The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Whoa, whoa, save the self-flagellation. I told you before you could read it sometime. I just hadn’t written it yet. If you got caught up, that’s a plus.”

  “I moved things around.” She picked up the panel, held it out. “I hate when people move my things around.”

  “I know where it goes. Obviously, you’re lucky I’m not as temperamental and touchy as you are.” He laid the panel back in its place. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think the story is fun, exciting and entertaining, with a sharp thread of humor, and with strong underpinnings of feminism.”

  He lifted his brows. “All that?”

  “You know damn well. The character of Cass behaves in certain ways, and expects certain behavior and attitudes toward her because she was raised by a domineering, unsympathetic father. She’s sexually repressed and emotionally clogged, has been reared to accept the superiority of men and accept a certain lack of respect in her male-dominated field. You see a great deal of that in the single portrait. The one you just put back.

  “She’s betrayed, and left for dead, because she’s so indoctrinated to taking orders from male authority figures. To subverting her own intellect and desires. And by facing death, by fighting against it, she becomes a leader. Everything that’s been trapped inside her, and more, is released in the form of Brid. A warrior. Empowerment, through power.”

  Fascinating, he thought, and flattering, to listen to her syn opsize his story, and his character. “I’m going to interpret that as you like it.”

  “I really do, and not just due to the recent sexual haze. It’s like a screenplay, a very strong screenplay. You even have camera angles and direction.”

  “It helps remind me how I saw it when I wrote it, even if that changes.”

  “And you add in these little boxes like the ones on the art.”

  “Helps with the layout. That may change, too. Just like the story line took some turns on me.”

  “You added Steve. You added the Immortal. He’s going to be so . . . well, insane over that.”

  “She needed the bridge, the link between Cass and Brid. A character who can straddle her worlds, and help the two sides of our heroine understand each other.”

  Not unlike, Ford thought now, how Steve helped Cilla. “Adding him changed a lot of the angles, added a lot of work, but it’s stronger for it. And something I should’ve thought of in the first place. Anyway, it’s still evolving. The story’s down, and now I have to tell it with art. Sometimes, for me anyway, the art can shift the story. We’ll have to see.”

  “I especially like the one up there, of Brid in what’s almost a fouetté turn, as I assume she’s about to kick out her leg against a foe.”

  “Fouetté turn?”

  “A ballet move.” Cilla crossed over to tap the sketch she spoke of. “This is very close, even the arms are in position. To be precise, the supporting foot should be turned out slightly more, but—”

  “You know ballet? Can you do that?”

  “A fouetté? Please. Eight years of ballet.” She executed a quick turn. “Of tap.” And a fast-time step. “Jazz.”

  “Cool. Hold on.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a camera. “Do the ballet thing again.”

  “I’m mostly naked.”

  “Yeah, which is why I’ll be posting these on the Internet shortly. I just want the feet business you were talking about.”

  He had no idea what an enormous leap of faith it took for her to do the turn as he snapped the camera.

  “One more, okay? Good. Great. Thanks. A fouetté turn. Ballet.” He set the camera back down. “I must’ve seen it somewhere, sometime or other. Eight years? I guess that explains how you did those high leaps in Wasteland Three, when you were running through the woods, trying to escape the reanimated psycho killer.”

  “Grand jetés.” She laughed. “So to speak.”

  “I thought you were going to make it, the way you were flying. I mean you got all the way back to the cabin, avoiding the death trap And the flying hatchet, only to pull open the door—”

  “To find the reanimated psycho killer had taken a convenient shortcut to beat me there. Sobbing relief,” she said, miming the action, “shock, scream. Slice.”

  “It was a hell of a scream. They use voice doubles for that stuff, right? And enhance.”

  “Sometimes. However . . .” She sucked in her breath and let out a bloodcurdling, glass-shattering scream that had Ford staggering back two full steps. “I did my own work,” she finished.

