The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  Maybe she’d buy a little CD player for the counter, just for company. She glanced over at the reassuring glint of the new dead bolt against the faded paint of the door. She was safe here, so why not be happy and comfortable, as well?

  She was going to hike again, too. And she might see about renting or borrowing a boat to take out on the lake. How hard could it be to row a boat? She’d like to find out.

  That would be another step toward being normal instead of just pretending to be.

  She had a date, didn’t she? Sort of. And that was pretty damn normal. Just as Brody being ten minutes late was probably normal.

  Unless he wasn’t coming at all. Unless he’d rethought what had happened—or almost happened—between them and was opting out before things got complicated. Why would a man choose to get tangled up with someone who was emotionally screwed up? Someone who checked the door three times and still managed to leave it unlocked. Who couldn’t remember writing all over a map with red marker. Who put her hiking boots in a kitchen cabinet.

  Must be sleepwalking, Reece thought with a sigh. Regressing. Next thing she’d be wandering the street naked.

  She stopped, closed her eyes and drew in a breath. She smelled the mushrooms, the peppers and onions, the roasting meat.

  She was not only safe, and fairly sane, she was productive. She had nothing to worry about tonight but preparing a good meal. Even if she ended up eating it by herself. Even as she thought it, she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  She let the initial panic come, let it go. By the time the knock sounded she was steady again. Wiping her hands on the dish towel hooked in her waistband, she crossed over to unlock the door.

  Steady, she thought, but not stupid. “Brody?”

  “You expecting someone else? What’s for dinner?”

  So she was smiling when she unlocked and opened the door. “Salmon croquettes and steamed asparagus with a side of polenta.”

  His eyes narrowed as he stepped in. Then he took a good sniff of the air and gave a teeth-baring grin. “Meat. Looks like you might want to put this away for another time.”

  She took the wine he offered, noted it was a nice Pinot Grigio. He paid attention, she realized, even when he didn’t seem to be.

  “Thanks. I’ve got some Cabernet open, if you’d like a glass.”

  “Wouldn’t turn it down.” He took off his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair. “New lock?”

  Paid attention, she noted again.

  “Mr. Drubber put it in for me. I guess it’s overkill, but I’ll sleep better.”

  “TV. You’re coming up in the world.”

  “I decided to embrace technology.” She poured him a glass of wine. Turning, she took the roast out of the oven, set it on the stovetop.

  “Ah, just like Mom used to make.”

  “Really?”

  “No. My mother could burn takeout.”

  Amused, Reece finished stuffing the mushrooms. “What does she do?”

  “She’s a psychiatrist. Private practice.”

  Trying to ignore the automatic bump in her belly, Reece concentrated on the mushroom caps. “Oh.”

  “And she macramés.”

  “She what?”

  “Makes things by tying rope into knots. I think she once macraméd a small studio apartment. Furnished. It’s an obsession.”

  Reece slid the mushrooms into the oven, set the timer. “And your father?”

  “My father likes to cook out on the grill, even in the winter. He’s a college professor. Romance languages. Some people think they’re an odd combo. She’s intense and sociable, he’s on the shy and dreamy side. But it works for them. You having any of this wine?”

  “In a minute.” She set out a dish of olives. “Any siblings?”

  “Two, one of each.”

  “I always wanted a brother or sister. Someone to fight with, or to bond with against authority. I’m an only child, and both my parents were only children.”

  “More turkey at Thanksgiving that way.”

  “Always a bright side. One of the reasons I loved working at Maneo’s was that it was so noisy and full and dramatic. We weren’t noisy and dramatic at home. My grandmother’s wonderful. Steady and loving and fair. So good to me.” She raised her glass in a half toast, drank. “I’ve given her a lot to worry about the last couple of years.”

  “Does she know where you are?”

  “Oh, sure. I call back home every couple weeks, e-mail regularly. My grandmother especially loves e-mail. She’s a busy, modern woman, with a very full life of her own.” She turned to check the mushrooms, flipped the gauge to broil. “She divorced my grandfather before I was born. I’ve never met him. She started her own decorating business.”

