The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  “Oh yeah?” He hooked his arms around her waist. “Tell me more.”

  “I never much cared for the golden-god type. Usually too pretty for my taste.” She cocked her head, eased forward to kiss him. “You suit my taste, cher.”

  He brought her closer and, sitting on the wooden crate, rested his chin on her shoulder as he looked out over the gallery railings. “I love you, Lena.”

  “If you’re trying to sweet-talk me into bed before you feed me—”

  He drew her back, and the grin faded from her face as she saw his. “I love you,” he repeated. “I never understood what that meant before, and I didn’t think I could.”

  He held her in place when she tried to scramble up and away. “You need to settle down now,” she told him.

  “Yeah, I do—but I don’t think you mean it the same way. I need to settle down, right here, with you. I don’t care if it’s the first time or the fiftieth time we’ve gone around. You’re what I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Declan, you’re making more out of this than you should.” Her voice wanted to shake. God knew, her stomach already was. “We went out to dinner. We went to bed. We’ve seen each other a handful of times.”

  “It only took one look at you.”

  His eyes were so deep, she thought, so clear. Like the surface of a lake at twilight. “You don’t even know me.”

  He pulled her back a second time, reminding her that there was steel in him, and an edge to it. “You’re wrong. I know you’re smart, and you’re strong. Enough to carve out your own place from almost nothing. I know you pay your debts. I know you’re loyal and you’re loving. I know somebody hurt you, and it wouldn’t take much to knock the scab off. And I know I’m scaring you right now because you don’t think you’re ready to hear what I’m saying to you.”

  The beat of her heart was painful, like the strike of a fist on a raw wound. “I’m not looking for love, Declan. I’m sorry.”

  “Neither was I, but there you go. We don’t have to rush it. I wasn’t going to say anything to you yet but . . . I needed to.”

  “Cher, people, they fall in and out of love all the time. It’s just a dazzle of chemicals.”

  “He really hurt you.”

  Frustrated, she pushed away, and this time he let her go. “You’re wrong. There’s no man, no ghost of some lover who broke my heart. I look like a cliché to you?”

  “You look like everything to me.”

  “Mon Dieu.” The man made her throat fill up, then snap shut. Deliberately she fought back the sensation and spoke clearly. “I like you, Declan, and I enjoy your company. I want you in bed. If that’s not enough for you, I walk now and save us both a lot of trouble and disappointment.”

  “Do you always get so pissed off when somebody tells you he loves you?”

  No one ever had, she nearly said. No one ever had who meant it. “I don’t like being pushed, and when I am, I make a point of not going in that direction.”

  “I have to admire that.” His grin was easy as he got to his feet. “I like you, too, Lena. And I enjoy your company, want you in bed. That’s enough for now. Are you hungry? I think I’ll heat up the grill.”

  If it was a trick, Lena thought, or some sort of strategy to keep her off balance, it was well done.

  She just couldn’t quite puzzle the man out, and his seamless shift of moods was a surefire way to push her to keep trying.

  He cooked like a man who didn’t trust himself in an actual kitchen. Jacketed potatoes on the grill, the steaks. And he sweet-talked her into making the salad.

  He didn’t say another word about love.

  He asked her about work, how her business had done during the two days of rain. He put on music, kept it low, and talked through the kitchen door as the grill smoked and she chopped vegetables.

  They might have been casual friends, or the most comfortable of lovers.

  They ate in his pretty kitchen, by candlelight. Even the house behaved. Despite it—or perhaps because of it—she stayed on edge throughout the meal.

  He took a bakery cake out of the fridge. Lena took one look, sighed. “I can’t.”

  “We can save it for later.”

  “I can’t for forty days. I gave up chocolate for Lent. I’ve got a powerful taste for chocolate.”

  “Oh.” He stuck it back in. “I’ve probably got something else.”

  “What’d you give up?”

