Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “I’ve got every right to fire an employee I find unsuitable.”

  “I’ve done good things for you.”

  Her brow arched at the minor audacity. “Then we’ll consider the scales balanced. That check is all the money you’ll ever see from me. Think of it as your inheritance.”

  “You can’t!” He grabbed her arm before she could walk from the room. “I’m family, all you’ve got. You can’t cut me out.”

  “Be assured I can. I’ve earned every nickel of what I have—something you couldn’t possibly understand. What I have will go where I chose it to go.” She yanked her arm free. “I don’t reward betrayal, Drake, and in this case, I’m not even going to punish it. I’ve just given you back your life. Make something of it.”

  He rushed after her as she started out and down the steps. “You’re not going to leave it all to that bastard Winthrop. I’ll see you in hell first.”

  She whirled around at the base of the stairs. The look in her eyes had him freezing in mid-step. “You very likely will see me there. Until then, you and I are finished.”

  It wasn’t going to happen. He sat down on the steps, holding his head in his hands as the slamming of the door reverberated. It couldn’t happen. He’d make her see he couldn’t be bought off with a lousy hundred grand.

  Brandon sat on the fourposter in the big, airy bedroom in the main house and watched his mother finish packing. “How come when ladies pack for the weekend and stuff, they have more junk than guys do?”

  “That, my son, is one of the mysteries of the universe.” She added another blouse, guiltily, to the garment bag. “Are you really sure you’re not upset that you’re not coming to London with me?”

  “Heck no. I’m going to have lots more fun at the McKennas than you are talking to some old actor. They’ve got Nintendo.”

  “Well, Rory Winthrop can’t compete with that.” She zipped the bag, then checked her tote to see that all her toiletries and cosmetics were there. She shook her head as she tested the weight. Not a mystery at all, she thought. It was straight vanity. “CeeCee’s going to be here any minute. Did we pack your toothbrush?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He rolled his eyes. “You checked my bag twice already.”

  Because she was checking it again, she missed the look. “Maybe you should take an extra jacket. In case it rains.” Or in case L.A. was suddenly swept by a snowstorm, floods, tornadoes. Earthquakes. Oh, Christ, what if there was an earthquake while she was gone? Struck with the fear and guilt that hit her whenever she left Brandon, she turned to look at him. He was bouncing gently on the bed and humming, his prized Lakers cap low on his head. “I’m going to miss you, baby.”

  He winced, as any self-respecting ten-year-old would when referred to as baby. At least they weren’t in public. “I’ll be okay and everything. You don’t have to worry.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s my job.” She walked over to hug him, pleased when his arms came around her for a tight squeeze. “I’ll be back by Tuesday.”

  “Are you going to bring me something?”

  She tipped his head back. “Maybe I will.” She kissed both his cheeks. “Don’t grow too much while I’m gone.”

  He grinned. “Maybe I will.”

  “I’ll still be bigger. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.” She picked up her briefcase—trying to remember if she’d checked to be sure she’d put her passport and tickets in the right compartment—slung the tote over one shoulder, the garment bag over the other. Brandon hoisted his well-stuffed gym bag, all the modern boy needed for a few days with friends.

  It didn’t occur to either of them to ring for a servant and have the bags carried down.

  “I’m going to call every night, seven o’clock your time. That’ll be right after dinner. I already put the name of the hotel and the phone number in your bag.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  She recognized impatience when she heard it, but didn’t give a damn. A mother was entitled to behave this way. “You can call me there anytime if you need me. If I’m not in, the desk will take a message.”

  “I know what to do. It’s just like when you go on tour.”

  “Yeah.” But this time there would be an ocean between them.

  “Julia.” Nina hurried down the hall as they stopped at the base of the steps. “You shouldn’t be carrying all that.”

  “I’m used to it. Really.”

  “It’s fine.” She was already pulling the garment bag from Julia’s shoulder and setting it aside. “I’ll have Lyle put your things in the limo.”

