Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

She grinned. Boyd had no patience with ledgers or bar graphs.

  "But I'm about to put another very colorful feather in the Fletcher Industries cap."

  "With underwear."

  "Lingerie, darling." A little breathless, she fastened on a strapless black bra. "You can buy underwear at a drugstore.''

  "Right. Well, I can tell you on a personal level, Cilia and I have both thoroughly enjoyed the samples you sent out. I particularly liked the little red thing with the tiny hearts."

  "I thought you would." She stepped into the dress, tugged it up to her hips. "With Valentine's Day coming up, you should think about ordering her the matching peignoir."

  "Put it on my tab. Take care of yourself, Nat."

  "I intend to. With any luck, I'll be seeing you next month. I'm going to scout out locations in Denver."

  "Your room's ready for you anytime. And so are we. I love you."

  "I love you, too. Bye."

  She hung up by dropping the phone on the bed, freeing herself to zip the dress into place. Not exactly a sedate number, she mused, turning toward the mirror. Not with the way it draped off the shoulders and veed down over the curve of the breasts.

  Repressed? She shook back her hair. This ought to show him.

  The phone rang again, making her swear in disgust. She ignored the first ring and picked up her brush. By the third, she'd given up and pounced on the phone.

  "Hello?"

  Just breathing, quick, and a faint chuckle.

  "Hello? Is someone there?"

  "Midnight."

  "What?" Distracted, she carried the phone to the dresser to select the right jewelry. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

  "Midnight. Witching hour. Wait and see."

  When the phone clicked, she disconnected, set it down with a shake of her head. Cranks.

  "Use the answering machine, Natalie," she ordered herself. "That's what it's there for."

  A glance at her watch had her swearing again. She forgot the call as she went into grooming overdrive. She absolutely refused to be late.

  Chapter 4

  Natalie arrived at Chez Robert precisely at eight. The four-star French restaurant, with its floral walls and candlelit corners, had been a favorite of hers since she relocated to Urbana. Just stepping inside put her at ease. She had no more than checked her coat when she was greeted enthusiastically by the maitre d'.

  He kissed her hand with a flourish and beamed. "Ah, Mademoiselle Fletcher… a pleasure, as always. I didn't know you were dining with us this evening."

  "I'm meeting a companion, Andre. A Mr. Piasecki."

  "Pi…" Brows knit, Andre scanned his reservation book while he mentally sounded out the name. "Ah, yes, two for eight o'clock. Pizekee."

  "Close enough,'' Natalie murmured.

  "Your companion has not yet arrived, mademoiselle. Let me escort you to your table." With a few quick and ruthless adjustments, Andre shifted Ryan's reservation to suit his favorite customer, moving the seating from a small central table in the main traffic pattern to Natalie's favorite quiet corner booth.

  "Thank you, Andre." Already at home, Natalie settled into the booth with a little sigh. Beneath the table, her feet slipped out of her shoes.

  "My pleasure, as always. Would you care for a drink while you wait?"

  "A glass of champagne, thank you. My usual."

  "Of course. Right away. And, mademoiselle, if I may be so presumptuous, the lobster Robert, tonight it is…" He kissed his fingers.

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  While she waited, Natalie took out her date book and began to make notations on her schedule for the next day. She had nearly finished her champagne when Ry walked up to the table.

  She didn't bother to glance up. "It's a good thing I'm not a fire."

  "I'm never late for a fire." He took his seat, and they spent a moment measuring each other.

  So, he owned a suit, Natalie thought. And he looked good in it. Dark jacket, crisp white shirt, subtle gray tie. Even though his hair wasn't quite tamed, it was definitely a more classic look than she'd expected from him.

  "I use it for funerals," Ry said, reading her perfectly.

  She only lifted a brow. "Well, that certainly sets the tone for the evening, doesn't it?"

  "You picked the spot," he reminded her. He glanced around the restaurant. Quiet class, he mused. Just a tad ornate and stuffy—exactly what he'd expected. "So, how's the food here?"

  "It's excellent."

