The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” She looked away again.

  Hell of a time for her heart to start thumping, she decided, hell of a time for it to trip and fall. They were on their way to pay their respects to the mother of a dead boy. And she stumbled face-first into love.

  It made no sense at all.

  “Sure you want to do this?”

  She knew she didn’t. If she couldn’t face the idea of training a puppy, how the hell was she supposed to deal with falling in love? But, of course, since he couldn’t read her mind, he wasn’t speaking of the big, long drop she’d just taken.

  “I want to do it, for Charlie and his mother. And I guess part is about me. I need the ritual of it. I don’t do well when I’m mad and sad, and I’m having a hard time putting either, or both, of those feelings away for very long.”

  Slipping into the side door was simple enough. But before Phoebe could congratulate herself on avoiding the gauntlet out front, she found herself faced with another inside.

  A group of people clustered in and around a small parlor to the side of the main viewing room. The squeak of the door had heads turning. Conversations stopped instantly.

  They weren’t the only white faces, Phoebe noted. A few were scattered in. But her face had been on television. She saw recognition in some of the stares aimed her way, and resentment in others.

  The crowd parted for a tall man, or maybe it parted for the anger pumping off him. “You got no place here. You get the hell out before—”

  “You don’t speak for me.” Opal pushed forward. She looked a decade older than she had in the diner, with her eyes sunken dark in her face as if they’d never find light again. “You don’t speak for my boy or for me.”

  “This here’s for family. It’s for neighborhood.”

  “You going to speak to me of family now, my brother? Where was my family when I needed them? You were up in Charlotte. You weren’t here in theneighborhood. You don’t speak for me.” She drew herself up. “Lieutenant Mac Namara.”

  “Mrs. Johnson, I’m sorry to intrude. I wanted to pay my respects to you and Charlie. I won’t stay.”

  “Lieutenant Mac Namara.” Opal stepped forward and embraced Phoebe. “Thank you for coming here,” she said quietly. “Thank you for not forgetting.”

  Emotion flooded Phoebe’s throat, stung her eyes, ached in her heart. “I won’t ever forget.”

  “Would you come with me, please?” Clutching Phoebe’s hand, Opal turned. The man who’d spoken stood barring the way. “Don’t you shame me. Don’t you shame me so that this is the last time I look at your face.”

  “Your sons are dead, Opal.”

  “My sons are dead. And I have something to say.” She walked through the crowd of mourners to the front door.

  Her fingers twined in Phoebe’s trembling ones. “Opal—”

  “I’ve been afraid of so many things,” Opal said. “Most all my life. Maybe, I’d been braver things’d be different. I don’t know, and it’s hard not to question God’s will. But I’m going to do this one thing, this one thing. And maybe, maybe, I won’t be so afraid.”

  When she stepped out the front door with Phoebe, reporters shouted out, cameras whirled. Priority one, she thought, had been thoroughly breached. But there was a woman who’d lost her sons, who was clinging to her, who didn’t give a damn about protocol.

  “I got something to say.” Opal’s voice cracked, and her hand tightened like a vise on Phoebe’s.

  “Y’all been calling my home, and my mother’s home. Calling where I work. I told you I wanted my privacy, but you won’t give it. I got such sorrow in me, and I asked you to respect my grief. But you come ’round my house, my mama’s, you call on the telephone. Say you want me to tell you what I got inside me, what I think, what I feel. And some of you? You offer me money to talk to you.”

  Questions boomed out.Did you…Have you…How did you… Opal’s arm shook as if with a spasm as she turned those dark, sunken eyes on Phoebe. “Lieutenant Mac Namara.”

  “Let’s go back inside, Opal,” Phoebe murmured. “I’ll take you back inside, to your family.”

  “Stand here with me, please. Would you stand here with me so I can do this?”

  Opal closed her eyes, then lifted her voice over the storm. “I’ve got something to say here, something to say for free, and you’ll justhush if you want to hear it. My sons are dead.”

