Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  Just outside the cottage was a garden gone wild so that flowers tangled with weeds and tumbled over themselves. The smell of them, of the air, of the sea had her gulping in air, holding her breath as if to keep that single sharp taste inside her forever.

  Unable to resist, she stepped out, the dog beside her, and lifted her face to the sky.

  Oh, this place! Was there ever a more perfect spot? If it were hers, she would stand here every morning and thank God for it.

  Beside her, the dog let out one quiet woof, at which she rested her hand on his head again and glanced over at the little building, with its rough stone, thatched roof, wide-open windows.

  She started to smile, then the door of it opened. The man who came out stopped as she did, stared as she did. Then with his mourn hard set, he started forward.

  His face swam in front of her. The crash of the sea filled her head with roaring. Dizzy, she held out a hand to him, much as she had to the dog.

  She saw his mouth move, thought she heard him swear, but she was already pitching forward into the dark.

  Chapter 3

  She looked like a faerie, standing there in a wavery sunbeam. Tall and slender, her bright hair cropped short, her eyes long-lidded, tilted at the tips, and enormous.

  Not a beauty. Her face was too sharp for true beauty, and her mouth a bit top-heavy. But it was an intriguing face, even in rest.

  He'd thought about it even after he'd dumped her in bed after carrying her in from the storm. Undressing her had been an annoying necessity, which he'd handled with the aloof detachment of a doctor. Then, once she was dry and settled, he'd left her, without a backward glance, to burn off some of the anger in work.

  He worked very well in a temper.

  He didn't want her here. He didn't want her. And, he told himself, he wouldn't have her, no matter what the fates decreed.

  He was his own man.

  But now when he came out, saw her standing in the doorway, in the sunlight, he felt the shock of it sweep through him longing, possession, recognition, delight, and despair. All of those in one hard wave rose inside him, swamped him.

  Before he could gain his feet, she was swaying.

  He didn't manage to catch her. Oh, in the storybooks, he imagined, his feet would have grown wings and he'd have flown across the yard to pluck her nimbly into his arms before she swooned. But as it was, she slid to the ground, melted wax pooling into the cup and taking all the candle as well, before he'd closed half the distance.

  By the time he reached her, those long gray eyes were already opening again, cloudy and dazed. She stared at him, the corners of her mouth trembling up.

  "I guess I'm not steady yet," she said in that pretty American voice. "I know it's a clich andeacute; and predictable, but I have to say it where am I?''

  She looked ridiculously appealing, lying there between the flowers, and made him all too aware she wore nothing but one of his shirts. "You're on

  O'Neil land."

  "I got lost_a bad habit of mine. The storm came up so fast."

  "Why are you here?"

  "Oh, I got separated from the group. Well, I was late_another bad habit and missed the ferry. But the boy brought me in his boat. andquot; She sat up then. "I hope he's all right. He must be, as he seemed to know what he was doing and it was such a quick trip anyway. Is the visitors' center far?"

  "The visitors' center?"

  "I should be able to catch up with them, though it won't do me a lot of good. Margaret'll fire me, and I deserve it."

  "And who is Margaret?"

  "My stepsister. She owns A Civilized Adventure. I'm working for her or I did work for her for the last twenty-three days. andquot; She let out a breath, tried the smile again. "I'm sorry. I'm Allena Kennedy, the moron. Thank you for helping me."

  He glanced down at the hand she held out, then with some reluctance took it.

  Instead of shaking it, he pulled her to her feet. "I've a feeling you're more lost than you know, Miss Kennedy, as there's no visitors' center here on

  Dolman Island."

  "Dolman? But that's not right." The hand in his flexed, balled into a little fist of nerves. "I'm not supposed to be on Dolman Island.

  Oh, damn it. Damn it! It's my fault. I wasn't specific with the boy. He seemed to know where I was going, was supposed to be going. Or maybe he got turned around in the storm, too. I hope he's all right."

