Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “Okay, I’ll get your gear. But you’re not going to be able to primp all morning. I don’t want to lose any time.”

  Whitney merely lifted a brow as he started to crawl back in. “I never primp,” she said mildly. “It’s not necessary.”

  With an indistinguishable grunt, he was gone. Nibbling on her lip, she glanced at the cave, then at the pack he’d left beside it. She might not have a second chance. Without hesitation, she crouched down and began to root through it.

  There was cooking gear to paw through, and his clothes. She came upon a rather elegant man’s brush that had her pausing a moment. When had he gotten that? she wondered. She knew every item down to his shorts that she’d paid for. Light fingers, she decided, and dropped the brush back in.

  When she found the envelope, she took it out carefully. This had to be it. She glanced back at the cave again. Quickly, she dew out a thin, yellowed sheet sealed in plastic and skimmed it. It was written in French in a trim, feminine hand. A letter, she thought. No, part of a journal. And the date—my God. Her eyes widened as she studied the neat, faded writing. September 15, 1793. She was standing in blazing sunlight, on a wind- and weather-torn rock, holding history in her hand.

  Whitney scanned it again, quickly, catching phrases of fear, of anxiety, and of hope. A young girl had written it, of that she was all but certain because of references to Maman and Papa. A young aristocrat, confused and afraid by what was happening to her life and her family, Whitney reflected. Did Doug have any idea just what he was carrying in a canvas sack?

  It wouldn’t do to take the chance to read it thoroughly now. Later …

  Carefully, Whitney closed his pack again and set it down next to the mouth of the cave. Thinking, she tapped the envelope against her open palm. It was very satisfying to beat a man at his own game, she decided, then heard the sounds of his return.

  Holding the envelope in one hand, she looked down at herself. Dumbly, she passed the other hand from her breast to her waist. Just where the hell was she supposed to hide it? Mata Hari must’ve had a sarong at least. Frantic, she started to slip it down the bodice of the teddy, then realized the absurdity. She might as well pin it to her forehead. With seconds to spare, she slipped it down her back and left the rest to luck.

  “Your luggage, Ms. MacAllister.”

  “I’ll catch you later with your tip.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “Good service is its own reward.” She gave him a smug smile. He gave one right back to her. Whitney had taken the pack from his hand when a sudden thought occurred to her. If she could lift the envelope so easily, then he … Opening the pack, she dug for her wallet.

  “You’d better get moving, sugar. We’re already late for our morning call.” He started to take her arm when she shoved the pack into his stomach. The hiss of air coming from his lungs gave her great satisfaction. “My wallet, Douglas.” Taking it out, she opened it and saw he’d been generous enough to leave her with a twenty. “It appears you’ve had your sticky fingers on it.”

  “Finders, keepers—partner.” Though he’d hoped she wouldn’t find him out quite so soon, he only shrugged. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your allowance.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “You could say I’m a traditionalist.” Satisfied with the new situation, he started to heft his pack onto his back. “I feel a man should handle the money.”

  “You could say you’re an idiot.”

  “Whatever, but I’m handling the money from here on.”

  “Fine.” She gave him a sweet smile he immediately mistrusted. “And I’m holding the envelope.”

  “Forget it.” He handed her back her pack. “Now go change like a good girl.”

  Fury leapt into her eyes. Nasty words scrambled on her tongue. There was a time for temper, Whitney reminded herself, and there was a time for cool heads. Another of her father’s basic rules of business. “I said I’m holding it.”

  “And I said …” But he trailed off at the expression on her face. A woman who’d just been neatly ripped off shouldn’t look smug. Doug glanced down at his pack. She couldn’t have. Then he looked back at her. Like hell she couldn’t.

  Tossing down his pack, he dug into it. It only took a moment. “All right, where is it?”

  Standing in the full sunlight, she lifted her hands, palms up. The brief teddy shifted over her like air. “It doesn’t appear necessary to search me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t possible to keep them from sweeping down her. “Hand it over, Whitney, or you’ll be buck naked in five seconds.”

