Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

The best thing to do, she thought, rubbing her now slightly unsettled stomach, was nothing. Stay out of his way, nip any personal connection in the bud, though it was probably a little late for the bud stage, she admitted.

  They would just pretend nothing had ever happened—which, of course, it shouldn’t have.

  She crept back up to her bedroom, closed herself in, and decided it would be wise to avoid all human contact for the next eight hours.

  Sleep didn’t come easily, but she put that down to overdosing on chocolate and deemed it fair punishment for her crimes.

  The dreams, when they came, seemed harsher than she deserved.

  The winter beach was deserted. Solitude weighed like chains around her heart. The moon was full, ripely white so that its light washed over the shore and sea. It seemed you could all but count every grain of sand that glittered in that beam.

  The sound of the surf drummed in her ears, a constant sound that reminded her she was alone. Would always be alone.

  She flung up her hands, called out in pain, in fury. The wind answered, and spun those sparkling grains of sand. Faster. Faster.

  Power sliced through her, a blade so cold it burned hot. The storm she called roared and built until it blocked the light of that pure white moon.

  “Why do you do this?”

  She turned in the torrent and looked at her lost sister. Golden hair shimmered, blue eyes were dark with sorrow.

  “For justice.” She needed to believe that. “For you.”

  “No.” The one who had been Air didn’t reach out but stood quiet, hands folded at her waist. “For vengeance. For hate. We were never meant to use what we are for blood.”

  “He spilled yours first.”

  “And should my weakness, my fears, excuse yours?”

  “Weak?” Magic dark boiled inside her. “I am stronger now than ever I was. I have no fears.”

  “You are alone. The one you loved sacrificed.”

  And she could see, like a dream within the dream, the man who had held her heart. She watched him, watched again, as he was struck down, taken from her and their children by the bitter edge of her own actions.

  The tears that swam into her eyes burned like acid.

  “He should have stayed away.”

  “He loved you.”

  “I am beyond love now.”

  Air turned over her hands, hands that gleamed as white as that blinding moonlight. “There is no life without love, and no hope. I broke the first link between us, and lacked the courage to forge it back again. Now you break the second. Find your compassion, make your amends. The chain grows weak.”

  “I would change nothing.”

  “Our sister will be put to the test.” Urgently now, Air stepped closer. “Without us, she may fail. Then, our circle is broken once and forever. Our children’s children will pay. I have seen it.”

  “You ask me to give up what I have tasted. What I can now call with a thought?” She flung out a hand and the great sea rose to rage against the shimmering wall of sand—a thousand voices, screaming. “I will not. Before I am done with this, every man, every woman, every child who cursed us, who hunted us like vermin, will writhe in agony.”

  “Then you damn us,” Air said quietly. “And all who come after us. Look. And see what may be.”

  The wall of sand dissolved. The furious sea reared back, froze for one throbbing moment. The moon so white, so pure, split and dripped cold blood. Across the black sky, lightning slashed and whipped, stabbed down toward the earth to smoke and to burn.

  Flames erupted, fed by the wild and greedy wind, so that the dark was blinded with light.

  The night became one long, terrified scream as the island was swallowed by the sea.

  However upsetting the dream, Ripley could convince herself it was a result of guilt and chocolate. In the light of day she could shrug off the anxiety it had caused and expend her energy shoveling the latest snowfall.

  By the time Zack joined her, she’d finished the steps and half the walk. “I’ll do the rest. Go in and get some coffee, some breakfast.”

  “Couldn’t eat. I gorged on brownies last night, so I can use the exercise.”

  “Hey.” He caught her by the chin, lifting her face for a long study. “You look tired.”

  “Didn’t sleep very well.”

  “What’s gnawing at you?”

  “Nothing. I ate too many sweets, didn’t sleep well, and now I’m paying for it.”

  “Baby, you’re talking to somebody who knows you. When you’ve got a problem you march through work—physical and mental drudgery—until you come out the other side. Spill it.”

