Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  By the time he pulled up in front of the guest house, she was sound asleep. With a little sigh, Paul took out a cigar and sat smoking, and watching her.

  Julia Summers was a challenge. Hell, she was a paradox. There was nothing Paul liked better than tugging on the threads of a mystery. He’d intended to get close to her, to make certain Eve’s best interests were protected. But … He smiled as he pitched the cigar out of the window. But there was no law that said he couldn’t enjoy the proximity while he was at it.

  He brushed a hand over her hair, and she murmured. He traced a fingertip down her cheek, and she sighed.

  Thrown off by the stirring in his gut, he pulled back, tried to think it through. Then, as had been his habit most of his life, he did what he wanted to do. He covered her mouth with his as she slept.

  Soft and lax in sleep, her lips yielded beneath his, slipped apart as he traced their shape with his tongue. Now he tasted her sigh as well as heard it. The punch of sensation slapped into his system, leaving him straining for more. His hands itched to touch, to take, but he curled them into fists and contented himself with her mouth.

  There were some rules that weren’t meant to be broken.

  She was dreaming, a glorious, heavenly dream. Floating down a long, quiet river. Drifting with the current, dozing on cool blue water. The sun rained down on her in golden streams, warm, healing, compassionate.

  Her mind, hazy with fatigue and wine, gave only minimal effort to clearing the mists. It was much too comfortable in dreams.

  But the sun heated, the current quickened. Excitement bounced like tiny red-tipped sparks along her skin.

  Her mouth moved under his, then parted on a groan so that he was invited in. Without hesitation he slid his tongue over hers and was driven half mad by her lazily seductive response. With a quiet oath he nipped her bottom lip. Julia shot awake, stunned and stirred.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She pushed herself back in the seat and shoved at him in one indignant move. When the heel of her hand connected with his breastbone, he realized how much stronger she was than she appeared to be.

  “Satisfying my curiosity. And getting us both in trouble.”

  She snatched the purse off her lap but managed not to smash it into his face. Words were better. “I had no idea you were so desperate, or so lacking in conscience. Forcing yourself on a woman while she sleeps takes a special kind of perversion.”

  His eyes narrowed, flashed, and darkened. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively mild. “It was a long way from force, but you may have a point.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he hauled her against him. “But you’re awake now.”

  This time his mouth wasn’t soft or seducing, but hot and hard. She could taste the anger, the frustration. And desire shot like a bullet through her.

  She needed. She’d forgotten what it was like to really need. To thirst for a man the way one thirsted for water. Her defenses in shambles, she was assaulted by sensations, longings, desires. The barrage left her weak enough to cling to him, hungry enough to plunge greedily into the kiss and take.

  Her arms were around him, binding them together like rope. Her mouth—God, her mouth was urgent and frantic and hot. He could feel the quick, helpless tremors that coursed down her body, hear her shuddering breaths. He forgot to be angry, and frustration was ripped apart by edgy blades of passion. That left only desire.

  His fingers dived into her hair, curled tight. He wanted her here, in the front seat of the car. She made him feel like a teenager fumbling for skill, like a stallion quivering to mate. And like a man rushing headlong over the verge of safety into the unknown.

  “Inside.” He could hear his own blood pump as his mouth raced over her face. “Let me take you inside. To bed.”

  When his teeth scraped lightly down her throat she nearly cried out with need. But she struggled back. Responsibility. Order. Caution. “No.” She called out years of restraint, spiced with painful memories, and resisted. “This isn’t what I want.”

  When he cupped her face in his hands, he realized he, too, was trembling. “You lie very poorly, Julia.”

  She had to regain control. Her fingers closed around her purse like wires as she stared at him. He looked dangerous in the moonlight. Compelling, reckless. Dangerous.

  “It’s not what I intend to have,” she said. She reached for the door handle and jerked twice before she managed to unlatch it. “You’ve made a mistake, Paul.” She streaked across the narrow patch of lawn and into the house.

  “There’s no doubt about that,” he murmured.

