Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “It must have been the woman on the other side of you.”

  “I was sitting on the aisle.”

  “She had a long reach. You missed the turn to my apartment.”

  “I didn’t miss it. I didn’t take it. You said you weren’t tired.”

  “I’m not.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt more awake, more alive. The song seemed to be playing just under her skin, promising romance and exquisite heartache. She’d always thought the first was somehow imcomplete without the second. “Are we going somewhere?”

  “A little place I know where the music’s good and they don’t water down the liquor.”

  She ran her tongue over her teeth. “I’d like that.” She was in the mood for music, something bluesy maybe, with the ache of a tenor sax. “I suppose in a professional capacity you’re well acquainted with the local bars.”

  “I’ve got a working knowledge.” He punched in his car lighter. “You’re not the bar type.”

  Interested, she faced him. His profile was in shadows, struck intermittently by streetlights. It was funny how sometimes he looked safe, solid, the kind of man a woman might run to if it were dark. Then the light struck his face another way, and the planes and angles were highlighted. A woman might run from him. She shook off the thought. She’d made a policy not to analyze men she dated. Too often you learned more than you wanted to know.

  “Is there a type?”

  “Yeah.” And he knew them all. “You’re not it. Hotel lounge. Champagne cocktails at the Mayflower or the Hotel Washington.”

  “Now who’s doing psychological profiles, Detective?”

  “You’ve got to be able to type people in my business, Doc.” He pulled up and maneuvered into a space between a Honda three-wheeler and a Chevette hatchback. Before he turned off the key, he wondered if he was making a mistake.

  “What’s this?”

  “This.” He pulled out the keys but left them jingling in his hand. “Is where I live.”

  She looked out the window at a four-story apartment building with faded red brick and green awnings. “Oh.”

  “I don’t have any champagne.”

  Her decision. She understood him well enough to understand that. But she understood little else about him. The car was warm and quiet. Safe. Inside, she didn’t know what to expect. She knew herself well enough to understand how seldom she took risks. Maybe it was time.

  “You have scotch?” She turned back to see his smile.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The air snapped cold the moment she stepped from the car. Winter wasn’t going to wait for the calendar, she thought, then shuddered, thinking of another calendar, one with the Madonna and Child on the cover. The little twist of fear had her looking up and down the street. A block away a truck let out a blast of exhaust.

  “Come on.” Ben stood in a pool of light from a streetlamp; the light bounced from the planes of his face. “You’re cold.”

  “Yes.” She shivered again when his arm went around her shoulders.

  He led her inside. There were about a dozen mail slots against one wall. The pale green carpet was clean but almost threadbare. There was no lobby, no security guard at a desk, only a dim set of stairs.

  “It’s certainly a quiet building,” she said as they climbed to the second floor.

  “Everybody here pretty much minds their own business.”

  There was a faint scent of cooking in the hall when he stopped to unlock his door. The light overhead winked weakly.

  His apartment was tidier than she’d expected. It was more than just a general preconception of a man living alone, Tess realized. Ben seemed too relaxed and casual in other areas to bother clearing dust or old magazines. Then she decided she was wrong. The room might be clean, but it did reflect his style.

  The sofa was the dominant piece of furniture. Low and far from new, it was plumped with throw pillows. A Dagwood couch, Tess thought. One that simply begged you to relax and take a nap. There were posters rather than paintings. Toulouse-Lautrec’s cancan dancers, a single woman’s leg standing in a four inch heel, skimmed at the thigh with white lace. There was a Dieffenbachia thriving away in a plastic margarine bowl. And books. One wall was nearly filled with them. Delighted, she pulled out a worn hardbacked copy of East of Eden. As Ben’s hands went to her shoulders, she opened the flyleaf.

  “To Ben.” She read the spiky, feminine handwriting. “Kiss, kiss. Bambi.” Putting her tongue in her cheek, she closed it. “Bambi?”

  “Used bookstore.” He removed her jacket. “Fascinating places. Never can tell what you’ll pick up.”