  "Mademoiselle Fletcher." Robert himself, small, plump, and tuxedoed, stopped by the table to kiss Natalie's hand. "Bienvenue…" he began.

  Ry sat back, took out a cigarette and watched as they rattled away in French. She spoke it like a native. That, too, he'd expected.

  "Du champagne pour mademoiselle,'' Robert told the waiter. "Et pour vous, monsieur?"

  "Beer," Ry said. "American, if you've got it."

  "Bien sur." Robert strutted back to the kitchen to harass his chef.

  "Well, Legs, that should have made your point," Ry commented.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Just how out of place will he be in a fancy French restaurant where the owner kisses your knuckles and asks after your family?"

  "I don't know what you're—" Natalie frowned as she picked up her glass. "How do you know he asked after my family?"

  "I have a French-Canadian grandmother. I probably speak the lingo nearly as well as you do, even if the accent isn't as classy." He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her through it. "I didn't peg you as a snob, Natalie."

  "I certainly am not a snob." Insulted, she set her glass down again, her shoulders stiffening. But when he only continued to smile, a little frisson of guilt worked its way through her conscience. "Maybe I wanted to make you a little, uncomfortable." She sighed, gave up. "A lot uncomfortable. You annoyed me."

  "I did better than that." Angling his head, he gave her a long, slow study. She looked like something a man might beg for. Creamy skin flowing out of a black dress, just a few sparkles here and there, sleek golden hair curving around her face. Big, sulky green eyes, red mouth.

  Oh, yes, he decided. A man would surely beg.

  Her nerves began to jangle as he continued to stare. "Is there a problem?"

  "No, no problem. Did you wear that dress to make me uncomfortable?"

  "Yes."

  He picked up his menu. "It's working. How's the steak here?"

  Relax, she ordered herself. Obviously he was trying to make her crazy. "You won't get better in the city. Though I generally prefer the seafood."

  She pouted a bit as she studied her menu. The evening was not going as she'd planned. Not only had he seen through her, but he'd already turned the tables so that she looked and felt foolish. Try again, she told herself, and make the best of a bad deal.

  After they'd given their orders, Natalie took a deep breath. "I suppose, since we're here, we might as well have a truce."

  "Were we fighting?"

  "Let's just try for a pleasant evening." She picked up her champagne flute again, sipped. She was, after all, an expert in negotiations and diplomacy. "Let's start with the obvious. Your name. Irish first, Eastern European last."

  "Irish mother, Polish father."

  "And a French-Canadian grandmother."

  "On my mother's side. My other grandmother's a Scot."

  "Which makes you—"

  "An all-American boy. You've got high-tea hands." He picked up her hand, startling her by running his fingers down hers. "They go with your name. Upper-crust. Classy."

  "Well." After she'd tugged her hand free, she cleared her throat, giving undue attention to buttering a roll. "You said you were third-generation in the department."

  "Do I make you nervous when I touch you?"

  "Yes. Let's try to keep this simple."

  "Why?"

  Since she had no ready answer for that, she let out a little huff of relief when their appetizers were served. "You must have always wanted to be a fire fi
ghter."

  All right, he decided, they could cruise along at her speed for now. "Sure I did. I practically grew up at engine company 19, where my pop worked."

  "I imagine there was some family pressure."

  "No. How about you?"

  "Me?"

  "The Fletcher tradition. Big business, corporate towers." He lifted a brow. "Family pressure?''

  "Plenty of it," she said, and smiled. "Ruthless, unbending, determined. And all from my corner." Her eyes glinted with amusement. "It had always been assumed that my brother Boyd would take over the reins. Both he and I had different ideas about that. So he strapped on a badge and a gun, and I harassed my parents into accepting me as heir apparent."

  "They objected?"

  "No, not really. It didn't take them long to realize I was serious. And capable.'' She took a last bite of her coquilles Saint-Jacques and offered Ry the rest. "I love business. The wheeling, the dealing, the paperwork, the meetings. And this new company. It's all mine."

  "Your catalog's a big hit down at the station." The amusement settled in, and felt comfortable.

  "Oh, really?"

