Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  One day, she thought, she would give Runyun a run for his money.

  Professionally, she was going exactly where she wanted to go. Personally … her life was in upheaval.

  Her mother. How could she explain what it felt like to know that the woman she had faced in the dim room in London had given birth to her? Would she ever be able to separate and understand her feelings? And her fears? No matter what reassurances Bev had given her, she’d never be able to shake the greatest fear of all. Could she be like Jane? Deep down, were there seeds that would sprout one day, changing her from what she wanted to be into what she had been born to be?

  A drunk. A cheap, bitter drunk.

  How could she escape a fate that rushed at her from all sides? Her mother, her grandfather. Her father. No matter how she blinded herself to it, she had to accept that the man she loved most was as much a slave to drink as the woman she wanted to hate.

  It terrified her.

  She didn’t want to believe it. She was afraid not to.

  No good. It did no good to dwell on it, she told herself and hung the rinsed print to dry. Emma studied it, critically, before moving back to her enlarger.

  Since she was sick of worrying about herself, she decided to worry about Marianne. Emma knew her friend had taken to cutting classes, meeting Robert Blackpool for lunch or drinks in whatever spot was currently trendy. From there they would often crawl the clubs—Elaine’s, Studio 54, Danceteria—where Blackpool could be seen.

  There were nights Marianne came in at dawn, shadow-eyed and bubbling with stones. Worse were the nights Blackpool stayed in the apartment, in Marianne’s studio. In Marianne’s bed.

  With all her heart she wanted to wish for Marianne’s happiness. Marianne was happy. She was wildly in love for the first time with a man who by all appearances adored her. She was living the exciting, glittery, and decadent life they had both pined for while trapped within Saint Catherine’s prim walls.

  It annoyed Emma to find herself jealous and critical. She resented not having Marianne to talk to, and called herself petty. It irritated her to see the glow of lovemaking on Marianne’s face. And she called herself spiteful.

  But with all that aside, Emma couldn’t make herself comfortable with Marianne’s romance. He was a gorgeous, exciting, and talented man. There was no denying that, especially as she studied the drying prints. She had agreed, with Marianne’s urging, to photograph Blackpool. He had been a perfect gentleman, Emma remembered. At ease, amusing, flattering—in the platonic manner suited to her roommate’s lover.

  Lover. With a wistful little sigh, Emma frowned at the prints. Perhaps that was the crux of it. She and Marianne had shared everything—every thought, every deed, every dream, for over ten years. This was something they couldn’t share, and Marianne’s bubbling happiness was a rub—a constant reminder of something Emma had never experienced.

  That was something to be ashamed of, she thought. She could justify her feelings day in and day out. Blackpool was too smooth, he was too experienced, he was too fond of clubs and women. His eyes were too dark when they rested on her—and too cocky when they rested on Marianne. But the truth was, she was desperately envious of Marianne.

  It didn’t matter that she didn’t like him, Emma told herself. It didn’t matter that Johnno didn’t like him and continually made snide comments about Blackpool’s penchant for leather pants and silver chains. What mattered was that Marianne was in love.

  She switched on the light, arching her back. Spending the best part of the day developing had given her a ravenous appetite. She hoped Runyun and the contact she’d made at Rolling Stone would approve of the shots she’d taken of Devastation in the recording studio.

  She was scrounging in the refrigerator for something more interesting than molding bologna when she heard the elevator open. “I hope you bought supplies,” she called out. “We’re getting down to science projects in here.”

  “Sorry.”

  Emma whipped around at Blackpool’s voice. “I thought you were Marianne.”

  “No. She gave me a key.” He smiled easily, holding it up before tucking it into his jeans. “I’d have stopped by the deli if I’d known I’d find a hungry woman.”

  “Marianne’s at class.” Emma checked her watch. “She should be back soon.”

  “I’ve got time.” He swung into the kitchen to peer over her shoulder. Emma shifted away automatically. “Pathetic,” he decided, but helped himself to the imported beer Marianne kept stocked for him. There was a brass opener screwed into the wall. He popped the top, then studied her.

  She’d scooped her hair on top of her head to keep it out of the way while she worked. At his scrutiny, she became aware that her jeans were too tight and her T-shirt too big. She dragged at it as it slipped off one shoulder.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything else.”

  He merely lifted a brow, smiled, then drank. “Don’t worry about it. Just think of me as one of the family.”

  She didn’t care to be backed into the tiny kitchen with him. When she started through the doorway he shifted just enough to have their bodies brush. It was deliberately suggestive, and shocking because he’d been nothing but the polite friend of a friend to that point. When she jerked away, he laughed.

  “Do I make you nervous, Emma?”

  “No.” It was a lie, and not a very good one. She had tried not to think of him as a man, not the way a woman thought of a man. But his thighs had been long and hard when hers had knocked against them. “Are you and Marianne going out?”

  “That’s the plan.” He had a habit of running his tongue over the top of his teeth before he smiled, like a man about to enjoy a long, succulent meal. “Want to join us?”

