Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  He wasn’t drunk. And he wasn’t stupid. In one part of her mind the terror screamed out. Someone was trying to kill her. It wasn’t her imagination. It wasn’t leftover fears. It was happening. She could see the lights, hear the crunch of metal against metal, feel her tires skid as they fought for traction.

  The car came up on her left, punching hers toward the drop. She was screaming; she could hear herself as she laid on the gas and tore around the next turn.

  She wouldn’t outrun him. Emma blinked the glaze out of her eyes and tried to think. His car was bigger, and faster. And the hunter always had the advantage over the hunted. The road cut through the hills gave her no room to maneuver, and there was no place to go but down.

  He pulled up again. She could see the dark shape of the car, creeping closer, and closer, like a spider toward a victim in the web. She shook her head, knowing at any moment he would ram her and send her crashing over the edge.

  In desperation, she jerked her car to the left, surprising him by taking the offensive. It gave her an instant, hardly more. But even as he approached again, she saw the headlights gleam from the other direction.

  On a prayer, she took her last chance and poured on the speed. The oncoming car swerved, brakes high and shrill, horn blasting. She caught a glimpse of the car behind her veering back to the right at a dangerous speed.

  For a second, she was alone, around the next turn. Then she heard the crash. It echoed with her own screams as she hurtled down the winding road toward the lights of L.A.

  McCarthy had been right. Not only did Michael feel better after a meal and an hour’s break, but he thought more clearly. As a second-generation cop, he had not only his contacts to call on, but his father’s. He made a call to Lou’s poker buddy who worked in Immigration, to his own contact in the Motor Vehicle Administration, used his father’s name with the FBI and his own with Inspector Carlson in London.

  No one was particularly pleased to be called on after hours, but the meal had made it easier for him to use charm.

  “I know it’s irregular, Inspector, and I’m sorry to bother—oh, Lord, I totally forgot the time difference. I am really sorry. Yes, well, I need some information, background stuff. Robert Blackpool. Yeah, that Blackpool. I want to know who he was before 1970, Inspector. I should be able to connect the dots after that.” He made a note to himself to contact Pete Page. “Everything you can find. I don’t know if I’ve got anything, but you’ll be the first—”

  He broke off when he saw Emma running in, glassy-eyed, with a trickle of blood on her temple.

  “Please.” She collapsed into the chair in front of his desk. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  He cut Inspector Carlson off without a word. “What happened?” He was beside her, taking her face in his hands.

  “On a road up in the hills … a car … tried to run me down.”

  “Were you hit?” He began to search frantically for broken bones.

  She heard other voices. They were crowding around her. A phone was ringing, ringing, ringing. She saw the lights revolve. The room followed it before she slid out of the chair.

  There was a cloth against her head. Cool. She moaned, reaching a hand to it as she opened her eyes.

  “You’re okay,” Michael told her. “You just passed out for a minute. Drink a little of this. It’s only water.”

  She sipped, letting her head rest against his supporting arm. She could smell him—her soap, his sweat. She was safe again. Somehow she was safe again. “I want to sit up.”

  “Okay. Take it easy.”

  She stared around, waiting to settle. She was in an office. His father’s office, she thought. She’d seen it when she’d stopped by earlier in the week, wanting to see where Michael worked. It was very plain. Brown carpet, glass walls. The blinds were closed now. His desk was ordered. There was a picture of his wife on it. Michael’s mother. Looking beyond, she saw another man, thin, balding.

  “I’m sorry. You’re Michael’s partner.”

  “McCarthy.”

  “I met you a few days ago.”

  He nodded. She might have been concussed, but she was lucid.

  “Emma.” Michael touched her cheek to make her look at him. “Tell us what happened.”

  “I thought I was imagining it.”

  “What?”

  “That someone was after me. Could I have that water?”

  “Sure.” Because her hands were shaking, he closed his over them on the cup. “Who was after you?”

