Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  His lips twitched. "That's better. I'll take one of those turnovers and a large coffee to go. Did you finish your planting?"

  "Nearly." She didn't want to talk to him, so she busied herself with the coffee. She didn't want to have the island cop making friendly conversation and watching her out of those sharp green eyes.

  "Maybe you can make use of this when you're finishing up and tending to your flowers." He laid a bag on the counter.

  "What is it?"

  "Garden tool." He counted out his money, set that on the counter as well.

  She wiped her hands on her apron, scowled. But curiosity pushed her into opening the bag. Baffled humor lit her eyes as she studied the perfectly ridiculous rolled-brim straw hat. Foolish fake flowers danced around the crown.

  "This is the silliest hat I've ever seen."

  "Oh, there were sillier," he assured her. "But it'll keep the sun from burning your nose."

  "It's very considerate of you, but you shouldn't—"

  "Around here it's called being neighborly." The beeper on his belt signaled. "Well, back to work."

  She managed to wait until he was halfway down the steps before she snatched the hat and dashed into the kitchen to try it on in the reflection of the stove hood.

  ~•~

  Ripley Todd poured herself another cup of coffee and sipped it while looking out the front window of the station house. It had been a quiet morning, and that was just the way she liked it.

  But there was something in the air. She was doing her best to ignore it, but something was in the air. It was easier to tell herself it was overstimulation from the week she'd spent in Boston.

  Not that she hadn't enjoyed herself. She had. The law enforcement workshops and seminars had interested her, given her food for thought. She liked police work, the routine and detail of it. But the demands and chaos of the city wore on her, even in that short a time.

  Zack would've said it was simply that she didn't like people overmuch. Ripley would've been the last one to argue with him about that.

  She caught sight of him now, heading down the street. It would, she estimated, take him a good ten minutes to make the half block. People stopped him, always had a word to say.

  More, she thought, people just liked being around him. He had a kind of… she didn't want to use the word "aura." It was too Mia-like. Air, she decided. Zack just had the kind of air about him that made people feel better about things. They knew if they took their troubles to him, he'd have the answer, or take the time to find it.

  Zack was a sociable creature, Ripley mused. Affable and patient and consistently fair. No one would accuse her of being any of those things.

  Maybe that was why they made a good team.

  Since he was heading in, she opened the front door to the summer air and street sounds, the way he liked it best. She brewed a fresh pot of coffee and was just pouring him a cup when he finally arrived.

  "Frank and Alice Purdue had a baby girl—eight pounds, five ounces, at nine this morning. Calling her Belinda. The Younger boy, Robbie, fell out of a tree, broke his arm. Missy Hachin's cousin in Bangor bought a brand-new Chevrolet sedan."

  As he spoke, Zack took the offered coffee, sat at his desk, propped up his feet. And grinned. The ceiling fan was squeaking again. He'd really meant to see to that.

  "So, what's new with you?"

  "Speeder on the north coast road," Ripley told him. "Don't know where they thought they were going in such a hurry. I explained that the cliffs and the light and so on had been in place for a few centuries and weren't likely to move away in an afternoon." She plucked a fax out of his in box. "And this came in for you. Nell Channing. That's the new cook at Mia's place, right?"

  "Umm-hmm." He scanned the motor vehicle report. No traffic violations. She still carried an Ohio driver's license, due for renewal in just over two years. The car was registered in her name. He'd been right about the new tags. She'd had them less than a week. Before that, the car had carried Texas tags.

  Interesting.

  Ripley scooted onto the corner of the desk they shared and sampled his coffee since he wasn't drinking it. "Why'd you run her?"

  "Curious. She's a curious woman."

  "Curious how?"

  He started to answer, then shook his head. "Why don't you drop into the café for lunch, check her out yourself. I'd be interested in your impression."

  "Maybe I will." Frowning, Ripley glanced at the open door. "I think a storm's coming in."

  "It's clear as glass out there, honey."

