Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  Lulu swiped the credit card he handed her. “Have you got personal designs on Mia?”

  “No. But I sure like looking at her.”

  “I don’t have time to talk to some college boy for his term paper.”

  Mac signed the credit slip without, Lulu noted, looking at the total. “I’ll pay you.”

  She heard the faint sound—ca-ching—in the back of her mind. “How much?”

  “Fifty an hour.”

  “What, are you stupid?”

  “No. Loaded.”

  Shaking her head, Lulu handed him his sack of books. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  When he walked out, she shook her head again. Pay her to talk. Could you beat that?

  She was still wondering over it when Mia glided down the stairs. “Too quiet in here today, Lu. I think I’m going to run a cookbook sale upstairs, get people in. Nell could make some samples from some of the books.”

  “Whatever. College Boy was just in.”

  “Who? Oh.” Mia handed Lulu the cup of tea she’d brought her from the café. “The interesting and yummy MacAllister Booke.”

  “Shelled out over a hundred fifty for books without batting an eye.”

  Mia’s businesswoman’s heart went pitty-pat. “Bless him.”

  “Looks like he can afford it. He offered me fifty an hour to talk to him.”

  “Really?” Sipping her own tea, Mia lifted an eyebrow. She knew Lulu had an ongoing love affair with profit, an affection she’d learned at Lulu’s knobby knee. “I should’ve charged him more rent. What does he want to talk to you about?”

  “You. Said it was like human interest. How many times I had to swat your butt when you were growing up, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t think we need refer back to the unfortunate incidents of butt-swatting,” Mia said dryly. “But this is interesting and unexpected. I’d thought he’d be pestering and pressuring me to discuss and demonstrate. Instead he’s letting all that sit to one side and offering you a consultant fee to discuss my formative years.”

  She tapped a fingertip on her bottom lip. Both were painted bold red. “Very clever of him.”

  “He admitted he was, and that it irritated some people.”

  “I’m not irritated. I’m intrigued, which is just what he’d hoped for, I imagine.”

  “Claims he doesn’t have any designs on you of a personal nature.”

  “Now, I’m insulted.” With a laugh, Mia kissed Lulu’s cheek. “Still watching out for me?”

  “You could do worse than take a look in his direction. He’s polite, rich, and has brains—and he’s not tough to look at.”

  “He’s not for me.” With a little sigh, she rested her cheek on Lulu’s hair. “I’d know if he was.”

  Lulu started to speak, then kept her tongue still, hooked an arm around Mia’s waist.

  “I’m not thinking of Samuel Logan,” Mia said, though she had been. The only man who’d ever held her heart. The only man who’d ever crushed it. “I’m just not romantically attracted to the interesting, clever, and yummy Dr. Booke. Are you going to talk to him?”

  “Depends.”

  “If you’re worried that I have an objection, I don’t. I can protect myself if I need protecting. And I won’t, not from him.”

  There was something else, something not quite clear, that slithered around the edges of home. But it didn’t come from MacAllister Booke.

  She drew away, picked up her tea again. “In fact, I may agree to talk to him myself. Fifty dollars an hour.” She let out a low, delighted laugh. “Fascinating.”

  Loaded down with portable equipment, Mac plowed through the snow piled on the floor of the narrow forest beside his cottage. The police report and the newspaper stories he’d read cited this as the place Nell had run to when Evan Remington attacked her and Zack Todd.

  He’d already completed scans of the kitchen area, the site of the attack. He’d found no negative energy there, no remnants of violence. Which had surprised him until he’d reasoned out that either Nell or Mia would have cleansed the house.

  He hoped to find something in the woods.

  The air was still and cold. Ice gleamed on the dark trunks and branches of trees. Snow lay on them like fur.

  He saw, and was charmed by, what he recognized as deer tracks, and automatically checked his camera to be certain he’d loaded film.