  “Wow. You’ve got some lungs there. How about we go down, have some wine, while we see if my eardrums regenerate.”

  “Love to.”

  SEVENTEEN

  She didn’t think about the vandalism. Or when thoughts of what waited for her across the road crept into her mind, Cilla firmly slammed the door. No point in it, she told herself. There was nothing she could do because she didn’t know what she wanted to do.

  There was no harm in a day out of time. A fantasy day, really, filled with sex and sleep inside the bubble of rain-slicked windows. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been content to spend the day in a man’s company, unless it had been work-related.

  Even the idea of wine and video games held an appeal. Until Ford severely trounced her for the third time in a row.

  “She—what’s her name?—Halle Berry.”

  “Storm,” Ford provided. “Halle Berry’s the actress, and really hot. Storm is a key member of the X-Men. Also really hot.”

  “Well, she just stood there.” Cilla scowled down at the controls. “How am I supposed to know what to push and what to toggle, and whatever?”

  “Practice. And like I said, you need to form your team more strategically. You formed your all-girl alliance. You should’ve mixed it up.”

  “My strategy was gender solidarity.” Under the coffee table, Spock snorted. “That’s enough out of you,” she muttered. “Besides, I think this controller’s defective because I have excellent hand-eye coordination.”

  “Want to switch and go another round?”

  She eyed him narrowly. “How often do you play this?”

  “Off and on. Throughout my entire life,” he added with a grin. “I’m currently undefeated on this version of Ultimate Alliance.”

  “Geek.”

  “Loser.”

  She handed him her controller. “Put your toys away.”

  Look at that, she thought when he rose to do just that. Tidy hot guy. Tidy straight hot guy. How many of them were there in the world?

  “Saving the world worked up my appetite. How about you?”

  “I didn’t save the world,” she pointed out.

  “You tried.”

  “That was smug. I see the smug all over you.”

  “Then I’d better wash up. I got leftover spaghetti and meatballs, courtesy of Penny Sawyer.”

  “You’ve got a nice setup here, Ford. Work you love, and a great house to do it in. Your ridiculously appealing dog. The tight circle of friends going back to childhood. Family you get along with, close enough you can cop leftovers. It’s a great platform.”

  “No complaints. Cilla—”

  “No, not yet.” She could see in his eyes the offer of sympathy and support. “I’m not ready to think about it yet. Spaghetti and meatballs sounds like just the thing.”

  “Cold or warmed up?”

  “It has to be exceptional spaghetti and meatballs to warrant cold.”

  He crossed back, took her hand. “Come with me,” he said and led her around to the kitchen. “Have a seat.” He took the bowl out of the fridge, peeled off the lid, got a fork. “You’ll get yours,” he told Spock as the dog danced and gurgled. Turning back, he set the bowl on the bar, then wound some pasta on a fork. “Sample.”

  She opened her mouth, let him feed her. “Oh. Okay, that’s really good. Really. Give me the fork.”

  With a laugh, he passed it to her. After adding some to Spock’s dish, he topped off both glasses o
f wine. They sat at the counter, eating cold pasta straight from the bowl.

  “We had this cook when I was a kid. Annamaria from Sic ily. I swear her pasta wasn’t as good as this. What?” she said when he shook his head.

  “Just strikes me weird that I know somebody who can say, ‘We had a cook when I was a kid.’ ”

  She grinned around more pasta. “We had a butler.”

  “Get out.”

  She raised her brows, inclined her head and stabbed at a meatball. “Two maids, chauffeur, gardener, under-gardener, my mother’s personal assistant, pool boy. And once, when my mother discovered the pool boy, whom she was banging, was also banging one of the maids, she fired them both. With much drama. She had to go to Palm Springs for a week to recover, where she met Number Three—ironically, by the pool. I’m pretty sure, at some point, he also banged the pool boy. The new pool boy, whose name was Raoul.”

  He gestured at her with his fork until he swallowed. “You grew up in an eighties soap opera.”

