The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “A year?” He looked at her, his eyes intense. “Like this?”

  “Here, at the newsroom, at my office.” She moved her shoulders again, restless. “Always the same format and same type of message.”

  “Have you reported it?”

  “To whom? The police?” Whatever unease she’d felt vanished in a laugh. “Why? What could I tell them? Officer, I’ve been receiving anonymous love letters. Call out the dogs.”

  “A year makes it more than harmless love letters. It makes it obsession. Obsessions are not healthy.”

  “I don’t think a dozen or so sappy notes over a year constitutes an obsession. It’s just someone who watches me on TV, Finn, or who works in the building. Someone who’s attracted to the image but too shy to approach me in person for an autograph.” She thought about the calls, those silent messages in the middle of the night. And that he had been able to slip a note under her door. “It’s a little spooky, but it’s not threatening.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  She took his hand to draw him down on the couch with her. “It’s just your reporter’s instinct working on overdrive.” Because his mouth was much more intoxicating, she set the wine aside. “Of course, if you want to be a little jealous . . .”

  Her eyes were laughing at him. Finn smiled back, letting her set the mood. But he thought about the single sheet of paper lying open on the coffee table, its message of devotion as red as blood.

  “Not one statement.” Angela chuckled to herself and stretched on her stomach over the pink satin sheets of her big bed. The television was on, and newspapers and magazines littered the floor around her.

  It was a beautiful room, majestic and museum-like with its curved and gilded antiques and fussy, feminine flounces. One of the maids had griped to a friend that she was surprised there wasn’t a velvet rope across the door and a charge for admission.

  There were mirrors on every wall, oval and square and oblong, reflecting both the taste she’d purchased and her own image.

  The only colors other than the gold and wood tones were pink and white, a candy cane she could savor in long, greedy licks.

  There were banks of roses, dewy fresh, so that she never had to breathe without drawing in the rich, satisfying scent she equated with success. At the head of the giltwood bed was a mountain of pillows, all slick silks and frothy lace. She tapped her pink-tipped toes against them, and gloated.

  Near the bed was a fauteuil, where she had carelessly tossed one of her many negligees.

  Once, long ago, she had envied others their beautiful possessions. She had, as a child, as a young woman, stared through shop windows and wished. Now she owned, or could own, whatever she desired.

  Whomever.

  Naked, his subtle muscles gleaming, Dan Gardner straddled her hips and rubbed fragrant oil into her back and shoulders.

  “It’s been over a week,” she reminded him, “and she hasn’t made a peep.”

  “Do you want me to contact Jamie Thomas?”

  “Hmmm.” Angela stretched luxuriously under his hands. She was feeling pampered and victorious. And calm, beautifully calm. “Go ahead, and tell him to keep talking to reporters, maybe expand on the story a bit. Remind him that if he doesn’t make enough trouble for our little Dee, we’ll have to leak the story about his love affair with China White.”

  “That should do it.” Dan admired the body under his as much, or nearly as much, as he admired Angela’s mind. “If it comes out he’s earmarking business funds for cocaine, his career will bottom out. Even if it is in Daddy’s firm.”

  “Remind him of that if he balks. Rich boy’s going to pay,” she murmured. She would have hated him for being born into wealth and privilege and squandering it all on a weakness like drugs. But the pathetic way he’d folded after her first threat made her despise him.

  “Oh, and send a case of Dom Perignon to Beeker.” Angela examined her nails, scowling at a minute flaw in the candy-pink polish. “He did a good job. But keep him on the case. If we find enough of the dirt our little Dee’s brushed under the rug, we can bury her in it.”

  “I love your mind, Angela.” And aroused by it, he bit her sharply on the shoulder. “It’s so beautifully twisted.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think of my mind.” With a low chuckle, she levered herself so that he could slip his oil-slicked hands over her breasts. “And in this case it’s focused straight and true. However it happened, she’s sneaking up in the ratings. I’m not going to allow that, Dan, not after she betrayed my friendship. So you just keep—” She scrambled suddenly to her knees, letting out a howl of protest as a clip of Deanna and Finn rolled over the screen.

