The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  And he would be living in the White House, he thought. In the dawn of the twenty-first century, he would be sitting in the Oval Office, sleeping in Lincoln’s bed. It was inevitable.

  His senatorial campaign was proceeding brilliantly. Every new poll showed him further and further in the lead. It would take a miracle for his opponent to close the gap, and Sam had never believed in miracles.

  In any case, he had an ace named Luke Callahan up his sleeve. When he chose to play that ace, a week before the election, Gunner would be crushed.

  There were only weeks left until that moment of truth, which meant many long days and nights ahead. He’d kissed babies, cut ribbons, roused the common man with speeches glinting with promises, wooed the corporate structure with his stance on private enterprise, charmed women with his easy smiles and lanky body.

  Sam considered his rise in political power and prestige a stupendously structured long con.

  As he told Luke, he’d deliver on some of the promises, for the con was far from over. He would continue to woo and charm and glad-hand. His image as a self-made man striving to achieve the American dream would hold him in good stead. And his handpicked staff of advisers would keep him apprised of the proper foreign and domestic policies.

  He had only one policy, and that was power.

  He had everything he wanted—until he wanted more.

  He thought of the stone locked away in his safe. If he had believed in magic he might have considered how so much had fallen into place for him after he’d acquired it. But for Sam, it was simply another victory over an old enemy.

  It was true enough that once it had been in his possession the pace of his success had increased. Sam attributed that to luck, timing and his own personal and political skill.

  He’d learned a lot from the down-home and popular senator from Tennessee. He’d sucked up knowledge greedily while playing the man-behind-the-man with the flair of an accomplished thespian—until the opportunity to become the man had presented itself.

  No one knew that Sam had watched Bushfield die. He had grieved publicly, delivering a moving, tear-choked eulogy, comforting the widow like a son, taking charge of the loose strings of the senator’s duties as the devoted heir.

  And he had stood and watched as the senator had gasped and choked, as his face had burned to purple, as he’d flopped like a landed trout on the floor of his private office. Sam had held the little enameled box containing the nitroglycerin tablets in his hand, saying nothing as his mentor had reached out, his eyes bulging with pain, glazed with confusion.

  Only when he’d been sure it was too late had Sam knelt and slipped one of the tablets under the dead man’s tongue. He’d made a frantic call to 911, and when the paramedics arrived, they were moved by the urgent way Sam had been performing CPR.

  So he had killed Bushfield and had garnered several staunch backers in the medical community.

  It hadn’t been as thrilling as putting a bullet in Cobb’s heart, Sam thought now. But even the passive act of murder had brought its own kind of rush.

  Leaning back, he plotted the next round, a spider content to spin his web and wait for the unwary fly.

  The arrogance of Callahan’s return to the Nouvelle troupe continued to intrigue him. Did the fool actually believe that five years would suffice? Or that money would pay for the insubordination of returning to the stage without permission? Sam hoped so, he dearly hoped so. He hadn’t struck out yet because it amused him to lull Luke into complacency. Let him put on his show, Sam mused. Let him try to seduce Roxanne’s heart away a second time. Let him try to be a father to his son. Sam enjoyed the idea of the man falling into the bosom of his family, temporarily picking up his career and his life. It would be only sweeter to snatch it all away again.

  And he would, Sam thought. Yes, he would.

  He’d kept close track of the Nouvelles. He was forced to admit an admiration for Roxanne’s style, her flair for larceny. There were carefully documented accounts of her activities in a ledger locked in his safe. They had cost him, but his wife’s inheritance allowed for such indulgences.

  The time was coming when he would use them. The payment for Luke taking a step into the spotlight without consent would be a high one. And all the Nouvelles would pay for it. And if, as Sam imagined, they believed they could pull off one more heist for old times’ sake, they would play directly into his hands.

  Because he could wait, he could watch, and he could arrange for the authorities to scoop up all of the Nouvelles after their next job.

  That was a very sweet alternative.