  She thought it over. “Close enough. But, in any case, Annamaria had nothing on your mother.”

  “She’ll get a kick out of hearing that. What was it like, seriously? Growing up with maids and butlers?”

  “Crowded. And not all it’s cracked up to be. That sounds snotty,” she decided. “And I imagine some woman with a house and family to run, a full-time job and the need to get dinner on the table would be tempted to bitch-slap me for it. But.” She shrugged. “There’s always somebody there, so genuine privacy is an illusion. No sneaking a cookie out of the jar before dinnertime. Actually no cookies for the most part as the camera adds pounds. If you have a fight with your mother, the entire household knows the details. More, the odds are that those details will be recounted sometime down the road in a tabloid interview or a disgruntled former employee’s tell-all book.

  “All in all,” she concluded, “I’d rather eat leftover spaghetti.”

  “But, if I remember right, you don’t cook.”

  “Yeah, that’s a problem.” She reached for her wine. “I’ve thought about maybe asking Patty for pointers in that area. I like to chop.” She hacked down a few times with the flat of her hand to demonstrate. “You know, vegetables, salads. I’m a hell of a chopper.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “Self-sufficiency, that’s the key. You manage.”

  “True, but I’ve been butler-free all my life. I do have a biweekly cleaning service, and am well acquainted with the primary and alternate routes to all takeout facilities. Plus, I have a direct line to Brian and Matt and Shanna, who will handle small household emergencies for beer.”

  “It’s a system.”

  “Well oiled.” He tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “If and when I learn to cook something other than a grilled cheese sandwich and canned soup, I’ll have reached another lofty personal goal.”

  “What are some of the others?”

  “Lofty personal goals? Rehabbing a house and selling it at a profit. I hit that one. Having my own business and having said business generate an actual income. Which first requires reaching the goal of getting my contractor’s license, which in turn requires passing the test for same. In a couple weeks, actually, if I—”

  “You’ve got to take a test? I love tests.” His eyes actually lit up. “Do you need a study buddy? And yes, I capitalize the N in nerd.”

  She paused with what she swore would be her last bite of pasta halfway to her mouth. “You love tests?”

  “Well, yeah. There are questions and answers. True or false, multiple choice, essay. What’s not to love? I kill on tests. It’s a gift. Do you want any help?”

  “Actually, I think I’m good. I’ve been prepping for it for a while now. I think I met your kind during my brief and unfortunate college experience. You’re the one who screwed the curve for me, every time. You are, therefore, one of the primary reasons I’m a one-semester college dropout.”

  “You should’ve asked my kind to be your study buddy. Besides, you should thank my kind for putting you exactly where you want to be right now.”

  “Hmm.” She deliberately nudged the bowl toward him and away from herself. “That’s very slick and clever. Previous humiliation and failure lead to current spaghetti-and-meatball-i nduced contentment.”

  “Or, condensing, sometimes shit happens for the best.”

  “There’s a bumper sticker. I have to move.” She pressed a hand on her stomach, slid off the stool. “And I’ll demonstrate my self-sufficiency and gratitude for current contentment by doing the dishes, which includes everything back to breakfast, apparently.”

  “We were busy with other things.”

  “I guess we were.”

  For a moment, he indulged himself with wine and watching her. But watching wasn’t enough. He stood and crossed to her, turned her to face him. She had a wooden spoon in her hand and an easy smile curving her lips. He wrapped her hair around his hand—and saw her eyes widen in surprise, heard the spoon clatter to the floor—as he used it like a rope to tug her head back.

  And ravished her mouth.

  A new and rampant hunger surged through him, a whip of need and now. He released her hair to drag off her shirt. Even as his mouth crushed back down to hers, he yanked her pants down her hips.

  It was a tornado of demand and speed. It seemed she was naked before she could catch the first breath. Plucked up off the ground while her head spun and her heart lurched. He dropped her down on the counter, shoved her legs apart.

