Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  So the dead weren’t mourned, Whitney mused. They were entertained. A celebration of death, or perhaps more accurately of the bond between life and death. Suddenly she felt she understood the ceremony and her feelings about it changed.

  Whitney accepted the soap Doug offered and smiled at him. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He lifted a small, rough towel and scrubbed it over his face. “Beautiful?”

  “They don’t forget you when you die. You’re brought back, given a front-row seat at a party, filled in on all the town news, and drunk to. One of the worst things about dying is missing out on all the fun.”

  “The worst thing about dying is dying,” he countered.

  “You’re too literal. I wonder if it makes it easier to face death knowing you’ve got something like that to look forward to.”

  He’d never considered anything made it easier to face death. It was just something that happened when you couldn’t con life any longer. He shook his head, dropping the towel. “You’re an interesting woman, Whitney.”

  “Of course.” Laughing, she lifted the soap and sniffed. It smelled of crushed, waxy flowers. “And I’m starving. Let’s see what’s on the menu.”

  When Marie came back, she had changed into a colorful skirt that skimmed her calves. Outside, villagers were busily loading a long table with food and drink. Whitney, who’d been expecting a few handfuls of rice and a fresh canteen, turned to Marie again with thanks.

  “You are our guests.” Solemn and formal, Marie lowered her eyes. “You have been guided to our village. We offer the hospitality of our ancestors and celebrate your visit. My father has said we will have today as holiday in your honor.”

  “I only know we’re hungry.” Whitney reached out to touch her hand. “And very grateful.”

  She stuffed herself. Though she didn’t recognize anything but the fruit and rice, she didn’t quibble. Scents flowed on the air, spicy, exotic, different. The meat, without aid of electricity, had been cooked over open fires and in stone kilns. It was gamey and rich and wonderful. The wine, cup after cup of it, was potent.

  Music began, drums and rough wind and string instruments that formed thready, ancient tunes. The fields, it seemed, could wait one day. Visitors were rare, and once accepted, prized.

  A little giddy, Whitney swirled into a dance with a group of men and women.

  They accepted her, grinning and nodding as she mimicked their steps. She watched some of the men leap and turn as the rhythm quickened. Whitney let her head fall back with her laugh. She thought of the smoky, crowded clubs she patronized. Electric music, electric lights. There, each one tried to outshine the other. She thought of some of the smooth, self-absorbed men who’d partnered her—or tried to. Not one of them would be able to hold up against a Merina. She whirled until her head spun and then turned to Doug.

  “Dance with me,” she demanded.

  Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright. Against him, she was warm and impossibly soft. Laughing, he shook his head. “I’ll pass. You’re doing enough for both of us.”

  “Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.” She poked a finger into his chest. “The Merina know a party pooper when they see one.” She linked her hands behind him and swayed. “All you have to do is move your feet.”

  On their own power, his hands slipped down to her hips to feel the movement. “Just my feet?”

  Tilting her head, she aimed a deadly look from beneath her lashes. “If that’s the best you can do—” She let out a quick whoop when he swung her in a circle.

  “Just try to keep up with me, sugar.” In a flash, he had an arm hooked behind her, and extending the other, gripped her hand. He held the dramatic tango pose for a moment, then moved smoothly forward. They broke, turned, and came back together.

  “Damn, Douglas, I think you might be a fun date after all.”

  As they continued, stepping, swaying, then moving forward, their dance caught the crowd’s approval. They turned so their faces were close, their bodies facing, hand extended to hand as Doug guided her backward.

  Her heart began to drum pleasantly, both from the pleasure of being foolish and the constant brush of his body against hers. His breath was warm. His eyes, so unusual and clear, stayed on hers. It wasn’t often she thought of him as a strong man, but now, caught close, she felt the ripple of muscle in his back, along his shoulders. Whitney tilted her head back in challenge. She’d match him, step for step.

  He whirled her so quickly her vision blurred. Then she felt herself being flung back. Freely, she let her body go so that her head nearly brushed the ground in the exaggerated dip. Just as quickly, she was upright and caught against him. His mouth was only a whisper from hers.