  Inside, Julia leaned against the door. She couldn’t go racing upstairs in this state. Taking quiet deep breaths to settle her jackhammering heart, she turned off the light CeeCee had left burning for her and started upstairs. A peek in the spare bedroom showed her that CeeCee was asleep. In the room opposite, she looked in on her son.

  That was enough to calm her, enough to assure her she had made the right choice in turning away. Needs, however tumultuous, would never be enough to make her risk what she built. There would be no Paul Winthrops in her life. No smooth lovers who excited, enticed, and walked away. She took a moment to tuck up Brandon’s covers and smooth them before going into her own room.

  The shaking started again, and she swore, tossing her purse toward the bed. It slipped off, spilling its contents. Though she was tempted to kick them around the room, she knelt and retrieved the compact, the comb, the slim wallet.

  And the folded paper.

  Odd, she thought. She didn’t remember putting any paper inside. Once she opened it, she was forced to use the bed as a brace in order to rise.

  LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP.

  Leaving the scattered contents of her purse on the floor, she sat on the bed. What the hell was this? And what the hell was she going to do about it?

  Julia saw Brandon off to school, grateful he was tucked inside the discreet black Volvo with Lyle behind the wheel. Brandon would be safe with him.

  Of course there was nothing to worry about. She’d told herself that over and over through the restless night. A couple of foolish anonymous notes couldn’t hurt her—and certainly couldn’t hurt Brandon. But she’d feel better once she’d gotten to the bottom of the whole business. Which was something she intended to do right away.

  Her thoughts veered to how odd she felt watching her little boy drive off to his own world of classrooms and playgrounds where her control didn’t reach.

  When the car was out of sight, she shut the door on the early morning chill. Julia could hear CeeCee cheerfully singing along with the radio as she tidied the kitchen. Happy sounds—the rattle of dishes and the young, enthusiastic voice competing with the spice of Janet Jackson’s. Julia didn’t like to admit they bolstered her for the simple reason they meant she wasn’t alone. She carried her half-empty cup into the kitchen for a refill of coffee.

  “That was a great breakfast, Ms. Summers.” Her hair scooped back in a bouncy pony tail, CeeCee wiped the counter with a damp cloth while her foot tapped the next top forty hit. “I just can’t imagine someone like you cooking and all.”

  Still sleepy-eyed, Julia tipped more coffee in her cup. “Someone like me?”

  “Well, famous and everything.”

  Julia grinned. It was comfortably easy to shrug off the vague weight of concern. “Almost famous. Or maybe famous by association after last night.”

  All big blue eyes and fresh-scrubbed face, CeeCee sighed. “Was it really great?”

  Two women in a sunny kitchen, and neither of them were talking about a star-studded benefit. But of a man.

  Julia thought of dancing with Paul, of waking up, unbearably stirred, with his mouth hot on hers. And yes, feeling that demand snap from him into her with a beat much more primal than any recorded music. “It was … different.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Winthrop just totally gorgeous? Every time I talk to him, my mouth gets dry and my palms get wet.” She closed her eyes as she rinsed the
cloth clean. “Too wild.”

  “He’s the kind of man it’s difficult not to notice,” Julia said, her voice wry with her own understatement.

  “You’re telling me. Women go crazy for him. I don’t think he’s ever brought the same one here twice. Stud city, you know?”

  “Hmm.” Julia had her own opinion of a man who would flit so arbitrarily from woman to woman. “He seems devoted to Miss Benedict.”

  “Sure. I guess he’d do about anything for her—except settle down and give her the grandchildren she wants.” CeeCee tossed back her wispy bangs. “It’s funny to think of Miss B. as a grandma.”

  Funny wasn’t the word that came to Julia’s mind. It was more like incredible. “How long have you worked for her?”

  “Technically just a couple years, but I’ve been underfoot as long as I can remember. Aunt Dottie used to let me come over on weekends, and during the summer.”

  “Aunt Dottie?”

  “Travers.”

