Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  Because the furnishings weren’t of any use to him, he wasn’t sure why they appealed. Normally he would have found them too feminine and formal. Perhaps after an evening of running, he needed the comfort of silk pillows and lace. Whitney sipped her cognac as she carried the glasses across the room.

  “You can bring this into the bathroom,” she told him as she handed him his drink. Negligently she tossed the fur over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take a look at that arm.”

  Doug frowned while he watched her walk away. Women were supposed to ask questions, dozens of them. Maybe this one just didn’t have the brains to think of them. Reluctantly he followed her, and the trail of her scent. But she was classy, he admitted. There was no denying it.

  “Take off that jacket and sit down,” she ordered, running water over a monogrammed washcloth.

  Doug stripped off the jacket, gritting his teeth as he peeled it from his left arm. After carefully folding it and laying it on the lip of the tub, he sat on a ladder-back chair anyone else would have had in their living room. He looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt was caked with blood. Swearing, he ripped it off and exposed the wound. “I can do it myself,” he muttered and reached for the cloth.

  “Be still.” Whitney began to wipe away the dried blood with the soapy warm cloth. “I can’t very well see how much damage was done until I clean it up.”

  He sat back because the warm water was soothing and her touch was gentle. But while he sat back, he watched her. Just what kind of woman was she? he wondered. She drove like a nerveless maniac, dressed like Harper’s Bazaar, and drank—he’d noticed she’d already knocked back her cognac—like a sailor. He’d have been more comfortable if she’d shown just a touch of the hysteria he’d expected.

  “Don’t you want to know how I got this?”

  “Hmmm.” Whitney pressed a clean cloth to the wound to slow the new bleeding. Because he wanted her to ask, she was determined not to.

  “A bullet,” Doug said with relish.

  “Really?” Interested, Whitney removed the cloth to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen a bullet wound before.”

  “Terrific.” He swallowed more cognac. “How do you like it?”

  She shrugged before she slid back the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. “It’s not terribly impressive.”

  Frowning, he looked down at the wound himself. True, the bullet had only nicked him, but he had been shot. It wasn’t every day a man got shot. “It hurts.”

  “Aw, well we’ll bandage it all up. Scratches don’t hurt nearly so much if you can’t see them.”

  He watched her root through jars of face cream and bath oils. “You’ve got a smart mouth, lady.”

  “Whitney,” she corrected. “Whitney MacAllister.” Turning she offered her hand formally.

  His lips curved. “Lord, Doug Lord.”

  “Hello, Doug. Now, after I fix this up, we’ll have to discuss the damage to my car and the payment.” She went back to the medicine cabinet. “Three hundred dollars.”

  He took another swallow of cognac. “How come you know it’s three hundred?”

  “I’m giving you the low end of the scale. You can’t fix a spark plug in a Mercedes for less than three hundred.”

  “I’ll have to owe you. I spent my last two hundred on the jacket.”

  “That jacket?” Amazed, Whitney twisted her head and stared at him. “You look smarter.”

  “I needed it,” Doug tossed back. “Besides, it’s leather.”

  This time she laughed. “As in genuine imitation.”

  “What d’you mean, imitation?”

  “That zippered monstrosity didn’t come off any cow. Ah, here it is. I knew I had some.” With a satisfied nod, she took a bottle from the cabinet.

  “That little sonofabitch,” Doug mumbled. He hadn’t had the time or the opportunity to look too closely at his purchase before. Now, in the bright bathroom light, he saw it was nothing more than cheap vinyl. Two hundred dollars’ worth. The sudden fire in his arm had him jerking. “Goddamn it! What’re you doing?”

  “Iodine,” Whitney told him, smearing it on generously.

  He settled down, scowling. “It stings.”

  “Don’t be a baby.” Briskly, she wrapped gauze around his upper arm until the wound was covered. She snipped off tape, secured it, then gave it a final pat. “There,” she said, rather pleased with herself. “Good as new.” Still bent over, she turned her head and smiled at him. Their faces were close, hers full of laughter, his full of annoyance. “Now about my car—”

  “I could be a murderer, a rapist, a psychopath for all you know.” He said it softly, dangerously. She felt a tremor move up her back and straightened.

