Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  "I…" She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry."

  "No, I mean I lost her. Came home one night and she and the furniture were gone. Never did find her—or the sectional sofa." He laughed heartily while Cilia searched for something to say. "Fact is, your show got me through some pretty lonely nights. Just wanted to thank you and tell you you're doing a hell of a job here tonight." He pressed a business card into her hand. "I'm in appliances. You just call me whenever you need a new refrigerator." He winked. "Give you a good deal."

  "Thanks." It should be funny, she thought. Later it would be funny. "Nice seeing you, Tom."

  "Pleasure's mine." He watched her walk away and beamed again.

  Boyd steered her out of the ballroom and toward the nearest pay phone. "Hang on. Okay?"

  She nodded, even managed to smile at a group of women herding toward the ladies' lounge. "I'm better now. I'm going to sit down right over there." She pointed to an arrangement of chairs and a potted plant.

  Leaving Boyd digging for change, she walked over, then let her legs collapse under her.

  It was a nightmare. She wished it was as simple as a nightmare so that she could wake up with the sun shining in her face. She had nearly gotten through an entire day without thinking of him.

  Shaky, she pulled out a cigarette.

  Perhaps it had been foolish to let herself believe he would give her a day of peace. But to have come here. The odds of him actually being one of the alumni were slim. Yet he'd gotten inside.

  With her back pressed into the chair, she watched people file in and out of the ballroom. It could be any one of them, she thought, straining for some spark of recognition. Would she know him if she saw him, or would he be a complete stranger?

  He could be someone standing behind her at the market, someone sitting across from her at a gas pump. He might be the man in front of her at the bank, or the clerk at the dry cleaners.

  Anyone, she thought as she closed her eyes. He could be any one of the nameless, faceless people she passed in the course of a day.

  Yet he knew her name. He knew her face. He had taken away her peace of mind, her freedom. He wouldn't be satisfied until he'd taken her life.

  She watched Boyd hang up the phone and waited until he crossed to her. "Well?"

  "Thea's coming by to pick up the paper. We'll send it to the lab." His hand found the tensed muscle at the curve of her neck and soothed. "I don't think we'll get prints."

  "No." She appreciated the fact that he didn't give her any false hope. "Do you think he's still here?"

  "I don't know." That was its own frustration. "It's a big hotel, Cilia. There's no security to speak of for this event. It wouldn't be very effective to try to close it off and interrogate everyone in it. If you want to take off early, I can tell them you're sick."

  "No, I don't want to do that." She took a long last drag on her cigarette. "The only satisfaction I can get is from finishing out. Proving I'm not ready to fold. Especially if he is still around, somewhere."

  "Okay. Remember, for the next hour, I'm never going to be more than a foot away."

  She put a hand in his as she rose. "Boyd, he changed his approach, writing a note. What do you think it means?"

  "It could mean a lot of things."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as it was the most convenient way to contact you tonight. Or he's starting to get sloppy."

  "Or impatient," she added, turning to him at the doorway. "Be honest with me."

  "Or impatient." He cupped her face in his hands. "He has to get through me first, Cilia. I can promise that won't be an easy job."

  She made herself smile. "Cops like to think they're tough."

  "No." He kissed her lightly. "Cops have to be tough. Come on. Maybe you've got 'Dueling Banjos' in there. You can play it for me for old times' sake."

  "Not on a bet."

  She got through it. He'd never doubted that she would, and yet the way she held on despite her fears amazed and impressed him. Not once did she bog down, break down or falter. But he saw the way she studied the crowd, searched the faces as the music raged around her.

  Her hands moved constantly, tapping out the beat on the table, shifting through records, fiddling with the sequined studs on her pleated shirt.

  She would never be serene, he thought. She would never be soothing. She would pace her way through life driven by nerves and ambition. She would make a demanding and unsettling companion.

  Not what he'd had in mind on the rare occasions he'd considered marriage and family. Not even close, he realized with a faint smile. But she was exactly what he wanted and intended to have.