  She paused, looked around, sighed. "Not just fired," she murmured.

  "Disinherited, banished, and mortified all in one morning. I guess all I can do is go back to the hotel and wait to face the music."

  "Well, it won't be today."

  "Excuse me?"

  Conal looked out to sea, studying the crashing wall of waves. "You won't find your way back today, and likely not tomorrow, as there's more coming our way."

  "But_" She was talking to his back as he walked inside as though he hadn't just sealed her doom. "I have to get back. She'll be worried."

  "There'll be no ferry service in these seas, and no boatman with a brain in his head would chance the trip back to the mainland."

  She sat on the arm of a chair, closed her eyes. "Well, that caps it. Is there a phone? Could I use your phone to call the hotel and leave a message?"

  "The phones are out."

  "Of course they are." She watched him go to the fire to add some bricks of turf. Her clothes hung on the screen like a recrimination. "Mr.

  O'Neil?"

  "Conal." He straightened, turned to her. "All the women I undress and put into bed call me Conal."

  It was a test, deliberately provocative. But she didn't flush or fire.

  Instead her eyes lit with humor. "All the men who undress me and put me into bed call me Lena."

  "I prefer Allena."

  "Really? So do I, but it seems to be too many syllables for most people. Anyway, Conal, is there a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast where I can stay until the ferry's running again?"

  "There's no hotel on Dolman. It's a rare tourist who comes this far.

  And the nearest village, of which there are but three, is more than eight kilometers away."

  She gave him a level look. "Am I staying here?"

  "Apparently."

  She nodded, rubbing her hand absently over Hugh's broad back as she took stock of her surroundings. "I appreciate it, and I'll try not to be a nuisance."

  "It's a bit late for that, but we'll deal with it." When her only response was to lift her eyebrows and stare steadily, he felt a tug of shame.

  "Can you make a proper pot of tea?"

  "Yes."

  He gestured toward the kitchen that was separated from the living area by a short counter. "The makings are in there. I've a few things to see to, then we'll talk this out over a cup."

  "Fine." The word was rigidly and properly polite. Only the single gunshot bang of a cupboard door as he started out again told him she was miffed.

  She'd make the damn tea, she thought, jerking the faucet on to fill the kettle, which was no easy matter since the cast-iron sink was loaded with dishes. And she'd be grateful for Conal O'Neil's hospitality, however reluctantly, however rudely given.

  Was it her fault she'd ended up on the wrong island? Was it her fault she'd gotten turned around in a storm and passed out and had to be carted back to his house? Was it her fault she had nowhere else to go?

  Well, yes. She rolled her eyes and began to empty the dishes out of the sink so that she could fill it with soapy water and wash them. Yes, technically it was her fault. Which just made it all the more annoying.

  When she got back to New York she would be jobless. Again. And once more she'd be the object of pity, puzzlement, and pursed lips. And that was her fault, too. Her family expected her to fail now flighty, scatterbrained

  Lena.

  Worse, she realized, was that she expected it, too.

  The problem was she wasn't particularly good at anything. She had no real skill, no craft, and no driving ambitions.

&
nbsp; She wasn't lazy, though she knew Margaret would disagree. Work didn't frighten her. Business did.

  But that was tomorrow's problem, she reminded herself as she dealt with the dishes and waited for the kettle to boil. Today's problem was Conal O'Neil and how to handle the situation she'd put them both into.

  A situation, she thought, as she went about stacking dishes, wiping counters, heating the teapot, that should have been thrilling. A storm-swept island; a handsome, brooding man; a cozy, if rustic, cottage isolated from the world.

  This, she decided, perking up, was an adventure. She was going to find a way to enjoy it before the axe fell.

  When Conal came back in, the old teapot was sitting snugly in a frayed and faded cozy. Cups and saucers were set on the table, and the table scrubbed clean. The sink was empty, the counters sparkling, and the chocolate biscuits he'd had in a tin were arranged prettily on a plate.