  He passed a little brook where trickles of water forced their way over rocks and ice. Though his gauges didn’t register any anomaly, he felt something. It took him a moment to realize it was simply peace. Simply pleasure.

  A bird called, flashed by like a bullet. Mac just stood, happy and content. It felt good here, he thought. A place where the mind could be quiet. A place for picnics or contemplation.

  With some reluctance, he continued to walk, but promised himself he would come back and just enjoy.

  He wandered, and though he hated to spoil the mood, he tried to imagine what it had been like to run, fleeing in the dark from a man bent on violence. A man armed with a knife already bloody.

  Bastard, he thought. The bastard had hunted her down. A rabid wolf after a doe. Because he could. Because he would rather have seen her dead than free of him. Prepared to swipe the knife over her throat rather than lose what he considered his possession.

  Fury raged in him, hot, roiling fury. He could almost smell the blood, the hate. The fear. Steeped in it, he needed several moments to realize that his sensors were going wild.

  “Jesus!” He jolted back, shook himself, and was abruptly the cool-headed scientist again.

  “Here. Right here.”

  He swept with scanners, dragging out his tape recorder, muttering data into it. He paced off the area, using another gauge to measure distance, radius, diameter. Down on his knees in the snow, he recorded, calculated, documented. Considered, while the numbers and needles on his tools swung wildly.

  “Highest charge, almost pure positive energy encompasses an area of twelve feet, in a perfect circle. Most rites of paranormal origin involve protective circles. This is the most powerful I’ve found.”

  Pocketing his tools, he used his hands to dig, to clear. A light sweat covered his back before he uncovered a reasonable portion of the energy circle.

  “There are no markings under the snow. No symbols. I’ll need to come back with a shovel to clear the entire circle. If this was made on the night Evan Remington was arrested, it was cast more than two months ago and would have been ritualistically closed on that same night. Yet there is a positive echo registering a steady six-point-two on my scale.”

  Six-point-two! His mind leaped at the data. Hot dog!

  “My previous experience, with an active circle during an initiation rite, registered no more than five-eight. Check those data.”

  He got to his feet again, snow clinging everywhere as he took photographs. He dropped his tape recorder, cursed, and spent some time scooping it out of a pile of snow, then worrying that he’d damaged it.

  But nothing could diminish the thrill. He stood in the silent wood and wondered if he had stumbled across the heart of the Sisters.

  An hour later, without bothering to go back to the cottage, Mac was trudging along the snowy beach. The tide had moved in, moved out and swallowed some of the snow with it. But the damp and the cold had packed what remained like bricks in a wall.

  The air was far from still here, shivering in from the sea in icy streams. Despite the layers he wore, his fingers and toes were beginning to feel it.

  He thought idly about a steaming-hot shower, steaming-hot coffee, as he examined the area where he remembered seeing the woman on his first night on the island.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He looked up and saw Ripley standing at the seawall. And was mildly embarrassed that looking at her turned his thoughts, immediately, to steaming-hot sex.

  “Working. How about you?”

  She set her hands on her hi
ps. He couldn’t see her eyes, as she wore dark glasses. It made him wish he’d remembered his own, for the sun bouncing off the snow was blinding.

  “Working at what? Becoming the Abominable Snowman?”

  “The yeti isn’t indigenous to this part of the world.”

  “Take a look at yourself, Booke.”

  He did, glancing down. He was, indeed, covered with snow. It was, he knew, going to be a damn mess when he peeled everything off for that shower. “I guess I’m really into my work.” He shrugged.

  Since it didn’t appear that she would come to him, he started toward her. It wasn’t an easy process, and he managed to find a couple of snowdrifts that hit above his knees. But he trudged to the seawall, hitched himself up on it, and caught his breath.

  “Ever hear of frostbite?” she said dryly.

  “I can still feel my toes, but thanks for thinking of me. How about some coffee?”

  “I don’t happen to have any on me.”

