Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  And yet . . .

  Dr. MacAllister Booke, the Indiana Jones of the paranormal, had taken up temporary residence on Three Sisters Island.

  Didn’t that prick up the ears?

  Booke wasn’t one to waste his time, Harding knew. The man hacked his way through jungles, hiked over miles of desert, climbed mountains to do research in his unlikely chosen field. And mostly on his own nickel, of which he had plenty.

  But he didn’t waste his time.

  He debunked more so-called magic than he verified, but when he verified, people tended to listen. Smart people.

  If there wasn’t something to those whispers, why would he have gone? Helen Remington, excuse me, Nell Channing Todd, wasn’t making any claims. She’d spoken to the police, of course, but there was no mention of witchcraft phenomena in her statement. None in the press release funneled through her attorneys either.

  But MacAllister Booke had deemed Three Sisters worth his time. And that interested Harding. Interested him enough that he’d read up on the island, its lore, its legends himself.

  And his reporter’s nose had scented a story. A big, fat, and potentially juicy story.

  He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to pry interviews out of Mac before. The MacAllister-Bookes were eye-crossing rich, influential, and staunchly conservative. With a little cooperation he could have generated a series of solid features on the family and their spook-chasing son.

  But nobody, particularly Booke himself, cooperated.

  And that stung.

  Still, it was just a matter of finding the right crowbar and knowing the correct amount of pressure to apply. Harding was confident that Remington himself would help him ease the lid off.

  After that, he could take care of the rest.

  Harding walked down the corridor of what he thought of as the loony bin. Remington had been judged legally insane, which had saved the taxpayers the cost of a long, detailed trial and cheated them out of the meaty morsels the media could have dispensed had there been one.

  The fact was, the weapon used against the island sheriff had Remington’s fingerprints on it. The sheriff, and two witnesses, including the island’s deputy, had given statements that Remington had held that knife to his wife’s throat and had threatened her life.

  Even more damning, Remington hadn’t simply confessed, he’d screamed about murdering her, babbled about till death do us part, and carried on about the need to burn the adulterous witch.

  Of course, he’d screamed about a lot of other things, too. About glowing eyes, blue lightning, snakes crawling under his skin.

  Between the physical evidence, the witness statements, and his own rantings, Remington had copped himself a room in the barred and guarded section of the nuthouse.

  Harding’s visitor’s badge flapped on the lapel of his tailored suit jacket. His tie, the exact shade of charcoal as the suit, was perfectly knotted.

  His hair was dark, shot with silver and meticulously cut to suit his square, ruddy face. His features were blocky, and his eyes, a dark brown, tended to vanish when he smiled. His mouth was thin, and when annoyed he appeared to be lipless.

  If his face, and his speaking voice, had been marginally more appealing, he might have wormed his way into television news.

  He’d once wanted that, the way some boys want that first touch of female breast. Lustfully, gleefully. But the camera was not his friend. It accented his features and made his short, stocky build resemble a tree stump.

  His voice, as some smart-mouthed tech had once told him, sounded like a wounded goose when miked.

  The cruel loss of that childhood dream had helped turn Harding into the kind of print reporter he was today. Ruthless and iceberg-cold.

  He listened to the echo of locks being released, heavy doors opening. He would remember to describe them when he wrote of this visit, of the eerie clang of metal on metal, the impassive faces of the guards and medical staff, the oddly sweet smell of madness.

  He waited outside yet another room. There was a final check here, an attendant beside the door with a bank of monitors on his desk.

  The inmates in this section, Harding had been told, were under twenty-four-hour surveillance. When he stepped in with Remington, he himself would be watched as well. That was, he admitted, a comfort.

  The last door was opened. Harding was reminded he had thirty minutes.

  He intended to make the most of it.

  Evan Remington didn’t look like the man Harding was used to seeing in the glossy pages of magazines, or in sparkling color on the television screen. He sat in a chair, dressed in a violently orange coverall, his posture ruler-straight. There were restraints on his wrists.

  His hair, once a golden crown, was dull yellow and cut short. His handsome face was puffy now, from the institutional food, from medication, from lack of salon treatments. The mouth was slack, the eyes dead as a doll’s.

  They had him sedated, Harding imagined. Take your average sociopath, toss in a few psychoses and violent tendencies, and drugs were everyone’s best friend.

  But he hadn’t counted on trying to wend his way through the chemical maze to Remington’s brain.

  There was a guard at the door to Remington’s back who was already looking bored. Harding sat on his side of the counter, looked between the bars. “Mr. Remington, I’m Harding, Jonathan Q. Harding. I believe you were expecting me today?”

  There was no response. Harding cursed inwardly. Couldn’t they have waited to give him his zoning pills until after the interview?

  “I spoke with your sister yesterday, Mr. Remington.” Nothing. “Barbara, your sister?”

  A thin line of drool slid out the corner of Remington’s mouth. Fastidiously, Harding looked away from it.