  “I don’t know. Before I left London, I … maybe it was my imagination.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I thought someone was following me.” She glanced over at McCarthy, waiting to see the doubt, or the amusement. He only sat on the edge of the captain’s desk and listened. “I was almost sure of it. After so many years with bodyguards, you just know. I can’t explain it.”

  “You don’t have to,” Michael told her. “Go on.”

  She looked at him and wanted to weep because he meant it. She would never have to explain to him. “While I was in New York, I saw someone watching the loft. I was sure Da had hired someone to look out for me. But when I asked him, he said he hadn’t, so I decided I’d been wrong. The first night I was back, a car followed me home from the market.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “I was going to, but …” She trailed off again. “You were upset when you got back. And then I more or less forgot about it. I didn’t like thinking I was going crazy. I would think someone had been in the house when I’d go out, that the phone was making noises. Like it was tapped.” She closed her eyes. “Typical paranoid behavior.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Emma.”

  She nearly smiled. He never let her feel sorry for herself for long. “I can’t prove it had anything to do with tonight, but I feel it.”

  “Can you talk about it now?” He’d given her time. Now her hands were steadier and the glassy look had faded.

  “Yeah.” Taking a deep breath, she related everything that she could remember about the incident on the road. “I just kept going,” she finished. “I don’t know if anyone was hurt. That other car. I didn’t even think about it until I was nearly here. I just kept going.”

  “You did the right thing. Check out her car,” he asked McCarthy. “Emma, did you get a look at the driver?”

  “No.”

  “At the car?”

  “Yes.” Calm again, she nodded. “I made a point of looking, of trying to pick out whatever details I could. It was dark—blue or black—I can’t be sure. I don’t know much about makes and models but it was good-sized. Not a small car like mine. It could have been a … Cadillac, I think, or a Lincoln. It had L.A. plates. MBE. I think those were the letters, but in the mist I couldn’t catch the last numbers.”

  “You did great.” He kissed her. “I’m going to have someone drive you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t need the hospital.”

  He traced a fingertip over her temple. “You’ve got a major-league bump on your head.”

  “I didn’t even feel it.” Though she could now, with more clarity than was comfortable, she stood firm. “I won’t go, Michael. I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.”

  “All right. We’ll get someone to take you home and stay with you.

  “Can’t you?”

  “I’ve got to check this out,” he began, then glanced up when McCarthy came back in.

  “You must be a hell of a driver, Miss McAvoy.”

  “Emma,” she said. “I was too scared to be a bad one.”

  “Mike, I need you a minute.”

  “Just sit. I won’t be long,” he told Emma as he rose. Recognizing the look on his partner’s face, he shut the door behind him. “Well?”

  “I don’t know how the hell she managed to get through it in one piece. Car looks like she took third place in the Demolition Derby.” Casually, he laid a hand on Michael’s arm. He didn’t think his partner was qu
ite ready to take a look at it himself. “I had one of the guys check the hospitals before I took a look at her car. They just got an admission, car wreck up in the hills. Cut the guy out of a brand-new Cadillac. Blackpool,” he said and watched Michael’s eyes narrow. “He’s in a coma.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Johnno took a careful study of Emma as she came to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Don’t I look up to it?” She did a slow model’s pivot. The deep blue dress left her shoulders bare and dipped low at the back before it slid down her body, sparkling with hundreds of bugle beads.

  Her hair was scooped up in intricate tiny waves and clipped with two glittery combs. On the lapel of the silver jacket she carried was pinned the phoenix he had given her.

  “I’d best not comment what you look up to.” Still, he crossed to her to stroke a thumb over the bruise on her temple which she’d camouflaged with makeup. “You had a rough time a couple days ago.”

  “But it’s over.” She walked to the table to pour him a glass of wine. After a moment’s hesitation, she poured another for herself. “Blackpool can’t harm me from a hospital bed.” She offered Johnno a glass. “I know Michael believes he was involved with Darren’s murder, and I certainly won’t rule him out, but until he comes out of the coma—if he comes out—we won’t be sure. I’ve tried to picture him in Darren’s room that night, but I just can’t remember.”