  “I appreciate it. You know, it’s not really necessary for him to drive me to the airport.” And it gave her the creeps. “I can—”

  “You’re Miss B.’s guest,” Nina said primly. “And you’re going to London on Miss B.’s business.” That more than settled the affair in Nina’s mind. She smiled down at Brandon. “It’s going to be awfully quiet and boring around here the next few days, but I’m sure you’ll have a great time with the McKennas.”

  “They’re neat.” He didn’t think it was wise to add that Dustin McKenna had promised to teach him how to make rude noises with his armpit. Women just didn’t understand that kind of thing. At the sound of the doorbell, he was streaking down the hall. “You’re here!” he shouted at CeeCee.

  “You bet. All aboard for three days of fun, excitement, and crowded bathrooms. Hi, Miss Soloman. Thanks for the day off.”

  “You deserve it.” Her smile was absent as her mind leapt forward into what had to be done. “In any case, with everyone haring off here and there, there’s little enough for you to do. Enjoy yourself, Brandon. Safe trip, Julia. I’ll call Lyle and have him bring the car around.”

  “You behave.” Julia walked forward to give Brandon a last crushing hug. “Don’t fight with Dustin.”

  “Okay.” He slung his gym bag over his shoulder. “Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye.” She bit her lip as he marched outside.

  “We’ll take good care of him, Julia.”

  “I know.” She managed a smile. “That’s the easy part.” Through the open door she saw the big black limo slide up behind CeeCee’s Sprint. “I guess that’s my cue.”

  While Julia headed for the airport in the bright Los Angeles sunshine, Eve stretched in bed and listened to the heavy drum of rain on the roof of the bungalow. There’d been no filming today, she thought, just a lot of long, lazy hours inside the cozy little cottage the producers had arranged to rent for the duration of location shooting.

  She didn’t mind a day off—under the circumstances. She stretched again, purring as a strong, wide-palmed hand stroked down her body.

  “Doesn’t sound like it’s going to let up anytime soon,” Peter commented, shifting so that he could roll her on top of him. It amazed him—and aroused him—how good she looked in the morning. Older, certainly, without her careful makeup. But the bones, the eyes, the pale skin, made age a minimal matter. “At this rate, we may be stuck inside all day.”

  Because she felt him pressed hard and hot against her, she slid up, then back to take him inside. “I think we can manage to keep busy.”

  “Yeah.” His hands dug into her hips, urging her on as she began to rock. “I bet we can.”

  Eve arched up and back to let her body absorb all those delicious shock waves of pleasure. She’d been right about him being an intriguing lover. He was young, firm, energetic, and as innately aware of a woman’s needs as his own. She appreciated sexual generosity in a man. It had been a bonus that by the time she had taken that last step and invited him to her bed, she had grown to like him.

  And in bed … What woman her age wouldn’t be gratified that she could excite so completely a man not yet forty? She knew he was lost in her—the ragged pace of his breathing, the glisten of sweat on his chest, the tremors that racked him as he streaked closer to climax.

  Smiling, her head thrown back, she rode him hard, taking them both over that keen edge of pleasure.

  �
�Christ!” Exhausted, Peter fell back on the bed. His heart was pumping like a jackhammer. He’d had other women, younger women, but never one so skilled. “You’re incredible.”

  She slid out of bed to pluck a robe from the chair.

  “And you’re good. Very good. With luck you might get to incredible by the time you’re my age.”

  “Honey, if I spent much time fucking like that, I’d be dead long before I got to be your age.” He stretched like a long, lean tomcat. “And it would have been a short and happy life.”

  She laughed, pleased with him, and moved to the dresser to run a brush through her hair. He didn’t, as so many younger men felt obligated to, dismiss her age. He didn’t flavor sex with all those lies and flattery. She’d come to understand that what Peter Jackson said, he meant.

  “Why don’t you tell me how you feel about your short and happy life so far?”

  “I’m doing what I want to do.” He folded his arms under his head. “I guess I wanted to be an actor since I was about sixteen—got hooked on high school plays. Took drama in college and broke my mother’s heart. She wanted me to be a doctor.”

