip thought, riding along with the baler humming under him—’cept the engine could use some work. It was warm and sunny, and the hay smelled sweet. July might’ve been three bricks shy of a load, but he was doing the dirty work, hauling and stacking. He’d be the one with hay splinters.

  The idea gave Chip some satisfaction.

  No, it wouldn’t be so bad, he mused, circling back to his original thought, if he’d’ve thought to bring his radio with him. Then he could’ve drowned July’s sissy voice right out.

  Anyway, he was making a little extra money. Just a little, he thought, with just a shade of resentment. Ma wouldn’t let him charge Mrs. Stokey more than half the usual price. But still, with the extra he could relax some. The baby needed those damn corrective shoes. Christ, babies needed every damn thing. But he smiled, thinking of his little girl with her mama’s curly hair and his eyes.

  It sure was something, being a father. After eleven and a half months, Chip felt like a veteran. He’d been through sleepless nights, roseola, teething, muddy diapers, and inoculations. Now his little girl was walking. It made him glow with pleasure and pride when she held out her arms and toddled toward him. Even if she was a bit pigeon-toed.

  His slightly foolish smile changed to a look of curiosity, then disgust.

  “What the hell is that smell?”

  “I thought you cut one,” July said and giggled.

  “Christ!” In defense, Chip began breathing through his teeth. “It’s making my eyes water.”

  “Something dead.” July pulled out a bandanna and held it over his mouth. “Woo-ee. Something real dead.”

  “Sonofabitch. Stray dog or something musta crawled off and died in the hay field.” He stopped the baler. The last thing he wanted was to look for some maggoty dog, but he couldn’t afford to run over it with the baler either. “Come on, July, let’s find the damn thing and haul it off.”

  “Maybe it’s a horse. Smells as bad as a horse. Could call the dead wagon.”

  “We ain’t calling no dead wagon until we find it.”

  They hopped off the baler. Chip took a page out of July’s book and tied a bandanna around his nose and mouth. The stench was worse on the ground, and he was reminded of the day he’d been playing by the railroad tracks and had come across what was left of a dog that had had the bad luck to get flattened by the freight train headed toward Brunswick. He cursed and breathed shallowly behind the cloth. It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

  “Gotta be right around here,” he said and started into the uncut hay. It was unpleasant, but not difficult to follow the scent, which reared up like a big, squishy green fist.

  As it was, Chip almost tripped over it.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty.” He pressed a hand over his already covered mouth and looked at July.

  July’s eyes were bulging out of his head. “Shit, oh shit, oh shit. That ain’t no dog.” He turned away, coughing and gagging, then began a shambling run after Chip, who was already racing over the freshly cut hay.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Cam stood at the same spot. His breath hissed out between his teeth. After ten years on the force, he thought he’d seen everything a man could see. But he’d never come across anything as bad as this.

  She was naked. Death hadn’t robbed her of her gender, though it had taken nearly everything else. He judged her to be of small to medium build. Age wasn’t possible to determine. She was ageless now.

  But he thought he knew. Even as he took the blanket he’d brought from the car and covered her, he thought that Carly Jamison would never party down in Fort Lauderdale.

  His face was pale, but his hands were steady, and he only thought once, fleetingly, that a shot of Jack would go down real smooth just about then. He walked across the field he’d once plowed in his youth to where Chip and July waited.

  “It was a body, just like we told you.” July was hopping from foot to foot. “I ain’t never seen a dead body, ’cept my Uncle Clem, and he was laid out in his Sunday suit down to Griffith’s. Chip and me, we was haying your ma’s field, just like we told you, then we smelled it—”

  “Shut the fuck up, July.” Chip passed a hand over his sweaty brow. “What do you want us to do, Sheriff?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d go into the office and give your statements.” He took out a cigarette, hoping the taste of smoke would clean his mouth. “Did either of you touch her?”

  “No, sir. Nosirree.” July hopped again. “Shit, she was a mess, wasn’t she? Did you see all them flies?”