  They had only to move—only a slight shift of their heads would bring their lips together. Both were breathing quickly, from the exertion, from the excitement. She could smell the muskiness of light sweat, the hint of wine and rich meat. He’d taste of all of them.

  They had only to move—a fraction closer. And what then?

  “What the hell,” Doug muttered. Even as his hand tightened at her waist, even as her lashes fluttered down, he heard the roar of an engine. His head swiveled around. He tensed like a cat so quickly that Whitney blinked.

  “Shit.” Grabbing her hand, Doug ran for cover. Because he had to make do, he pushed her up against the side of a house and pressed himself against her.

  “What the hell’re you doing? One tango, and you turn into a crazy man.”

  “Just don’t move.”

  “I don’t …” Then she heard it too, loud and clear above them. “What is it?”

  “Helicopter.” He prayed the overhang of the steeply pitched roof and the shade it spread would keep them from view.

  She managed to peer over his shoulder. She could hear it, but she couldn’t see it. “It could be anyone.”

  “Could be. I don’t risk my life on could be’s. Dimitri doesn’t like to waste time.” And dammit, he thought as he looked for shelter and escape, how could he have found them in the middle of nowhere? Cautiously, he glanced around. There would be no running. “That mop of blonde hair would stand out like a road sign.”

  “Even under pressure, you’re full of charm, Douglas.”

  “Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to land to get a closer look.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when the sound grew louder. Even on the far side of the house, they felt the wind from the blades. Dust billowed up.

  “You had to give him the idea.”

  “Shut up a minute.” He glanced behind him, poised to run. Where? he asked himself in disgust. Where the hell to? They were cornered as neatly as if they’d run down a blind alley.

  At the whisper of a sound, he whirled, fists lifted. Marie stopped, raising her hand for silence. Gesturing, she hurried along the side of the house. With her back pressed against the wall, she moved along the west side to the door. Though it meant putting his luck into the hands of a woman again, Doug followed, keeping Whitney’s hand in his.

  Once inside, he signaled to them both to remain still and silent before he moved to the window. Keeping well to the side, he peered out.

  The helicopter was some distance away on the flatland at the base of the hills. Already Remo was striding toward the crowd of celebrants.

  “Sonofabitch,” Doug muttered. Sooner or later, it was going to come down to dealing with Remo. He had to make certain he had house advantage. At the moment, he had nothing more lethal than a penknife in the pocket of his jeans. It was then he remembered that both he and Whitney had left their packs outside, near the spread of food and drink.

  “Is it—”

  “Stay back,” he ordered when Whitney crept up behind him. “It’s Remo and two more of Dimitri’s toy soldiers.” And sooner or later, he admitted as he wiped a hand over his mouth, it was going to come down to dealing with Dimitri. He’d need more than luck when the time came. Racking his brain, he looked around the room for something, anything to defend h
imself with. “Tell her these men are looking for us and ask her what her people are going to do.”

  Whitney looked over at Marie, who stood quietly by the door. Briefly, she followed Doug’s instructions.

  Marie folded her hands. “You are our guests,” she said simply. “They are not.”

  Whitney smiled and told Doug, “We’ve got sanctuary, for what it’s worth.”

  “Yeah, that’s good, but remember what happened to Quasimodo.”

  He watched as Remo faced down Louis. The village leader stood steely-eyed and implacable, speaking briefly in Malagasy. The sound, if not the words, came through the open window. Remo pulled something out of his pocket.

  “Photographs,” Whitney whispered. “He must be showing him pictures of us.”

  Him, Doug agreed silently, and every other villager between here and Tamatave. If they got out of this one, there’d be no more parties along the way. He’d been stupid to believe he could take time to breathe with Dimitri after him, he realized.

  Along with the pictures, Remo produced a wad of bills and a smile. Both were met with awesome silence.

  While Remo tried his bargaining powers on Louis, another of the helicopter crew wandered to the spread of food and began sampling. Helpless, Doug watched him come closer and closer to the packs.

  “Ask her if she has a gun in here.”

