by Nora Roberts
“A new beginning?”
“God no.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t want to begin again. Not for anything. Finally I know where I am and where I want to go. I don’t have to be afraid anymore. I don’t have to wonder. And I can stop blaming myself, because I didn’t run this time.”
“You were never to blame, Emma.”
“None of us were. Come inside.” She drew him into the light and the warmth. In the silence, she walked to the television and switched it on. “I want to hear them say your name.”
As she watched the set, P.M. touched her arm. “Emma.” Unable to find the words, he brought her hand to his cheek.
“Here we go, mates.” Johnno laid a hand on Brian’s shoulder as the nominees for Song of the Year were announced.
Emma held her breath, then let it out on a laugh when she heard Brian McAvoy and Johnno Donovan. “Congratulations.” She swung her arms around both of them. “Oh, I wish I could have handed it to you.”
“Next year,” Johnno said, giving her a quick, hard kiss.
“It’s a promise. It’s important,” she said, squeezing Brian’s hand. “It means something. Don’t let what happened spoil this for you, or for me.”
“No.” He relaxed, and when he smiled she watched it reach his eyes. He threw an arm around Johnno’s shoulder. “Not bad for a couple of aging rockers.”
“Mind your adjectives, Bri.” Johnno winked at Emma. “Jagger’s older.” He lifted a brow when he heard the knock on the door. “Ah, the call of the gray-eyed, infatuated copper.”
“Shut up, Johnno,” Emma said pleasantly as she hurried to answer with Conroy at her heels. “Michael.”
“Sorry it took so long.” He dragged on the dog’s collar to keep him from leaping. “Okay?”
“Sure.” She leaned down, the beads of her evening dress glinting, to rub between Conroy’s ears. “We were just passing out congratulations. Da and Johnno won Song of the Year.”
“No, we were just leaving.” Bev was already picking up her wrap. If ever she’d seen a man who wanted to be alone with a woman, it was Michael. “There’s a pot of tea in the kitchen,” she added, flicking a glance over her shoulder to get the others moving. Before Emma could protest, she pulled her close. “Time’s too precious to waste,” she murmured. “Michael.” She put her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said quietly. And pulling back, smiled. “Welcome to chaos.”
They made their way out, one at a time, while a disinterested Conroy sniffed around, then went to sleep in the corner.
“They’re quite a group,” Michael stated when the door finally closed. “No pun intended.”
“Yes, they are. You’re not going to mind having dinner with the lot of them tomorrow, are you?”
“No.” He didn’t give a hang about tomorrow. Only tonight. The way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she smiled at him. “Come here.” He held out his arms. When she was in them, he found he couldn’t let go. In the hours that had passed, he’d thought he’d calmed himself. But now, holding her, it all crashed down on him.
He’d almost lost her.
She could feel his rage building, degree by degree. “Don’t,” she murmured. “It’s over. It’s really over this time.”
“Just shut up a minute.” He brought his mouth to hers, hard, as if to convince himself she was whole, and safe, and his. “If he had—”
“He didn’t.” She lifted both hands to his face. “You saved my life.”
“Yeah.” He backed away, digging his hands into his pockets. “If you have to be grateful, could you get it over with fast?”
She tilted her head. “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come back with you.”
“I understand. Maybe it worked out for the best, gave us both a chance to settle.”
“I haven’t been able to pull that off yet.” He could still see her, teetering on the edge of the roof. Wanting to block the image, he turned to pace the room. “So, how was your day?”
She grinned. It was going to be all right. It was going to be just fine. “Dandy. Yours?”
He shrugged, kept moving, picking up little odds and ends and setting them down again. “Emma, I know you’re probably tired.”
“No, I’m not.”
“And the timing sucks.”
“No.” She smiled again. “It doesn’t.”
He turned back. She looked so beautiful, the dress shimmering down, the light from the fire catching in her hair, glowing on her skin. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. We haven’t had a lot of time to let things just happen. I’d like to say that I’m ready to give you that time.” He picked up a crystal butterfly, then set it down. “I’m not.”
“Michael, if I wanted time, I’d take it.” She stepped toward him. “What I want is you.”
After a long breath he took a small box out of his pocket. “I bought this months ago. I’d wanted to give it to you for Christmas, but I didn’t think you’d take it then. I’d figured on being traditional, having a candlelight dinner, music, the works.” With a half-laugh, he turned the box over in his hand. “I guess it’s a little late to start being traditional now.”
“Are you going to give it to me?”
With a nod, he held it out.
“I’d like to say something before I open it.” Carefully, she studied his face, every inch, every angle. “If this had happened five or six years ago, I wouldn’t have appreciated it, or you, the way I can tonight.”
Her hands weren’t steady. She let out a frustrated breath as she fumbled with the lid. “Oh, Michael, it’s lovely.” She looked up from the ring. “Absolutely lovely.”