  Her eyes met his in the mirror, then roamed lazily down his body. “Well, you’ve got the hands for it.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but I really hate blood. And my golf game sucks.”

  Entertained, she set the brush aside and began to pat cream under her eyes. It soothed her, the sound of the rain, the sound of his voice. “So, shouldering aside the medical profession, you came to Hollywood.”

  “At twenty-two. I starved a little, snagged a few commercials.” Because he could feel his strength coming back, he propped onto his elbows. “Hey, did you ever see me sell Blueberry Crunch Granola?”

  Her eyes met his laughing ones in the mirror. “I’m afraid I missed it.”

  He took one of her cigarettes from the nightstand. “A stellar performance. It had grit, it had style, it had passion. And that was just the cereal.”

  She walked to the bed to share the cigarette with him. “I’ll make sure the cook stocks it immediately.”

  “To tell you the truth, it tastes like something you dig off the floor in the forest. Speaking of food, why don’t I fix us breakfast?”

  “You?”

  “Sure.” He took the cigarette from between her fingers, put it between his lips. “Before I got my break in soaps, I moonlighted as a short-order cook. Swing shift.”

  “So you’re offering to cook me bacon and eggs?”

  “Maybe—if that keeps you interested.”

  Carefully, she took another drag. He was falling a little in love with her, she realized. It was sweet, and flattering, and if circumstances had been different, she might have let him. As it was, she needed to keep it simple. “I think I’ve shown I’m interested.”

  “But.”

  Her lips lightly brushed his. “But,” she repeated. And that was all.

  It was more difficult than he expected to accept those unspoken limitations. Difficult and surprising. “I guess a few days in Georgia’s not such a bad deal.”

  Grateful, she kissed him again. “It’s a great deal. For both of us. How about that breakfast?”

  “Tell you what …” He bent forward to kiss her shoulder, enjoying not only the scent, the texture of her skin, but the sturdiness. “Why don’t we take a shower, then you can watch me cook. After that I’ve got a great idea on how we can pass some time this afternoon.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yeah.” He fondled her lightly, smiled. “We can go to the movies.”

  “To the movies?”

  “Sure, you’ve heard of movies. That’s where people sit down and watch other people pretend they’re other people. What do say, Eve? We’ll catch a matinee, eat some popcorn.”

  She considered a moment, then realized it sounded like fun. “You’re on.”

  • • •

  Julia took off her shoes and let her feet sink into the carpet in her room at the Savoy. It was a small, elegant suite, tastefully appointed. The bellman had been so scrupulously polite when he’d delivered her bags, he’d looked almost apologetic as he’d waited for his tip.

  Julia wandered to the window to watch the river and let some of the travel weariness drain away. Nerves would take longer. The flight from L.A. to New York hadn’t been so bad—as far as torture went. But from Kennedy to Heathrow—all those hours over the Atlantic—that had been a sheer and quiet hell.

  But she’d gotten through it. And now she was in Britain. And she had the pleasure of reminding herself that Julia Summers was staying at the Savoy.

  It still surprised her that she could afford such tony surroundings. But it was a good feeling, that surprise, telling her she hadn’t forgotten what it was to earn, to climb, or to need.

  The city lights winked at her on this March night. It was as if she were in someone else’s dream, all that velvet darkness, the misty slice of moon, the shadow of water. And so warm here, so blissfully quiet. After one huge yawn, Julia turned away from the window, from the lights. Adventures would have to wait for the morning.

  She unpacked only what she needed for the night, and was deep in her own dreams within twenty minutes.

  In the morning she stepped out of a cab in Knightsbridge and paid off the driver, knowing she was overtipping. She was equally sure, however, that she would never manage the British currency. She remembered to ask for a receipt—her accountant all but frothed at the mouth over her bookkeeping system—then stuck it carelessly in her pocket.

