Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  Not that she was counting.

  "He didn't mention this game to me," she muttered.

  "Oh?" Fighting back a grin, Cilia ran her tongue over her teeth. "He must have had something else on his mind. Hey!" She surged to her feet, along with most of the crowd, as one of the blue jerseys rammed an elbow sharply in Ry's ribs. "Foul!" Cilia shouted between her cupped hands.

  "He can take it," Natalie mumbled, and tried not to care as Ry approached the foul line. "He's got an iron stomach." She struggled between pride and resentment when he sank his shot.

  "Ry's the best." Allison beamed, well into a deep case of hero worship. "Did you see how he moves up-court? And he's got a terrific vertical leap. He's already blocked three shots under the hoop."

  So, maybe he looked good, Natalie conceded. Those long, muscled legs pumping, those broad shoulders slick with sweat, all that wonderful hair flying as he pivoted or leapt. Then there was that look that came into his eyes, wolfish and arrogant.

  So, maybe she wanted him to win. That didn't mean she was going to stand up and cheer.

  By the third quarter, she was on her feet, like the rest of the crowd, when Ry sank a three-pointer that put the Smoke Eaters over the Bloodhounds by two.

  "Nothing but net," she shouted, jostling Cilia. "Did you see that?"

  "He's got some great moves," Cilia agreed. "Fast hands."

  "Yeah." Natalie felt the foolish grin spread over her face. "Tell me about it."

  Heart thumping, she dropped back on the bench. She was leaning forward now, her gaze glued to the ball. The sound of running feet echoed as the men pounded up-court. The cops took a shot; the Smoke Eaters blocked it. The ensuing scuffle left two men on the ground, others snarling in each other's faces as the ref blew his whistle.

  Now, Natalie thought grimly, they were playing dirty. With a grunt, she dipped her hand into the bag of salted nuts Cilia offered. Fast break. Flying elbows, a tangle of bodies under the net as the ball shot up, careened, was pursued.

  "Going to put out your fire, Piasecki," one of the cops taunted. Natalie saw Ry flick the sweaty hair out of his eyes and grin. "Not with that equipment."

  Trash talk. Natalie sneered at the cop as she chomped a peanut. No round ball game was complete without it. She hooted down the referee as he stepped between two over-enthusiastic competitors, barely preventing an informal boxing match.

  "Boys, boys," Cilia said with a sigh. "They always take their games so seriously."

  "Games are serious," Natalie muttered.

  It was too close to call. Natalie continued to munch on peanuts as a sensible alternative to her fingernails. When a time-out was called, she glanced at the clock. There was less than six minutes to go, and the Bloodhounds were up, 108 to 105.

  On the sidelines, the Smoke Eaters' coach was surrounded by his team. The lanky, silver-haired man was punching his fist into his palm to accentuate whatever instructions he was giving his men. Most were bent at the waist, hands on knees, as they caught their breath for the final battle. As they headed back onto the court, Ry turned. His gaze shot unerringly to Natalie. And he grinned. Quick, cocky, arrogant.

  "Wow," Cilia murmured. "Now that's serious. Very powerful stuff."

  "You're telling me." Natalie blew out a breath. When that did nothing to level her system, she used the excess energy to cheer on her team.

  It was a fight to the finish, the lead tipping back to the Smoke

  Eaters, then sliding away. As time dripped away, second by second, the crowd stayed on its feet, building a wall of sound.

  With seconds to go, the Smoke Eaters a point behind, Natalie was chewing on her knuckles. Then she saw Ry make his move. "Oh, yes…" She whispered it first, almost like a prayer. Then she began to shout it as he burst through the line of defense, controlling the ball as if it were attached to the palm of his hand by an invisible string.

  They blocked, he pivoted. He had one chance, and he was surrounded. Natalie's heart tripped as he feinted, faked, then sprang off the floor with a turnaround jump shot that found the sweet spot.

  The crowd went wild. Natalie knew she did, spinning around to hug Allison, then Cilia. What was left of the peanuts flew through the air like rain. The instant the clock ran out, the stands emptied in a surge of bodies onto the court.