  “I was hoping to talk to you about your ex-wife, about what happened on Three Sisters the night you were arrested. I work for First Magazine.”

  Or he did for the moment. His editors were becoming entirely too delicate, and penny-pinching, for his taste.

  “I want to do a story on you, Mr. Remington. To tell your side. Your sister is eager for you to talk to me.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, but he had convinced her that an interview might lead to a sympathetic story, which might in turn give weight to her legal action to have her brother moved to a private facility.

  “I might be able to help you, Mr. Remington. Evan,” he corrected. “I want to help you.”

  He got nothing but that dead and silent stare. And the sheer emptiness of it scuttled along his skin.

  “I’m planning to talk to everyone involved, to get a fully rounded story. I’m going to talk to your ex-wife. I’m going to arrange to interview Helen.”

  At the sound of the name, the dark, dull eyes flickered.

  Someone’s at home after all, Harding thought and edged slightly forward. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Helen for you? Any message I can take to Helen?”

  “Helen.”

  The voice was raspy, hardly more than a whisper. Harding told himself that was why a cold finger tickled down his spine at the sound of it. “That’s right. Helen. I’m going to see Helen very soon.”

  “I killed her.” The slack mouth bowed up into a stunning and brilliant smile. “In the woods, in the dark. I kill her every night, because she keeps coming back. She keeps laughing at me, so I kill her.”

  “What happened that night in the woods. With Helen?”

  “She ran from me. She’s mad, you know. Why else would she run, would she think she could get away? I had to kill her. Her eyes burned.”

  “Blue lightning? Did they burn like blue lightning?”

  “It wasn’t Helen.” Remington’s eyes darted, black birds on the wing. “Helen was quiet, and obedient. She knew who was in charge. She knew.” As he spoke his fingers began to scrabble on the arms of the chair.

  “Who was it?”

  “A witch. Came out of hell, all of them. So much light, so much light. They blinded me, they cursed me. Snakes
, under my skin. Snakes. Circle of light. Circle of blood. Can you see it?”

  For a moment he could. Clear as glass, and terrifying. Harding had to force back a shudder. “Who are ‘all of them’?”

  “They’re all Helen.” He began to laugh, a high, keening sound that shivered along Harding’s skin until the fine hairs on his arm stood up. “All Helen. Burn the witch. I kill her every night. Every night, but she comes back.”

  He was screaming now, so that Harding, who’d seen his share of horrors, pushed away, leaped up even as the guard surged forward.

  A lunatic, Harding told himself as attendants hustled him out of the room. Mad as a hatter.

  But. . .but. . .

  The smell of the story was too strong to resist.

  Some people might have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt.

  Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation.

  He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.

  It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would have been, by his standards, rude.

  Patience and courtesy had paid off, and she’d casually asked him if he would like to come up for dinner. He’d accepted, just as casually.

  Now, as he drove up the coast road, he was filled with anticipation. There was so much he wanted to ask her, particularly since Ripley shut down each time he tried to question her. He had yet to approach Nell.

  Two warnings by two witches made a definite point. He would wait there, until Nell came to him or the path was cleared.

  There was plenty of time. And he still had that ace in the hole.

  He liked the look of her place, the old stone high on the cliff, standing against time and the sea. The art of the gables, the romance of the widow’s walk, the mystery of the turrets. The white beam from the lighthouse cut through the dark like a wide blade, swept over sea, the stone house, the dark stand of trees.

  It was a lonely spot, he thought as he parked. Almost arrogantly alone and undeniably beautiful. It suited her perfectly.

  The snow had been neatly cleared from her drive, from her walk. He couldn’t imagine any woman who looked like Mia Devlin hoisting a snow shovel. He wondered if that was a sexist opinion.

  He decided it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with her being a woman, and everything to do with beauty. He simply couldn’t imagine her doing anything that wasn’t elegant.

  The minute she opened the door, he was certain that he was right.

  She wore a dress of deep forest green, the sort that covered a woman from neck to toe and still managed to tell a man that everything under it was perfect. Was fascinating.

  Stones glittered at her ears, on her fingers. On a braided silver chain a single carved disk glinted almost at her waist. Her feet were seductively bare.

  She smiled, held out a hand. “I’m glad you could come, and bearing gifts.” She accepted the bottle of wine. It was her favorite, she noted. “How did you know?”

  “Huh? Oh, the wine. It’s my job to dig up pertinent data.”

  With a laugh, she drew him inside. “Welcome to my home. Let me take your coat.”

  She stood close, let her fingertips graze his arm. She considered it a kind of test, for both of them. “I’m tempted to say come into my parlor.” Her laugh came again, low and rich. “So I will.” She gestured to a room off the wide foyer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open the wine.”

  Slightly dazed, he walked into a large room where a fire burned brightly. The room was full of rich color, soft fabrics, gleaming wood and glass. Old, beautifully faded rugs were spread over a wide-planked floor.

  He recognized wealth—comfortable, tasteful, and somehow female wealth.

  There were flowers, lilies with star-shaped petals as white as the snow outside, in a tall, clear vase.