  The house was everything she’d imagined. The enormous redbrick Victorian was sheltered by huge, gnarled trees. She imagined they would be beautifully shady in the summer, but for now, the wind rattled through their bare branches in a kind of Dickensian music that was oddly appealing. Smoke puffed from chimneys in thick gray wisps that were quickly tossed higher into the slate sky.

  Though there were cars whizzing by on the street behind her, she could easily imagine the clop-clop of horses, the rattle carriages, the cries of street vendors.

  She moved through the little iron gate, up the cobbled path that cut through the winter-yellow lawn and up the sparkling white steps that led to a sparkling white door. Julia shifted her briefcase, annoyed that her palms were damp and chilled. There was no use denying it, she told herself, she was thinking of Rory Winthrop not so much as Eve’s one-time husband, but as Paul’s father.

  Paul was six thousand miles away, and furious with her. What would he think, she wondered, if he knew she was here, not only pursuing the book, but about to interview his father? He wouldn’t think kindly of it, she was sure, and wished there were a way to mesh his needs with hers.

  She reminded herself that business came first, and pressed the doorbell. A maid answered within moments. Julia caught a glimpse of an enormous hall, all towering ceilings and tiled floors.

  “Julia Summers,” she said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Winthrop.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s expecting you. Please come in.”

  The tile was a checkerboard of maroon and ivory, the ceilings graced with heavy brass and crystal chandeliers. To the right was a staircase that swept in a regal curve. Julia surrendered her coat to the waiting maid, then followed her past two George III hall chairs that flanked a mahogany table graced with a vase of hibiscus and one woman’s glove of sapphire leather.

  Instinctively she compared the sitting room with Eve’s. This setting was certainly more formal, more steeped in tradition than Eve’s airy, sun-drenched parlor. Hers shouted wealth and style. This murmured of old money and deep roots.

  “Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Summers. Mr. Winthrop will be along directly.”

  “Thank you.”

  The maid moved almost soundlessly from the room, shutting the thick mahogany doors behind her. Alone, Julia walked to the hearth to hold her chilled hand out toward the leaping flames. The smoke smelled pleasantly of applewood, offering welcome and comfort. Because it reminded her a b
it of her own fireplace in Connecticut, she relaxed.

  The carved mantel above the fire was crowded with old photographs in ornate and highly polished silver frames. The maids, Julia was sure, would curse each time they had to fight the tarnish in all those curves and crevices.

  She amused herself walking from one to the next, studying the dour-faced, stiff-shouldered ancestors of the man she had come to see.

  She recognized Rory Winthrop, and caught a portion of his humor, in the black and white photo where he had posed in beaver hat and starched collar. The movie had been Delaney Murders, she recalled, and he’d played the ultra-proper, evilly deranged murderer with eye-glinting delight.

  Julia wasn’t content simply to look at the next picture. She had to pick it up, to hold it. To devour it. It was Paul, she was certain, though the boy in the portrait was no more than eleven or twelve. His hair was lighter, shaggier, and from the expression on his face, he’d been none too pleased to find himself bundled into a stiff suit and snug tie.

  The eyes were the same. Odd, she thought, that even as a child he’d had those intense adult eyes. They weren’t smiling, but looked back at her as if to say that he’d already seen, heard, and understood more than someone twice his age.

  “Spooky little beggar, wasn’t he?”

  Julia turned, the portrait still clasped in her hand. She’ been so intent on it, she hadn’t heard Rory Winthrop entrance. He stood watching her, a charmingly crooked smile on his face, one hand casually dipped into the pocket of pearl-gray slacks. Physically he could have been taken for Paul’s brother rather than father. His mahogany hair was full and swept back like a lion’s mane. Rory allowed the gray only to dash the temples, where it added dignity rather than age. His face was as firm and as fit as his body. He, too, was no stranger to the fountain of youth offered by cosmetic surgeons. Besides the lifts and tucks, he had weekly treatments that included seaweed masks and facial massage.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Winthrop. You caught me off guard.”

  “The best way to catch a beautiful woman.” He’d enjoyed the fact that she stared. A man could preserve his face and body with care, diligence, and money. But it took a woman, a young one, to preserve the ego.