Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

After pulling his shirt over his head, he reached for the snap of his jeans. “You’re not going to turn around are you?”

  Dammit, she liked it when he grinned that way. The cheerful cockiness was just plain appealing. Lavishly, she began to soap one arm. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that cool, slick feeling. “Want to brag, do you, Douglas? I’m not easily impressed.”

  He sat down to remove his shoes. “Leave me my share of the soap.”

  “Move a little faster then.” She began to soap her other arm in the same long, smooth stroke. “God, this is better than Elizabeth Arden’s.” With a sigh, she lay back and lifted one leg out of the water. When he stood and dropped his jeans, she gave him a thorough, critical study. Her expression was bland, but she didn’t miss the lean, muscled thighs, the taut stomach, the narrow hips just covered with low, snug briefs. He had the clean, sleek build of a runner. And that, she supposed, was what he was.

  “Adequate,” she said after a moment. “Since you apparently like to pose, it’s a pity I didn’t bring my Polaroid.”

  Unstung, he pulled off the briefs. For a moment, he was poised, naked—and she was forced to admit, magnificent—at the edge of the lagoon. His dive was sharp before he surfaced a foot away from her. What he’d seen underwater made his mouth go dry with desire.

  “Soap,” he said, as cool as she, and offered the shampoo in trade.

  “Don’t forget behind the ears.” Using a generous hand, she poured shampoo into her palm.

  “Hey, half’s mine, remember.”

  “You’ll get it. Anyway, I’ve more hair than you.” She worked it into a lather while she scissored her feet to keep above water.

  He gestured with the soap before rubbing it over his chest. “And I’ve more body.”

  With a smile, she sank below the surface, leaving a frothy trail of suds where her hair fanned out. The beat of water sucked them down and away. Unable to resist, she swam down, deeper. She could hear the vibrations of the falls, drumming, drumming, see rocks sparkling a foot beneath her, taste the clear, sweet water that was kissed by the sun. Glancing up, she saw the strong, lean body of the man who was now her partner.

  The idea of danger, or men with guns, of being pursued seemed ludicrous. This was paradise. Whitney didn’t believe in cunning snakes behind luscious flowers. When she surfaced, she was laughing.

  “This is fabulous. We should book in for the weekend.”

  He saw the sun shoot sparks into her hair. “Next time. I’ll even spring for the soap.”

  “Yeah?” He looked attractive, dangerously so. She discovered she preferred a touch of danger in a man. The word boredom, the only word she considered a true obscenity, wouldn’t apply to him. Unexpected. That was the word. She found it had a sensuous ring.

  Testing him, and perhaps herself, she treaded slowly until their bodies were too close for safety. “Trade,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on his as she held out the bottle.

  His fingers tightened on the slick soap so that it nearly slid out of them. Just what the hell was she up to? he asked himself. He’d been around enough to recognize that look in a woman’s eyes. It said—maybe. Why don’t you persuade me? The trouble was, she wasn’t anything like the women he’d known. He wasn’t entirely sure of his moves.

  Instead, he equated her to a job, a high-class, luxury apartment complex that took careful casing, meticulous planning, and intricate legwork before he took it down. Better that he be the thief with her. He knew the rules, because he’d made them.

  “Sure.” He opened his palm so that she had to slide the wet cake of soap from it. In response, she tossed the bottle high, laughing as she retreated. Doug plucked it inches above the water.

  “I hope you don’t mind a touch of jasmine.” Lazily she lifted her other leg and began to run the soap up and down her calf.

  “I can handle it.” He poured the shampoo directly on his hair, rescrewed the cap, then tossed it on the ground beside the lagoon. “Ever been to a public bath?”

  “No.” Curious, she glanced back over. “Have you?”

  “I was in Tokyo a couple years back. It’s an interesting experience.”

  “I usually like to keep the quantity in my tub down to two.” She ran the soap up a thigh. “Cozy, but not crowded.”

  “I’ll bet.” He ducked under to rinse off, and to cool off. She had legs that went all the way up to her waist.

