Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  Paul glanced at the plate of cold cuts Travers had left on the table. “Take it to go.”

  “No, Paul.” Julia pushed him away far enough to sit up. “I need to know why. I have to know what she meant by some of the things she said. She’s talked to you, hasn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she talked.” Frank bent over to build a huge sandwich of chilled ham, salami, chicken breast, topped with three cheeses and thick slices of beefsteak tomatoes. “She knew we had her. Got anything to drink with this?”

  “Try the bar,” Paul told him.

  Impatient, Julia got up to fetch him a soft drink herself. “When she talked about killing me, she said she’d make it quick. That she’d been taught by the best. Do you know who she meant?”

  Frank took the bottle she offered and nodded. “Michael Delrickio.”

  “Delrickio? Nina was involved with Delrickio?”

  “That’s how Eve met her,” Paul said. “Sit down. I’ll tell you what Travers told me.”

  “I think I’d better.” Unconsciously she took the chair under Eve’s portrait.

  “It seems Nina’s background wasn’t quite what she’d led you to believe. It hadn’t been poor, but it had been abusive. Her father had left her mother a sizable bequest. But it wasn’t enough to buy off hate. Nina’s mother took out that hate on the child—physically, emotionally. And there was a stepfather for a while. All of that was true. What she left out was the fact that her mother tried to poison her against Eve, telling Nina how she’d betrayed Charlie, caused his death. When Nina left home at sixteen, she was very confused, very vulnerable. She worked the streets for a while, then went to Vegas. She worked a floor show and turned tricks. That was where she met Delrickio. She’d have been about twenty then, sharp as a tack. He saw potential and began using her as a hostess for his more important clients. They had an affair that went on for several years. Somewhere along the line she fell for him. She didn’t want to entertain his clients anymore. She wanted a straight job, and some sort of commitment from him.”

  “The lady showed real poor taste,” Frank said over a mouthful of sandwich. “And poor judgment. Delrickio kept her in Vegas, and when she caused a scene, he had one of his boys teach her a lesson. That quieted her down for a while. The way she tells it, she still had a thing for him, couldn’t let go. She found out he was boffing some other babe and she went after her, cut her up some. Delrickio liked her initiative, and strung her along.”

  “Then Eve came into the picture,” Paul put in. He stroked a hand up and down Julia’s arm, slowly, rhythmically, as if he were afraid to break contact. “This time it was Delrickio who fell hard. When Nina wouldn’t shake loose, he had some of his muscle try to convince her. Eve got wind of it, and since she’d just found out—through Priest—how far Delrickio would go, she went to see Nina herself. Nina was in the hospital, pretty racked up, and the whole thing spilled out of her.”

  “And when Eve found out she was Charlie’s daughter,” Julia said quietly, “she brought her here.”

  “That’s right.” Paul looked up at the portrait. “She gave Nina a fresh start, friendship, had Kenneth train her. And for all the years in between, Eve lied for her. When Eve decided she wanted to clean up the lies, that she wanted the truth to be part of her legacy, Nina panicked. Eve promised she would wait until she trusted you before she told you everything, but she felt Charlie deserved honesty. And she reasoned with Nina that she was a symbol of how far a woman could come.”

  “Nina couldn’t handle it,” Frank continued. “She liked the image she’d developed. The cool, competent career woman. She didn’t want all of her upper class contacts to know she’d been a whore for a Mafia don. She didn’t plan to kill Eve, not consciously, but when she found out she’d put the whole story down on tape and was going to give it to you, she snapped. The rest is easy.”

  “She followed Eve down to the guest house,” Julia murmured. “They argued. She picked up the poker, hit her. Nina would have been scared then, but very organized. She’d have wiped her prints off the weapon, taken the keys—because she’d have remembered how I’d fought with Eve the night before.”

  “She heard you drive up,” Frank told her. “Saw you walk into the garden. That’s when she decided to throw suspicion on you. She got the hell out. She was the one who turned the security back on. It scared her when she found the main switch off. She figured it would complicate things, so she turned it on again and went back to work. Oh, and she made sure to call down to the kitchen, so Travers and the cook would know she was busy transcribing letters.”

  “But she didn’t know Drake had seen her.” Julia leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “He tried to blackmail her.” Frank shook his head as he built another towering sandwich. “She could afford the money, but not the loose end. With him dead and you heading for prison, she knew she was away free. Travers was so loyal to Eve that she would never have told anyone about Nina’s background—and she’d have no reason to.”

  “I heard them,” Julia remembered. “The night of Eve’s party I heard someone arguing. Delrickio and Nina. She was crying.”

  “Seeing him again didn’t do much for Nina’s state of mind,” Frank put in. “She still loved the sleaze. He told her she could prove it by getting Eve to stop the book. She must have really started to crack that night. I got to figure some of her mother’s poison was still swimming around in her system. When she couldn’t stop Eve one way, she stopped her another.”

