Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  He had to admit she’d maneuvered him very nicely. “No.”

  “Then it would be foolish for you to say you were, just to hold up tradition. There, that should do,” she added as she gave the pillow a final fluff.

  “All right, dammit, I feel like an idiot about the way I acted the last time.”

  “You were an idiot.” Tess turned from the sofa to smile at him. “But it’s all right.”

  “I meant a lot that I said.”

  “I know you did. So did I.”

  Opposite sides, Ben thought. Opposite ends. “So where does that leave us?”

  If she’d known, she wasn’t sure she could have told him. Instead she kept her voice friendly. “Why don’t we just leave it that I’m glad you’re here, with all this …” Her gaze drifted to the phone.

  “Don’t dwell on that now. Let me take it from here.”

  “You’re right.” She linked her hands together, then pulled them apart. “If you think about something like this too much, you go—”

  “Crazy?” he suggested.

  “To use a loose, inaccurate term.” She moved away then, tidying the desk to keep her hands busy. “I was surprised to see you tonight, at the gallery. I know it’s a small town, but—” It struck her then; the confusion and panic had obscured it before. “What are you doing here tonight? I thought you had a date.”

  “I did. I told her I had an emergency. I wasn’t far off. What about yours?”

  “My what?”

  “Your date.”

  “Oh, Dean. I, ah, told him I had a headache. I almost did. But you didn’t tell me why you came by.”

  He shrugged that off and picked up her paperweight, a crystal pyramid that ran with colors as he turned it. “Looked like a real upstanding citizen. College professor, huh?”

  “Yes.” Something began to settle inside of her. It took Tess a moment to recognize it as pleasure. “Your Trixie. Her name was Trixie, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She looked charming. Loved her tattoo.”

  “Which one?”

  Tess only lifted a brow. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “I’m fond of pretentious bullshit. Apparently, so’s your professor. Great suit. And that natty little tie bar with the little gold chain was so distinguished.” He set the paperweight down hard enough to make her pencils jump. “I wanted to push his nose into his forehead.”

  She beamed at him. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” After a gulp of coffee, he set the cup on the desk. It would leave a ring, but she said nothing. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but you for days. Got a name for that?”

  She met his angry look with a smile. “I like obsession. Such a nice ring.” She walked closer. There was no need for nerves any longer, or for pretenses. When his hands came up and took her shoulders, she continued to smile.

  “I guess you think this is pretty damn funny.”

  “I guess I do. And I guess I could take a calculated risk and tell you I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you a great deal. Would you like to tell me why you’re angry?”

  “No.” He pulled her against him, felt her lips curve then soften, then yield against his. The silk of her kimono rustled as his arms went around her. If he could have walked away then, he would have, without a backward glance. But he’d known when he found himself at her door that it was already too late.

  “I don’t want to sleep on that frigging couch. And I’m not leaving you alone.”

  She made the effort to open her eyes, but for the first time in memory she would have been willing to be swept away. “I’ll share the bed with you on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you make love with me.”

  He drew her against him so that he could smell her hair, feel the way it brushed over his skin. “You drive a hard bargain, Doc.”

  Chapter 11

  The scent of coffee woke her. Tess turned from her side to her back and lay dozing with the homey, comforting smell. How many years had it been since she’d woken to the scent of coffee already brewing? When she’d lived in her grandfather’s house with its high ceilings and tiled foyer, she would come down the arching staircase in the mornings to find her grandfather already behind a huge plate of eggs or hotcakes, the newpaper open, and the coffee already poured.

  Miss Bette, the housekeeper, would have set the table with the everyday dishes, the ones with the little violets around the edges. Flowers would have depended on the season, but they would always be there, jonquils or roses or mums in the blue porcelain vase that had been her great-grandmother’s.

  There would have been the quiet whoosh of Trooper’s tail, her grandfather’s old golden retriever, as he sat beneath the table hoping for a windfall.

  Those had been the mornings of her youth—steady, secure, and familiar—of her young womanhood, just as her grandfather had been the strong central figure in her life.

  Then she had grown up, moved into her own apartment, into her own practice. She brewed her own coffee.

  With a sigh, she turned lazily, hoping for another dream. Then she remembered, and sat up straight in bed. It was empty, but for her. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she touched the sheet beside her.

  He’d stayed with her and kept the bargain. They had rolled and tossed and loved each other into the night until exhausted sleep had been the only alternative. No questions, no words, and the only answer had been what they had both needed. Each other and oblivion. He’d needed that too. She’d understood that he’d needed a few hours without tension, without puzzles, without responsibilities.

  Now it was morning, and each had a job to face.

  Tess rose, then slipped into the kimono that had been discarded onto the floor. She wanted a shower, a long, hot one, but she wanted the coffee more.

  She found Ben in the little el of her dining room, with a map of the city, a tangle of notes, and her own yellow tablet spread over the table. “Good morning.”

  “Hi.” He said it absently, then glanced up and focused. Though he smiled, she saw that his eyes were shadowed and intense as they studied her face. “Hi,” he repeated. “I was hoping you’d sleep longer.”

