Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “Well.” The impatience in Spencer’s voice was as clear as the sound of him sucking on his pipe.

  “There isn’t much to add to my earlier report.” For his own pleasure, he tilted the glasses back to Adrianne. She had the most incredible skin—like the color of gold in an old painting. It was foolish, but for now Philip was going to take a few steps to save it for her. “If our man was in New York, he slipped out again. The only lead I scrounged up pointed to Paris. You might want to put your men there on alert.” Sorry old fellow, he added silently, but I need to buy some time.

  “Why Paris?”

  “The Countess Tegari. She’s spending the holidays there with her daughter. The old dear plucked a few prized pieces from the Duchess of Windsor collection. If I were still in the business, I’d find them very appealing.”

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “At the moment.”

  “Where the hell are you and when will you be back?”

  “I’m taking the holidays off, Stuart. Expect me in the new year. My best to your family,” he said over the first bluster of protest. “Happy Christmas.”

  Yes, she did have incredible skin, Philip thought again. Everywhere a man was lucky enough to see it.

  Because Adrianne could find no gracious way to refuse her cousin’s invitation for dinner aboard the yacht, she pushed up her plans. Part of her looked forward to the evening, to the chance to sit back and observe, to see if the mix of culture and tradition could indeed work. It would also be an iron-clad alibi, if indeed an alibi were ever required.

  Adrianne used her rooms at the El Presidente to change. It was a small precaution, but one she had decided worthwhile, timing was everything now. A glance at her watch assured her that the St. Johns would be busy in the Fiesta Boom, entertaining the press with early cocktails. That would give her over an hour before Lauren would be expected back in the Presidential Suite to change for the gala Christmas Eve dinner party.

  Adrianne would put in a late appearance, after her dinner with her cousin. If Lauren chose to wear her rubies that night, it should make an interesting diversion.

  It was a short drive north, and the evening was balmy with sunset still an hour or two away. When Adrianne pulled up in the El Grande’s parking lot, she was wearing oversize sunglasses and a floppy hat as well as a long-sleeved, concealing muumuu. She would be taken, as she intended, for an American tourist of dubious taste.

  Swinging the straw bag over her shoulder, she walked in the main entrance. Looking neither right nor left, she strode to the elevators. Once inside, she stopped the car between floors, stripped off the muumuu, and stuffed it and the hat and glasses into the bag. All of these were pushed into a laundry bag she’d folded and pushed down the bodice of the maid’s uniform she wore.

  It took less than thirty seconds before the car was gliding smoothly again toward the top floor. She wore a wig, black flecked with gray and bundled under a hairnet. She’d added a long thin scar down her cheek. If she was seen, and anyone asked questions, they would remember a middle-aged maid with a scar.

  Linens were kept in a storage closet at the end of each hallway. She could have picked the lock with a hairpin if it had been necessary. Instead, she slipped a tool out of the cinch she wore around her thigh. Adrianne tossed the laundry bag into an empty cart, then took an armful of towels. She was backing the cart out of the closet when she heard the elevator sound.

  With her head lowered she began to push the cart slowly up the hallway.

  “Buenos tardes” she murmured as a couple passed her, smelling of chlorine and suntan oil. She’d shared breakfast with them only that morning. They didn’t bother to answer the greeting, but continued to argue over where to go skiing the following week.

  At the door to the Presidential Suite, Adrianne knocked, then called out in broken English. “Housekeeping. Fresh towels.” She waited, counting carefully to ten.

  Using the same tool, Adrianne dealt with the lock. It was pitiful, she thought, how much faith the average person put in a key. Perhaps one day, after she’d retired, she’d write a series of articles on the subject. For now she pulled the maid’s cart inside, blocking the door with it.

  If something went wrong, the obstacle would give her a few precious moments.

  Sumptuous, she thought as she gazed around the suite. The St. Johns had spared no expense for comfort. They had chosen peach and cream tones offset by glossy black, with deep carpets and a sprawling sofa. The flowers were fresh, showing Adrianne that the maid had already tidied, though Lauren’s clothes were tossed over chairs and tables.

