The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Then I’m good. I just want to get this out of the way, so it doesn’t keep distracting me. I really like the way you look.”

  “Thanks. I’m okay with it myself most of the time.”

  “See, I’ve had you stuck.” He tapped a finger to his temple, then paused to flash a smile at the waitress who brought over his pint of Guinness. “Thanks, P.J.”

  “You bet.” The waitress set a bowl of pretzels on the table, gave Duncan a wink, Phoebe a quick once-over, then carted her tray off to another table.

  “Well,sláinte. ” He tapped his glass to Phoebe’s, sipped. “So, I kept asking myself were you stuck in there just because of Suicide Joe or because I thought you were hot. Which was my second thought when I saw you, and was probably inappropriate given the circumstances.”

  She sipped more slowly, watching him. That tiny dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when he grinned just drew the eye like a magnet. “Your second thought.”

  “Yeah, the first was sort of: Thank God she’s going to fix this.”

  “Do you always have that kind of confidence in total strangers?”

  “No. Maybe. I’ll think about it.” He angled so their knees bumped companionably with a little whoosh of denim against denim. “It’s just I looked at you and it struck me you were someone who knew what to do, knew what you were doing—a really hot woman who knew what to do. So I wanted to see you again, maybe figure out how come you’re stuck. I know you’re smart—also a plus—not only because of what you do, but hey, Lieutenant, and you seem young for that.”

  “I’m thirty-three. Not so young.”

  “Thirty-three? Me, too. When’s your birthday?”

  “August.”

  “November. Older woman.” He shook his head. “Now I’m sunk. Older women are so sexy.”

  It made her laugh as she tucked up her legs, shifted a little toward him. “You’re a funny guy.”

  “Sometimes. But with serious and sensitive sides, if you’re counting points.”

  “Points?”

  “There’s always a point system in this kind of situation. He’s clean. She has breasts. Points added. He has a stupid laugh, she hates sports, points subtracted.”

  “How’m I doing?”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to add that high without my calculator.”

  “Clever, too. Points for you.” She sipped at her beer, studied him. He had a little scar, a thin, diagonal slash through his left eyebrow. “Still, it’s risky to assume I’m smart and competent—if those are included in the final total—with so little actual data.”

  “I’m a good judge of people. On-the-job training.”

  “Owning bars?”

  “Before that. I tended bar and drove a cab. Two professions where you’re guaranteed to see all types of people, and where you get to peg them pretty quick.”

  “A cab-driving bartender.”

  “Or bartending cabdriver, depending.” He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear, gave the dangling silver at her lobe a little tap. The gesture was so casual and smooth, she wondered at her own quick jolt of intimacy.

  “Easy to juggle hours on both sides,” he continued, “and I figured I’d sock away enough to open myself a sport’s bar.”

  “And so you did, fulfilling the American dream.”

  “Not even close—well, the American dream part—but I didn’t earn the ready to open Slam Dunc riding the stick or driving a hack.”

  “How then? Robbing banks, dealing drugs, selling your body?”

  “All viable options, but no. I won the lottery.”

  “Get out. Really?” Delighted, fascinated, she lifted her glass in toast before stretching out a hand for a pretzel.

  “Yeah, just a fluke. Or, you know, destiny, again depending. I picked up a ticket now and then. Actually, hardly ever. Then one day I went in for a six-pack of Corona, sprang for a ticket.”

  “Did you pick the numbers or go with the computer?”

  “My pick. Age, cab number—which was depressing since I hadn’t planned to still be hacking—six for the six-pack. Just that random, and…jackpot. You know how you hear people say if they ever win, or even when they do, how they’re going to keep right on working, living pretty much like they have been?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  She laughed again, snagged another pretzel. “Obviously, you retired as a cab-driving bartender.”

  “Bet your ass. Got my sports bar. Very cool. Only funny thing, and I may lose man points here, but I figured out after a few months I actually didn’t want to be in a bar every night of my life.”

