From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

  “Play chaperone?” he finished shortly. “Careful, Jess, you’re coming close to being a twit again.”

  Refusing to be angry, she stopped in the center of the lawn and turned to him. “Slade, everything you said on the beach is true. I’d said the same to myself. But I love Michael—almost the same way I love David.” When he only frowned at her, she sighed. “What I have to do tonight hurts. I’d just like some moral support. It would be a little easier if you were there during dinner. Afterward I’ll handle it.”

  Reluctant and resigned, Slade let out a long breath. “Just through dinner. And you’re going to owe me one.”

  Hours later Jessica paced the parlor. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor, fell silent over the Persian carpet, then clicked again. She was grateful that David had a date. It would have been impossible to have hidden her mood from him, and just as impossible to have confided in him. The business relationship was bound to be strained now between her and Michael. Jessica didn’t want to add more problems. Perhaps Michael would even decide to resign. She hated the thought of it.

  Oh, it would always be possible to replace a buyer, she thought, but they’d been so close, such a good team. Shutting her eyes, she cursed herself. She couldn’t help thinking of Michael in conjunction with the shop. It had always been that way. Maybe if they had known each other before the partnership, like she and David, her feelings would be different. Jessica clasped her hands together again. No, there simply wasn’t that . . . spark. If there had been, the shop would never have interfered.

  She’d felt the spark once or twice in her life—that quick jolt that says maybe, just maybe. There’d been no spark with Slade, she mused. There’d been an eruption. Annoyed, Jessica shook her head. She shouldn’t be thinking of Slade now, or of the two turbulent times she’d been in his arms. It was only right that she concentrate on Michael, on how to say no without hurting him.

  Before coming into the room, Slade stopped to watch her. Always moving, he thought, but this time there were nerves beneath the energy. She was wearing a very simple, very sophisticated black dress with her hair caught in a braid over one shoulder. Looking at her, Slade had a moment’s sympathy for Michael. It wouldn’t be easy to love a woman like that and lose. Unless Michael was a total fool, one glance at her face was going to give him her answer. She’d never have to open her mouth.

  “He’s going to survive, Jess.” When she whirled, Slade strode over to the liquor cabinet. “There are other women, you know.” He was deliberately off-hand, deliberately cynical, knowing what her reaction would be. Even with his back to her, he thought he could feel the sudden blaze of heat from her eyes.

  “I hope you fall hard one day, Slade,” Jessica retorted. “And I hope she thumbs her nose at you.”

  He poured himself a Scotch. “Not a chance,” he said lightly. “Want a drink?”

  “I’ll have some of that.” She walked over and snatched the glass from his hand, then took a long sip.

  “Dutch courage?” he asked when she swallowed, controlling a grimace.

  She gave him a narrow look while the liquor burned her throat. “You’re being purposely horrid.”

  “Yeah. Don’t you feel better?”

  With a helpless laugh, she shoved the glass back in his hand. “You’re a hard man, Slade.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Jessica.”

  The quiet words threw her completely off balance. She’d heard them dozens of times from dozens of people, but they hadn’t made the blood hum under her skin. But then, compliments wouldn’t roll easily off the tongue of a man like Slade, she thought. And somehow she felt he wasn’t only speaking of physical beauty. No, he was a man who’d look beyond what could be seen and into what could only be felt.

  Their eyes held, a moment too long for comfort. It occurred to her that she was closer to losing something vital to him now than she had been on the beach that morning.

  “You must be a very good writer,” she murmured as she stepped away to pour a glass of vermouth.

  “Why?”

  “You’re very frugal with words, and your timing with them is uncanny.” Because her back was to him, she allowed herself to moisten her lips nervously. The clock on the mantel gave the melodious chime that signaled the hour. “I don’t suppose you’d like to write me a speech before Michael gets here.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Slade . . .” Hesitating only briefly, Jessica turned to him. “I shouldn’t have told you everything I did out on the beach this morning. It really isn’t fair to Michael for you to know, and it isn’t fair to you that I dropped my life’s history on you that way. You’re an easy person to confide in because you listen a bit too well.”