  “There’s nothing to spill.” She shuffled her feet, then finally just sighed. Her brother could simply stand and wait through an entire geological era for an answer. “Okay, I’m not ready to spill it. I’m working it out.”

  “All right. If all this shoveling’s helping you with that, I’ll just leave you to it.”

  He started back in. She didn’t just look tired, he thought. She looked unhappy. At least he could take her mind off that. He scooped up a handful of snow, smoothed it into a ball. What were big brothers for? And let it fly.

  It hit the back of her head with a solid whomp. He wasn’t leadoff pitcher for the island’s softball team without reason.

  Ripley turned slowly, studied his cheerful grin. “So . . . want to play, do you?”

  She grabbed up snow as she sidestepped. The instant he bent down for ammo, she fired straight between his eyes. She played third, and it was a brave or foolish runner who tried to steal home against her arm.

  They pummeled each other, winging snowballs across the half-shoveled walk, slinging insults and taunts after them.

  By the time Nell came to the door, the once pristine blanket over the lawn was bisected with messy paths, dented with furrows where bodies had temporarily fallen.

  Lucy, with high, delighted barks, shot through the door like a bullet and dived into the action.

  Amused, Nell hugged her arms against the chill and stepped out on the porch. “You children better come in and get cleaned up,” she called out. “Or you’ll be late for school.”

  It was instinct more than plan that had brother and sister doing instant and identical pivots. The two snowballs hit Nell dead center. The resulting squeal had Ripley laughing so hard she had to drop to her knees, where Lucy leaped on her.

  “Oops.” Zack swallowed the grin as he caught the dangerous glint in his wife’s eyes. “Sorry, honey. It was, you know, a reflex.”

  “I’ll show you a reflex. It’s comforting to know the entire island police force will shoot the unarmed.” She sniffed, shot her chin into the air. “I want that walk cleared off, and you can clean off my car while you’re at it, if you can spare a moment from your hilarity.”

  She sailed back inside, slammed the door.

  “Ouch,” Ripley said, then dissolved into laughter again. “Looks like you may be bunking on the sofa tonight, hotshot.”

  “She doesn’t hold a grudge.” But he winced, hunched his shoulders. “I’ll go take care of her car.”

  “Got you whipped, doesn’t she?”

  He merely burned her with a look. “I’ll kill you later.”

  Still chuckling, Ripley hauled herself to her feet as her brother and Lucy plowed through the snow toward the back of the house. Nothing, she thought, like a good snow fight to put everything back on an even keel. As soon as she finished the walk, she would go inside and make nice to Nell.

  Still, she’d counted on Nell’s having a little more sense of humor. What was a little snow between friends? Brushing herself off, Ripley picked up the shovel, then heard the pained howl, the wild barks.

  Gripping the shovel like a bat, she raced around the side of the house. As she cleared the corner, she was greeted by a face full of snow. The shocked gasp caused her to swallow some of it, choke. As she spit it out, rubbed it off her face, she saw her brother, covered to his shoulders with snow.
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  And Nell, standing with a smug smile, and two empty buckets. She banged them together smartly to shake out any remaining snow. “That,” she said with a nod, “was reflex.”

  “Boy.” Ripley tried to dig under her collar where snow was dribbling, cold and wet. “She’s good.”

  She was able to maintain the good, even mood through most of the day. She might’ve stayed there if Dennis Ripley hadn’t come shuffling into the station house.

  “It’s my favorite delinquent.” As he rarely failed to entertain her, Ripley propped her feet on the desk and prepared to enjoy the show. “What’s up with you?”

  “I’m supposed to apologize for causing trouble, and to thank you for taking me back to school, and blah blah.”

  “Gosh, Den.” Ripley dabbed at an imaginary tear. “I’m touched.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Mom said I had to. I got two days ISS, I’m grounded for three weeks, and I have to write essays on responsibility and honesty.”