  He would protect her with his life. That was duty. He would cherish her for a lifetime. That was love. If the plans he'd made ran smoothly, she would understand the difference very soon.

  He, too, was searching the crowd, studying the faces, watching for any sign, any movement, that would bring that quick tensing of the gut called instinct. But the music raged on. The partygoers laughed. He saw Althea enter. And so, he thought with a shake of his head, did most of the men in the room. He had to chuckle when he saw one woman jab her husband in the ribs as he gawked at the redhead skirting the dance floor.

  "You always make an entrance, Thea."

  She only shrugged. She was wearing a simple off-the-shoulder cocktail dress in basic black. "I should thank you for getting me out of what turned into an annoying evening. My date had a toothbrush in his pocket and a night of wild sex on his mind."

  "Animal."

  "Aren't they all?" She glanced past him to Cilia. Amusement faded, to be replaced by concern. "How's she holding up?"

  "She's incredible."

  She lifted one arched brow. "Partner, my sharp investigative skills lead me to believe that you are seriously infatuated with our assignment."

  "I passed infatuation. I'm in love with her."

  Thea's lips formed a thoughtful pout. "Is that with a lowercase or uppercase L?"

  "That's in all caps." He looked away from Cilia to his partner. There were few others with whom he would share his private thoughts. "I'm thinking marriage, Thea. Want to be my best man?"

  "You can count on me." Still, she laid a hand on his arm. "I don't want to be a drag, Boyd, but you've got to keep some perspective on this. The lady's in trouble."

  He struggled against annoyance. "I can function as a cop and as a man." Because it wasn't something he wanted to discuss at length, he reached in his pocket. "Here's the note, for what it's worth."

  She skimmed the message, then slipped it into her bag. "We'll see what the lab boys can do."

  He only nodded. "The ex-husband looks clean." An enormous disappointment. "I finished running him through tonight. State Senator Lomax has been married for seven years, and has one point six children. He hasn't been out of Atlanta for three months."

  "I finally got ahold of the station manager in Chicago. He had nothing but good things to say about Cilia. I checked out his story about being in Rochester the past week visiting his daughter. It pans. She had a girl. Seven pounds, six ounces. He faxed me the personnel files on the jocks and staff who were at the station when Cilia worked there. So far nothing."

  "When I come in Monday, we'll take a closer look."

  "I figured I'd go over the file this weekend. Stick close to our girl."

  "I owe you one, Thea."

  "You owe me more than one, but who's counting?" She started out, pausing once, then twice, to refuse the offer of a dance. Then, again, to decline a more intimate offer.

  Because a party was appreciated more when it ended on a fever pitch, Cilia chose the last three songs for their beat rather than their sentiment. Jackets were off, ties were undone and careful hairstyles were limp. When the last song ended, the dance floor was jammed.

  "Thank you, class of 75, you've been great. I want to see all of you back here for your twentieth."

  "Good job," Boyd told her.

  She was already stacking records as the crowd split
off into groups. Phone numbers and addresses would be exchanged. A few of the goodbyes would be tearful. "It's not over yet."

  It helped to work. She had to break down the equipment, and with the help of the hotel staff she would load it into Boyd's car. Then there would be a trip back to the station and the unloading. After that, maybe she would allow herself to think again.

  "It was a good job."

  She looked up, surprised. "Mark? What are you doing here?"

  "I could say I was checking up on one of my jocks." He picked up one of the 45s and laughed. "God, don't tell me you actually played this."

  "It was pretty hot in 75." Suspicious, she took it back from him. "Now, why don't you tell me what you're really doing here?"

  Feeling nostalgic himself, he glanced around. He and his wife had met in high school. "I'm here to get my equipment."

  "Since when does the station manager load equipment?"

  "I'm the boss," he reminded her. "I can do whatever I want. And as of now…" he glanced casually at his watch "you're on sick leave." It was suddenly very clear. She shot an accusing look at Boyd.