  “In other entertainment news,” the announcer continued, “talk-show star Deanna Reynolds accompanied CBC foreign correspondent Finn Riley to a National Press Club banquet in Chicago, where Riley was honored for his work during the Gulf War. The inside word is that Riley, America’s Desert Hunk, is considering an offer to head a weekly news magazine for CBC. Riley had no comment about the project, or his personal relationship with Chicago’s darling Deanna.”

  “No!” Angela exploded from the bed, a compact, golden missile detonating. “I took her in. I offered her opportunities, gave her my affection. And she moves in on me.”

  She stalked naked to an open bottle of champagne and poured lavishly. There were tears, as genuine and as painful as her bitterness, stinging her eyes.

  “And that son of a bitch turned on me, too.” In one violent gesture, she tossed the sparkling wine back. Its heat burst into her stomach like love. “He turned on me, and he turned to her. To her. Because she’s younger.” Enraged, and suddenly frightened when she saw the glass was empty, she hurled it toward the television. It slapped the corner of the cabinet and sliced delicately in two. “She’s nothing. Less than nothing. A pretty face and a tight body. Anybody can have those. She won’t keep Finn. He’ll shake her off, and so will the viewers.” She dashed the tears aside with a vicious hand, but her mouth continued to tremble. “They’ll want me. They always want me.”

  “She can’t come close to you, Angela.” Dan approached her slowly, making sure his eyes were filled with understanding and desire. “You’re the best there is. In public.” Gently, he turned her so that they faced the full-length mirror. “In private,” he murmured, watching her watching his hands caress. “You’re so beautiful. She’s built like a boy, but you . . . You’re a woman.”

  Desperate for reassurance, she clasped her hands over his, tightening her grip until he squeezed her breasts painfully. “I need to be wanted, Dan. I need to know people want me. I can’t survive without that.”

  “They do. I do.” He was used to her outbursts, accustomed to her neediness. And he knew how to use both to his advantage. “When I see you on the set, so cool, so controlled, you dazzle me.” He slipped his hand between her thighs, patiently stroking until she was damp, until she quivered. Until he did. “And I can hardly wait until I can get you alone, like this.”

  Her breath grew shallow, but her vision was clear, focused hard on the glass as his busy hands worked over her. The flavor of champagne was still on her tongue, making her yearn for more. Crave more. She swallowed it and concentrated on what she saw in the glass.

  “You’d do anything for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “And to me.”

  He laughed. He knew where the power was. The more she needed, the more she plotted, the more she placed in his hands. And the truth was, sex with Angela was like a dark, violent ride into an irresistible hell.

  “What do you want me to do, Angela?”

  “Take me here, right here, so I can watch.”

  He laughed again. She was quivering like a bitch in heat, her eyes riveted on her own body. Her vanity, the pathetic insecurity of it, was one more hold he had on her. But when he started to shift, she shoved him back.

  “No.” She could barely breathe now. Her full white breasts still carried the angry red
marks from his hands. She wanted them there, wanted them as proof that she was desired. “From behind. Like an animal.”

  His mouth watered at the image. His erection ached like a wound. Desperate to take, he shoved her roughly to her knees. Eyes feral, teeth bared, she watched him crouch over her. He jerked her head back by the hair, hissing when she growled low in her throat.

  “I won’t stop. Even if you beg.”

  “Fuck me.” Her smile glinted like a sword already bloodied. “And when you’re done, we’re going to find a new way to make her pay.”

  “Watch.” He held her head still with one hand. “I want you to watch.”

  He drove himself into her viciously, the blood all but bursting in his veins when she cried out in pain and shock and greedy pleasure. His fingers dug hard into her hips while he rammed inside her again and again until the sweat ran off both of them like rain, and his vision dimmed.

