Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  He kissed her, gently, on the temple. “I know it must have been rough for you, and for him, but it happened a long time ago.”

  “Some things you don’t ever forget.” She shivered, suddenly cold in the warm summer night. “It’s because I understand how he feels that it’s so difficult for me. He’s done everything for me, not just materially, but in every way.”

  “He adores you. You can see it every time he looks at you.” Smiling again, he brushed a hand over her cheek. “I know just how he feels.”

  “I love him, too. Still, I know that I can’t go on living my life to please him. I’ve known that for a long time.”

  “He doesn’t trust me.” His lighter flared, followed by the sharp sting of tobacco. “I don’t blame him. From where he stands I’m on the first rung of the ladder, still fighting my way up.”

  “You don’t need me to reach the top.”

  He blew out a stream of smoke. “Still, I see where he’s coming from. It’s easy since we’re both crazy about you.”

  She moved to him then to press a kiss against his shoulder. “He’ll come around, Drew. He’s just not ready to admit that I’m grown-up. And in love.”

  “If anyone can soften him up, it’s you.” He flicked his cigarette away, then turned her into his arms. “I’m glad you didn’t want to go out tonight.”

  “I’m not big on clubs and parties.”

  “Just an old-fashioned girl, aren’t you?” His lips were curved as they touched hers.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Spending the evening alone with you?” His hands moved up and down her rib cage as he toyed with her mouth. “Do I look crazy?”

  “You look wonderful.” Her breath caught as he skimmed his fingers over her breasts. She was small and firm. He felt himself harden as she trembled against him.

  “Sweet,” he murmured. “Always so sweet.” His mouth grew hungrier on hers, more demanding, less patient as he circled her off the balcony and toward the bed. “The tour’s nearly over.”

  “Yes.” She let her head fall back when his lips raced down her throat.

  “Will you come back to London when it’s done, Emma?”

  She shuddered again. It was the first hint he’d given her that he meant what they had to last. “Yes. I’ll come to London.”

  “We’ll have nights like this.” He lowered her to the bed, keeping his voice soothing, his hands easy, not wanting to break the mood. “Night after night together.” Smoothly, his clever hands tugged her blouse from the waistband of her slacks. “I’ll be able to show you, over and over, how I feel about you. How much I want you. Let me show you, Emma.”

  “Drew.” She moaned his name as his mouth roamed lower, as his tongue stroked over and under the slope of her breast. The pleasure and the passion streaked into her. This time, she told herself as his long, callused fingers glided over her skin. This time.

  She could feel the tension in his shoulders where her own hands gripped. He had strong shoulders, strong arms for such a slim, delicate-looking man. She loved feeling the bunch and flow of his muscles.

  Then his hand roamed down to the waist of her slacks. Those clever fingers fumbled impatiently with hooks.

  “No.” She hated herself as the word burst out, but she couldn’t stop it. When he continued to tug, his mouth coming back to close over hers, she struggled. “No, Drew, please.” She was on the verge of tears when she managed to pull away. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I’m so sorry. I’m just not ready.”

  He didn’t speak. She couldn’t see his face. In the dark, she huddled on the bed until her system leveled.

  “I know I’m not being fair.” Annoyed with herself, she dashed a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know whether the nuns did a better job than they could ever imagine or if it’s because of Da, but I need more time. You’ve every right to be angry, but I just can’t do this. Not yet.”

  “You don’t want me?” His voice was quiet and oddly flat.

  “You know I do.” She groped for his hand and tried to soothe his rigid fingers in hers. “I guess I’m a little frightened, and a little unsure.” Ashamed, she brought his hand to her lips. “I don’t want to lose you, Drew. Please, give me a little more time.”

  Her sigh shuddered out when she felt his hand relax in hers. “You couldn’t lose me, Emma. Take all the time you need. I can wait.” He brought her close, stroking with one hand. The other curled into a tight fist in the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It felt odd spending the summer in London again. During her childhood at least a few weeks of Emma’s vacation had been spent there each year. But it was different now. She was no longer a child. She was no longer staying in her father’s home. And she was in love.