  “It’s funny.” Julia said half to herself. “It all began with Charlie Gray. He gave Eve her start. His was the first story she told me. And now it ends with him.”

  “Don’t spill that sandwich on the way out, Frank,” Paul murmured, and gestured to the door.

  “What? Oh, yeah. The D.A. notified Hathoway,” he said as he rose. “He said to tell Julia to call if she had any questions. He was taking his son to a ball game. See you around.”

  “Lieutenant.” Julia opened her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. You know, I never noticed before how much you look like her.” He took another huge bite of the sandwich. “She sure was one fine-looking lady.” He went out, eating.

  “You okay?” Paul asked.

  “Yes.” Julia drew a deep breath. It still burned a little, but it reminded her she was alive, and free. “Yes, I’m fine. Do you know what I’d like? I’d like a very tall glass of champagne.”

  “That’s never a problem in this house.” He walked over to the refrigerator behind the bar.

  Rising, she walked over to stand on the opposite side of the bar. Eve’s robe slid off one shoulder. While she watched Paul, Julia adjusted it, smoothed it—her fingers lingering for a moment as if she were touching on old friend. Though he smiled a little at the gesture, he said nothing. She wondered if he had noticed that Eve’s scent still clung to the silk.

  “I have a question.”

  “Fire away.” Paul ripped the foil off a bottle and began untwisting the wire.

  “Are you going to marry me?”

  The cork exploded out. Paul ignored the froth spilling over the side, and watched her. Her eyes were cautious, the way he liked them best. “You bet.”

  “Good.” She nodded. Her fingers slid down the silk until her hands linked together on the bar. Wherever she had come from, wherever she was going, she was her own woman first. “That’s good.” Steadying herself, she took another long breath. “How do you feel about Connecticut?”

  “Well, actually—” He paused to pour two glasses. “I’ve been thinking it’s time for a change of scene. I hear Connecticut’s got a lot going for it. Like fall foliage, skiing, and really sexy women.” He offered her a glass. “You figure you’ve got enough room to put me up?”

  “I can just squeeze you in.” But when he started to touch his glass to hers, she shook her head. “Ten-year-old boys are noisy, demanding, and have little respect for privacy.”

  “Brandon and I already have an understanding.” Co
mfortable, he leaned against the bar. He caught her scent, and only her scent. “He thinks my marrying his mother is a pretty good idea.”

  “You mean you—”

  “And,” Paul continued, “before you start worrying about me dealing with the fact that I’m not his natural father, I’ll remind you that I found my mother when I was ten.” He laid a hand over hers. “I want the package, Jules—you and the kid.” He brought her hand to his lips, pleased when she spread her fingers to caress his cheek. “Besides, he’s exactly the right age to baby-sit when we start giving him brothers and sisters.”

  “Okay. The deal’s two for one.” She clicked her glass against his. “You’re getting a hell of a bargain.”

  “I know.”

  “So are we. Are you going to come around here and kiss me?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Well, think fast.” She laughed and held out her arms for him. He scooped her up and kissed her beneath the portrait of a woman who had lived with no regrets.

  To Pat and Mary Kay:

  Thanks for the laughs, and the lunches

  HOT ICE

  A Bantam Book

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

  fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 1987 by Nora Roberts

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002071665

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

  by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

  the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.

  Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56770-3

  v3.1

  Contents

  Master - Table of Contents

  Hot Ice

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Dedication

  C H A P T E R

  1

  He was running for his life. And it wasn’t the first time. As he raced by Tiffany’s elegant window display he hoped it wouldn’t be his last. The night was cool with April rain slick on the streets and sidewalk. There was a breeze that even in Manhattan tasted pleasantly of spring. He was sweating. They were too damn close.

  Fifth Avenue was quiet, even sedate at this time of night. Streetlights intermittently broke the darkness; traffic was light. It wasn’t the place to lose yourself in a crowd. As he ran by Fifty-third, he considered ducking down into the subway below the Tishman Building—but if they saw him go in, he might not come back out.

  Doug heard the squeal of tires behind him and whipped around the corner at Cartier’s. He felt the sting in his upper arm, heard the muffled pop of a silenced bullet, but never slackened his pace. Almost at once, he smelled the blood. Now they were getting nasty. And he had the feeling they could do a lot worse.

  But on Fifty-second Street were people—a group here and there, some walking, some standing. Here, there was noise—raised voices, music. His labored breathing went unnoticed. Quietly he stood behind a redhead who was four or five inches taller than his own six feet—and half again as wide. She was swaying to the music that poured out of her portable stereo. It was like hiding behind a tree in a windstorm. Doug took the opportunity to catch his breath and check his wound. He was bleeding like a pig. Without giving it a thought, he slipped the striped bandana out of the redhead’s back pocket and wrapped it around his arm. She never stopped swaying—he had very light fingers.