  “Convenient, too,” she said when he’d surfaced. “Especially when you need your back scrubbed.” With a smile, she held out the soap again. “Would you mind?”

  So she wanted to play games, he decided. Well, he rarely turned one down—as long as he’d figured the odds. Taking the soap from her, he began to run it over her shoulder blades. “Marvelous,” she said after a moment. It wasn’t easy to keep her voice even when her stomach had begun to tighten, but she managed. “But then I suppose a man in your line of work has to have clever hands.”

  “It helps. I suppose all that ice cream could buy million-dollar skin.”

  “It helps.”

  His hand ran lower, down her spine, then slowly up again. Unprepared for the jolt it brought her, Whitney shuddered. Doug grinned.

  “Cold?”

  Just who had she managed to push anyway? she wondered. “The water gets chilly unless you move around.” Telling herself it wasn’t a retreat, she gently sidestroked away. Not that easy, sugar, Doug thought. He tossed the soap onto the grass beside the shampoo. In a quick move, he grabbed her ankle.

  “Problem?”

  Effortlessly, he pulled her back toward him. “As long as we’re playing games—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she began, but the sentence ended on a quick gasp as her body collided with his.

  “The hell you don’t.”

  He found he enjoyed it—the uncertainty, the annoyance, and the flare of awareness that came and went in her eyes. Her body was long and slim. Deliberately, he tangled her legs with his so that she was forced to grab his shoulders to stay afloat.

  “Watch your step, Lord,” she warned.

  “Water games, Whitney. I’ve always been a sucker for them.”

  “I’ll let you know when I want to play.”

  His hands slid up to just under her breasts. “Didn’t you?”

  She’d asked for it. Knowing it didn’t improve her temper one whit. Yes, she’d wanted to play with him, but on her terms, in her own time. She discovered she was over her head in more ways than one, and she didn’t care for it. Her voice became very cool; her eyes were equally chilly.

  “You don’t really consider we’re in the same league, do you?” Long ago, she’d discovered insults, given coldly, were the most successful of defenses.

  “No, but then I’ve never paid much attention to caste systems. You want to play duchess, go ahead.” He slid his thumbs up, over her nipples, and heard her breath shudder in, then out. “As I recall, royalty always had a penchant for taking commoners to bed.”

  “I’ve no intention of taking you to mine.”

  “You want me.”

  “You’re flattering yourself.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Temper flared. The warm liquid pull in her stomach battled with it. “The water’s getting cold, Douglas. I want to get out.”

  “You want me to kiss you.”

  “I’d sooner kiss a toad.”

  He grinned. She’d practically hissed at him. “I won’t give you warts.”

  Making up his mind on the instant, he covered her mouth with his.

  She stiffened. No one ever kissed her without her consent, and without jumping through the hoops she tossed out first. Who the hell did he think he was?

  And her heart pounded against his. Her pulses raced. Her head swam.

  She didn’t give a damn who he was.

  With a spurt of passion that rocked them both, she moved her mouth on his. Tongues met. His teeth scraped her lower lip while he slid his arms around her ba
ck to mold them closer together. Surprises, he thought as he began to lose himself in her. The lady was full of them.

  He tasted cool, fresh, different, so excitingly different. Passion took them beneath the surface. Wrapped together, they came up again, mouths fused, water cascading off skin.

  There’d never been anything like him in her life. He didn’t ask, but took. His hands moved over her body with an intimacy she’d always doled out stingily. She chose a lover, sometimes impulsively, sometimes calculatingly but she chose. This time, she’d been given no choice. The moment of helplessness was as exhilarating as anything she’d ever experienced.

  He’d bring her madness in bed. If he could take her so far with a kiss … He’d take her, up, over, beyond, whether she wanted to go or not. And oh, now, with the water lapping over her, with his hands stroking and his mouth growing hotter, hungrier, she wanted to go.

  And then, she thought, he’d give her a salute, a cocky grin, and slip off into the night. Once a thief, always a thief, whether it was gold or a woman’s soul. Perhaps she hadn’t chosen this beginning, but she’d hold on long enough to choose her own end.