  “I don’t think so.” But she picked up her empty glass and went back into the living room. “Another drink?”

  Damn, she did have guts. Doug grabbed the jacket and followed her. “Don’t you want to know why they were after me?”

  “The bad guys?”

  “The—the bad guys?” he repeated on an astonished laugh.

  “Good guys don’t shoot at innocent bystanders.” She poured herself another drink, then sat on the sofa. “So, by process of elimination I figure you’re the good guy.”

  He laughed again and dropped down beside her. “A lot of people might disagree with you.”

  Whitney studied him again over the rim of her glass. No, perhaps good was too concise a word. He looked more complicated than that. “Well, why don’t you tell me why those three men wanted to kill you.”

  “Just doing their job.” Doug drank again. “They work for a man named Dimitri. He wants something I’ve got.”

  “Which is?”

  “The route to a pot of gold,” he said absently. Rising, he began to pace. Less than twenty dollars in cash nestled with an expired credit card in his pocket. Neither could buy his way out of the country. What he had carefully folded in a manila envelope was worth a fortune, but he had to buy himself a ticket before he could cash it in. He could lift a wallet at the airport. Better, he could try rushing on the plane, flashing his fake ID, and play the hard-bitten, impatient FBI agent. It had worked in Miami. But it didn’t feel right this time. He knew enough to go with his instincts.

  “I need a stake,” he muttered. “A few hundred—maybe a thousand.” Thoughtfully, he turned back and looked at Whitney.

  “Forget it,” she said simply. “You already owe me three hundred dollars.”

  “You’ll get it,” he snapped. “Dammit, in six months I’ll buy you a whole car. Look at it as an investment.”

  “My broker takes care of that.” She sipped again and smiled. He was very attractive in this mood, restless, anxious to move. His exposed arm rippled with muscle that was subtle and lean. His eyes were lit with enthusiasm.

  “Look, Whitney.” He came back and sat on the arm of the sofa beside her. “A thousand. That’s nothing after what we’ve been through together.”

  “It’s seven hundred dollars more than what you already owe me,” she corrected him.

  “I’ll pay you back double within six months. I need to buy a plane ticket, some supplies …” He looked down at himself, then back at her with that quick, appealing grin. “A new shirt.”

  An operator, she thought, intrigued. Just what did a pot of gold mean to him? “I’d have to know a lot more before I put my money down.”

  He’d charmed women out of more than money. So, confidently, he took her hand between his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. His voice was soft, compelling. “Treasure. The kind you only read about in fairy stories. I’ll bring you back diamonds for your hair. Big, glittery diamonds. They’ll make you look like a princess.” He skimmed a finger up her cheek. It was soft, cool. For a moment, only a moment, he lost the thread of his pitch. “Something else out of a fairy story.”

  Slowly, he removed her hat, then watched in astonished admiration as her hair tumbled down, over her shoulders, over her arms. Pale as winter sunlight, soft
as silk. “Diamonds,” he repeated, tangling his fingers through it. “Hair like this should have diamonds in it.”

  She was caught up in him. Part of her would have believed anything he said, done anything he asked, as long as he continued to touch her in just that way. But it was the other part, the survivor, who managed to take control. “I like diamonds. But I also know a lot of people who pay for them, and end up with pretty glass. Guarantees, Douglas.” To distract herself, she drank more cognac. “I always want to see the guarantee—the certificate of value.”

  Frustrated, he rose. She might look like a pushover, but she was as tough as they came. “Look, nothing’s stopping me from just taking it.” He snatched her purse off the sofa and held it out to her. “I can walk out of here with this or we can make a deal.”

  Standing, she plucked it out of his hands. “I don’t make deals until I know all the terms. You’ve got a hell of a nerve threatening me after I saved your life.”

  “Saved my life?” Doug exploded. “You damn near killed me twenty times.”