  “Wearing women’s underwear. It’s tough, but I think I can hold out till Easter.”

  “You talk like that, I’m going to take my ashes back.” He was making her itchy, she thought. The best way to solve that was to make him itch more. She stepped behind him as he searched his refrigerator, then wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her body to his. “You need to give something up, cher, something you’ve got a powerful taste for.”

  “It sure as hell isn’t going to be you.”

  He let her spin him around, shove him back against the refrigerator.

  Oh, he knew her, he thought as she used her lips to set off explosions in his bloodstream. He knew she was using sex to keep one step ahead of him. One step back from him.

  If she didn’t realize he could love her as much as he wanted her, it was up to him to show her.

  “In your bed, you said.” Her mouth was reckless, restless as it raced over his face. “In your bed.”

  She pulled him toward the doorway. He nearly pulled her back, toward the kitchen stairs, but decided it might be interesting to take the long way around.

  He pushed her against the wall in the hallway, assaulted her throat with his teeth. “We’ll get there.”

  He reached down, yanked her shirt up, over her head, threw it aside. Wrapped together, they did a quick vertical roll along the wall, and finally stopped with their positions reversed. With impatient hands she pulled his shirt open so that buttons danced along the floor.

  They fought with clothes on their way to the steps. Shoes landed with thumps. Her bra fluttered over the banister, his jeans plopped on the third step.

  They were breathless before they reached the landing.

  His hands were rough, a workingman’s hands now that thrilled as they streaked over her. Her skin came alive.

  “Hurry.” She sank her teeth into his shoulder as need raged through her, a firestorm of violent heat that burned away all caution. “God, hurry.”

  He nearly took her where they stood, but he wanted her under him. Bucking, arching.

  With his mouth savaging hers, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her two inches off the floor. Something raw and primitive stabbed through him at the knowledge that there was no choice now. No choice for either of them but to mate.

  Shadows cloaked them as they moved toward the bedroom.

  Cold from doorways seeped out, made her shiver.

  “Declan.”

  “This is us. This is ours.” As he spoke, his voice a snarl, as he held her, his grip like iron, the cold curled back.

  They fell on his bed, a tangle of limbs and urgency. When he plunged into her, her nails dug into his back. Pleasure, dark and desperate, drenched her, the feral glory of it drove her up so that she twined herself around him and matched the furious pace.

  No control, nor the desire for it. Only the wild thirst to take and take and take. And with it, the gnawing hunger to give.

  She clung to him, riding through the storm of sensation, sprinting up and up toward that jagged brink again.

  Dimly, she heard a clock begin to strike in deep, heavy bongs. On the twelfth, she shattered with him.

  When he started to shift away, she tightened her grip. “Mmm. Don’t move yet.”

  “I’m too heavy for you.” He rubbed his lips at the curve of her throat.

  “I like it. I like this.” Lazily, she angled her head so he could work his way up to her jaw. Her body felt used and bruised and wonderfully loose. “Even better than chocolate cake.”

  He laughed and rolled over, taking
her with him so she sprawled over his chest. “There, now I don’t have to worry about crushing you.”

  “A gentleman to the last.” Content, she settled in. “I’ve always liked a clock that chimes the hours,” she said. “But you need to set it. It’s not midnight yet.”

  “I know.”

  “Sounded like a big, old grandfather clock. Where’d you put it? In the parlor.”

  “No.” He stroked a hand over her hair, down her back. “I don’t have a clock that chimes.”

  “Cher, you absolutely ring my bells, but I heard a clock chime twelve.”

  “Yeah, so did I. But I don’t have a clock.”

  She lifted her head, let out a slow breath. “Oh. Well then. Does it scare you?”

  “No.”

  “Then it doesn’t scare me, either,” she said, and laid her head back over his heart.