  And ravished her.

  Her hand flailed out for purchase. Something shattered; she wondered if it was her mind. His fingers dug into her hips as he pounded into her, pounded greed and scorching pleasure. Mad for more, she locked her legs around his waist.

  His blood pounded under his skin, a thousand brutal drum-beats. The hunger that had leaped into him seemed to snap its teeth and bite even as he drove himself into her to slake it. Its dark excitement pushed him to take, to fill her with the same wild desperation that burned in him.

  When it broke, it was like shooting out of the black, into the blind.

  Her head dropped limply onto his shoulder while her breath came in short, raw gasps. She felt him tremble, found herself pleased she wasn’t the only one.

  “Oh,” she managed, “God.”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll help you down.”

  “Take your time. I’m fine where I am. Where am I?”

  His laugh muffled against the side of her neck. “Maybe it was something in the spaghetti sauce.”

  “Then we need the recipe.”

  Steadier, he leaned back, took a good look at her. “Now I really want my camera. You’re the first naked woman to sit on my kitchen counter, which I now plan to have sealed in Lucite. I’d like to document the moment.”

  “Not a chance. My contract specifies no nude scenes.”

  “That’s a damn shame.” He stroked her hair back. “I guess the least I can do after playing Viking and maiden is help you with the dishes.”

  “The least. Hand me my shirt, will you?”

  “See, I’ve confiscated your clothes. You’ll have to do the dishes naked.”

  Her head cocked, her eyebrows lifted. On a sigh, Ford scooped up her shirt. “It was worth a shot.”

  HE WOKE in the dark to a quiet house and an empty bed. Groggy and baffled, he rose to look for her. One part of his brain reserved the right to be pissed if she’d gone back across the road without waking him.

  He found his front door open, and saw the silhouette of her sitting in one of the chairs on his veranda with Spock stretched at her feet. He smelled coffee as he pushed open the screen.

  She glanced over. “Morning.”

  “As long as it’s still dark, it’s not morning.” He sat beside her. “Give me a hit of that.”

  “You should go back to bed.”

  “Are you going to give me a hit of that coffee or make me go get my own?”

  She passed him th
e cup. “I have to decide what to do.”

  “At . . .” He took her wrist, turned it up and squinted at her watch. “Five-oh-six in the morning?”

  “I didn’t deal with it yesterday, didn’t think about it. Or not much. I even left my phone over there so the police couldn’t contact me. So no one could. I ducked and covered.”

  “You took a break. There’s no reason you can’t take a couple more days before you try to figure it all out.”

  “Actually, there are real and practical reasons I can’t take more time. I have subs coming in about two hours, unless I call them off. If I take them off for a couple of days, it’s more than screwing up my schedule, which is, of course, already screwed. It messes up theirs, and their employees’. And subs are always juggling jobs, so I could lose key people for more than a couple of days if I hold them off. If that decision is to walk away, I have to tell them that.”

  “The circumstances aren’t of your making, and no one’s going to blame you.”

  “No, I don’t think anyone would. But it still creates a domino effect. I also have to consider my budget, which is also screwed. I have insurance, but insurance has a deductible that has to be factored into the whole. I’m already over the high end of my projections, but that was my choice, with the changes and additions I made.”

  “If you need—”

  “Don’t,” she said, anticipating him. “I’m okay financially, and if I can’t make it on my own, I can’t make it. If I really needed extra, I could make a few calls, grab a couple voice-over jobs. Bottom line is I can’t leave the place the way it is, half done. I’ve got custom cabinets I ordered back in March, and the balance due when I take delivery. The kitchen appliances will be back in another couple months. Other details, small and large. It has to be finished, that’s not really a question. The questions are do I want to finish it, and do I want to stay? Can I? Should I?”

  He took another hit of her coffee. Serious conversations, he thought, required serious attention. “Tell me what you’d do if you decided to turn it over to someone else to finish. If you left.”