  He wondered if they would tamper with the auction. It seemed to him that sort of heist held the glamour which appealed to them. He might even let them get away with it. Briefly, very briefly. Then he would snap the jaws of the trap shut, and watch them bleed.

  Oh yes, Sam thought, chuckling to himself as he leaned back. It was just that kind of clear thinking that was going to make him an excellent commander in chief.

  33

  Sam arranged for tickets to the Nouvelles’ much-touted Kennedy Center performance. Front row center. Justine sat beside him, draped in silk and sapphires and smiles—the devoted wife and partner.

  No one would have guessed they’d come to detest each other.

  As the magic unfolded, Sam applauded enthusiastically. He threw back his head and laughed, leaned forward with eyes wide and shook his head in disbelief. His reactions, caught often by the panning television cameras, were as carefully staged as the evening of illusion.

  Beneath it, the old jealousy ate at him. Luke was once again the center of attention, the shining star, the holder of power.

  Sam hated him for it, as blindly and unreasonably as he’d hated Luke at first sight. He detested and envied the ease with which Luke drew the audience in, the obvious sexual spark between him and Roxanne, the smoothness with which he could take what could not be and make it so.

  But he was the first to rise to his feet when the applause rolled out over the finale. He brought his hands together to join the thunder, and he smiled.

  Roxanne looked down at him as she took her bows. Though she lowered her lashes, the venom shot through them. Their gazes held, and for her, for just an instant, they were completely alone. The rage heaved up, volatile as lava, so that she took a step forward, a step toward him, stopping only when Luke’s hand linked firmly with hers.

  “Just smile, babe.” He spoke clearly under the cover of applause and gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “Just keep on smiling.”

  She did, until at last they walked off the stage together. “I didn’t know it would be so hard.” Her body trembled from the effort of suppressing the urge to attack. “Seeing him sitting there, looking so pompous and prosperous. I wanted to jump offstage and claw at him.”

  “You did fine.” He rubbed the small of her back, steering her through the wings toward her dressing room. “Phase one, Roxy, and on to the next.”

  She nodded, then paused with her hand on the knob of her door. “We steal things, Luke. I understand most people wouldn’t find that acceptable. But still, what we take are things, easily replaced. He stole time. And love, and trust. None of those can be replaced.” She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glinting not with tears or even regret, but with purpose. “Let’s get the son of a bitch.”

  He grinned and patted her butt. Jake was right, he mused. She was a hell of a woman. “Change. We’ve got work to do.”

  They attended the post-performance reception, clinking glasses with Washington dignitaries. Luke bided his time, then slipped away from Roxanne. This was a part he had to play alone. As he’d expected, it took Sam only moments to seek him out.

  “That was quite a show.”

  Luke took a champagne flute from a passing tray, letting his fingers shake ever so slightly. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Oh, I did. And I admire your nerve, performing without checking with me first.”

  “I didn’t t
hink—It’s been five years.” Luke scanned the crowd with nervous eyes, lowered his voice. As if in plea, he clamped a hand over Sam’s wrist. “For God’s sake, what harm did it do?”

  Delighted to have his quarry on the ropes, Sam considered, sipping champagne. “That’s yet to be tallied. Tell me, Callahan, what do you think of young Nathaniel?”

  This time Luke didn’t have to fake the tremor in his hand. It was pure rage. “You know about Nate?”

  “I know everything there is to know about the Nouvelles. I thought I made that clear.” Absently, he set his empty glass on a tray. “Tell me, have you finished the project I assigned you?”

  “Except for some finishing touches.” Luke tugged at his tie. “I explained to you every time I checked in that to handle a job like this, to make sure it all holds up to any investigation takes time.”

  “Time I’ve been generous with,” Sam reminded him, and added a hearty clasp on Luke’s shoulder. “And time that’s rapidly running out.”

  “You gave me a deadline. I’ll meet it.” He glanced around the room again. “I know what’s depending on it.”

  “I hope you do.” He held up a hand, warding off Luke’s answer. “Two days, Callahan. Bring everything to me in two days, and I might just forget the impertinence you took tonight. Enjoy your evening,” he added as he walked away. “Since it’s one of the few you have left with your family.”