  Adrianne preferred the bright orange and gold furnishing of the El Presidente. Someone should tell Charlie that people come to the island not only to relax, but to feel as though they were roughing it a bit.

  She’d learned enough about the new hotel from the blueprints and her two-day stay. Lunch with Lauren at the Russian Tea Room had added the few missing details. Adrianne had picked up the tab, figuring it was the least she could do.

  As a precaution, she took a quick tour of the rooms. The bath was identical to her own, as her information had promised. A heap of damp towels on the floor, and the lingering scent of Norell told her that Lauren had bathed before meeting the press.

  Assured she was alone, she moved unerringly to the closet in the dressing room. The safe, that extra amenity Charlie provided in all of his hotels, was there.

  Rather than a combination, it worked with a key the guest was to keep in a purse or pocket. Not only was there no alarm, but a child with determination and a screwdriver could open it in less than half an hour. Adrianne lifted her skirt up and unsnapped a key from a small pocket. It was the key from the safe in her own room one floor down.

  It slid in, but didn’t turn. After choosing a file, she began to make adjustments. It took patience. She could file off only a fraction at a time, replace the key, and try it again. Crouched like a catcher behind home plate, she worked second by second, minute by minute. Now and then she heard a door close or the elevator sound. She would wait, holding her breath until footsteps moved passed the suite.

  As always, she felt the thud of satisfaction when the lock gave. Setting the key on top of the safe, she took out a jewelry case. Pearls, very nice, opera length. She replaced the case, then took out another. These were diamonds, rather small but fine and worked into a chain. She supposed Lauren would consider them casual wear. Adrianne replaced those as well, then found the diamond and ruby suite.

  Using her loupe, she examined three of the stones in the necklace. Burmese, as Lauren had said, masculine stones of deep color with a lovely satiny texture and a minimum of silk, or flaws. The diamond accents were excellent, V.S.I, with just a trace of yellow. Stones of the second water, but well cut. She slid them and the matching bracelet and earrings into her pocket, replaced the case, then relocked the safe. A glance at her watch showed she had adequate time to return to her own hotel and change for dinner with her cousin.

  It was then she heard a key turn in the lock.

  “Goddammit, get this thing out of the way.”

  Cursing under her breath, Adrianne leapt to obey. “Excuse, señora. Fresh towels, por favor.”

  “Give me one then. Shit.” Lauren snatched a towel off the pile on the cart and began dabbing at a stain the size of a dinner plate on her skirt. “Clumsy son of a bitch spilled rum punch all over me.”

  Adrianne battled back a chuckle. The rubies hung heavy in her pocket. “Señora. Agua … ah, water? Cold water?”

  “This is silk, you idiot.” Tossing her head up, Lauren gave Adrianne a furious glare. She saw only a servant, an old and obviously stupid one. “What would you know about silk? God! There’s not a decent dry cleaners on this ridiculous island. Why Charlie didn’t build in Cancún, I don’t know.” She held the de la Renta skirt out. “Two thousand fucking dollars, and I might as well toss it out the window.” Snarling, she tugged viciously at the zipper. “Haven’t you got anything to d
o? We pay you by the hour. Get the hell out of here and earn your pesos.”

  “Sí, Señora St. John. Gracias. Buenas tardes.”

  “And speak English.” Lauren gave Adrianne a shove through the door, then slammed it.

  Like Adrianne, Philip had a large supply of patience. He had pulled into the El Grande’s parking lot and situated himself in a position where he could watch not only her Jeep, but the entrance as well. It was hot. The sweat rolled down the back of his cotton shirt and dampened it against the seat. He swigged from a bottle of Pepsi and promised himself he wouldn’t have another cigarette until Adrianne walked back out. He’d keep his distance for a while longer. Sooner or later she would lead him to the man Philip admired for his skill and envied for Adrianne’s loyalty.

  He’d have to be good, damn good, Philip thought, if he was going to lift something from the hotel in broad daylight. But then, Philip already knew The Shadow was more than good. The Moreau heist had been the last of a long list of perfect robberies.