  Absently, Reece glanced around the tiny apartment. “She’d shudder to see what I haven’t done with this place. Anyway, she loves to travel. Had to put a lot of that on hold when my parents were killed—car accident when I was fifteen, and Gram raised me from there. She didn’t want me to leave Boston. And I couldn’t stay.”

  “Steady and loving and fair. She probably wants you happy more than she wants you in Boston.”

  She mulled that over as she got out a plate. “You’re right, but I’ve so enjoyed all my servings of guilt the last months. Anyway, I’ve got her mostly convinced I’m fine. So she’s in Barcelona right now, on a buying trip.”

  She pulled out the mushrooms, sprinkled them with Parmesan. Set them under the broiler. “These would be better with fresh, but I couldn’t find any.”

  “I’ll probably be able to choke one or two down.”

  Once they were done to her specification, were arranged on a plate, she set them on the counter between them. “This is the first meal I’ve cooked for anyone in two years.”

  “You cook every day downstairs.”

  She shook her head. “That’s work. I mean it’s the first meal I’ve cooked for pleasure. The other night doesn’t count. That was a throw-it-together deal. I’ve missed doing this, and didn’t realize just how much until tonight.”

  “Glad to help.” He picked up a mushroom, popped it in his mouth. “Good.”

  She took one herself, bit in. Smiled. “Yes, they are.”

  IT WASN’T so hard. Easier for her than going out, finding or going along with some activity designed to pass the time or create conversational gambits. She could relax here, enjoy making the final preparations for the meal. And oddly, she could relax with and enjoy him.

  “It’ll be easier with this setup if I plate the food. Is that all right with you?”

  “Go ahead.” He gestured toward his plate with his wineglass. “Don’t be stingy.”

  While she served, he poured them both more wine. He’d noted the candles, the fancy napkins, the sturdy pepper grinder. All new, he thought, since his last visit.

  And he’d noticed his book sitting on the tiny table by her daybed.

  The woman was settling in, he decided, and fully expected to see a vase of flowers and a couple pictures on the wall before too much longer.

  “I started your book.” She lifted her gaze to his as she spoke, and his heart took one, quick lurch.

  The woman had a pair of eyes on her.

  “How’s that going for you?”

  “I like it.” She came around the counter to sit beside him, spread her napkin on her lap. “It’s scary, and that’s good. It takes my mind off my own nerves. I like Jack—he’s such a screwup. Hope he doesn’t end up in that grave. Plus, I think Leah can straighten him out.”

  “Is that what women are supposed to do? Straighten men out?”

  “People are supposed to straighten people out, when they can, and if they care enough. She cares for him. So I hope they end up together.”

  “Happily ever after?”

  “If justice doesn’t triumph and love doesn’t make the circle in entertainment fiction, what’s the point? Real life sucks too often.”

  “Happily ever after doesn’t win Pulitzers.”


  She pursed her lips as she studied him. “Is that what you’re after?”

  “If it was, I’d still be working for theTrib . Cooking pot roast over a diner in Wyoming, or flipping buffalo burgers in that diner, isn’t going to win you whatever the epicurean equivalent of the Pulitzer might be.”

  “I thought I wanted that once, too. Important awards, acknowledgment. I’d rather cook pot roast.” She paused a minute. “How’s that going for you?”

  “I’d give you an award.” He cut another piece, then followed it up with part of the biscuit he’d generously buttered. “Where’d you get the biscuits?”

  “I made them.”

  “Get out.” His disbelief was instant and sincere. “Like with flour?”

  “That would be one ingredient.” She passed him the bowl so he could take another.

  “A lot of happy steps up from the Doughboy and Hamburger Helper that ruled in my house.”

  “I should hope so. I’m a food snob,” she said when he grinned at her. “Sue me. Let me guess what’s in your larder. Frozen pizza, cans of soup and chili, cereal boxes, maybe some Eggos. Hot dogs, a couple of those Hungry-Man dinners.”