  "Something's coming," she said half to herself, then grabbed her baseball cap. "I'll take a walk around, maybe stop in the café and take a look at our newest resident."

  "Take your time. I'll do the afternoon beach patrol."

  "You're welcome to it." Ripley slid on her sunglasses and strode out.

  She liked her village, the order of it. As far as Ripley was concerned, everything had a place and that's just where it should stay. She didn't mind the vagaries of sea and weather—that was just another natural order of things.

  June meant a fresh influx of tourists and summer people, temperatures moving from warm to hot, beach bonfires and smoking grills.

  It also meant excess partying, the routine drunk and disorderly, the occasional lost child, and the inevitable lovers' spats. But the tourists who celebrated, drank, wandered, and squabbled brought summer dollars to the island that kept it afloat during the frigid gales of winter.

  She would cheerfully—well, perhaps not too cheerfully—suffer the problems of strangers for a few months in order to preserve Three Sisters.

  This nine square miles of rock and sand and soil was all the world she needed.

  Overbaked people were staggering up from the beach toward the village for lunch. She could never figure out what possessed a human being to flop itself down and broil like a trout in the sun. Besides the discomfort, the sheer boredom of it would have driven her wild inside an hour.

  Ripley wasn't one to lie down if she could stand.

  Not that she didn't enjoy the beach. She jogged along the surf every morning, summer and winter. When weather permitted, she finished off her run with a swim. When it didn't, she often ducked into the hotel and took advantage of its indoor pool.

  But she preferred the sea.

  As a result she had a tight, athletic body that was most often clad in khakis and T-shirts. Her skin was tanned like her brother's, her eyes the same vivid green. She wore her straight brown hair long and most often pulled through the back of her baseball cap.

  Her features were an odd mix—a wide, slightly top-heavy mouth, a small nose, and dark, arching brows. Her looks had made her feel awkward as a child, but Ripley liked to think she'd grown into them, and grown out of worrying about them.

  She strolled into Café Book, waved at Lulu, and headed for the stairs. With luck, she could get a look at this Nell Channing and avoid Mia altogether.

  She was still three steps from the café level when she saw her luck wasn't going to hold.

  Mia was behind the counter, looking slick as always in some floaty floral dress. Her hair was tied back and still managed to explode around her face.

  The woman working beside her looked tidy, nearly prim in comparison.

  Ripley immediately preferred Nell.

  She jammed her thumbs into her back pockets and swaggered toward the counter.

  "Deputy Todd." Mia angled her head, looked down her nose. "What could possibly bring you here?"

  Ignoring Mia, Ripley studied Nell. "I'll have today's special soup and sandwich."

  "Nell, this is Ripley, Zack's unfortunate sister. As she's come in for lunch we can safely assume hell has frozen over."

  "Kiss ass, Mia. Nice to meet you, Nell. I'll have a lemonade to go with that."

  "Yes. All right." Nell shifted her gaze from face to face. "Right away," she murmured and ducked into the kitchen to put the sandwich together.

  "Heard you scooped her up right off th
e ferry," Ripley continued.

  "More or less." Mia ladled the soup. "Don't poke at her, Ripley."

  "Why would I?"

  "Because you're you." Mia set the soup on the counter. "Notice anything odd when you stepped off the ferry yesterday?"

  "No." Ripley replied too quickly.

  "Liar," Mia said quietly as Nell came back with the sandwich.

  "Can I take this to a table for you, Deputy Todd?"

  "Yeah, thanks." Ripley tugged money out of her pocket. "Why don't you ring me up, Mia?"

  Ripley timed it, sliding into a chair just as Nell set the food down. "Looks great."

  "I hope you enjoy it."

  "I'm sure I will. Where'd you learn to cook?"

  "Here and there. Can I get you anything else?"

  Ripley held up a finger, spooned up soup and sampled. "Nope. This is great. Really. Hey, did you make all those pastries yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "A lot of work."

  "It's what I'm paid for."

  "Right. Don't let Mia work you too hard. She's pushy."