  But hers stayed clear. She saw the blood on her lip where her teeth had dug in, the sheen of sweat and tears on her face. And as the horrible, loveless orgasm slammed through the agony and need, Dan’s face dissolved into Finn’s. And she smiled as he cried out her name and shuddered, shuddered, shuddered.

  She was wanted. She was desired. She was the best.

  “Deanna, are you sure you want to do this?” Fran nibbled on her thumbnail, a habit she’d broken years before, as she stood beside Deanna’s desk.

  “Absolutely sure.” She continued to sign the outgoing mail. Her signature was quick and neat and automatic. “It’s a show I want to do. How many carts did we get back?”

  Fran frowned down at the forms in her hand, the carts they passed to the audience after each program. These had been typed simply: Do you know of anyone who has experienced date rape? Is this a topic you would be willing to discuss on Deanna’s Hour?

  There was room for comments, for names and phone numbers. Out of the two hundred carts Fran had surveyed, she had chosen only two.

  “These are the ones I thought you should see.” Reluctantly, Fran laid them on the desk. “It’s going to be painful for you, Deanna.”

  “I can handle it.”

  She skimmed the first cart, then went back and read each word again.

  He said I asked for it. I didn’t. He said it was my own fault. I’m not sure. I’d like to try to talk about it, but I don’t know if I can.

  Setting the cart aside, she reached for the second.

  It was my first date after my divorce. It was three years ago, and I haven’t been with a man since. I’m still afraid, but I trust you.

  “Two women,” Deanna murmured. Yes, it was painful. There was a tight, angry fist lodged in her chest. “Right out of the studio audience. How many more, Fran? How many more are out there wondering if it was their fault? How many more are afraid?”

  “I can’t stand to see you hurt this way. You know if you do this, you’re going to have to bring up Jamie Thomas.”

  “I know that. I’ve already run it by Legal.”

  “And if he sues?”

  Deanna sighed, barely refrained from rubbing her eyes and smearing makeup. She hadn’t slept well—and with Finn in Moscow, she’d slept alone. But it hadn’t been doubt keeping her wakeful. It had been anticipation.

  “Then he sues. To encapsulate what I got from Legal, he’s already gone public with his version. Since it’s a matter of his word against mine, I’m going public with my version. I could have done so in a dozen interviews since the tabloids hit. Two dozen,” she corrected, with a grim smile. “I prefer to do it this way, my way, on my own show.”

  “You know the press will jump all over it.”

  “I know.” She was calm now, dead calm. “That’s why we’re going to schedule it during the May sweeps.”

  “Jesus, Dee—”

  “I’m going public with this, Fran, and I hope to God even one woman who watches is helped by what I’m doing.” She used the heels of her hands to rub the dampness from her cheek. “And by Christ, I’m going to kill the competition in the ratings while I’m at it.”

  Deanna’s nerves were steady as stone before the show. In her precise manner, she had gone over her scripted question cards while Marcie put the finishing touches on her makeup. Prepared, even eager, she swiveled in her chair toward Loren Bach.

  “Now, are you here to observe, Loren, or to offer advice?”

  “Some of both.” He folded his long, white fingers together. “As you know, I don’t make it a habit to interfere with the content of the show.”

  “I do know that, and I appreciate it.”

  “But I do make a habit out of protecting my people.” He sat silently a moment, gathering his thoughts while he studied the orderly room filled with stacks of newspapers, magazines, all current, a shelf of neatly marked videos that could be slipped into the VCR for viewing. The room smelled lightly of cosmetics and lotions. Feminine, yes, he mused, but also tools of the trade. The dressing room was as much a work space as her office.

  “It’s possible for you to do this show, and do an excellent job, without bringing your personal experience into it.”

  “Possible, yes.” She rose then to close the door Marcie had left open. “Are you asking me to do that, Loren?”

  “No. I’m reminding you of it.”

  “Then I’ll remind you that I’m part of the show, not just a host. An intimate part; that’s what makes it work for me and, I think, for the viewing audience.”

