Risky Business

by Nora Roberts

  To satisfy herself, Liz walked over to the first shade and secured the cord. From the other room, the radio announced an evening shower before music kicked in. Humming along with it, she decided to toss together a chicken salad before she logged the day’s accounts.

  As she straightened, the breath was knocked out of her by an arm closing tightly around her neck. The dying sun caught a flash of silver. Before she could react, she felt the quick prick of a knife blade at her throat.

  “Where is it?”

  The voice that hissed in her ear was Spanish. In reflex, she brought her hands to the arm around her neck. As her nails dug in, she felt hard flesh and a thin metal band. She gasped for air, but stopped struggling when the knife poked threateningly at her throat.

  “What do you want?” In terror her mind skimmed forward. She had less than fifty dollars cash and no jewelry of value except a single strand of pearls left by her grandmother. “My purse is in on the table. You can take it.”

  The vicious yank on her hair had her gasping in pain. “Where did he put it?”

  “Who? I don’t know what you want.”

  “Sharpe. Deal’s off, lady. If you want to live, you tell me where he put the money.”

  “I don’t know.” The knife point pricked the vulnerable skin at her throat. She felt something warm trickle down her skin. Hysteria bubbled up behind it. “I never saw any money. You can look—there’s nothing here.”

  “I’ve already looked.” He tightened his hold until her vision grayed from lack of air. “Sharpe died fast. You won’t be so lucky. Tell me where it is and nothing happens.”

  He was going to kill her. The thought ran in her head. She was going to die for something she knew nothing about. Money…he wanted money and she only had fifty dollars. Faith. As she felt herself on the verge of unconsciousness, she thought of her daughter. Who would take care of her? Liz bit down on her lip until the pain cleared her mind. She couldn’t die.

  “Please…” She let herself go limp in his arms. “I can’t tell you anything. I can’t breathe.”

  His hold loosened just slightly. Liz slumped against him and when he shifted, she brought her elbow back with all her strength. She didn’t bother to turn around but ran blindly. A rug slid under her feet, but she stumbled ahead, too terrified to look back. She was already calling for help when she hit the front door.

  Her closest neighbor was a hundred yards away. She vaulted the little fence that separated the yards and sprinted toward the house. She stumbled up the steps, sobbing. Even as the door opened, she heard the sound of a car squealing tires on the rough gravel road behind her.

  “He tried to kill me,” she managed, then fainted.

  “There is no further information I can give you, Mr. Sharpe.” Moralas sat in his neat office facing the waterfront. The file on his desk wasn’t as thick as he would have liked. Nothing in his investigation had turned up a reason for Jerry Sharpe’s murder. The man who sat across from him stared straight ahead. Moralas had a photo of the victim in the file, and a mirror image a few feet away. “I wonder, Mr. Sharpe, if your brother’s death was a result of something that happened before his coming to Cozumel.”

  “Jerry wasn’t running when he came here.”

  Moralas tidied his papers. “Still, we have asked for the cooperation of the New Orleans authorities. That was your brother’s last known address.”

  “He never had an address,” Jonas murmured. Or a conventional job, a steady woman. Jerry had been a comet, always refusing to burn itself out. “I’ve told you what Miss Palmer said. Jerry was cooking up a deal, and he was cooking it up in Cozumel.”

  “Yes, having to do with diving.” Always patient, Moralas drew out a thin cigar. “Though we’ve already spoken with Miss Palmer, I appreciate your bringing me the information.”

  “But you don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

  Moralas flicked on his lighter, smiling at Jonas over the flame. “You’re blunt. I’ll be blunt as well. If there was a trail to follow to your brother’s murder, it’s cold. Every day it grows colder. There were no fingerprints, no murder weapon, no witnesses.” He picked up the file, gesturing with it. “That doesn’t mean I intend to toss this in a drawer and forget about it. If there is a murderer on my island, I intend to find him. At the moment, I believe the murderer is miles away, perhaps in your own country. Procedure now is to backtrack on your brother’s activities until we find something. To be frank, Mr. Sharpe, you’re not doing yourself or me any good by being here.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “That is, of course, your privilege—unless you interfere with police procedure.” At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Moralas tipped his ash and picked up the phone.