  The air smelled of them, and of her.

  Even a dead man, Mac imagined, would have felt his blood warming, his juices flowing.

  There were books tucked on shelves among pretty bottles and chunks of crystals and intriguing little statues. He gave those his attention. What a person read gave insight into the person.

  “I’m a practical woman.”

  He jumped. She’d come in silently, like smoke.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Practical,” she repeated, setting down the tray that held the wine and two glasses. “Books are a passion, and I opened the store so I could make a profit from my passion.”

  “Your passion’s eclectic.”

  “Single channels are so monotonous.” She poured the wine, crossed to him, her eyes never leaving his. “You’d agree, since your interests are varied as well.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “To a variety of passions, then.” Her eyes laughed as she touched her glass to his.

  She sat on the low sofa, smiling still as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. Tell me what you think of our little island in the sea.”

  He wondered if the room was overwarm or if she simply radiated heat wherever she went. But he sat. “I like it. The village is just quaint enough without being trite, and the people friendly enough without being obviously nosy. Your bookstore adds a touch of sophistication, and the sea adds glamour, the forests mystery. I’m comfortable here.”

  “Handy. And you’re comfortable in my little cottage?”

  “More than. I’ve gotten considerable work done already.”

  “You’re a practical soul, too, aren’t you, MacAllister?” She sipped, red wine against red lips. “Despite what many would consider the impracticality of your chosen field.”

  It felt as though the collar of his shirt had shrunk. “Knowledge is always practical.”

  “And that’s what you seek under it all. The knowing.” She curled up, and her knees brushed his leg, lightly. “A seeking mind is very attractive.”

  “Yeah. Well.” He drank wine. Gulped it.

  “How’s your . . . appetite?”

  His color rose. “My appetite?”

  He was, she decided, absolutely delightful. “Why don’t we move into the dining room? I’ll feed you.”

  “Great. Good.”

  She uncurled, trailed fingertips down his arm again. “Bring the wine, handsome.”

  Oh, boy, was his only clear thought.

  The dining room should have felt formal, intimidating with its huge mahogany table, the wide sideboards and high-backed chairs. But it was as welcoming as her parlor. The colors were warm here, too, deep burgundy shades mixed with dark golds.

  Flowers in the same hues scented this air as well and speared out of cut crystal. A fire crackled, like an accompaniment to the quiet music of harps and pipes.

  The trio of windows along the wall was left uncovered to bring the contrast of black night and white snow into the room. Perfect as a photograph.

  There was a succulent rack of lamb and the light of a dozen candles.

  If she’d been intending to dress a stage for romance, she had succeeded, expertly.

  As they ate she steered the conversation into literature, art, theater, all the while watching him with flattering attention.

  It was almost, he thought, hypnotic. The way she looked at a man, fully, directly, deeply.

  Candlelight played over her skin like gold on alabaster, in her eyes like gilt over smoke. He wished he could do better than rough pencil sketches. Hers was a face that demanded oil and canvas.

  It surprised him that they had so much common ground. Books enjoyed, music appreciated.

  Then again, each of them had spent considerable time learning of the other’s background. He knew she’d grown up here, in this house, an only child. And that her parents had given most of her day-to-day care int
o Lulu’s hands. She’d gone to college at Radcliffe and had earned degrees in literature and business.

  Her parents had left the island before she’d graduated, and rarely returned.

  She came from money, as did he.

  She belonged to no coven, no group, no organization, and lived quietly and alone in the place of her birth. She had never married, nor had she ever lived with a man.

  He wondered that a woman so obviously, so elegantly sexual, had not done so.

  “You enjoy traveling,” she said.

  “There’s a lot out there to see. I guess I enjoyed it more in my twenties. The kick of packing up, taking off, whenever I wanted, or needed to.”

  “And living in New York. The excitement, the stimulation.”

  “It has its advantages. But my work can be done anywhere. Do you get to New York often?”

  “No. I rarely leave the island. I have all I need and want here.”

  “Museums, theater, galleries?”

  “I don’t have much of a thirst for them. I prefer my cliffs, my forest, my work. And my garden,” she added. “It’s a pity it’s winter, or we could take a stroll through my garden. Instead we’ll have to settle for coffee and dessert in the parlor.”

  She treated him to delicate profiteroles, which he enjoyed. Offered him brandy, which he declined. A clock from somewhere deep in the house bonged the hour as she once again curled herself on the sofa beside him.

  “You’re a man of great personal restraint and willpower, aren’t you, Dr. Booke?”

  “I’m not sure that’s ever come up. Why?”

  “Because you’ve been in my home, alone with me, for more than two hours. I’ve plied you with wine, candlelight, music. And yet you haven’t brought up your professional interest in me, nor have you tried to seduce me. Is that admirable, I wonder, or should I be insulted?”

  “I thought about both those things.”

  “Really? And what did you think?”

  “That you invited me into your home, so to bring up my professional interest was inappropriate.”