  "A lot of the men have wives, or ladies. I'm just helping you pick up a few orders."

  "That's generous of you." She studied him over the rim of her glass. "What about you? Are you going to make any orders?"

  "I don't have a wife, or a lady." Those smoky eyes flicked over her face again. "At the moment."

  "But you did have. A wife."

  "Briefly."

  "Sorry. I'm prying."

  "No problem." He shrugged and finished off his beer. "It's old news. Nearly ten years old. I guess you could say she fell for the uniform, then decided she didn't like the hours I had to be in it."

  "Children?"

  "No." He regretted that, sometimes wondered if he always would. "We were only together a couple of years. She hooked up with a plumber and moved to the suburbs." He reached out, skimmed a fingertip down the side of her neck, along the curve of her shoulder. "I'm beginning to think I like your shoulders as much as your legs." His eyes locked on hers. "Maybe it's the whole package."

  "That's a fascinating compliment." She didn't give in to the urge to shift away, but she did switch from champagne to water. Suddenly her mouth was dry as dust. "But don't you think the current circumstances require a certain professional detachment?"

  "No. If I thought you had anything to do with setting that fire, maybe." He liked the way her eyes lit and narrowed when he pushed the right button. "But, as it stands, I can do my job just fine, and still wonder what it would be like to make love with you."

  Her pulse jolted, scrambled. She used the time while their entrees were served to steady it. "I'd prefer if you'd concentrate on the first. In fact, if you could bring me up-to-date—''

  "Seems a waste to talk shop in a joint like this." But he shrugged his shoulders. "The bottom line is arson, an incendiary fire. The motive could be revenge, money, straight vandalism or malicious destruction. Or kicks."

  "A pyromaniac." She preferred that one, only because it was less personal. "How do you handle that?"

  "First, you don't go in biased. A lot of times people, and the media, start shouting 'pyro' whenever there's a series of fires. Even if they seem related, it's not always the case."

  "But it often is."

  "And it's often simple. Somebody burns a dozen cars because he's ticked he bought a lemon."

  "So don't jump to conclusions."

  "Exactly."

  "But if it is someone who's disturbed?"

  "Head doctors are always working on the whys. Are you going to let me taste that?''

  "Hmmm? Oh, all right." She nudged her plate closer to his so that he could sample her lobster. "Do you work with psychiatrists?"

  "Mostly the shrinks don't come into it until you've got the firebug in custody. That's good stuff," he added, nodding toward her plate. "Anyway, that could be after any number of fires, months of investigation. Maybe they blame his mother. She paid too much attention to him. Or his father, because he didn't pay enough. You know how it goes."

  Amused, interested, she cut off a piece of lobster and slipped it onto his plate. "You don't think much of psychiatry?"

  "I didn't say that. I just don't go in for blaming somebody else when you did the crime."

  "Now you sound like my brother."

  "He's probably a good cop. Want some of this steak?"

  "No, thanks." Like a bulldog, she kept her teeth in the topic. "Wouldn't you, as an investigator, have to know something about the psychology of the fire starter?''

  Ry chewed his steak, signaled for another beer. "You really want to get into this?"

  "It's interesting. Particularly now."

  "Okay. Short lesson. You can divide pathological fire starters into four groups. The mentally ill, the psychotic, the neurotic, and the sociopath. You're going to have some overlap most of the time, but that sorts them. The neurotic, or psychoneurotic, is the pyromaniac."

  "Aren't they all?"

  "No. The true pyro's a lot rarer than most people think. It's an uncontrollable compulsion. He has to set the fire. When the urge hits him, he goes with it, wherever, whenever. He's not really thinking about covering up or getting away, so he's usually easy to catch."

  "I thought pyro was more of a general term." She started to tuck her hair behind her ear. Ry beat her to it, letting his fingers linger for a moment.

  "I like to see your face when I talk to you." He kept his hand on hers, bringing them both back to the table. "I like to touch you when

  I talk to you."

  Silence hung for a full ten seconds.

  "You're not talking," Natalie pointed out.

  "Sometimes I just like to look. Come here a minute."