  “Moralas.” There was a pause. Jonas saw the captain’s thick, dark brows draw together. “Yes, put her on. Miss Palmer, this is Captain Moralas.”

  Jonas stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette and waited. Liz Palmer was the key, he thought again. He had only to find what lock she fit.

  “When? Are you injured? No, please stay where you are, I’ll come to you.” Moralas was rising as he hung up the phone. “Miss Palmer has been attacked.”

  Jonas was at the door first. “I’m coming with you.”

  His muscles ached with tension as the police car raced out of town toward the shore. He asked no questions. In his mind, Jonas could see Liz as she’d been on the bridge hours before— tanned, slim, a bit defiant. He remembered the self-satisfied smirk she’d given him when he’d found himself in a tug-of-war with a thirty-pound fish. And how neatly she’d skipped out on him the moment they’d docked.

  She’d been attacked. Why? Was it because she knew more than she’d been willing to tell him? He wondered if she were a liar, an opportunist or a coward. Then he wondered how badly she’d been hurt.

  As they pulled down the narrow drive, Jonas glanced toward Liz’s house. The door was open, the shades drawn. She lived there alone, he thought, vulnerable and unprotected. Then he turned his attention to the little stucco building next door. A woman in a cotton dress and apron came onto the porch. She carried a baseball bat.

  “You are the police.” She nodded, satisfied, when Moralas showed his identification. “I am Señora Alderez. She’s inside. I thank the Virgin we were home when she came to us.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jonas stepped inside with Moralas and saw her. She was sitting on a patched sofa, huddled forward with a glass of wine in both hands. Jonas saw the liquid shiver back and forth as her hands trembled. She looked up slowly when they came in, her gaze passing over Moralas to lock on Jonas. She stared, with no expression in those deep, dark eyes. Just as slowly, she looked back at her glass.

  “Miss Palmer.” With his voice very gentle, Moralas sat down beside her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She took the smallest of drinks, pressed her lips together briefly, then began as though she were reciting. “I came home at sunset. I didn’t close the front door or lock it. I went straight into the bedroom. The shades were down, and I thought I’d left them up that morning. The cord wasn’t secured, so I went over and fixed it. That’s when he grabbed me—from behind. He had his arm around my neck and a knife. He cut me a little.” In reflex, she reached up to touch the inch-long scratch her neighbor had already cleaned and fussed over. “I didn’t fight because he had the knife at my throat and I thought he would kill me. He was going to kill me.” She brought her head up to look directly into Moralas’s eyes. “I could hear it in his voice.”

  “What did he say to you, Miss Palmer?”

  “He said, ‘Where is it?’ I didn’t know what he wanted. I told him he could take my purse. He was choking me and he said, ‘Where did he put it?’ He said Sharpe.” This time she looked at Jonas. When she lifted her head, he saw that bruises were already forming on her throat. “He said the deal was off and he wanted the money. If I didn’t tell him where it was he’d kill me, and I wouldn’t die quickly, the
way Jerry had. He didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know anything.” She spoke directly to Jonas. As she stared at him he felt the guilt rise.

  Patient, Moralas touched her arm to bring her attention back to him. “He let you go?”

  “No, he was going to kill me.” She said it dully, without fear, without passion. “I knew he would whether I told him anything or not, and my daughter—she needs me. I slumped as if I’d fainted, then I hit him. I think I hit him in the throat with my elbow. And I ran.”

  “Can you identify the man?”

  “I never saw him. I never looked.”

  “His voice.”

  “He spoke Spanish. I think he was short because his voice was right in my ear. I don’t know anything else. I don’t know anything about money or Jerry or anything else.” She looked back into her glass, abruptly terrified she would cry. “I want to go home.”