  13

  The best way, in Declan’s opinion, to break through the obstacles and opposition to any goal, was not to ram headfirst against them and risk a skull fracture, but to chip away at them. Gradually, reasonably. Relentlessly. Whether it was a lawsuit, a sporting event or a love affair, it was imperative to keep the end in sight in order to select the correct means.

  He found out which Mass Lena and her grandmother attended, and at which church. Research was essential in any strategy.

  When he slipped into the pew beside them on Sunday morning, he got a long speculative look from Lena, and a conspirator’s wink from Odette.

  He figured God would understand and appreciate the ploy, and not hold it against him for using Sunday Mass as a means to his end.

  But he wouldn’t mention the brainstorm to his mother. She was, in Declan’s experience, a lot less flexible than the Almighty.

  Aiming the leading edge of his charm toward Odette, he talked them into brunch afterward, and got another cool stare from Lena when he gave his name to the hostess. He’d already made reservations for three.

  “Sure of yourself, aren’t you, cher?”

  His eyes were the innocent gray of a former altar boy. “Just prepared.”

  “You ain’t no Boy Scout, sugar,” she told him.

  “Your granddaughter’s very cynical,” Declan responded as he offered his arm to Odette.

  “What she is, is smart.” Odette patted a hand on his and had her bracelets jangling. “A woman’s got to be about smooth-talking, handsome men. Man who comes into church so he can spend a Sunday morning with a woman, he’s pretty smart, too.”

  “I thought I’d come in and pray for a while.”

  “What’d you pray for?”

  “That you’d run away with me to Borneo.”

  With a laugh, Odette slipped into the chair Declan held out for her. “Aren’t you the one.”

  “Yeah.” He looked directly at Lena. “I’m going to be the one.”

  They settled in with mimosas and the first round from the expansive buffet. While a jazz quartet played Dixieland, Declan told them about the progress on the house.

  “I’m going to stick with the outside work as long as the weather holds. Tibald’s still dealing with the plastering, and I’m trying to line up a painter for the exterior. I don’t want to do that myself. The guy I had paint the parlor came in to take a look at the library, but he left sort of abruptly.”

  Declan’s expression was rueful as he sipped his mimosa. “I don’t think he’s coming back. Tile man, either. He got one bath half done when he packed it in.”

  “I can do some asking around for you,” Odette offered.

  “I’d appreciate it. But I think I’m going to have to start looking outside the parish or try my hand at some of this stuff myself. Things are getting a little lively at the Hall.”

  “Grown men running off because a couple of doors slam.” Lena curled her lips into a sneer. “Ought to have more spine.”

  “It’s a little more than that now. Clocks bonging where there aren’t any clocks to bong, music playing in empty rooms. When the painter was there, the pocket doors in the library kept opening and closing. Then there was the screaming.”

  “What screaming?”

  “Tile guy.” Declan smiled wanly. “Said he heard somebody come in the bedroom door, thought it was me. He’s talking away, setting the tiles, listening to what he assumed was me moving around in there. Since I wasn’t answering whatever questions he had, he got up, walked in. Nobody there. From what I could get out of him when he was semi-coherent, the bathroom door slammed behind him, the logs caught fire in the fireplace. Then he claims he felt somebody put a hand on his shoulder. I had to peel him off the ceiling when I got up there.”

  “What do you think about it?” Odette asked.

  “A couple of things. Seems to me the more the work progresses on the house, the more overt and volatile the . . . paranormal activity, we’ll call it. Especially, well, when I veer off from the original scheme.”

  Lena scooped up a forkful of grits—a particular southern culinary custom Declan had yet to get his tastebuds around. “What do you mean?”

  “For example, the plasterwork. The areas where that is going on, things are pretty settled. I’m restoring them, replicating. But in places where I’ve made changes—bathroom setup, tiles—things get really interesting. It’s like whatever’s in the house gets royally ticked that we’re not sticking with the original plan.”

  “Something to think about,” Odette commented.

