The MacGregor Grooms

by Nora Roberts

  Yet, as the hour grew later, he began to worry that he’d taken the wrong tack. At least he’d have found her in the bookstore. Now he didn’t know where the devil she was.

  So when he heard her footsteps on the stairs, he sprang to his feet.

  She stopped dead in the hallway when she spotted him, then shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other and came forward.

  “Hello, Ian.”

  “You worked late.” She wore the same scent. That same wonderful scent.

  “Yes, I did.” She took her keys out, slipped them into the lock.

  “I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?”

  “Now’s not a good time.” It would never, ever be a good time, when just seeing him hurt this much.

  “Please.” He braced a hand on the door to keep it open. “Naomi, we need to talk.”

  “All right.” She could handle it. She’d promised herself she could. “But you’ll have to make it quick. I need to change.”

  “For what?”

  “I have a date.” It was a terrible lie, one she was sure she would be ashamed of later. But for now pride was much more vital than honesty.

  “With a man?”

  The absolute shock on his face had that pride rearing up and showing teeth. “I tried dating baboons, but we didn’t like the same films.” Moving briskly, she set her briefcase aside, hung up her coat. “What can I do for you?”

  Marry me, bear my children. “I didn’t make myself clear the other night.”

  “Oh, I think you did.”

  “No, I didn’t explain to you the what, or why.”

  “I understood perfectly.” And she wanted to hate herself, and him as well, because she was so pathetically in love with him. “I told you that what you saw when you looked at me wasn’t what was underneath. You agreed, and that was it.”

  “No, I—God, is that what you thought? Naomi, I’m sorry.” He reached for her. She stepped back. “That’s completely wrong. I handled it badly. Let me explain.”

  “I’m a little pressed for time, Ian.”

  “Your date will just have to wait,” he snapped, and jamming his hands in his pockets, stalked around the room while she lifted her eyebrows and watched him. “After you’d finished, after you told me you’d never been with anyone …”

  “You knew I’d never been with anyone.”

  “I don’t mean just the sex!” He all but snarled it this time, and had her eyes narrowing. “God. Sex is just a part of things. There’s companionship, there’s fun, there’s sitting around talking half the night, watching bad movies. All the things you do when you’re dating. The things you’ve never done with anyone but me.”

  Certain he was under control again, he turned back to her. “I wanted to give you time so that you could think it through, so you could be sure you wanted to keep doing all those things with only me.”

  “Give me time?” She wished she could come up with one of those cold, go-to-hell laughs, but only managed a derisive snort. “You told me you wanted to see other women to give me time?”

  “I never wanted to see other women!” He shouted it at her, then yanked his temper back. “I thought you should see other men. Which, I can point out, you don’t seem to have much of a damn problem with.”

  “You wanted me to see other men,” she said slowly, staring at him.

  “It’s not what I wanted—are you insane?” His eyes went to a bright and burning blue. “It’s what you needed. How the hell could I ask you to marry me when you didn’t have a single point of reference? Nothing to compare what you thought you felt for me to? I was trying to be fair to you.”

  “Fair to me? Fair to me?” Fury danced over her shattered heart, gleefully scattering pieces. “You decided what was right for me, and that was to break my heart?”

  “No, to protect it. To protect you.”

  “From what? From you? From myself? How dare you make those decisions for me.”

  “I didn’t. Exactly.” He could feel himself slipping down a very big hole. “I only wanted to … Maybe I should take the Fifth,” he muttered.

  “Oh, I could hit you. I could actually hit you.” She had to turn away before she did. Violence was a new and unstable emotion rushing through her. “I’ve never hit anyone in my life, but boy, I could. I wonder how it would feel. Damn it, don’t touch me,” she warned when she sensed him moving in her direction. “Or I’ll find out how it feels.”

  Since he’d only heard her use the mildest oaths a handful of times since he’d met her, it became clear just how angry she was. “Naomi—”

  She whirled back before he could get another word out. “You must think I’m a moron.”

  “Of course I don’t. I only—”

  “A poor, pitiful excuse for a female who can’t trust her own mind, her own heart.” She stalked around the room, her movements as stormy as her eyes. “I suppose the only way I’d know if I loved you was to have wild sex with a dozen other men first. Or two dozen? What number did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t want you having sex with anyone!”

  “Oh, that’s right. It’s not about sex. Well, let me get something to write on and you can explain to me exactly how many romantic dinners, late night dates, drives in the country or whatever I’m to have before I can be considered competent enough to decide what to think and feel.”

  She’d actually opened her briefcase and taken out a pad before his temper frayed the rest of the way. “Okay, that’s it. That’s enough.” He snatched the pad out of her hand, heaved it. “I don’t give a damn what’s fair to you or what isn’t. I’m not spending the next six months waiting until you’ve had your little fling.”

  “Six months. Was that the cutoff? You certainly had it all worked out, didn’t you?” Joy was bubbling up along with the fury. The combination made her feel dizzy. And it made her feel powerful. “Well, maybe I’ll see you in April then.”

  She started for the door, intending to fling it wide. And ended up with her back against it and Ian’s furious face close to hers.

  She’d done that, she thought with a rush of wonder and delight as they glared at each other. She’d made him so angry he was snarling. She’d made him love her until he was all but incoherent with it.

  As clumsy as she was, she realized. How perfectly wonderful.