  She glanced around Swifty’s, where the music had gone slow and dreamy. “Yet you have two. And here you are.”

  “Yet. I sold half interest in Dunc’s to this guy I know. Well, almost half. Figured, hey, Irish pub.”

  “Hence Swifty’s.”

  “Hence.”

  “No travel, no flashy car?”

  “Some travel, some flash. Anyway, how did you—”

  “Oh no, the question begs to be asked.” She wagged a finger at him. “It’s rude, but it has to be asked. How much?”

  “A hundred and thirty-eight million.”

  She choked on her pretzel, holding up a hand when he tapped her on the back. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. You want another beer?”

  She shook her head, gaped at him. “You won a hundred and thirty-eightmillion dollars on a lottery ticket?”

  “Yeah, go figure. Best six-pack I ever bought. It got a lot of play at the time. You didn’t hear about it?”

  “I…” She was still struggling to absorb. “I don’t know. When?”

  “Seven years ago last February.”

  “Well.” She puffed out a breath, pushed a hand through her hair.Million replayed through her mind. “Seven years ago last February I was busy giving birth.”

  “Hard to keep up with current events. You got a kid? What variety?”

  “A girl. Carly.” She saw his gaze shift down to her left hand. “Divorced.”

  “Okay. Lot of juggling, single parent, high-octane career. I bet you’ve got excellent hand-eye coordination.”

  “It takes practice.” Millions, she thought. Millions stacked on top of millions, yet here he was, nursing a Guinness in a nice little pub in Savannah, looking like an average guy. Well, an average guy with a really cute dimple and a sexy little scar, a killer smile. But still.

  “Why aren’t you living on an island in the South Pacific?”

  “I like Savannah. No point in being really rich if you can’t live where you like. How long have you been a cop?”

  “Um.” She felt blindsided. The cute, funny guy was now a cute, funny multimillionaire. “I, ah, started with the FBI right out of college, then—”

  “You were with the FBI? Like Clarice Starling? LikeSilence of the Lambs ? Or Dana Scully—another hot redhead, by the way. Special Agent Mac Namara?” He let out a long, exaggerated breath. “You really are hot.”

  “Due to this, that and the other thing, I decided to shift to the Savannah-Chatham PD. Hostage and crisis negotiator.”

  “Hostage?” Those dreamy eyes of his sharpened. “Like if a guy barricades himself in some office building with innocent bystanders and wants ten mil, or the release of all prisoners with brown eyes, you’re the one he’s talking to?”

  “If it’s in Savannah, chances are good.”

  “How do you know what to say? What not to say?”

  “Negotiators are trained, and have experience in law enforcement. What?” she said when he shook his head.

  “No. You have toknow. Training, sure, experience, sure, but you have to know.”

  Odd, she thought, that he’d understand that when there were cops—Arnie Meeks sprang to mind—who didn’t. And never would. “You hope you know. And you have to listen, not just hear. And listening to you, here’s what I know. You live in Savan
nah because there wouldn’t be enough to do on that island in the South Pacific, or enough people to do it with. You don’t discount the sheer luck of buying a winning ticket along with a six-pack, but neither do you discount that sometimes things are simply meant. Telling me about the money wasn’t bragging, it was just fact—and fun. Now, the way I reacted to it mattered, in as much as if I’d suddenly put moves on you, we’d end this evening having sex, which would also be fun. But I’d no longer be stuck in your mind.”

  “Something else I really like,” he commented. “A woman who does what she’s good at, and is good at what she does. If Suicide Joe was still working for me, I’d give the son of a bitch a raise.”

  She had to smile, and by God, she was charmed right down to the balls of her feet. But…“That’s quite a bit for one drink,” she decided. “Now I’ve got to get on home.”

  “You love your kid—that’s first and last. Your eyes lit up when you said her name. The divorce still bothers you on some level. I don’t know which, not yet. Your work isn’t a career, it’s a vocation. Cab-driving bartender,” he said. “I know how to listen, too.”