  “Part of my job,” he muttered and thought of the endless stream of interviews with suspects, witnesses, victims.

  “I’m trying to thank you,” Jessica said shortly. “Can’t you take it graciously?”

  “Don’t be grateful until I’ve done something,” he tossed back.

  “I’d choke before I’d thank you again.” She dumped a splat of vermouth in her glass as the doorbell rang.

  Neither man was pleased to be sharing a meal with the other, but they made the best of it. The general conversation eased slowly toward talk of the shop.

  “I’m glad you went by for a few hours, Michael.” Jessica poked at the shrimp Dijon rather than eating it. “I don’t think David’s really up to a full day’s work yet.”

  “He seemed well enough. And Mondays are usually slow in any case.” He swirled his wine, giving his dinner little more attention than Jessica. “You worry too much, darling.”

  “You weren’t here last week.” She shredded a roll into tiny pieces.

  Saying nothing, Slade passed her the butter. Glancing down, Jessica saw the mess she’d made and picked up her wine.

  “He was well enough today to sell the Connecticut chest to Mrs. Donnigan,” Michael commented after noting the exchange.

  “David made a sale to Mrs. Donnigan?” Initial surprise turned to humor. “You’d have to know the lady, Slade. She’s a died-in-the-wool Yankee who can stretch a dollar like a piece of elastic. Michael sells to her. On a rare occasion I do, but David . . .” Trailing off, she smiled. “How did he manage it?”

  “By being very reluctant to part with it. When I came in he was nudging her toward the pecan hope chest, telling her he’d all but promised the other to another customer.”

  She gave a quick spurt of laughter. “Well, it looks like our boy’s learning. I’m going to have to give in and let him go to Europe with you next time.”

  Briefly, Michael frowned down at his plate, then very deliberately stabbed a shrimp. “If that’s what you want.”

  Her distress was immediate. Before Jessica could fumble for a new line of conversation, Slade intervened by asking what a Connecticut chest was. She threw him a swift glance of appreciation and let Michael take over.

  Why did I say that? she demanded of herself. How could I be insensitive enough to forget that he’d asked me to go to Europe with him the next time? On an inward sigh, Jessica toyed with her dinner. I’m not going to handle this well, she thought. I’m simply not going to handle it well at all.

  How different they are. It occurred to her all at once as she watched the two men talk casually. Michael, with his smooth gestures, was well groomed in voice and manner, sleekly dressed. Jessica reflected that she’d never seen him in anything more casual than a polo shirt and golf pants. He was all civilized charm and sophisticated sexuality.

  Slade rarely gestured at all. It was as if he knew that body language could give his thoughts away. No, he had a strange capacity for stillness. And she wouldn’t term him rugged though he favored jeans and sweaters. Not charming but disarming, she decided. And his sexuality was anything but sophisticated. Animal.

  Slade asked questions on antiques when he couldn’t have cared less. This would give Jessica a few moments to regain the composure she had so
nearly lost. It might also give him the opportunity to form a more concrete opinion of Michael. He seemed harmless enough, Slade reflected. A pretty boy with enough brains to make it his profession. Or enough brains to be one of the rungs on the smuggling ladder. Not the top one, Slade thought instinctively. Not enough guts.

  He was the type of man Slade might have matched Jessica with. Polished, intelligent. And he was good looking enough, if you liked that type. Apparently Jessica didn’t. They hadn’t been lovers. Slade pondered this as he listened to Michael. What sort of man, he wondered, could be around that woman day after day and not make love to her—or go mad? Michael had managed to keep himself in check for nearly three years. Slade calculated that he hadn’t been able to do so for as many days. Michael Adams was either madly in love with her or more clever than he looked. Catching the way Michael’s eyes would drift to her occasionally, Slade felt a stir of sympathy. Madly in love or not, he wasn’t indifferent.