  “Did you pick up the book or Bambi?”

  “Never mind.” He took the copy from her and stuck it back on the shelf.

  “Do you know, one gets an immediate mental image from certain names?”

  “Yeah. Scotch, straight up, right?”

  “Right.” A streak of gray whizzed by and landed on a red pillow. “A cat too?” Amused, Tess strolled over to stroke it. “What’s his name?”

  “Her. She proved that by having kittens in the bathtub last year.” The cat rolled over so Tess could scratch her belly. “I call her D.C.”

  “As in Washington?”

  “As in Dumb Cat.”

  “It’s a wonder she doesn’t have a complex.” Running her hands over the rounded belly again, Tess wondered if she should warn him he’d be getting another litter of gifts in a month or so.

  “She runs into walls. On purpose.”

  “I could refer you to an excellent pet psychologist.”

  He laughed, but wasn’t entirely sure she was joking. “I’d better get those drinks.”

  When he went into the kitchen, she rose to look at his view from the window. The streets weren’t as quiet as her neighborhood. Traffic moved by at a steady clip, droning and grunting along. He wouldn’t take himself far from the action, she thought, and remembered she hadn’t paid any attention to what direction he’d taken. She could be anywhere in the city. She expected un-ease, and instead felt a sense of freedom.

  “I promised you music.”

  She turned and looked at him. The simple dun-colored sweater and faded jeans he wore suited him. She’d thought once that he understood himself very well. Now it would be foolish to deny that she wanted to understand him.

  “Yes, you did.”

  He handed her a glass and thought about how different she was, and how different she looked from any other woman he’d brought here. That quiet class of hers demanded that a man swallow his lust and take the whole person. Wondering if he was ready to, he set down his own glass and flipped through his records.

  When he set one on the turntable, Tess heard the brassy heat of jazz. “Leon Redbone,” she said.

  He shook his head as he turned toward her. “You keep surprising me.”

  “My grandfather’s one of his biggest fans.” Sipping her drink, she walked over to pick up the album cover. “It seems the two of you have quite a lot in common.”

  “Me and the senator?” Ben laughed before he sipped his vodka. “I’ll bet.”

  “I’m serious. You’ll have to meet him.”

  Meeting a woman’s family was something he associated with wedding rings and orange blossoms. He’d always avoided it. “Why don’t we—” The phone rang and he swore, setting down his glass. “I’d ignore it, but I’m on call.”

  “You don’t have to explain those things to a doctor.”

  “Yeah.” He picked up the phone beside the couch. “Paris. Oh, yeah. Hi.”

  It didn’t take a trained psychiatrist to understand there was a woman on the other end. Tess smiled into her drink and went back to the view.

  “No, I’ve been tied up. Look, sugar—” The minute the word was out, he winced. Tess kept her back to him. “I’m on a case, you know? No, I didn’t forget about … I didn’t forget. Listen, I’ll have to get back to you when things lighten up. I don’t know, weeks, maybe months. You
really ought to try that marine. Sure. See ya.” He hung up, cleared his throat, and reached for his drink again. “Wrong number.”

  It was so easy to laugh. She turned, leaned against the windowsill, and gave in to it. “Oh, really?”

  “Enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  “Immensely.”

  “If I’d known you’d get such a kick out of it, I’d have invited her up.”

  “Ah, the male ego.” With one hand crossed over her body, she lifted the drink again. She was still laughing at him. The humor didn’t fade when he walked over and took the drink from her hand. The warm, approachable look was back. He felt the pull of it, the danger of it, the need for it.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “So am I.”

  “You know, Doc …” He let his fingers play through her hair. The gesture was as friendly as before, but not as cautious. “There’s one thing we haven’t done together.”

  She withdrew at that. He sensed it though she hadn’t moved away. He continued to toy with her hair as he drew her closer. His breath brushed over her lips.

  “Dance,” he murmured, and laid his cheek against hers. Whether her sigh was of pleasure or relief, he didn’t know, but she was nearly relaxed against him. “There’s something I’ve noticed about you.”