  "I was hungry." She was already nibbling on one. "I hope you don't mind."

  "No." He'd nearly forgotten what it was like to sit down and have tea in tidiness. Her little temper snap appeared to be over as well, he noted.

  She looked quietly at home in his kitchen, in his shirt.

  "So." She sat down to pour. The one thing she was good at was conversation. She'd often been told she was too good at it. "You live here alone?"

  "I do."

  "With your dog."

  "Hugh. He was my father's. My father died some months back."

  She didn't say she was sorry, as so many too many would have.

  But her eyes said it, and that made it matter more. "It's a beautiful spot. A perfect spot. That's what I was thinking before I fell into your garden. You grew up here?"

  "I did."

  "I grew up in New York, in the city. It never fit, somehow." She studied him over her teacup. "This fits you. It's wonderful to find the right fit. Everyone in my family fits except me. My parents and Margaret and

  James my brother and sister. Their mother died when Margaret was twelve and James ten. Their father met my mother a couple of years later, then they married and had me."

  "And you're Cinderella?"

  "No, nothing as romantic as that." But she sighed and thought how lovely it would be. "Just the misfit. They're all brilliant, you see.

  Every one of them. My father's a doctor, a surgeon. My mother's a lawyer. James is a wildly successful cosmetic surgeon, and Margaret has her own business with

  A Civilized Adventure."

  "Who would want an adventure civilized?"

  "Yes." Delighted, Allena slapped a palm on the table. "That's exactly what I thought. I mean, wouldn't regimenting it mean it wasn't an adventure at all? But saying that to Margaret earned me a twenty-minute lecture, and since her business is thriving, there you go."

  The light was already shifting, he noted, as a new sea of clouds washed in.

  But there was enough of the sun yet to sprinkle over her hair, into her eyes.

  And make his fingers itch for a pencil.

  He knew just what he would do with her, exactly how it would be. Planning it, he let his gaze wander over her. And nearly jolted when he saw the pendant.

  He'd all but forgotten it.

  "Where did you get that?"

  She'd seen those vivid blue eyes travel down, had felt a shiver of response, and now another of relief that she hoped it was the pendant that interested him.

  "This? It's the heart of my problem."

  She'd meant it as a joke, but his gaze returned to her face, all but seared the flesh with the heat of it. "Where did you get it?"

  Though the edge to his voice puzzled her, she shrugged. "There was a little shop near the waterfront. The display window was just crammed with things. Wonderful things. Magic."

  "Magic."

  "Elves and dragons, books and jewelry in lovely, fascinating shapes. A hodgepodge, but a crafty one. Irresistible. I only meant to go in for a minute.

  I had time before we were to meet at the ferry. But the old woman showed me this, and somehow while we were talking, time just went away. I didn't mean to buy it, either. But I do a lot of things I don't mean to do."

  "You don't know what it is?"

  "No." She closed her hand over it, felt that low vibration that couldn't be there, blinked as something tried to slide in on the edge of her vision. "It feels old, but it can't be old, not valuably old, because it only cost ten pounds."

  "Value's different for one than for another." He reached out. It was irresistible. With his eyes steady and level he closed his hand over hers that held the pendant.

  The jolt snapped into her, sharp as an electric current. The air seemed to turn the blue of lightning. She was on her feet, her head tipping back to keep her eyes locked with his as he shoved back from the table with enough violence to send his chair crashing.

  That same violence was in him when his mouth crushed hers. The need, so bright, so strong, so right, whipped through her even as the wind rushed sudden and sharp through the window at her back. Her hand fisted in his hair, her body lifted itself to his.

  And fit.

  The pounding of her heart was like a song, each note a thrill. Here, with him, it was enough, even if the world crumbled to dust around them.

  He couldn't stop. The taste of her was like water, cool and clean, after a lifetime of thirst. Empty pockets he hadn't known he carried inside him filled, bulged, overflowed. His blood was a rage of heat, his body weak with wanting.