  Michael took another sip of wine and tried to continue a conversation he was beginning to detest. He knew Jessica. Oh yes, he thought fatalistically, he knew Jessica. He’d seen her answer in her eyes. The one woman who mattered to him was never going to be his.

  All three of them were relieved when Betsy brought in the coffee tray. “Miss Jessica, if you don’t start eating more than that, Cook’s going to quit again.”

  “If she didn’t quit once a month, she’d throw the entire household off schedule,” Jessica said lightly. Food was something she could do without until after she had settled things with Michael.

  “I’ll just take a cup to the library.” Slade was up and pouring his own before Betsy could object. “I’ve got some things to finish up tonight.”

  “Fine.” Jessica took care not to look at him. “Let’s have ours in the parlor, Michael. No, no, Betsy, I’ll carry it,” she continued as the housekeeper started to mutter. Slade disappeared before she could lift the tray. “Help yourself to the brandy,” she told Michael as they entered the parlor. “I’ll just have the coffee.”

  He poured a generous amount, placing the crystal stopper back in the decanter before turning. Betsy had lit the fire while they were eating. It crackled with a cheer neither Jessica nor Michael were feeling. Remaining across the room, he watched her pour coffee from the china pot into china cups. The set had a delicate pattern of violets on an ivory background. Michael counted each petal before he spoke.

  “Jessica.” Her fingers tightened on the handle of the creamer and he swore silently. Strange that he’d never wanted her more than at the moment he was sure he’d never have her. He’d been too confident that when the time was right, everything would simply fall into place. “I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Michael—”

  “No, you don’t have to say anything, it’s written all over your face. The one thing you’ve never been able to do well is hide your feelings.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “You’re not going to marry me.”

  Say it quick, she ordered herself. “No, I can’t.” Rising, she walked over to stand with him. “I wish I felt differently, Michael. I wish I’d known what your feelings were sooner.”

  He looked into his brandy—the same color as her eyes and just as intoxicating. He set the snifter down. “Would it have made any difference if I’d asked you a year ago? Two years ago?”

  “I don’t know.” Helplessly, she lifted her shoulders. “But as we’re basically the same people we were then, I don’t think so.” She touched his arm, wishing she had better words, kinder words. “I care, Michael, you must know that I do. But I can’t give you what you want.”

  Lifting a hand, he circled the back of her neck. “I can’t tell you I won’t try to change your mind.”

  “Michael—”

  “No, I’m not going to pressure you now.” He gave her neck a gentle squeeze. “But I have the advantage of knowing you well—what you like, what you don’t like.” Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss in her palm. “I also love you enough not to hound you.” With a smile, he released her hand. “I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow.”

  “Yes, all right.” Jessica pressed her hands together. She’d felt nothing but regret when he’d pressed his lips to her palm. “Good night, Michael.”

  When the front door closed behind him, she stood where she was. She had no taste for coffee now, nor the energy to carry the tray to the kitchen and deal with Betsy or the cook. Leaving things as they were, Jessica headed for the stairs.

  “Jess?” Slade stopped her with a word. He came down the hall as she paused on the second step. “Okay?”

  All of a sudden she wanted badly to cry—to turn, run into his arms, and weep. Instead she snapped at him. “No, it’s not okay. Why the hell should it be?”

  “You did what you had to do,” he said calmly. “He’s not going to drive off a cliff.”

  “What do you know about it?” she tossed back. “You haven’t got any feelings. You don’t know what it’s like to care for someone. You have to have a heart to be hurt.” Whirling, she dashed up the stairs, making it almost halfway before she stopped. Shutting her eyes tight, Jessica slammed a fist onto the railing. After a deep breath, she turned and walked back down. He stood at the bottom, waiting.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” Because her words had cut deeper than he liked, he shrugged. “You were on target.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Wearily, she rubbed a hand over her forehead. “And I haven’t any right to use you for a punching bag. You gave me a lot of support today, and I’m grateful.”