  “What?”

  “You feel good.” His lips moved over her ear as they swayed, hardly moving from one spot. “Real good.”

  “Ben—”

  “Relax.” He made long slow strokes up her back and down again. “Another thing I’ve noticed is that you don’t relax much.”

  His body was hard against hers, his lips warm against her temple. “At the moment, it isn’t easy.”

  “Good.” He liked the way her hair smelled, fresh and rich without the overlay of scented shampoos, gels, and sprays. From the easy way her body blended with his, he knew she wore nothing but skin under the sweater. He imagined away the layer of material and let the heat rise.

  “You know, Doc, I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  Her eyes were nearly closed, but it wasn’t because of relaxation. “You’ve got a lot on your mind with this case.”

  “Yeah. But there’s something else that’s been on my mind.”

  “What?”

  “You.” He drew her back a little. Eyes open and on hers, he teased her mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I think I have a problem.”

  “I … my caseload’s pretty heavy right now.”

  “Private sessions.” As he’d wanted to all evening, he slipped his hands under her sweater and let her skin warm him. “Starting tonight.”

  She felt the ridge of callus below his fingers rub up her spine. “I don’t think—” But he stopped her with a kiss, a long, slow melding of lips that had his own heart racing. There was a hesitation in her that licked at his desire. She’d been a challenge from the beginning, and maybe a mistake. He was beyond caring.

  “Stay with me, Tess.”

  “Ben.” She drew out of his arms, wanting the distance, and the control. “I think we’re rushing this.”

  “I’ve wanted you from the start.” It wasn’t his style to admit it, but this wasn’t the usual game.

  She dragged a hand through her hair. She thought of the inscription in the book, the phone call. “I don’t take sex lightly, I can’t.”

  “I’m not taking you lightly. I wish I could. It’s probably a mistake.” He looked at her again, fragile, delicate, elegant. It would be, could be, no fling, no easy romp in the sack with no morning repercussions. “I don’t give a damn, Tess.” Determined, but somehow less sure of himself, he took a step closer to frame her face in his hands. “I don’t want to go another night without you.” He bent to kiss her. “Stay.”

  He lit candles in the bedroom. The music had stopped, and it was so quiet she thought she could almost hear the echo of it. She was trembling, and no amount of lecturing herself on being an adult and making her own choices would stop it. Nerves shivered through her. Needs twisted with them until they were one and the same. He came to her and gathered her close.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I feel like a schoolgirl.”

  “It helps.” He buried his face in her hair. “I’m scared to death.”

  “Are you?” There was a smile on her lips as she put her hands to his face and drew him back.

  “I feel, I don’t know, like some kid in the backseat of his father’s Chevy about to tackle his first bra snaps.” He put his hands to her wrists a moment, to hold himself back from touching her. “There’s never been anyone like you. I keep worrying that I’ll make the wrong move.”

  Nothing he could have said would have reassured her more. She drew his face down to hers. Their lips met, just a nibble, just a test that threatened to grow to a hungry bite. “So far so good,” she murmured. “Make love with me, Ben. I’ve always wanted you to.”

  He kept his eyes on hers as he drew up the bulky sweater. Then her hair was pooled over naked shoulders. There was moonlight and candlelight on her skin. He traced his own shadows over it.

  She was never sure of herself on this level with a man. There was hesitation as she began to draw his sweater off. Beneath it his torso was lean and firm. A St. Christopher’s medal dangled above his breastbone. Tess ran her finger over it and smiled.

  “It’s just for luck,” he told her.

  Saying nothing, she pressed her lips to his shoulder. “You’ve a scar here.”

  “It’s old.” He unfastened the snap of her slacks.

  Her thumb moved over it. “A bullet,” she realized. There was a dull horror in her voice.

  “It’s old,” he repeated, and drew her onto the bed. She lay beneath him, her hair flared out on the dark spread, her eyes heavy, lips parted. “I’ve wanted you here. I can’t tell you how much or how often.”