  He gathered the back of the shirt in his bunched fingers, prepared to rip.

  Then they dropped the pendant they held between them to reach for each other. And he snapped back as if from a blow.

  "This is not what I want." He took her shoulders, intending to shake her, but only held her. She looked dazed. Faerie-struck. "This is not what I'll accept."

  "Would you let me go?" Her voice was low, but it didn't quaver.

  When he did, and stepped back, she let out a short, quiet breath. There was no point in being a coward, she told herself.

  "I have a couple of choices here," she began. "One is I hit my head when I fell and I have a concussion. The other is that I just fell in love with you. I think I prefer the concussion theory, and I imagine you do, too."

  "You didn't hit your head." He jammed his hands in his pockets and strode away from her. The room was suddenly too small. "And people don't fall in love in an instant, over one kiss."

  "Sensible ones don't. I'm not sensible. Ask anyone." But if there was ever a time to try to be, it was now.

  "I think I should get dressed, take a walk, clear my head or whatever."

  "Another's storm's brewing."

  Allena tugged her clothes off the screen. "You're telling me," she muttered and marched into the bedroom.

  Chapter 4

  Conal wasn't in the cottage when she came out again, but Hugh sat by the fire as if waiting for her. He got up as she came through and pranced to the door, turning his big head so that his eyes met hers.

  "Want a walk? Me, too."

  It was a pity about the gardens, Allena thought as she paused between them.

  She'd have enjoyed getting down into them, yanking out those choking weeds, pinching off deadheads. An hour's pleasant work, she thought, maybe two, and instead of looking wild and neglected, those tumbling blossoms would just look wild. Which is what was needed here.

  Not her job, she told herself, not her home, not her place. She cast an eye at the little outbuilding. He was probably in there doing whatever the hell he did. And doing it, she imagined, angrily.

  Why was there so much anger in him?

  Not her problem, she thought, not her business, not her man.

  Though for a moment, when their hands and mouths were joined, he had seemed to be.

  I don't want this. I don't want you.

  He'd made himself very clear. And she was tired of finding herself plopped down where she wasn't wanted.

  The wind raced in off the sea, driving thick black-edg
ed clouds toward the island. As she began to walk, she could see the pale and hopeful blue being gradually, inevitably consumed.

  Conal was right. A storm was coming.

  Walking along the shoreline couldn't do any harm. She wouldn't climb the hills, though she longed to. She would just stick to the long curve of surf and sand and enjoy the jittery thrill of watching the fierce waves crash.

  Hugh seemed content to walk at her side. Almost, she thought, like a guard.

  Eight kilometers to the nearest village, she remembered. That wasn't so very far. She could wait for the weather to clear, then walk it if Conal wouldn't drive her. There'd been a truck parked between the cottage and the outbuilding, a sleek and modern thing, anachronistic but surely serviceable.

  Why had he kissed her like that?

  No, that wasn't right. It hadn't been his doing. It had simply happened, to both of them. For both of them. There'd been a roar in her head, in her blood, that she'd never experienced before. More than passion, she thought now, more than lust. It was a kind of desperate recognition.

  There you are. Finally. At last.

  That, of course, was ridiculous, but she had no other way to explain what had spurted to life inside her. And what had spread from that first hot gush felt like love.

  You couldn't love what you didn't know. You couldn't love where there was no understanding, no foundation, no history. Her head told her all these sensible, rational things. And her heart laughed at them.

  It didn't matter. She could be conflicted, puzzled, annoyed, even willing to accept. But it didn't matter when he didn't want her or what had flamed to life between them.

  She stopped, let the wind beat its frantic wings over her, let the spray from the waves fly on her. Overhead a gull, white as the moon, let out its triumphant scream and streamed off in the current of electric air.

  Oh, she envied that freedom, for the heart of flight was inside her. To simply fly away, wherever the wind took her. And to know that when she landed, it would be her place, her time, her triumph.