  "On the contrary," Nell said in a voice that chilled. "She's incredibly generous, incredibly kind. Enjoy your lunch."

  Loyal, Ripley decided as she continued to eat. She couldn't fault Nell for that. Polite, too, even if she was a bit stiff about it. As if, Ripley thought, she wasn't quite used to dealing with people.

  Nervous. She'd visibly cringed at the relatively mild byplay between Ripley and Mia. Well, Ripley decided with a shrug, some people couldn't handle conflict, even when it had nothing to do with them.

  All in all, she thought Nell Channing was harmless. And a hell of a good cook.

  The meal put her in such a good mood that she took the time to go by the counter on her way out. It was easier to decide to do so since Mia was occupied elsewhere.

  "Well, now you've done it."

  Nell froze. She deliberately kept her face blank, her hands loose. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Now I'm going to have to start coming in here regularly, something I've managed to avoid for years. Lunch was great."

  "Oh. Good."

  "You may have noticed, Mia and I aren't exactly chummy."

  "It's none of my business."

  "You live on the island, everybody's business is your business. But don't worry, we manage to stay out of each other's way for the most part. You won't get squeezed in the middle. I'm going to take a couple of those chocolate chip cookies for later."

  "You save if you buy three."

  "Twist my arm. Three, then. I'll give one to Zack and be a hero."

  Relaxed now, Nell bagged the cookies, rang up the bill. But when she took the money from Ripley and their hands touched, the bright shock had her gasping.

  Ripley glared, one long, frustrated stare. Snagging her cookies, she strode toward the stairs.

  "Deputy—" Clenching her hand tight, Nell called after her. "You forgot your change."

  "Keep it." She bit the words off as she stomped down the stairs. There was Mia at the bottom, hands folded, brow lifted. Ripley simply snarled and kept going.

  ~•~

  A storm was coming. Though the sky stayed clear and the sea calm, a storm was coming. Its violence roared through Nell's dreams and tossed her helplessly into the past.

  The huge white house sat on a verdant carpet of lawn. Inside, its edges were sharp, its surfaces hard. Colors were pale—sands and taupes and grays.

  But for the roses he bought her, always bought her, that were the color of blood.

  The house was empty. But it seemed to be waiting.

  In sleep she turned her head away, resisted. She didn't want to go into that place. Not ever again.

  But the door opened, the tall white door that opened into the long, wide foyer. White marble, white wood, and the cold, cold sparkle of crystal and chrome.

  She watched herself walk in—long, pale hair sweeping past the shoulders of a sleek white dress that sent off an icy glitter. Her lips were red, like the roses.

  He came in with her, close behind. Always so close behind. His hand was there, lightly on the small of her back. She could still feel it there if she let herself.

  He was tall, slim. Like a prince in his evening black with his hair a gold helmet. She had fallen in love with the fairy-tale look of him, and she had believed his promises of happy-ever-after. And hadn't he taken her to this palace, this white palace in this fantasy land, and given her everything a woman could want?

  How many times had he reminded her of that?

  She knew what happened next. She remembered the glittery white dress, remembered how tired and relieved she was that the evening was over, and that it had gone well. She'd done nothing to upset him, to embarrass him, to annoy him.

  Or so she'd thought.

  Until she'd turned to say something about how nice an evening it had been, and had seen his expression.

  He'd waited until they were home, until they were alone, to make the transformation. It was one of his best skills.

  And she remembered the fear that had clutched her belly even as she scrambled to think of what she'd done.

  Did you enjoy yourself, Helen?

  Yes, it was a lovely party. But a long one. Would you like me to fix you a brandy before we go to bed?

  You enjoyed the music?

  Very much. Music? Had she said something inappropriate about the music? She could be so stupid about such things. Barely, she repressed a shudder as he reached out to toy with her hair. It was wonderful to be able to dance outside, near the gardens.