  She knew Drew was hurt that she had refused to move in with him. It wasn’t morals—or perhaps only a small part of it was morals. She wanted the romance to go on a little longer—those lush bouquets he sent to her, the funny notes that arrived in the mail or were slipped under the door. She wanted time to enjoy it—the thrill of falling in love. The terror of being in love. The glassy-eyed, light-headed exhilaration that every woman has the right to experience at least once.

  And most of all, she wanted time to be sure she had at last stepped out from her father’s shadow.

  She didn’t love Brian any less. Emma doubted she could. But she’d discovered that she wanted more than her photographs to stand on their own. Then there was Bev.

  For most of her life Emma had been cheated out of a mother. In the weeks as summer drifted into fall, she made up for a longing of a lifetime by moving into one of Bev’s guest rooms.

  If Drew was impatient with her, she had to put him off. She needed this time with Bev, not to feel like a child again, but to reforge a bond. How could her new relationship work if she left older ones unresolved?

  She had her work. The city where her father had spent his childhood caught her imagination. Emma could spend hours scouring the streets and parks, finding subjects. An old woman who came day after day to feed pigeons in Green Park. The ultratrendy set who walked Labradors or pushed prams along King’s Road. The tough-faced punks who haunted the clubs.

  So she stayed on, a month, then two months longer. She celebrated with Drew when Birdcage Walk’s album settled into Billboard’s number twelve slot. She watched in amusement as Lady Annabelle ruthlessly pursued a baffled P.M. She cut asters and mums from Bev’s garden. And at last, she took a step forward and submitted prints and a book proposal to a publisher.

  “I’m meeting Drew at seven,” Emma called out as she tugged on a short suede jacket. “We’re going to dinner and a film.”

  “Have fun.” Bev gathered up an armful of samples. “Where are you off to now?”

  “Stevie’s.”

  “I thought he was under the weather.”

  “Apparently he’s on the mend.” She took time for a quick glimpse in the hallway mirror. The deep, bold blue of the suede picked up the color of her eyes. “I have the last lot of prints from the tour. Da’s meeting me there so we can all argue about which ones are best.”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Lady Annabelle.” Bev rolled her eyes. Behind Emma, she glanced in the mirror, pausing to tighten her left earring. “I’m not sure if she wants me to decorate her parlor, or just pump me for information about how P.M. is in bed.”

  Emma tucked her portfolio under her arm. “You don’t think she already knows?”

  Bev considered, then grinned. “I’ll certainly find out soon enough.” She gave Emma a quick kiss on the cheek, then dashed.

  Moments later, Emma popped into her Aston Martin. She tried to imagine sweet, self-effacing P.M. with the brash, overdressed Lady Annabelle. She couldn’t. Then again, she’d never been able to see him with Angie Parks.

  She fought the traffic in grim, British style. She was glad that Drew and his band had signed with Pete Page. If anyone could help push Birdcage Walk to the top, it was Pete. Look what he’d done for Black
pool, she thought with a sneer. The man was making a bloody fortune doing commercials. She was well aware how furious Pete had been when Brian had refused to endorse products or lend his music to television ads—tossing away worldwide exposure and millions of pounds. But she was proud of him. Leave it to Blackpool, she thought nastily, then pulled into Stevie’s estate.

  She’d been pleased when he’d bought the old Victorian home and rolling grounds. He’d even taken up gardening and had appeared on Bev’s doorstep with book after book on roses, soil, and rock gardens. It was no longer a secret that his health was poor, but Pete, being Pete, had managed to keep the cause of it out of the press.

  Emma had been afraid the tour would exhaust Stevie, but he’d made it through. Now he was writing again, and gearing up to join Brian at some of the benefits her father could never say no to.