  She caught a glimpse of Ry a moment before he was swallowed up. She sank back onto the bench with a hand over her heart.

  "I'm exhausted." She laughed and rubbed her damp hands on the knees of her jeans. "I've got to sit."

  "What a game!" Allison was bouncing up and down in her sneakers. "Wasn't he great? Did you see, Mom? He scored thirty-three points! Wasn't he great?"

  "You bet."

  "Can we tell him? Can we go down and tell him?"

  Cilia studied the jostling crowd, then looked into her daughter's, shining eyes. "Sure. Coming, Natalie?"

  "I'll stay here. If you manage to get to him, tell him I'll hang around and wait."

  "Okay. You'll bring him to dinner at Deb's tonight?"

  Cautious, Natalie drummed her fingers on her knee. "I'll run it by him."

  "Bring him," Cilia ordered, then leaned over and kissed Natalie's cheek. "See you later."

  Gradually the gym emptied, the fans swarming out to celebrate, the players heading off to shower. Content, Natalie sat in the quiet.

  It had been her first full day off in six months, and she'd decided it wasn't such a bad way to spend it after all.

  And since Ry hadn't actually asked her to come, he was under no real obligation. Neither of them was. Sensibly, neither of them was looking for restrictions, for commitments, for romance. It was simply a primal urge on both parts, fiercely intense now, and very likely to fade.

  It was fortunate that they both understood that, right from the beginning. There was some affection between them, naturally. And respect. But this wasn't a relationship, in the true sense of the word. Neither of them wanted that. It was simply an affair—enjoyable while it lasted, no harm done when it ended.

  Then he walked out on court, his hair dark and damp from his shower. His gaze swept up and locked on hers.

  Oh, boy, was all she could think while her heart turned a long, slow somersault. She was in trouble.

  "Good game," she managed, and forced herself to stand and walk down to him.

  "It had its moments." He cocked his head. "You know, it's the first time I've seen you dressed in anything but one of those high-class suits."

  To cover the sudden rash of nerves, Natalie reached down and picked up one of the game balls. "Jeans and sweaters aren't usually office attire."

  "They look good on you, Legs."

  "Thanks." She turned the ball in her hand, studying it rather than him. "Allison had the time of her life. It was nice of you to invite her."

  "She's a cute kid. They all are. She's got your mouth, you know. And the jawline. She's going to be a real heartbreaker."

  "Right now she's more interested in scoring points on court than scoring them with boys." More relaxed, Natalie looked up again, smiling at him. "You scored a few yourself today, Inspector.''

  "Thirty-three," he said. "But who's counting?"

  "Allison." And she had been, too. Carrying the ball, she wandered out on the court. "I take it this was your annual battle against the Bloodhounds."

  "Yeah, we take them on once a year. The proceeds go to charity and all that. But mostly we come to beat the hell out of each other."

  Head down, she bounced the ball once, caught it. "You never mentioned it. I mean, not until Allison showed up."

  "No." He was watching her, intrigued. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a touch of annoyance in her voice. "I guess I didn't."

  She turned her head. "Why didn't you?"

  Definitely annoyed, he decided, and scratched his cheek. "I didn't figure it would be your kind of thing."

  Now her chin angled. "Oh, really?"

  "Hey, it's not the opera, or the ballet." He shrugged and tucked his thumbs in h
is front pockets. "Or a fancy French restaurant."

  She let out a slow breath, drew another in. "Are you calling me a snob again?"

  Careful, Piasecki, he warned himself. There was definitely a trapdoor here somewhere. "Not exactly. Let's just say I couldn't see someone like you getting worked up over a basketball game."

  "Someone like me," she repeated. Stung, she pivoted, planted her feet, and sent the ball sailing toward the hoop. It swished through, bounced on the court. When she looked back at Ry, she had the satisfaction of seeing his mouth hanging open. "Someone like me," she said again, and went to retrieve the ball. "Just what does that mean, Piasecki?"

  He got his hands out of his pockets just in time to catch the ball she heaved at him before it thudded into his chest. He passed it back to her, hard, lifting a brow when she caught it.

  "Do that again," he demanded.