  And she’d done it by doing nothing more than being who she was.

  “I said forget it.” He grasped her hand. “You can just forget all of it. I’m not living without you. Not for six months, not for six damn hours. You’re going to marry me, and if you figure out later it moved along a little too fast for you, that’ll be your hard luck.”

  “All right, fine.”

  “And you might as well pack your things right now, because—”

  His mouth opened and closed, giving her the first glimpse of what it was like to completely stun Ian MacGregor. It was, she decided, a marvelous feeling.

  “All right, fine?” he managed.

  “Yes.” Riding on the new crest of power, she grabbed him by the lapels. “You idiot.” And pulled his mouth down to hers.

  He reeled with the impact, snatching her up, holding her hard against him so their hearts beat strongly, one against the other. “Just recently, the correct affectionate family term is pinhead.”

  “Pinhead,” she murmured, delirious with love. “I’m so angry with you.” Her mouth raced over his face, came back to cling to his.

  “I know. I can tell.” He chewed restlessly on her top lip. “Go on and stay mad for a while. I deserve it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Naomi.” He caught her face in his hands, drew back so she could see his eyes. “I love you.”

  She closed her eyes, wallowing in the warm flood of emotions that streamed through her. Then opening them, looked into his and smiled. “Say it again. Just like that, would you?”

  He kissed her first—her brow, her cheeks, her lips. “I love you, Naomi. It’s not just the way you
look—though God, you look good. It’s the way you are. It’s everything you are. I started falling the minute I saw you, and I haven’t stopped yet.”

  “So did I, in exactly the same way, for exactly the same reasons. Oh, Ian, I’ve been so unhappy without you.”

  “Maybe it’ll help to know I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you left.”

  “It does.” Her lips curved when he laughed. “I hope you suffered. And I’ll remind you of how much you suffered the next time you try to decide what’s best for me.”

  He combed his fingers through her hair. “I’m what’s best for you.”

  “Yes.” She rested her head on his shoulder, wondering why she’d ever questioned how perfectly it would fit there. “Yes, and as it happens, I’m what’s best for you. I want our life together, Ian.”

  “Let’s go home then, and get started on it.”

  From the Private Memoirs

  of

  Daniel Duncan MacGregor

  They say as a man grows old his memories of years past stay clear as crystal while those of last week fade into the fog.

  I still remember, like yesterday, the first time I saw my Anna. Oh, I remember that cool, disinterested look she gave me. Hah. Didn’t stay disinterested for long, now did she? I was a young man then, full of piss and vinegar. A big strapping man from Scotland at a fancy society dance where I’d gone hunting for a woman to take to wife.

  And there was Anna, in her pretty blue dress. She was mine from the first minute—though it took some time to convince her of it.

  I remember that night as if it just happened. The lights, the music, the colors. I remember the scent in the air when I brought Anna here to this cliffside where I would build the house we’d live in. And I remember the feel of the earth in my hands when I planted a young sapling to celebrate the birth of my first son. So they’re right in that. The memory of an old man is long.

  But I remember last week just as clear, so what the hell do they know?

  My grandson took him a wife last week. And I can tell you the scents in the air of the church, the colors of the light that streamed through the windows, the full rich sound of the music that swelled when little Naomi stood at the back in her glittering white gown, with a bit of MacGregor tartan showing and the MacGregor veil covering her shining black hair.

  Brides glow. They say that as well. And so she did. It’s love that brings that shining beauty to a woman’s face. And one more in love I’ve yet to see.

  And Ian, handsome as a prince as he waited for her. They don’t say a man glows, but perhaps they should. I can’t think of another word for the look on his face as he watched her walk to him.

  And not being such a pinhead after all, what did he do? He took her hand and the other as well, and as the music died off, and before the priest could open his mouth to start the business of it, Ian said, “I love you, Naomi,” his voice as clear and strong as the bells that rang after the deed was done.

  And if there was a dry eye in the whole of the church at that moment, well, it wasn’t Daniel MacGregor’s.

  It’s been a good year for the family. With three weddings and a baby. I’ve done my best, and my best is better than most. Now the year’s nearly done. I’ll watch the snow fall awhile, and sit with Anna by the fire and listen to the wind howl at the windows.

  And if I do a bit of planning, a bit of plotting while I sit with my feet up and a glass of whiskey in my hand, what’s wrong with that?

  There’s another year coming, after all. And I’ve more grandchildren yet.

  If you liked The MacGregor Grooms, look for the other novels in the MacGregors series: Playing the Odds, Tempting Fate, All the Possibilities, One Man’s Art, The MacGregor Brides, The Winning Hand, The Perfect Neighbor, and Rebellion & In from the Cold, available as eBooks from InterMix.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by Nora Roberts

  THE WITNESS

  Available April 2012 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons

  June 2000

  Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

  For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

  Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

  Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

  Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.

  She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

  She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.

  That was about to change.

  She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.

  Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

  After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.

  She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

  She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

  The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

  The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

  But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.

  “Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”

  Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.

  “Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”

  Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”

  “And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr. Dusec
ki at the conference.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”

  “If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”

  Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”

  “I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”

  “Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”

  “And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”

  “Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week, and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”

  As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.

  “You don’t listen to anything I say.”

  In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”

  “Listening’s different than hearing.”

  “That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”

  “It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”

  Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were a cool, calm blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe is best for you.”