Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  She dreamed she and Doug were in a small, elegant room washed with candlelight that wafted the scent of vanilla. She wore silk, white and thin enough to show the silhouette of her body. He was all in black.

  She recognized the look in his eyes, the sudden darkening of that clear, clear green before his clever hands ran up her body and his mouth covered hers. She was weightless, floating, unable to touch the ground with her feet—yet she could feel every plane and line as his body pressed against hers.

  Smiling he drew away from her and reached for a bottle of champagne. The dream was so clear that she could see the beads of water on the glass. He pried the cork. It opened with an ear-splintering blast. When she looked again, he held only a jagged bottle in his hand. At the door was the shadow of a man and the glint of a sun.

  They were crawling through a small, dark hole. Sweat rolled from her. Somehow she knew they were winding through ducts, yet it was like the tunnel to the cave—dark, dank, suffocating.

  “Just a little bit farther.”

  She heard him speak and saw something glitter up ahead. It was light beaming off the facets of an enormous diamond. For a moment, it filled the darkness with a wild, almost religious light. Then it was gone, and she was standing alone on a barren hill. “Lord, you sonofabitch!”

  “Rise and shine, sugar. This is our stop.”

  “You worm,” she muttered.

  “That’s no way to talk to your husband.”

  Opening her eyes, she looked into his grinning face. “You sonofa—”

  He cut the oath off, kissing her hard and long. With his lips only a breath from hers, he pinched her. “We’re supposed to be in love, sugar. Our friendly chauffeur might have a grasp of some of the cruder English expressions.”

  Dazed, she squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “I was dreaming.”

  “Yeah. And it sounds like I didn’t come off very well.” Doug hopped out to retrieve the baskets in the back.

  Whitney shook her head to clear it, then looked through the windshield. A town. It was small by any standard and the air had a scent that brought fish to mind rather sharply. But it was a town. As thrilled as if she’d woken in Paris on an April morning, Whitney jumped from the truck.

  A town meant a hotel. A hotel meant a tub, hot water, a real bed.

  “Douglas, you’re wonderful!” With the pig sandwiched and squealing between them, she hugged him.

  “Jesus, Whitney, you’re getting pig all over me.”

  “Absolutely wonderful,” she said again and gave him a loud, exuberant kiss.

  “Well, yeah.” He found his hand could settle comfortably at her waist. “But a minute ago I was a worm.”

  “A minute ago I didn’t know where we were.”

  “You do now? Why don’t you fill me in?”

  “In town.” Hugging the pig against her, she whirled away. “Hot and cold running water, box springs and mattresses. Where’s the hotel?” Shading her eyes, she began to scan.

  “Look, I wasn’t planning on staying—”

  “There!” she said triumphantly.

  It was clean and without frills, more along the lines of an inn than a hotel. It was a town of seamen, fishermen, with the Indian Ocean close at its back. A seawall rose high as protection against the floods that came every season. Here and there, nets were spread over it to dry in the sun. There were palm trees and fat orange flowers growing in vines against clapboard. A gull nestled at the top of a telephone pole and slept. The straight lines of the coast prevented it from being a port, but the little seaside town obviously enjoyed a smatter of tourist trade now and then.

  Whitney was already thanking the driver. Though it surprised him, Doug didn’t have the heart to tell her they couldn’t stay. He’d planned to replenish supplies and see about transportation up the coast before they went on. He watched her smile at their driver.

  One night couldn’t hurt, he decided. They could start out fresh in the morning. If Dimitri was close, at least Doug would have a wall at his back for a few hours. A wall at his back and a few hours to plan the next step. He swung a basket over each shoulder. “Give him the pig and say good-bye.”

  Whitney smiled at the driver a last time, then started across the street. There were shells crushed underfoot mixed with dirt and a stingy spread of gravel. “Abandon our first-born son to a traveling salesman? Really, Douglas, it’d be like selling him to the gypsies.”

  “Cute, and I understand you might’ve formed a bit of an attachment.”

  “So would you if you hadn’t been thinking with your stomach.”