  “A gun?” Whitney swallowed. She hadn’t heard him use that tone of voice before. “But Louis won’t—”

  “Ask her. Now.” Remo’s companion poured himself a cup of palm wine. He had only to look down to the left. It wouldn’t make any difference whose side the villagers ranged themselves on if he saw the packs. They were unarmed. Doug knew what would be tucked into a leather holster under Remo’s coat. He’d felt it prod into his ribs not too many days before. “Dammit, Whitney, ask her.”

  At Whitney’s question, Marie nodded expressionlessly. After slipping into the adjoining room, she came back carrying a long, deadly looking rifle. When Doug took it, Whitney grabbed his arm.

  “Doug, they’ll have guns too. There’re babies out there.”

  Grimly, he loaded the gun. He’d just have to be fast, and accurate. Damn fast. “I’m not going to do anything until I have to.” He crouched down, rested the barrel on the windowsill, and focused the site. His finger was damp before he placed it on the trigger.

  He hated guns. Always had. It didn’t matter which side of the barrel he was on. He had killed. In Nam he’d killed because a quick mind and clever hands hadn’t kept him out of the draft or the stinking jungles. He had learned things there he hadn’t wanted to learn, and things he’d had to use. Survival, that was always number one.

  He had killed. There had been one miserable night in Chicago when his back had been against the wall and a knife whizzed at his throat. He knew what it was to look at someone as the life eased out of them. You had to know the next time, anytime, it could be you.

  He hated guns. He held the rifle steady.

  One of Whitney’s dance partners let out a high-pitched laugh. Holding a pitcher of wine over his head, he grabbed the man beside the packs. As the Merina whirled, leaping with the wine, the packs slid away into the crowd and disappeared.

  “Stop acting like an idiot,” Remo shouted as his partner lifted his cup for more wine. Turning back to Louis again, he gestured with the photos. He got nothing but a hard stare and a rumble of Malagasy.

  Doug watched Remo stuff the photos and money back in his pocket and stride off toward the waiting copter. With a roar and a whirl, it started up. When it was ten feet off the ground, he felt his shoulder muscles loosen.

  He didn’t like the feel of a gun in his hand. As the sound of the copter died away, he unloaded it.

  “You might’ve hurt somebody with that,” Whitney murmured when he’d handed it back to Marie.

  “Yeah.”

  When he turned, she saw a ruthlessness she hadn’t gauged before. There was an edge there that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with cunning. A thief, yes, that she understood and accepted. But she saw now that in his own way, he was just as tough, just as hard as the men who searched for them. She wasn’t certain she could accept that as easily.

  The look vanished from his eyes when Marie came back into the room. Taking her hand, Doug lifted it to his lips as gallantly as royalty. “Tell her we owe her our lives. And we won’t forget it.”

  Though Whitney said the words, Marie continued to stare up at Doug. Woman to woman, Whitney recognized the look. A glance at Doug showed he recognized it too, and loved every minute of it.

  “Maybe you two would like to be alone,” she said dryly. Crossing the room, she pulled open the door. “After all, three’s a crowd.” She let it slam with more force than necessary.

  “Nothing?” A puff of fragrant smoke rose up in front of a high-backed, brocade chair.

  Remo shifted his feet. Dimitri didn’t care for negative reports. “Krentz, Weis, and me covered the whole area, stopped at every village. We’ve got five men here in town watching for them. There’s not a sign.”

  “Not a sign.” Dimitri’s voice was mild, with richness beneath. Diction, among other things, had been taught relentlessly by his mother. The three-fingered hand tapped the cigarette into an alabaster tray. “When one has eyes to look, there’s always a sign, my dear Remo.”

  “We’ll find them, Mr. Dimitri. It’s just going to take a little more time.”

  “It worries me.” From the table to the right, he plucked up a faceted glass half filled with deep ruby wine. On his unmarred hand he wore a ring—thick, glossy gold around a hard diamond. “They’ve eluded you three …” He paused as he sipped, letting the wine lie on his tongue. He had a taste for the sweet. “No, dear me, four times now. It’s becoming a very disturbing habit of yours to fail.” While his voice flowed softly, he flicked on his lighter so that the flame rose straight and thin. Behind it, his gaze locked on Remo’s. “You know how I feel about failures?”