  “I don’t think so.” On the one occasion Marianne had talked her into going with them, Emma had found herself dragged from club to club, dodging paparazzi.

  “You don’t get out enough, sweetheart.”

  She jerked her head back when he reached out to toy with her hair. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Speaking of which, did you ever print those shots you took of me?”

  “Yes. They’re drying.”

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  With a restless move of her shoulders, she started toward her darkroom. She wasn’t afraid of him, she assured herself. If he was testing the waters to see if she wanted to make it a threesome, she would set him straight quickly enough.

  “I think you’ll be pleased,” she began.

  “Ah, but I have very high standards, Emmy luv.”

  She stiffened at the sound of the pet name, but continued on. “I tried for moody, with a touch of arrogant.”

  His breath was warm on the back of her neck. “Sexy?”

  Her shiver was quick and uncontrollable. “Some women think arrogant is sexy.”

  “And you?”

  “No.” She gestured toward the prints that hung drying. “If there’s one that suits you, I can blow it up.”

  He was distracted enough by his own image to abandon the flirtation. They’d held the shoot informally, right in the loft. He’d gone along with the idea because Marianne had been so set on it, and because he’d wanted a chance to ply a little of his charm on Emma. He preferred younger women—fresh off the farm, so to speak—particularly after the ugly breakup with his wife. She’d been thirty, sharp as a scalpel, and prone to bitchiness whenever she’d suspected him, rightly enough, of being unfaithful.

  He enjoyed Marianne’s quick enthusiasm, dry wit, and her uninhibited responses in bed. But Emma, young, quiet Emma, was a different matter. He’d wondered what it would be like to peel away that cool reserve. Certain that he could. It would make her father crazy—a fact that added to the intrigue. Blackpool had entertained more than one fantasy about luring both women into bed. Two slick, lithe bodies, two agile young students. His suspicion that Emma was as virginal as Marianne had been only heightened the appeal.

  But he put that thought aside a mom
ent and studied the shadowy black-and-white prints.

  “Marianne said you were good, but I thought that was because you’re her friend.”

  “No.” Even in the small room, Emma managed to keep at arm’s length. “I am good.”

  He laughed at that, a low rumble that rushed along her skin. When she felt her muscles tighten, she shifted farther away. Dammit, he was sexy. But beneath the primitive appeal was something that repelled her.

  “So you are, sweet thing.” When he turned she caught the light scent he carried with him—leather from his jacket, sweat, and the faint whisper of beer. “So, still waters run deep.”

  “I know my work.”

  “It’s more than work.” Casually he braced a hand against the wall and effectively trapped her. There was an element of danger here he couldn’t resist. “Photography’s an art, isn’t it? An artist is born with things other people lack.” He reached out and plucked a pin from her hair. She stood still, as jumpy and dazed as a rabbit caught in the beams of a truck. “I know. Artists recognize each other.” Slowly, he drew out another pin. “Do you recognize me, Emma?”

  She couldn’t speak or move. For an instant she couldn’t even think. As she started to shake her head, he swooped, dragging his hand through her hair, scattering pins, crushing his warm and ready mouth on hers.

  She didn’t struggle, not at first, and would always hate herself for that stunned moment of torrid pleasure. He invaded, delighted most of all by her perfect innocence. His tongue stabbed through her parted lips. As she moaned, the beginnings of a protest, his hands raced up and under her shirt and caught her breasts, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, while she fought to catch her breath.

  “No. Don’t.”

  He only laughed again. Her trembles had ignited what had only been a passing interest into real fire. He ground himself against her until her reluctant passion turned to real fear.

  “Let go of me.”

  She fought him now, nails scraping down the leather of his jacket, body bucking. When he slammed her back against the wall, bottles clattered from the shelf. Now there was terror, like an animal inside her, clawing until she couldn’t find the courage to scream. His hands were on her zipper, dragging at her jeans. She didn’t know she was weeping, or that it excited him.

  He released her to tug at his own jeans. Freed, she looked wildly for a means of escape. With terror still pumping through her, she snatched up a pair of scissors and gripped them in both hands.

  “Stay away from me.” Her voice was low and raw, as shaky as the hands that held the scissors.

  “What’s this?” He was clever enough to know that the wild look in her eyes meant she would strike first and be sorry for it later. He’d been right about the virginal part, he thought while his breath heaved. And he wanted to be the one to relieve her of the obstacle. “Defending your honor? You were ready to cast it aside a minute ago.”

  She only shook her head, jabbing with the blades as he took a cautious step forward. “Get out. I want you to get out. Don’t come near me again, or Marianne. When I tell her—”

  “You won’t tell her a thing.” Through his fury, he smiled. “If you do, you’ll only lose a friend. She’s in love with me, and she’ll believe exactly what I tell her. Imagine, coming on to your best friend’s lover.”

  “You’re a bastard, and a liar.”