  “Travers?” Julia nearly choked on her coffee, trying to equate the stern-mouthed, suspicious-eyed housekeeper with the expansive CeeCee. “She’s your aunt?”

  “Yeah, my dad’s big sister. Travers is like a stage name. She did some acting back in the fifties, I think. But never really hit. She’s worked for Miss B. forever. Kind of weird when you figure they were married to the same man.”

  This time Julia had the sense to lower the coffee cup before attempting to drink. “Excuse me?”

  “Anthony Kincade,” CeeCee explained. “You know, the director? Aunt Dottie was married to him first.” A glance at the clock had her straightening from her slouch against the counter. “Wow, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a ten o’clock class.” She bolted toward the living room to gather up books and bags. “I’ll be here tomorrow to change the linens. Is it okay if I bring my little brother? He really wants to meet Brandon.”

  Julia nodded, still trying to catch up. “Sure. We’d be glad to have him over.”

  CeeCee shot a grin over her shoulder as she raced for the door. “Tell me that after he’s been around for a couple of hours.”

  Even as the door slammed, Julia was sharpening her thoughts into calculations. Anthony Kincade. That bitter mountain of flesh had been husband to both the glamorous Eve and the monosyllabic housekeeper. Curiosity sent her bolting through the living room, into her temporary office and to her reference books. For a few minutes she mumbled and swore to herself, trying to locate what never seemed to be in the last place she’d left it.

  She would get organized, she would, she swore to whatever saint watched over distracted writers. Right after she satisfied her curiosity, she’d spend an hour—okay, fifteen minutes—putting everything in order. The vow apparently worked. With a crow of triumph she pounced. She found the listing quickly in Who’s Who.

  Kincade, Anthony, she read. Born Hackensack, N.J., November 12, 1920 … Julia skipped over his accomplishments, his successes and failures. Married Margaret Brewster, 1942, two children, Anthony Jr. and Louise, divorced 1947. Married Dorothy Travers, 1950, one child, Thomas, deceased. Divorced 1953. Married Eve Benedict, 1954. Divorced 1959.

  There were two more marriages, but they didn’t interest Julia; it was too fascinating to speculate about the peculiar triangle. Dorothy Travers—and the name set off a faint bell in Julia’s head—had been married to Kincade for three years, and had bore him a son. Within a year of the divorce, Kincade had married Eve. Now Travers worked as Eve’s housekeeper.

  How could two women who had shared the same man share the same house?

  It was a question she intended to ask. But first she was going to show the anonymous notes she’d received to Eve, hope for a reaction, and perhaps an explanation. Julia pushed the reference book aside, her bargain with the long-suffering saint already forgotten.

  Fifteen minutes later Travers opened the door of the main house. Studying the woman’s set, dissatisfied face and paunchy build, Julia wondered how she could have attracted the same man as the stunning, statuesque Eve.

  “In the gym,” Travers muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “In the gym,” she repeated, and led the way in her reluctant style. She turned into the east wing and headed down a corridor with many intricate wall niches, each filled with an Erte statue. To the right was a wide arched window that opened onto the central courtyard, where Julia saw the gardener, Wayfarers and headphones in place, delicately clipping the topiary.

  At the end of the hall were thick double doors painted a bold teal. Travers didn’t knock, but swung one open. Immediately the hallway was filled with bright, bouncy music and Eve’s steady curses.

  Julia would never have called the room by the lowly name gym. Despite the weight equipment, the slant boards, the mirrored wall and ballet barre, it was elegant. An exercise palace, perhaps, Julia mused, studying the high ceiling painted with streamlined art deco figures. Light broke through a trio of stained glass skylights in refracting, rainbow colors. Not a palace, Julia corrected herself. A temple erected to worship the smug-faced god of sweat.

  The floor was a glossily polished parquet, and a gleaming smoked-glass wet bar, complete with refrigerator and microwave, took up another wall. Music cartwheeled out of a high-tech stereo system flanked by potted begonias and towering ficus trees.