  “I have been. I figure Josephine Manet.” Even here, with Dixieland bright in the air and champagne fizzing, the name coated his belly with dread. “Mistress of the Hall. You only have to look at her photographs to see that was a woman who didn’t like to be crossed. Now, I come along and put my fingerprints all over what’s hers.”

  “You resolved to living with her?” Odette asked, and watched his jaw firm.

  “I’m resolved to living in the Hall, and doing it my way. She wants to kick up a fuss about it, that’s her problem.”

  Lena sat back. “What do you figure, Grandmama? Brave or stubborn?”

  “Oh, he’s some of both. It’s a good mix.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t know how brave it is. It’s my house now, and that’s that. Still, I think you can’t blame a man who doesn’t have any more than his time and labor invested for taking a hike. Anyway, Miss Odette, what do you think? Am I tangling with Josephine?”

  “I think you’ve got two opposing forces in that house. The one that brought you there, the one that wants you to go away. It’s going to come down to who’s strongest.”

  She opened her Sunday purse, took out a small muslin bag. “I made this up for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, a little kitchen magic. You just keep that in your pocket. May not help, but it can’t hurt.” She picked up her glass again, smiled at it. “Imagine, drinking champagne for breakfast.”

  “Come with me to Borneo, you can bathe in it.”

  “Cher, I drink enough of this, I may take you up on it.”

  “I’ll get us another round.”

  He was so sweet with her, Lena thought. Flirting with her grandmother until there was a flush of pleasure on Odette’s cheeks throughout the long, lazy meal. He troubled himself for people, she mused. Took the time, made the effort to find out what they might enjoy, then saw to it.

  He was attentive, clever, sexy, rich, tough-minded and kind.

  And he said he was in love with her.

  She believed she understood him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t have said it unless he meant it. That’s what unnerved her.

  For added to those other qualities was a wide streak of honesty. And sheer stubborn grit.

  He could make her fall in love with him. She was already halfway there and sliding fast. Every time she tried to dig her heels in, she lost her balance again. The tumble was as worrisome as it was thrilling.

  But what would happen when she hit? Once she dropped all the way, there’d be no climbing back out. That was something she unders
tood about herself. Relationships were easy when they didn’t matter, or mattered only for the moment.

  When they mattered forever, they changed everything.

  Things had changed already, she admitted. It had started with that yearning for him inside her. And now with the comfort and challenge she felt when she was with him. With being able to imagine feeling it day after day, year after year.

  He’d want promises she was afraid to give.

  Not afraid, she corrected, irritated with herself. Reluctant to give. Unwilling to give.

  Then she watched him lean over and kiss her grandmother’s cheek and was afraid—there was no point in pretending otherwise—that she’d end up giving him anything he asked for.

  He courted her. It seemed a particularly appealing southern word to Declan, bringing images of moonlight and porch swings, tart lemonade and country dances.

  Throughout March, two things occupied his mind, his time and his plans. Lena and the house.

  He celebrated the clear results of his neurological tests by taking the day off to antique. Spring had jump-started the flowers and had pedestrians strolling in shirtsleeves. The carriage horses the tourists loved prancing with bright clip-clops of hooves on pavement.

  Summer would drop her heavy hand soon enough, and turn the air to molasses. The thought of it reminded him he had to have the air-conditioning upgraded, and maybe reconsider installing paddle fans in some of the rooms.

  He bought with his usual surrender to impulse, brightening the day of several shopkeepers before he stopped in a place called, simply, Yesterday.

  It was a hodgepodge of statuary, lamps, vintage accessories and jewelry, with three curtained booths on the side where patrons could buy a tarot card reading.

  It was the ring that caught his eye first. The blood-red ruby and ice-white diamond formed two halves of an interlocking heart on a platinum band.

  The minute he held it in his hand, he knew he wanted it for Lena. Maybe it was foolish to buy an engagement ring at this point in their relationship. And it was reckless to snatch at something before he’d looked at other options.