  “You forgot the mac and cheese.”

  “Ah yes, the single man’s staple. Dried elbow pasta and cheese powder. Yum.”

  “Keeps body and soul together.”

  “Yes, like paste.”

  He speared one of the tiny roasted potatoes on his plate. “Going to straighten me out, Slim?”

  “Well, I’ll feed you now and then, which works for both of us. I can—” She broke off, dropping her fork when the quick blast sounded outside.

  “Carl’s truck,” Brody said calmly.

  “Carl’s truck.” She picked up her wine with both hands. “Gets me every time. I wish he’d get that damn thing fixed.”

  “You and everyone else in the Fist. Do you ever write any of this stuff down?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Recipes.”

  “Oh.” She ordered herself to pick up her fork, to eat despite the fact that a fist was still kneading her stomach like a ball of dough. “Sure. I was organized and a little anal even before I went crazy. I’ve got recipes filed on my laptop with two thumb drive backups. Why? Are you planning on trying your hand at buttermilk biscuits?”

  “No. I just wondered why you haven’t done a cookbook.”

  “I used to think I might, eventually, when I got a prime slot on the Food Channel,” she added with a quick smile. “Something hip and fun and skewed toward the young, urban dinner party and Sunday brunch crowd.”

  “Eventually’s a myth. You want to do something, you do it.”

  “No Food Channel slot on my horizon. It’s just not something I could handle.”

  “I meant the cookbook.”

  “Oh. I haven’t given that any thought in…hmmm.” Why couldn’t she write a cookbook? She had hundreds of recipes in her files and had tested all of them.

  “Maybe I’ll play with it a little. Sometime or other.”

  “If you put a proposal together, I can send it to my agent if you want.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  He ate the last bite of meat on his plate. “Damn good pot roast. Now if you’d written a manuscript for a novel, the only way I’d read it would be if you held a gun to my head or slept with me. Under those conditions, if it didn’t completely suck, I might offer to have my agent give it a look. But since I’ve personally sampled your cooking, I can make the offer without the gun or the sex. Up to you.”

  “Seems reasonable,” she replied. “Under those conditions, how many manuscripts have you sent to your agent?”

  “That would be none. The subject’s come up a few times, but I’ve managed to slip through loopholes.”

  “Do I have to sleep with you if I put a proposal together and your agent decides to represent me?”

  “Well, yeah.” He shook his head as if the question were ridiculous. “Obviously.”

  “Of course. I’ll think about it.” Relaxed again, she sat back with her wine. “I’d offer you seconds, but, one, I promised Mr. Drubber some leftovers; two, there wouldn’t be enough for me to send some of the roast home with you so you could make sandwiches; and three, you’ll need to save room for dessert.”

  Brody latched on to point one. “How come Mac rates leftovers?”

  “For installing my dead bolt. He wouldn’t let me pay for it, either.”

  “He’s a little sweet on you.”

  “I’m a little sweet on him. Why isn’t he married?”

  Brody gave a sad, sad sigh. “Typical female question. I had higher hopes for you.”

  “You’re right, it is typical. But I wish he had someone making him pot roast and working with him in the store.”

  “He’s got you making him pot roast, apparently. And he’s got Leon and Old Frank working with him in the store. Beck fills in part-time when Mac wants him.”

  “Still, it’s not like having someone who works with you and cares that you get a nice hot meal at the end of the day.”

  “Word is he had his heart broken about a quarter century ago. Was engaged, and she jilted him—if not at the altar, steps from it. Took off with his best friend.”

  “Not really. Really?”

  “That’s the word, which is probably duded up to make it more important. Some root of truth in it, I imagine.”

  “That bitch. She didn’t deserve him.”

  “He probably doesn’t even remember her name.”

  “Of course he does. I bet she’s on her fourth husband by now, and has a raging prescription drug habit brought on by complications from her third face-lift.”

  “You’re a little mean. I like it.”