“Be damn sure,” he told her. “You take it, and that’s it.”
She strangled on a laugh. “That’s the most romantic proposal a woman could possibly dream of.”
“I’ve already asked you too many times.” He cupped the back of her head in his hand. “How’s this?” The kiss was soft, gentle, and promising. “No one’s ever going to love you more than I do. I only want a lifetime to prove it.”
“That’s good.” She blinked back a film of tears. “That’s very good.” Taking the ring from the box, she studied it. “Why three circles?” she asked, running a fingertip around the trio of linked diamond spheres.
“One’s your life, one’s mine.” He took it from her and slipped it onto her finger. “And one’s the life we’ll make together. We’ve been connected for a long time.”
She nodded, then looking up, reached out to him. “I want to start on that third circle, Michael. Right away.”
For my first hero, my father
SACRED SINS
A Bantam Book
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1987 by Nora Roberts
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-56818-2
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Random House, Inc., New York, New York.
v3.1
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Sacred Sins
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
>
Chapter 18
Dedication
Chapter 1
August fifteenth. It was a day following other days of sweat and hazy skies. There were no puffy white clouds or balmy breezes, only a wall of humidity nearly thick enough to swim in.
Reports on the six and eleven o’clock news glumly promised more to come. In the long, lazy last days of summer, the heat wave moving into its second, pitiless week was the biggest story in Washington, D.C.
The Senate was adjourned until September, so Capitol Hill moved sluggishly. Relaxing before a much touted European trip, the President cooled off at Camp David. Without the day-to-day shuffle of politics, Washington was a city of tourists and street vendors. Across from the Smithsonian, a mime performed for a sticky crowd that had stopped more to catch its collective breath than in appreciation of art. Pretty summer dresses wilted, and children whined for ice cream.
The young and the old flocked to Rock Creek Park, using the shade and water as a defense against the heat. Soft drinks and lemonade were consumed by the gallon, beer and wine downed in the same quantity, but less conspicuously. Bottles had a way of disappearing when park police cruised by. During picnics and cookouts people mopped sweat, charred hot dogs, and watched babies in diapers toddle on the grass. Mothers shouted at children to stay away from the water, not to run near the road, to put down a stick or a stone. The music from portable radios was, as usual, loud and defiant; hot tracks, the deejays called them, and reported temperatures in the high nineties.
Small groups of students drew together, some sitting on the rocks above the creek to discuss the fate of the world, others sprawled on the grass, more interested in the fate of their tans. Those who could spare the time and the gas had fled to the beach or the mountains. A few college students found the energy to throw Frisbees, the men stripping down to shorts to show off torsos uniformly bronzed.
A pretty young artist sat under a tree and sketched idly. After several attempts to draw her attention to the biceps he’d been working on for six months, one of the players took a more obvious route. The Frisbee landed on her pad with a plop. When she looked up in annoyance, he jogged over. His grin was apologetic, and calculated, he hoped, to dazzle.
“Sorry. Got away from me.”
After pushing a fall of dark hair over her shoulder, the artist handed the Frisbee back to him. “It’s all right.” She went back to her sketching without sparing him a glance.
Youth is nothing if not tenacious. Hunkering down beside her, he studied her drawing. What he knew about art wouldn’t have filled a shot glass, but a pitch was a pitch. “Hey, that’s really good. Where’re you studying?”
Recognizing the ploy, she started to brush him off, then looked up long enough to catch his smile. Maybe he was obvious, but he was cute. “Georgetown.”
“No kidding? Me too. Pre-law.”
Impatient, his partner called across the grass. “Rod! We going for a brew or not?”
“You come here often?” Rod asked, ignoring his friend. The artist had the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen.
“Now and again.”
“Why don’t we—”
“Rod, come on. Let’s get that beer.”
Rod looked at his sweaty, slightly overweight friend, then back into the cool brown eyes of the artist. No contest. “I’ll catch you later, Pete,” he called out, then let the Frisbee go in a high, negligent arch.
“Finished playing?” the artist asked, watching the flight of the Frisbee.
He grinned, then touched the ends of her hair. “Depends.”
Swearing, Pete started off in pursuit of the disk. He’d just paid six bucks for it. After nearly tripping over a dog, he scrambled down a slope, hoping the Frisbee wouldn’t land in the creek. He’d paid a lot more for his leather sandals. It circled toward the water, making him curse out loud, then hit a tree and careened off into some bushes. Dripping sweat and thinking about the cold Moosehead waiting for him, Pete shoved at branches and cleared his way.
His heart stopped, then sent the blood beating in his head. Before he could draw breath to yell, his lunch of Fritos and two hot dogs came up, violently.
The Frisbee had landed two feet from the edge of the creek. It lay new and red and cheerful on a cold white hand that seemed to offer it back.
She had been Carla Johnson, a twenty-three-year-old drama student and part-time waitress. Twelve to fifteen hours before, she had been strangled with a priest’s amice. White, edged in gold.