  She recognized the light in his eyes, recognized her own helpless response to it. And to him. Deliberately she eased away. "I don't think so. You're a dangerous man, Inspector."

  "Thanks. Why don't you come home with me, Natalie?" She let out a long, quiet breath. "You're also a very blunt one."

  "A woman like you could get poetry and fancy moves any time she wanted." Ry neither had them nor believed in them. "You might want to try something more basic."

  "This is certainly basic," she agreed. "I think we could use some coffee."

  He signaled the waiter. "You didn't answer my question."

  "No, I didn't. And no." She waited until the table was cleared, the coffee order given. "Despite a certain elemental attraction, I think it would be unwise to pursue this any further. We're both committed to our careers, diametrically opposed in personality and life-style. Even though our relationship has been brief and abrasive, I think it's clear we have nothing in common. We are, as we might say in my business, a bad risk."

  He said nothing for a minute, only studied her, as if considering. "That makes sense."

  Her stomach muscles relaxed. She even smiled at him as she picked up her coffee. "Good, then we're agreed—"

  "I didn't say I agreed," he pointed out. "I said it made sense." He lit a cigarette, his eyes on hers over the flame. "I've been thinking about you, Natalie. And I've got to tell you, I don't much like the way you make me feel. It's distracting, annoying and inconvenient."

  Her chin angled. "I'm so glad we cleared this up," she said coolly.

  "God knows it gets me right in the gut when you talk to me like that. Duchess to serf." He shook his head, drew in smoke. "I must be perverse. Anyway, I don't like it. I'm not altogether sure I like you." His eyes narrowed, the light in them stopping the pithy comment before it could slip through her lips. "But I've never wanted anyone so damn much in my whole life. That's a problem."

  "Your problem," she managed.

  "Our problem. I've got a rep for being tenacious."

  She set her cup down, carefully, before it could slip from her limp fingers. "I'd think a simple no would do, Ry."

  "So would I." He shrugged. "Go figure. I haven't been able to clear you out of
my head since I saw you standing there freezing at the fire scene. I made a mistake when I kissed you this afternoon. I figured once I had, that would be it. Case closed."

  He moved quickly, and so smoothly she barely had time to blink before his mouth was hot and hard on hers. Dazed, she lifted a hand to his shoulder, but her fingers only dug in, held on, as she was buffeted with fresh excitement.

  "I was wrong." He drew back. "Case isn't closed, and that's our problem."

  "Yeah." She let out a shaky breath. No amount of common sense could outweigh her instant and primitive response to him. He touched, she wanted. It was as simple and as terrifying as that. But common sense was her only defense. "This isn't going to work. It's ridiculous to think that it could. I'm not prepared to jump into an affair simply because of some basic animal lust."

  "See? We do have something in common." Despite the fact that the kiss had stirred him to aching, he smiled at her. "The lust part." Laughing, she dragged her hair back from her face. "Oh, I need to get away from you for a while and consider the options."

  "This isn't a business deal, Ms. Fletcher." She looked at him again and wished she could have some distance, just a little distance, so that she could think clearly. "I never make a decision without considering the bottom line."

  "Profit and loss?"

  Wary, she inclined her head. "In a manner of speaking. You could call it risk and reward. Intimate relationships haven't been my strong suit. That's been my choice. If I'm going to have one with you, however brief, that will be my choice, as well."

  "That's fair. Do you want me to work up a prospectus?"

  "Don't be snide, Ry." Then, because it soothed some of the tension to realize she'd annoyed him, she smiled. "But I'd certainly give it my full attention." Playing it up, she cupped her chin on her hands, leaning closer, skimming her gaze over his face. "You are very attractive, in a rough-edged, not-quite-tamed sort of way." He shifted, drew hard on his cigarette. "Thanks a lot."

  "No, really." So, she thought, he could be embarrassed. "The faint cleft in the chin, the sharp cheekbones, the lean face, the dark, sexy eyes." Her lips curved as he narrowed those eyes. "And all that hair, just a little unruly. The tough body, the tough attitude." Impatient, he crushed out his cigarette. "What are you pulling here, Natalie?"