  “And you’ll have a broken nose.”

  They faced each other, each determined to come out on top. And each with no choice but to accept a standoff.

  “The papers,” he said again, giving masculine strength and dominance one last shot.

  “The money,” she returned, relying on guts and feminine guile.

  Swearing, Doug reached in his back pocket and took out a wad of bills. When she reached for them, he jerked them back out of range. “The papers,” he repeated.

  She studied him. He had a very direct gaze, she decided. Very clear, very frank. And he could lie with the best of them. Still, in some areas, she’d trust him. “Your word,” she demanded. “Such as it is.”

  His word was worth only what he chose it to be worth. With her, he discovered, that would be entirely too much. “You’ve got it.”

  Nodding, she reached behind her, but the envelope had slipped down out of range. “There’re a lot of reasons I don’t like to turn my back on you. But …” With a shrug, she did so. “You’ll have to get it out yourself.”

  He ran his gaze down the smooth line of her back, over the subtle curve of hip. There wasn’t much to her, he thought, but what there was, was excellent. Taking his time, he slipped his hand under the material and worked his way down.

  “Just get the envelope, Douglas. No detours.” She folded her arms under her breasts and stared straight ahead. The brush of his fingers over her skin aroused every nerve. She wasn’t accustomed to being moved by so little.

  “It seems to have slipped down pretty low,” he murmured. “It might take me a while to find it.” It occurred to him that he could indeed have her out of the teddy in five seconds flat. What would she do then? He could have her beneath him on the ground before she’d taken the breath to curse him. Then he’d have what he’d sweated about the night before.

  But then, he thought as his fingers brushed the edge of the envelope, she might have a hold over him he couldn’t afford. Priorities, he reminded himself as his fingers touched both the stiff manila and the soft skin. It was always a matter of priorities.

  It took all her concentration to hold perfectly still. “Douglas, you’ve got two seconds to get it out, or lose the use of your right hand.”

  “A little jumpy, are you?” At least he had the satisfaction of knowing she was churning even as he was. He hadn’t missed the huskiness in her voice or the slight tremor. With the tip between his finger and thumb, he pulled out the envelope.

  Whitney turned quickly, hand outstretched. He had the map, he had the money. He was fully dressed, she was all but naked. He didn’t doubt she could make her way down to the village and wangle herself transportation back to the capital. If he was going to ditch her, there would never be a better time.

  Her eyes stayed on his, calm and direct. Doug didn’t doubt she’d read every thought in his head.

  Though he hesitated, Doug found in this case his word was indeed his word. He slapped the wad of bills into her hand.

  “Honor among thieves—”

  “—is a major cultural myth,” she finished. There’d been a moment, just a moment, when she hadn’t been sure he’d come through. Picking up her pack and the canteen, she walked toward the pine. It was cover of a sort. Though at the moment, she’d have preferred a steel wall with a heavy bolt. “You might consider shaving, Douglas,” she called out. “I hate my escort to
look rangy.”

  He ran a hand over his chin and vowed not to shave for weeks.

  Whitney found it was easier going when the destination was in sight.

  One memorable summer in her early teens she’d stayed on her parents’ estate on Long Island. Her father had developed an acute obsession with the benefits of exercise. Every day that she hadn’t been quick enough to escape, she’d been railroaded into jogging with him. She remembered her determination to keep up with a man twenty-five years her senior, and the trick she’d developed of looking for the stately white dormers of the house. Once she saw them, she could lope ahead, knowing the end was in sight.

  In this case, the destination was only a huddle of buildings adjoining green, green fields and a brown, westward-flowing river. After a day of hiking and a night in a cave, it looked as tidy as New Rochelle to Whitney.

  In the distance, men and women worked in the rice paddies. Forests had been sacrificed for fields. The Malagasy, a practical people, worked diligently to justify the exchange. They were islanders, she remembered, but without the breezy laziness island life often promoted. As she looked at them, Whitney wondered how many had ever seen the sea.