  She pushed regrets aside. Pain was something to be avoided at all costs. Even if the cost was pleasure.

  Whitney let her body go limp, as in total surrender. Then quickly, she lifted her hands to his shoulders and pushed. Hard.

  Doug went under without a chance to gulp in air.

  Before he’d surfaced, Whitney was at the side of the lagoon and climbing out. “Game’s over. My point.” She grabbed up her blouse and pulled it on without bothering to dry.

  Fury. He’d thought he knew precisely what it felt like. Women. He had thought he’d known what buttons to push. Doug discovered he was just learning. Swimming to the side, he hauled himself out. Whitney was already pulling on her slacks.

  “A nice diversion,” she said, letting out a quiet, relieved breath when she was fully clothed. “Now I think we’d better have that picnic. I’m starving.”

  “Lady …” Keeping his eyes on her, Doug picked up his jeans. “What I’ve got in mind for you is no picnic.”

  “Really?” On solid ground again, she reached in her pack and found her brush. She began to pull it slowly through her hair. Water rained out in gemlike drops. “You look like you could use a bit of raw meat at the moment. Is that the look you use to scare little old ladies out of their purses?”

  “I’m a thief, not a mugger.” He snapped his jeans, and tossing wet hair out of his eyes, approached her. “But I might make an exception in your case.”

  “Don’t do anything you’d regret,” she said softly.

  He gritted his teeth. “I’m going to love every minute of it.” When he gripped her shoulders, she stared up at him solemnly.

  “You simply aren’t the violent sort,” she told him. “However …”

  Her fist connected with his stomach, hard and fast. Gasping, he bent double.

  “I am.” Whitney dropped her brush back in the pack and hoped he was too dazed to see her hand shake.

  “That does it.” Holding his sore stomach, he sent her a look that might’ve made Dimitri step back and reconsider.

  “Douglas …” She held up a hand as she might to a lean, vicious dog. “Take a few deep breaths. Count to ten.” What else was there? she wondered frantically. “Jog in place,” she hazarded. “Don’t lose control.”

  “I’m in complete control,” he said between his teeth as he stalked her. “Let me show you.”

  “Some other time. Let’s have some wine. We can …” She broke off as his hand closed over her throat. “Doug!” It came out in a squeak.

  “Now,” he began, then looked up at the whirl of engines. “Sonofabitch!”

  He wouldn’t mistake the sound of the helicopter a second time. It was almost overhead and they were in the open. Wide fucking open, he thought on a surge of fury. Releasing her, he began to grab up gear. “Move ass,” he shouted. “Picnic’s over.”

  “If you tell me to move ass one more time—”

  “Just move it!” He shoved the first pack at her even as he hauled up the other. “Now get those pretty long legs moving, sugar. We ain’t got much time.” He locked his hand over hers and headed for the trees in a dead run. Whitney’s hair flowed out behind them.

  Above, in the small cabin of the copter, Remo lowered his binoculars. For the first time in days, a grin moved under his moustache. Lazily, he stroked the scar that marred his cheek. “We’ve spotted them. Radio Mr. Dimitri.”

  C H A P T E R

  8

  “Do you think they saw us?”

  At top speed, Doug headed dead east and kept to the thickest part of the forest. Roots and vines snatched at their feet, but he never lost his footing. He ran instinctively, through a foreign forest crowded with bamboo and eucalyptus just as he had through Manhattan. Leaves swung out and lashed back as they pushed through. Whitney might’ve complained when they swatted into her face, but she was too busy saving her breath.

  “Yeah, I think they saw us.” He didn’t waste time on fury, on frustration, on panic, though he felt all. Every time he thought they’d gained some time, he found Dimitri on his heels like some well-groomed English hound who’d tasted blood. He needed to rework his strategy, and he’d have to do it on his feet. Through experience he’d come to believe it was the best way. If you had too much time to think, you thought too much about consequences. “There’s no place for them to put that copter down in this forest.”

  It made sense. “So we stay in the forest.”