  "All right." Deliberately she stepped behind the three-point line, gauged her shot and let it rip. The whisper of the ball dropping through the hoop made her smile.

  "Well, well, well…" This time Ry retrieved the ball himself. He was rapidly reassessing his opponent. "I'm impressed, Legs. Definitely impressed. How about a little one-on-one?"

  "Fine." She crouched, circling him as he dribbled.

  "You know, I can't—"

  Quick as a snake, she darted in, snatched the ball. She executed a perfect lay-up, tapping the ball on the backboard and into the hoop. "I believe that's my point," she said, and passed the ball back to him.

  "You're good."

  "Oh, I'm better than good." Flicking her hair back, she moved in to block him. "I was all-state in college, pal. Team captain my junior and senior years. Where do you think Allison gets it?"

  "Okay, Aunt Nat, let's play ball."

  He pivoted away. She was on him like glue. Good moves, he noted. Smooth, aggressive. Maybe he held back. After all, he wasn't about to send a woman to the boards, no matter how much male ego was on the line.

  She didn't have the same sensitivity, and turned into his block hard enough to take his breath away.

  Frowning, he rubbed the point under his heart where her shoulder had rammed. Her eyes were glittering now, bold as the Emerald City.

  "That's a foul."

  She stole the ball, made the point with an impressive over-the-shoulder hook. "I don't see a ref."

  She had the advantage, and they both knew it. Not only had he played full-out for an entire game, but she'd had that time to assess his technique, study his moves.

  And she was better, he had to admit, a hell of a lot better, than half the cops who had gone up against him that afternoon.

  And, worse, she knew it.

  He scored off her, but it was no easy thing. She was sneaky, he discovered, using speed and grace and old-fashioned guts to make up for the difference in height.

  They juggled the lead. She'd shoved the sleeves of her sweater up. She leapt with him, blocking his shot by a fingertip. And, having no compunctions about using whatever talent she had, let her body bump, linger, then slide against his.

  His blood heated, as she'd meant it to. Panting, he picked up the ball and stared at her. Her lips were curved smugly, her face was flushed, her hair was tumbled. He realized he could eat her alive.

  He moved in quickly, startling her. She let out a squeal when he snatched her around the waist and hauled her over his shoulder. She was laughing when he sent the ball home with his free hand.

  "Now that's definitely a foul."

  "I don't see any ref." He shifted her, letting gravity take her down until they were face-to-face, her legs clamped at his waist. He reached out, gathered her hair in one hand and pulled her mouth to his.

  Whatever breath she had left clogged. Opening to him, she dived into the greedy kiss and demanded more.

  The blood drained so quickly, so completely, out of his head, he nearly staggered. With a sudden, voracious appetite, he tore his mouth from hers and devoured the flesh of her throat.

  Smooth, salty, with the lingering undertone of that haunting scent she used. His mouth watered.

  "There's a storeroom in the back that locks."

  Her hands were already tugging at his shirt. Her breathing was ragged. "Then why are we out here?''

  "Good question."

  With her locked around him, her teeth doing incredible things to his ear, he pushed through the swinging doors and turned into a narrow corridor. Desperate for her, he fumbled at the knob of the storeroom door, swore, then shoved it open. When he slammed it and locked it at their backs, they were closed in a tiny room crammed with sports equipment and smelling of sweat.

  Impatient, Natalie tugged at his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers. He nearly tripped over a medicine ball as he looked around frantically for something, anything, that could double as a bed.

  He settled on a weight bench with Natalie on his lap.

  "I feel like a damn teenager," he muttered, pulling at the snap of her jeans. Beneath the denim, her skin was hot, damp, trembling.

  "Me too." Her heart was beating against her ribs like a hammer. "Oh God, I want you. Hurry."

  Frantic hands tore at clothes, scattered them. There was no time, no need, for finesse. Only for heat. It was building inside her so fast, so hot, she felt she might implode and there would be nothing left of her but a shell.

  His hands were at her throat, her breasts, her hips, thrilling her. Tormenting her. Nothing and no one mattered but him and this wild, incendiary fire they set together.