  “Save it,” he advised as he turned away.

  This time it was her turn to stop him. “Slade.” He took two more steps, swore, then turned back to her. His eyes were dark, smolderingly angry, as if her apology had flamed his temper more than her insults. “I realize you might think differently, but you don’t go to hell for being kind.”

  With that, she left him staring after her as she continued up the stairs.

  5

  T WO A.M. Jessica heard the old Seth Thomas clock in the hall strike two musical bongs. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to settle. Slade’s spurts of stop-and-go typing had silenced over an hour before. He could sleep, she thought in disgust as she rolled to her back to stare, again, at the ceiling. But then, he wasn’t in an emotional whirl.

  Thoughts of Michael drifted to her and she sighed. No, let’s be honest, Jessica, she ordered herself. It isn’t Michael who’s keeping you awake, it’s the man two doors down on the left.

  Alone in the dark, in the tangle of soft linen sheets, Jessica could feel the scrape of sand against her back, the heat of the sun and bite of the wind on her face. The press of his body against hers. Desire churned in her tired body, awakening pulses she struggled to calm. She felt the ache move slowly from her stomach to her breasts. Quickly she sprang out of bed and tugged on a robe. All she needed was a hot drink to settle her, she decided, almost frantically. If that didn’t work, she’d switch on the television until some old movie lulled her to sleep. In the morning she’d have herself in order again. She’d go back to work, stay out of Slade’s way until he finished the library and went back to where he came from.

  Jessica slipped out of the room and moved on silent bare feet down the hall. She paused in front of Slade’s door, even reached for the handle before she caught herself. Good God, what was she thinking of! Moving quickly, she headed for the stairs. Maybe a brandy would be a better idea than the hot drink, she decided.

  Out of habit, she went quietly down the steps, avoiding the spots that creaked and groaned. Brandy and an old movie, she told herself. If that didn’t put her to sleep, nothing would. Seeing that the parlor doors were closed, she frowned. Now who would have done that? she wondered. They were never closed. With a shrug, she decided Slade had shut them before coming up to write. She crossed the hall and pulled one open.

  A light blinded her. It shone straight in her eyes, forcing her to t
hrow up a hand to shield them. Shock came first. She stepped back, stunned by the glare, confused by its source. Before she could speak, Jessica froze. A flashlight. No one should be in the closed parlor with a flashlight in the middle of the night. Fear ran coolly over her skin, then lodged like a fist in her throat. Without a second’s thought, she turned and raced back up the stairs.

  Slade snapped fully awake the moment his door was flung open. A shadow darted toward his bed and instinctively he grabbed it, twisted it, and pinned it underneath him. It gave a quiet whoosh of air as it slammed onto the mattress. At the moment of contact he knew he held Jessica.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded as his fingers clamped over her wrists. Her scent flooded his senses; instant desire roughened his voice.

  With the wind knocked out of her, Jessica struggled to speak. Fear had her body shuddering under his. “Downstairs,” she managed. “Someone’s downstairs.”

  He tensed, but schooled his voice to casualness. “A servant.”

  “At two o’clock in the morning?” she hissed as anger began to take over. It suddenly seeped into her that he was naked, and that her robe had parted when he had yanked her into bed. Swallowing, she struggled beneath him. “With a flashlight?”

  He rolled from her quickly. “Where?”

  “The parlor.” Snatching her robe together, Jessica tried to pretend that she hadn’t been weakened, not for a minute, by desire. She watched his shadow as he tugged on jeans. “You’re not going down there?”

  “Isn’t that what you expected me to do when you came in here?” he countered. He opened a drawer and found his gun.

  “No, I didn’t think at all. The police.” Reaching over, she switched on the light. “We have to call . . .” The sentence died as she saw what he held in his hand. A new bubble of terror rose in her throat. “Where did you get that?”

  “Stay here.”

  He was nearly at the door before Jessica could propel her numb body from the bed. “No! You can’t go down there with a gun. Slade, how—”