  “Essays? That’s the worst, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He plopped down in the chair across from her, sighed weightily. “I guess it was pretty stupid.”

  “Guess it was.”

  “No point in hooking school in the winter,” he added.

  “No comment. How about the history test?”

  “I passed.”

  “No kidding? You are a jackass, Den.”

  “Well, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. And Mom didn’t wear me out like I figured she would. Dad either. I just got the lecture.”

  “Oh.” Ripley obliged him with a shudder and made him grin. “Not the lecture!”

  “I can use most of it in the essays. I guess I learned my lesson, though.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Well, besides planning better so you don’t freeze your ears off in the woods when you ditch school, it’s less trouble to just do what you’re supposed to—mostly—in the first place.”

  “Mostly,” she agreed. And because she loved him, she rose to make him a cup of instant hot chocolate.

  “And because you made me go in and say what I did, right out, I didn’t have to sweat it out, you know? Dad said how when you mess up, you have to face up to it, make it right. Then people respect you, and even more, you can, you know, respect yourself.”

  She felt a twinge in her gut as she dumped chocolate powder in a mug. “Man,” she muttered.

  “Everybody makes mistakes, but cowards hide from them. That’s a good one, doncha think, Aunt Rip? I can use that in the essay.”

  “Yeah.” She cursed under her breath. “That’s a good one.”

  If a twelve-year-old boy could face the music, Ripley told herself, then a thirty-year-old woman had to be able to do the same.

  Maybe she’d rather be grounded, maybe she’d rather write the dreaded essay than knock on Mac’s door. But there was no option. Not with guilt, shame, and the example of a twelve-year-old crowding her.

  She thought Mac might just slam the door in her face, and she couldn’t find it in herself to blame him if he did. Of course, if he did, then she could just write a polite note of apology. Which was almost like an essay when you thought about it.

  Face-to-face had to be the first move, though. So she stood in front of his cottage door as the light dimmed with dusk, and prepared to eat crow.

  He opened the door. He was wearing his glasses, and a sweatshirt that carried an emblem from Whatsamatta U and a picture of Bullwinkle. Under any other circumstances, it would have been amusing.

  “Deputy Todd,” he said. Very coolly.

  “Can I come in for a minute?” She swallowed the first stringy morsel of crow. “Please.”

  He stepped back, gestured.

  She could see he’d been working. A couple of the monitors were booted up. One of them had zigzagging lines that put her in mind of hospital equipment.

  He had a fire going, and she could smell stale coffee.

  “I’m interrupting,” she began.

  “That’s all right. Let me take your coat.”

  “No.” Defensively, she pulled it tighter. “This won’t take long, then I’ll get out of your hair. I want to apologize for the other day. I was wrong. Totally wrong, and completely out of line. There’s no excuse for what I did, what I said, or how I behaved.”

  “Well, that about covers it.” He’d wanted to stay angry with her. He’d been very comfortable in that groove. “Accepted.”

  She jammed her hands in her pockets. She didn’t like it when things were too easy. “I overreacted,” she said.

  “I’m not going to argue there.”

  “I’d like to finish.” Her voice frosted.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I don’t know why I overreacted, but that’s what I did. Even if you had been with Mia in a . . . in an intimate fashion, it was none of my business. I’m responsible for my own actions, my own decisions, and my own choices, and that’s the way I like it.”

  “Ripley,” he said, gently now. “Let me take your coat.”

  “No, I’m not staying. I got myself worked up about it, way more than it warranted, considering. That pisses me off. And the fact is, I’d talked myself into thinking that you’d put the moves on me—then put them on Mia—to try to soften both of us up so we’d help you out with your work.”

  “Well.” He took his glasses off, dangling them by the earpiece. “That’s insulting.”