  “Yes, indeed. That’s quite a bit, on both sides, for one drink.”

  He rose when she did. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “It’ll be a hike. It’s in the shop. I’m catching a CAT.”

  “Jeez. I’ll drive you. Don’t be stupid, ’cause you’re not.” He took her arm with one hand, signaled a goodbye to the bar with the other on the way to the door.

  “You’re the second man who’s offered me a ride tonight.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “The first involved hopping onto the handlebars of his bike. As I told him, I don’t mind the bus.”

  “Take you just as long to walk to the bus stop as it will for us to walk to the lot down here. And I can promise you a smoother ride home.” He glanced down at her. “Nice night for a drive.”

  “I’m only up on Jones.”

  “One of my favorite streets in the city.” He strolled now, sliding his hand down her arm to link it with hers. “So’s this one.”

  And here she was after all, Phoebe thought, half of a couple wandering on River Street, hand in hand. His was warm, the palm hard and wide. The sort of hand, she imagined, that could wrench the top off a pickle jar, catch a fly ball or cup a woman’s breast with equal ease.

  His legs were long, his stride loose and lazy. A man, Phoebe judged, who knew how to take his time when he wanted to.

  “Nice night for a walk, too, especially along the river,” he commented.

  “I have to get home.”

  “So you said. Not cold, are you?”

  “No.”

  He walked into the lot, hailing the attendant. “How you doing there, Lester?”

  “Doing what comes, boss. Evening, ma’am.”

  A bill passed from hand to hand so smoothly Phoebe nearly missed it. Then she was standing, staring at a gleaming white Porsche.

  “No handlebars.” Duncan shrugged, grinned, then opened the door for her.

  “I’m forced to admit this will be better than the bus—or Johnnie Porter’s Schwinn.”

  “You like cars?”

  “If you’d asked me that a couple hours ago, I’d have given you several reasons why cars and I are on nonspeaking terms currently.” She brushed a hand over the side of the buttery leather seat. “But I like this one just fine.”

  “Me, too.”

  He didn’t drive like a maniac, which she’d half-expected, and had to admit had half-hoped. He did drive, however, like a man who knew the city the way she knew her own bedroom—every nook and cranny.

  She gave him the address and let herself enjoy the sort of ride she’d never imagined experiencing. When he pulled up in front of her house, she let out a long sigh. “Very nice. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He got out, skirting the hood to take her hand again on the sidewalk. “Great house.”

  “It is, yes.” There it was, she thought, rosy brick, white trim, tall windows, graceful terraces.

  Hers, whether she liked it or not.

  “Family home, family duty. Long story.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it over dinner tomorrow night?”

  Something in her actively yearned when she turned toward him. “Oh, Duncan, you’re awfully cute, and you’re rich, and you’ve got a very sexy car. I’m just not in a position to start a relationship.”

  “Are you in a position to eat dinner?”

  She laughed, shook her head as he walked with her up to the parlor level. “Several nights a week, depending.”

  “You’re a public servant. I’m the public. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Or pick another activity, another day. I’ll work around it.”

  “I have a date with my daughter tomorrow night. Saturday, dinner, as long as it’s understood this can’t go anywhere.”

  “Saturday.”

  He leaned in. It was smooth, but she saw the move. Still, it felt fussy and foolish to stop it. So she let his lips brush over hers. Sweet, she thought.

  Then his hands ran down from her shoulders to her wrists, his mouth moved on hers. And she couldn’t think at all. Deep, penetrating warmth, quick, hard flutters, a leap and gallop of pulse.

  She felt it, all of it, as her body seemed to let out a breath too long held.

  Her head actually spun before he eased back, and she was left staring, staring into his eyes. She said, “Oh, well, damn it.”

  He flashed that grin at her. “I’ll pick you up at seven. ’Night, Phoebe.”