  “As soon as my men make certain it’s safe. You’ll have police protection, Miss Palmer. Rest here. I’ll come back for you and take you home.”

  She didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours since she’d fled through the front door. When Moralas took her back, it was dark with the moon just rising. An officer would remain outside in her driveway and all her doors and windows had been checked. Without a word, she went through the house into the kitchen.

  “She was lucky.” Moralas gave the living room another quick check. “Whoever attacked her was careless enough to be caught off guard.”

  “Did the neighbors see anything?” Jonas righted a table that had been overturned in flight. There was a conch shell on the floor that had cracked.

  “A few people noticed a blue compact outside the house late this afternoon. Señora Alderez saw it drive off when she opened the door to Miss Palmer, but she couldn’t identify the make or the plates. We will, of course, keep Miss Palmer under surveillance while we try to track it down.”

  “It doesn’t appear my brother’s killer’s left the island.”

  Moralas met Jonas’s gaze blandly. “Apparently whatever deal your brother was working on cost him his life. I don’t intend for it to cost Miss Palmer hers. I’ll drive you back to town.”

  “No. I’m staying.” Jonas examined the pale pink shell with the crack spreading down its length. He thought of the mark on Liz’s throat. “My brother involved her.” Carefully, he set the damaged shell down. “I can’t leave her alone.”

  “As you wish.” Moralas turned to go when Jonas stopped him.

  “Captain, you don’t still think the murderer’s hundreds of miles away.”

  Moralas touched the gun that hung at his side. “No, Mr. Sharpe, I don’t. Buenas noches.”

  Jonas locked her door himself, then rechecked the windows before he went back to the kitchen. Liz was pouring her second cup of coffee. “That’ll keep you up.”

  Liz drank half a cup, staring at him. She felt nothing at the moment, no anger, no fear. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “No.” Without invitation, he found a mug and poured coffee for himself.

  “Why are you here?”

  He took a step closer, to run a fingertip gently down the mark on her throat. “Stupid question,” he murmured.

  She backed up, fighting to maintain the calm she’d clung to. If she lost control, it wouldn’t be in front of him, in front of anyone. “I want to be alone.”

  He saw her hands tremble before she locked them tighter on the cup. “You can’t always have what you want. I’ll bunk in your daughter’s room.”

  “No!” After slamming the cup down, she folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want you here.”

  With studied calm, he set his mug next to hers. When he took her shoulders, his hands were firm, not gentle. When he spoke, his voice was brisk, not soothing. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not now, not until they find Jerry’s killer. You’re involved whether you like it or not. And so, damn it, am I.”

  Her breath came quickly, too quickly, though she fought to steady it. “I wasn’t involved until you came back and started hounding me.”

  He’d already wrestled with his conscience over that. Neither one of them could know if it were true. At the moment, he told himself it didn’t matter. “However you’re involved, you are. Whoever killed Jerry thinks you know something. You’ll have an easier time convincing me you don’t than you will them. It’s time you started thinking about cooperating with me.”

  “How do I know you didn’t send him here to frighten me?”

  His eyes stayed on hers, cool and unwavering. “You don’t. I could tell you that I don’t hire men to kill women, but you wouldn’t have to believe it. I could tell you I’m sorry.” For the first time, his tone gentled. He lifted a hand to brush the hair back from her face and his thumb slid lightly over her cheekbone. Like the conch shell, she seemed delicate, lovely and damaged. “And that I wish I could walk away, leave you alone, let both of us go back to the way things were a few weeks ago. But I can’t. We can’t. So we might as well help each other.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “I know. Sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  She tried to back away. “You can’t stay here.”

  “I am staying here. Tomorrow, I’m moving my things from the hotel.”

  “I said—”

  “I’ll rent the room,” he interrupted, turning away to rummage through the cupboards. “Your throat’s probably raw. This chicken soup should be the best thing.”