  “It’s after seven.”

  “It’s Sunday,” he reminded her, then rose as if to separate her from what he was doing at the table. “Hungry?”

  “Are you cooking?”

  “Are you squeamish?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then you can probably stomach one of my omelettes. Game?”

  “Yeah, I’m game.” She went with him into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. From the look of the pot, he’d already had several. “Have you been up long?”

  “Little while. How often do you shop for food?”

  She glanced behind him, into the now open refrigerator. “When my back’s to the wall.”

  “Consider it there.” He pulled out a carton of eggs that was less than half full and a miserly chunk of cheddar. “We can still manage the omelettes. Just.”

  “I’ve got an omelette pan. Second shelf in the cabinet to your right.”

  He sent her a mild, pitying glance. “All you need’s a hot skillet and a light hand.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  She sipped coffee while he cooked. Impressive, she thought, and certainly better than she could do with gourmet utensils and a detailed recipe in front of her. Interested, she leaned over his shoulder and earned a silent stare. Tess split an English muffin, popped it in the toaster, and left the rest up to him.

  “It’s good,” she decided when they sat at the table and she’d swallowed the first bite. “I’m pretty pathetic in the kitchen, which is why I don’t keep a lot of food around that obliges me to deal with it.”

  He shoveled into his own with the easy enthusiasm of a man who considered food one of life’s top physical pleasures. “Living alone’s supposed to make you self-sufficient.”

  “But it do
esn’t perform miracles.” He cooked, kept a tidy apartment, was obviously proficient at his job, and apparently had little trouble with women. Tess topped off her coffee and wondered why she was more tense now than when she’d gone to bed with him.

  Because she wasn’t as handy with men as he was with women. And because, she thought, she wasn’t in the habit of sharing a casual breakfast after a frantic night of sex. Her first affair had been in college. A disaster. Now she was nearly thirty and had kept her relationships with men carefully in the safe zone. The occasional side trip had been pleasant but unimportant. Until now.

  “Apparently you’re self-sufficient.”

  “You like to eat, you learn how to cook.” He moved his shoulders. “I like to eat.”

  “You’ve never married?”

  “What? No.” He swallowed hard, then reached for his half of the muffin. “It tends to get in the way of—”

  “Philandering?”

  “Among other things.” He grinned at her. “You butter a great muffin.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I’d say another reason you’ve never … let’s say, settled is that your work comes first.” She glanced at the papers he’d pushed to the end of the table. “Police work would be demanding, time-consuming, and dangerous.”

  “The first two anyway. Homicide’s sort of the executive end. Desk work, puzzle work.”

  “Executive,” she murmured, remembering very clearly the ease with which he had once strapped on his gun.

  “Most of the guys wear suits.” He’d nearly polished off his omelette and was already wondering if he could talk Tess out of some of hers. “Generally, you come in after the deed’s been done and then put pieces together. You talk to people, make phone calls, push paper.”

  “Is that how you got that scar?” Tess scooted the rest of her omelette around her plate. “Pushing paper?”

  “I told you before, that’s old news.”

  Her mind was too analytical to let it go at that. “But you have been shot, and probably shot at more than once.”

  “Sometimes you go into the field and people aren’t too happy to see you.”

  “All in a day’s work?”

  When he realized she wasn’t going to let it drop, he set down his fork. “Tess, it isn’t like the flicks.”

  “No, but it isn’t like selling shoes either.”

  “Okay. I’m not saying you never run into a situation where things might get hot, but basically this kind of police work is on paper. Reports, interviews, head work. There are weeks, months, even years of incredible drudge work, even boredom as opposed to moments of actual physical jeopardy. A rookie in a uniform is likely to deal with more heat in a year than I am.”

  “I see. Then you aren’t likely to encounter a situation, in the normal scheme of things, where you use your gun.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, not liking where the conversation was going. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m trying to understand you. We’ve spent two nights together. I like to know who I’m sleeping with.”

  He’d been avoiding that. Sex was easier if it wore blinders. “Benjamin James Matthew Paris, thirty-five in August, single, six feet one-half inch, a hundred seventy-two pounds.”

  She rested her elbows on the table, setting her chin on her linked hands as she studied him. “You don’t like to talk about your work.”

  “What’s there to talk about? It’s a job.”

  “No, not with you. A job is where you clock in every morning, Monday through Friday. You don’t carry your gun like a briefcase.”

  “Most briefcases aren’t loaded.”

  “You have had to use it.”

  Ben drained his coffee. His system was already primed. “I doubt many cops get around to collecting their pensions without drawing their weapons at least once.”

  “Yes, I understand that. On the other hand, as a doctor I’d deal more with the results afterward. The grief of the family, the shock and trauma of the victim.”

  “I’ve never shot a victim.”

  There was an edge to his voice that interested her. Perhaps he liked to pretend to her, even to himself, that the violent aspects of his job were occasional, an expected side effect. He’d consider anyone he shot in the line of duty, as he’d put it, the bad guy. And yet she was sure there was a part of him that thought of the human, the flesh and blood. That part of him would lose sleep over it.