  Her chin lifted. Her voice became regal and haughty. “If I hadn’t outwitted those men, getting my car damaged in the process, you’d be floating in the East River.”

  The image was entirely too close to the truth. “You’ve been watching too many Cagney movies,” he tossed back.

  “I want to know what you have and where you intend to go.”

  “A puzzle. I’ve got pieces to a puzzle and I’m going to Madagascar.”

  “Madagascar?” Intrigued, she turned it over in her mind. Hot, sultry nights, exotic birds, adventure. “What kind of puzzle? What kind of treasure?”

  “My business.” Favoring his arm, he slipped on the jacket again.

  “I want to see it.”

  “You can’t see it. It’s in Madagascar.” He took out a cigarette as he calculated. He could give her enough, just enough to interest her and not enough to cause trouble. Blowing out smoke, he glanced around the room. “Looks like you know something about France.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to order escargots and Dom Pérignon.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” He lifted a pearl-crusted snuffbox from the top of a curio cabinet. “Let’s just say the goodies I’m after have a French accent. An old French accent.”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He’d hit a button. The little snuffbox he was tossing from hand to hand was two hundred years old and part of an extensive collection. “How old?”

  “Couple centuries. Look, sugar, you could back me.” He set the box down and walked to her again. “Think of it as a cultural investment. I take the cash, and I bring you back a few trinkets.”

  Two hundred years meant the French Revolution. Marie and Louis. Opulence, decadence, and intrigue. A smile began to form as she thought it through. History had always fascinated her, French history in particular with its royalty and court politics, philosophers and artists. If he really had something—and the look in his eyes convinced her he did—why shouldn’t she have a share? A treasure hunt was bound to be more fun than an afternoon at Sotheby’s.

  “Say I was interested,” she began as she worked out her terms. “What kind of a stake would be needed?”

  He grinned. He hadn’t thought she’d take the bait so easily. “Couple thousand.”

  “I don’t mean money.” Whitney dismissed it as only the wealthy could. “I mean how do we go about getting it?”

  “We?” He wasn’t grinning now. “There’s no we.”

  She examined her nails. “No we, no money.” She sat back, stretching her arms on the top of the sofa. “I’ve never been to Madagascar.”

  “Then call your travel agent, sugar. I work alone.”

  “Too bad.” She tossed her hair and smiled. “Well, it’s been nice. Now if you’ll pay me for the damages …”

  “Look, I haven’t got time to—” He broke off at the quiet sound behind him. Spinning around, Doug saw the door handle turn slowly—right, then left. He held up a hand, signaling silence. “Get behind the couch,” he whispered while he scanned the room for the handiest weapon. “Stay there and don’t make a sound.”

  Whitney started to object, then heard the quiet rattle of the knob. She watched Doug pick up a heavy porcelain vase.

  “Get down,” he hissed again as he switched off the lights. Deciding to take his advice, Whitney crouched behind the sofa and waited.

  Doug stood behind the door, watching as it opened slowly, silently. He gripped the vase in both hands and wished he knew how many of them he had to go through. He waited until the first shadow was completely inside, then lifting the vase over his head, brought it down hard. There was a crash, a grunt, then a thud. Whitney heard all three before the chaos began.

  There was a shuffle of feet, another splinter of glass—her Meissen tea set if the direction of the sound meant anything—then a man cursed. A muffled pop was followed by another tinkle of glass. A silenced bullet, she decided. She’d heard the sound on enough late-night movies to recognize it. And the glass—twisting her head she saw the hole in the picture window behind her.

  The super wasn’t going to like it, she reflected. Not one bit. And she was already on his list since the last party she’d given had gotten slightly out of hand. Dammit, Douglas Lord was bringing her a great deal of trouble. The treasure—she drew her brows together—the treasure better be worth it.

  Then, it was quiet, entirely too quiet. Over the silence all she could hear was the sound of breathing.