  “Buy you a cup.”

  “I’m working.”

  “Maybe I do have frostbite.” He turned his head and sent her a soulful look. “Wouldn’t it be your duty as a civil servant to assist me to a warm and sheltered location?”

  “No, but I’ll call the health clinic.”

  “Okay, strike one.” He swung over the wall, remembering in the nick of time to protect his dangling camera, and stood beside her. “Where are you headed?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought wherever it was, there’d be coffee.”

  She sighed. He looked frozen and ridiculously adorable. “All right, come on. I’m heading in, anyway.”

  “Didn’t see you at the gym this morning.”

  “I got a late start.”

  “Didn’t see you around the village either.”

  “You’re seeing me now.”

  She had a long stride, he noted. He barely had to check his to keep pace with her.

  She stopped in front of the station house, took a good look at him. “Stomp that snow off your boots.”

  He obeyed, sent a little flurry of snow from his coat and pants.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Turn around.” She slapped and brushed at the snow that clung to him, scowling as she worked her way around to the front. Then her eyes flicked up, caught his grin.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Maybe I just like being handled. Want me to do you?”

  “You’ll watch your step if you want that coffee.” She shoved the door open and was bitterly disappointed that Zack wasn’t in.

  She peeled off her gloves, her coat, unwinding her neck scarf as he did the same. “What the hell were you doing crawling around in the snow?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “I guess I don’t.” She walked to the coffeepot, poured the last of the thick brew into two cups.

  “I’ll tell you anyway. I was in the woods earlier, and found the area where you . . . dealt with Remington that night.”

  Her stomach did a quick jerk and clench, a sensation he seemed to cause regularly. “How do you know you found it?”

  He took the coffee she held out. “It’s my job to know. You closed the circle, didn’t you?”

  “Talk to Mia about that.”

  “Just yes or no, it’s not a hard choice.”

  “Yes.” Curiosity needled her. “Why?”

  “Because there’s an energy echo. Unprecedented in my experience. Strong magic.”

  “Like I said, that’s Mia’s area.”

  Patiently, he blew on the hot coffee. “Is there a specific reason the two of you don’t get along, or is it more general?”

  “It’s specific and general, and none of your business.”

  “Okay.” He sipped. It tasted like hot mud, but he’d had worse. “Want to have dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, I do, and I plan to.”

  His lips twitched. “I meant with me.”

  “Then no.”

  “It’s going to be hard to work my way around to kissing you good night again if we don’t have dinner first.”

  She leaned on the little table that held the coffeepot. “That was a one-time deal.”

  “You might change your mind after we split a pizza.”

  She was already changing her mind. Just looking at him whetted her appetite. “Are you as good with the rest of the routine as you are with kissing?”

  “Now how am I supposed to answer that without sounding like an idiot?”

  “Good point. Let’s say I’ll think about splitting a pizza at some later date. If and when that event occurs, your work, as it involves me, is off the table.”

  “I can agree to that.” He held out a hand.

  She considered ignoring it, but it seemed cowardly. She clasped his hand, shook, and felt great relief that there was nothing there but the casual meeting of palms.

  But he didn’t let go.

  “This is really terrible coffee,” he said.

  “I know.” What was happening now was completely natural, she told herself. That stirring of the blood, woman for man. The anticipatory thrill, the memory of just what that mouth of his was capable of.

  “Oh, hell.” She moved into him. “Do it.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” He set his coffee down. This time he took her face, a light framing with his hands, a slight skim of fingers that made her skin hum.

  His mouth touched hers, sank in, and sent her brain tumbling.

  “Oh, man. Man! You are really good at this.”

  “Thanks.” He slid one hand to the base of her neck. “Now be quiet, okay? I’m trying to concentrate.”

  She linked her arms around his waist, plastered herself against him, and enjoyed.

  Through her lashes, she saw that his eyes were open, focused on her. It made her feel like the only woman in the world. Another first. She’d never needed that from a man, but being given it was a silky stroke.