  Remo swallowed. He knew better than to make excuses. Dimitri dealt harshly with excuses. He felt the sweat begin on the nape of his neck and roll slowly down.

  “Remo, Remo.” The name came out in a sigh. “You’ve been like a son to me.” The lighter clicked off. Smoke plumed again, thin and rich. He never spoke quickly. A conversation, stretched to the last word, was more frightening than a threat. “I’m a patient man and generous.” He waited for Remo’s comment, pleased when there was only silence. “But I expect results. Do succeed next time, Remo. An employer, like a parent, must exercise discipline.” A smile moved his lips, but not his eyes. They were flat and passionless. “Discipline,” he repeated.

  “I’ll get Lord, Mr. Dimitri. You’ll have him on a platter.”

  “An enjoyable thought, I’m sure. Get the papers.” His voice changed, iced. “And the woman. I find myself more and more intrigued with the woman.”

  In reflex, Remo touched the thin scar on his cheek. “I’ll get the woman.”

  C H A P T E R

  7

  They waited until an hour before dusk. With great ceremony, food, water, and wine were wrapped and presented to them for the journey ahead. The Merina seemed to feel themselves highly entertained by the visit.

  In a gesture of generosity that made Doug wince, Whitney pressed bills into Louis’s hands. His relief when they were refused was short-lived. For the village, she insisted, then on a stroke of inspiration added that the money was to express their respect and good wishes for the ancestors.

  The bills disappeared into the folds of Louis’s shirt.

  “How much did you give him?” Doug demanded as he picked up his newly replenished pack.

  “Only a hundred.” At his expression, she patted his cheek. “Don’t be a piker, Douglas. It’s unbecoming.” Humming, she took out her notebook.

  “Oh no, you shelled it out, not me.”

  Whitney noted the amount in her book with a flourish. Doug’s tab was definitely adding up. �
�You play you pay. Anyway, I have a surprise for you.”

  “What, a ten-percent discount?”

  “Don’t be crass.” She looked over at the sputtering sound of an engine. “Transportation.” Her arm waved out in a wide gesture.

  The jeep had definitely seen better days. Though it shone from a fresh washing, the engine spit and missed as a Merina with a bright, rolled headband drove it up the rutted road.

  As a getaway car, he figured it came in a poor second to a blind mule. “It won’t go twenty miles.”

  “It’ll be twenty miles we don’t use our feet. Say thank you, Douglas, and stop being rude. Pierre’s going to drive us to the Tamatave province.”

  It only took one look at Pierre to see that he’d freely imbibed palm wine. They’d be lucky if they didn’t end up sunk in a rice paddy. “Terrific.” Pessimistic, and dealing with a headache from his own free use of wine, Doug said a formal good-bye to Louis.

  Whitney’s was much lengthier and more elaborate. Doug climbed into the back of the jeep and stretched out his legs. “Get your ass in gear, sweetheart. It’ll be dark in an hour.”

  Smiling at the Merina who crowded around the jeep, she stepped in. “Up yours, Lord.” Settling the pack on the floor at her feet, she leaned back and swung one arm jauntily over the back of the seat. “Avant, Pierre.”

  The jeep lurched forward, bucked, then rattled down the road. Doug felt his headache explode in tiny, unmerciful blasts. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

  Whitney took the teeth-rattling ride in stride. She’d been wined, dined, and entertained. The same could be said about dinner at the 21 Club and a Broadway show. And this had been unique. Perhaps this wasn’t a hansom-cab ride through the park, but anyone with twenty dollars could have one of those. She was bouncing along a road in Madagascar in a jeep driven by a Merina native with a thief snoring lightly in the back. It was entirely more interesting than a sedate ride through Central Park.

  For the most part, the scenery was monotonous. Red hills, almost treeless, wide valleys patched with fields. It had cooled now that the sun was hanging low, but the day’s baking left the road dusty. It plumed under the wheels and coated the just-washed jeep. There were mountains that rose up sharply, but again, pines were sparse. It was rock and earth. Though there was a sameness, it was the basic space that caught Whitney’s imagination.