  Emma thought Brian was truly in his element now. Rock had embraced causes to its gritty bosom. In Europe and America, musicians were organizing to do something new with their talents. Benefits to aid causes from drought-ridden Ethiopia to the struggling farmers in America were as much a part of the eighties scene as political rallies and love-ins had been in the sixties. The glory, and arguably self-indulgent days, of Woodstock were over. Rockers had taken up the cause of humanity and were clasping it to their sweaty bosoms. She was proud to be a part of it, to record the changes, and her view of them.

  At the end of the walk a barrel of violas drooped in the full sun. With a shake of her head, Emma shifted them under the slanted shade of the eaves. Apparently, Stevie hadn’t read his garden books carefully enough.

  She pressed the doorbell. Since her father’s car was nowhere in sight, she hoped Stevie might feel up to taking her for a tour of his gardens.

  The housekeeper opened the door and eyed Emma with both impatience and distrust.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Freemont.”

  Mrs. Freemont’s dusty brown hair was secured in a no-nonsense bun. She might have been anywhere from forty to sixty and kept her sturdy, bullet-shaped body primly attired in good black wool. She had done day work for Stevie for over five years, mopped up his blood and vomit, carted out his empty bottles, and looked the other way when her housekeeping duties brought her in contact with suspicious-looking vials.

  Some might have been duped into believing she was devoted to her employer. The staunch Mrs. Freemont was only devoted to the hefty salary Stevie paid her in return for minding her own business.

  She sniffed as she opened the door for Emma. “He’s around somewhere. Probably bed. I ain’t got to the upstairs yet.”

  Old bat, Emma thought, but smiled politely. “That’s all right. He’s expecting me.”

  “None of my concern,” Mrs. Freemont said righteously and went off to attack some defenseless table with her dustcloth.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Emma said to the empty hall. “I’ll just find my own way up.”

  She started up the old oak stairs, unbuttoning her jacket as she went. “Stevie! Make yourself decent. I haven’t all day.”

  It was a huge barn of a house, which was one of the reasons it appealed to Emma. The paneling along the wide second-floor corridor was mahogany; the gleaming brass fixtures and glass globes bolted to it had once burned gas. It made her think of the old Ingrid Bergman movie in which Boyer, playing against type, had plotted to drive his innocent wife mad. The comparison might have been apt, but for the fact that Stevie had amused himself by hanging Warhol and Dalí lithographs between the lights.

  She could hear the music, and with a sigh, Emma knocked, shook her stinging knuckles, and knocked again.

  “Come on, Stevie. Rise and shine.”

  When he didn’t answer, she sent up one quick but fervent prayer that he was alone, then pushed open the door.

  “Stevie?”

  The room was empty—the shades drawn and the air stale. She frowned at the rumpled bed, and at the half bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the eighteenth-century table beside it. Swearing, she marched over and lifted it, but she was too late to save the glossy old cherry from the white ring. Still, she set the bottle on a crumpled copy of Billboard before she put her hands on her hips.

  All the progress he’d made, she thought, and now he’d pumped whiskey into his belly. Why couldn’t he understand that he’d already damaged himself so badly that the booze was just as much a killer to him as the drugs.

  So he’d gotten drunk last night, she thought as she sent the shades flapping up and pushed windows open. Then he’d probably crawled off to be sick. Asleep on the bathroom floor, she decided. And if he’d caught his death of cold, it would be well deserved. She’d be damned if she’d feel sorry for him.

  She pushed open the adjoining door.

  Blood. And sickness. And urine. The stench had her stumbling back, gagging. She felt the bile rush up her throat, stared at the red and gray spots that danced in front of her eyes. She fell against the stereo, sending the needle raking across the vinyl. The sudden silence hit her like a slap. On a cry of alarm, she rushed forward to bend over the body sprawled on the floor.

  He was naked, and so cold. Terrified, she heaved until she turned him onto his back. She saw the syringe, and the revolver.

  “No. Oh God, no.” Panicked, she searched for a wound, then for a pulse. She found the first, but it was only the tragic marks of the needle. The sob burst out of her when she found the second, faint and delicate, at his throat.

  “Stevie, oh God, Stevie, what have you done?”

  She raced to the doorway, to the top of the stairs. “Call an ambulance!” she screamed. “Call a bloody ambulance, and hurry!”