  “You were right, pal.” Jake, natty in his waiter’s uniform, shifted his tray. “He’s slime.”

  “Just don’t screw it up,” Luke said under his breath. Quick as a flash, he dropped Sam’s monogrammed gold cuff link into Jake’s plastic-lined pocket.

  “Hey, trust me.”

  “And stop grinning, for Christ’s sake. You’re a servant.”

  “So, I’m a happy servant.” But Jake did his best to look properly solemn as he strolled away.

  An hour later, Jake handed Luke a plastic bag containing the cuff link and a single sandy blond hair.

  “Mind how you use them, sport. Don’t want it to look too obvious.”

  “Hell, let’s be obvious.” There was a grinding in his gut as he held the bag up to study the elegant example of men’s jewelry. It was discreet, button-shaped, with the SW swirled fluidly into the gold. If all went well, Luke mused, this little trinket would send Sam Wyatt to hell.

  “Have you checked the equipment?” he asked Jake.

  “Checked, rechecked. We’re on-line. Watch this.” He picked up a device no bigger than his palm. “Mouse,” he whispered. “You read?”

  There was a moment’s pause, then Mouse’s voice boomed out of the transmitter. “Right here, Jake. Clear as a bell.”

  With a grin, Jake offered the transmitter to Luke. “Better’n Star Trek, huh?”

  The grinding eased to a pleasant, excited flutter. “I hate to admit it, Finestein, but you’re good. We’ve got fifteen minutes, so keep your butt in gear.”

  “My butt’s always in gear.” He grinned and swiveled his skinny hips. “This one’s going to be fabulous, Luke. Fab-u- lous.”

  “Don’t count your chickens before they cackle,” Luke murmured, quoting Max. He checked his watch. “Roxanne’s waiting. Let’s move out.”

  “Saddle up. Wagons ho! Get the lead out.” Jake chuckled to himself as they headed for the door.

  “Amateur,” Luke muttered, but found himself grinning. It was going to be a hell of a night.

  The Hampstead Gallery was a three-story, neo-Gothic building tucked behind graceful oaks. On this crisp fall night so near Halloween, the leaves fluttered burnt gold in a breeze that cackled with coming winter, and wisps of ragged fog danced over the concrete and asphalt. Above, the moon was sliced neatly in half, its outline so sharp and keen, it seemed that some passing god might have taken his ax to cleave it. Without clouds to hamper it, the moonglow showered down, white and sweet to silver the trees. But the leaves clung yet to the branches, and provided sheltering shadows.

  It was all a matter of timing.

  The gallery fronted on Wisconsin Avenue. Washington was not a city that boogied with nightlife. Politics ruled, and politics preferred a patina of discretion—particularly in an election year. At one A.M. the traffic was light and sporadic. Most of the bars were closed.

  There was an underbelly of nocturnal activity, the crack houses, the corner drug deals, the hookers who worked the stroll on Fourteenth and those who were addicted to bartering for those temporary pleasures. Nightly murders were as common in this cradle of democracy as campaign promises.

  But here in this little corner of the city, all was quiet.

  Luke stood in the shadows behind the building, under the grinning gargoyles and lofty pilasters. “This better work, Mouse.”

  The transmitter around his neck picked up every breath. “It’ll work.” Mouse’s voice was quiet and clear through the mini-speaker. “It’s got a range of a hundred feet.”

  “It better work,” Luke said again. He held what looked like a crossbow in his hands.

  It was—or had been—just that before Mouse had modified it. It was now a gas-propelled grappling hook. Luke’s finger hovered over the trigger while he thought of Roxanne, already curled up inside the third-floor storeroom. He hit the release then watched with boyish pleasure as the five-clawed hook shot up trailing rope. The tiny engine hummed under his hands, vibrating like a cat.

  He heard the clink as the spiked metal hit the roof. He switched off the engine before gently, slowly pulling the rope toward him. It went taut when the spikes dug into the weathered brick of the ledge.

  Luke tested it, tugging hard, then reached up high enough to swing his legs free of the ground.