  “But what the hell are we going to do with it?”

  “We’ll find him a decent home.”

  “Whitney.” Just outside the inn, he took her arm. “That’s a slab of bacon, not a Pomeranian.”

  “Ssh!” Cuddling the pig protectively, she walked inside.

  It was marvelously cool. There were ceiling fans lazily circling that made her think of Rick’s Place in Casablanca. The walls were whitewashed, the floors dark wood, scarred but scrubbed. Someone had tacked bleached, woven mats to the walls, the only decoration. A few people sat at tables drinking a dark gold liquid in thick glasses. Whitney caught the scent of something unidentifiable and wonderful drifting through an open door in the back.

  “Fish stew,” Doug murmured as his stomach yearned. “Something close to bouillabaisse with a touch of—rosemary,” he said, closing his eyes. “And a little garlic.”

  Because her mouth watered, Whitney was forced to swallow. “It sounds like lunch to me.”

  A woman came through the door, wiping her hands on a big white apron that was colored like a parade flag from her cooking. Though her face was creased deeply, and her hands showed work as well as age, she wore her hair in gay braided rings like a young girl. She scanned Whitney and Doug, looked at the pig for only a moment, then spoke in quick, heavily accented English. So much for Doug’s disguises.

  “You wish a room?”

  “Please.” Struggling to keep her eyes from drifting beyond the woman to the doorway where scents poured out, Whitney smiled.

  “My wife and I would like a room for the night, a bath, and a meal.”

  “For two?” the woman said, then looked again at the pig. “Or for three?”

  “I found the little pig wandering on the side of the road,” Whitney improvised. “I didn’t like to leave it. Perhaps you know someone who’d care for it.”

  The woman eyed the pig in a way that had Whitney hugging it tighter. Then she smiled. “My grandson will take care of it. He is six, but he is responsible.” The woman held out her arms, and reluctantly Whitney handed her erstwhile pet over. Hefting the pig under one arm, the woman reached in her pocket for keys. “This room is ready, up the stairs and two doors on the right. You are welcome.”

  Whitney watched her go back into the kitchen with the pig under her arm.

  “Now, now, sugar, every mother has to let her children go one day.”

  She sniffed and started for the stairs. “He better not be on the menu tonight.”

  The room was a great deal smaller than the cave they’d slept in. But it had a few cheerful seaside paintings on the wall and a bed covered in a flashy floral print that had been meticulously patched. The bath was no more than an alcove separated from the bedroom by a bamboo screen.

  “Heaven,” Whitney decided after one look and flopped facedown on the bed. It smelled, only lightly, of fish.

  “I don’t know how celestial it is”—he checked the lock on the door and found it sturdy—“but it’ll do until the real thing comes along.”

  “I’m going to crawl into the tub and wallow for hours.”

  “All right, you take the first shift.” Without ceremony, he dumped the baskets on the floor. “I’m going to do a little checking around and see what kind of transportation we can get heading up the coast.”

  “I’d prefer a nice, stately Mercedes.” Sighing, she pillowed her head on her hands. �
�But I’d settle for a wagon and a three-legged pony.”

  “Maybe I can find something in between.” Taking no chances, he pulled the envelope out of his pack and secured it under the back of his shirt. “Don’t use all the hot water, sugar. I’ll be back.”

  “Be sure to check on room service, won’t you? I hate it when the canapés are late.” Whitney heard the door click shut and stretched luxuriously. As much as she’d like just to sleep, she decided, she wanted a bath more.

  Rising, she stripped off the long cotton dress and let it fall in a heap. “My sympathies to your former owner,” she murmured, then threw the straw hat like a Frisbee across the room. Over her naked skin, her hair cascaded like sunlight. Cheerful, she turned the hot tap on full and searched through her pack for her cache of bath oil and bubbles. In ten minutes, she was steeped in steaming, fragrant, frothy water.

  “Heaven,” she said again and shut her eyes.