  Doug pressed back into the shadowy corner and held on to the .45. There was one more, but at least he wasn’t unarmed now. He hated guns. A man who used them generally ended up being on the wrong end of the barrel too often for comfort.

  He was close enough to the door to slip through it and be gone, maybe without notice. If it hadn’t been for the woman behind the couch, and the knowledge that he’d gotten her into this, he’d have done it. The fact that he couldn’t only made him furious with her. He might, just might, have to kill a man to get out. He’d killed before, was aware he was likely to do so again. But it was a part of his life he could never examine without guilt.

  Doug touched the bandage on his arm and his fingers came away wet. Damn, he couldn’t stand there waiting and bleeding to death. Moving soundlessly, he edged along the wall.

  Whitney had to cover her mouth to hold back all sound as the shadow crouched at the end of the sofa. It wasn’t Doug—she saw immediately that the neck was too long and the hair too short. Then she caught the flicker of movement to her left. The shadow turned toward it. Before she had time to think, Whitney pulled off her shoe. Holding the good Italian leather in one hand, she aimed the three-inch heel at the shadow’s head. With all the strength she could muster, she brought it down.

  There was a grunt, then a thud.

  Amazed at herself, Whitney held up her shoe in triumph. “I got him!”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Doug muttered as he dashed across the room, grabbing her hand and dragging her along with him.

  “I knocked him cold,” she told Doug as he streaked toward the stairway. “With this.” She wiggled the shoe that was crushed between his hand and hers. “How did they find us?”

  “Dimitri. Traced your plates,” he said, enraged with himself for not considering it before. Streaking down the next flight of stairs he started making new plans.

  “That fast?” She gave a quick laugh. Adrenaline was pumping through her. “Is this Dimitri a man or a magician?”

  “He’s a man who owns other men. He could pick up the phone and have your credit rating and your shoe size in a half hour.”

  So could her father. That was business, and she understood business. “Look, I can’t run lopsided, give me a couple of seconds.” Whitney pulled her hand from his and put on her shoe. “What’re we going to do now?”

  “We’ve got to get to the garage.”

  “Down forty-two flights?”

  “Elevators don’t have back doors.” With this he grab
bed her hand and began to jog down the steps again. “I don’t want to come out near your car. He’s probably got somebody watching it just in case we get that far.”

  “Then why’re we going to the garage?”

  “We still need a car. I’ve got to get to the airport.”

  Whitney slung the strap of her purse over her head so that she could grip the rail for support as they ran. “You’re going to steal one?”

  “That’s the idea. I’ll drop you off at a hotel—register under some other name, then—”

  “Oh no,” she interrupted, noting gratefully that they were passing the twentieth floor. “You’re not dumping me in any hotel. Windshield, three hundred, plate-glass window, twelve hundred, Dresden vase circa 1865, twenty-two seventy-five.” She retrieved her purse, dug a notebook out of it, and never missed a beat. The minute she caught her breath, she’d start an accounting. “I’m going to collect.”

  “You’ll collect,” he said grimly. “Now, save your breath.” She did, and began to work out her own plan.

  By the time they’d reached the garage level, she was winded enough to lean breathlessly against the wall while he peered through a crack in the door. “Okay, the closest one is a Porsche. I’ll go out first. Once I’m in the car, you follow. And keep down.”

  He slipped the gun back out of his pocket. She caught the look in his eye, a look of—loathing? she wondered. Why should he look down at a gun as though it were something vile? She’d thought a gun would fit easily into his hand, the way a gun did for a man who hung out in dim bars and smoky hotel rooms. But it didn’t fit easily. It didn’t fit at all. Then he went through the door.

  Who was Doug Lord really? Whitney asked herself. Was he a hood, a con, a victim? Because she sensed he was all three, she was fascinated and determined to find out why.

  Crouched, Doug took out what looked like a penknife. Whitney watched as he fiddled with the lock for a moment, then quietly opened the passenger door. Whatever he was, Whitney noted, he was good at breaking and entering. Leaving that for later, she crept through the door. He was already in the driver’s seat and working with wires under the dash when she climbed inside.