  Cattle, with bored eyes and swishing tails, milled in paddocks. She saw a battered jeep, wheelless, propped on a stone. From somewhere came the monotonous ring of metal against metal.

  Women hung clothes on a line, bright, flowery shirts that contrasted with their plain, workday clothes. Men in baggy pants hoed a long, narrow garden. A few sang as they worked, a tune not so much cheerless as purposeful.

  At their approach, heads turned and work stopped. No one came forward except a skinny black dog who ran in circles in front of them and sent up a clatter.

  East or West, Whitney knew curiosity and suspicion when she saw it. She thought it a pity she wore nothing more cheerful than a shirt and slacks. She cast a look at Doug. With his unshaven face and untidy hair, he looked more like he’d just come from a party—a long one.

  As they drew closer, she made out a smatter of children. Some of the smaller ones were carried on the backs and hips of men and women. In the air was the smell of animal dung and of cooking. She ran a hand over her stomach, scrambling down a hill behind Doug, who had his nose in the guidebook.

  “Do you have to do that now?” she demanded. When he only grunted, she rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring one of those little clip-on lights so you could read in bed.”

  “We’ll pick one up. The Merina are of Asiatic stock—they’re the upper crust of the island. You’d relate to that.”

  “Of course.”

  Ignoring the humor in her voice, he read on. “They have a caste system that separates the nobles from the middle class.”

  “Very sensible.”

  When he shot her a look over the top of the book, Whitney only smiled. “Sensibly,” he returned, “the caste system was abolished by law, but they don’t pay much attention.”

  “It’s a matter of legislating morality. It never seems to work.”

  Refusing to be drawn, Doug glanced up, squinting. The people were drawing together, but it didn’t look like a welcoming committee. According to everything he’d read, the twenty or so tribes or groups of the Malagasy had packed up their spears and bows years ago. Still … he looked back at dozens of dark eyes. He and Whitney would just have to take it one step at a time.

  “How do you think they’ll respond to uninvited guests?” More nervous than she wanted to admit, Whitney tucked her arm into his.

  He’d slid his way without invitation into more places than he could count. “We’ll be charming.” It usually worked.

  “Think you can pull it off?” she asked and strode by him to the flatland at the base of the hill.

  Though Whitney felt uneasy, she continued to walk forward, shoulders back. The crowd grumbled, then parted, making a path for a tall, lean-faced man in a stark black robe over a stiff white shirt. He might have been the leader, the priest, the general, but she knew with only a glance that he was important … and he was displeased with the intrusion.

  He was also six-four if he was an inch. Abandoning pride, Whitney took a step back so that Doug was in front of her.

  “Charm him,” she challenged in a mutter.

  Doug scanned the tall black man with the crowd behind him. He cleared his throat. “No problem.” He tried his best grin. “Morning. How’s it going?”

  The tall man inclined his head, regal, aloof, and disapproving. In a deep, rumbling voice he tossed out a spate of Malagasy.

  “We’re a little short on the language, Mister, ah …” Still grinning, Doug stuck out his hand. It was stared at, then ignored. With the grin still plastered on his face, he took Whitney’s elbow and shoved her forward. “Try French.”

  “But your charm was working so well.”

  “This isn’t a good time to be a smartass, sugar.”

  “You said they were friendly.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t read the guidebook.”

  Whitney studied the rock-hard face several long inches above hers. Maybe Doug had a point. She smiled, swept up her lashes, and tried a formal French greeting.

  The man in black robes stared at her for ten pulsing seconds, then returned it. She nearly giggled in relief. “Okay, good. Now apologize,” Doug ordered.

  “For what?”

  “For butting in,” he said between his teeth as he squeezed her elbow. “Tell him we’re on our way to Tamatave, but we lost our way and our supplies are low. Keep smiling.”