  Outside, Doug took in the town quickly. There were a few little shops with handicrafts arranged in the windows. Colorful hammocks hung on hooks from porch rails and a row of shark’s teeth were lined on a stoop. Obviously, the people were accustomed to tourists and their odd penchant for the useless. The scent of fish was strong as he wandered down toward the wharf. There, he admired the boats, the coils of rope, and the nets spread out to dry.

  If he could figure out a way to keep some fish on ice, he’d bargain for it. Miracles could be accomplished with a fish over an open fire if one had the right touch. But first, there was a matter of the miles he had yet to travel up the coast, and how he was going to go about it.

  He’d already decided that going by water would be the quickest and most practical way. From the map in the guidebook, he’d seen that the Canal des Pangalanes could take them all the way to Maroantsetra. From there, they’d have to travel through the rain forest.

  He’d feel safer there, with the heat, the humidity, and the plentiful cover. The canal was the best route. All he needed was a boat, and someone with the skill to guide it.

  Spotting a small shop, he wandered over. He hadn’t seen a paper in days and decided to buy one even if he had to depend on Whitney to translate. As he reached for the door, he felt a quick flash of disorientation. From within, he heard the unmistakable tough-rock sound of Pat Benatar.

  “Hit me with your best shot!” she challenged as he pushed the door open.

  Behind the counter stood a tall, lanky man whose dark skin gleamed with sweat as he moved to the beat pouring out of a small, expensive portable stereo. While his feet shuffled, he polished the glass in the windows to the side of the counter and belted out the lyrics with Benatar.

  “Fire awaaay!” he shouted, then turned as the door slammed behind Doug. “Good afternoon.” The accent was decidedly French. The faded T-shirt he wore read City College of New York. The grin was youthful and appealing. On the shelves behind him were trinkets, linens, cans, and bottles. A general store in Nebraska wouldn’t have been better stocked.

  “May I interest you in some souvenirs?”

  “CCNY?” Doug questioned as he crossed the bare wood floor.

  “American!” Reverently, the man turned Benatar down to a muffled roar before he held out his hand. “You are from the States?”

  “Yeah. New York.”

  The young man lit up like a firecracker. “New York! My brother”—he tugged on the T-shirt—“he goes to college there. Student exchange. Going to be a lawyer, yes sir. A hotshot.”

  It was impossible not to grin. With his hand still caught in the man’s grasp, Doug shook lightly. “I’m Doug Lord.”

  “Jacques Tsiranana. America.” Obviously reluctant, he released Doug’s hand. “I go there myself next year to visit. You know Soho?”

  “Yeah.” And until that moment, he hadn’t realized just how much he missed it. “Yeah, I know Soho.”

  “I have a picture.” Digging in behind the counter, he brought out a bent snapshot. It showed a tall, muscular man in jeans standing in front of Tower Records.

  “My brother, he buys the records and puts them on the tapes for me. American music,” Jacques pronounced. “Rock and roll. How about that Benatar?”

  “Great pipes,” Doug agreed, handing the snapshot back.

  “So what are you doing here, when you could be in Soho?”

  Doug shook his head. There had been times he’d asked himself the same question. “My, ah, lady and I are traveling up the coast.”

  “Vacation?” He took a quick glimpse at Doug’s clothes. He was dressed like the humblest Malagasy peasant, but there was a look of sharp authority in his eye.

  “Yeah, like a vacation.” If you didn’t count the guns and the running. “I thought it might give her a kick to go up the canal, you know, scenic.”

  “Pretty country,” Jacques agreed. “How far?”

  “To here.” Doug drew the map out of his pocket and ran a finger along the route. “All the way to Maroantsetra.”

  “Some kick,” Jacques murmured. “Two days, two long days. In places the canal is hard to navigate.” His teeth shone. “Crocodiles.”

  “She’s tough,” he claimed, thinking of that very sensitive, very soft skin. “You know the kind who digs camping out and open fires. What we need is a good guide and a strong boat.”

  “You pay in American dollars?”

  Doug narrowed his eyes. It looked like luck was indeed playing on his side. “It can be arranged.”

  Jacques poked his thumb into the printing on his shirt. “Then I take you.”