  As yet, he hadn’t quite figured out what part Adrianne was playing. A diversion? An informer? From her position, she would be perfect as a supplier of inside information. But why?

  She was laughing when she came out again. Quietly, at some private joke. He’d find out the why, he promised himself, and everything else there was to know about her. For now he followed at a distance.

  At the El Presidente, Philip waited for her to come out again. He estimated that she’d have to push it if she was going to make it back to the El Grande in time for the St. Johns’ party. Whether she took the elevator or the rampway, he would be able to see her from his position in the lobby. It was sundown when she came down, looking cool and self-possessed in a billowy, backless sundress. She didn’t head for the parking lot, but for the beach. From a distance he watched her walk down a pier and onto a sleek white yacht that bore the name The Alamo.

  The woman she’d had drinks with earlier greeted her, along with a balding, ruddy-faced man and a slim young boy. He watched Adrianne offer a hand to the boy, then laugh and toss her arms around him while the setting sun shot spears of fire into her hair.

  If it was a business meeting, Philip mused, then he didn’t know infrared from a heat sensor. Readjusting his plans, he went up to her room.

  He hadn’t picked a lock in a number of years. Like riding a bike or making love, it was something that came back—and once reaccomplished, gave enormous satisfaction.

  She was tidy, Philip mused as he walked through her suite. He’d wondered about that, about how she lived when she was alone. There were no clothes carelessly tossed over a chair, no shoes left in the middle of the floor. On the vanity counter her bottles and tubes were capped and aligned. In the closet her clothes were neatly hung. She’d chosen the casual and roomy, he thought, as suited the hot days and warm nights. Her scent was there, lingering.

  When he caught himself daydreaming, he shook himself and began to search.

  Why the second set of rooms, he wondered. Why the assumed name? Now that he was in, he didn’t intend to leave until he had an answer.

  The makeup case wouldn’t have interested him, but he’d never seen Adrianne wear more than a few smudges of eye shadow and brushes of lipstick. In the three days she’d been in Mexico, she’d bothered to add the minimum only for evenings. So what would a woman who was very confident in her looks, and who rarely bothered to enhance them, need with a full makeup case?

  There were enough grease pencils and foundations to accommodate the chorus in a Broadway show. Intrigued, he lifted off the top layer and found putty, false lashes, and adhesive beneath. It appeared Adrianne liked to play at disguises. Beneath that layer he found Lauren St. John’s jewelry.

  Good? Had he thought The Shadow was good? The man was a genius. Somehow, in hardly more time than it took to tell about it, he had gained entrance to the St. Johns’ rooms, lifted the stones, then transferred them to Adrianne, without ever showing his face.

  She’d hidden them in a hollowed-out case that had once held an array of eye shadows. Holding them now, Philip felt the old temptation, that siren’s call of stones. Wars had been fought for them, lives lost, and hearts broken. They were dug out of the ground, chipped from rock, cut and polished and sold to adorn the necks, the wrists, the fingers. There were cultures that still believed they could ward off evil spirits or death.

  He understood why as the blood-red rocks and the diamonds glittered in his hands and whispered to him.

  He could have had them, slipped them into his pocket and walked away. He still had the contacts who could exchange them for cash and let him walk away richer and still free. It would be sweet, wonderfully sweet. And he was tempted, not so much because of the money, but because of the stones themselves. They lay hot in his hand, somehow feminine and taunting.

  With a sigh he put them back. It was unfortunate that he’d developed a certain loyalty to Spencer. Still, his decision came more because of Adrianne. He would wait and watch to see what she did with them, and with whom.

  He shut the case, then replaced it on the shelf at the top of the closet. After deciding it best to forgo dinner himself, he took a pillow from the sitting room, tucked it into the back of the spare closet there, then settled down to wait.

  He’d dozed off, but since he habitually slept lightly, a trait of thieves as well as of heros, he roused when he heard her key turn in the lock. He stood to watch her through the thin crack between the closet doors.