  “When it comes down to someone hurting someone I care about, I’m vicious. So. Why don’t you retire to the salon, enjoy your wine. I’m going to clear this up.”

  “Defineclear .”

  “Watch and learn.”

  “Fine, but the view’s better from here. I saw a picture of you from a few years back. Articles on the Internet, from papers, magazines,” he explained when she only stared at him.

  “Why were you looking at articles on the Internet?”

  “About you specifically? Curiosity. Your hair was shorter.”

  Reece picked up the plates, took them to the sink. “Yes. I used to go to this upscale salon on Newberry. Pricey, but worth every penny. Or it was to me then. I haven’t been able to handle a salon since…” She turned on the water, squirted in dish soap. “So I’ve let it grow.”

  “It’s nice hair.”

  “I used to love going to the salon, having someone so focused on me, my appearance. Sitting there sipping the wine or tea or fizzy water they’d serve me, walking out feeling fresh and new. It was one of those areas of life where I loved being female.”

  She turned away from the sink to divide the leftovers into the two take-away boxes she’d gotten from Joanie’s. “After I got out of the hospital, my grandmother treated me to a spa day at my salon. Booked hair, nails, a facial, a massage. Everyone was so solicitous, so gentle. I panicked in the dressing room. I couldn’t even unbutton my shirt to put on the robe. Just had to get out.”

  She took the boxes to store in the refrigerator. “My stylist—I’d gone to him for years. He’s a sweetheart. He offered to come to the house for me. But I just couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mortification played a big role.”

  “That’s just stupid.”

  “Maybe, but it was real. And it was easier to be embarrassed than afraid. In the big scheme, beauty-salon phobia isn’t such a hardship. But they stack up.”

  “Maybe you should try it again.”

  From the sink, she shot him a look over her shoulder. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You look good. You’ve got lucky genes. But it’s stupid not to try to get back something you enjoy.”

  Lucky genes, she thought as she set dishes i
n the drainer. Not exactly a poetic compliment. Still, it made her feel better about her appearance than she had in a very long time.

  “I’ll put it on my list.”

  She turned, drying her hands on the cloth just as he pushed off the stool. She didn’t take a step back—though she thought of it. Retreat wouldn’t work with him. More to the point, she supposed, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to step back or step toward him.

  He took the cloth out of her hands, tossed it aside in a way that made her wince. It needed to be laid flat to dry so it wouldn’t—

  He laid his hands on the lip of the sink on either side of her, much as he’d done on the hood of his car. “What’s for dessert?”

  “Apple brown betty with vanilla bean ice cream. It’s been warming in the oven while we…”

  His mouth captured hers, firm and strong. She tasted the wine on his tongue, heady and tempting, and felt the testing graze of his teeth. Her blood flashed as it might with a lightning strike.

  “Oh boy,” she managed. “It’s like having the circuits in my brain crossed. All sizzle and smoke.”

  “Maybe you need to lie down.”

  “I’d like to. Let me say first, I’d like that. I even washed the sheets, incase.”

  His lips quirked. “You washed the sheets.”

  “Seemed like the thing to do. But…Would you just take a step back? I can’t breathe right.”

  He eased back. “Better?”

  “Yes and no.” He was so compelling, she thought. She stood by her initial impression of him. Not handsome, but so compellingly attractive. So absolutely male. Big hands, big feet, hard mouth, hard body.

  “I want to go to bed with you; I want to have all those feelings again. But I think I need to wait until I’m a little more sure of myself.”

  “And of me.”

  “It’s one of the things I like about you. You get the point of things. It would be normal for you—good, possibly great—but normal. For me, being intimate again would be—will be—monumental. I guess we’d both better be sure, because that’s a big weight on you.”

  “Okay. You’re not sleeping with me for my sake.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Damn considerate of you.” He gave her a quick jerk, took her mouth again. This time his hands ran down her sides, shaping her breasts, waist, hips. And once more, he stepped back. “What the hell is apple brown betty?”