  In the silence that followed, Phoebe heard Opal’s indrawn sob. “My boys are dead. Both killed. Guns and bullets took their bodies, but it was something else took ’em before that. They had no hope. They had a fever of anger and hate and blame, but no hope to cool it. I wish I could’ve given them that, but I couldn’t get it into them.

  “You want me to blame somebody. You want to see me point my finger, to scream and cry and curse. You won’t. You want me to blame the gangs? They got part of it. The police? They got part. Then so do I got part, and my own dead babies, they got part. There’s plenty of blame to spread around. I don’t care for that. Doesn’t matter about that.”

  She pulled a tissue from her pocket to mop her tears. “I know this woman standing beside me talked to my boy, and listened to my boy. For hours. And when that terrible thing happened that took my boy away so I can’t ever have him again? She ran toward him. Didn’t matter to her who was toblame. She ran to him to try to help. And when I could see again, when I could see, what I saw was her holding my son. And that’s what matters.

  “Now I got nothing more to say.”

  Ignoring the hurled questions, Opal turned for the door. Her body shook lightly as Phoebe put a protective arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m going to take you to see my Charlie now.”

  “Okay, Opal.” Taking Opal’s weight, Phoebe walked toward the viewing room. “Let’s go see Charlie.”

  Phoebe’s knees felt a little weak by the time she returned to the car. It was funny, she thought, how joints often took the brunt of emotional upheavals.

  Duncan merely ran a hand down her arm, then started the ignition.

  “I need to make a call,” she said, and pulled out her phone. Impulse again, she reminded herself. She seemed to be doing a lot on impulse these days. “Mama? I’m going to be going out awhile if you don’t need me back. Yes, all right. Tell Carly I’ll come in and kiss her good night when I get home. I will. Bye.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “All right?”

  “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

  “I think your place would be just fine. Then you can fix me a nice cold drink of an alcoholic nature. And after we’ve had a nice cold drink, you can take me up to bed.”

  “That fits pretty well into my schedule.”

  “That’s good, because it seems to be just the thing that was missing in mine.” She leaned back, flipped through issues that were on her mind. “Duncan, what do you think of a man who decides to marry a woman named Mizzy who’s a dozen years younger than he is?”

  “How big are her breasts?”

  Phoebe’s lips twitched as she stared up through the sunroof. “I don’t have that information.”

  “It’s pretty relevant. Who’s marrying Mizzy?”

  “Carly’s father.”

  “Oh.”

  Sympathy and speculation, Phoebe thought, in a single syllable. “I know I shouldn’t care, but of course I do. I know I’ll get over that—which is comforting. He’s moving with her to Europe, which infuriates me, and which I won’t get over even though I know it’s stupid. It doesn’t matter if he’s around the corner or thousands of miles away, he’s not going to love that sweet child, or pretend he does.”

  “But if he’s around the corner, so to speak, you can keep hoping he might eventually.”

  “That’s right.” That, she realized, was exactly, perfectly right. “Opal Johnson couldn’t push hope into her sons, and they needed it. I can’t—or haven’t—let go of mine when it’s a useless weight.”

  “How does Ca
rly feel?”

  “Carly doesn’t care.” They soared over the water, where boats skimmed below the span of bridge. “She’s healthier about it than I am.”

  “She has you. A kid knows she’s loved, absolutely, she’s got a healthy base.”

  He hadn’t had that absolute love, she remembered, but had built his own base. “I haven’t told her about the wedding yet. I will, when I’m not so mad. I don’t think he’d have bothered to tell me about all this except the child support checks will be delayed while he changes banks. Changes his damn dollars to Euros and back again. Whatever.”

  “So you’re pissed he’s moving to Europe.”

  “Oh, I’m just pissed altogether.” And suddenly just a little amused at the entire business. “I don’t care who she is, no woman likes being traded in on the Mizzy model. Especially when the trade-in has a lot higher mileage.”

  “I bet the Mizzy model is high maintenance and can’t handle the curves nearly as well.”