  She snatched the can from his hand. “I can fix my own dinner, and you’re not renting a room.”

  “I appreciate your generosity.” He took the can back from her. “But I’d rather keep it on a business level. Twenty dollars a week seems fair. You’d better take it, Liz,” he added before she could speak. “Because I’m staying, one way or the other. Sit down,” he said again and looked for a pot.

  She wanted to be angry. It would help keep everything else bottled up. She wanted to shout at him, to throw him bodily out of her house. Instead she sat because her knees were too weak to hold her any longer.

  What had happened to her control? For ten years she’d been running her own life, making every decision by herself, for herself. For ten years, she hadn’t asked advice, she hadn’t asked for help. Now something had taken control and decisions out of her hands, something she knew nothing about. Her life was part of a game, and she didn’t know any of the rules.

  She looked down and saw the tear drop on the back of her hand. Quickly, she reached up and brushed others from her cheeks. But she couldn’t stop them. One more decision had been taken from her.

  “Can you eat some toast?” Jonas asked her as he dumped the contents of the soup in a pan. When she didn’t answer, he turned to see her sitting stiff and pale at the table, tears running unheeded down her face. He swore and turned away again. There was nothing he could do for her, he told himself. Nothing he could offer. Then, saying nothing, he came to the table, pulled a chair up beside her and waited.

  “I thought he’d kill me.” Her voice broke as she pressed a hand to her face. “I felt the knife against my throat and thought I was going to die. I’m so scared. Oh God, I’m so scared.”

  He drew her against him and let her sob out the fear. He wasn’t used to comforting women. Those he knew well were too chic to shed more than a delicate drop or two. But he held her close during a storm of weeping that shook her body and left her gasping.

  Her skin was icy, as if to prove the fact that fear made the blood run cold. She couldn’t summon the pride to draw herself away, to seek a private spot as she’d always done in a crisis. He didn’t speak to tell her everything would be fine; he didn’t murmur quiet words of comfort. He was simply there. When she was drained, he still held her. The rain began slowly, patting the glass of the windows and pinging on the roof. He still held her.

  When she shifted away, he rose and went back to the stove. Without a word, he turned on the burner. Minutes later he set a bowl in front of
her then went back to ladle some for himself. Too tired to be ashamed, Liz began to eat. There was no sound in the kitchen but the slow monotonous plop of rain on wood, tin and glass.

  She hadn’t realized she could be hungry, but the bowl was empty almost before she realized it. With a little sigh, she pushed it away. He was tipped back in his chair, smoking in silence.

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes were swollen, accentuating the vulnerability that always haunted them. It tugged at him, making him uneasy. Her skin, with its ripe, warm honey glow was pale, making her seem delicate and defenseless. She was a woman, he realized, that a man had to keep an emotional distance from. Get too close and you’d be sucked right in. It wouldn’t do to care about her too much when he needed to use her to help both of them. From this point on, he’d have to hold the controls.

  “I suppose I was more upset than I realized.”

  “You’re entitled.”

  She nodded, grateful he was making it easy for her to skim over what she considered an embarrassing display of weakness. “There’s no reason for you to stay here.”

  “I’ll stay anyway.”

  She curled her hand into a fist, then uncurled it slowly. It wasn’t possible for her to admit she wanted him to, or that for the first time in years she was frightened of being alone. Since she had to cave in, it was better to think of the arrangement on a practical level.

  “All right, the room’s twenty a week, first week in advance.”

  He grinned as he reached for his wallet. “All business?”

  “I can’t afford anything else.” After putting the twenty on the counter, she stacked the bowls. “You’ll have to see to your own food. The twenty doesn’t include meals.”

  He watched her take the bowls to the sink and wash them. “I’ll manage.”

  “I’ll give you a key in the morning.” She took a towel and meticulously dried the bowls. “Do you think he’ll be back?” She tried to make her voice casual, and failed.