  "I'm not sick."

  "You are if I say you are," Mark countered. "If I see you at the station before your shift Monday night, you're fired."

  "Damn it, Mark."

  "Take it or leave it." Softening the blow, he put his hands on her shoulders. "It's business, Cilia. I've had jocks burn out from a lot less pressure than you're under. I want you for the long haul. And it's personal. You've got a lot of people worried about you."

  "I'm handling it."

  "Then you should be able to handle a couple of free days. Now get out of here."

  "But who's going to—" Boyd took her arm. "You heard the man."

  "I hate being bullied," she muttered as he dragged her along. "Too bad. I guess you figure KHIP is going to fall apart without you there for a weekend."

  Without turning her head, she shifted her eyes and aimed a killing look at him. "That's not the point."

  "No, the point is you need a rest, and you're going to get it." She grabbed her coat before he could help her on with it. "Just what the hell am I supposed to do with myself?'' "We'll think of something."

  Seething with resentment, she stalked out to the parking lot. A few stragglers from the reunion loitered around their cars. She plopped into the passenger's seat and scowled. "Since when did we come into it?"

  "Since, by an odd coincidence, I've also got the weekend off." Eyes narrowed, she studied him as he conscientiously buckled her seat belt. "It smells like a conspiracy."

  "You haven't seen anything yet."

  He deliberately chose a cassette of classical music and popped it into the tape player before driving out of the lot. "Mozart?" she said with a sneer. "Bach. It's called cleansing the palate."

  On a heavy sigh, she reached for a cigarette. She didn't want people worried about her, didn't want to admit she was tired. Wasn't ready to admit she was relieved. "This stuff always puts me to sleep."

  "You could use the rest."

  She had her teeth clenched as she punched in the lighter. "I don't appreciate you running to Mark this way."

  "I didn't run to Mark. I simply called him and suggested you could use some time."

  "I can take care of myself, Slick."

  "Your taxes are being used to see that I take care of you."

  "Have I mentioned lately how much I dislike cops?"

  "Not in the past twenty-four hours."

  Apparently he wasn't going to rise to any of the bait she dangled and allow her to purge her annoyance with a fight. Maybe it was for the best after all, she decided. She could use the time to catch up on her reading. The last two issues of Radio and Records were waiting for her attention. She also wanted to look through one of the garden magazines that had come in the mail. It would be nice to plant some summer flowers around the house, maybe some bushes. She hadn't a clue what sort of thing suited Denver's climate.

  The idea made her smile. She would buy a window box, and maybe one of those hanging baskets. Perhaps that was why she didn't notice they were heading in the wrong direction until Boyd had been driving for twenty minutes.

  "Where are we?" She sat up quickly, blinking. "On 70, heading west."

  "Highway 70? What the devil are we doing on 70?"

  "Driving to the mountains."

  "The mountains." Groggy, she pushed back her tumbled hair.

  "What mountains?"

  "I think they're called the Rockies," he said dryly. "You might have heard of them."

  "Don't get smart with me. You're supposed to be driving me home."

  "I am—in a manner of speaking. I'm driving you to my home."

  "I've seen your home." She jerked her thumb. "It's back that way."

  "That's where I live in Denver. This is the place I have in the mountains. It's a very comfortable little cabin. Nice view. We're going for the weekend."

  "We are not going anywhere for the weekend." She shifted in her seat to glare at him. "I'm spending the weekend at home."

  "We'll do that next weekend," he said, perfectly reasonable. "Look, Fletcher, as a cop you should know when you take somebody somewhere against their will it's considered a crime."

  "You can file charges when we get back."

  "Okay, this has gone far enough." It wouldn't do any good to lose her temper, she reminded herself. He was immune. "You might think you're doing this for my own good, but there are other people involved. There's no way I'm going to leave Deborah in that house alone while this maniac is running loose looking for me."