  The fingers at the base of her neck began to knead, lightly, softly, finding odd little points she hadn’t known existed. He changed the angle of the kiss, as if experimenting, and toppled her from pleasure to need.

  She nearly crawled over him, crawled into him. Her heart rate bounded, her blood flashed.

  He held her there a moment, had to hold her there, trembling, until he found his own balance again and drew her away with hands that were no longer steady.

  “Okay.” She sucked in a breath. “Wow. I’ve got to give it to you. What, did you study exotic sexual techniques or something?”

  “Actually . . .” He cleared his throat. He really, really needed to sit down. “In a manner of speaking, and merely as an offshoot of research.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t think you’re kidding.”

  “Sexual rites and customs are often an important part of. . . . Why don’t I just show you?”

  “Uh-uh.” She held up a hand to ward him off. “I’m on duty, and you’ve already managed to get me stirred up enough. I’ll let you know if and when I’m ready for that pizza.”

  “Give me five minutes, and you’ll be ready.” He stepped forward until her palm met his chest.

  “No deal. Put your coat back on and go away.”

  For a moment she didn’t think he was going to do as she asked. Then, like magic, he stepped back. “When the time comes, I like my pizza large and loaded.”

  “Funny, so do I.”

  “That keeps it simple.” He dragged on his coat, picked up his camera. “It was nice running into you, Deputy Todd. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “We’re here to serve, Dr. Booke.”

  Outside, he pulled on his ski cap. He would go back to the beach, he decided, throw himself bodily into the icy water. If he didn’t drown, he would cool off.

  Six

  It took a lot of fast talk, a lot of grease for a lot of palms, and the tenacity of a bulldog. But Jonathan Q. Harding was willing to invest all of those elements when it came to a hot story.

  His insti
ncts, which he considered the best in the business, told him that Evan Remington was going to be his funnel to the story of the decade.

  Not just the sizzle of scandal that was still shooting out a few sparks. All the angles on Remington himself—how he had hidden that violent face from the world, from his fancy Hollywood clients, from the upper crust of society—had been done to death as far as Harding was concerned. Even most of the details on how his pretty young wife had escaped him, risked her life to get free of his abuse and his threats, were common fodder now.

  Harding didn’t bother with the common.

  He’d dug around a bit, and he had enough confirmed information on where she’d run, how she’d run, where she’d worked, lived, during the first eight months after she’d ditched her Mercedes over a cliff. It was decent stuff—the former society wife, the pampered princess living in cheap, furnished rooms, working as a short-order cook or a waitress, moving from town to town. Dyeing her hair, changing her name.

  He could get some ink out of it.

  But it was the period of time from after she’d landed on that bump of land out in the Atlantic to when Remington had been dragged into a cell that had his nose twitching.

  Things just didn’t add up there, not tidily enough for Harding to close the book. Or maybe it was just too tidy.

  Remington tracks her down. Pure coincidence. Knocks her around. Enter the hero, the local sheriff and new love interest.

  Got himself stabbed for his trouble, Harding thought now, but he kept on riding to the rescue. Took Remington into custody in the woods, talking him out of slitting the pretty heroine’s throat. Hauled him to jail, and got himself sewed up.

  Good boy saves girl. Bad boy goes into a padded cell. Good boy marries girl. Happy days.

  That story, with all its angles, had been four-walled in the media for weeks after Remington’s arrest. And had, as most did, pretty much petered out.

  But there’d been whispers. The kind no one could confirm, that more had gone on in the woods that night than an in-the-nick-of-time arrest.

  Whispers of witchcraft. Of magic.

  Harding had been willing to dismiss that idea, maybe play on the angle for a few column inches, but just for the novelty. After all, Remington was a raving lunatic. His statement about that night, which Harding had paid good money for, could hardly be taken without a truckload of salt.