Detective Ben Paris slumped at his desk after finishing his written report on the Johnson homicide. He’d typed the facts, using two fingers in a machine gun style. But now they played back to him. No sexual assault, no apparent robbery. Her purse had been under her, with twenty-three dollars and seventy-six cents and a MasterCard in it. An opal ring that would have hocked for about fifty had still been on her finger. No motive, no suspects. Nothing.
Ben and his partner had spent the afternoon interviewing the victim’s family. An ugly business, he thought. Necessary, but ugly. They had unearthed the same answers at every turn. Carla had wanted to be an actress. Her life had been her studies. She had dated, but not seriously—she’d been too devoted to an ambition she would never achieve.
Ben skimmed the report again and lingered over the murder weapon. The priest’s scarf. There had been a note pinned next to it. He’d knelt beside her himself hours before to read it.
Her sins are forgiven her.
“Amen,” Ben murmured, and let out a long breath.
It was after one A.M. on the second week of September when Barbara Clayton cut across the lawn of the Washington Cathedral. The air was warm, the stars brilliant, but she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. As she walked she muttered bad-temperedly. She’d give that ferret-faced mechanic an earful in the morning. Fixed the transmission good as new. What a crock. Damn good thing she only had a couple more blocks to walk. Now she’d have to take the bus to work. The ugly, grease-smeared sonofabitch was going to pay. A shooting star exploded and trailed across the sky in a brilliant arch. She never even noticed.
Nor did the man who watched her. He’d known she’d come. Hadn’t he been told to keep watch? Wasn’t his head, even now, almost bursting from the pressure of the Voice? He’d been chosen, given the burden and the glory.
“Dominus vobiscum,” he murmured, then gripped the smooth material of the amice tightly in his hands.
And when his task was complete, he felt the hot rush of power. His loins exploded. His blood sang. He was clean. And so, now, was she. Slowly, gently, he ran his thumb over her forehead, her lips, her heart, in the sign of the cross. He gave her absolution, but quickly. The Voice had warned him there were many who wouldn’t understand the purity of the work he did.
Leaving her body in the shadows, he walked on, eyes bright with the tears of joy and madness.
“The media’s crawling up our backs with this one.” Captain Harris slammed a fist on the newspaper spread over his desk. “The whole goddamn city’s in a panic. When I find out who leaked this priest business to the press …”
He trailed off, drawing himself in. It wasn’t often he came that close to losing control. He might sit behind a desk, but he was a cop, he told himself, a damn good one. A good cop didn’t lose control. To give himself time, he folded the paper, letting his gaze drift over the other cops in the room. Damn good ones, Harris admitted. He wouldn’t have tolerated less.
Ben Paris sat on the corner of the desk, toying with a Lucite paperweight. Harris knew him well enough to understand that Ben liked something in his hands when he was thinking. Young, Harris reflected, but seasoned with ten years on the force. A solid cop, if a bit loose on procedure. The two citations for bravery had been well earned. When things were less tense, it even amused Harris that Ben looked like the Hollywood screenwriter’s version of an undercover cop—lean-faced, strong-boned, dark, and wiry. His hair was full and too long to be conventional, but it was cut in one of those fancy little sho
ps in Georgetown. He had pale green eyes that didn’t miss what was important.
In a chair, three feet of leg spread out before him, sat Ed Jackson, Ben’s partner. At six-five and two hundred fifty pounds, he could usually intimidate a suspect on sight. Whether by whim or design, he wore a full beard that was as red as the curly mane of hair on his head. His eyes were blue and friendly. At fifty yards he could put a hole in the eagle of a quarter with his Police Special.
Harris set the paper aside, but didn’t sit. “What’ve you got?”
Ben tossed the paperweight from hand to hand before he set it down. “Other than build and coloring, there’s no connection between the two victims. No mutual friends, no mutual hangouts. You’ve got the rundown on Carla Johnson. Barbara Clayton worked in a dress shop, divorced, no kids. Family lives in Maryland, blue collar. She’d been seeing someone pretty heavily up to three months ago. Things fizzled, he moved to L.A. We’re checking on him, but he looks clean.”
He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and caught his partner’s eye.
“That’s six,” Ed said easily. “Ben’s trying to get under a pack a day,” he explained, then took up the report himself.
“Clayton spent the evening in a bar on Wisconsin. Kind of a girls’ night out with a friend who works with her. Friend says Clayton left about one. Her car was found broken down a couple blocks from the hit. Seems she’s been having transmission problems. Apparently, she decided to walk from there. Her apartment’s only about half a mile away.”
“The only things the victims had in common were that they were both blond, white, and female.” Ben drew in smoke hard, let it fill up his lungs, then released it. “Now they’re dead.”
In his territory, Harris thought, and took it personally. “The murder weapon, the priest’s scarf.”