  “No.” He was loping along like a marathon runner, smoothly, breath even. Whitney could detest him for it even as she admired it. Overhead, lemurs chattered in wild fear and excitement. “Dimitri’ll have men combing this area within the hour.”

  That made sense as well. “So we get out of the forest.”

  “No.”

  Exhausted from the run, Whitney stopped, leaned her back against a tree, and just slid down to the mossy ground beneath. She’d once, arrogantly, considered herself in shape. The muscles in her legs screamed in revolt. “What’re we going to do?” she demanded. “Disappear?”

  Doug frowned, not at her, nor at the steady, whirling sound of blades and engine overhead. He looked off into the forest while the plan formed in his mind.

  It was risky. In fact, it was undoubtedly foolhardy. He glanced up to where a canopy of leaves was all that separated them from Remo and a .45.

  Then again, it might work.

  “Disappear,” he murmured. “That’s what we’re going to do.” Crouching down, he opened a pack.

  “Looking for your fairy dust?”

  “I’m looking to save that alabaster skin of yours, sugar.” He pulled out the lamba Whitney had bought in Antananarivo. While she sat, he draped it over her head, going more for coverage than style. “Good-bye Whitney MacAllister, hello Malagasy matron.”

  Whitney blew pale blonde hair out of her eyes. One elegant, fine-boned hand folded over the other. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  She sat for a moment. The forest was no longer quiet with the intrusion of helicopter blades overhead. Its shade and spreading trees and mossy scent no longer equalled protection. In silence, she crossed the lamba under her chin and tossed the ends back. A lousy idea was better than none at all. Usually.

  “Okay, let’s move.” Taking her hand he hauled her to her feet. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Ten minutes later, he found what he’d been looking for.

  Near the bottom of a rocky, uneven slope was a clearing with a handful of bamboo huts. The grass and vegetation on the incline had been slashed and burned, then planted with hill rice. Below, gardens had been cleared and hoed so that the leafy vines of beans wound up around poles. She could see an empty paddock and a small lean-to where chickens scratched for whatever they could find.

  The hill was steep so that the small buildings rose on stilts to compensate fo
r the irregular terrain. Roofs were thatched but even with the distance looked in need of repair. A line of crude steps dug directly into the hill ran down to a narrow, rutted path below them. The path went east. Doug kept low behind the cover of small, scrubby bushes and watched for any sign of life.

  Balancing herself with a hand on his shoulder, Whitney looked over his head. The cluster of houses looked cozy. Remembering the Merina, she felt a certain safety.

  “Are we going to hide down there?”

  “Hiding’s not going to do us much good for very long.” Taking out his field glasses, he lay down on his belly and took a closer look at the huddle of houses. There was no cook smoke, no movement at any of the windows. Nothing. Making up his mind quickly, he handed the glasses to Whitney. “Can you whistle?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Whistle.” He made a low steady sound through his teeth.

  “I can whistle better than that,” she said with a sniff.

  “Terrific. You watch through the glasses. If you see anyone coming back toward the huts, whistle.”

  “If you think you’re going down there without me—”

  “Look, I’m leaving the packs here. Both of them.” He grabbed her hair so that he could pull her face close. “I figure you want to stay alive more than you want to get your hands on the envelope.”

  She nodded, coolly. “Staying alive’s become quite a priority lately.”

  It had always been his. “So stay put.”

  “Why’re you going down there?”

  “If we’re going to pass ourselves off as a couple of Malagasy, we need to acquire a few more things.”

  “Acquire.” She lifted a brow. “You’re going to steal them.”

  “That’s right, sugar, and you’re the lookout.”

  After a moment’s thought, Whitney decided she rather liked the idea of being a lookout. Perhaps in another time and place, it might’ve had a crude ring, but she’d always believed in enjoying each experience within its own frame.

  “If I see anyone coming back, I whistle.”

  “You got it. Now stay down, out of sight. Remo could come buzzing by in the copter.”

  Getting into the spirit, Whitney shifted onto her stomach and scanned with the glasses. “Just do your job, Lord. I’ll do mine.”