  As she ran back, she tore the quilt from the bed to cover him. His face was the color of paste made from water and ashes. The sight of it, of his skin still smeared with blood from the needle, terrified her more than his deathlike stillness. On his forehead, just above his eyebrows, was a nasty gash. Snatching a washcloth, she pressed it against the wound.

  When he was covered, she began to slap her open palm over his face.

  “Wake up, goddamn you, Stevie. Wake up. I’m not going to let you die this way.” She shook him, slapped him, then broke down and wept against his chest. Her stomach pitched and she bit down furiously on nausea. “Please, please, please,” she repeated, like a chant. She remembered how Darren had been found, lying alone, a syringe on the turkey rug. “No. No. You’re not going to die on me.” She stroked his hair, then pressed her fingers against his throat again. This time there was nothing.

  “Bastard!” She shouted at him, then tossed the quilt aside and began pumping on his frail chest. “You’re not going to do this to me, to Da, to all of us.” She pulled his mouth open to breathe into it, then shifted back to push with the heels of her hands. “You hear me? Stevie,” she panted. “You come back.”

  She pushed the air from her lungs to his, pumped the thin and frail area between his breasts. Threatening, pleading, cursing, she fought to pull him back. The tile bit into her knees, but she didn’t notice. So intent was she on his face, on praying for one flicker of life, that she forgot where she was. Memories scrambled through her head—of Stevie in white, singing in the garden. Of him standing onstage, colored lights and smoke, dragging feverish music from a six-string guitar. Board games in front of the fire. An arm around her shoulders, and a teasing question.

  Who’s the best, Emmy luv?

  Only one dear thought ran over and over in her mind. She would not lose someone else she loved this way, this useless way.

  The sweat was rolling off her when she heard the footsteps running up the stairs.

  “In here. Hurry. Oh God, Da!”

  “Oh sweet Jesus.” He was down beside her in an instant.

  “I found him—he was alive. Then he stopped breathing.” The muscles in her arms screamed as she continued to pump. “The ambulance. Did she call the ambulance?”

  “She called Pete. Got us on his car phone.”

  “Goddammit. I told her to c
all an ambulance. He needs an ambulance.” Her head flashed up, her eyes met Pete’s. “Damn you, can’t you see he’s going to die if he doesn’t get help? Call.”

  He nodded. He had no intention of calling an ambulance. A public ambulance. But instead, walked quickly to phone a discreet and very private clinic.

  “Stop, Emma. Stop, he’s breathing.”

  “I can’t—”

  Brian took her arms, felt the muscles tremble. “You’ve done it, baby. He’s breathing.”

  Dazed, she stared down at the shallow but steady rise and fall of Stevie’s chest.

  Sometimes he screamed. Sometimes he cried. While Stevie’s body detoxed, new pains snuck in. Little imps of torment, pulsing in the abscesses along his arms, in the tender flesh he’d abused—between his toes, in his groin. They capered along his skin, first hot, then cold. He could see them, sometimes he could actually see them, with their tiny red eyes and hungry mouths, tap-dancing over his body before they plunged their teeth into him.

  Hysteria would follow, with a manic strength that forced the staff to restrain him to the bed. Then he would become quiet, descend into an almost trancelike state where he would stare for hours on end at a single spot on the wall.

  When he lapsed into those long silences, he would remember drifting, peacefully, painlessly. Then Emma’s voice, angry, hurt, frightened, demanding that he come back. And he had. Then there had been pain again, and no peace at all.

  He begged whoever was in the room with him to let him go, to score for him. He promised outrageous amounts of money then swore viciously when his demands went unanswered. He didn’t want to come back to the world of the living. When he refused to eat, they fed him through a tube.

  They used an antihypertensive medication to trick his brain into believing he wasn’t going cold turkey. With that they mixed naltrexone, a nonaddicting opiate antagonist to make his body believe he wasn’t getting high. Stevie craved the seductive hazy escape of heroin and the quick buzz of cocaine.