  It was more difficult to kill a man outright when there was a crowd, he decided. Not impossible, just harder. Doug kept his pace slow and faded in and out of the packs of people while he kept his eyes and ears open for the discreet black Lincoln.

  Near Lexington he saw it pull up a half block away, and he saw the three men in trim dark suits get out. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but it wouldn’t be long. Thinking fast, he scanned the crowd he’d merged with. The black leather with the two dozen zippers might work.

  “Hey.” He grabbed the arm of the boy beside him. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for your jacket.”

  The boy with pale spiked hair and a paler face shrugged him off. “Fuck off. It’s leather.”

  “A hundred then,” Doug muttered. The three men were getting closer all the time.

  This time the boy took more interest. He turned his face so that Doug saw the tiny tattooed vulture on his cheek. “Two hundred and it’s yours.”

  Doug was already reaching for his wallet. “For two hundred I want the shades too.”

  The boy whipped off the wraparound mirrored sunglasses. “You got ’em.”

  “Here, let me help you off with that.” In a quick move, Doug yanked the boy’s jacket off. After stuffing bills in the boy’s hand he pulled it on, letting out a hiss of breath at the pain in his left arm. The jacket smelled, not altogether pleasantly, of its previous owner. Ignoring it, Doug tugged the zipper up. “Look, there’re three guys in undertaker suits coming this way. They’re scouting out for extras for a Billy Idol video. You and your friends here should get yourselves noticed.”

  “Oh yeah?” And as the boy turned around with his best bored-teenager’s look on his face, Doug was diving through the nearest door.

  Inside, wallpaper shimmered in pale colors under dimmed lights. People sat at white linen-covered tables under art-deco prints. The gleam of brass rails formed a path to more private dining rooms or to a mirrored bar. With one whiff, Doug caught the scent of French cooking—sage, burgundy, thyme. Briefly he considered hustling his way past the maitre d’ to a quiet table, then decided the bar was better cover. Affecting a bored look, he stuck his hands in his pockets and swaggered over. Even as he leaned on the bar, he was calculating how and when to make his exit.

  “Whiskey.” He pushed the wraparound shades more firmly onto his nose. “Seagram’s. Leave the bottle.”

  He stood hunched over it, his face turned ever so slightly toward the door. His hair was dark, curling into the collar of the jacket; his face was clean-shaven and lean. His eyes, hidden behind the mirrored glasses, were trained on the door as he downed the first fiery taste of whiskey. Without pausing, he poured a second shot. His mind was working out all the alternatives.

  He’d learned to think on his feet at an early age, just as he’d learned to use his feet to run if that was the best solution. He didn’t mind a fight, but he liked to have the odds in his favor. He could deal straight, or he could skim over the finer points of honesty—depending on what was the most profitable.

  What he had strapped to his chest could be the answer to his taste for luxury and easy living—the taste he’d always wanted to cultivate. What was outside, combing the streets for him, could be a quick end to living at all. Weighing one against the other, Doug opted to shoot for the pot of gold.

  The couple beside him were discussing the latest Mailer novel in earnest voices. Another group tossed around the idea of heading to a club for jazz and cheaper booze. The crowd at the bar was mostly single, he decided, here to drink off th
e tension of a business day and show themselves to other singles. There were leather skirts, three-piece suits, and high-topped sneakers. Satisfied, Doug pulled out a cigarette. He could have chosen a worse place to hide.

  A blonde in a dove gray suit slid onto the stool beside him and flicked her lighter at the end of his cigarette. She smelled of Chanel and vodka. Crossing her legs, she downed the rest of her drink.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before.”

  Doug gave her a brief look—enough to take in the slightly blurred vision and the predatory smile. Another time, he’d have appreciated it. “No.” He poured another shot.

  “My office is a couple of blocks from here.” Even after three Stolichnayas, she recognized something arrogant, something dangerous in the man beside her. Interested, she swiveled a little closer. “I’m an architect.”

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up when they walked in. The three of them looked neat and successful. Shifting, he looked over the blonde’s shoulder as they separated. One of them stood idly by the door. The only way out.

  Attracted rather than discouraged by his lack of response, the blonde laid a hand on Doug’s arm. “And what do you do?”

  He let the whiskey lie in his mouth for just a moment before he swallowed and sent it spreading through his system. “I steal,” he told her because people rarely believe the truth.

  She smiled as she took out a cigarette, then handed him her lighter and waited for Doug to flick it on for her. “Fascinating, I’m sure.” She blew out a quick, thin stream of smoke and plucked the lighter from his fingers. “Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me all about it?”

  A pity he’d never tried that line before since it seemed to work so well. A pity the timing was all wrong, because she filled out the little suit neater than a CPA filled out a 1099. “Not tonight, sugar.”

  Keeping his mind on business, Doug poured more whiskey and stayed out of the light. The impromptu disguise might work. He felt the pressure of a gun barrel against his ribs. Then again, it might not.