  She stepped back, hoping to turn toward the stairs, but his hand fisted in her hair, held her in place. Yes, I noticed how much you enjoyed dancing, especially with Mitchell Rowlings. Flirting with him. Flaunting yourself. Humiliating me in front of my friends, my clients.

  Evan, I wasn't flirting. I was only—

  The backhanded slap sent her sprawling, the bright shock of pain blinding her. When she would have rolled into a protective ball, he dragged her across the marble floor by the hair.

  How many times has he had his hands on you?

  She denied, she wept, he accused. Until he grew weary of it and left her to crawl away and sob in a corner.

  But this time, in this dream, she crawled off into the shadows of the forest, where the air was soft and the ground warm.

  And there, where the stream gurgled over its smooth rocks, she slept.

  Then awoke to the cannon-blast of thunder and the jagged rip of lightning. Awoke to terror. She was running through the woods now, her white dress a sparkling beacon. Her blood pumped, the blood of the hunted. Trees crashed behind her, and the ground heaved under her feet and boiled with mist.

  Still she ran, her breath tearing out of her throat and ending in whimpers. There were screams in the wind, and not all of them hers. Fear ruled until there was nothing else inside her, no reason, no sense, no answer.

  The wind slapped at her with sharp and gleeful hands, and clawing fingers of brush tore her dress to shreds.

  She was climbing, scrabbling like a lizard along the rock. Through the dark the beam from the lighthouse slashed like a silver blade, and below, the wild violence of the sea churned.

  She kicked and cried and climbed. But she didn't look back, couldn't force herself to look around and face what pursued her.

  Instead, choosing flight over fight, she leaped from the rocks, spun and spun in the wind on her plunge toward the water. And the cliffs, the light, the trees all tumbled in after her.

  Chapter Four

  On her first day off, Nell rearranged the furniture—what there was of it. She watered her flowers and herbs, did the wash, and baked a loaf of brown bread.

  It was still shy of nine o'clock when she cut the first slice for her breakfast.

  Evan had hated her early-rising habit, and had complained that that was the reason she was dull at parties. Now, in her little cottage near the sea, there was no one to criticize, no need to creep about. She had her windo
ws open wide, and the whole day belonged just to her.

  Still munching on bread and with a heel of the loaf in the pocket of her shorts, she took herself off for a long walk on the beach.

  The boats were out, bobbing and gliding over the water. The sea was a soft, dreamy blue with frisky waves that rolled up lacy on the sand. Gulls winged over it, white-breasted in their graceful dance on the air. The music of them, the long, shrill cries, pierced the low, endless rumble of the surf.

  She turned in a little dance of her own. Then she tugged the bread from her pocket and tore it into small pieces, tossing it high to watch the gulls circle and dive.

  Alone, she thought, lifting her face to the sky. But not lonely. She doubted she would ever be lonely again.

  At the sound of church bells she turned to look back at the village, at the pretty white steeple. She glanced down at her shorts with the frayed hem, her sandy sneakers. Hardly dressed for services, she decided. But she could worship in her own way, and offer a prayer of thanksgiving.

  While the bells rang and echoed, she sat near the edge of the water. Here was peace, she thought, and joy. She would never, never take either for granted. She would remember to give something back every day. Even if it was just a heel of bread for the gulls. She would tend what she planted. She would remember to be kind, and never forget to offer a helping hand.

  She would keep her promises and expect nothing more than the chance to lead a good life that hurt no one.

  She would earn what she'd been given, and treasure it.

  She would take pleasure in the simple things, she decided. Starting right now.

  Rising, she began to collect shells, tucking them in her pockets at first. When the pockets were full, she tugged off her shoes and used them. She reached the far end of the beach, where rocks jutted out of the sand and began to tumble toward the sea. Here there were palm-size stones worn cobble smooth. She picked one, then another, wondering if she could fashion an edging for her little herb bed.

  A movement to her left had her wrapping her fingers tight around the stone and turning quickly. Her heart continued to beat in hard jerks as she watched Zack coming down a zigzag of wooden steps.