  “There was someone else there,” he reminded her.

  “Isn’t that why I have the hottest escort in town for the awards tonight?”

  He grinned over the rim of his glass. “I doubt if I make up for Michael.”

  She set down the glass, barely touched, and picked up her evening bag. “You don’t have to make up for anyone. And he’ll get there if he can. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” He offered his arm, formally, and led her outside to the waiting limo.

  “Don’t try that shy, retiring stuff on me. I happen to know that no one loves the spotlight better.”

  It was true enough. He settled back against the cushy seat, enjoying the scent of leather and fresh flowers. But he worried. “I thought I knew the bastard,” he said half to himself. “I didn’t like him particularly, but I figured I knew him. One of the biggest pissers is I helped write his first hit.”

  “It’s a bit foolish to beat yourself up over that now.”

  “If he had anything to do with Darren …” With a shake of his head he pulled out a cigarette. “That should keep the tabloids going for years.”

  “We’ll deal with it.” She laid a hand over his. “It’s all going to come out anyway. Jane’s part in it, and Blackpool’s. We’ll just have to learn to live with it.”

  “It’s rough on Bri. Like going through it a second time.”

  “He’s stronger now.” She fingered the pin on her jacket. “I guess we all are.”

  He brought her hand to his lips. “You know, if you threw Michael over, I might just might consider changing my … style.”

  She laughed, then picked up the phone as it began to ring. “Hello. Michael.”

  Johnno sat back and watched her smile spread.

  “Yes, I’m sitting here thinking over a proposal from an incredibly attractive man. No, Johnno.” She put a hand over the receiver. “Michael wants you to know he’s got an in with the Department of Motor Vehicles and can make your life a living hell.”

  “I’ll take the bus,” Johnno decided.

  “Yes. We’re due at the theater at four. The early award ceremonies should have already started.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be there,” Michael told her. He glanced down the hospital corridor toward ICU. “If things change here, I’ll meet you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Easy for you to say. I miss my chance to ride in a limo and rub elbows with the rich and famous. If you married me, I could do it once a week.”

  “All right.”

  He caught a glimpse of a doctor coming down the corridor. “All right what?”

  “I’ll marry you.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and shifted the phone. “Excuse me?”

  She grinned foolishly at Johnno and squeezed his hand. “Have we got a bad connection?”

  “No, I … Shit, hold on.” He put a hand over the speaker to listen to the doctor. “I’ve got to go, Emma. He’s coming out of it. Listen, don’t forget where we left off. Okay?”

  “No, I won’t.” She hung up just as Johnno popped the cork on the champagne.

  “Do I get invited this time?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes. Yes.” A little dazed herself, she stared at the glass he handed her. “It was so easy.”

  “It’s supposed to be when it’s right.” Feeling a bit misty, he touched his rim to hers. “He’s the luckiest man I know.”

  “We can make it work.” She sipped, letting the wine explode on her tongue. “We will make it work.” Dreamily she settled back and didn’t give a thought to Blackpool.

  Michael thought of him. He stood at the foot of the bed and studied the man who had tried to kill Emma. He hadn’t come out of it well. His face was ruined. If he made it, he would need a series of operations to reconstruct it. His survival didn’t look promising with the internal damage he’d suffered in the crash.

  Michael didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died. He only wanted five minutes.

  He had the background report on Blackpool. It was still sketchy, but it told him enough. The man swimming toward consciousness in ICU had been born Terrance Peters. As a juvenile he’d racked up a record of petty theft, vandalism, possession. He’d graduated to assault, usually on women, dealing, and larceny before he’d changed his name and tried his hand at singing in clubs. He’d let London swallow him, and though he’d been under suspicion for a handful of robberies, he’d always slid his way out.