  “When you shoot someone in self-defense,” she said slowly, “is it like in a war, where you see the enemy as a symbol more than a man?”

  “You don’t think about it.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “Take my word for it.”

  “But when you’re in a situation that calls for that kind of extreme defensive action, you aim to wound.”

  “No.” On the flat answer, he rose and picked up his plate. “Listen, you draw your weapon, you’re not the Lone Ranger. There’s no grazing your silver bullet over the bad guy’s gun hand. Your life, your partner’s life, some civilian’s life is on the line. It’s black and white.”

  He took the plates away. She didn’t ask if he’d killed. He’d already told her.

  She glanced at the papers he’d been working on. Black and white. He wouldn’t see the shades of gray she saw there. The man they sought was a killer. The state of his mind, his emotions, perhaps even his soul, didn’t matter to Ben. Maybe they couldn’t.

  “These papers,” she began when he came back. “Is there something I can help with?”

  “Just drudge work.”

  “I’m an expert drudge.”

  “Maybe. We can talk about it later. Right now I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to make nine o’clock Mass.”

  “Mass?”

  He grinned at her expression. “I haven’t gone back to the fold. We think our man might show up at one of two churches this morning. We’ve been covering the masses at both of them since six-thirty. I got a break and drew the nine, ten, and eleven-thirty services.”

  “I’ll go with you. No, don’t,” she said even as he opened his mouth. “I really could help. I know the signs, the symptoms.”

  There was no point in telling her he’d wanted her to come. Let her think she’d talked him into it. “Don’t blame me if your knees give out.”

  She touched a hand to his cheek, but didn’t kiss him. “Give me ten minutes.”

  The church smelled of candle wax and perfume. The pews, worn smooth by the sliding and shifting of hundreds of cloth-covered haunches, were less than half full for the nine o’clock service. It was quiet, with the occasional cough or sniffle echoing hollowly. A pleasant, religious light came through the stained-glass windows on the east wall. The altar stood at the head of the church, draped with its cloth and flanked by candles. White for purity. Above it hung the Son of God, dying on the Cross.

  Ben sat with Tess in the back pew and scanned the congregation. A few older women were scattered among the families toward the front. A young couple sat in the pew across from them, choosing the rear, Ben thought, because of the sleeping infant the woman carried. An elderly man who had come in with the help of a cane sat alone, two private feet away from a family of six. Two young girls in their Sunday best sat and whispered together, and a boy of about three knelt backward on the pew and ran a plastic car quietly over the wood.

  Ben knew he was making the sounds of the engine and screeching tires in his head.

  There were three men sitting alone who fit the general description. One was already kneeling, his thin, dark coat still buttoned, though the church was warm. Another sat, passing idly through the hymnal. The third was in the front of the church, and sat unmoving. Ben knew Roderick had the front, and the rookie, Pilomento, was situated in the middle.

  A movement beside Tess had Ben stiffening. Logan slid in beside her, patted her hand, and smiled at Ben. “Thought I’d join you.” His voice was a bit wheezy. He coughed quietly into his hand to clear it.
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br />   “Nice to see you, Monsignor,” Tess murmured.

  “Thank you, my dear. I’ve been a little under the weather lately and wasn’t sure I’d make it. I was hoping you’d be along. You’d have a sharp eye.” His gaze traveled around the half-empty church. Mostly the old and young, he thought. Those in the middle of their lives rarely thought God needed an hour of their time. After digging a Sucret out of his pocket, he looked at Ben again. “I hope you don’t mind my volunteering. If you happen to get lucky, I might be of help. After all, I have what we might call house advantage.”

  For the first time since Ben had met him, Logan wore the white clerical collar. Seeing it, Ben only nodded.

  The priest entered, the congregation rose. The service began.

  Entrance Rite. The Celebrant in green vestments, stole, alb, the amice worn harmlessly under the flowing robes, the gangly altar boy in black and white, ready to serve.

  Lord have mercy.

  A baby five pews up began to cry lustily. The congregation murmured the responses in unison.

  Christ have mercy.

  The old man with the cane was working his way through the rosary. The young girls giggled and tried desperately to stop. The little boy with the plastic car was shushed by his mother.

  A man with a white silk amice next to his skin felt the drumming in his head ease with the familiar flow of Celebrant and congregation. His palms were sweaty, but he kept them clasped in front of him.

  The Lord be with you.

  And with your spirit.

  It was the Latin he heard, the Latin of his childhood, of his priesthood. It soothed, and the world stayed steady.

  The Liturgy. The congregation sat with shuffles, murmurs, and creaks. Ben watched, not really hearing the priest’s words. He’d heard them all so many times before. One of his earliest memories was of sitting on a hard pew, his hands between his knees, the starched collar of his best shirt rubbing against his neck. He’d been five, or perhaps six. Josh had been an altar boy.

  The man in the thin black coat was slumped back in his seat as if exhausted. Someone cheerfully blew his nose.

  “For the wages of sin is death,” the priest intoned, “but God’s gift is eternal life in Christ Jesus, our Lord.”