  Standing beside Eve as she lay on a weight bench doing leg curls was Mr. Muscle. Temporarily mesmerized, Julia let out a long breath as she looked at him. He had to be nearly seven feet—a Nordic god whose bronze body bulged out of an incredibly brief unitard. The single white band stretched low on his gleaming chest, snaked down his hips, rode high and tight over a very muscular set of buns.

  His golden blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, his ice-blue eyes smiling approval as Eve’s curses turned the air a deeper, much hotter blue.

  “Fuck this, Fritz.”

  “Five more, my beautiful flower,” he said in precise, musical English that had images of cool lakes and mountain streams dancing in Julia’s mind.

  “You’re killing me.”

  “I make you strong.” As she huffed her way through the last of the curls, he laid a huge hand on her thigh and squeezed. “You have the muscle tone of a thirty-year-old.” Then he gave her bottom an intimate little rub.

  Dripping sweat, Eve collapsed. “If I ever walk again, I’m going to kick you right in your enormous crotch.”

  He laughed, patted her again, then grinned over at Julia. “Hello.”

  Barely, she managed to swallow. Eve’s last comment had lured Julia’s gaze down so that she’d seen for herself the adjective hadn’t been an exaggeration. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to interrupt.”

  Eve managed to open her eyes. If she’d had the energy, she would have chuckled. Most women got that slack-jawed, dazed look after their first load of Fritz. She was glad Julia wasn’t immune. “Thank God. Travers, pour me something very cold—and put some arsenic in it for my friend here.”

  Fritz laughed again, a deep, cheerful sound that bounded easily over Eve’s creative curses. “You drink a little, then we work on your arms. You don’t want the skin hanging down like turkey’s.”

  “I can come back,” Julia began as Eve turned over. “No, stay. He’s almost through torturing me. Aren’t you, Fritz?”

  “Almost done.” He took the drink Travers offered and downed it in one gulp before she had shuffled out the door. While Eve mopped her face with a towel, he studied Julia. The look in his eyes made her uneasy. Brandon’s took on the same light when he was offered a nice, pliant lump of modeling clay. “You have good legs. You work out?”

  “Well, no.” A dastardly admonition in southern California, she realized. People had been hanged for less. She was wondering if she should apologize, when he crossed to her and began to feel her arms. “Hey, look—”

  “Skinny arms.” Her mouth fell open when he ran his hands over her stomach. “Good abs. We can fix you up.”

  “Thank you.” He had fingers like rods
of iron, and she didn’t want to rile him. “But I really don’t have time.”

  “You must make time for your body,” he said so seriously, she swallowed the nervous laugh. “You come on Monday, I start you off.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “An excellent idea,” Eve put in. “I hate to be tortured alone.” She grimaced as Fritz set the weights on the Nautilus for her arm work. “Have a seat, Julia. You can talk to me and take my mind off my misery.”

  “Monday, my ass,” Julia muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She smiled as Eve got in the next position for pain. “I said I wonder if the weather will last.”

  Eve, who had heard her very well the first time, merely lifted a brow. “That’s what I thought you said.” Once she was settled, Eve took a cleansing breath and began to pull the weights toward the center of her body, and out. “You enjoyed yourself last night?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “So polite.” She shot a grin at Fritz. “She wouldn’t swear at you.”

  Julia watched Eve’s muscles bunch and strain. Sweat was popping out again. “Oh yes I would.”

  Eve laughed even as the effort slicked wet down her flesh. “You know the trouble with being beautiful, Julia? Everyone notices the least little flaw—they relish finding them. So you have to maintain.” Straining at the tense and flow of her own muscles, she sucked in air and puffed it out. “Like a religion. I’m determined to do the best I can for the body God and the surgeons have given me. And not give anyone the satisfaction of saying she was beautiful—once.” She broke off to swear for a moment while her arms throbbed. “Some people claim to be addicted to this. I can only think they’re very, very sick. How many more?” she asked Fritz.

  “Twenty.”

  “Bastard.” But she didn’t slacken pace. “What are your impressions from last night?”