  “Got a boat?”

  “The best boat in town. Built it myself. Got a hundred?”

  Doug looked down at his hands. They appeared competent and strong. “Fifty up front. We’ll be ready to go in the morning. Eight o’clock.”

  “Bring your lady here at eight o’clock. We’ll give her a kick.”

  Unaware of the pleasures in store for her, Whitney half dozed in the tub. Each time the water had cooled a bit, she had let in another stream of hot. As far as she was concerned, she could spend the night there. Her head rested against the back lip, her hair fell behind, wet and shining.

  “Trying for a world’s record?” Doug asked from behind her.

  With a gasp, she jerked up so that water lapped dangerously near the edge. “You didn’t knock,” she accused. “And I locked the door.”

  “I picked it,” he said easily. “Need to keep in practice. How’s the water?” Without waiting for an answer, he dipped in a finger. “Smells good.” His gaze skimmed over the surface. “Looks like your bubbles’re starting to give out.”

  “They’ve got a few minutes left in them. Why don’t you get rid of that ridiculous outfit?”

  Grinning, he began to unbutton his shirt. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  “On the other side of the screen.” Smiling, she examined her toe just above the water’s surface. “I’ll get out so you can have your turn.”

  “Shame to waste all that pretty hot water.” Putting a hand on either side of the tub, he leaned over her. “Since we’re partners, we should share.”

  “You think so?” His mouth was very close, and she was very relaxed. Reaching up she trailed a damp finger down his cheek. “Just what did you have in mind?”

  “A little”—gently, he brushed her lips with his—“unfinished business.”

  “Business?” She laughed and let her hand roam over his neck. “Want to negotiate?” On impulse she pulled, and off-balance, he slid into the tub. Water heaved over the side. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she watched as he swiped bubbles from his face. “Douglas, you never looked better.”

  Tangled with her, he struggled to keep from submerging. “She likes games.”

  “Well, you looked so hot and sweaty.” Generous, she offered the soap, then laughed again when he rubbed it over the shirt that clung to him.

  “Why don’t I give you a hand?” Before she could avoid it, he ran the soap down from her throat to her waist. “I seem to remember yo
u owe me a back scrub.”

  Aware, and still amused, she took the soap from him. “Why don’t you—”

  Both of them tensed at the knock at the door.

  “Don’t move,” Doug whispered.

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  Untangling himself, he climbed out of the tub. Water ran everywhere. It swished in his shoes as he went to his pack and dug out the gun he’d buried in it. He hadn’t had it in his hands since their flight from Washington. He didn’t like the feel of it any more now.

  If Dimitri had found them, he couldn’t have cornered them more neatly. Doug glanced at the window behind him. He could be out and down in seconds. Then he glanced at the bamboo screen. In a tub of cooling water, Whitney sat naked and completely vulnerable. Doug gave a last regretful look at the window and escape.

  “Shit.”

  “Doug—”

  “Quiet.” Holding it close, barrel up, he moved to the door. It was time to try his luck again. “Yeah?”

  “Captain Sambirano, police. At your service.”

  “Shit.” Looking around quickly, Doug stuck the gun in the back waistband of his pants. “Your badge, Captain?” Coiled to spring, Doug opened the door a crack and examined the badge, then the man. He could spot a cop ten miles away. Reluctantly, he opened the door. “What can I do for you?”

  The captain, small, rotund, and very Western in dress, stepped inside. “I seem to have interrupted you.”

  “Having a bath.” Doug saw the puddle forming at his feet and reached for a towel behind the screen.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr.—”

  “Wallace, Peter Wallace.”

  “Mr. Wallace. It is my custom to greet anyone who passes through our town. We have a quiet community.” The captain gently tugged on the hem of his jacket. Doug noticed his nails were short and polished. “From time to time we entertain tourists who are not fully aware of the law or our customs.”

  “Always happy to cooperate with the police,” Doug said with a wide smile. “As it happens, I’m moving on tomorrow.”

  “A pity you can’t extend your stay. You are perhaps in a hurry?”