  “She’ll hold. Nice work, Mouse.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay, Finestein, you go first.”

  “Me?” Jake’s voice piped out in a squeak. His eyes rolled white in a face he’d rubbed liberally with blacking. He looked, pathetically, like a second-rate banjo player in a minstrel show. “Why me?”

  “Because if I’m not behind you, poking you in the ass, you won’t make it up.”

  “I’ll fall,” Jake claimed, stalling.

  “Well, try not to scream if you do. You’ll rouse the guards.”

  “All heart. I always said you’re all heart.”

  “Up.” Luke held the rope out with one hand and jerked, his thumb skyward.

  Though his feet were still on the ground, Jake clutched the rope like a drowning man. He squeezed his eyes shut and rose to his toes.

  “I’ll puke.”

  “Then I’ll have to kill you.”

  “I hate this part.” One last gulp and Jake was shimmying up like a monkey on a vine. “I really, really hate this part.”

  “Keep going. The faster you climb, the quicker you’re on top.”

  “Hate it,” Jake continued to mutter and climbed with his eyes stubbornly shut.

  Luke waited until Jake had reached the second story before he began his own ascent. Jake froze like an icicle in a blizzard. “The rope.” His voice was a keening whisper. “Luke, the rope’s moving.”

  “Of course it’s moving, you jerk. It’s not a staircase. Keep going.” Luke bullied Jake up another twelve feet. “Grab hold of the ledge, haul yourself over.”

  “Can’t.” Jake was praying in the Hebrew he’d learned for his bar mitzvah. “Can’t let go of the rope.”

  “Shit for brains.” But this wasn’t something unexpected. “Put your foot on my shoulder. There, come on. Feel it?”

  “That you?”

  “No, it’s Batman, asshole.”

  “I don’t want to be Robin anymore. Okay?” Jake put enough weight on Luke’s shoulder to make Luke wince.

  “Fine. Just get your balance. Keep your weight centered on me and take hold of the ledge. If you don’t,” Luke continued in the same, calm, unhurried tone, “I’m going to start swinging the rope. Know what it feels like to be hanging three stories up on a rope that keeps swinging so t
hat you bash your face into the bricks?”

  “I’m doing it. I’m doing it.” With his eyes still shut, Jake uncurled frozen fingers from the rope. His hand scraped brick twice before he got a grip. Indulging in another of those muffled screams, he rolled himself over and landed with a thud.

  “Graceful as a cat.” Luke swung soundlessly over. “We’re up, Mouse.” He checked his watch, noting that Roxanne had another ninety seconds before leaving her hiding place. “Do it.”

  • • •

  Inside the storage closet that smelled of Mr. Clean and Murphy’s oil soap, Roxanne checked the luminous dial of her watch. Rising, working out the kinks that came from sitting for over two hours, she counted down the seconds.

  She held her breath as she eased the door open, stepped into the corridor. The darkness here was shades paler than it had been inside. There was a light at the end of the corridor that sent out a pool of pee-yellow to aid the guards on their rounds.

  She walked toward it, counting.

  Five, four, three, two, one . . . . Yes. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped as the light flickered, died.

  Mouse had come through. Moving fast now, Roxanne raced in the dark, past the now blind security cameras toward the surveillance room.

  “Goddammit!” The guard who’d been beating the hell out of his partner at gin swore in the dark and snatched his flashlight out of his belt. “Fucking generator should—ah.” He sighed with relief at the electrical hum. The lights flickered back on, the monitors blinked back to life, computers buzzed on. “Better check,” he said, but his partner was already dialing the phone.

  Lily picked up on the second ring. “Washington Gas and Light, good evening.”

  “This is the Hampstead Gallery, we’ve lost power.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. We have reports of a line down. A crew is being dispatched.”

  “Line down.” The guard broke the connection and shrugged. “Assholes probably won’t have it fixed before morning. Fucking electric company, bleeds you dry.”

  “Generator’s handling it.” Both turned to survey the monitors. “Figure I’ll make my sweep now.”