  “Hopeful thought. I’m telling you all this because it factors into my overall mood, which is restless and conflicted, and a little aggressive.” The faintest smile curved her lips as she tilted her head to study his profile. “I’m wondering how you feel about aggressive women.”

  “Am I going to find out?”

  “I believe you are.”

  “Oh boy.”

  When they were inside his house, she decided the cold drink could wait. They’d both probably need a gallon of cold liquid after they were done. Since he’d been considerate enough to wear a tie, she grabbed it and, strolling toward the stairs, pulled him behind her.

  “Bedroom’s up here, I assume? We didn’t get that far last time.”

  “To the right, all the way down. Last on the left.”

  When she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sparked on his. “I bet the view’s lovely. We won’t be paying much mind to that for a while, but I bet it’s lovely.”

  She tugged him inside. She got the impression of space, of strong colors, tall windows. And best of all, a big iron bed.

  “Now.” She turned, tugged the knot on his tie loose. “This may hurt a little.”

  “My tolerance for pain is rising as we speak.”

  Laughing, she yanked his jacket off, flung it aside. Then backed him toward the bed, where she gave him a little shove until he sat. With slow, deliberate movements, she straddled him so the skirt of the sober business suit hiked high on her thighs.

  “Now, gimme that mouth.”

  She used her teeth on it, her tongue, and all those wildly veering emotions coalesced into one hard, hot ball of lust. Her fingers got busy with his shirt, flipping open button after button until she could run her hands over flesh, scrape her nails over him. The quickening of his breath, the urgent way his hands streaked over her, made her feel invincible.

  She let him peel her jacket off, tug the tank over her head. And, arching back, invited his lips and hands to feast and to take. The way he took, the way he feasted, electrified.

  She was clamped around him, arms and legs. The most seductive of traps. A careless rake of his fingers and her hair came spilling down, fragrant red rain. A quick flick and her breasts, white satin, filled his hands.

  Energized silk, he thought. Everything about her was smooth, soft, everything inside her so avid with purpose.

  She let out a gasping laugh when he flipped her onto her back. Then a low purr of pleasure as his hands, his lips began to roam over her. Slowly now, he slid the skirt down her hips, her legs, following the movement with his mouth. The inside of her thigh, so firm and warm. The back of her knee, sensitive enough to cause quivers.

  And when he retraced the route, and found her center, she went from quiver to quake.

  Pleasure, dark and deep, swamped her. Sensation powered into sensation in a roaring, raging river. She tumbled into it, drowned in it until he dragged her gasping to the surface only to plunge her down again.

  She rolled with him, hands slipping, sliding over flesh damp with sweat; her mouth, frantic, greedy, seeking his. Until at last, at last, she straddled him again, took him in. Deep, deep as hearts thundered. Their bodies locked.

  She rode him hard and long. His hands gripped her hips as she bowed forward or back. The sheer beauty of that shape, that silhouette, shimmered in his mind while the stunning drive of need ruled his body.

  And all of it was her. There was nothing but her when he shot blindly over that last jagged edge.

  When she collapsed on him, simply fell limb by limb, he managed one final groan.

  “I forgot—” She had to stop to wheeze in another breath.

  “I didn’t—I remembered that time. One suit off, another suit on.”

  She let out a weak laugh. “No, not that—good memory, by the way. I was going to say I forgot how much I like sex.”

  He rested his forehead on her shoulder and hoped that, eventually, his brain would find its way back home. “Happy to remind you, as often as possible.”

  “Oh God, Duncan, I’d give almost anything for a glass of water. A half glass. One swallow.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t beg. It’s embarrassing.” He rolled her over, and she kept going until she was splayed on her belly.

  “You’re my hero,” she mumbled into the pillow, and drifted off. A faint smile curved her lips as she heard him walking back into the bedroom.

  Then she leaped in shock as the ice water hit the center of her back.“Duncan!”