  “Shut the fuck up, July,” Cam said without heat. “I’ll call in, make sure Mick’s there to take your statements. We may need to talk to you again.” He glanced toward the house. “Did you say anything to my mother?”

  “Sorry, Sheriff.” Chip shifted, shrugged. “I guess July and me weren’t thinking proper when we ran into the house.”

  “It’s all right. It’d be best if you gave your statements right away.”

  “We’ll drive in now.”

  With a nod, Cam went up the steps and into the house, where his mother waited.

  She all but pounced. “I told them it was just a dog or some young deer,” she began, twisting her apron. Shadows haunted her eyes. “Neither one of those boys has a lick of sense.”

  “Have you got any coffee?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  He walked past her, and she followed, a sour sickness in her stomach. “It was a dog, wasn’t it?”

  “No.” He poured coffee, drank it down hot and black, then picked up the phone. For a moment he hesitated, the receiver cool in his hand, the image of what he had left in the field twisting in his mind. “It wasn’t a dog. Why don’t you wait in the other room?”

  Her mouth worked, but the words wouldn’t come. Pressing her lips together, she shook her head and sat while he called the coroner.

  Clare was downing a breakfast Twinkie and contemplating her sketches for the Betadyne Museum. She wanted to get started on the outdoor piece. It had been nudging at her for days. She could already see it, completed, glowing copper, an abstract female form, arms lifted, with the circling planets just above the fingertips.

  When the phone rang, she walked back into the kitchen and answered with a mouthful of cake and cream. “Hello?”

  “Clare? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. Angie, hi. I’ve got my mouth full.”

  “What else is new?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I sold your Wonderment Number Three yesterday.”

  “No kidding? Well, that’s cause for a celebration.” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Pepsi. “How’s Jean-Paul?”

  “He’s fine,” Angie said, smoothly lying. Neither of them were fine since Blair was keeping them updated on all the news in Emmitsboro. “How are things there?”

  “The corn crop looks good.”

  “Well, we can all sleep easy now. Clare, when are you coming home?”

  “Actually, Angie, I’m beginning to think I am home.” Time to drop the bomb. “I’m considering selling the loft.”

  “Selling it? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m heading that way. You can’t say my work has
suffered because I’ve changed my view.”

  “No, no, it hasn’t.” But it wasn’t Clare’s work that concerned Angie. It was Clare. “I don’t want you to do anything rash. Maybe you should come up for a few weeks, think things over.”

  “I can think here. Angie, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really.”

  Angie bit her tongue and asked a question she already had the answer to. “Has Cam got a lead on who attacked that woman?”

  “He’s working on a theory.” Deliberately, she turned away from the view of the terrace. “You’re not going to tell me I’d be safer in New York than here.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m sleeping with a cop, so relax. I mean it,” she said, anticipating an argument. “Angie, for the first time in years, I’m starting to believe I can make it work—a real relationship, a sense of place and purpose. I don’t care how corny that sounds, I don’t want to blow it.”

  “Then move in with him.”

  “What?”

  “Move in with him.” And then you won’t be alone, in that house. “Pack up your things and set up housekeeping with him.”

  “Did I miss a step here?”

  “Why should you live in separate houses? You’re already sharing a bed. And damn it, I’d sleep better at night.”

  Clare smiled. “Tell you what, I’ll give it serious consideration.”

  “Just do it.” Angie took a slow, cleansing breath. “I had a meeting with the rep for the Betadyne.”

  “And?”

  “They approved your sketches. Get to work.”

  “That’s great. Angie, if you were here, I’d kiss Jean-Paul.”

  “I’ll do it for you. Get started, girl.”

  She didn’t waste time. By that afternoon, she’d made fair headway on the infrastructure. There were some inconveniences. The garage wasn’t tall enough to handle the twenty-foot sculpture, so she had to move her work area to the driveway and bless the mild weather. Standing on a stepladder, she welded and riveted. Occasionally a crowd gathered to watch and comment, then move on. Kids parked their bikes at the curb and hunkered down on the grass to ask her questions.

  She didn’t mind the interruptions or the audience. But she did have a bad moment when she saw Ernie standing in his front yard, watching her.