  He smiled, and his eyes remained keen. She looked polished and poised, he mused. “I wouldn’t argue with that. But Deanna, if you have any doubts about what you’re doing, there is no need to go ahead.”

  “I don’t have doubts, Loren. I have fears. I think, at least I hope, that facing them is the answer. You may have concerns that Jamie Thomas will try some sort of legal retribution, but—”

  Loren waved that away. “I have lawyers to deal with that. In any case, it seems the brunt of the publicity backfired on him. He is, at the moment, on an extended vacation in Europe.”

  “Oh, I see.” She took a deep breath. “Well then.”

  “You don’t mind if I stay to watch the show?” He rose as she did.

  “I’d appreciate it.” On impulse she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. When he blinked in surprise, she smiled. “That wasn’t for my business associate. It was for your support.”

  When she opened the door, she found herself instantly scooped up into Finn’s arms.

  “You’re supposed to be in Moscow.”

  “I’m back.” He’d pulled every string he could grab to arrive in Chicago in time for the show. “You look good, Kansas. How do you feel?”

  “Shaky.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Ready.”

  “You’ll be fine.” He kept an arm around her shoulders and nodded to Loren. “Good to see you.”

  “And you. You can keep me company while Deanna goes to work.”

  “Fine.” Finn walked Deanna toward the set. “Working tonight?”

  “I have a network dinner at seven. But I think I can get out by ten.”

  “Want to come by my place?”

  “Yes.” She gripped his hand, hard. The closer she got to the set, the more her stomach twisted. She shot one look at Fran, braced herself. “Like diving into a cold pool.”

  “What?”

  She forced a smile as she glanced up at Finn. “Just some advice I got once. See you in an hour, huh?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Deanna took her place with the three women already fidgeting onstage. She spoke quietly to each one of them, then miked, waited for her cue.

  Music. Applause. The objective red eye of the camera.

  “Welcome to Deanna’s Hour. Our show today deals with a painful subject. Rape in any form is tragic and horrible. It takes on a different dimension when the victim knows and trusts her attacker. Every woman on this stage has been a victim of what is called date, or acquaintance, rape. And we all have a story to tell. When it happened t
o me nearly ten years ago, I did nothing. I hope I’m doing something now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  To celebrate Deanna’s first year on the air, Loren Bach threw a party in his penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan. Over the low music and chink of glasses, voices buzzed. Faintly, from the adjoining game room, came the beeps and bells of video games.

  In addition to the staff of the show and CBC and Delacort executives, he had invited a handful of carefully selected columnists and reporters. The publicity on Deanna since the May sweeps showed no sign of abating. Loren had no intention of allowing it to.

  While the ratings climbed, so did the advertising revenue. As Chicago’s darling rapidly became America’s darling, Deanna’s growing celebrity opened the doors to booking stellar names who breezed on the show to hype their hot summer movies and concert tours. She continued to mix the famous with segments on dealing with jealous spouses, choosing the right swimwear and computer dating.

  The result was a carefully crafted show with an appealing, casual, homey look. Deanna was at the core, as awestruck as her audience by the appearance of a glamorous movie star, as amused as they by the notion of choosing a mate with a machine, as wary and unnerved as any woman of stripping down to a bikini on a public beach.

  The girl-next-door image drew the audience. The sharp, practical mind behind it structured the vision.

  “Looks like you made it, kid.”

  Deanna smiled at Roger as she kissed his cheek. “Through the first year, anyway.”

  “Hey, in this business that’s a minor miracle.” He chose a baby carrot from his buffet plate and bit in with a sigh. He’d put on a few pounds over the past months. The camera gleefully advertised every ounce. “Too bad Finn couldn’t be here.”

  “The Soviets would pick my anniversary to stage a coup.” She tried not to worry about Finn, back in Moscow.

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “Not for a couple of days. I saw him on the news. Speaking of which, I caught your new promo. Very sharp.”