  “Yeah, ’night.” She managed to unlock the door, and when she glanced back, he was standing on the sidewalk, still grinning at her. “Good night,” she said again.

  Inside, she locked up, turned off the porch light. And wondered what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

  4

  She’d no more than reached the top of the stairs when her mother and Ava slipped out of the TV room with big, expectant smiles.

  “So?” Essie began. “How was it?”

  “It was fine. It was a drink.” If she’d been wearing socks, Phoebe thought as she aimed for her bedroom, they’d have blown clear across Jones Street during that good-night kiss.

  Behind her back, Essie and Ava exchanged a look, then headed off in pursuit.

  “Well, what’s he like? What did you talk about? Come on, Phoebs.” Ava clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “Give us dateless wonders the scoop.”

  “We had a beer in his very nice pub. I enjoyed it. I’m going to work out.”

  Another look was exchanged when Phoebe went to her dresser to pull out yoga pants and a sports bra.

  “What’d you talk about?”

  Phoebe glanced at her mother in the mirror, shrugged. She began to strip and change. She’d lived among women too long to worry about nudity. “This and that. He used to tend bar and drive a cab.”

  “Hmm. So he’s enterprising, isn’t he?”

  “You could say.”

  “Where does he live?” Ava pressed. “In the city?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, for goodness sake.” Essie cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Why not?”

  “It didn’t come up.” Phoebe reached in the little silver trinket box on her dresser for a tie, whipped her hair back into a tail.

  “What about his people?” Essie demanded. “Who are his family, his—”

  “That didn’t come up either. I sort of got distracted.”

  “Because he was charming,” Essie decided.

  “He was—is—very charming. But I was distracted, considerably, when he told me he won the lottery several years ago, to the tune of a hundred and thirty-eight million.”

  She sailed out on that, automatically peeking in to check on Carly before moving to the stairs and up to the third floor.

  She’d commandeered what had once been a maid’s room for a little home gym. An indulgence on her part, Phoebe knew, but it also s
aved a health club fee and meant she could get an hour in early in the morning or at night, after Carly was in bed.

  Work kept her away from home enough without adding gym time to it.

  She’d sprung for an elliptical machine, a few free weights, and even a small TV to play exercise tapes. Carly often practiced her gymnastics while she worked out, so that was the big benefit of more mother-daughter time. Her mother and Ava used the equipment, so it paid for itself.

  In the end it wasn’t only more convenient but more economical. At least that’s how she’d justified the expense.

  Phoebe smiled to herself as she set the machine and climbed on. Her mother and Ava were already at the doorway, gaping.

  “Did you saymillion ?” Essie demanded.

  “I did.”

  “I remember that, I remember something about that.” Ava laid a hand on her heart. “Millionaire cabdriver. That’s what they called him. Local boy. Single ticket. Oh my God! That’shim ?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “Well. God. I think I’m going to sit down.” Essie did so, right on the floor. “That’s not just rich, not even just wealthy. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Lucky?” Phoebe suggested.

  “And then some.” Ava joined Essie on the floor. “He bought you a beer.”

  Amused, Phoebe kicked her warm-up to the next level. “Yeah. And pretzels. Then he drove me home in his Porsche.”

  “Is he slick?” Essie’s brows drew together, and the frown line Phoebe had inherited instead of dimples creased between them. “That much money, he’s likely slick.”

  “He’s not. Smooth,” Phoebe decided after a moment. “He’s pretty damn smooth, but I have a feeling that’s innate. He talked me into having dinner with him Saturday night.”

  “You’re dating a millionaire.” Ava nudged Essie with her elbow. “Our little girl’s dating a millionaire.”

  Because the idea made her nervous, Phoebe bumped the resistance up another notch—on the machine, and in her. “I don’t know about dating. I’m not interested in dating anybody. It’s too damn much trouble. What are you going to wear, what are you going to talk about? Is he going to want to have sex—and there I say: Duh. Are you going to want to have sex, which actually does require some thought and consideration.”