  His luck had turned when he’d hooked up with Jane Palmer.

  For the worse as it turned out, Michael thought. It’s taken twenty years, you sonofabitch, but we’ve got you.

  “He won’t be in any shape to talk,” the doctor pointed out. “He needs to stabilize.”

  “I’ll keep it brief.”

  “I can’t leave you alone with him.”

  “Fine. We can always use a witness.” He stepped to the side of the bed. “Blackpool.” He watched the eyes flutter, still, then flutter again. “Blackpool, I want to talk to you about Darren McAvoy.”

  Blackpool dragged his eyes open again. His vision wavered and pain ice-picked into his head. “You a cop?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Fuck off. I’m in pain.”

  “I’ll bring you a get-well card. You took a bad ride, pal. It’s touch and go.”

  “I want a doctor.”

  “I’m Dr. West, Mr. Blackpool. You’re—”

  “Get this bastard out of my face.”

  Ignoring him, Michael leaned closer. “It’s a good time to clean out your conscience.”

  “I haven’t got one.” He tried to laugh and ended up gasping.

  “Then maybe you’d like to stick it to someone else. We know about you, how you screwed up the boy’s kidnapping.”

  “She remembered.” When Michael didn’t respond, he shut his eyes. Even through the pain, he could feel hate and fury. “It figures the bitch would remember me and not him. Supposed to be a nice smooth job, he told me. Take the kid, pick up the ransom. He didn’t even want the money. Then when it was all fucked, he just walked away. Told me to clean it up. Like that guy in the kitchen who was ordering pizzas. All I had to do was whack him and keep cool and I’d have everything I wanted.”

  “Who?” Michael demanded. “Who was with you?”

  “Gave me ten thousand pounds anyway. Nowhere close to the million we were going to ask for the kid, but a nice tidy sum. Just had to keep cool and let him handle it. The kid was dead, and the girl didn’t remember. Traumatized, he called it. Little Emma
was too traumatized to remember. Nobody would ever know and he was going to see I made it to the top. On McAvoy’s coattails.”

  He laughed again and fought for breath.

  “You’ll have to leave now, Detective.”

  Michael shook the doctor off. “A name, goddammit. Give me a name. Who set it up?”

  Blackpool opened his eyes again. They were red and watery and still malicious. “Go to hell.”

  “You’re going to die for this,” Michael said between his teeth. “Either here in this bed, or breathing in a lungful of poison gas, nice and legal. But you’re going to die. You can go alone, or you can’ take him with you.”

  “You’ll take him down?”

  “Personally.”

  With a smile, Blackpool closed his eyes again. “It was Page. Pete Page. Tell him I’ll see him in hell.”

  Emma watched grips raise and lower the sliding doors at the rear of the stage. In a few hours, she realized, she would walk through the one on the right and go to the microphone. “I’m nervous,” she told Bev. “It’s silly. All I have to do is stand there and read the cue cards and hand out the awards.”

  “Hopefully to your father and Johnno. Let’s go into the dressing room. They’re too busy to use it.”

  “Don’t you want to go out front?” Emma glanced at her watch. “They’ll be starting in ten minutes.”

  “Not yet. Whoops, sorry, Annabelle.”

  Emma cursed herself for not having brought her camera. It was quite a sight, Lady Annabelle tucked into hot pink silk that dripped with sequins, changing a diaper.

  “Don’t worry. He’s nearly decent.” She picked young Samuel Ferguson up to cuddle. “We just nipped in here for a quick feed and change. I couldn’t leave him with the nanny. It didn’t seem fair that he should miss his papa’s big night.”

  Emma looked at the baby’s sleepy eyes. “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

  “Just needs a little nap.” She nuzzled again, then laid him on the sofa. “Would you mind standing guard for a few minutes? I need to find P.M.”

  “You could twist our arms,” Bev murmured, bending down to stroke the baby’s head.