  “Quite true, Emmy luv. But then you’re a frigid tease.” Calmer, he picked up his discarded beer and swigged. “And here I was, trying to do you a favor. You’ve got problems, sweetheart, big ones, but nothing a good fuck wouldn’t cure.” Still smiling, he rubbed himself. “And believe me, I’m a very good fuck. Just ask your best friend.”

  “Get out.”

  “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? Sweet little Catholic girl, all hung up in sins and those sweaty dreams you have when you listen to me upstairs with Marianne. Your kind likes it to be rape, so they can pretend they’re innocent all the time they’re screaming for more.”

  Setting her teeth, Emma looked deliberately down to where he continued to caress himself. “If I use these,” she said quietly, “I’m going straight for your balls.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing him pale at that, from rage and, she was sure, from fear. He stepped back, and the sneer that had women screaming for him sent sweat dripping down her back.

  “Bitch.”

  “Better a bitch than a eunuch,” she said calmly enough, though she was afraid the scissors would slip any moment from her nerveless fingers.

  They both heard the elevator open. They both braced.

  “Emma!” Marianne’s cheerful voice sang through the loft. “Emma, are you home?”

  Blackpool sent Emma a quick cocky look. “Right here, lover. Emma’s been showing me the prints.”

  “Oh, she’s finished them.”

  He turned and strolled out, leaving Emma to stay or to follow. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she heard him say in a voice like cool silk.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here.” The breathlessness in Marianne’s answer told Emma she was being kissed. Prying one hand from the scissors, she rubbed it hard against her mouth. “Let’s have a look at the prints.”

  “Why look at pictures when you’ve got the real thing?”

  “Robert—” Marianne’s protest ended on a muffled groan. “But Emma’s—”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s busy. I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you all day.”

  Emma stood where she was as their murmurs and whispers trailed up the stairs. Very quietly, she closed the door to the darkroom. She didn’t want to hear. She didn’t want to imagine. Her legs nearly gave out before she made it to her stool. Once there, she let the scissors drop with a ringing clatter to the floor, then curled her legs up and hugged them to her chest.

  He had touched her, she thought in disgust. He had touched her, and God help her, for a moment she’d wanted him to go on touching her. She’d wanted him to take the choice out of her hands, just as he’d accused her of. She hated him for that. And she hated herself.

  The phone beside her rang three times before she drummed up the energy to answer. “Yes.”

  “Emma—Emma is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a crackle on the line, a hesitation. “It’s Michael. Michael Kesselring.”

  She stared dully at the prints drying above her work table. “Yes, Michael.”

  “I … are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  She found she wanted to laugh then, long and loud. “No, why should anything be wrong?”

  “Well, you sound … I guess you’ve read some of the tabloids.”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  He let out a long breath. The speech he’d prepared so carefully had vanished from his mind. “I wanted to call and explain—”

  “Why? It’s none of my business what you do, or whom you do it with.” The anger she hadn’t been able to feel through fear came bubbling to the surface. “I can’t think of any reason I should care who you’re screwing. Can you?”

  “Yes. No, dammit. Emma, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  She was trembling now, but mistook grief and nerves for rage. “Are you going to tell me you haven’t slept with her?”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “Then we really have nothing more to discuss.”

  “Emma. Shit, I don’t know how all of this got so out of hand. I want to talk to you about it, but I can’t do it over the frigging phone. I can try to trade some duty, fly out for a couple of days.”

  “I won’t see you.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Emma.”

  “I won’t. There’s no reason to, Michael. As I said, you’re free to be with whomever you choose, and my blessing if you want it. I’m going to put all of that part of my life behind me. All of it. So seeing you again wouldn’t suit my plans. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” There wa
s a long, long pause. “Yes, I guess I do. Good luck, Emma.”

  “Thank you, Michael. Goodbye.”

  She was crying again, but didn’t bother to brush the tears away. Reaction, she told herself. Reaction was setting in from that horrible scene with Blackpool. She wished Michael well, she really did. Damn him and all men.

  She locked her door, turned the radio up loud, sat on the floor and wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  New York, 1986

  The loft looked as though it had been struck by a hurricane. But then, Emma supposed, Marianne had always been a strong wind. There was a scatter of papers and magazines, three empty handbags, two of which were Chinese red, a single sling-back pump of the same bold color, and a pile of records that were spread out on the floor like a deck of cards. Choosing one, Emma set it on the turntable and was met with a blast of Aretha Franklin.

  She smiled, remembering that Marianne had played it the night before while she’d finished her furious packing. It was hard to believe that both Emma and the loft would have to do without Marianne for the better part of a year.

  Emma picked up a purple silk blouse and a red Converse hightop. Two more items that had somehow escaped Marianne’s maniacal search for the essentials. The chance to study for a year in Paris, at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, was an opportunity Marianne hadn’t been able to turn down. Emma was thrilled for her—but it was hard, very hard, to stand in the middle of the loft alone.

  She remained for a moment, listening. Over the sound of Aretha was the rumble of traffic from the street below. Through the open windows she could hear the high, strong soprano of a neighboring opera student practicing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro, Maybe it was ridiculous to consider herself alone in New York, but that was precisely what she was.