  "Good point." He glided off at an exit and nearly had her relaxing. "That's why she's spending a couple of days with Althea."

  ''I—''

  "She told me to tell you to have a good time. Oh," he continued while Cilia made incoherent noises, "she packed a bag for you. It's in the trunk."

  "Just when did you plan all this?" That fabulous voice of hers was quiet. Too quiet, Boyd decided, bracing for the storm.

  "I had some free time today. You'll like the cabin. It's peaceful, not too remote, and like I said, it has a nice view."

  "As long as there's a nice high cliff I can throw you off of." He slowed to navigate the winding road. "There's that, too."

  "I knew you had nerve, Fletcher, but this goes beyond. What the hell made you think you could just put me in a car, arrange my sister's life and drive me off to some cabin?"

  "Must've had a brainstorm."

  "Brain damage is more like it. Get this straight. I don't like the country, I don't like rustic. I am not a happy camper, and I won't go."

  "You're already going."

  How could he stay so irritatingly calm? "If you don't take me back, right now, I'm going to—"

  "What?"

  She ground her teeth. "You have to sleep sometime." Her own words made her take a quantum leap. "You creep," she began on a fresh wave of fury. "If this is your way of getting me into bed, you miscalculated. I'll sit in the car and freeze first."

  "There's more than one bedroom in the cabin," he said mildly. "You're welcome to share mine, or take any of the others. It's your choice."

  She slumped back in her seat, finally speechless.

  Chapter 8

  One didn't intend to romanticize it. Being swept away was fine in books about titled ladies and swaggering buccaneers. But it didn't play well in twentieth-century Denver.

  She didn't intend to change her attitude. If the only revenge available to her was keeping a frosty distance, she would keep it very well. He wouldn't get one smile or one kind word until the entire ridiculous weekend was over.

  That was why it was a shame that her first glimpse of the house was in the moonlight.

  He called this a cabin? Cilia was grateful the music masked her surprised gasp. Her idea of a cabin was a squat little log structure in the middle of nowhere lacking all possible conveniences. The kind of place men went when they wanted to grow beards, drink beer and complain about wom
en.

  It was built of wood—a soft, aged wood that glowed warm in the dappled moonlight. But it was far from little. Multileveled, with interesting juts of timber and windows, it rested majestically amid the snow-dusted pine. Decks, some covered, some open, promised a breathtaking view from any direction. The metal roof glinted, making her wonder how it would be to sit inside and listen to rain falling.

  But she stubbornly bit back all the words of praise and pushed out of the car. The snow came up to midcalf and clogged in her shoes.

  "Great," she muttered. Leaving him to deal with whatever luggage they had, she trudged up to the porch.

  So it was beautiful, she thought. It didn't make any difference. She still didn't want to be there. But since she was, and hailing a cab wasn't a possibility, she would keep her mouth shut, choose the bedroom farthest away from his and crawl into bed. Maybe she'd stay there for forty-eight hours.

  Cilia kept the first part of the vow when he joined her on the porch. The only sounds were the planks creaking under his weight and the calling of something wild in the woods. After setting their bags aside, he unlocked the door and gestured her inside.

  It was dark. And freezing. Somehow that made her feel better. The more uncomfortable it was, the more justified her foul temper. Then he switched on the lights. She could only gape.

  The main room at the cabin's center was huge, an open gabled structure with rough-hewn beams and a charming granite fireplace. Thick, cushy furniture was arranged around it. Its freestanding chimney rose up through the high, lofted ceiling. Above, a balcony swept the width of the room, keeping with the theme of open space and wood. In contrast, the walls were a simple white, accented with glossy built-in shelves and many-paned doors and windows.

  This was nothing like the arches and curves of his house in Denver. The cabin was all straight lines and simplicity. The wide planked floors were bare. A set of gleaming steps marched straight to the next level. Beside the fireplace was an open woodbox stacked with split logs. A touch of whimsy was added by grinning brass dragons that served as andirons.