  She reached up and touched her fingertips to his face. Along his jawline was the beginnings of his beard. Beneath, just above where his pulse beat, the skin was smooth. “You can show me.”

  When he grinned, she discovered she was relaxed and waiting for him.

  His experience might have been greater, but his need wasn’t. Hers had been under tight control and was ripe and hungry now that it was set free. They rolled over the bed, damp and naked, forgetting the civilized, the ordinary.

  The spread rumpled and tangled beneath them. He swore at it, then pulled her free and on top of him. Her breasts were small and pale. He cupped one then both in his hands. He heard her murmur of pleasure as he watched her eyes close with it. Then she was pulling him to her, and her mouth was like a fever.

  His intention to treat her as a lady, with care and gentleness, was abandoned when her arms and legs wrapped around him. Here, she wasn’t the cool and classy Dr. Court, but a woman as passionate and demanding as any man could want. Her skin was soft, fragile to the touch, but slicked with desire. He skimmed his tongue over it, thirsting for her.

  She arched against him, letting needs, fantasies, passions have their way. Here and now were all that mattered. What was outside was removed, distant. He was real, and vital, and important. The rest of the world could wait.

  Candlelight flickered, gutted, and went out.

  Hours later, he awoke, cold. The spread was bundled at the foot of the bed. Tess was curled in a ball beside him, naked, her hair curtaining her face. He rose and pulled the covers over her. Even the moonlight was gone now. For a while he just stood over the bed, looking down at her as she slept. The cat padded into the room as Ben walked quietly out.

  Chapter 7

  Doctors and cops. Those in either profession know they will rarely have a day that begins at nine and ends at five. They understand that they’ve chosen a career where the divorce and burn-out rates are high, the demands many, and the emotional toll extreme. Phone calls spoil dinner parties, sex, and sleep. It’s part of the job description.

  When the phone rang, Tess reached over automatically. And picked up a ca
ndlestick. On the other side of the bed Ben swore, knocked over an ashtray, and found the phone.

  “Yeah, Paris.” In the dark he ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away sleep. “Where?” Instantly awake, he switched on the lamp. The cat curled on Tess’s stomach growled a complaint then leaped aside as she braced herself on her elbows. “Keep him there. I’m on my way.” Ben hung up the phone and stared at the light sheen of frost on the window.

  “He didn’t wait, did he?”

  The light fell harshly over his face as he turned to look at her. She gave a quick, involuntary shudder. His eyes were hard—not weary, not regretful, but hard. “No, he didn’t wait.”

  “Do they have him?”

  “No, but it looks like we’ve got a witness.” As he rolled out of bed he grabbed his jeans. “I don’t know how long I’ll be but you can wait here, get some more sleep. I’ll fill you in when … What are you doing?”

  She stood on the opposite side of the bed, dragging on her sweater. “Going with you.”

  “Forget it.” His legs disappeared into the jeans, but he left the pants unsnapped as he pulled open a drawer for a sweater. “There’s nothing you can do at a murder scene but get in the way.” In the mirror above his dresser he saw her head snap up. “It’s still shy of five, for Christ’s sake. Go back to bed.”

  “Ben, I’m involved in this case.”

  He turned. She wore only the sweater that skimmed her thighs. He remembered the material had been thick and soft when he’d drawn it off her. Her slacks were balled in her hands and her hair was rumpled from the pillow, but it was the psychiatrist facing him, not the woman. Something inside of him curdled. He yanked his own sweater on, then walked to the closet for his shoulder holster. “This is a homicide. It’s not like going to look at somebody’s who’s been painted up nice to lie in a casket.”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “I know what you are.” He checked his gun, then hitched the holster on.

  “Ben, it’s possible I could see something, some detail that would give me a clue to his mind.”

  “Fuck his mind.”

  Saying nothing, she shook out her slacks, stepped into them, then fastened them in place. “I understand how you feel, and I’m sorry.”