  She seemed relaxed. That was something else he’d begun to watch for, the shifting of her moods. The light she’d switched on fell over her back as she moved into the bedroom. He heard the rustle of her dress and imagined, though it did him more harm than good, the way she would look stepping out of it. The hangers slid metallically over the closet rail as she hung it up. When she moved past the door she’d left open between the two rooms, she was wearing a short robe, not yet belted. He could see the slender line of flesh from the well of her breasts and down.

  She was moving briskly; not at all like a woman who was preparing to end an evening. Philip cursed the wall between them as he heard her rattle bottles on the counter of the vanity.

  There were long silences, then the click of a jar being opened or closed, the splash of water running. Then he heard the sound of her door opening slowly, and the quick click that followed.

  He waited, five seconds, ten, before he slipped out of the closet. At the rampway he had to hold himself back from hurrying after her. When he reached the bottom, he thought he’d lost her. The only woman he saw was broad-shouldered, wide-hipped, with frizzed blond hair. Philip continued to look for Adrianne. Then abruptly he swiveled his gaze back to the blonde. It all had to do with the way she moved, he thought, and nearly smiled as he watched her cross the parking lot.

  It was Adrianne, but he doubted she was on her way to a masquerade.

  As she drove toward San Miguel he kept a quarter of a mile back. The traffic was sparse, with an occasional cab barreling from town to the hotel district. On the left the sea was dark and calm, the bright, colorful lights of a cruise ship draped across the sky like jewels. Soon midnight would bring the first breath of Christmas. Children were already sleeping, wishing for morning. Tourists were prolonging their parties. Though the shops were closed, there was still music from the bars and restaurants.

  Adrianne parked across from the square. Her business should be over quickly enough. She wanted it over. Tonight, sitting on her cousin’s yacht, watching Duja with her family, sharing memories of life in Jaquir, she’d decided the rubies were her last job. Once she’d transferred the money and the dust had settled, she would be on her way east to the home of their childhood. And to The Sun and the Moon.

  There had been a festival in the square. The colored paper and wrappers had yet to be swept away along with a few plastic toys that had burst from a piñata and had been lost in the cracks. The town smelled of the water that hemmed it. The moon was clear and white, the stars holdin
g enough fire within to shimmer red at the edges. Above her the palms whispered in the warm, moist air so typical of islands.

  She went through an alleyway, and the music that echoed in the square was muffled. Another turn and she was in the stalls where by day the merchants hawked and haggled for the tourists. There were bargains to be had here, if one had a good eye and a quick wit. When the stalls were open there would be leather fashioned into belts, bags, sandals. Trinket boxes with little birds carved for handles could be had for a few thousand pesos or a pair of crisp American singles. The black coral the island was famed for could be seen in row after row of display cases. There would be hammered silver, abalone, cotton dresses festooned with embroidery.

  Now it was empty, the merchandise swept back from the narrow aisles and locked away behind garage doors. There would be no bargaining on Christmas. At least not for the tourists.

  Adrianne stopped, and waited.

  “You’re on time, señorita.”

  He melted out of the shadows, a short, spare man with deep marks in his face from acne or chicken pox. His lighter, with its inlay of turquoise, flared as he lit a cigarette and she saw the pucker of an old scar on the back of his hand.

  “I’m always on time for business.” There was a twang of Texas to her voice now. “You have the amount we agreed on?”

  “You have the merchandise?”

  She knew the kind of man she was dealing with. “I’ll see the money first.”

  “As you wish.” With a key he unlocked one of the stall doors. It lifted along its runners with bumps and rattles. Inside, it was crammed with cheap silver jewelry that hung on the walls and lay behind dusty glass. It smelled of overripe fruit and stale tobacco. He drew a satchel from behind him. “One hundred and fifty thousand American dollars. My backer wished to pay only one hundred, but I persuaded him.”

  “Fortunate for both of us.” Adrianne pulled on a surgical glove, then drew a pouch from her bag. “You’ll want to examine the stones, though I can assure you they’re genuine.”