  “What?” He stood, an innocent smile on his face, the glass in his hand. “You said you wanted water. You didn’t say where you wanted it.”

  Eyes narrowed, she got to her knees, held out a hand. She took a long sip. Then, with a half laugh, reached out to tug his hair. “Very funny.” She tugged him again until his lips met hers.

  Then poured the rest of the water over his head.

  20

  Phoebe leaned over after Duncan stopped the car. “Thank you for going with me.” She kissed him lightly. “Thank you for the sex. And thank you for the ride home.”

  “You’re welcome. And on the second part? Pretty much anytime.”

  “An additional thank-you.” She brushed his lips one more time. “For understanding I have to get myself home earlier than Cinderella most of the time.”

  He trailed a finger around her ear. “If I buy you some glass slippers, do you think we could arrange a sleepover?”

  With a laugh, she got out of the car. “You know, I was talking myself into backing off this—whatever this is—with you.”

  “Oh?” He got out so they stood for a moment, studying each other on opposite sides of the car. “Why is that?”

  “I’m trying to remember. I had my reasons. Duncan, I’m resistant to being swept away.”

  “I’ll leave the broom in the closet.”

  Too late, she thought. Much too late. “You’re better at this than I am.”

  “At what?”

  “At whatever this is.”

  Lights sparkled over in Forsythe Park, and there were soft pools of shadows along the street. Ava’s flowers perfumed the air that threatened to turn sultry. Through the open windows of a passing car Delta Blues throbbed like a broken heart.

  Here she stood, Phoebe thought, looking over at a man who excited her so she noticed those small details she often overlooked. So that those details were like colorful backdrops in Act Three of her personal play.

  And she was fretting over it because she wasn’t absolutely certain how the play would end.

  “Did you ever get your heart broken? No, don’t answer that now,” she said quickly. “That may be one of those long stories, and I have to get inside.”

  “Go out with me tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you all about the many shattered pieces of my abused heart.”

  “How much of it will you be making up?”

  “You’ll have to go out with me to find out.”

  “You’re just a little too appealing for my own good.” She let out a sigh, glance
d back at the house. “I can’t tomorrow—shouldn’t. I don’t like to spend too many evenings away.”

  “Pick a night.”

  “Don’t you know about playing hard to get?”

  He walked around to her. “I’m not playing.”

  Her heart took a hard bump. “No, you’re not. I…well.” Flustered, she glanced back at the house again. “This week is a little difficult. Carly’s school play is Thursday night, and there’s a school holiday on Friday, so—”

  “Can I go?” He eased a little closer and touched her. Just fingertips sliding down her arms until she wanted to shiver and sigh. “To the play.”

  She managed a laugh. “Oh, trust me, you don’t want to sacrifice yourself on the altar of an elementary school play.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Sensing nerves, he smiled. Wasn’t she the mostinteresting, contradictory woman? “Cinderella,right? Wicked stepsister.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Essie told me. Thursday night. What time?”

  “Seven, but—”

  “Seven’s curtain? Should I meet you there, or come by and pick y’all up? Plenty of room for you and Carly, Ava and…Essie can’t go,” he realized, and his easy humor faded. “That must be hard, must be hard for her.”

  “Yes, it is. Very hard. We’re getting it videotaped, but it’s not the same. Duncan, if you really want to go—and that’s very sweet—you should just meet us. I have to get Carly there an hour ahead, for costumes and such. I’ll get you a ticket, leave it out front for you. But you don’t have to feel obligated.”

  Don’t feel obligated, he thought, intrigued when she backed up a step. He decided on the spot that wild horses wouldn’t keep him from a Thursday night date with Cinderella. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a kiddie school play.”

  “You must’ve been in one.”

  “I was once a belching frog. And I have a vague recollection of being a turnip once, or maybe it was a radish. But it was so traumatic, I’ve blocked it out. Y’all got any plans for the weekend?”

  “Ah, we’re working out a Saturday playdate with Carly’s current best friend. Details are not finalized.”