  “I know it,” she said grimly. “And I’m sorry for it. More, I’m ashamed that I let myself use that to justify me using sex—you know, getting you worked up like I did—as a punishment. Women who do that give sex a bad name. So—”

  She blew out a breath, tested herself. No, she didn’t feel better, damn it. She felt mortified. “So, that’s all. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

  She turned to the door, and he moved with her. Braced a hand on it. “Digging beneath the surface, which is something I like doing, there’s a small, specific area of your overreaction that I find satisfying. In a strictly shallow, egotistical manner.”

  She didn’t look at him. Refused to. Why bother when she could hear the smirk in his voice? “That just makes me feel more like an idiot.”

  “I’m not opposed to that result.” He ran his hand down her long tail of hair. “I’m taking your coat.” He tugged it off her shoulders. “Want a beer?”

  “No.” It surprised her that what she wanted was a hug. Just a quick little cuddle. And she’d never been the cuddling type. “No, I’m on call.”

  He touched her hair again, a quick dance of his fingers down the soft stream of it. “Want to kiss and make up?”

  “I think we’ll just take a break from the kissing part of the agenda.” She took the coat from him, sidestepped and dumped it on the floor by the front door. She nodded at his sweatshirt. “Your alma mater?”

  “Hmm?” He glanced down, focused. “Yeah. I did some postgrad work there. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen spring in Frostbite Falls.”

  She smiled and felt better. “I can’t peg you, Mac.”

  “Me either. Do you want—” He broke off as the phone rang, then stood looking blankly around the room.

  “Sounds like the telephone to me,” Ripley said helpfully.

  “Yeah. Which one? Bedroom,” he decided and loped away.

  She reached down for her coat. It would probably be best if she just eased out while he was busy. Then she heard him, speaking what she thought was Spanish.

  What was it about foreign languages, she wondered, that stirred the juices? She left her coat where it was and strolled casually toward the bedroom.

  He was standing by the bed, his glasses now hooked by the earpiece in the front pocket of his jeans. The bed was made; she appreciated that basic tidiness in a man. Books were stacked, piled, spread everywhere. He paced as he spoke, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes. Just thick socks—one black, one navy. It was so cute.

  He seemed to be talking v
ery quickly. Whenever she heard a foreign language, it seemed to be rapid, just a flood of incomprehensible words in fascinating accents.

  She cocked her head. He seemed to be concentrating fiercely, but not, she thought, on the Spanish. It came too fluently to be anything but second nature.

  Then he began searching the room, patting his shirt with one hand.

  “Right front pocket,” she said and caused him to turn and blink at her. “Glasses?”

  “Uh, no. Yes. Qué? No, no, uno momento. Why don’t I have a pen?”

  She walked over, picked up one of the three that lay on his nightstand. When he still looked frustrated, she offered a pad to go with it.

  “Thanks. I don’t know why they always—Como? Sí, sí.”

  He sat on the side of the bed and began to scribble. Since she’d already poked her nose in this far, Ripley didn’t see any reason to stop now. She angled her head to read his notes, only to be confounded when they were, again, in shorthand.

  Probably in Spanish, too, she decided, and took the opportunity to study his bedroom.

  There weren’t any clothes strewn around. There wouldn’t have been much room for them with the books, the magazines, the stacks of paper. No personal photographs, which she thought was too bad.

  There was the usual pile of loose change on the dresser, along with a Saint Christopher’s medal. She remembered the gris-gris in his glove compartment and wondered how many other bases he’d covered.

  There was a Leatherman knife, a set of small screwdrivers, a few unidentifiable bits of plastic and metal that might have been some sort of fuse, and some kind of glassy black rock.

  She touched it and, feeling a low, vibrating hum, decided not to touch it again.

  When she turned back, he was still sitting on the side of the bed. He’d hung up the phone and was staring into space with an expression both distracted and dreamy.

  She cleared her throat to get his attention. “So, you speak Spanish.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Huh? No. No, interesting. A colleague in Costa Rica. Thinks he may have a line on an EBE.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, EBE—extraterrestrial biological entity.”