  She wanted it hotter, higher, faster.

  With a low, feline sound that shuddered through his blood, she straddled him. His heart seemed to stop in the instant she imprisoned him, as her body arched back, her eyes closing. She filled his vision, his mind, left him helpless. Then her eyes opened again and locked on his.

  She began to move, fast and agile. Already it was flash point. He let the power take him, and her.

  "I've never done anything like this before." Staggered and spent, Natalie struggled back into her clothes. "I mean never."

  "It wasn't exactly the way I'd planned it." Baffled, Ry dragged a hand through his hair.

  "We're worse than a couple of kids." Natalie smoothed down her sweater, sighing lavishly. "It was fabulous."

  His lips twitched. "Yeah." Then he sobered. "So are you."

  She smiled and tried finger-combing her hair into place. "We'd better stop pushing our luck and get out of here. And I've got to get home and change.'' She discovered that one of her earrings had fallen out, and located it on the floor. "There's dinner at the Guthries' tonight."

  He watched her fasten the earring, foolishly charmed by the simple female act. "I'll give you a lift home."

  "I'd appreciate it." Feeling awkward, she turned to unlock the door. "You're welcome to come to dinner. I know Boyd wants a chance to talk with you. About the fires."

  He closed a hand over hers on the knob. "How's the food?" She smiled again, looking back at him. "Fabulous."

  She was right about the food, Ry discovered. Rack of lamb, fresh asparagus, glossy candied yams, all accompanied by some golden

  French wine.

  He knew, of course, that Gage Guthrie was dripping with money. But nothing had prepared him for the Gothic mansion of a house, with its towers and turrets and terraces. The next thing to a castle, Ry had thought when he viewed it from the outside.

  Inside, it was home, rich and elaborate, certainly, but warm. Deborah had given him a partial tour down winding corridors, up curving steps, before they all settled into the enormous dining room with its ox-roasting stone fireplace and winking crystal chandeliers.

  It might, Ry thought, have had the flavor of a museum, if not for the people in it.

  He'd clicked with Deborah instantly. He'd heard she was a tough and tenacious prosecutor. She had a softer, more vulnerable look than her sister, but she had a reputation for being formidable in court.

  It was obvious her husband adored her. There were little si
gns—the quick, shared looks, the touch of a hand.

  It was very much the same between Boyd and Cilia. Ry calculated that they'd been together for a decade or so, but the spark was still very much in evidence.

  And the kids were great. He'd always had a soft spot for children. He recognized and was touched by Allison's preadolescent crush, and obliged her by going over the highlights of the game.

  Since Cilia had wisely seen to it that her oldest son was across the table and two chairs down from his sister, Bryant was free to badger Deborah about how many bad guys she'd locked up since last he'd seen her.

  And dinner was a relatively peaceful affair.

  "Do you ride in a fire truck?" Keenan wanted to know.

  "I used to," Ry told him.

  "How come you stopped?"

  "I told you," Bryant said, rolling his eyes with the disdain only a sibling knows and understands. "He goes after bad guys now, like Dad. Only just bad guys who burn things down. Don't you?''

  "That's right."

  "I'd rather ride in a fire truck." In a canny move to avoid the asparagus on his plate, Keenan slipped out of his chair and into Ry's lap.

  "Keenan," Cilia said. "Ry's trying to eat."

  "He's okay." Enjoying himself, Ry shifted the boy onto his knee. "Did you ever ride in one?"

  "Nuh-uh." He smiled winningly, using his big, soft eyes. "Can

  I?"

  "If your mom and dad say it's okay, you could come down to the station tomorrow. Take a look around."

  "Cool." Bryant had immediately picked up on the invitation.

  "Can we, Dad?"

  "I don't see why not."

  "Aunt Nat knows where it is," Ry added as Keenan bounced gleefully on his knee. "Make it around ten, and I'll give you a tour."

  "Pretty exciting stuff." Cilia rose. "And if we're going to pull it off, I'd say you three better get washed up and bedded down." The knee-jerk protest might have been stronger if not for the long day the children had put in. Cilia merely shook her head, looking at Boyd.

  "Slick?"