  “It’s easy when you’re grinning like my idiot brother.”

  He swore at her, but softly, with his lips still curved. “Look helpless, the way you would if you were trying to fix a flat on the side of the road.”

  She turned her head, brow raised, eyes cool. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just do it, Whitney. For Chrissake.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said with a regal sniff. “But I won’t look helpless.” When she turned back, her expression changed to a pleasant smile. “We’re very sorry to have intruded on your village,” she began in French. “But we’re traveling to Tamatave, and my companion—” She gestured toward Doug and shrugged. “He’s lost his way. We’re very low on food and water.”

  “Tamatave is a very long way to the east. You go on foot?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  The man studied Doug and Whitney again, cooly, deliberately. Hospitality was part of the Malagasy heritage, their culture. Still, it was extended discriminately He saw nerves in the eyes of the strangers, but no ill will. After a moment, he bowed. “We are pleased to receive guests. You may share our food and water. I am Louis Rabemananjara.”

  “How do you do?” She extended her hand, and this time, he accepted the gesture. “I’m Whitney MacAllister and this is Douglas Lord.”

  Louis turned to the waiting crowd and announced they would have guests in the village. “My daughter, Marie.” At his words a small, coffee-skinned young woman with black eyes stepped forward. Whitney eyed her intricate braided hairstyle and wondered if her own stylist could match it.

  “She will see to you. When you have rested, you will share our food.” With this, Louis stepped back into the crowd.

  After a quick survey of Whitney’s periwinkle shirt and slim pants, Marie lowered her eyes. Her father would never permit her to wear anything so revealing. “You are welcome. If you will come with me, I will show you where you can wash.”

  “Thank you, Marie.”

  They moved in Marie’s wake through the crowd. One of the children pointed at Whitney’s hair and spilled out with an excited babble before being shushed by his mother. A word from Louis sent them back to work before Marie had reached a small, one-story house. The roof was thatched and pitched steeply to spread shade. The house was built of wood and some of the boards were bowed and curled. The windows sparkled. Outside the door was a square woven mat bleached nearly white. When Marie opened the door, she stepped back to
allow her guests to enter.

  Everything inside was neat as a pin, every surface polished. The furniture was rough and plain, but bright cushions were plumped in every chair. Yellow daisylike flowers stood in a clay pot by a window where wooden slats held back the intense light and heat.

  “There is water and soap.” She led them farther inside where the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. From a small alcove, Marie produced deep wooden bowls, pitchers of water, and cakes of brown soap. “We will have our midday meal soon, with you as our guests. Food will be plentiful.” She smiled for the first time. “We have been preparing for fadamihana.”

  Before Whitney could thank Marie, Doug took her arm. He hadn’t followed the French, but the one phrase had rung a bell. “Tell her we, too, honor their ancestors.”

  “What?”

  “Just tell her.”

  Humoring him, Whitney did so and was rewarded with a beaming smile. “You are welcome to what we have,” she said before she left them alone.

  “What was that about?”

  “She said something about fadamihana.”

  “Yes, they’re preparing for it, whatever it is.”

  “Feast of the dead.”

  She stopped examining a bowl to turn to him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s an old custom. Part of Malagasy religion is ancestor worship. When somebody dies, they’re always brought back to their ancestral tombs. Every few years they disentomb the dead and hold a party for them.”

  “Disentomb them?” Immediate revulsion took over. “That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s part of their religion, a gesture of respect.”

  “I hope no one respects me that way,” she began, but her curiosity got the better of her. She frowned as Doug poured water into the bowl. “What’s the purpose?”

  “When the bodies are brought up, they’re given a place of honor at the celebration. They get fresh linen, palm wine, and all the latest gossip.” He dipped both hands in the bowl of water and splashed it over his face. “It’s their way of honoring the past, I guess. Of showing respect for the people they descended from. Ancestor worship’s the root of Malagasy religion. There’s music and dancing. A good time’s had by all, living or otherwise.”